Domestic Psychology » parenting

I answer their questions

cathy — Thu, 24 May 2012 02:04:54 +0000

This week, I…

talked about menstruation with my 9-y-o daughter,
talked about childbirth with my 6-y-o son,
and talked about HPV with my teenage son.

Parenting is not for the timid.

Carl Sagan

cathy — Sun, 13 Nov 2011 01:02:42 +0000

Me: “Today is Carl Sagan Day.”
Noah: “Who?”
Me: “Oh, Noah. Get out your iPad and accurately describe Carl Sagan in 140 characters.”
Noah: “Seriously?”
Me: “Completely serious. Didn’t you ever wonder why your dad and I like to say bill-i-ons and bill-i-ons?”
Noah: “No. You guys say LOTS of weird stuff.”

You know that mixed feeling of excitement and disappointment that comes with realizing you can no longer spell words out to keep surprises a secret from your small children? Apparently, it doesn’t matter, because nothing you say makes sense to your teenagers.

Carl Sagan by Noah

*Carl Sagan is
Kinda sorta a little
Uninteresting.

Astronomer who
Wrote many cool articles
About science stuff.

* We spent a ridiculous amount of time discussing the number of syllables in Carl.

fuzzy pictures, clear memories

cathy — Wed, 02 Nov 2011 22:10:19 +0000

That is probably the cleanest picture I took during my New York visit. I also like my less impressive, cell phone picture of the Bethesda Fountain. Neither picture is my favorite.

My favorite picture was taken less than a minute after the sparkly Manhattan picture at the top of this post when I turned the camera toward my companions. The resulting picture is terrible and I love everything about it.

When Sarah left high school a semester early and moved to a city she had never visited, I was terrified. She was a 17-year-old from a small town in a large city with no family nearby. Unsurprisingly, Sarah thrived in her new environment. I don’t know if her school and the city create strong, independent young adults or if the school and city attract teens on the verge of dynamic adulthood. I do know that Sarah has surrounded herself with absolutely wonderful people. They have formed their own family. A family that makes my diminishing role in her life, comforting.

It’s their world now and they know it.

Not our finest moment

cathy — Thu, 06 Oct 2011 01:56:16 +0000

Me: “What did I just say to you?”
Evan: “Stop running. Blah-blah. Quit throwing stuff. Blah-blah. Sit down.”
Me: “Thank you for listening. Now, sit down.”

Rules for our fair visit

cathy — Thu, 15 Sep 2011 19:16:32 +0000

1. You may not have a bunny.
2. Don’t eat the food that is spilled on the ground.
3. Crying will not change the height requirement for rides.
4. If you insist on running ahead, you are going to spend a lot of time waiting for the old people to catch up with you.
5. You still can’t have a bunny.

Bonus rule for Evan:
I don’t care how hot it is outside, you may not remove your shirt.

They call me… mom

cathy — Wed, 14 Sep 2011 21:49:12 +0000

knock-knock
“Good morning ma’am. We’re here to tell you about…”
“It’s pouring rain out here. Where’s your umbrella?”
“We’re fine. We’re from the…”
“May I give you an umbrella please?”
“No thank you. We just wanted to talk about the book…”
“I’m sorry, but I need you to get out of the rain.”
“Uh, okay. Would you like a pamphlet?”
“Not unless you’ll take an umbrella.”

Still feral

cathy — Sat, 11 Jun 2011 01:13:56 +0000

Amy: “Mom! Evan’s on the trampoline.”
Me: “Okay.”
Amy: “He’s *naked.”

Every window in the house is like a television whose channel can’t be changed, so I went to the trampoline channel/window. Tiny clothing was scattered on the ground in a pattern that could only be caused by tossing the clothing off of the trampoline. On the trampoline, a 6-y-o with a grin that was impossibly big, jumped on the trampoline. His feet touched the trampoline surface for a moment, then his body seemed to float weightlessly in the air before landing and taking off again. The child who prefers to be naked and loves to bounce on the trampoline discovered that the combination of two good sensory experiences combine to create bliss. At the very moment I realized how watching Evan’s joy made me feel calm and happy, his sister reached the trampoline. “Mom said you hafta put your pants on or come inside.”

I hate being the mean mom who makes children wear pants, bathe regularly and have bedtimes in the summer. No. I like clean, well-rested children. I love my little nudist.

*She pronounces it nekkid.

Always my baby

cathy — Thu, 07 Apr 2011 02:01:21 +0000

“You keep calling me baby, but babies are only one. I’m five. Five year olds are awesome! Five year olds are not babies. It’s okay though. I still love you even though I’m not a baby.”

just a mom

cathy — Thu, 20 Jan 2011 19:41:53 +0000

I have gotten GREAT feedback from my histrionic post about Sarah leaving home. Some of it made me giggle. Some of it made me feel soooo much better. All of it was helpful. I am still scratching my head about the recurring theme in feedback that I am afraid of New York. I know I am a deliberately vague writer, but I truly never meant to imply fear of a city. I spent my high school years treating Voodoo Village as my personal playground. It never occurred to me that I was supposed to be afraid of a neighborhood.

I know that in Memphis, justice is weighted by your net worth and personal connections, but I am not afraid of Memphis. I love that city. I know that Chicago is quietly run by crime syndicates, but I am not afraid of Chicago. I love that city. I understand the exhaustingly complicated social rules of Atlanta, but I am not afraid of Atlanta. I’m sorry, I don’t love Atlanta, but I don’t fear it either. I have preconceived assumptions about New York and they are probably wrong, but they are based on the idea that it is a place where creative people gather with shared dreams of being artists, writers, actors and musicians. I will accept that I have romanticized New York, but I am recalcitrant to accept that I am afraid of it.

I understand that much of social media has evolved into categories. I know people who do or don’t follow me on various sites because of my liberal slant. There is a spike in readership of anything I tag with Autism. Ultimately, even labeling me a middle aged hippie is overshadowed by the fact that I am a mom. Everything in my life is filtered through my mom lenses.

I don’t fear New York. I fear my daughter getting sick and my inability to scoop her up and take her to the doctor. I worry about my child getting a home cooked meal after weeks of surviving on ramen and Dr. Pepper. I am anxious about her moving somewhere without a support system. I don’t have an off switch that changes the way I feel about my children just because they reach a certain age. Just to make things even harder to understand, at the same time that I am filled with anxiety and sprinkled with sadness, I am also excited and proud. You know, just like a mom.

Indoor outhouse

cathy — Thu, 09 Dec 2010 05:44:08 +0000

Freshly scrubbed to remove the nasty feeling brought on by washing a load of stomach bug bedding, I sat back in the bathtub to relax for a few minutes. Almost immediately after closing my eyes, something fell on my leg and I sat upright. I looked at my leg where the bruise was already forming. Then, I stared at the three tiles on the bottom of the bathtub. I looked up and glared at the spot on the wall where the tiles were moments earlier. My eyes returned to the water in the tub that was now a cloudy, gritty tile grout mess. Before I could reach for the drain to start a do-over on my bathing fail, the stomach bug child stumbled into the bathroom a moment too late to reach her destination. I scrambled out of the bathtub, covered in tile decay, to clean the crying child covered in blech. My phone rang.

“Hi Cathy. How’s your day going?”