What's in a Cry? {All Parents are Bi-Lingual}

It's 5:34 a.m. and the cry peels through the monitor. After nearly two years of the midnight call, I don't exactly startle out of bed. I slowly blink away sleep, but my body weighs heavy on my mattress. I lay there for a moment listening to the sound of my crying son and then whisper, "Baby? What do I do?"
It's decision making time.
You see, my son has essentially two different midnight cries. One sounds like, "WAAAAaaa..AAAaaaahh.... WAaaahh...... waaah.... wa......," which translates roughly to, "HEY! I woke up alone! I guess that's normal, but I don't really like it.... Mom?... Hello?... ZZzzzzzzzzzzzz." The second type of cry sounds more like, "WaaaaEEEHHHH! WaEH! WA! WA! WaaaaaEEEHHHH!" and means essentially, "Something is wrong! (Examples: "My teeth hurt!" or "I'm cold!") And I'm not going back to sleep until it's fixed!"
It is up to us, The Toddler Translation Division - otherwise known as "parents" - to decipher the sounds and proceed accordingly. Is he in pain or just protesting? Should we give it a moment or go check on him? He may fall back asleep... Should we try a bottle? Does he need medicine?
And then there are nights like last night, which present their own unique challenge. Our toddler may choose to practice his range of expressive abilities, resulting in something like this: "WAAAAaaaa....... WaEH!... WAAaaaaa... WAAaaaa... WaEH! WaEH!" Our best intelligence at this point understands this to mean, "I woke up alone! Oh, and my teeth hurt, now that I think about it. OWIE! But I am really tired... maybe I'll go back to sleep... NO! This hurts!! I don't like it! FIX. IT. NOW!! But I am really tired...."
In such a case, choosing the proper course of action becomes a matter of blind chance. Was that "tired"...? or "wired"...? If you take the time to fumble around for your pajamas, stumble upstairs and prepare a bottle, he very well may have chosen sleep by the time you reach his door. If, on the other hand, you choose to let him sort it out on his own, this could last all night. In which case, no one is getting any sleep. It's roulette. 50/50. Red or black. Dumb luck.
Last night, I chose to fumble and stumble. I bet a trip upstairs and ten minutes in the rocking chair that my son really did want to sleep. I won. The payout: me and my bed for three more hours.
Being bi-lingual is good, but being lucky is awesome.
That was two nights ago. In the small hours of this morning, my husband was not so lucky. Sorry, honey.

Boldly Going Where a Big Boy Goes

I know these aren't the highest quality images. Sorry about that. But all I had at the park was my phone, so they will have to do. Because it was too cute not to share.
My son was in an adventuring sort of mood during our park outing the other afternoon. He went in and on and through everything he could reach, and surprised Mommy a few times with just how far that could take him.
I looked down at my phone for just a moment, and looked up to find that my son had climbed up the metal stairs on the big kid playground equipment. Whoa. I didn't know he could - or would - do that. This is the kid that still wants to hold my hand when we walk down the front steps. Needless to say, I kept my eyes peeled on him from then on. I try hard to adopt the motto of "letting boys be boys." Or letting kids be kids, for that matter. Yes, he will fall sometimes. Yes, he will get hurt. But that's life. That's how we learn. But that doesn't mean I don't have a natural tendency to panic. So I talked to him about how big and strong he was and smiled at him and clapped for him, every bit as much to calm myself as to encourage him. He managed to catch me by surprise one more time when he quickly and confidently walked over to the big boy slide and slid down. My heart jumped into my throat as my arms instinctively reached toward him. I pictured him face planting into the gravel at the bottom, but thankfully there were no injuries. I was sure he was gonna be freaked out by how fast and how far he went, but there were no tears. He loved it. He laughed and ran straight back to those big, metal stairs. These pictures are from round two. There was also a round three, and four, and five...
After he finally tired of the slide, he decided to explore the park a bit more. I ran around after him as he discovered hidden corners behind bushes and under picnic tables. And then we found the big puddle. My little boy lit up as he stomped through that thing, soaking his jeans with his big splashes. What glorious fun.
We ended our outing on the swings, a nice lazy way to round out a neighborhood adventure. Don't you just love his relaxed and calm manor in this picture? Such a big boy, just gazing at the sky...
I'm such a sucker for this kid.

Appropriate Consequences

 Drake is beginning to explore his boundaries. Naturally. But geez. This momma does not feel ready for it. And I'm really debating with myself on the right way to deal with it.
I was spanked when I was a kid. Don't freak out. I have great parents and they were always very deliberate and calm about the way they disciplined us. I was not "beat." I was told why I was in trouble, and then given two or three swift swats on the butt. And I survived just fine. Some would say great. I was a pretty good kid and an un-rebellious teenager. I have no violent history and I still have a great relationship with my parents. Same is true of both my brother and sister.
I always assumed I would follow suit when it came to raising my own children. Sometimes it's necessary. The only way to get through to a child, right?
But then I read this article about American children and it really resonated with me. They are capable of so much more than we give them credit for. And I see it in my son. He is smart. He understands what I'm saying to him.
I also read this article about toddler discipline, and the idea that any of my children might learn to associate love and pain horrified me.
I had spanked Drake once already when I read that article and it felt horrible. He was throwing a fit and I swatted him once on the upper thigh, and instantly regretted it. The look in his eyes..."Why did you hurt me?!" absolutely slayed me. I scooped him up and rocked him and said, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry" over and over. I'm sure the whole thing confused him more than anything. I think I've pretty officially decided I don't want to do that again.
But what do I do instead? The notes from our last well child checkup at the pediatrician said to try not to use words like "no" and "don't" and instead tell them what you do want them to do.
So when Drake started throwing all of his cheerios off of his high chair this morning, I started by saying, "Drake, I want you to leave your cheerios on your tray." I repeated that twice after a few more landed on the floor, him looking at me all the while.
Since that wasn't working, I tried a stern voice. "Drake, I'm serious. Leave your cheerios on your tray." One more cheerio gets slowly pushed off the tray, eyes locked with me.
I stood up with the thought in my head that I was going to swat his hand, but within the few steps it took to get to his chair, I had reminded myself that I didn't want to do that. I was mentally fumbling for what I needed to do instead. Take him out of his chair. Turn off his cartoons (he could care less). By the time I set him on the floor, I decided he needed to help me pick up the cheerios. I explained to him what I wanted him to do (he has helped me pick up before) and he did it, for a second. He picked up 5 or 6 before he decided he still wanted to eat them and started shoving them in his mouth. Then he found a toy that was exciting and ran away giggling. I tried to call him back, but knew if I forced it I would be guaranteeing a fit. So I let him go.
I'm not sure if I won or lost today. Maybe that doesn't matter. But surely he's supposed to learn something, and I'm not convinced that even happened. sigh
I would love any thoughts or advice from other mothers, but please, be kind.

*Note: this is obviously not a current picture. It's from exactly one year ago. Do you ever decide to just click through random picture folders on your computer? I did that this morning and found this. I thought it was appropriate to the topic.

Barbie with a Booty

I don't know if I'm just noticing these things more because of how much they have been on my mind lately, or if I'm just being shown what I need to see, but I have seen and read so many inspiring things on the subject of women's body image in the last few days.
Remember how I said I could go on for a long time about how industry benefits from women's self hatred? Well, this guy did. His name is Alok Appadurai, and he and his wife started A Beautiful Body Project. Their mission is to promote a new standard of beauty - one that is based in reality. His wife takes pictures of women's postpartum bodies and leaves them just as they are. No Photoshop. No airbrush. They are publishing a book of the images they have taken so far, and I want it. I want to display it on my coffee table for all my guests to see. I want it to be a part of my children's lives. I want them to see these images and know that they are beautiful and strong and real. The poem Alok wrote - Milking Millons Off Women's Self Doubt - is powerful. I strongly encourage you to read it.

Have you heard about the guy who 3-D printed a Barbie based on the average American woman's body? I think it's amazing and so, so frustrating at the same time. Why has it taken so long to do something like this? Why hasn't Mattel done it themselves? We've known for a long time that Barbie has an impossible physique, why can't we just change it? Either way, I love Real Barbie. I think she kinda looks like me. Or I look like her, I guess. Just minus the blonde hair. Who among us has been able to say that about the Barbie we grew up with...?! I want this new Barbie for my daughters.

I have so much more I could show you, but I think I'll lay this subject down for a while here on this blog. Check out my Pinterest board True Beauty for more inspiring images of real women and links to other people taking a stand.

I Love My Butt

I know this may seem odd at best and completely self absorbed at worst, but I'm being serious here. Something has been on my mind a lot lately - something relating to body image and self esteem and parenting. I'm going to try to make sense of it here, if that's ok with you.
There are not many other parts of my body that I would say I "love" - there are a few I like, and a lot that I simply tolerate - but I've always been happy with my backside. There's nothing particularly special about it really. I've always just.... liked it. Simple and easy. So why haven't I been able to do that for all of myself? My thoughts on the whole thing are a bit convoluted, but hang with me for a minute.
My beautiful mother has a rather large rear end (sorry Mom - I'm outing you a little in this post). It's true. But it's great. She never seemed to mind it. In fact, I think she rather likes it. And my Dad used to call it the Great White, in this completely adoration-filled way, like it was one of his favorite things about my mother.
I look a lot like my mother. She calls me her Mini Me. Everyone who knew my mom when she was my age gushes about how uncanny it is when they meet me. So it was natural, I think, for me to like the parts of myself that Mom liked in herself. It was even more reassuring to know that men might like it, too. (I have a lot of thoughts of the power of a Daddy's words on his little girl, but that's for another day.) I never consciously thought about all of this until very recently, but I think the way my mother spoke about herself (and the way my father spoke about her) influenced the way I thought about myself.
And to be honest, I never really heard my mother speak kindly of many other parts of herself. I remember her lamenting that she had inherited her father's nose. I know she wishes she had longer eye lashes. I know she thinks her hands are knobby and unattractive. Basically, she picks herself apart, just like the rest of us. But here's the thing: she is incredibly beautiful. The only person who isn't completely convinced of that is my mother. And that sucks. She deserves better.
So do I.
So do you.
I have a very long list of complaints about my body; my tummy pudge that won't go away no matter how hard I work out or how clean I eat, my big nose, my short legs, my broad shoulders, my small boobs, my crooked smile, my small eyes, my thin hair. (As I'm writing this I'm picturing that Dove commercial that made so much buzz. Have you seen it? Ugh.) But I think it's time to throw that list away.
I am a Mom now, and little ears will hear what I say.
When I was 21, I was in a Christian discipleship program for young adults. It was like boot camp for your faith. Early every morning, our director took us through a workout. He often brought his two beautiful daughters with him. I think they were something like 4 and 6 at the time. They were incredible little girls: super active and strong and happy. They would get right in there with us - work their little tails off - and then hit the showers with us afterward. One day, one of these beautiful little girls started crying in the locker room. When we asked her what was wrong, we were horrified to hear her say that she thought she was fat. Each and every one of us felt an instant pang of guilt, one that I carry still. We knew exactly where she had gotten that idea. Us. The way we spoke about ourselves. (To the parents of that little girl: if you're reading this, I don't know if I ever told you just how sorry I am. I am so, so sorry.)
Our words have so much power.
If I put those ideas into my own daughter's head.... shame on me.
I know I can't be perfect all the time - none of us can -  but I can certainly be better. I can work on it. What if I simply started saying, "I love my shoulders, because they are strong. I love my tummy, because it is soft and feminine."? Even if I don't necessarily believe it. Just say it anyway. And maybe I don't even need a "because." Maybe I can just say, "I love my legs. I love my eyes. I love my nose." Phew. I just tried that out loud, and it was hard. Even sitting here all alone. It will take a lot of work. Because I'm not talking about just changing thoughts, I'm talking about actually changing words: what comes out of our mouths when others can hear. And that's scary. Because it's safer to sound self-deprecating than self-idolizing, isn't it? No one wants to sound conceited. Can't you just hear everyone thinking, "Well someone sure thinks a lot of themselves"?  (I could go on for a long time about why I think this is. About how society likes it that way: to describe confidence as conceit and to promote self degradation. Because if we are never satisfied with ourselves, of course we will have to spend more money in the pursuit of something better.) I say phooey  to all of that. It doesn't make you conceited to accept yourself as you are. It makes you healthy and happy. And if someone thinks less of you when you start thinking better of you, well phooey on them too. Because you are more important.
And so am I.
And so are my kids.
I'm going to work on acceptance. Satisfaction. Contentment. And I'm going to speak them out loud so my children can hear me. And I'm going to pray that my daughters will find it perfectly natural to say the same things about themselves, and can avoid at least some of the struggle we have all been waging for so long. Maybe we can all work on it and can raise a new generation of people more likely to be kind to themselves and to each other.
And maybe, by working on this for the sake of my kids, I'll actually start to believe some of it.Wouldn't that be lovely?