This lack of Christmas list is one of the things I am proud of when it comes to my kids for several reasons. First, because — at least until now — I have met all their needs. They have clothing, a roof over their heads, food. If they actually need something that they don’t have I can go out and buy it. There are unfortunately many people out there who can’t say the same. People who don’t have the means (for whatever reason) to meet their kids’ most basic needs. I think about those people often, especially at this time of year.

The second reason is that I think I am raising unspoiled kids. I often say that my kids are spoiled. There’s very little they don’t have — that’s true. However, they appreciate what they have and don’t ask for things they don’t really need. Take Big Girl. Unbeknownst to me all her classmates already have Lalaloopsy dolls. Big Girl didn’t run home and beg for one or badger me when we went to a store. She waited until I asked her if she wanted anything and then she told me. (I must admit that at these kids very, very rarely ask for anything when we are out shopping. Aside from having to corral the little one my shopping trips are relatively stress-free.) So yes, I am very proud that I am raising two kids who not only understand the value of money, but don’t expect toys and games and stuff just because.

How did I do it? I never got into the habit of buying just because. I always explained that things cost money and equated the thing with how many words I had to write or how many hours my husband had to work to buy whatever we were talking about — a new car, a jacket, another pack of crayons. I told them stories about my own childhood. I explained that I got clothing twice a year in September and at Christmastime. I impressed upon them that if they didn’t take care of their toys, they wouldn’t get replacements. I even let Big Girl “forget” her stuffed cat at a store. Yes, I saw it on the floor, but it was her responsibility, especially since I told her I didn’t think it was a good idea for it to leave the car. I’m not horrible, though. I grabbed it when she wasn’t looking and didn’t mention it until, at home, she started crying that Black Cat was gone. I then pretended to call the store and told her the store was mailing it back to us. And then I made her wait a few days to get it back. Mean? Maybe, but very useful. She remembers that experience to this day and cautions her little sister against bringing toys out of the house.

Anyway, I’m really proud of those kids and of the parenting that brought them to where we are now. They are a gift that keeps on giving every day of the year. And the fact that they get the difference between needs and wants? That’s just the ribbon on the package.

As parents, we are in total control. There’s no executive board to let us know we’re making mistakes. There’s no oversight committee or legal counsel to warn us of future litigation (in a parent’s case litigation = therapy). There’s no golden parachute clause that lets us coast out, well compensated and happy when we’ve had enough. Nope, we’re more like CEOs of start-ups. We’re doing it all by the seat of our pants hoping our “baby” does well enough to go public. (You know, spin off into its own company…errr…family.) If we fail, we lose everything including our hearts.

It’s because of this that I’ve always agonized over every decision. Long time readers know this already. Am I making the right choice for my kids? How will this affect them in the long run? How can I be sure that I am doing the right thing? We never know, of course, which school, which playmate, which sunscreen will be the most beneficial, so we wing it and hope for the best. If you’re like me you toss and turn and go over every potential outcome.

I used to be a lot worse. Now, I think, I’ve learned that even bad decisions can be mitigated by a lot of confidence. Meaning: Sometimes even if you make the wrong choice — as long as the kids don’t know — you’re still golden. The ultimate, “I meant to do that.” That goes hand-in-hand with never let them see you sweat. As far as your kids are concerned you are in control all the time. For me, that means not giving my kids as many choices. Reciting the “you get what you get and you don’t get upset” mantra more often. It’s actually reduced the number of freak outs in my house these days.

I used to give Big Girl choices all the time except it actually led to a lot of anxiety for her. Was she making the right choice? She’d agonize over decisions just like I did, which manifested itself as panic and raised voices. Now, I tell her what she’s doing and she’s happier for it. Yes, she still gets to make some decisions such as what she’s wearing or what she wants for breakfast, but my husband and I handle all the rest.

Of course, there are some decisions I still stress over. Those are the things that make me leap up into the air, start crying, and jump on my bicycle. Only the warm summer air and the impending darkness can quiet my brain. How about you?

“Could it be that by protecting our kids from unhappiness as children, we’re depriving them of happiness as adults?”

You see, I’ve had that discussion with a therapist already. One of the reasons Big Girl had such a difficult time adjusting to her sister was that, until Little Girl was born, I fixed all of Big Girl’s problems. She wasn’t allowed to be disappointed. If she was sad, I did everything in my power to make her happy. If she was snubbed I made it up to her. Everything had to be fair and equal. Everything had to be perfect. Here’s the problem with that, according to the story:

Based on what he sees in his practice, [Paul Bohn, a psychiatrist at UCLA] believes many parents will do anything to avoid having their kids experience even mild discomfort, anxiety, or disappointment—“anything less than pleasant,” as he puts it—with the result that when, as adults, they experience the normal frustrations of life, they think something must be terribly wrong.

The author of the story gives an example of a toddler who falls while running. Today’s parent will swoop in and pick up the child before she even lets out a whimper. However, by doing that, the author says, it prevents the child from feeling secure because they don’t get to sort out what happened and figure out they are okay on their own. Another great quote:

“…parents never learn this, because they’re too busy protecting their kid when she doesn’t need protection.”

Kids need to feel pain — physical and emotional — so they can develop what a quoted expert calls psychological immunity. The theory goes like this: When our bodies encounter germs, our immune system fights them, creating antibodies that instantly know how to handle it if it the same germ comes around. With psychological immunity, our bodies learn how to deal with unhappiness, anxiety, disappointment, failure, struggle, pain, and grief because we have done it before on our own. The important part here: ON OUR OWN.

Me? Well, I tried to fix everything for my kid. She was shy? I coddled and loved her even more. It was hard for her to learn something? I did it over and over again with her. (Instead of letting her fail and figure it out herself.) She was anxious? I put her on my body and taught her deep breathing — at times, pulling her on top of me when she called out, “Mommy, help me calm down! I can’t calm down!”) Someone canceled a playdate? I took her to the park or did something special with her like baking cookies.

The second part of the article was also of interest to me. It deals with excessive praise and failure. Parents who, according to the article, “exclaim ‘Great job!’ not just the first time a young child puts on his shoes but every single morning he does this, the child learns to feel that everything he does is special. Likewise, if the kid participates in activities where he gets stickers for ‘good tries,’ he never gets negative feedback on his performance.”

I’m guilty of this, too. I think a lot of parents, teachers, and coaches are, too. We build these kids up for no reason, don’t let them compete, don’t let them lose, and then they are surprised when they get to the real world where they lose, where they are not the best, and where they don’t have someone sitting there telling them how excellent they are. Makes perfect sense. How can kids ever live up to that hype?

Poor Big Girl. She lived a charmed life before Little Girl came. All praise, love, fun, and excitement. Then, once Little Girl came into the picture, it was all over. Big Girl didn’t have my undivided attention anymore. We had a new baby, and I was working more than I ever had since my husband was out of work. She didn’t have someone mitigating every negative feeling and situation. She didn’t have 24/7 praise. It’s no wonder she became a snarling, angry, pissed off child. She must have felt like we threw her into a deep pool without swimmies or a life vest: terrified, scared, and alone. And, in retrospect, maybe that’s why Little Girl is all sweetness and light. She took her own bumps. She made her own mistakes. She didn’t get swooped up when she bumped her head, so she shook it off and stopped crying quickly. (To this day I say that if Little Girl cries, I know there’s something really wrong with her.)

We learned our lesson soon after Little Girl was born. A therapist showed us the error of our ways, and we parent differently now. Our punishments aren’t time outs and losing a toy. No, now we take things away from Big Girl that she really wants. She actually feels pain and anger. This past weekend she missed a birthday party and a playdate because of her behavior. I guarantee she’s never going to do what she did again, but I also believe that by doing that — by making her spend an entire night alone in her room — I was being a really good parent.

The last part of the article, thank goodness, doesn’t apply to us. (We had to do some things right, right?) It’s about setting limits. We always did. So much so that people actually criticized us. Our set bedtimes were too draconian. Our insistence on politeness and consequences was “mean.” (That one came from my own mother.) Our stance that you do it because we said you do it wasn’t kind enough. And yet my kid respects adults and doesn’t sass us. She may be super-angry and growl, but she knows she’s not getting something just because she wants it, and if we say no, we mean no. We don’t give her choices related to what we’re doing, eating, or seeing. We set the rules. Case closed. And, according to the article, that is a good strategy since kids who get too many choices for dinner, for activities, for life end up as “handicapped royalty…too much choice makes people more likely to feel depressed and out of control.”

The article was a great reminder of everything I learned over the past three years. I am printing it out and will re-read it every time I feel like a mean, horrible person for being a parent instead of being a friend. How about you?

That tooth was a stubborn one. It refused to come out even though its adult tooth companion had already broken through the gum and was sitting there just waiting to move into its spot. When Big Girl let me give it a wiggle I realized it was barely moving. That was January. In February, we went to the dentist who told us that even though the other tooth was already up we should wait a month or so. It might fall out on its own. It just wasn’t loose enough to pull, she said. We waited. A month. Two months. Finally, last week I realized that it was time for a dental intervention. That tooth had to come out loose or not.

Our appointment was at 4:20 on Monday. We got there, and went right in. My husband left work early to meet us there. Big Girl is not exactly a calm child, and getting a tooth pulled — especially one that really wasn’t that wiggly — would require both parents, I thought. The dentist spent the first 20 minutes discussing tools, numbing agents, and what “pins and needles feeling (from the anesthetic gel)” meant. Then, when she felt like Big Girl was properly prepared, the dentist swabbed Big Girl’s gum with the anesthetic gel. All hell broke loose. She didn’t like the feeling. Her tongue felt funny. Oh, my gosh, it’s horrible, she screamed. The dentist, bless her, told Big Girl to rinse her mouth out to get rid of the gel. By this time my husband was there. We looked at each other and nodded. That tooth had to come out. We asked the dentist to give it another try.

We’re all standing there now, willing this thing to move forward. My husband is holding Big Girl’s hand. I’m offering my cell phone (for Angry Birds), ice cream afterward, anything, really to avoid the fate of going to an oral surgeon. We’re 30 minutes into the fracas at this point when I get an inspiration: I’d give Big Girl some Reiki as the dentist did her work. I suggested it. Big Girl loved the idea, and the dentist was game. I took a position above my daughter’s head, took a deep breath, and started the energy flowing out of my hands and into my little girl.

It was like a switch. Once the energy started, Big Girl instantly calmed down enough to let the dentist put the scary, sharp-looking tool resembling a tiny crowbar into her mouth, prodding into her gum. One good push, which I felt in my left hand even though it hovered above her head. Oww, Big Girl said, but she let the doctor keep going after taking a few breaths and shedding a few tears. A second good push. More owws, more pains in my hand, more words of encouragement all around. Finally, a third big jab of the tool, and the tooth was out. Blood gushed everywhere. The dentist told Big Girl to stay still so she could get the tooth. (Come to think about it, this reminds me of my birth story with Little Girl!) The dentist retrieved the tooth, and soon after were on our way out of there. My Big Girl missing one more tooth, and me marveling over the power of energy.

How is is possible that a 7-year-old was able to undergo dental work without Novocaine or even topical anesthetic? How is it possible that I was able to do Reiki and help her through it? Honestly, even though I gave birth using HypnoBirthing — twice! — it still freaks me out when I think about how strong the mind is. In this case, was it really the power of my mind channeling calming, pain-eradicating Reiki or my Big Girl’s mind being able to block out the pain? I guess we’ll never know, but I am so glad that tooth is out, and so is she. She netted $20 from the Tooth Fairy, BTW. She earned it, we all agreed. Don’t you think?

We were on the way to my Mom’s house when Big Girl brought it up: “When can I get my ears pierced?” My husband and I are on the same page with this one. We both agree that ear piercing — at least for our girls — is something to put off a bit. My reticence comes from my own experience. Before my dad died he had decreed that I had to wait until I was 13 to pierce my ears. He didn’t like little girls to wear earrings. When he died my mom honored his wishes. I’d like to carry on the tradition.

My husband is more ambivalent, but he thinks that Big Girl is not necessarily an ear piercing candidate. She’s got a low pain threshold, and she is a nudge. Since he is the person who finger combs her hair every morning (and gets treated to screams and howls of pseudo-pain), I would personally feel bad for him when he has to twist her earrings and apply alcohol to her crusty ears.

Okay, so she asked. We both looked at each other and told her it was something that she was going to have to wait on. “But all the girls in my class have pierced earrings,” she wailed. Sigh. As I opened my mouth to ask her if we always do what other people do she jumped in. “I know we don’t do what everyone else does, but I want them!”

So then came the logic. It hurts initially. There is a lot of upkeep in the beginning: the aforementioned three times daily earring twisting and alcoholing. The possibility of infection. The daily pain during twisting. The fact that she screams if she gets a papercut. She howled at every point. She was not convinced.

The discussion ended because we got to our destination, but I know it’s not over. It will come up again. My husband says that maybe we make it a goal. Something she can strive to attain. And to that I say, I am not convinced. Will she be responsible enough to handle the daily upkeep? Will she even make it past the first hole? Once you do one you HAVE to do the second. Can she deal? I don’t know. But I do know that the old adage (Little kids, little problems. Big kids, bigger problems.) — is definitely true.

Do you have a little girl? If so, did you pierce her ears? When? If not, why not?

Big Girl:

How she laughs with her whole body. Not just with her face, but with her shoulders and arms and eyes and belly. It’s like the sun is shining out of every pore.

How she’s my little sponge. Tonight we got a lesson on Martin Luther King Jr.–who he married, why he is important, how he made history. I was impressed to say the least. She just sucks up knowledge and stores it in her brain.

How she’s getting braver. We were on public transportation sitting next to another family with a girl about my Big Girl’s age. Fearlessly, Big Girl leaned over and said, “Hi, where are you from?” The girl didn’t speak English, but still. She’ll be talking to strangers like I do in no time!

How she appreciates the moment. “Mommy, today was in my top ten of all days.” How amazing is that? And how I wish I could be just like her.

Little Girl:

Her funny mannerisms: slip-slop for flip-flop, saying things like, Hey, guys, it’s alllll right.” And how she jokes around so much. Wiping my kiss away with a laugh, playing pranks, getting humor. Speaking of humor…

The fact that poop is so funny. She’s still changing songs to include the word poop, but now she’s pretending to spell different things P O O P. So hysterical.

How she loves Big Girl with all her heart. “That’s my sister. She’s my BEST FRIEND.” And she shows it, too, asking for her during the day, and hugging and comforting her whether Big Girl is coming off the bus or has bumped her head and is crying. Little Girl is always there for her.

How she is also a little sponge. Today we did our learning — name, phone number, birthday, address, age. I started asking opposites and she knew them all! (Except dark. She thought the opposite of dark was sleep. Not such a leap, but still…)

Over the past few weeks I would have been on a winning streak if I bet on the water bottle. Yes, the expensive stainless steel water bottle that I paid $25 for because it had butterflies on the outside of it. It was lost and found and lost and found again. And now it’s lost completely. It’s been gone for about two weeks. During that time Big Girl used one of my gym bottles. And she lost it multiple times! So this week I told her no water bottle until she brought home the one that’s missing. Pretty harsh, I know. Maybe too harsh. Maybe a little mean? (Much like my friend Denise Schipani, who calls herself a Mean Mommy, something that I have always called myself, too.)

I think I learned this “skill” from my upbringing. When I was little my mother pretty much let me sink or swim. She didn’t help with homework. She wouldn’t make excuses for me. If I got in trouble, so be it. If I was late to school, I had to suffer the consequences. (I was a frequent guest in Room 104, the detention room; Mr. Coffey knew me well.) I can remember one time where I forgot about a project until the night before it was due. My brother offered to take me to his university’s library so I could work on it. Uh-uh. My mom said my project would be late, and that the next time maybe I would remember to do it. I hated it, but looking back I’m sort of glad she was such a hard ass.

Because you know what? She was right. I was a kid who didn’t have to study to make 100s, so I coasted a lot. It was only after I failed a bunch of classes due to lateness and missing homework that I realized I had to do the work, too. Getting 100 on a test was only half the grade. This learning process followed me when I started working, too, waitressing at 14. I learned pretty quickly that I had to be on time to work and hey, I’d better figure out how to get there on time. And so I developed a work ethic, and learned the value of putting the time in. I learned to take responsibility for my actions. I learned to apologize when I was wrong. (She wasn’t ALL right, of course. She also told me repeatedly that no one was going to pay me to sit in my house and work in my sweats. HA! She was wrong on that account!)

And so what does this have to do with water bottles? Well, by being the kid without a drink this week Big Girl learned she is going to have to make a decision: Either she’s going to start being more responsible for her property or she’s going to go thirsty. We’ll see if she learns more quickly than I did. Since I’m not completely heartless I told her that between now and Christmas break she could take one of my water bottles to school with her. If she brings it back every single day, I will buy her a replacement bottle since, alas, I think the butterfly bottle is gone forever. In the meantime, I’m keeping my fingers crossed that my gym bottle makes it home in one piece. And the glasses? We’ll learn that lesson next month.

Am I being too mean? Is it nicer to do gentle reminders, or am I doing a disservice by picking up assignments and glasses after hours? I’d like to know.

The author knows the happy pain we parents face...

Every once in a while I will pull Big Girl on my lap and realize, as she spills out of it, how much she’s grown. I will invariably ask her to please stop growing — just for a little while. She laughs and tells me that she will try. After a beat she tells me, “Mommy, I can’t stop growing!” And we both laugh. That’s usually when I tell her that I know she can’t stop growing. That I want her to keep growing because I can’t wait to see the woman who she will become. (That’s usually when she starts asking if I will be a good grandmother…)

It’s such a cliche, really. Time flies when you’re having fun, right? Little kids become big kids in a blink of an eye.

I struggle with this sometimes. Big Girl especially grew up so fast. From the moment she was born I always looked at her as this old soul. She was so advanced and bright that I was speaking to her — having conversations with her — well before she was two. I look back at some of the video we have and can’t believe how little she was even as I thought of her as this big kid. And now she’s really a big kid, and yet sometimes, like last night when I was tucking her in to bed, I see how small she really is.

Little Girl is moving just as fast as her sister. Part of the problem is that she thinks she’s as old as her sister. Two going on seven. She won’t leave the house without a little pocketbook hung on her arm. She uses Big Girl slang (actually, Mommy). She picks out her clothing. She’s so social! She’s got friends. She’s asking to use the phone. She’s asking for a big girl bed. And when I see all this progress, I am happy and sad. I am so proud that she’s becoming an independent, happy soul. I just want to keep her my little girl a little while longer. Is that so wrong?

The other night I was reading to both girls. It’s a new book I got from a PR person: Marianne Richmond’s If I Could Keep You Little…. By the time I got to the third page (“If I could keep you little, I’d hold your hand everywhere. But then I’d miss knowing, ‘I can go…you stay there.”) my eyes welled up. I didn’t lose it completely like I still do with Alison Meghee’s Someday — never, ever read that when you’re PMSing, BTW — but it reminded me that this time I have with them is precious, and I should enjoy every moment of it. I forget this sometimes. How about you?

My daughter's brazen bully/friend's note.

The notebook lay open on the counter. I didn’t recognize Big Girl’s scrawl so I picked it up for a closer look. There, on the page, was the following:

“Bring it tomorrow and you said if you don’t I could punch you thank you good night.”

WTF?!?

I called Big Girl into the kitchen. What was this, I wanted to know. Nervously, she explained that one of the little girls in her class told her to bring a specific toy to school. And if she didn’t, she was going to punch Big Girl.

“First off, don’t let anyone punch you. That is not okay,” I told her. Then I explained that she had to stick up for herself if she could. “You tell her no, it is not going to happen. That friends don’t punch friends for any reason.” (They only whip them with licorice — sorry, inside joke.) But my daughter wasn’t convinced she could do that.

I honestly forgot about it with the activities of yesterday: work, a book club meeting, Little Girl being tipped over in a shopping cart (that’s a whole other blog post). But Big Girl didn’t. It was the first thing she asked me this morning. “Mommy, can I bring the telescope to school because A. says she’s going to punch me if I don’t.” I explained that no, she couldn’t do that. She would get in trouble for bringing toys to school, but more important you can’t just give in to what is essentially a bully’s request. Instead, I told her, I would tell the wanna-be puncher that she wasn’t allowed to bring it to school. I wrote a note:

Dear A.,

We don’t punch our friends! If you want to play with the telescope, come for a playdate.

–Karen (Big Girl’s mom)

Big Girl was thrilled. We headed over to the bus, and I heard that little girl asking my Big Girl if she had brought the item in question. No, my daughter told her. And then she handed her the note.

I know that little girl. I like that little girl. I’m hoping a funny, direct message from someone I hope she knows and likes will drive the point home: We don’t threaten other children. It’s not nice. Still, it will be interesting to see what Big Girl tells me when she gets home.

Did I do the right thing? What would you have done. I am flying by the seat of my pants right now.

About two minutes into our wait the kid starts losing it. Granted, her mother is stressed, and she’s probably feeding off that. Still, she’s running around the studio waiting room. She’s whining really loudly about how she wants to go home. She’s hitting her mother. She’s trying to open the mother’s purse to get money because she’s thirsty, she says. She’s making such a spectacle that Little Girl was staring. She even asked me, “Why that girl yelling, Mommy? She sad?”

The mother, in her embarrassment, is doing everything in her power to placate the kid. Explaining that they will drink when they get home. Trying to distract her. Threatening, cajoling, sweet-talking. I felt for the mother. I did. Then, in desperation, she pulls a bottle of Coke out of her pocket. I instantly stopped feeling bad for her.

“Here, drink this,” she tells the little girl. The kid tells the mother she doesn’t like soda. The mother keeps foisting it on her. The kid, giving into her thirst, finally grabs it and starts chugging. And I do mean chugging. The kid must have been really, really thirsty. The mother warns her not to drink so much and tries to grab the bottle back. “You’re drinking too much. You’re not going to be able to eat your dinner,” she tells the kid. I couldn’t help it. “Forget dinner,” I said. “She’s not going to be able to SLEEP.”

I walked out of that place with a headache and a heavy heart. The mother made a bunch of wrong moves, IMHO. I can’t understand why she handed a three-year-old a bottle of caffeinated Coke. Just sad. As some people have commented, she should have taken the kid to the car rather than losing it and giving in to whatever the kid asked for.

Okay, so the title of this blog is Little Kid Freak Outs — Outs, as in multiple freak outs. Today, I went to a local library’s book sale. Little Girl is being her adorable self. Talking, finding books she “loves.” (“This my favorite, Mommy. Oh, my goodness, Mommy, look what I find!”) She was putting a smile on every person’s face in the joint. A woman stopped to compliment me on what a beautiful, smart, sunny child I had. She’s so happy, she said. Little Girl, not pleased to be ignored by me, decided she was going to show me how displeased she was. She started knocking over the books. Then she lay down on the floor and started kicking them. Then, when I tried to put her on a time out, she reached out and hit my arm. At that point, I picked her up, screaming, I might add, and carried her to the car. She was done. No second chances. She screamed the entire way home since, as we were leaving, her little friend arrived. Once she realized that she wasn’t getting her playdate the screaming got even louder.

When I got to my driveway she threw herself on the concrete and refused to walk into the house. I calmly picked her up, carrying her into her crib. She had to eat lunch, but I needed a time-out by that time. Once I removed myself for a bit I went back and took her out of the crib, helped her soothe herself, and brought her downstairs for lunch. She finished eating, and went down for a nap.

Yes, freak outs happen, but I think I handled my freak out better than the other mom because I created instant consequences, and enforced them. I hope, after some time, that Little Girl will get the point that poor behavior choices result in not having fun. The other little girl? Well, she just learned that if she hits her mother, eventually she’s going to get soda. Not the best message in my book.