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Cabin Fever

Therapy Tuesdays

Growing up, one of my favorite phrases in the wintertime was uttered by a local morning disc jokey duo. "Bread, milk, and toilet paper" they would say, which was code for the forecast calling for snow.  The joke was that in our local area of Washington, DC, the tiniest snowflake could make some of the nation's most powerful people crumble into grocery store hysteria. It is a given that this town doesn't handle wintry weather well--it's not unusual for school systems to close before a flake hits the ground.

Now as an adult, I can understand why my parents were never as enamored with snow as I was. The typical flow of a weekday or weekend gets completely interrupted, which can make both adults and children feel like they lost their anchor.  Until the snow ends and the digging begins, people are limited to their neighborhoods. Hopefully, kids or friends are nearby and easily accessible. Or there are stores nearby to break up the  monotony.  Kids can congregate, and take to the hills with sleds, build snowmen, throw snowballs, and with all of our technology, get to simply be kids.

    

Family traditions can continue: sitting by the fireplace, reading books, and eating s'mores or other tasty treats.  But this can be taxing on our modern families.  Many times, we forget how to connect with one another when we are face-to-face. We are so used to communicating with computers, text messages, or cell phones, that direct contact can be tricky.  We are used to talking in quick sound-bites. Especially when we are confronted with unplanned together time. Tempers can flare long before the snow melts. Families intuitively know how to push one another's buttons and take these opportunities in their restlessness and boredom to do so. 

These are the times to remember to take a step back. Help your children figure out ideas (before boredom sets in) about things to do. Cook together. Spend time apart.  Try to switch (if possible) between parents (or neighbors) so adults can have breaks. Savor your sleep. It's also always OK to be a parent and give yourself a time out.

I write this post as feet of snow descend upon me and my loved ones...hopefully, I'll remember my own advice!

My Kids, Technology and Me

Fatherhood Friday

Did you see the study on kids and technology showing that children ages 8 to 18 spend, on average, 7.5 hours each day in front of electronic devices. Seven and a half hours! And that doesn't even include time on their cellphones. (By the time they're done with school and electronic time, when do they eat?) I admit, I haven't read the study, only the news coverage but, boy oh boy, that's a lot of time in front of a screen.

I like to think of myself as pro-technology, and I sincerely hope my kids have a greater understanding and incorporation of technology throughout their lives than I've managed to have. But - and this applies to my kids as well as me and my peers - that reliance on technology seems to come at the expense of lack of social skills, that maybe only manifests itself later on. 

How many of you have 20-something colleagues who email all the time but don't seem to know how to use a phone or, horror of horrors, speak to people in person. I'm not saying they can't do it in a social setting. But a buddy told me a story the other day about two people at his company who always email each other but have never spoken. Turns out at lunch the other day they were sitting next to each other - emailing each other - but had no idea who the other was! Now, that story may be apocryphal but you get the point.

A Pregnant Pause

Work Wednesday

Guest post by Peggy B. Hu

I've been mulling over a brief conversation I had recently with a grocery store cashier. As she was ringing up my purchases, the cashier was chatting with a co-worker who was complaining that she had just been allowed to go on break — 45 minutes before her shift was due to end. What kind of break was that, she asked? 

Continuing her complaint, the co-worker told my clerk that she was pregnant and said she believed she was entitled to more frequent breaks as her condition progressed.  My cashier said she would be interested in knowing the store's guidelines herself. Turning to me, my clerk said that she, too, was pregnant!

I was startled this stranger had told me such a personal fact, and for a few seconds I didn't know what to say. Eventually I offered her my congratulations and commented that it probably would be hard to stand around all day if I were pregnant, particularly during the third trimester. The clerk said she wished she had a desk job just so she could sit down.

Hoping I wasn't saying something insensitive, I told her that I was very lucky I have a job that doesn't require standing. In fact, I was put on bedrest the entire second half of my pregnancy to prevent premature labor and delivery. Because of the nature of my job, though, I was able to continue working from home on a laptop – lying down the whole time – until a week or two before my due date.

Help Wanted: Apply At Your Own Risk

Truth Tuesday

I was thinking about this job called "Mom" or "Motherhood."  

It's not exactly what one might call a "cushy job." 

As gigs go, it's pretty hard: Long hours, guaranteed pain (of the emotional and physical varieties), often thankless, financially draining and...oh yes, the roller coaster. A constant roller coaster. 

And yet, women line up for this job. Women have faith in it. They dream of it. They base their lives on it. The put their all into it. 

Whistle As We Walk

Sharing Saturday 

Last weekend, in New York City, I strapped on a pair of funky high heels and strutted downtown to a party for a friend's birthday. I don’t often have the opportunity to get dressed up and attend an event in a cool loft without husband or children. I was in black, I had on makeup, my hair was cooperating. I felt sensational. And some middle age man walked by me, eyed me up and down, and whistled.

All the traumatic moments in my life when I was ogled, whistled at, catcalled, eyed up and down or commented upon – vanished. All the upset about being big-chested as a young adolescent – gone.  All my feminist rants – poof, up in thin smoke. For I am a 47-year-old suburban mother with a carpool schedule, and, generally speaking, no one whistles at me anymore. And I have to admit, it felt good.

Potty Training: Carrots, Sticks, and...Tinkle Targets?

Family Friday

Although other children reportedly approach potty-training with gusto, some from a very early age, my two older kids never displayed a warm and instantaneous rapport with the toilet.  So understandably, my husband and I have not rushed gladly into the third and final round of potty-training we now face.

To add another layer of angst, my environmentally-conscious husband has agonized about the Pampers we have consumed over the years.  So when our third child was born, he ordered some diaper-like product with a flushable component, a reusable vinyl liner, and an adorable cloth outer layer.  On my first day home from the hospital, my mother and I watched as my husband demonstrated its correct use.

Standing over the toilet, he tossed in the yucky part, then, like an Arctic seal hunter, began to poke it with a specially designed stick:

"OK, now you (stab, stab) just have to put it in there like this (stab, stab), then use this (stab, stab), break it apart (stab, stab), then make sure you've got all the pieces separated (stab, stab), then what you do…"

By avoiding eye contact, my mom and I managed to get through this without giggles.  Nevertheless, the procedure did not catch on, and our youngest child ended up as Pampered as the other two. 

Now, with our carbon footprints deepening each day, my husband and I (and even the older two!) have repeatedly approached our little guy, armed with Thomas the Tank Engine underwear and an enormous bag of M&Ms, and talked up the joys of toilet mastery.  All conversations, however, have deviated little from the following:

Working Moms and Marriage: More Joy, Less Divorce

Work Wednesday

I got an early Valentine this weekend. Not from any of the usual suspects - husband, kids, or mother. (Yes, my parents still send me a Valentine's Day card every year!) And, well, it wasn't really a Valentine. But it did feel like something to savor. It's a New York Times article about working women and their happy marriages. Happier (or at least more stable) than those of women who don't work.

In She Works. They're Happy., the Times' "Well" columnist, Tara Parker-Pope, reviews a number of studies on modern marriage (and cites some anecdotal examples) to conclude: "Over all, the evidence shows that the shifts within marriages — men taking on more housework and women earning more outside the home — have had a positive effect, contributing to lower divorce rates and happier unions." One reason: without the pressure to choose a husband solely on the basis of his "provider" capabilities, women marry men who are more likely to share in childrearing and domestic life.

What a relief! Most of the time the news about working women - and working moms especially - is dismal. Or at the very least, fraught. So, it feels good to read a positive piece.

And it makes sense to me. (Even though the happiness level in my own marriage has been challenged in the past few weeks by sickness and sleep deprivation.) I've long thought - in my limited eight years of marital bliss (well, mostly) - that some rough level of equality in education, social status, and income between partners helps a marriage prosper. That a more or less "marriage of equals"  - if not in the Shakespearean but in the professional sense - produces a happy couple.

My Son Talks To Facebook More Than He Talks To Me

Truth Tuesday 

It’s a whole new ball game.

Not a literal ball game.   

I’m talking about my Little Man.

My boy. My first-born. My 12-year-old

He started Middle School this year. Sixth grade. Or, as it is more commonly apparently known, The Year All You-Know-What Breaks Loose.

The Language of Lice

 Sharing Saturday

My daughter has intractable hair. Wavy, frizzy, pouffy hair. Hair that requires industrial strength conditioner and painstaking combing and brushing. This year, she wears it pulled back to keep it in check. But at the end of last school year, when she still wore it mostly loose and shared brushes with her friends, she started scratching. From there it was just a short sprint to the dreaded language of lice.

 When she first started scratching her head, it barely resonated. But the scratching became more pronounced, and within a few days, I actually was able to see the little creatures squirming on her head. I quickly picked up the arsenal of products that populate the medicine cabinets of all families who have gone through this unwanted drill – the toxic shampoo, the fine-toothed comb, the all-natural rosemary infused products that are supposed to ward off recurrence (hah), the magnifying glasses that I kept next to the bright lamp that I kept next to the chair on which she sat every morning and every night for the better part of a month, while I combed and picked and combed and picked and searched for nits. Of course, on the last day of the first treatment, after having not seen a nit since the first day, I discovered a new nit and had to begin the whole process all over again for another two weeks.

At Dad's Leisure

Fatherhood Friday

I was, as usual, struck by my friend Stacy's post the other day about moms and leisure. I would venture to say that most dads who place a premium on work-life balance and family time would agree whole heartedly that I could substitute "dad" for "mom" throughout the post and they'd feel much as Stacy does. Leisure is indeed elusive - both as a concept and as a reality.

But what I find especially thought-provoking are some of the comments to the posting, especially Tara's point that she feels her leisure time is "contaminated by a sense that (she) "should" be doing something else". For the longest time, I've felt exactly that same sensation - almost feeling guilty when time isn't used productively, knowing that my to-do list has not been dented (even if I created most of the items on that list). 

I think this is a by-product of our culture's zest for multi-tasking. At work, at home, wherever, we tend to take pride in our ability to do multiple things at once. And we've probably adjusted ourselves so we can do those multiple things adequately, but at the cost of rarely fully embracing those activities.

So, like Tara, I agree that the solution is to learn to live each day more in the moment. If anybody has suggestions about how to move closer to that reality, I'd really appreciate hearing them. I've struggled with it for as long as I can remember and, ironically, find that the closest I've come to succeeding at it is when I'm busiest. 

There is, however, one leisure activity that I've done a decent job of being in the moment and that is vacation. Perhaps because I'm physically separated from my normal environment, I'm also able to mentally and virtually separate and thus appreciate the moment. And last week I had a great family vacation.