“Mommmm, she won’t share.”

“Little Girl, share.”

“No, it’s my turn.”(Scuffling and pushing ensues.)

“Girls, stop it. Big Girl, just let her play with it for another two seconds.”

(Said dramatically) “No, it’s my ball. Besides, I never get to play basketball because you don’t let me come outside by myself and you’re always WORKING!”

Sigh. She pulled the always working card. Sigh. She exaggerates, of course. I am not always working. Yes, I work during the week, but at least I am here at home where I can sneaks bits and bites of time with them. For example, I pick up Little Girl from school and take Big Girl off of the bus when she gets home. Then I spend a nice half hour or so with the girls between when the bus comes and the sitter gets here. I usually stop working around 6 unless I am on a heavy deadline.

Oh, and there are some days where I have no sitter. On those days I take the girls to the park or let them play upstairs together while I do something less concentration-intensive. And then there are the days when I get to be Girl Scout leader or religion teacher. I’m definitely not working then.

Still, I guess an 8-year-old might see my schedule as a busy one. As for the first part of her lament: She’s right. She’s not allowed outside alone. She’s not. Even though I can remember riding around the corner alone at her age, I don’t let either kid out of my sight for more than two seconds. Does that make me a helicopter parent? Maybe. But the alternative makes me too anxious.

I didn’t say anything to her when she said what she said. I waited until I was alone with my husband and I brought it up to him. He sees both sides, he says. But he also says I need to give my kids — at least the big one — a little more trust and freedom.

Today I took Big Girl off the bus and we didn’t event go inside. I took her backpack and told her we were hanging outside. They were so happy. The kids played ball. Big Girl had her basketball. Little Girl had a blow up globe that she got as a birthday party favor. I sat there on the stoop holding the dog’s leash. Periodically, I yelled for the little one to stay away from the street.

The whole time, though, I was thinking. How could I balance my fear of the unknown, of the worst, with wanting to give my children more freedom? Sitting there looking at their young, innocent faces I realized that I have no intention of letting the big one go outside all by herself and play on our front lawn. It’s just too scary for me. Maybe we’ll start in the back.

First, and most important caffeine is a drug. Sorry, folks, but it is. And being able to buy a bottle of flavored caffeine seems sort of dangerous. Sure, someone could down three or four cans of Red Bull or a pot of coffee, but they are going to be limited by the size of their stomach. It’s not easy to drink ounces and ounces of liquid. Not without getting a stomach ache, anyway. With MiO Energy, however, you get 60 mg of caffeine or about what you’d find in a cup of coffee in one “squirt.” But here’s the rub: It’s very easy to put three, four, or even five squirts of MiO in an eight-ounce glass of water, essentially upping your caffeine intake without adding any real bulk to your stomach. According to the company’s website, the 18 serving bottle is a mere 1.62 fluid ounces! Meaning you could drink 18 servings of caffeine very easily in a single glass of water as long as you didn’t mind the super-concentrated taste. In an uninformed consumer’s hands or even worse, a kid’s hands? Well, it could be dangerous. And it’s not just me. I recently read a Slate.com article that called for a ban of all caffeinated beverages to kids — especially in schools. From the Slate article:

According to a 2011 paper on health effects of energy drinks on children, children shouldn’t have more caffeine than 2.5 milligrams per kilogram per day; since the FDA limits 71 milligrams of caffeine per a 12-ounce can of soda, that’s about one soda a day, not a soda plus a couple of shots of MiO Energy.

Seems like kids have already gotten the message that MiO Energy is a great party drink, too. If you go to the MiO FAQ you’ll see a telling question: Can I mix MiO Energy with vodka. To Kraft’s credit, it discourages the behavior: “We strongly advise against it. MiO Energy contains caffeine and studies indicate that consuming caffeine with alcohol can lead to unsafe behaviors. Please don’t try it.”  The FAQ also cautions against giving MiO Energy to kids or mixing it into Coke.

The second problem I have with MiO was well documented in my last post about the product. Here’s what Kraft says about its ingredients: MiO is sweetened with sucralose, a calorie-free, artificial sweetener that is 600 times sweeter than sugar. To maintain color and freshness, MiO does use certain preservatives and artificial colorings. Ugh. And the Energy version also has guarana and ginseng as well as vitamins B-6 and B-12.

Finally, I have to say it: The stuff tastes like chemicals. I decided it’s not cool to bash something without actually trying it. (Besides, I got quite a few comments from readers saying the stuff was yummy.) Not sure what they were tasting, but I disagree wholeheartedly. Me? I’d rather grab a plain glass of water or, if I didn’t mind the palpitations, a cup of coffee. They are both cheaper and taste a lot better.

We went into our first eye exam with the hopes that her eyes would be big enough to accommodate contact lenses. (Yes, the kid’s eyeball actually needs to be big enough to wear a lens.) My child has a big head and big brains and eyes to match, so we were good. The big issue, said the eye doctor, was going to be if Big Girl could touch her eye without freaking out. Good or bad, that put the success squarely in my daughter’s hands. Big Girl realized immediately that she needed to get her lens — she only needs vision correction in one of her eyes — in and out several times before she could take them home. The first tries were rough, to say the least.

Big Girl was shaking — literally. She couldn’t figure out how to keep her eye open. Once she did, she couldn’t get her finger with the lens on it close enough to her eye to get it in. We spent a good two hours at the doctor’s office before she had success, getting the lens in and out. Several times during those two hours, the woman working with Big Girl tried to get her to give up on lenses. I was fine with trying again in the future, but Big Girl was being stubborn. She was going to do it, she said. She just needed more practice. Okay, I said, we’d come back the next day to try again.

The next day was a little easier, but we still spent more than an hour at the office. Big Girl was able to get the lens in and out once or twice, but she was still shaking, and her eye was red. Again, the woman working with her we could wait six months and try again in the fall. I agreed, telling her there was no shame in waiting a while. Again, Big Girl told me no, she was going to do it. Since she still wasn’t comfortable enough with insertion and removal we set up another appointment two days later. When that morning came I was scheduled to be out on a training run, so my husband brought both girls to the eye doctor’s office. This time, I was told, Big Girl got her lens in on the first try and took it out pretty quickly, too. I got there just in time to see the smiles and hear the actual cheers all around — lots of them. She did it, and was thrilled. So was I. Big Girl was proficient enough with her lens to wear it home.

We weren’t out of the woods yet, though. The next day my husband and I had to attend a family member’s wake, so Big Girl put her lens in alone. Immediately after, we all jumped into the car, dropping Big Girl at a friend’s house while we went to a funeral home in the Bronx. A few hours later we picked her up and went to my brother’s house to celebrate his birthday. Around 6 p.m. it was time for Big Girl to take her lens out. (During the first week kids wear their lenses on a shortened schedule, adding an hour of wear every day.) She couldn’t do it, she said, after trying for more than 45 minutes. I won’t go through all the upsetting details (Big Girl crying, my mother screaming at me, the fight that ensued between me and my mother, my daughter’s extremely red eye). Instead, I’ll jump to the chase: Big Girl didn’t have a lens in her eye at all. She thought she put it in, but she didn’t. Sigh.

That night I told Big Girl she had to wait until she was nine to wear contact lenses. She was crushed, crying herself to sleep. My husband wisely intervened, telling me that by taking away her chance to try again, I was damaging her confidence. Okay, I said, we’ll try again with one rule in place: Big Girl had to let me check her eye every morning to make sure the lens was actually in there. She agreed.

That Friday we went to the eye doctor again for a re-check. We got a new trial lens — the old one dried out after she dropped it on my kitchen table — and started the process again. That was almost ten days ago. Since then Big Girl has been a contact lens whiz, putting them in and taking them out like a pro. She’s super-meticulous about washing her hands and storing her lenses. The best part is she’s bursting with new-found confidence. She is a girl on a mission. I am very impressed. Oh, and she can finally see now, which is also pretty important, right?

At first, this really bothered me. Why isn’t she making any little girlfriends, I wondered. What does this mean about her and her personality? Then I realized I was over-thinking things. Little Girl is an active, athletic, fun child who loves running around and would rather play monster than sit in a dirty sandbox. How could I have anything bad to say about that? Really, what’s the big deal? So she’s a tomboy, something that’s increasingly being found to be genetic, according to one study.

I think it will serve her well as she gets older and enters what is still a male-dominated world. My little girl, well, she already doesn’t take any crap from anyone. (Hence the scar above her eyebrow and the fact that she lost Blanka last night for biting her sister. I also think it’s a byproduct of spending a lot of time with her Daddy when she was little. Big Girl was almost exclusively with me in her very early years. My husband worked a lot, so I got to take her to music class, mommy-and-me, cooking classes, gymnastics, and playdates. My husband was out of work and sick when Little Girl was born, so he was the one charged with her care during the day. His activity of choice: Bringing Little Girl to the park and letting her run wild. There were few, if any, music classes on his agenda.

Anyway, the whole point of this post is that I think it’s important for us as parents to accept and embrace the people our children become. Because if we can’t accept them, how can they accept themselves?

Although my troop always forgoes the incentives so we can earn an extra $.05 per box, there’s still an opportunity to earn Girl Scout store gift certificates by selling 300, 600, or 900 boxes. Big Girl, who spent a little time perusing the catalog, decided she wanted to earn a $75 gift certificate. It was a tall order, I told her. Selling 300 boxes of cookies on her own would be difficult and require a lot of hard work. She said she wanted to do it, and I am so glad she did because in addition to that gift certificate, she also racked up confidence, poise, marketing know-how, and sales skills. She even overcame her shyness and got better at making eye contact, two things that have stymied her in the past.

Me, I didn’t care so much about the gift certificate or the money for the troop. I just wanted to get rid of extra cookies. My troop had a few booth sales. My cookie mom was laid up, so I was the cookie holder. If Big Girl would sell cookies, I could free up space in my trunk. Our first location was outside a local supermarket. The first sale was rough to put it mildly. Big Girl looked like she was being tortured. She wouldn’t speak up. She wouldn’t make eye contact. In all honesty, Little Girl was the one doing all the selling. “Girl Scout cookies! Wanna buy some cookies?”

Still, we sold 43 boxes, and Big Girl got a taste of what it felt like to be successful. Our next sale was unintentional. We were at a local sandwich shop. It was packed. I asked the manager if we could walk table-to-table selling our cookies. She said yes, and we were off. This time Big Girl’s selling skills were marginally better. She actually had three people tell her that she needed to look them in the face if she wanted them to make a purchase. She held it together, though, and started making occasional eye contact and speaking loud enough for people to hear her. We sold 20 boxes within 15 minutes. Soon after, we walked around in our town. A few days later we visited my old hometown. We also hit three local railroad stations, and poked our heads in bars, pizza joints, and delis. With every sale, Big Girl got a little more confident. She hit her stride when, at the new Moe’s by our house, the owner told her he would buy whatever she had left if she could do the math. (It was 14 boxes. She did the calculations in her head and got it right.)

By our last sale — at the local railroad — she was unstoppable. “Get your Girl Scout cookies,” she barked. “I’m down to my last eight boxes. These are going fast!” And they did. She sold cookies to the last five people she approached. I was even more impressed when she forgot to hand over a box after a sale and, when the guy reproached her, she held it together even though she was completely embarrassed. A few years ago something like that would have sent her into a crying jag.

Sure, there were some glitches. At the supermarket sale, for instance, she started hyperventilating when someone asked her to recite the Girl Scout Promise. Imagine my surprise when she not only said it at a railroad sale a few days later, but smiled the whole time.

So how do I feel about Girl Scout cookies? I feel pretty good. All the sales and marketing materials tout how good Girl Scouts are for the girls. Until now, I sort of poo-pooed that. However, my kid is a shining example of what a kid-run sale can actually do. Would it have been easier for me to post on Facebook and get my husband to bring her order form to work? Sure, then I would have missed out on seeing my child beaming with pride from her accomplishment.

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?