[peaceful parenting] Mama Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Barney

Around the time that my daughter was born, a new children’s show was all the rage.  Rage being a key word here as it also produced a LOT of push-back from parents, adults, and older siblings annoyed by the cloyingly saccharine song so famously associated with the show.  

I was one of those parents.  The show and its predominate purple protagonist left me so piqued that I engaged in strategic channel changing and PBS viewing schedules just to avoid exposing her to the show.

My efforts paid off, she never was much of fan.  (She only later learned of the show’s existence when she started preschool.  But always preferred to watch other programs, much to my relief.)

Flash forward to today, and I find myself dealing with the purple menace in a much bigger way.  Declan has, completely on his own, discovered the show via Netflix and Hulu on our tablet computers.  (Oh, if only both of those programs allowed parents to individually filter out certain shows!)  

Here's the techno-savvy lad now

Through no prompting nor training on our part, Declan has learned how to open the tablet, start the appropriate application, switch the application to the kid’s catalog, browse the options, pick a show, and watch it.  He is also very adept at rewinding and replaying key parts, particularly theme songs and musical numbers, over and over again.

Obviously, I’m no fan of some of his choices in viewing material.  My language makes that plain.  So why have I chosen to not only allow him to continue to view these shows, but also defend and support his tastes?

Well, I feel that to do otherwise would be shame him for being himself and expressing his tastes.

As much as I may not be a fan of cavity-inducing children’s music, it does not hurt him at all.  Whereas if I turned the situation from supportive to adversarial, someone must win and someone must lose.  That sort of relationship can cause harm; definitely to our relationship, but also to his developing sense of self.  So, instead of instituting a ban of B-word in this house, I’ve chosen to find acceptance.

Some may find my support to be a bit on the extreme side.  After all, would censoring his exposure from a children’s TV show *really* be that bad?  Honestly, I think that it might.  I’ve decided that my role in his life is to be a partner to him, and that a huge part of my “job” is to be supportive of his interests.  If I start to dismiss his curiosity and interests at this stage, how can I show him that I truly am interested in helping him to explore his world later on?

I’ll admit that this is perhaps a departure from some folks’ views of more conventional parenting.  But I’ll wager that even those people can cite a time in their adolescence when their parents chose to be adversarial at a time when they could have really used support instead.  I know that I can recall a few.  I can even recall moments when I really should have been more supportive of my daughter.

How do you as a parent view your relationship with your children?

On a somewhat related note, Declan has also--on his own--found Family Guy.  In some respects, I think that is almost more annoying than the dentally-challenged T-Rex.  No, it IS more annoying.*

*Yeah, I’m not a fan.  Too formulaic, too sophomoric, not witty enough.

Haus: Dilemmas of the MiniTrad Owner

I cannot help it.  I've been thinking a LOT about paint.

Haus, Sweet Haus

When we were in the market for our new haus, I had very definite ideas about the exact sort of haus that I wanted.  It would be old (built before 1940) and it would have a lot of charm.  Instead, we bought a house built in 1948 and with the curb appeal of a plain box.  *sigh*

(Why did we buy it, then?  The neighborhood, mostly.  But the interior features several darling details and original elements that we just adored.)

Since buying the haus, I've learned a lot more about post-war architecture.  For a start, our home is transitional, but mostly Minimal Traditional in style.  Minimal Traditional, or MiniTrad, homes were pretty much exactly what it sounds like: usually single-story homes built with very minimal details, and traditional elements.  They were often small and square, wasting almost no space on hallways.  Effective, efficient, affordable housing for our returning soldiers and their families, basically.  Our home feels a touch more transitional, though, in that its footprint is longer than most, has a large kitchen and service porch, and has a very long hallway from front to back.

Most MiniTrad homes are rather plain building on the outside.  Ours, being almost all stucco, is double drab in that it's currently painted the color of sand.  And did you spy that uninspired white accent color on white trim?  Yeah, yawn....

If there is one good thing about having a home that was built in the late 40s, it's that color was starting to be all the rage in homes.  The color palette was moving away from the earthy tones that dominate the Arts and Crafts movement, choosing instead vibrant, almost painful colors.  Folks were using color to brighten their lives and to forget about the austere war years.  Yellow was very popular in interiors.  Bright blues, and even jade, started to appear on exteriors.  The homes were small enough, that such bright colors didn't look garish.

My efforts to find a suitably historic palette have not, alas, turned up a plethora of available paint.  But I did find out that Sherwin Williams does market and offer a Historic Collection.  Worse still, they have a wonky, but addicting color visualizer tool.  (Wonky in that all attempts to save images after "painted" have thus far failed, or produced buggy images.)

Still, can you imagine how much more fun my haus would look painted gold with avocado trim?  Or jade with bright blue door?

Alas, I think we will have to wait a bit.  While the wood trim is liable to need some touch-ups soon, our  financial priorities have limited our ability to purchase paint for the stucco.  Any ideas on how to brighten up our home with just a new color trim?

homeownership

It's been about two weeks since we closed escrow and, to be expected, we are in full-blown homeowner mode.  We've made the obligatory repeat trips to the hardware store.  We've discussed the merits of copper plumbing with others.  We've googled numerous DIY and "how to" pages on everything from dishwasher troubleshooting, to pocket-door repair.  Yeah.

It's been about two weeks since we closed escrow and we still have numerous boxes to sort through and unpack.  As we knew that our last place was only going to be transitionary (five years of transition, apparently), we stored several boxes of items that we figured we may want whenever we did get into a home.  So, here we are--with five years worth of a stored "stuff."

It's been about two weeks since we closed escrow and we've already purchased more furniture.  I've found myself doing daily searches on Craigslist for items that would be just right for our late Art Deco/early Mid-century home.  I could not pass up a beautiful secretary/cabinet.  Plus a friend was needing to offload an antique couch that is a great color for our green living room.  Now, if only I could figure out just how to arrange everything in there...

You're seeing a pattern, right?  (Any inexpensive project-organizing software suggestions?)


Some major advantages to rejoining the ranks of the house dwellers include establishing a regular laundry schedule.  (No more fighting for an open washer.)  I have also been thoroughly happy in my larger kitchen complete with deep vintage sinks that are great for hand-washing dishes.  (Yeah, remember the part where I mentioned dishwasher troubleshooting?  We're stuck hand-washing until we fix our dishwasher.)

Probably the best part of our new adventure is to see just how happy the baby is playing in his backyard.  I'm a firm believer that children should be able to scratch around in dirt, get grass stains, and enjoy plenty of fresh air.  Declan loves being outside.  I am definitely looking forward to when we get our victory garden going and he can dig and plant alongside mom and dad.

In the meantime, I'm going to try to wrap my head around all the little things around here that I can accomplish.  Goodness knows there is plenty to do!

Home Sweet Home

The secretary

Opened

I love this little detail in the kitchen.  Wooden valance?

We have a few archways like this one into the dining room.

Looking into the dining area from the living room.

Looking into the kitchen from the service porch.

Hallway

Declan helps his dad with some yard work.

a photo may say a thousand words: here are mine

I already know that some people may actually be a touch offended by some of my thoughts on this subject.  I am aware that I'm being a touch judge-y when it isn't, at ALL, my place to do so.

When I see photos of online acquaintances in which they are significantly heavier than when I last saw them, I cannot help but feel sad, (and a touch curious.)  ME, feeling sad that people, like myself!, have gained weight.  It's dumb.  It's judgmental.  It's none of my goddamn business.  But I start to wonder, "what happened?"  "Did they injure themselves?"  "Are they dealing with depression?"  "Did they just let themselves go?"  Again--none of my business.

In the event that I'm not alone.  In the event that even some of MY online friends and acquaintances are thinking, "HA! Irony of ironies!  What the f*ck happened to you, lardass?" here is my situation.

I have never been skinny.  Never.  Not a day.  But I'm glad of that fact, honestly.  Skinny doesn't necessarily mean "healthy" or even "pretty" in my world.  It, in my world, means thin to the point of boney protrusions.  It does not mean "unhealthy" by default, but it could.

Oh, no.  I have always been a bit soft around the edges.  But not until adulthood did I get actually fat.  That never stopped anyone from calling me fat when I was younger, though.  I was often picked on as a child, always for things well out of my control such as my last name, my height, and their warped perceptions of reality.

As an aside, I can recall a time--when I was at one of my smallest points in my adult life, of course--when complete strangers, a car full of them, took the time to roll down their windows and insult me for my "big ass."  I was a size 9, and all that I had done was have the gaul to be out in public.  How dare I?!  Yeah.  Not so good times.  Not the first time to be put down by strangers for my appearance.  Neither the last.

Aside from genetics, I can easily blame the lousy eating habits I picked up as a child for my size.  When I was able to have my own household, I made a conscious effort to learn good food habits.  I recognized a connection between what I ate and my overall health.  I noticed that the many folks in my family struggling with weight issues were also, often, the ones who ate poorly.  I decided that I did not want to be one of those people.  I became a pescatarian, abstaining from eating any pork, beef, chicken, lamb, et cetera.  I did eat the occasional fish or seafood.  Within a month of changing my diet, I lost fifteen pounds.

I wavered a little bit at that weight for several years.  I'd gain a pound or two, lose a pound or two.  I had a physically demanding job.  I was in pretty good shape without needing to focus on eating a certain way (other than my eventual vegetarian diet), nor needing to worry about exercise.  But that all changed when my career drastically changed.  I went from standing and moving for hours on end to sitting at a desk for eight hours a day.  My clothes began to feel snug.  Favorite pants that had always been flattering were suddenly unsightly for the roll of skin that bulged over the waist.  And then I started to see photos of myself.  Particularly, candid photos.  Did I REALLY look like that?  Was I REALLY that big?  It was too much.  I started saving my pennies and I signed up for Weight Watchers.

For the first time in my life, I was putting serious limits on how much I could eat.  I did nothing else.  I didn't exercise, I just altered my eating.  Foods in my pantry started carrying the words "low fat," or "fat free."  Diet soda replaced regular.  Subway became my favorite "quick-fix" meal.  The pounds melted away.

I can still recall feeling confused, and even doubting the experiences of some of my fellow Weight Watchers.  They complained of occasional struggles.  Surely, they couldn't have been following the program as well as I was.  It was so easy!  I could still have a donut every Friday morning and lose weight.  I could still eat dessert from time to time.  The weight just kept coming off.

I did eventually hit a plateau about five pounds from my goal.  After a few weeks of struggling, my WW leader suggested that re-evaluate my goal.  I was currently in the healthy weight range for my age and height.  Did I really want to be any lighter?  Would I be able to be happy eating even fewer calories every day?  I decided that I was already starting to feel a touch deprived, and revised my goal.  After a few weeks of maintenance, I was labeled a Lifetime Member.

(Ironically, in the weeks following my decision to revise my goal, the pounds started to come off again.)

So there I was--a Lifetime Member.  I was CURED, right?  No longer fat.  No longer heavy.  I was getting crazy compliments on my looks, on my weight loss.  I was often asked questions like, "what's your secret?" "How did you do it?" Of course, most of the folks that asked the question, really didn't like my answer.  My "fix" wasn't quick enough, wasn't easy enough, took too much time and too much work.  Years later, I'd agree.

I remained a Lifetimer for a couple of years.  I moved, and stopped going to meetings, but I was otherwise doing an okay job of maintaining my weight.  Then I really mucked up the works--I changed careers again.

Going back to school meant that I was grabbing food on the go.  I stopped measuring portions.  I stopped counting points.  I started gaining weight.  It was a slow gain, but within a couple of years, I was back to my pre-Weight Watchers weight, only this time I convinced myself that I looked okay.  Sure, I was heavy, but I was a good-looking heavy!  And while I told myself this lie, I still felt awful.  I felt broken.  I felt like I blew it.

From time to time, I would eat a little better.  Or, I'd say, "the heck with eating right, I'll just exercise this time."  While I might lose a few pounds, the loss was never lasting.  Additionally, every medical physical I'd have showed me to be crazy healthy chemically.  No diabetes, not even a hint.  No cholesterol trouble.  No heart disease.  I started to think that maybe I was just meant to be fat.

When I had been pregnant with my daughter, I was terrified about gaining weight after she was born.  I'd witnessed a few women go from being fit, beautiful ladies into being heavy, dowdy moms.  By jove, I was NOT going to let that happen.  So I didn't.  While I did gain a significant amount of weight during pregnancy, I lost it all postpartum thanks to a vigorous job and a fair amount of exercise.

When I became pregnant with my son, I knew that I was already starting off heavy.  As such, I kept tabs on my weight gain.  I knew that I needed to gain weight to have a healthy pregnancy, but I also was not about to go crazy-go-nuts and eat everything save New Jersey.  At each prenatal visit, my gains were right on track.  I gained exactly what I should have gained--even less than what I had gained when pregnant with my daughter!  I knew that the difference of 17+ years would affect my postpartum weight loss, but I was already feeling great knowing that I'd have less to lose to get back to pre-pregnancy weight.

Alas, it didn't quite work out that way.  I was on track for getting back into pre-pregnancy shape when I was hit with a devastating betrayal of trust.  The stress of that situation brought my weight loss to a halt, and brought with in a weight gain.  I was in agony.  I was trying SO. HARD. to lose weight, but was seeing the numbers go up and not down.  Soon I was recognizing that I didn't have all the answered.  Sure, I'd lost weight before.  Of course, I should know what to do to do it again.  But it wasn't working.  I decided that I needed help and I returned to Weight Watchers.

I've since learned why those other members in other meetings struggled, and it wasn't because they weren't on plan.  I've since learned that getting older means working harder for smaller gains.  I've since learned that I can do it--I AM doing it--and that I really do need the meetings.  I've also learned that the answer isn't replacing my pantry with "fat free" items or diet anything.  I've learned that I need to eat REAL food, like Michael Pollan says: not too much, and mostly plants.  I've also learned that I'm much better when I exercise.

While I've lost over twenty pounds, I'm still heavy now.  There may be some folks who, upon seeing recent photos of me, are thinking, "Damn, she's big.  She was so fit a few years ago."  Well, they're right.  But I also know that I'm working towards a real, and lasting change.  I know that I'm a product--a reflection--of all the struggles and stress I've had the last few years.

I write this because it helps ME to recognize that those folks who, like me, are heavier today than they were weeks/months/years ago are also a product of their travails.  And who am I to judge them?!  So, while I may feel sad, I need to recognize that they might not.  They, too, might be working towards a goal.  They, too, might be proud of their efforts.  And they, too, just might be heavy now--but have still done so much good for themselves.  Who am I to judge?

Do you struggle with image issues?

a product of my surroundings

There are times when the blank box for composing a blog entry is so intimidating.  Right now is one of those times.  While I do have a lot on my mind, my brain feels so cluttered and unorganized.  It must be the influence of my surroundings.

Almost everywhere I look I can see boxes.  Fully boxes, empty boxes, in-between boxes.  Worse would be the places where there are no boxes, for there is still so much left to pack.  The kitchen is largely untouched.  Not a thing from the bathroom has been packed.  It is certainly daunting.  We still seem to have so much left to do.  I should be thankful that our closing date was pushed back.

Yes, we are not closing this week rather next week.  One week from today, supposedly.  I am so looking forward to more space, a back yard, and a life not surrounded by much of my personal items boxed and stacked.

I am trying to take advantage of this time by purging items that are no longer needed.  We've made numerous trips already to donation centers in our area, but there is still more that could go.  I have at least five different ways to curl my hair; hot rollers, rag rollers, velcro rollers, hot sticks, curling irons (numerous).  I think it's time I downsize.  I have so many pairs of black heels I could shod a troupe of ladies.  I have three FULL boxes of vintage hats.  I think that it's time to let go.

My disjointed thoughts are washing over me again and I'm not sure what else should be said.  Perhaps it's best that I close this confusing, rambling entry and get back to work (as much as I can work with the very active toddler at my heels)...

Hands are so full

Can I again bemoan how a baby/toddler/child is able to entirely derail a hausfrau's plans? Yes, I think that I can.

In a few days, it will be time to pack our cars from floor to roof-rack and head out for our annual family camping trip, aka Great Western War. Yet have I even managed to stitch one new piece of clothing? Not so much as a t-tunic!

Additionally, I've been fortunate to have attended two wonderful events--the Queen Mary Art Deco Festival, a wonderful public event; and a lovely afternoon tea with two swell ladies, a relaxing private affair. And have I been able to blog about either? Heavens, no. As I neglected to photograph much of either, there isn't much point except to say that both were divine.

In short I think it safe to say that I have yet to get this whole Mom-of-a-Wee-One down again. With my daughter, I felt as though I was able to settle into a routine rather quickly and easily. But I can confess that my daughter was a far easier baby, and even toddler, than my son has been.

I do hope that you, one of only a small handful of folk who take time to peek at this journal, forgive the feast or famine nature of my blogging. I can hope that as my darling high-needs boys ages, my life will again be able to settle into something resembling normalcy.