It's a Girl Thing

Last Saturday, my husband and I had a wonderful time taking our daughter for her ninth birthday on a pilgrimage to the American Girl store in New York.

It was a magical day. My daughter has been a fan of American Girl dolls since the age of five, and she loved being treated like the princess she has always known herself to be.

The dolls have been her faithful friends for years, and she adores playing with them. But even if she wasn't a fan, I would have dragged her because to me the store is Mecca.

It's the place I would have loved more than anywhere else when I was her age.  

Being a girl in the 70s, a time when the women’s movement was in full swing, was not the ideal time to be a princess-in-waiting. I was born to parents who had the nerve to believe my sisters and I could be anything we wanted. They did not subscribe to stereotyped notions of femininity.

I had full access to microscopes, telescopes, craft kits, and art supplies. But what I really wanted was full access to all that was pink and frilly.

Before you strike up the violins, let me say that my childhood was not one of deprivation. Each year Santa brought me a doll, and I did have two Barbies. (Four if you count Ken and Skipper.) But I spent my childhood longing for a shrine to girldom: a pink canopy bed, frilly dresses, and long beautiful hair tied up in a bow.

My wish came true years later when I had my daughter. My princess has always gravitated to the most feminine styles. At less than two years old she refused to wear anything but dresses. She has always enjoyed the whole girl package. 

Oddly enough it's my parents who are more than happy to be her loyal subjects. Whereas my father's nickname for my sisters and me was, "butch," he has always lovingly called my daughter, “princess." My mother, who never had much interest in dolls and frilly dresses, is only too happy to indulge my daughter in everything a princess would love.

They even go for weekly manicures!

I'm sure some of this turnaround is age and experience. My parents wanted us to have options that weren't previously available to women. They were successful. My sisters and I are independent women who were able to make decisions about our careers and when to marry and start families. Their job is done.

But there’s another reason why it’s so easy to indulge my daughter’s love of all that is pink. 

My daughter’s brain disorder affects every aspect of her development. It takes so much effort for her to be in this world. Processing sounds and expressing even the simplest of ideas takes so much effort for her.

Ironically, the language my daughter is fluent in is the one that I have always loved and wanted to speak, "girl." When she is playing with her dolls or all dressed up in gowns and adorned in jewelry, we can reach her on a level she understands. It is effortless for her. She giggles and laughs and can connect with us. 

Even her brothers know this. My oldest, who at 12 is too cool for all of us right now, will willingly play prince to her princess if he can get a few minutes to connect to the sister he adores. My five-year old, who would rather smash up cars or play with his trains will stop everything to join one of his sister’s tea-parties.

Maybe the sweetest thing for me to watch is how my husband has learned girl speak so he too can interact with his beloved daughter. He looked as involved and happy showing our daughter around the American Girl store as I’ve seen him playing ball with our sons.

Life has a funny way of taking us full circle.

My Baby Left Me

The other day while driving my son to middle school, I encountered a woman I didn't know.

She was driving with a sense of purpose I’d not seen before. She was muttering things at cars in front of her that politeness won’t allow me to print. No car would let her in, even though her son was running late to school and she had a cranky five year-old in the back seat with a fever and strep throat. Imagine my surprise when I glanced in the mirror and saw my reflection!

Perhaps it’s all the snow we’ve had in New York. Or the fact that in the last few weeks, I‘ve had one kid or the other home from school. But I’ve felt old and somewhat cranky.

Time is going so fast, and my kids are growing too quickly. This year my oldest started middle school, and my baby started kindergarten. It's great to have time to go the gym and work on my blog, but I miss my babies.

Was it a crazy time? Yes, but the sweet times holding my little ones or dancing with them to Nick Jr. songs made up for the insanity.  

My days are now busy getting backpacks ready and serving as homework cop and chauffeur. The leisurely walks pushing strollers or pulling wagons are gone. I live and die by the school calendar.

We’re always busy preparing for the next project, concert, or test. Days go by so fast, I barely get used to one month before I'm into the next.

I’m not the only one in my family reacting to the new schedule and its pressures. So is my fun-loving, easy-going five-year-old. The old days were far from stress-free or leisurely, but each day we had time when it was just the two of us. Grocery shopping or driving to pre-school was our special time.

I knew I would miss it. I didn't realize he missed it, too.

My little guy never seemed averse to leaving me. Unlike my other two, who would cry and at least pretend to miss me, the only time he ever cried was when I would pick him up from school.

Only a pretty secure mom could wait with mothers whose little ones are running to them cheering. Mine had to be comforted.

"It's OK honey. You get to come back tomorrow," his pre-school teacher would say.  

The first day of kindergarten brought a few tears and leg holding. Then the bus came, and it was, "Bye mom. See you later."

So I was surprised by how clingy he’s been this past week. I first chalked it up to the strep throat. The poor kid looked horrible. I would try to make him feel better by telling him he could go back to school soon.

This is the child who on Saturdays says he wants to see his teacher and names every kid in his class. When he said, "No I want to stay with you mommy," I figured it was the fever talking. 

But Thursday night as I was getting him ready for bed, I told him he might be able to go to school the next day.

“I don't want to go to school. I want to stay home."

I was shocked and thought I should check his temperature again.

"Oh, sweetie, you are going to love seeing all your friends. I bet Mrs. Wilson has really missed you."

"I don't want Mrs. Wilson. I want Mrs. You!"

I'm sure there will be tears Monday when the bus comes. He might even cry too. But then he will get on the bus, throw me a kiss and go with his friends.

My babies are growing up.

Of course that is what every mother wants. I miss the baby years but will do my best to enjoy this stage in our lives. It won't be long before I wonder what happened to the frenzied woman who blurted out choice language while racing to get her kids to school.

Time goes too fast!

Add Water and Grow

As precious as it is to watch my five-year-old, all dressed up in blizzard attire, sing “Frosty the Snowman” to his own creation, I’m ready for winter to be over.

I’m one of those New Yorkers who loves the idea of four seasons, not the reality. I don’t like snow, and I’m glad when it leaves. But it’s only January, and I have a bit of a wait.

All is not lost though, because I just got my first seed catalog. I feel just like a kid whenever a new garden catalog arrives. I look over each new plant and flower and imagine where I will put them in this year’s garden. Should I plant the new white sunflowers this year? Or should I turn my back bed into a rose garden and try some of the antique varieties I have read about?

I can obsess on these small details for hours as I plan my perfect garden. 

Never in a million years did I think that I would become obsessed with gardening. Growing up, I never had so much as a passing interest in gardening. I love flowers but was always content to buy, not grow, them.

My parents are lifelong gardeners and practiced organic gardening long before it was all the rage. Some of my sweetest memories of my mother involve watching her work on her flowers as I would sit next to her and chat about my day. I even worked for a man who was on the board of the NY Horticultural Society. I had tons of opportunities to catch the gardening bug. I just thought I was immune.

Then I became a mother. 

I didn’t get infected with the gardening bug until we were in our present home for about three years. By then, I was knee deep in the baby and toddler years. Our son was four and our daughter one. I was exhausted and drained.

Our son was breaking out in hives and no doctor or test could figure out why. Then he had his first asthma attack. On top of which I was already juggling pre-school, speech and occupational therapy for him and trying to figure out the nature of our daughter’s developmental problems. My life felt a little out of control.

Then I went to the garden center with my father. I started with just a few container gardens and window boxes. I had so much fun planting and taking care of the flowers. It was easy. If I bought the right flower, for the right spot, it grew. I didn’t have to come up with creative ideas to get it to grow. I didn’t have to consult countless specialists. I just had to water them. 

If a plant isn’t working out, I can transplant it, or cut it back. Heck, I can even rip it out and start all over again. I can’t do that with my kids. 

I now have five flower beds, all made with me and my trusty garden spade. (I just don’t work well with a shovel.) I fuss over each plant and flower the same way I do with my kids. I get lost working in my garden. It is my perfect escape.    

Who would have thought that I had to become a mother to enjoy Mother Nature?

Kathy

Losing Barbie, Finding My Princess

Each time I open one of my kid’s lunch bags, I feel like a TV executive receiving the previous night’s ratings. The goldfish are gone—yea, we have a hit. The popcorn looked like a sure-fire winner. Yet it was not touched. Pull it. I am ruthless. I can’t waste time and money on a snack that doesn’t score.

As a mom, I have to make quick decisions every day. Many are no more important than what snack to buy at the market.

Too often the stakes are higher. Some choices, whether they are made quickly or with much prayer and thought, have deeper consequences.

This past summer, I thought nothing of cleaning out my daughter’s toys. Our princess is the only girl in our family, and she is much loved by not only us, but by every teacher, therapist, grandparent, uncle, aunt, and bus driver she encounters. She accumulates more Barbies and stuffed animals than anyone I know. She loves anything girly and pink, and people are only too happy to shower her with gifts, which she graciously accepts with her wonderful smile and giggle.

I’m not proud to admit this, but one of the benefits of having a child who has a lot of neurological issues is that her memory is pretty limited. In the past, I’ve tossed away scores of Barbies and other toys that outlived their prime and she never noticed. She would go in her room and play with whatever she saw on her bed and be very happy.

That was before she started taking medication.

Putting our then seven-year-old daughter on a mood stabilizer was not an easy choice. We had tried everything up to that point, but nothing worked. She would have indescribable meltdowns that came out of nowhere.

My breaking point came when we were out to dinner one night and she started screaming and crying. I rushed her into the ladies’ room where she started to scream louder, “No, no, I want my Mommy.”

At that moment, she had no idea who I was. When she came out of it, she had no memory of what happened.

I cried the first time I gave her the medicine. The reality of the situation came crashing down on me. She was disabled, and this was not going to magically disappear no matter how hard we wished or prayed.

The drugs our princess takes make it possible for her to go to school and have as normal a life as possible. We can go out as a family without worrying she will fall apart.  

The medications have also improved her memory.

This became evident after that fateful room cleaning. I was in shock when she clearly and calmly said, “Mommy, I can’t find my Princess Barbie in the pink dress.”

I was thrilled she expressed herself so clearly. I was thrilled she remembered the Princess Barbie. Then I remembered that Barbie was a casualty of the cleaning.

I wasn’t sure what to do. Would she understand why I got rid of it? Would she be hurt that I didn’t take her feelings in to account? Was I the worst mother in the world? (I felt like it when I heard her looking for the doll. “Princess Barbie, where are you? You are my best friend.”)

My husband was ready to rush out and buy a replacement. I was tempted as well, but I decided to talk with her. I calmly explained that I made a mistake. The next time I would have her help me decide which toys should stay and which should go.

“I love you mommy” was her response. “I forgive you.”

Then I ran out and bought a new Barbie.

Being a decision-maker means sometimes I will choose wrong. Just like a TV executive who turns down a pilot for a show that ends up being a hit on another network.

Becoming a mother didn’t make me infallible. But it’s reassuring when one of my mistakes can be forgiven with an "I love you" and a kiss.