Lullabies: A Class in Writing the Perfect Bedtime Song

O:  NOOOOOOOOOOO! I don't want that song. I want a daisy song.

J:  I don't know a daisy song.

O:  Just make one up!

The first time I tried to sing to tiny newborn O, I realized that I didn't know any lullabies all the way through. There was a lot of, "Lullaby...da da da...da da da da da da da." So I YouTubed everything from Brahms to The Muppets. As a frustrated shower singer, it was very satisfying because I developed my own set of songs and had a captive audience.

First song on the playlist.  A forever classic.

And then O learned to talk. Suddenly I began meeting with crushing rejections. My singing made her ears hurt. She didn't want to hear the songs I had been singing to her for months, especially the Bleshings Song.  

Now that she is almost four, she prefers improv. She picks the theme and I make a song up, lyrics and melody on the spot. I'm not sure if she genuinely enjoys the songs, or just enjoys listening to me fumble my way through these bedtime ditties.

I take direction very well.

The songs will not be recorded for posterity. I believe they are largely forgotten even before her head hits the pillow and the sounds of gentle snoring begin, but I do hope that the memories of this bedtime improv routine will live on and bring a smile to our faces in years to come.

See, she digs it.

P is not quite so discerning yet. I can still dust off some of those YouTubed standards for her, but once she gets wise, Kate and I might have to have a serious talk about creating a new captive audience member for my hit parade.

Two Loners and a Social Butterfly

O: But mama, I miss my friends.  How am I supposed to feel happy without people that are not you and dad?

Jim and I are loners.  We really enjoy solitude. We are often overwhelmed by large groups. We are happiest at home.  We will make plans, with people we genuinely like, then have to give each other pep talks in order to get out the door. One of the reasons I knew that he and I would be good partners, was that we figured out, very early on, how to be alone, together.  

May she always know that love can be this beautiful.

Somehow, in spite of her parents, O is a social animal. She loves being around people. She thrives at school and in large groups.  She can talk to and befriend anyone.  I think she takes after my dad.  After a few days at home without outside contact, she is climbing the walls, craving that interaction and stimulation from her peers. Honestly, I am in awe of her at times, her energy for people, her empathy, and her complete willingness to see everyone as a potential friend.

My best guess is that in the neighborhoods of yesteryear, or maybe even still, on the streets of small towns, this kind of thing works itself out.  The introverted parents attend the requisite number of community functions and then retreat to their shag-carpeted dens to read science fiction, while their extroverted off-spring wander from house to house in a neighborhood of best friends, a full-social calendar achieved with very little effort.  Los Angeles, however, is the land of the playdate, a culture where having parents with some mild social anxiety can seriously conflict with the filling of a tiny person's dance card.  

O has forced me outside of my comfort zone more times than I can count, and in trying to act in her best interest and respond to her needs, I have found myself, inadvertently acting in my own best interest. Because I recognize in her a need for community, I found one for myself as well. That community of friends, of other parents, of other children, has become invaluable to me, and my sanity. It is yet another reminder that these tiny humans we are living with come with their own wants, needs, and passions that we might not be able to fully grasp or comprehend. Yet, if we can step back and try to learn about them, we might learn something about ourselves as well.

That is what joy looks like, in case you were wondering

A special thank you to all of those families who have endured my awkward behavior at playdates over the past three years, and I owe a debt of love and gratitude to O for helping me find my community that I didn't even know I needed.  

Making Time

O: When is tomorrow? Is it right now? Or is it a long way away?

You can't make time.  Days are only so long.  Moments are impossible to relive, or recreate.  The closest we can come to making time is being mindful about how we spend the time we have. It is so hard to stay present with the looming specter of "what needs to be done" hovering over your shoulder.

This week, I am doing a drastic audit of my "what needs to be done list" and finding, on closer inspection, that many of those needs aren't really needs at all.  

This needs to be done.  Daily.  Hourly if possible.

The list is shrinking. I wish I could tell you that it was easy and I felt better, more connected, but if I'm being honest, a lot of the letting go feels unsettling.  Somehow, the length of that impossible list of needs kept me anchored.  It is challenging to stay present when the present is a big jumbled mess of dirty dishes, laundry, big feelings, little bodies, and boogers.  Today, in fact, I failed more than I succeeded. Tomorrow, though, I get a whole twenty-four hours to try again. 

Sunday Guest Blog: Finding a Magical World

O: We are in the porky pine needle forest. If you wake the porky pine, it will poke you.

Kate and I have spent late nights planning adventures to museums, aquariums, zoos, or [insert other culturally/historically/scientifically relevant places here] with the lofty hope of not only entertaining our little ones, but enriching their lives. These trips are fun, exhausting, and sometimes overwhelming for all involved. Today, however, I was reminded that to a nearly-four-year-old, a walk with the dog around the block can be a magical adventure all by itself.

Mending Wall?

Hungry ghosts live in this tree. To pass, you must stop so they can nibble on your hair.

Don't forget to stop to smell the flowers.

This is the porky pine needle forest. Shhhhh...you might wake the porky pine and get poked.

While we will keep planning and going on those far or at least farther flung adventures, to be honest, when viewed through the eyes of a nearly-four-year-old, this nearly-forty-year-old found that walk around the block pretty magical too.  

Pebbles and Boulders

O: (sobbing) But mama, I need. I need. I need.

K: What do you need, my love?

O: I don't know.

The indignities of childhood are innumerable: scraped knees, hurt feelings, bullies, bragging, tattletales, and countless disappointments.  When your kids are little it is so tempting to swoop in, to cuddle, to soothe, to pacify, to clear every single pebble or boulder that they come across. They are ours for such a short time, why wouldn't we want to smooth their path while we still can?  

It is so tempting to be mommy-fix-it.  Taking away their hurt and being the hero can feel irresistible, but that is not about them. It is about me.  When I solve a problem or sweep away a stone, that is my victory, not theirs.  It shows them how much they need me, instead of how capable they are.  It robs them of an opportunity to learn a new skill, to think about a problem in a new way, or to discover something inherently powerful in themselves.  

I try to be mindful of what and when I fix.  Sometimes, it's ok to stumble on a pebble.  Sometimes, a boulder is there for a reason. It isn't always pretty. There is usually screaming and sometimes tears, real ones, wet and fat, running in rivers down their sweet, round faces. The worst is when there is no good solution, only that they have to learn to sit with their sadness.  That is when it is the hardest not to swoop in and fix. That's when I cry with them. 

As satisfying as it is to move the boulder for them, I try to imagine the pride and joy on their faces when they discover their own way around that boulder, or often, in O's case, straight through it.  I get the sense that P will be the type to burrow under her boulders, or vault over them, finding solutions none of us could have ever even envisioned.   

There is immediate relief in clearing that path, but there is true bliss in watching them move mountains.  It takes patience and self-restraint, but what part of parenting doesn't?  

(Insert Sound of Price is Right Sad Horns Here)

O: Mama, sometimes I have to try real hard to love you, but not daddy.  Loving daddy is easy.  

K: Truth.  You speak truth, and you and I are in the same boat on that one.  

View fullsize

I'm exhausted.   I'm not capable of writing anything new today.  Please accept this ridiculously adorable photo of P with a Mickey Mouse bandaid on her head as my apology and peace offering.  

And to anyone else out there who finds they are hard to love, keep trying, and if you figure it out, let me or O know. 

Things I Have Said

K: P, stop mopping the dog! He doesn't need to be mopped.

A lot of people keep cute lists of all of the cute things that their cute kids say. I decided to keep a list of all of the crazy things cute kids have made me say. 

In the past 24 hours I have said:

1. All right guys, I am leaving, with or without you. (So clearly a bold-faced lie, even the baby didn't buy it)

2. When he said that thing about the spaceman, why did it make your heart hurt?

3. You can't have bread right now, because right now is not the bread-having time.

4. I can't put your shoes on my feet, because I am driving with my feet right now. In fact, I am driving with my hands and my eyes right now too. 

5. You are having a big feeling about that piece of trash, aren't you?

At this point, that bandaid is purely ornamental.

6. I'm sorry, but you can't have that knife right now.

7. Let's roll around on the floor and have a tickle party. No.  Just me.  I'm the only one who thinks that is a good idea?

8. Well, I think that, when brown bear and pink bear fight over the bouncy chair, you should remind brown bear that it is important to take turns, and that since she is older than pink bear, it might be nice and set a good example, if she let pink bear go first. 

9. The doors must all stay open, because all of the doors are my doors, and I am the decider about the openness of doors.

10. There is no Winnie the Pooh tonight! Pooh is off the table.

I must sound like a lunatic on a regular basis.  Anyone want to make me feel better and share the craziest thing they've said to their kids today? Anyone? Anyone? 

#thingsIhavesaid

Paternity Leave: A Sunday Guest Blog

O: Daddy, where you there when I was born?

J: Yep.

O: Was it gross? Mommy said it was gross.

J: Yep.

There has been a lot of noise on the internet about some sports ball player missing some sports ball games because his wife was birthing a person he helped make.  

A father's role is important and it has been minimized and trivialized for generations. Taking paternity leave is stigmatized, not only when it comes to professional athletes, but in more traditional workplaces, as well. It is changing. It is getting better. More and more companies are offering generous paternity leaves for families, and more and more men are taking them, and all of the dirty diapers and sleepless nights that come with them.

I took two weeks with O and three weeks with P.  With O, Kate kept insisting that she'd be up and running in a week, and while she probably could have been, I couldn't tear myself away from the tiny person we had just met.  Sure there was work to do.  The idea that paternity leave could ever be considered a vacation is ludicrous.  There were diapers and night wakings and, somehow, we still had to eat.  

tiny O

But the real work of those first few weeks was so much more important than the practicalities surrounding bringing home a newborn.  I had to get to know her, find out what drastic changes this new person was bringing to our family.  I had to stop and breathe in the new life that had joined us and form the very beginnings of the relationship that will have to see us through kindergarten, broken bones, driver's licenses, and heartbreak.  I wouldn't have given up those five weeks of paternity leave for anything in the world.  

not so tiny P

And Kate wanted me to include a special message to anyone out there in internet-land who suggested that this sports ball player's wife should have scheduled a C-section on a non-game day:

Only after you volunteer to get completely unnecessary and life-threatening surgery, that puts at risk not only your own well-being, but also the life of your child, only after that, could you ever presume to make such a suggestion.  And please, go f**k yourself. 

Sincerely, Kate Felton

a few hours old

I Made Dinner

O: The whole kitchen smells delicious, like real food. 

Please don't misunderstand.  My children have had dinner each and every night, but since I've been running back-to-back shows, it has generally been made by someone else. I'll leave instructions for the baby sitter regarding quesadilas or buttered noodles or some other sure-to-please-a-picky-tiny-person type of dish, but two nights ago, for the first time in weeks, I had the night off and I was in my own house, with my own kitchen.  

So I had a beer, made scrambled eggs for dinner, and went to bed at 8:30. 

There was beer and there was bacon, dinner of champions.

But the next night, I made dinner, nothing fancy, just some steamed broccoli and fish.  It felt good, to all be eating the same meal.  It was nice to spend some time in the kitchen.  It felt really good to make dinner, and even better to eat it.

Baked Halibut with Brown Rice and Steamed Broccoli

Serves 2 adults and 2 furiously hungry small people

(This recipe works beautifully with any mild white fish. I generally try to only buy wild caught and fresh, as in never frozen, which will drastically limit your choices most days if you are at a regular market.)

Ingredients 

Three 6 ounce fillets of halibut

One cup brown rice (the girls prefer short grained)

One crown of broccoli

For the marinade (full disclosure-I never measure, I eye-ball, pinch, and approximate so feel free to taste and adjust)

1/4 of a of cup soy sauce

1/8 of a cup of rice wine vinegar

1/2 tsp of honey

Two cloves of garlic, pressed

1/4 tsp of fish sauce-if you haven't cooked with this before, you should start, but know a little goes a long way

 1/4 of a cup of olive oil

1/2 tsp of dijon mustard 

Put the rice on.  I use a rice cooker, but there are great stove-top directions here. Pre-heat your oven to 300. We have a cool, funky, antique, gas oven that works great, but heats up the whole kitchen, so when I can, I use our toaster oven, which handles this dish perfectly.  

In a small bowl, combine all ingredients for the marinade.  Rinse and pat fish dry. Place in a small baking, dish skin side up, and pour the marinade over. You may want to reserve a small amount to drizzle over the dish for any adults you happen to be serving.  

Clean and prep broccoli, cutting into small florets.  

Breathe and pour yourself a glass of wine. You are almost done.

Put fish into oven, checking for doneness every five minutes or so. Fish is done when it appears nearly opaque and flakey.  These particular fillets took about 10 minutes at 300. Cooking time will depend on the thickness of your fish, but remember that they will continue to cook in the hot pan when you pull it out, and while you can alway stick it back in for a minute or two, you can't repair an over-cooked piece of fish.  

I usually cheat and throw the broccoli florets into the rice cooker, on top of the rice, when the rice is about 3/4th done, but you can also steam or sauté them the traditional way.  

Cheater cheater, broccoli eater

Serve the fish atop a bed of brown rice with the broccoli on the side, or on a segmented, plastic, zebra-themed plate. 

just like this

or this

Fierce

O:  I am going to scrub and scrub my skin until it is so beautiful, like a princess.

K: Why?

O: Because princesses have beautiful skin, because they are not real, not like the dinosaurs, who are real and have scaly skin with feathers and bumps. 

I am not raising princesses.  I am not raising tom boys. I am not raising girls.  I am raising two people, who happen to be female.  

Don't call them bossy. They are assertive and have excellent leadership qualities.  Don't call them dramatic. They have big feelings and are learning how to express them.  Don't help them on the playground or in the store.  What may look like laziness on my part is a studied choice. I am hanging back, purposely, working very hard to show them how to help themselves.

Don't make assumptions about who they will play with, how they will play, or what they will play with.  They don't. They just play.  Don't compliment them on their pretty dresses or tell them that they are cute.  Trust me, they hear that often enough.  

Ask them what their favorite books are, or how flowers grow, or to tell you a story.  Ask them what they are thinking about. They will tell you, or rather, O will tell you on P's behalf.  

I am raising two people, who happen to be female.  They are fierce.  They will have to be.