Guest Contributor: Rattle & Pen

I am honored to announce that I am the first guest contributor over at the amazing Rattle & Pen.  Please take a moment to read my essay, "Raising Feminist Sons," here.

I am a huge fan of the talented women writers at Rattle & Pen and I feel privileged to join them.  The pieces found here speak to the experiences of so many of us.  Read through and see for yourself.

Enjoy!
Shannon

Alone

photo credit: katy tuttle photography

The Big One turned to me today- out of nowhere, in the middle of lunch- and said, "Mommy?  When I'm big, can I go everywhere with my family?  I want to stay with my family.  I don't want to be alone.  I'm scared to be all alone."

And then my heart broke into a million little pieces.

*   *   *

Earlier today, he and the Little One ran ahead of my husband and me in the hallway.  They jumped into the elevator before we even turned the corner.  They are normally so good about waiting for us.  But this time, this time they forgot.  And as we turned the corner and the elevator doors closed, I heard the Big One yell quietly in surprise, "Nooooo!!!!"  

We ran as fast as we could, but we couldn't get to the elevator before it started moving.  They had already pushed the buttons inside when the doors closed.  My husband bolted down the staircase and I waited where I was, in case they followed the directions I had once given them to stay where they were.  I was hoping they would come right back.  But they didn't.  I could hear the Big One whimpering softly.  He was scared.  I listened as the elevator stopped at this floor, and then that one.  I didn't know which.  And then I couldn't hear them anymore.  And I couldn't hear my husband.  

I started to yell through the elevator doors, hoping they could hear me.  

"Are you okay?  Boys?!?  Babe, do you have them?"

Nobody answered.

I opened the door to the concrete stairwell and yelled down the staircase.

"Did you get them?  Are they there?  BOYS?!?"

Still nothing.  

I had no idea what to do.  The elevator was still moving up and down, up and down, but I couldn't hear them anymore.  Was I supposed to stay?  Should I run down and try to find them?  What do I do?

I was pressing the elevator button and trying to listen in the stairwell and the elevator shaft, when I finally heard them.  I heard my husband quietly telling them that he was frightened.  How scary that was.  That they mustn't ever do that again.

The doors opened.  The Big One walked out, looking stunned, and wrapped his arms around my legs.

"Mommy.  I was lost.  I didn't want to be alone.  I lost my family."  

I knelt down and hugged him.  I told him how scary that was.  How I didn't know where he was or how to get to him.  I told him that he must never do that again.  

The Little One bounded around us, unfazed and babbling excitedly about his adventure.  

"Mommy!  Lost!"

We talked about what happened with the Big One as we walked back down the hallway- how he shouldn't have run ahead, how we've talked about this before.  We told him he'd done a good job staying with his little brother and that he kept him safe, and that was good.  

I asked my husband where he'd found them, and he told me they were the first place he looked- the lobby of our building.  We never go to the lobby.  I have no idea why they got off there.  I asked my husband why he went there first, since it seemed most likely that they'd have gone to the garage where we were headed.  He shrugged.  Said he had no idea.  He just went there first because it was the closest to the street.  And if they'd gone out into the street...

I shook my head.  That wouldn't have been where I would have looked.  I'm glad he went down the stairs instead of me.  I told the Big One it might have taken me a while to find them, and that scared me.  I asked him to please, please, never do that again.  He nodded, but he just kept saying the same thing over and over.

"I lost my family.  I was alone.  I lost my family."

*   *   *

I see so much of myself in this little big boy of mine.  Some of it fills me with pride, and some of it makes me worry for him.  

I know his fear of being alone.  I had the very same fear when I was a little girl.  In some ways, I still do.

I got lost riding my bike to a park one day when I was seven and very nearly lost my little mind.  I was inconsolable.  People stopped their cars on the street to see if I was okay.  I wasn't.

They helped me find my way, eventually, but the seed was already planted.  I could get left behind.  I could be left alone.

When I was eight, my parents tried to leave me home alone for a reasonably short period of time because they couldn't find a babysitter.  I was a responsible little girl and was perfectly capable of staying home alone for a little while.  But I had never stayed home alone, and I was terrified.  I begged my mother to stay home, to find me a sitter, anything but leave me alone.  I remember so clearly the feeling of panic, tears streaming down my face as I pleaded not to be left alone.  As I tried to explain how frightened I was.

When my mom tried to leave, I completely lost it.  I sobbed and screamed and shook and implored.  She tried to reason with me, to tell me that I would be fine.  That it would be okay.  I didn't believe her.  

Eventually, she made the 400 necessary phone calls and found someone who was willing to drop everything and come over.  And I can still feel the absolute relief I felt at that moment- the solace of knowing that I would not be alone.

I don't know how this fear became so entrenched in me, and I don't know how I managed to pass it along to my son.  I hope I can teach him that it's okay to be alone.  That, sometimes, alone is wonderful. 

But until then, I will teach him that I am here.  That he is loved and supported by his family.  That we are watching out for him.  And that even when those elevator doors close on him, we'll be waiting on the other side.

Sometimes, There is Good

Oh, hi!!!  How are you?!?  I know.  It's been a while.  We really need to do this more often.



This week has sucked.  The kids have been sick with fevers and coughing and have been exhausted human barnacles.  And now we're on to the aftermath of the sick which involves all of the whining, but none of the reasoning.  It sucks and I'm drained and it sucks.  But rather than talking about the suck (the whining... SO MUCH WHINING), I'm going to talk about something else.  Because I've had enough of the suck for today.

Instead, I'm going to talk about some things I've noticed lately.  Good things.  Silly things.  Things that make me smile.  Because really, those are the things I'll remember (and want to remember) in the long run.  So here they are. Some things that don't suck.

- The other day I told the Big One that I used to love to eat frozen peas when I was a kid.  He looked intrigued, so I gave him some in his school lunch.  He ate every last frozen pea.  I gave them to him again today, and the grown-up at his table at preschool raised his eyebrows and said, "Frozen peas, huh?"  And he smiled and said, "Yup!"  And I smiled, because, yup.  That's my guy.

- Kid perspective is awesome.  It is only after having kids that you get to hear things like this:
Big One - "Sometimes? Beans look like they're barfing."

- I noticed a little while ago that the Little One says, "Okay" in a very specific, adorable way.  I realized about a week ago that he says it just like me when I'm trying to comfort them.  I realized yesterday that I say it (and, therefore, the Little One says it) exactly like my grandmother says it.  I love it so much more now.

- Parenthood makes you realize weird things about yourself.  For example, I have learned that when I am pissed off or anxious, I clean the kitchen.  Why?  Dunno.  It makes me feel less anxious, certainly, but I think it also gives me an outlet for my anger.  (So many pots to bang around and stubborn counter stains to scrub at!!)  I just saved myself $500 in therapy!  Good job, me!

-Also, the sun came out (in May!  In Seattle!) and these things happened.  And they were good.

 Kid yoga is awesome.  We are stars.

 I am not as angry at the juice pouch as I look.

As you can see here, I am part vampire.

Armageddon Days Are Here Again

Oh god.  My two year old is climbing out his crib.  A lot.  I can't keep him in it.  Oh god, oh god, oh god.

This is the end.  My only friend, the end.
There will be no more sleep in my house.  Naps might be done.  And they still need naps!  I STILL NEED NAPS.  It's going to be all exhaustion and crankiness and edge all the time up in this joint.  Oh, god.

For the past couple of days, we have spent every naptime and every bedtime putting the Little One back in his bed every 2 minutes.  Last night, we did this for 3 HOURS.  And then I woke up at 3:45am to a tiny person standing next to my bed staring at me.  It was terrifying.  I put him back in his crib with strict "NO CLIMB!" instructions.  At 7:15am, he was back.  With trains.

Then, at naptime the next day I put the child back in his bed 25 times- TWENTY FIVE TIMES- before I finally gave up because around put-back 23 I'd switched him from his pack n'play to his crib and he fell and cried the 25th time he climbed out.

This sucks.

If I can convince the Little One to stay in his crib (and I'm pretty sure I won't be able to convince him to stay in his crib), there may be a couple months of hope remaining.  Hopefully just long enough for us to move out of our current place and into one with separate rooms for each kid.

But if I can't (and it really seems like I can't... I've already counted his actual crib out what with the falling and all)... I'm going to have to switch him to a toddler bed.  Which means I'll have to switch the Big One to a toddler bed.  Because they share a room and the Big One will not have that kind of injustice.  Which means that the magical cages... I mean CRIBS, I've managed to keep my boys in will be no longer.

(And to those of you saying, "OMG!  You still have your 4 year old in a crib?!?!"  I say, YES.  YES, I DO.  AND IT HAS BEEN AWESOME.)

What will happen when I switch a 4 year old and a 2 year old to toddler beds simultaneously?

I can only assume the Apocalypse will begin.

So... start gathering canned goods, people.  This shit is going down soon, and it is not going to be pleasant.

People Are People

It's been a tough couple of months for lots of reasons.  I've talked and whined and written about it plenty.  My husband's incredibly busy with school, we have two small children in the trying throes of toddlerhood, my mom is sick, we're trying to balance everything with no money and little support, I've been in this damn boot, and now... the accident.  And the resulting pain/soreness/stiffness/aching.  It's a lot.  It's too much.

It's been enough that I broke down in tears multiple times in one day a couple weeks ago.  Half because everything I have to do 739 times a day (lift 30lb children, load and unload dishwashers, load and unload washing machines, pick up and/or move 3487 trucks and cars and trains and blocks, lift 30lb children some more) hurt like hell, and half because I was/am exhausted. 

Most days I can handle it.  I can remember what really matters, or at least postpone thinking about the stuff that's hard.  But for a few days a couple of weeks ago, I was out of places to put it.  I didn't have any storage for hard left.  So it poured out of me in the form of tears.  

The kids were concerned initially, but then mostly ignored me.  They're little and they've seen me cry before.  I always explain why I'm crying ("I'm sad," "I'm hurt," "I'm really frustrated") and then usually go hide.  Which is what I did this time.  But then.  Then the most amazing thing happened.

The Big One came back in the room after the initial check-in, dragging a blanket.  He tucked me in.  "So you can feel better, Mommy. I'm sorry you're sad and ouchie.  I love you."  And then he hugged me, oh so gently, and stroked my shoulder, and smiled at me with the most beautifully empathetic look.  

And then I really started crying.

Because here's the thing.  I KNOW my boys are sweet.  I know they are loving, and kind, and wonderful.  But sometimes... sometimes I see them being boys, and I get worried.  I see them wanting to kick and hit and destroy and hurt, and I don't understand it.  And it scares me.  

People roll their eyes at me and give me the ol' "boys will be boys" speech.  And I understand that that's true to a point.  As much as I've tried to resist the idea, boys and girls behave differently.  They just do.  But it still scares me.

And then awful things like the Steubenville rape case and the Boston Marathon bombings happen, and my brain is filled with worries about whether or not I'm doing things right.  Whether or not my boys- my sweet, kind, wonderful boys- could ever be capable of that kind of violence.  And what scares me so completely is, I think the answer is yes.  

Not because I feel that my boys would commit such a hateful, awful crime.  But because I think everyone is capable of terrible things.  People do terrible things every single day.  People with parents, with children, with brothers and sisters, with pets and grandparents and people who love them.  People who have been raised in every possible way, with every possible advantage or disadvantage.  People do horrible things, and I don't know how to stop it.

So.  Instead of sitting around feeling helpless and hopeless, I think about what I can do.  I teach my boys empathy.  I can teach my boys that hurting other people is not okay.  I can teach my boys that power is not the ultimate goal.  I can teach my boys that sex should not used, but should be shared between two people mature enough to care for each other and stop if there are any questions or hesitations.  I can teach my boys to use their words instead of violence.  I can teach my boys to stand up for others- to speak up for anyone who cannot or will not speak up for themselves.  I can teach my boys that sometimes doing what's right is hard and might feel terrible at the time.  I can teach my boys not to be slaves to their bodies, to their hormones, to the media.  I can teach my boys that people- ALL people- deserve respect and kindness.  

And possibly most importantly, I can show my boys what all of this looks like.  I can model respect, kindness, and doing the right thing.  I can show them that they don't have to be what other people tell them to be.  I can show them that fear doesn't have to control them.  I can show them what love and acceptance and respect look like.

And I can think about what I am already doing.  I can think about the look in the Big One's eyes when he came to check on me as I sat on the bathroom floor crying.  I can think about how he chose to help, to make me feel better.  

I can believe that my boys will never, ever allow themselves or their peers to act with such hatred, such disregard, such ignorance as the people around the world who commit and allow violence and hatred against others.  

Quit It

You know how sometimes, when something terrible has happened, some people say something like, "God/The Universe/Life would never give you more than you can handle," and you just kinda want to punch them in the neck?

Yeah.  That.

Except it's ME I want to punch in the neck.  Because I found myself saying that very thing... to myself.  "Self!  You can do this!  People do this all the time!  Buck up and be a woman!  None of this is more than you can handle!"

And then I got more to handle.  AND IT'S TOO MUCH TAKE IT BACK UNIVERSE I CANNOT HANDLE IT ALL.


Two weeks ago, the Big One and I got in a small car accident on our way home from preschool.  Because, as my mother-in-law so aptly put it, we needed that like a hole in the head.

It was my workday in my son's co-op preschool class, so I was enjoying some rare alone time with the Big One.  We were happily chatting about our day at school and I slowly approached this terrible uncontrolled intersection that people always speed through.  I looked, saw no one, entered the intersection, and BAM.  Got T-boned on the left side.

Thankfully, we were all okay.  It could have been way, way worse.  My kid was in the car with me.  We're all okay.

The Big One is still fine- didn't have a single sore muscle or red mark- and I could not be more grateful about that.  He didn't even cry after it happened.  Just looked at me with this mildly surprised look on his face and said, "Mommy?  Did we just get crashed?  We should call 911."  So, he learned that, apparently.

I escaped relatively unscathed, too.  Just a cervical strain and back sprain, which will hopefully be helped and healed by some prescribed massage.  We have a great insurance company (SHOUT OUT TO USAA!), so the fact that this could have sucked so much more does not escape me.  I am grateful and thankful and all of that.  I am.

However.  COME ON.  Have you ever tried to take care of a 2 year old boy and almost 4 year old boy with a jacked up neck and back?  AND A GODDAMN "WALKING" BOOT?!?

It's getting ridiculous around here.  After a week, I was just barely able to bend and pick something up without yelping.  Driving sucked.  Getting dressed sucked.  After two weeks, I'm finally able to move about almost normally, but it hurts.  Doing laundry and dishes sucks.  Lifting 30+lb kids really, really sucks.  And I have to do all of this ALL. DAY. LONG.

You guys, I did not think I could get any whinier.  BUT I CAN.

This fucking sucks big crinkly balls.  You heard me.

I've been in this damn boot for 9 weeks now.  My husband has been working his ass off creating a game at school and handling his team, so he hasn't been home much.  Even over "break" he spent much of his time working.  The kids are on fire lately- in total terrorist mode.  They're testing the boundaries and fighting the power and doing all the things that are completely developmentally appropriate, but the screaming, hitting, and ignoring me is so infuriating I can hardly contain the screeching that wants to escape my throat.  There's our usual lack of money and all the fun that comes along with that.  My mom has been ill for a while and the hope we had for recovery is waning.  And now, this accident.  And all the gazillion phone calls and emails it entails.  Plus a neck and back that only sort of work and hurt like a motherfucker.

I just.... ugh.  A week ago I was completely out of the patience and strength required for quality parenting.  I don't know if I was doing a good job before, but last week I was definitely not.  I let the kids watch way too much T.V. because I can't get on the floor to play with them and I can't intervene every 5 seconds to stop them from killing each other or destroying the house.  I was snapping at my kids and my husband left and right.  I was completely exhausted.  Exhausted from lack of rest, lack of relief, lack of resources, lack of help, lack of patience, lack of calm, lack of energy, lack of... everything, it feels like.  I feel spent.  And frustrated.  And weirdly complaisant. 

Then, I decided to do something about it.  I decided to dig down deep while my husband was around for break and we chose to focus on the positive.  To be patient even when we felt like we couldn't.  To play with the kids and give each of them special time and to be present- even though we're both exhausted.  

And you know what?  It helped.  It didn't fix everything and we're still having to work very, very hard not to get overly frustrated and focus on the negative, but it helped.  It helped enough that to feel some relief.  And maybe that's enough.

Together

On Thursday, I allowed the children to watch a stupid amount of T.V. so that I could catch up on laundry.  LAUNDRY.  It took SIX HOURS to finish it all.  And there's still a basket full of unfolded kid laundry.  Urgh.

So, to make up for Thursday's idiocy, I decided to make Friday a good day for all.  At the urging of some lovely ladies in my life, I decided mid-afternoon to take on a 64oz water challenge.  And I did it.  In 3 hours.  Holy bathroom trips, batman.  I also decided to spend quality time with the Big One, since he so rarely seems to get it.  

I had the pleasure of spending a luxurious hour and a half of uninterrupted play time with my beautiful boy, and it was glorious.  I forget sometimes, in the hustle and bustle of day-to-day, how much I enjoy watching my boys as they play.  Watching his little eyes light up as we sent the construction trucks speeding across the living room made my day.  He created an entire little construction scenario- we were building a building, complete with pipes!- and I suggested we use the blocks to actually build the building.  The look on his face was so exuberant, so filled with pure glee, that I burst out laughing.

We got the blocks and built building after building.  Building them together and knocking them down, over, and over, and over.  It was heaven.  Some our construction held, some of it failed.  But always, we worked together.  

I need to remember that.  Always, we worked together.