Tag: parenting

Boredom With a Bit of Yoga Thrown In

“Here’s what I’ve learned about raising boys… if you keep ’em busy, they’re fine. You let ’em get bored, they’ll dismantle your house board by board.”

                                                                                                 Kenny Rogers

I saw this quote the other day. It was timely for the kind of day I was having. Now that all my kids are back in school, I am home alone with my 2 little boys, almost 4 yrs old, and 21 months old. I’m still trying to get us into a good routine, but usually I at least try to keep things moving. We all work together and get chores done in the morning. (Ok, I move around doing chores and they follow me, staying in a 2 foot radius at all times). We go outside and play in the yard. A couple times a week I try to load them up in a stroller and we go for a long walk. We have a couple activities we attend once a week where they get to be in a nursery/preschool setting. It’s not a super-busy schedule but it’s busy enough.

This week I have had a horrible cough/cold. The kind that keeps you up all night coughing and completely drains all your energy. It’s also been raining this week. I cancelled all our activities that we usually attend (not going to share this cold with anyone). It is raining so we can’t go out in the yard, and I do not have the energy to take any long walks. Cue boredom.  I have 2 little boys running around the house, trying to amuse themselves. I sit in a chair with a pile of tissues and try to play referee. We start off in my bedroom:

NO, don’t play on my dresser, put down the jewelry box and climb back down off of there!

No, don’t take all my shoes out of the closet.

DO NOT HIT your brother with the toy phone!

Stop trying to play with my computer!

Why did you just pull all the blankets off my bed?

 

I get desperate and I find their 2 big rubber balls: Here! Play with these….

 

No, stop throwing the ball in your brother’s face.

No, DO NOT throw the ball in my face. You will never see the ball again if you throw it in my face!

Stop throwing the balls at the windows, you’re going to break something.

LOOK what you just Did! No more balls.

 

I decided to relocate. Let’s go play in the living room…

 

No, we’re not going to put on a tv show, we already watched one.

No, don’t take all the books off the bookshelf, I just organized that bookshelf! All the little kids books are on the bookshelf upstairs, go upstairs and get your books! Do you want me to read you a book?? No? Ok..

Get off the fishtank. We don’t climb on the fishtank…ever..I think I have already told you this..

Here, here’s some matchbox cars! Play with your matchbox cars!

No, wait, we don’t throw matchbox cars. We only throw balls! (my voice fades out as I remember that I just took away the balls).

Look, just roll the cars across the floor..yeah, like that! No, wait, don’t roll the car on me. I’m not a road.. Roll it on the floor!

No wait, the red car is for you, the blue car is for him…. Do not take his car from him!

Do you want to trade cars? No? Well, you can’t have both cars, you have to share…

 

Ok, time to relocate.

Upstairs to the boy’s bedroom. Full of toys, childproof, there’s a comfy chair up there I can sit in. We get settled in upstairs, boys are enthusiastically playing with their toys and I have this great idea. I’ve been reading this book that teaches a simple yoga-type workout. I want to do these workouts in the morning, but I need to do a practice run so I can figure out what I’m doing first. Why not practice here in the boy’s room while they are happily playing??

Ok. So, I have the book on my kindle app on my phone so I’m holding my phone, squinting at the screen. Breathing. It’s all about breathing. Breathe in through your nose, fill up your tummy with air, breathe out through your nose, push your stomach back to your spine..Got it. (Did I mention I have a bad cold?) Ok. I’m definitely going to need some tissue before I attempt this.. Squint at the screen.. It says to do some practice breathes. I do some practice breathes. They are rather noisy. The little boys look up and stare at me trying to figure out why I’m suddenly pretending to be an elephant. The almost 4 yr old asks uncertainly, “What are you doing?” Just exercising. Leave me alone. Keep playing.

Squint at screen again. Ok. I’m supposed to raise my arms up in the air while I breathe in and then lower them while I breathe out. Got it. (Sounds easy right? Apparently coordination is not my strong point and it takes several attempts before I get it right.) The little boys have stopped playing and have now moved closer to me, staring at me with concern. Squint at screen again. Ok, I’m supposed to bend all the way over and touch the floor and stay in that position while I do 5 breathes. Got it. I bend over. This is definitely not as easy at it looks. I am focusing really hard on trying to get my breathes rights…I feel little hands grab hold of my feet. All the blood has rushed to my head. I turn a little bit and find myself face to face with the 21 month old who now looks like he’s about to cry. Mama?

It’s ok sweetie. I’m just doing yoga. Exercise. Mommy is fine.. Oh wait, I’m breathing, not supposed to be talking. I’m still bent in half but I can’t remember what comes next. Straighten up very slowly, grab phone, squint at phone for next direction. Oh. Ok. Apparently I’m supposed to do some breathing while I straighten up and then go into this new position where my knees are bent in a squat and I’m reaching forward… Right… Ok…(Did I mention my current athletic abilities are at level 0?)  Modify. They said to modify.. Ummm.

Now the 21 month old has wrapped himself around my legs and begun a mantra of mama, mama, mama, mama, mama, mama…you get the point.. Wait sweetie, I’ve got to bend down again and try this again. Squint at phone one more time, set phone down and bend in half again. Oh shoot. I forgot to breathe. Stand back up, breath in (through the nose! I think I need another tissue..) and bend over. I’m now face to face with the baby again. He takes the opportunity to grab hold of my head. I forget to breathe out (stomach pulled into the backbone!) while I yell at the baby to let go of my hair. The 4 yr old decides to join the circus and comes and stands next to me, bends over as well so that we all have our heads at the same level. He looks concerned.  Ok. Forget it. I’m not going to exercise.

I disentangle myself and go sit down in the chair again. Look out the window. It’s still raining. I’m still coughing. Not sure if the house or my sanity will be intact by the end of the day.

A Bit of Parenting Advice For the Day

Today my oldest child turns 18. So here I am, a mother of 10. I have managed to take one child to the age of 18 and she has been launched from the home (first time around anyway) to go to college. I’ve been in the parenting game for 18 years. As I reflect a bit on my parenting journey, one regret stands out. It’s something that caused me a lot of heartache, and I would love for some of you younger parents out there to maybe learn from my mistakes.

So, here it is…

 

Don’t read parenting books.

 

The end.

 

Ok, I guess I can clarify that a bit. I would say there are two types of parenting books. Books that seek to educate you on what it means to be a parent, perhaps explain some of how children’s minds and development work, perhaps offer some encouragement. Those kind are helpful, informative and useful. My aversion to parenting books falls on the other kind. These are the books that set out an exact plan and method for how you should parent. Your child should sleep this much at this age, here’s how to make that happen. Your child should display this level of respect to you at all times, here’s how to make that happen. Your child should be disciplined whenever they do A, B or C, here’s how you should discipline them.. These parenting books prey on the poor parents that are at their wit’s end, they don’t feel like they are doing a good enough job, they are failing on some level, and so they start desperately looking around for help. Or, these books focus on people who are about to have a child appear in their life: birthed, adopted, fostered… and they have no idea what to do, and so they start turning to books for the answers.

In my grand career as a parent I have read 4 different parenting books of this type. I regret reading every single one of them. Each book set up a system, a pattern of thought, a path to follow that would somehow get me from point A to point B with good kids and a happy home. They all failed. In fact, all of them lead me to go against my conscience at some point in time and had me doing things that my inner-self was thinking, “Surely this can’t be right?” but I doubted myself, I was not an authority, and the book said I was supposed to do it this way. My husband finally convinced me that we needed to throw out the books and just rely on our common sense, our own consciences, and our own relationship with God, trusting that he would give us whatever wisdom we needed to raise the kids. I can’t say life got easier after that, but it wasn’t as stressful and I felt a lot more true to myself and my kids than when I was trying to imitate somebody else’s ideas.

Here’s the thing. We are all unique. We’ve each got our own set of DNA, we’ve each got our own histories, our own set of life-circumstances…how on earth can a book be written that will properly address every single family? It can’t be done. (Ok, there is the Bible, which is good for all things, but you will notice that the Bible doesn’t try to specify exactly what to do when your child has a meltdown while getting ready for bed. It teaches you the general concepts and then lets you apply it to your unique life.)(Meltdowns at bedtime: love is patient and kind, long-suffering.)

I am not against seeking advice. Talk to other parents that you know, whom you’ve observed and you like what you see. Talk to trusted counselors. Talk to people who know you and your particular set of circumstances. I have talked to other moms, I have talked to my pastors, I’ve talked to psychologists and pediatricians when we were struggling with some really big issues. It’s good to seek counsel. I’m also not against reading books about people I admire, hearing stories of how they parented. It gives me a lot of good ideas, but in the end I have to sift through all the advice, all the examples that I’ve seen and I have to figure out what’s going to work for me and my kids. Believe it or not, if you ask, God will give you all the wisdom that you need to raise them.

Pick Your Battles

This morning my 5 yr old daughter came down for breakfast all dressed for school. She was wearing a neon pink skirt, an orange t-shirt (with a picture of a hippopotamus on it), neon yellow socks, and teal tennis shoes. I looked her over and paused. Umm. Yeah. Ok. I hesitated. My general policy is if the clothes aren’t torn, ripped, stained, or just immodest, I don’t say anything. I’m generally just pleased if my children can dress themselves without having to involve me in the process. With my teenagers, I definitely keep my mouth shut, but with the little ones, I still, every once in a while try to intervene.

“Sweetie, that shirt doesn’t match that skirt.”

She looked down in surprise. “Yes it does! They’re both orange!”

“Uh no, actually that skirt would be described as more of a neon pink.”

She stared at her clothing for a minute.

“Oh well, I like it anyway.”

“How about a different skirt?”

“I don’t have any other skirts, this is the only one.”

I thought about it for minute. It was possible this was true. My daughter decided some time this summer that she only wanted to wear skirts. No pants. No shorts. Skirts. With an occasional dress thrown in. Unfortunately, my daughter failed to inform me of this when I was picking out her clothes in the spring and so she has a collection of blue jeans and shorts that sit, unworn, in her drawer. When she wails that she has nothing clean to wear, she doesn’t mean that there aren’t any clean clothes in her drawer. What she means is there are no skirts and dresses left to wear. Of course, this doesn’t stop shorts and pants from regularly appearing in the laundry as my daughter also has a habit of letting clothes fall out of her drawers, onto the floor, and then, when she cleans her room, she puts them straight into the laundry basket. All that to say, she only owns a couple skirts.

I stared at her a minute then told her to eat her breakfast while I went and checked on something. I served up her oatmeal and then ran up the stairs to her bedroom. I dug around in her drawers and, Hurray! I found a nice tan skirt that would match her orange t-shirt (with the hippopotamus) just fine. I grabbed it and ran downstairs.

“Look! I found a skirt that will match, you can change after breakfast!”

Deadpan stare.

“I don’t want to change. I like my outfit. I like THIS skirt.”

“I have a white t-shirt that would match the skirt better. Do you want to change your shirt instead?”

“I like THIS shirt and THIS skirt!”

Decision time. Do I make this a discipline issue where I now insist that she change? Do I endure tears and hurt feelings and send the 5 year old off to school in a really horrible mood? Or do I just let her wear the neon pink skirt? “Pick your Battles.” This parenting advice often runs through my head. Perhaps the Holy Spirit trying to give me advice? I decide to just drop it. Sure, all the teachers are going to think I’m a delinquent parent who doesn’t care about her child enough to dress her nicely. Sure, maybe the other students will tease her about her clothing choices, though probably not, since they’re all 5 year olds and at that age I think they are all color-blind.

No. This is definitely not a battle worth fighting.

We’re heading out the door to the car and the 5 yr old suddenly decides that she is cold and needs a sweater. (It is 70 degrees and muggy). I don’t have any sweaters for her. It’s still, technically, summer. It’s Tennessee. It’s hot. We are running late and now I’m just trying to get everyone out the door. I look on the coat rack by the door and find her little brother’s sweater. It’s gray and covered in pictures of motorcycles. I grab the sweater and throw it at her.

“Here! Put this on!”

Now my daughter is wearing an orange t-shirt (with hippopotamus), neon pink skirt, neon yellow socks (I didn’t even try to address the socks) and teal tennis shoes, with a motorcycle embossed sweater. And I dropped her off at school and told her to have a good day.

Part of being a parent is just holding your head high and refusing to be embarrassed about your children’s quirks.

(Okay, maybe I’m just a little embarrassed.)

 

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