Wednesday, February 23, 2011

Battle Hymn Of The Sissy Mother.

I just finished reading "The Battle Hymn Of The Tiger Mother" by Amy Chua. There is a lot of controversy over how psychotic this Chinese mother is about rearing her two daughters. For example, 6 hours of drilling violin for a 7 year old girl. That's a bit extreme for us Westerners.

However, this book made me realize I'm more comfortable subscribing to the Candy Ass Mothering Method. This is when I nicely request (beg) for my daughters to study for a test and when there is any type of resistance, I fold like a deck of cards.

I fear that I will traumatize them if I push too hard. So I don't. Or rather, didn't.

There was a day when I begged for mercy when I blew my top, apologizing profusely for saying things like, You guys are ungrateful jerks, I brought you into this world and I can take you out, and one of my lowest points, What, you think you're better than everyone else?

In other words, I was a fan of the verbal smackdown with my daughters.

I hired a child psychologist. I confessed to being a passive-aggressive asshole and begged for a solution. She explained that I needed an incentive chart. I already had stickers up the ass trying to reward them for good behavior, so I was pissed that I was paying $150 for 50 minutes to learn nothing.

But wait. There was still 35 minutes left.

She said, "That's great. You know how to reward your kids. That's the part parents love. What about discipline? How do you handle that?"

How do I what-what?

I explained that I usually barked out orders and whined about how I had no respect. Did that count? No. In fact, according to psychological theories, I was fucking them up worse by caving and blaming them for my lack of boundaries, structure and holding firm on what I need.

So I'm basically a candy-ass, then I whine and blame my kids for not getting my way. Is that right?

Confirmed.

Shit.

So I crafted together a little chart on the back of a paper bag I fished out of the recycling container. I ripped up some sheets of paper and scratched out rewards on them. Movie Madness! Tooth Fairy Bonus! Shit like that to Bait and Switch behavior.

And it worked. I tried to hide around corners when I did a victory dance.

They wanted structure. They wanted to be worth the effort. They wanted me to push them to a higher to potential. They were asking me to help set goals for crissake. Their friends came over and asked if they could have one. So I made a few more out of grocery bags.

And just like that, my kids respected me. Grades in school started kicking ass. They were eating breakfast, sans chips, by 8:10. No more Defcon 5 military watch as they brushed teeth, no more arguing as I brushed their hair, and no more sprinting for the bus with papers flying out of backpacks.

Dare I say it - morning are peaceful. Homework is teamwork and weirdly becoming something they fight to "get mom first" for their 45 minutes alone in the "Homework Hole" (a.k.a the dining room). No more tantrums at bedtime.

I think I found a nice middle ground between Psychotic Tiger Mother and Candy-Ass Sissy Mother.

This little chart became a "thing." I created it into something that wasn't such an eye-sore. A ripped Cub bag was bit trashy, so I hooked up with a printer and made two. Then my neighbor wanted one. Then my friend who was battling with her ADHD son wanted one. Then the hockey mom who was sick of finding lost uniforms wanted one. A couple of Canadian moms hear about it and wanted homework to be scream-free. A woman in Texas was ripping her hair out because her 3-year old wouldn't sleep in her own bed.

And it worked for all of them. Kids are keeping track of their own uniforms (even washing them!), kids with ADHD are staying focused and less frustrated, homework is teamwork for the Candians, Texas is sleeping better...

I had a few printed up. There aren't a lot left, but if you're looking for a new way to connect with your kids, this will help. Yes, you can buy peace and it will arrive in your mailbox within 3-5 days.

p.s.
I have been asked if there is a chart for husbands, but that has not been developed yet. : )

Friday, February 18, 2011

Superstition.

I didn't think I was superstitious until I encountered hopeless situations. When hope runs low, I start grasping at anything to sway the world to better odds.

For example, yesterday I had the terror-filled ultrasound to determine if I had breast cancer. The pressure of the morning was enough to drive me psychotic. If I think a certain way, I'm attracting cancer via Law Of Attraction. And frankly, I was fucking it up because the unbearable pressure to think positively was backfiring on me.

I'm healthy and strong, healthy and strong...that's bullshit. My breasts feel like ziploc bags filled with ice cubes. Why haven't I noticed that until today? Fuck.

Horrible signs of my pending death were mounting: My fearlessness necklace broke, I wore all black, the birthstone in my anniversary ring fell out, and the kitchen clock stopped working.

And to top it off, I used the Cancer Care parking spot reserved for my dad for my ill-fated first mammogram. Why on earth did I do that? That sealed the deal - I was fucked.

As my husband drove me to the appointment he explained that the Katy Perry song "Fireworks" was about inner strength. I started sobbing uncontrollably, gasping and letting the tears splash onto my lap.

Of course this song is about inner strength because the world is telling me that I'm going to need shitloads of it soon! And my birthstone fell out and my necklace broke and I'm wearing all black I never wear all black why am I dressed like I'm attending a funeral? And the clock stopped and my boobies are like ice cube-filled ziploc bags...

He stopped at the red light and said, "Listen to me. A necklace has nothing to do with causing or repairing cancer. Katy Perry doesn't know you. And your boobies don't feel like a bunch of ice cubes. Whatever it is, it is, okay? We got this."

Okay, okay, okay.

No more superstition. I bravely walked to the machine, chatted with the tech as she ran the tests. I courageously laid in the ultrasound room, holding my breath. This is it I thought. This is how it happens. This is how the earth grinds on its axis and changes the course of life and I can't stop her from saying the words to me.

She said, "It's fine. Everything is fine."

Exhale.

I was fine. Everything was fine. I said a prayer for all the women who laid on that same table and did not hear those words. Oddly enough, the "prayer" that spilled from my mouth were from Winnie the Pooh:

...there is something you must always remember. You are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think.

To all the women out there surviving and thriving through your journey of breast cancer, we are here for you. We admire you, treasure you, and we are continually inspired by you.

Be well.

Tuesday, February 15, 2011

Doors.

Doors. They're so simple. We turn the knob, we walk through them. I've been walking through them all my life. In 1981, I walked through a door without braces and walked back out with a mouthful of metal and a headgear. In 1986, I skipped out a door to my first date. In 2000, I walked through a door pregnant and walked out with my first daughter. I did it again with the same door in 2002.

But lately the doors I'm walking through feels like life is kicking me through them and I'm hesitating at the knob. It's just cramming me against the doorframe and I'm bracing myself saying, "Just give a fucking minute to breathe. Stop being so pushy."

Yesterday I walked through a door to see my father-in-law for the last time. I held his hand and said, "I love you." He whispered it back. I walked out the door and left a piece of my heart on the other side of it. With him. Sometimes my heart hurts so bad I fear I'm having a heart attack. Which truly, life seems to be attacking my heart lately. As the Tin Man says, "Now I know I have a heart, because it's breaking." I hurt because I love. And that's okay with me.

Last week I walked through a door with my dad and sister. We listened to his oncologist say the words, "You may need think about your quality of life." I walked out the door with my insides spinning and shaking. Cold and floaty, that's how it feels to hear those words spoken to your hero. Life is making me go through those same doors today. This time I will be walking through that fucking door already in a panic, so there very well could be a nervous breakdown waiting for me when I walk out.

I think breaking point has been lurking around the corners lately smoking a cigarette. It's been waiting since the day I lost my job and my nephew. Same day, same hour. Shit like this seems to happen to me in bulk. Many people get laid off, but I get laid off AND lose a family member. It's like I buy tragedy at Costco instead of Target. I get the big load so I won't run out.

Case in point: As I walked out the door to see my father-in-law yesterday, I received a call about my gamma mammogram I had on Friday. The left titty is concerning them. I hear about false-positives all the time, but that's not helping me right now. The more I hear about the "lucky ones" the less lucky I feel. They're taking my cards and I fear that I will be left with the joker. There are only so many false-positives out there in the world and frankly, it sounds like they're all used up.

So another door on Thursday. I have to walk through it and have more tests. I have no choice but to move forward because I can't move backward. That knowledge blows ass. I have to go to that fucking appointment. It's just sitting there on my calendar taunting me. 1:20 Thursday. 1:20 Thursday. 1:20 Thursday. I begging the universe to please let it be scar tissue from my Rack Install (a.k.a. boob job) from 2007. Damn, I should know that au natural is always best for me. What was I thinking having chicken cutlets slammed into my chest? Fuck. I'm no porn star, I just wanted to be proportionate, that's all. I have hips and I resembled an upside down lightbulb. I just thought I could have a shot at having the body I've always wanted. And now I'm pretty sure I'm being punished for it. Goddamn it to hell.

I can't figure out which area of panic deserves my attention most: My father-in-law who has less than a couple of days to live, my dad who quite possibly may choose to quit chemo today, or my left booby. Which one is panic-worthy?

Maybe none.

Information is just that. Information. It's what emotions I attach to it that makes me scared, panicked or anxious. Like flying a kite with certain strings. I can choose which string to use, but I still need to soar.

I don't know what doors I'm going to have to walk through in the next week, but I do know that I will survive whatever comes my way. Thrive even. I've already walked through doors that have broken me down and yet I always get back up a little stronger. A little happier. A little more forgiving. A little more grateful.

Am I going to panic? Absolutely. Am I going to live in fear because of panic? Absolutely not.