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parenting

Saving the day in a kitchen near you

by Myg on October 12, 2011

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Someone please explain to me exactly how I’m supposed to function with this kind of awesome under foot every day?

So much is new it’s hard to keep track of it all. They are now 2 years and closing in on 9 months old. They started preschool half days in September and have had runny noses pretty much constantly ever since they started, but it doesn’t seem to slow them down much.

They now say things like, “This is my family!” and “See you next later everybody!” and “It’s okay, Mom,” (usually when I am flailing because we are late for school or I am out of coffee or someone has dumped their milk and Cheerios all over the kitchen floor for the third time this morning). They go to school and if one of them is feeling shy, you can be fairly confident his brother will take him by the hand and say, “Come on, let’s play.”  And it’s hard not to get all teary eyed when you see it because that’s what you want with twins, that they have each other’s backs.

All that said, they are not even remotely interested in using a toilet for its intended purpose. I’m back and forth over whether to encourage them more or to let them take it at their own pace. It’d be real nice to be done with diapers, not gonna lie, but there’s also part of me that thinks they grow up fast enough. Why pressure them to move even faster? So for now we’re just letting them be, and waving big boy under pants around every so often saying, aren’t these cool? To mild interest, at best.

This child development stuff happens so subtly, feels like it’s hidden in the context of all this working and going to school and running around and not sleeping enough so that you hardly seem to notice most of the time. Then one day you look over and two superheroes are clamoring for the prime spot in the photo op. And that’s when you see it, right? That’s that epic expanse of life experience crammed into the few years we call childhood, right there, blinking its big ole’ candied eyes at you, all those memories you keep with you your whole life and pull out when you need to feel safe and loved and hopeful about the world being a magical, good place after all. It’s right here, in the kitchen in its new superhero costume waving and smiling and saying, Hey! Isn’t this awesome?

Yes. Yes it is.

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Worth it

by Myg on April 24, 2011


Raindrop

I wasn’t even sure what I wanted to say today, other than something along the lines of, “Jesus Befuckity, that was the shittiest put-down for bed that I can recall in ages.” And the reason for that is Easter, but in being fair to Easter, it’s not really Easter’s fault. It’s the fault of me wanting to be accommodating and sacrificing the boys’ 2-hour nap so we could go to Easter dinner at 1pm (which is when their nap normally starts). They fell asleep in the car, of course, on the way there and on the way home at 6pm. And then they screamed, and screamed, and screamed when it was time for bed at 8pm.

Felt just like it was April 2009 all over again, except not really because back then the screaming was on and off around the clock. Now it’s just on occasion but it still sucks, sometimes worse because you know that they are getting to the point where maybe they will remember that you just had to walk out of the room while they were screaming and close the door behind you. As much as it killed me to do that and listen to them from down the hall with my hands half over your ears, sure enough within five minutes they were sound asleep. But I still feel terrible.

Of course, that final move of leaving them to their shrieking happened after going back into the nursery to console them six different times, six different ways, over the course of an hour and 45 minutes, and every damned time I went in it got worse. Let that be a lesson to me.

I would say that the shrieking and the guilt weren’t worth it, except I kind of think they were, because it was Easter and our family got together and we had some good moments.

And I’m all about the good moments.

Hope all your holidays were less shriek-ful than ours, but every bit as happy.

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Things your kid hates about you.

by Myg on October 13, 2010

Regardless of what you’ve been told about teenagers, they need you now more than ever. They’ll never admit this, of course. And being there for them doesn’t do much if they won’t talk to us, right?

For those who don’t know me, I am a therapist for teens and their families on a mini-hiatus from clinical work as I raise small children. But as I watch them grow almost as fast as a half-vamp child, I realize there are some things from my work I want to remember for when the time comes. So I’m writing them down here.

And now, some things your kid might hate about you:

  • They know you curse, but you won’t curse in front of them.
  • When you’re having a fight with your spouse and you hear your kid’s footsteps on the stairs, you lower your voice to a whisper, or you stop the conversation. When they ask what’s going on, you make something up or just say, “It’s not for you to worry about.”
  • When you come home stressed from work and your kid asks you what’s wrong, you don’t tell them, but you act like a bitch anyway.
  • You’re really your most relaxed when you’re not around your kids.

In other words, you’re not really you when you’re around them. You’re “the parent.” Whatever you think that means.

Do you know which parents have the best times in the teen years? The ones who remain the most authentic with their kids, no matter how flawed they might be. The ones who fuck up in front of them, and then slog their way through and model how to correct mistakes. The ones who do the wrong thing, but then apologize when they realize they made a mistake. The ones who tell the truth, no matter how bad it is, but still know that it’s their job to maintain optimism and show leadership in the family system. The ones who say to a kid, “Hey, I need your opinion about something,” and really mean it. About something serious like selling the house, not about Halloween decorations.

Your kid loves you and he/she/they want to be close to you. They want to make you happy. (Yeah, even though they’re rejecting you). They hate when you are too protective of them, especially when you’re trying to protect them from the more human and flawed side of you.

From what I can tell, all success with kids (and human beings in general), whether working with them or parenting them, comes down to your relationship. And your relationship is a simple and delicate matter of your communication.

The more frequently and honestly you communicate, the better you’ll do.

Can you over-communicate? Yes. You over-communicate by making the relationship about getting your own needs, whatever they may be, filled by the kid. As the parent (or teacher or therapist or youth worker), the relationship needs to prioritize the kid’s needs.

But honestly? Parents who need too much still do better in the relationship department than parents who do the opposite, which is under-communicate and make their kids feel unimportant or detached. That is because needy parents are closer to their kids, even if that closeness is marred by some conflict. (And yes, there will be payback for that error at some point. But there’s still more to work with here than in the opposite scenario.)

So if you’re going to fuck up, fuck up by needing your kid.

And here ends this tasty parenting tidbit. I’ll be back with more.

xo

Myg

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Movers, shakers.

by Myg on January 6, 2010

Sit STILL!

Do you know how many drafts of unfinished blog posts I have sitting in my wordpress dash? Three hundred fourty eleven. Truth be told, I don’t even know, but it’s a lot.  I’ve had a lot to say, but as yet have been unable to say it. Therefore, a bullets post.

  • Dude, you have no idea how busy I’ve been, what with the show, the holidays, a crazy amount of work to finish by year’s end and all that parenting stuff. You probably do know, but you may not know what an added layer of insanity the show was. I’m talking about being up every night until 1am or so practicing my guitar through headphones so I could possibly not suck after not playing for so long. The sleep deprivation reminded me of how much I need sleep to not just be an asshole to everyone. Up until 1am is not so bad until you remember your kids are up at 7am every day, NO MATTER WHAT, unless it’s today and they’re up at 6 for no god damned reason. And I know – we are lucky that our kids sleep like this. The question is, are we stupid for playing a show when we have no time to play our guitars?
  • Stupid or not, here we come.
  • I don’t know what that means in terms of us playing future shows. Don’t read into it.
  • Do you see that picture above? Those monsters are my sons, Doot and Bing. They will be a year old on the 22nd of this month. I cringe when I think of it. They are SO BIG (\0/). 
  • Every day I whisper quietly into their soft hair, “Can you stay my baby just a little while longer? Please?” I try not to say it audibly most of the time because I don’t want them to grow up with a complex. I don’t *really* want a 35 year old Doot and/or Bing living with me or off me. Okay, that’s a lie. I secretly dream of having my kids live with me forever and that at least one of them will get some girl pregnant in high school so I can marvel at a grandbaby while I can still walk without a cane. I’m actually not even sure if I’m kidding about that.
  • That’s fucked up.
  • Doot has 8 teeth. Bing has 2 and a half.
  • They eat EVERYTHING. They are great eaters. Messy as shit though.
  • This post is so ”eh” right now I’m going blind.
  • Fuck it, I’m posting it anyway.

It was nice to see you again. Thanks for reading.

Oh, and a little PS bullet, that has nothing to do with this post.

  • To my friend, Ms. Snarkier Than You over at Twitarded, OH MY GOD. I’m incredulously doped up on Twilight (the book). I made Alex (Mr. Wisermom) go out and buy me New Moon last night (which I haven’t seen yet, even though some innocent yet asshatish youngster told me the ending yesterday when she saw I was reading Twilight. Doh!) because I was getting too close to the end and, ugh, how can I be sagaless? As soon as I post this, I’m closing my office door and busting out New Moon. I need some “me” time.

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In the path of dead dreams

by Myg on December 16, 2009

Well, you think those dreams are dead, anyway, and then one day you discover that they are very much alive in you. And you can’t say that’s good, and you can’t say it’s bad. It just IS. Like the fact that you have green eyes or a hot temper or a certain weakness for guys doing yard work.

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You thought it was over. Been there. Done that. You were Wrong. Very, very wrong.

Prosolar Mechanics, WE Fest Wilmington NC 2000

Prosolar Mechanics, WE Fest Wilmington NC 2000

It’s not over at all. But you have no idea what that means.

And that’s okay.

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And then, and then…

by Myg on November 30, 2009

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And then the next thing you know, WOOSH. They’re graduating from college and you’re out your retirement fund.

I should really be calling this post a placeholder. It’s holding the place for a lot of things I need to tell you about. Like, the fact that the boys turned 9 months old. And then, about 15 minutes after we ordered their 9 month old commemorative plates and matching cup set, they turned 10 months old. And then they had their first Thanksgiving and their first bath in the big bath tub together. And then I cried because they are too adorable and too sweet to believe and I’m still not home with them every day like I should be and I know, and you know, kindergarten is right around the corner and what then? What THEN?

I know there are women out there who are okay with being working mothers. I salute them. I’m just not one of them. Meaning, I am a working mother. In fact, I am the sole provider working mother right now. But I’m not okay with it, other than the fact that it is what is and I have to be okay, in the most general of terms.

I also have to tell you about the band. Oh lord, the band. That’d be my band, whose name shall not be mentioned here because I’m having interweb crossover identity issues. I went back into private practice a few months ago (I’m an LCSW therapist type for kids, yo) and I just do not want people I work with finding this blog. We’re playing in 26 days (crap pants here) and this is the first time we’ve played in 8 years, almost to the day.

Before I became a mom, and before I became a therapist, I was a musician. I was very serious about it. I never had the kind of financial or  commercial success I’d hoped for, but I did make all kinds of music with all sorts of fantastic people and it made my life better. And now I’m doing it again and it feels so strange and familiar and like I’m traveling back in time but yet not. Like straddling two decades when your straddler is a little out of alignment.

And that’s just the good stuff, but that’s what I’m trying to fill my head with these days. And yours too.

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Sometimes I want ten, no lie

by Myg on November 6, 2009

Bringing the cute, right here, right now.

Liam, 9 month Philosopher from Myg on Vimeo.

And it’s moments like these that make me ache to be younger and not infertile so I could have two or seven or nine more.

Then, maybe mother nature knows what she’s doing.

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8 months

by Myg on September 23, 2009

Eight. Months. Eight. Months. Eight. Months.

8 months

Doot (on the right) said “Da da” tonight, while lovingly combing Alex’s face with his little eight month old fingers. Yes, there were tears aplenty.

Meanwhile, Bing was hurling himself backwards on hands and  knees on the same futon where we all lay and tell stories and sing songs every night before bed. He’s about to launch. Real crawling, the kind that involves purposeful movement, is nigh.

And yes, finally, they are starting to sleep all night. Doot has slept from 8pm – 6:30 am three nights in a row. Bing is only waking up once a night, around 12:30am, for a small bottle, then sleeping the rest of the way. This is HUGE folks. But then, you know that.

My mom says they look like they’re ready to take on the world here. If I do my part, here’s hoping they will be.

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Seven Months

by Myg on August 21, 2009

Bing and Doot, my darlings,

You’ve been on the outside for seven whole months now, which is nearly as long as you were on the inside. So if you think of it, from zygote to now you’ve probably gagoopled your size several times, not to mention your cute factor.  To be honest, I’d really love to credit myself with your good looks, but I don’t know how anyone could buy it. I think I’ll attribute some to your father, some to the innate bias inherent in parenting, and some to science.

Bing!

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Your excellent dispositions, however? All me.

Okay, maybe not ALL me. But a lot me. Or so I like to tell your family, friends and assorted admirers.

As of this week I’ve started to work a little more often, a little harder, outside of the house making some money to keep us all in diapers and dog biscuits. I won’t kid around, it’s been a strange thing to spend fewer hours a day with you. The strangest thing being that I leave you in the morning, am gone for many hours, come home for dinner and baths and you are both different. You are more here. More you. Less mommy appendage.

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In some ways this breaks me. In most ways, this is simply the coolest thing I have ever seen in my life.

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People who see pictures of you ask me, “Are they total opposites in their personalities?” I don’t know why they’d ask such a thing.

Happy Clown Sad Clown

To that I unilaterally answer No. What you are is individuals, close in temperament to myself and your father. I am hoping that since he and I have been compatible for oh, the last 22 years or so, that the two of you will get on similarly well, and perhaps with less bickering over guitar gear, but probably not.

Which brings me to some news. Your father and I have been asked to put the band back together for a special show celebrating the mid-90s music scene in New Brunswick. We, of course, jumped at the opportunity. Why? Because we are totally f*cking INSANE. Insane for sound, insanely eager for any opportunity to have our asses kicked (as your simultaneous appearance into our lives proves) and insanely committed to raising you both to never, ever forsake your dreams or those things that make you who you are.

Mom and dad bring the rock, 10 years ago

Mom and Dad bring the rock, 10 years ago

I have done a little too much of that lately, but it’s about to change.

Unfortunately, that means you’ll be having more babysitting. The good news? It’ll probably be your grandparents who will likely let you stay up late and eat ice cream behind our backs. Good for them.

At this point, I feel inclined to include some kind of poignant hand wringing about how fast it’s all going, how much I already miss those tiny helpless newborns you used to be, how precious every second with you is and has been, how my love for you seems to outpace the expansion of the universe and can hardly be contained by human physiology or explained in human language.

Sure, I can go there.

But my darlings, it’s 5pm Friday and instead, I think I’d like to rush home for dinner and bath time, where I can be in it instead of just describing it.

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Bing takes a bath.

May we spend the rest of our days together more inside the good feeling than outside, remembering how good it was.

All my love forever and ever,

Mama

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Man in the sky

by Myg on August 1, 2009

This post will be serious. No, really. Serious.

I have a struggle with the man upstairs. I’ll call him that simply because when I first encountered him in my consciousness, I was taught he was our Father, who art in heaven. Now, as an adult I don’t actually believe that there’s some man laying back in the most deeelux LA*Z*Boy in the cosmos flipping through our lives like so many bad TLC specials, wondering what we’re up to and if we are doing his will and whatnot. No, I don’t believe it at all.

But, as a kid almost raised Catholic (Catholic grandmother and mother, never went to church but Grandmother insisted I do at least first communion, which led me to my first confession, during which I lied because I was 7 years old, and I swear to LA*Z*Boy Squatter that at 7 years of age I really didn’t sin. Much.) I was taught that he was, indeed, a He, and that He was always watching and that He had a plan and that when I was scared or upset, which I all too often was then, I could talk to Him and that He would always be there.

I grew up and became extremely church adverse. Like, panicky can’t stop crying in church. It started after my beloved Catholic grandmother died. Her mass was so difficult for me that afterward I just couldn’t set foot in church again without wanting to puke or cry or both.

As for Him, the man in the sky, my feelings didn’t change much. I liked him. I daresay, I believed in him. But he wasn’t so much a Him as a, well, a something else. A we/us/he/she/they/life force/collective unconscious/foamy core of the kooshball of existence kind of thing.

I really didn’t think he (and I never did stop referring to him as he, even though I really don’t think it’s a thing in which gender assignment makes any kind of sense at all) had a damn thing to do with church, or with all of the metaphors coming out of the Bible, the Torah, the Koran, or any other piece of human writing attempting to illuminate what he was and what he wanted.

I don’t believe “God has a plan” as much as I believe that God is love, and love is chaotic and messy and unpredictable, much like the rest of life. And love is also love, which is, in my opinion, rather the point of life. The other point being to learn whatever we can, and a third point being perhaps something along the lines of Maine lobster roll in high summer with good friends, or very good sex on a little sailboat, or maybe one and then the other in quick succession. Experience, I guess is what I’m trying to say.

Sometimes I wish my brain could just accept what I see as the easy answers. Could take that personification I had as a little girl and have it make sense now. I am confounded when I hear adults talk about God in the way a roomful of kindergartners talk about Santa. Especially in that “what’s he going to do for me and mine if I’m good” kind of way.

I wish that kind of logic worked for me. I wish it was that easy. But I do not believe it is. And so here’s the dilemma.

I don’t want my boys to grow up without him.

God, whatever that is, brought me comfort when I was afraid. Still does. Still leads me, in my darkest moments, to the notion that life is meaningful, and if that’s true, is about something far bigger than me and mine. God tells me when all else fails to put my faith in the mystery and the unknown and without any doubt, the flailing in the dark will yield the greatest, most riveting revelations.

I told you this post was serious.

Without any easy answers, without any simple narrative to follow, how does one teach their children about god?

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