MenGetPregnantToo

Peer Pressure is Tricky, Even for Little Magicians

It's 'Fun Week' at school; each day, a different theme.
Today: dress as your favorite celebrity.

The Boy is 7-years-old, and in grade one. His wardrobe consists of short-sleeve t-shirts, long-sleeve t-shirts, and a collection of pants; most of which are ripped at the knee.
He asked me yesterday about today's theme.
"Dress like your favorite celebrity." I told him.
His answer: "What's a celebrity?"
"A famous person." I explained.

He stared at the crown moulding in the living room; I could see him working it through:
Who do I know who's famous?
What would they wear?
What do I own which could resemble the wardrobe of someone famous?
After all, he's 7.

His Halloween costume for the past two years has been that of a robot and a that of a make-shift Lighting McQueen; both constructed in our basement from cardboard boxes, spray paint and odds and sods from Dollarama. Not only would they not be recognizable as famous (admittedly, my Lighting McQueen guise resembles a soap box as much as it does a race car),  they would probably never fit through the classroom door.
I considered lending him a shirt, tie, and glasses and sending him as Walter Cronkite, but that would probably be lost on everyone.
Finally, my wife had the brilliant idea of sending him as Houdini; my son loves magic, and he owns an adorable blue felt top hat, a small tuxedo jacket, and at least two magic wands I'm aware of (as well as a collection of sticks he insists on keeping in the garage in the event we run out of firewood).
He agreed that was a fine idea.
He snubbed the suggestion of 'The Great Bodanski' moniker purely, I think, because it wasn't his idea; I thought it had a nice ring to it.

This was all last night.
The rising sun brought with it doubts and fears.
I laid out his clothes for him, minus the jacket and hat which I told him he should put on only after breakfast, lest they get stained.
As departure for school approached, he became weepy...
"I'm too tired to dress up." he said with a sniffle.
"That's OK," I said, sensing his reluctance "You don't have to dress up if you don't want to."
His bottom lip protruded like a sill under a rainy window.
Saying nothing more I helped him with his coat and boots, walked him to the car, and took my place behind the wheel.
The pout matured into the beginnings of a genuine cry.
"What's the matter?"
"I don't know...it's just because I don't want to dress up..." he said.

I knew what was going on here.
Background: last Thursday he was unsure whether it was "Fancy Day"; to cover his tracks, he wore a shirt and tie (and sweat pants since he had gym class, as well); it was not Fancy Day, and he hid in his locker while he removed his tie, lest he be ridiculed.
Today he did not want to risk dressing up and being in the minority. Nor did he want to hazard being the only Grade Oner with no costume at all.
I offered an out: "How about I run into the house and put your jacket, hat, and wand into a bag. Then if you see people are dressed up, you can put on the outfit."
"OK." he conceded.

By the time I returned to the car, his mood had changed entirely.
Equipped with a concealed magician disguise, he could confront whichever 'celebrities' awaited him in the primary school hallway, or not.

And this is only grade one.
What lies ahead for this sensitive soul? Will he be comfortable on the athletic playing field? Will his grades be too strong, or too weak, and draw attention? What about acne? The wrong Hairstyle? Body odour?
Full disclosure: I figure skated for 17 years. I remember walking to high school with an athletic bag for my skates and a garment bag for my outfit. Kids could be brutal.
Fortunately, the friendships I formed at the rink supported me and rebuilt any character which had been chipped away in the school yard.
My defence mechanism became sarcasm and humor, which sometimes got me in trouble - luckily, I was a fast runner.

He is much like me; yet he is - and will even further become - his own person.
Watching him navigate the years ahead will be at the same time: scary, fascinating, exhilarating, perplexing, memorable...and magical.

 

 

Routines are Important for Families; So is Breaking Them.

 

1976: Nadia Comaneci earns seven perfect scores for her routines.
2009: The routine flight of US Airways 1549 becomes "The Miracle on the Hudson".
2012: My family and I feel the blues, perhaps because life has become too routine.

One of the great tenets of child-rearing is the importance of sticking to a routine:
- Get them to bed early, even while on vacation: it'll be easier to re-establish a routine for the school year.
- A calming bedtime time routine will facilitate getting them to sleep.
- Routinely insisting on proper eating habits will result in healthier children.

It's all true. Children do respond well to routine. Routine also makes it easier for a parent to not only manage their family's time, but their own as well.
Until routine becomes monotony.

Yesterday, we all felt it, but my son was the first to vocalize it:
"Dad, when are we going to do something different?"
"What do you mean?"
"Everyday it's the same thing: get up, get dressed, eat breakfast, brush my teeth, go to school, come home, do my homework, eat supper, go to bed...I'm bored."

I tried to point out the diversions in the monotony: playing outside, crafts, after-school activities, tobogganing or skating on the weekend - but to no avail.
It could be a seasonal reaction. In Montreal, this can be a depressing time of year: days are short, the weather is cold and cloudy, the holidays are over, and January seems very long.
Even the activities we partake in aren't so much a distraction, but a necessity.
Not skating, or sliding, or building a snow-fort during the winter months would be nearly illegal in these parts, if not downright cruel.

Photo Credit

And so it goes.
Often, solutions can be gleaned from the smallest changes, which is how I intend to approach the problem.
Today will be 'Get Your Hands Dirty' day: I'm going to throw a large cloth over our dining room table, and pull out the paint, paint brushes, old t-shirts, Playdough, modelling clay and chalk, and let them have at it. Once that's done, I think we'll make homemade pizza for supper. It'll be havoc, and clean-up may be a scene from Les Misérables, but it will be a different kind of misery.
It's not much, but it's the best I can come up with,short of an unaffordable family trip to the Von Trapp residence.

 After that, it will be bath, then bed, then wake, then school, then February, then March, then the warmth of summer, then college, marriage, houses of their own, and my wife and I waiting for the grandkids to visit. It will all fly by, I know.
That's why, today, I will focus simply on all of us getting our hands dirty.
After all, without hands tumbled into a vat of chalk, 14-year-old Nadia Comaneci might not have had sufficient grip, and may never have show us her perfect routine.

 

 

 

What is it About Making School Lunches that Drives Me Nuts?!

For Christmas, cook for 15 guests; no problem.
One week prior to Christmas, host a 5 - 7 for 13 neighbors; bring it on.
Having to roll a tuna wrap, cut a few slices of red pepper, and fetch a serving of apple sauce from the pantry? Exhausting!
I don't know why.

How can I compete with this?!

My day today:

•    Feed my son, get him dressed, bring him to school. My daughter has pre-school in the morning on Mondays, so my responsibilities towards her are similar, only she begins thirty minutes later than my      son, so the whole routine is staggered.
•    Write this post.
•    Shower, shave, and iron today's clothes (since I'm too lazy to hang them and fold them neatly in the first place).
•    Head to Staples to pick up self-address labels.
•    Attend a meeting downtown.
•    Pick up something for supper (nothing too salty, my dad is coming over; he'll say something about the salt).
•    Fetch my son at 2:20.
•    Help my son with his homework while both kids demand snack (despite the fact that, since she takes two hours to finish a meal, The Girl will have probably just finished lunch) and listen to my daughter      whine that I won't let her watch TV while The Boy does homework.
•    Meet with the Hunter Douglas rep to discuss what compensation I probably won't get for incorrectly installed blinds.
•    Make supper (I'm thinking roast chicken and sweet potato - though it rates fairly high on the clean-up scale, that's compensated for by easy prep, decent nutrition, and low salt) for the kids and my dad      (my wife will be at the office).
•    Clean up.
•    Get the kids to bed.
•    Clean up.
•    and then.......make ONE lunch.

The part of the day I'm looking forward to least is making that %#^&* lunch.
What's with that?

I think a lot of it has to do with routine; like a smoker; like me with potato chips while watching television. There are certain moments which trigger relaxation, and the routine in those moments is important for a healthy human psyche.
For me, once the kitchen is clean from supper (something I generally try to do right after the meal while the kids have a dance party in the living room, or kill each other in the hallway, depends on the day), the house is tidied of the day's toy regurgitation, and the kids are in bed, I feel a wave of relaxation. Let MY time begin. I literally feel a physical sense of peace flow over me; my body recognizes the end of my duties towards other people.

Except for that %#^&* lunch.

Would a TV Dinner be so bad?

Sometimes, I'll be so desperate to do nothing, I'll postpone lunch preparation until the following morning; big mistake. I've learned denying myself a slow coffee in the morning is worse than delaying the gratification of evening peace.
It never takes more than fifteen full minutes, generally, with clean up included. But, it goes against the wave of routine my body yearns for. The thousand-and-one decisions I make during the day carry less weight than ensuring at least three of the five food groups are packed into a plasti-vinyl lunch box: chop the fruit, chop a veggie, where are the darn Tupperware lids???, he didn't like last night's supper, should I sneak him leftovers anyway since I won’t be around to hear him complain?...he won't die of starvation, right? Where are the %#$% Tupperware lids?!?!?

Laughably, once I'm done, I'm always relieved by a) how little trouble it really was, and b) how glad I am I didn't leave it until morning.

When will I learn?
I suppose the feeling will gradually recede, like facing your fear of flying by travelling by plane as often as possible.
I'd better deal with it before September, however: my daughter starts kindergarten in September. That means two lunches instead of one. Maybe, like the mass production principle, the second lunch won't require as much effort as the first? Maybe, by then, I'll be less bothered by The Big Bad Lunch.

Come to think of it, my inability to accept the BBL (Big Bad Lunch) as part of my routine is very similar to my inability to get myself to sleep early, despite promising myself exactly that every time the alarm goes off in the morning...well, look at that...my next blog topic!

 

Here are some School Lunch Ideas

You Wanna Piece 'o Me?!...Anything for My Kid's Role as "Bwitzen".

Being a parent is like managing a small, successful corporation. The employees - your children - look to you for guidance, draw on your experience, rely on you for their survival, and (hopefully) take their cue from the boss vis à vis behaviour and expectations in the workplace.
And, as within any corporation, there are outside forces at work eager to have their portfolio reviewed and have few minutes of your time, or money, dedicated to their cause. These forces - particularly during the holiday season - take many forms, ranging from the telephone solicitation at dinner time, to trimming angel shapes with an X-Acto knife  and preparing egg-salad sandwiches for a school event.

Juggling is a metaphor often associated with parenting, but I prefer to think of raising a family as goaltending. Juggling has serenity about it; if you haven't studied three-ball juggling it's worth learning: here's a tutorial. Juggling requires focus, not much physical exertion (unless you one day graduate to fire and swords), and tunnel vision, which can be very relaxing after a hectic day.
Goaltending, on the other hand, more closely resembles running a household: everyone is taking their shot, being in two places at once sure would help, you can never clearly see what's coming; on some days everything seems to get by you, and on others you post a shutout and win the game. (By the way, to be fair, here are some tips to improve your goaltending.)

Solicitation of your parenting corporation usually begins in earnest the first week of December in the form of teacher gifts.
Let's be clear: teachers deserve gifts from students. (At least the ones who teach my kids do, they're fantastic...I know there are exceptions; I remember those exceptions from my grade school years.)
It's more the logistics which become complicated. My kids - 7 and 4-years-old respectively - are in different schools. Co-ordinating a collection of funds for their teachers' gifts has to be done in a manner which is covert - as to not alert the teacher,  and fool proof - as to withstand the literal and sometimes clumsy mind of a grade-schooler.
I don't know how this was done before the advent of e-mail; I'd have to ask my mother. Perhaps it wasn't habitual back then, or perhaps my parents didn't like my teachers.
In 2011, the collection of funds could be relatively simple: someone takes the initiative through the delivery of one e-mail. In the body of the text is an amount, a deadline, and the name of the person collecting the funds. An envelope is left at the front office; done. Contribute, or don't. Have your name on the card, or not.

But, it's never that easy.
If all the donations have not been received, is that because some parents decided not to donate, or rather they haven't received the message? Only one way to find out: a reminder e-mail.
This process is repeated through similar channels at both schools. I read, reply, delete. Delete, delete, delete.

Simultaneously, Christmas concerts are being planned.
What time?
Are parents invited?
Are grandparents invited? At one school yes, at the other no more than four people can attend due to fire regulations. Who to invite? Parents? Yes. Sibling? Yes. Grandparents? Ok, which? Time for a quick phone call to explain to a couple of grandparents why they will hear from their grandson about a concert they were not invited to attend. Those tend to turn into longer phone calls.
After the Christmas concert there will be an after party. Here is a list of items we would like parents to contribute to the buffet, please sign up. We are also organizing a charity Christmas basket; below, please find your child's name alongside the items we would like her to contribute. No later than Friday, please.

During all this, apart from the teachers' gifts, a charity donation is being organized in their names. A generous thought...which requires funds to be collected at the school by so-and-so...before Friday, please.
Not all parents have donated. Was that because they chose not to, or rather they haven't received the message? Re-send, re-read, reply, delete. Delete, delete, delete.

I can tell you, though, what makes this all worth it:
* My children scamper out the door in morning, eager to share with their teachers stories of home life. They later race home, eager share with my wife and I stories of school life. Inspiring that level of excitement and pleasure in a child while wrapping it all in an education is no easy feat.
* Out of nowhere yesterday, my daughter let out a long sigh, as though she were being bothered by something she was only now speaking of: "Ok, fine. Do you want to hear one of my Christmas songs from my concert?" Not only has she been performing arias from the back seat of the car, she later added arm movements and a curtsey during a performance in the living room.
* My son has been carolling to himself while completing his homework.
* My daughter revealed she did not want to play the mother during the upcoming show, instead she' ll be wearing all brown; she's one of the reindeer: "I think I'm Bwitzen."

 The magic of running your own corporation manifests itself in strange ways. It's not about the deadlines we meet, the tasks we juggle, or the goals we achieve. The magic appears through these little workers, and their songs, and the stars shining in their eyes when they gallop on stage. The magic continues when the sleigh arrives at home, and a sleepy Bwitzen is tucked into bed.

 Thank you to all those who donate their time.

 

Hidden Secret: Parents are Allowed to Look Forward to Kindergarten

I was standing outside my son's school the other day, waiting for his grade-one class to pour out the side exit. By my side was my daughter, alternating between chucking dirty leaves on my back and tugging on my coat sleeve. A mother waiting next to me for her child's school day to end asked:

"How old is she?"

"Four." I answered.

"Kindergarten next year?"

"Yup."

"You must be looking forward to that." she said.

You mean we're allowed to admit it?? 

The discussion which followed was filled with affirmations of things rarely admitted to in my usual circles. Sure, I love my kids. But I often imagine September 2012, when they both will attend a full school day at the same hour, and be picked up together...six hours and twenty minutes later. Presently, my daughter attends pre-school two mornings and three afternoons per week; a schedule which can sometimes prove counterproductive to what I'd like to get done in a day. My work schedule, as you may have guessed, is not Monday to Friday, 9 to 5. This means that once both kids are on the same schedule, and I'm home on a weekday morning, I'll be in a quiet house with only my own time to manage.

As mentioned during my conversation with that mom outside the school: of course I miss my children when I'm not with them. I find it difficult when long hours at work means I don't see them for a couple of days at a time, or when I have to sit in front of them and explain which grandparent or friend is going to be there for lunches or suppers since mom and I are going to be out of the house. But, when anyone is home with a 7 and 4 year-old for an extended period, you know you’re always on. “Dad, can you help me with this?", "Dad, come see my drawing", "Dad my tummy hurts", "Dad, my sister is touching my Lego", "Daddy, my brother won't play with me". I felt relief the other day when I heard that mom express, out loud, the same sense of fatigue which can accompany a parent's responsibility to always put a child's needs first. Or, at the very least, consider them before being selfish with your own time.

Conversely (isn't there always a flip-side?), I have friends who are parents of teenagers. I see how different their houses are from mine: the way their kids are asleep until late morning (or later), leave for work or school, and return only to eat supper and disappear to their rooms or out with friends. The communication from their children often consists of a teenage Morse code: grunts and nods. I remember being a teenager, the last thing I wanted to do with my spare time was to have a conversation with my parents, much less share my free time with them. I've been warned by those parents to cherish these years: the years when my kids want to be hugged and cuddled, when they need help with their puzzles, when they wander into your room with fuzzy heads and sleepy faces hoping to crawl into your bed on a weekend morning before you trundle downstairs to share an hour of cartoons and newspapers. I've been warned about how fleeting these years are, how they not only pass by quickly, but how their youth and dependence can disappear in the blink of an eye.

I believe it, I really do. It's hard to imagine, but I know it's true. And I know I'll miss their childhood once it has grown and moved out.

But for now, at this moment, it felt really good to hear from another adult that it's ok to look forward to a quiet house, because (blink) although their youth is (blink) fleeting, and I'll miss it (blink) when it's gone, right now I just want to (blink)...darn, I forget what I was gonna write: gotta go, the toilet paper roll just rolled away from my four-year-old...she's stuck on the toilet.

 

Back to School: Being an Office Parent Means Missing Important Moments.

While carrying out the act and art of parenting, there will inevitably be occasions when, despite being motivated by the best intentions, you can't help but feel you are doing more harm to your child than good. For me, my son's first two months of kindergarten fostered such feelings.

I would walk him along our usual path from home; through a park lane shaded by trees, past a local playground in the woods, across his school yard to the side door of the building. During our fifteen minute walk, I would hold his little lunch bag in one hand, and his small palm in my other. We would talk about his world: why weeds exist, how speed bumps are manufactured, and we would listen for the whistles of cardinals and the thunking of woodpeckers. We knew that as long as the school bus passed us on our walk, and hadn't already rumbled up the street, we were on time. He was always relaxed, chatty, and full of good humour; until we were a couple of breaths from the school door. There, his lip would begin to quiver, and tears would well in his eyes. He would look toward the asphalt as I kissed him on the cheek, told him I loved him, and that he should have a good day at school. He would continue whimpering as he disappeared through the doors; one of the smallest of boys in a building filled with worker bees who had long since become accustomed to life in the hive.

My own emotions would often conquer me as I retraced my steps to our house.  Why were we forcing him into this situation? Look at the sadness we were causing. Would he become resentful of parents who insisted on sending him away every morning? After all, in our province, kindergarten isn't mandatory. What if we deferred school one more year? What made wrestling with this situation even more difficult was that once I reached my driveway, I, too, had to leave home for the day and head to work. From that point, until I returned home, I felt like I was flying blind.

Granted, my wife was home for the rare phone call from the school to convey the details of our son's tummy ache. He wants to know if he can come home after lunch, the secretary would relay. Sure, his mother would answer. She would be there with a hug a few minutes later. She would also be shoulder to shoulder with the other parents at the end of the school day when he came galloping out of the same doors through which he had entered weeping only hours earlier.

"How was school?" she would ask.

"Fine!" he would answer with a smile.

She would convey to me when I called from the office that there was never any indication that his day had been anything but pleasant.

During those hours, however, between his sadness as he disappeared into a crowd of students, and his joy as he bounded back home, I would go about my work, miles away, constantly distracted by my ignorance concerning his well being, as well as my own helplessness and the certitude I was doing more harm than good. I was surprised how much these feelings contributed to my level of stress and sense of urgency in completing any project before me as quickly as possible. The stress would often be compounded by things which were even further beyond my control: being stuck in traffic, or having to stop for gas, or groceries. I so wanted to see for myself that his smile hadn't lost lustre, that he was still launching himself off the couch like a rocket, and most of all, I think I needed to know he wasn't resentful, and that I was, in fact, doing more good than harm.

As the months went by, not only was it clear he had found his niche and was thriving in his class, but as I became friendly with other parents, I discovered most of our stories were similar: weepy five-year-olds who gradually overcame the trauma of life in a "big school", to transform into flourishing six-year-olds parading out of the building with hands full of cardboard artwork, heads full of new expressions, and faces full of joy and missing teeth.

That was one year ago.

On Wednesday, my son begins grade one. It once again coincides with one of my busiest weeks. I will drop him off shortly before eight, and not return home until after he's in bed. My only reference of his adaptation to his new environment, new challenges, and new expectations of this school year, will be those eighty-or-so minutes from the time I wake him up, until I leave him at the threshold of first grade. Of course, there will be phone calls to and from home to fill what blanks they can. And conversely this year, his is already enthusiastic about having his own desk, and wearing his new t-shirt and fleece which brandish the school logo. But, I've already been forewarned of a supposed abundance of homework in first grade, and how not all first-grade teachers are created equal, and about how the curriculum becomes much more challenging.

All that is somewhat easier to deal with this year. I'm learning that children survive almost anything which comprises the natural evolution of growing up. I'm accepting that it is through challenges that children develop and excel. And most of all, I know that at the end of each day, he is coming home to a hug from his mother, a sister who yells his name and hops up  and down when he walk in the door, and a house full of things which are safe and familiar to him. For this first week, I will look forward to our morning walks, and to sneaking into his room at night, and kissing his sleepy cheek before I climb into my own bed.

Next year will be a different story. Next year my daughter begins kindergarten, and the experience of those first week jitters begins again for us both. She has a different temperament than her brother, so I'm uncertain if she will exhibit his same sadness and anxiety. All I do know is that, at this time next year, I will be wishing I was home for it all.