Something wicked

With regrets, it's going to be a slow few days on the writing front as another vastly intricate and epic project has found it's way into my head and hands which requires my full concentration for the next two to three days.  One if I am ambitious and find the proper source of caffeine.

It's going to be epic.  Legendary.  Fantastic!

For now:

It combines two of my most favorite things.

She may or may not be one of those favorite things.  Wait and see.

Pictures soon to come!

For now, find me on Facebook and click the like button and share me with your friends.

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The proper focus

This is about N.  But at the same time it isn't; it's about every kid everywhere, every kind, every IQ, every diagnosis or lack thereof.

My wild and strong N, as she's always been and I suspect she always will be.  From birth, an intense and severe child prone to fits and rage and stubborn rigidity.  She circles the periphery of playrooms and playgrounds alike while other kids are busy taking turns on slides and swings.  She is fixated on her belly button and rubbing a pacifier across her cheek.  She spins 'round the room and the words she speaks are sing-songy.  Her words didn't come until 20 months of age.   And even now, she communicates but she doesn't interact.

You may draw certain conclusions about my N based on the above words, just as I did when she hit 18-months-old and wasn't turning when I called out her name.  At the time, figuring "it" out meant everything to me.  Hindsight is a real pain, but there was no way to gain perspective without pushing ahead with appointments and tests and evaluations;  I knew what the label would be, but I needed to hear it from someone with letters behind their name.  I had to be told, I had to hear, I had to be promised it wasn't just bad parenting.

The thing about N is that she wasn't NOT learning.  She just happened to be learning in an obscenely different manner and on her very own timeline apart from the one A chose to follow in her toddler years.  She prefers to do things alone, without me holding her hand and giving her instruction.  In fact, if I'm touching her at all while she's making an intellectual or developmental discovery, she'll let me know just how displeased she is.  I had to rethink my approach on every little thing, adapt to meet her personal needs.  I had to understand that my N is like a rubik's cube.  We work and work and work and we get closer and closer to figuring out the puzzle, but one wrong twist, one turn too many, and the entire thing is thrown back into chaos.

But is this so unreasonable?  For any child?  N, with her quirks and eccentricities and fixations... she may require a specific approach but why shouldn't every child be shown such respect?  I mean, they're individuals, and just as we desire recognition of the differences in our own needs versus someone else's,  shouldn't we extend the same courtesy to all of our children?  To reach the optimum level of learning and achievement, couldn't we try this with each kid we have and not just the ones who are deemed behind or slow enough to require "special" attention?  Which isn't to say N is slow.  On the contrary, as long as I step back and give her the space she desires, she excels.  She simply prefers to not talk about it with people.  When the evaluating physician informed my husband and I that she had very little comprehension, we had to explain that it's not she doesn't understand you.  She just has very little time with which to concern herself with us mere mortals.

And on the topic of special, wouldn't it be better to shift our focus from "special" needs to "different" needs?  I've gotten down to N's level, listened to where her shouts of protest are leading me and keep in mind the next time what worked the time before.  But, just like you and me, somedays she needs something new, someone to try a fresh approach with her.

I've even done my best to keep in mind not to default to "typical" methods with W but to pay attention to what works best for her even at less than a year's worth of life.  To understand that even if N doesn't catch on as quickly to certain bit of information, it doesn't mean that she won't ever and that too can be contributed to different kid, different style of learning.

At the end of each day I take a deep breath and I remember:  What resonates with me may mean nothing to you, just as words spoken to A may be a jumbled mess to N and vice versa.

Forget that label, and remember that what she really is, is herself.  What we all are, is ourselves.

The lesser known perks of parenthood

When I was wheeled into that delivery room for the first time (er, only time really, and it was more like walked in begging for the induction to start) all I could think about was that tiny, cute baby I'd soon (24 hours later...) be holding, dressing in cute little pajamas, diapering in cute little diapers, cuddling all day long, raising to be an awesome human being.  All the stuff I'd packed into my head along my preconceived notions regarding how easy parenthood was going to be.

Like this.  All the time.

I wasn't wrong, necessarily.  Throughout the years those things have happened.  I've held babies, because they wouldn't be set down without a good fight.  I've dressed and redressed and dressed again babies who were soaked in drool, spit up, urine and/or feces.  I've diapered, oh, have I diapered.  I've cuddled a baby all day but usually only because she was sick and wouldn't be requiring her autonomy during that particular 24-hour period.  And so far all three of them are, in fact, awesome.  It's the things I didn't anticipate, couldn't predict, that have struck me as the most interesting and of note.

Like, the joy siblings find in each other.

She'll love A like this again someday.  Eventually.

I could sit and match socks all day.  Honestly.  There's nothing like a table full of socks that I don't touch until all the laundry is washed.  I go back and start hunting through that great, heaping pile of unmatched socks and, my friends, it's like Where's Waldo? for adults.

When they're finally tall enough to reach the good stuff and you can send them to fetch you the things you want need.

Somedays I'll dwell for hours on what the babies' inner monologues sound like based on their actions and facial expressions.  I'm pretty sure N is a cross between Thor and Stewie Griffin.

"This mortal form has grown weak!  I need sustenance!"

And then comparing what you expected to what you actually hear when they speak to you at last.

Then there's the exciting moment when you realize they're old enough to introduce to your childhood favorites, right?  I was tickled when A fell in love with Harry Potter.  I was downright thrilled when she first asked me to put on Doctor Who (though just a bit crestfallen when she requested the "bowtie doctor" instead of the "leather jacket" doctor.  I suppose everyone has their favorite.)  When N begs to watch Nightmare Before Christmas, I sigh with pride and accomplishment.

Witnessing them making their very own choices when they don't know you're looking on is also pretty fantastic.  Recently I "caught" A praying.  This isn't really a thing in my house; my husband and I are spiritual but always said that when the time came we'd let the girls choose their own path through religion.  To see what she chose all on her own is both fascinating and comforting.

I don't know about you, but hot damn if I don't feel like royalty if we all have clean faces and brushed hair.  Our pants and shirts are matching too?  A miracle hath occurred, someone call the press.

I'm sure those who know us well enough are shocked when they see our kids this put together.

Or that shining first on your child's timeline when they shut the door and wipe themselves.  I used to take pictures of her on the potty, now I'm just relieved when I hear her yelling at her sister to back off her privacy rights.

I expected it would feel good to be told I was "so cool" (emphasis hers).  But when I overheard her say it to a friend when she had no idea I was eavesdropping casually lurking around the corner, I was blown away.  Or to hear the reverence in her voice when she tells the class her mom is a NURSE! (I'm not.  Only an aide.  But to her it's all the same, so I don't argue.)

That day you realize they've been going to school for weeks and you haven't had to hold their hand through the day, introduce them to other kids they might enjoy, fight any battles for them.  She's officially an accepted member of society who is participating without so much as a hiccup!

And isn't it interesting that despite knowing the depth of emotion experienced when your biggest little ones are meeting these rarely-mentioned landmarks as they're forging ahead through the world on their very own, the little things you now find such pleasure in, it happens at least once a year: you hold a little baby, you see a little baby, you smell the sweet smell of a new little baby.

Then it all boils down once again to wanting to hold your very own new baby, dress your very own new baby, cuddle aaallllllll day...

Leaving on a jet plane

I hope that whole "absence makes the heart grow fonder" bit is true... I've been so busy, you know, doing mom stuff, helping people move, being a good community member by maintaining a neat and tidy yard...

...and feeding the baby avocado with spaghetti sauce mixed in because my husband was "curious".

Or candy crush.  Probably just playing candy crush.  Thanks coworkers, for introducing me to the time suck known as responding to Facebook game requests.  It doesn't help that the 7-year-old knew what candy crush was before I did and when she noticed me playing she scoffed and said, "Level 20?  Wow.  Did you just start this morning or something?"  I can't back down from a challenge.  You understand, I'm sure.  My youngest child is probably going to believe she was raised by a strange rectangular silver entity with a white apple in the middle.

All that aside...I have been having frequent panic attacks at what is looming in the near future.

We're taking a vacation.

Not this kind.

That in itself is going to be unnerving.  I work, it's what I do, it's what I enjoy.  I would've been back to work after four weeks of maternity leave had my midwife approved it.

No, that's not all.  We're flying.  On a plane.  With three small children.

It's ok, I tell myself.  Pre-boarding is a godsend, right?  And with southwest airlines I don't need to freak out about getting seat assignments apart from my husband or my 7 or 2 year old.  We'll be great.  Right?

No.  No pre-boarding for families with small children.

Ok.  I breathe in.  I breathe out.  And my sassy inner voice reminds me that if some stranger wants to sit by my fussy and discontented toddler or my incessant chatterbox second grader (think I could talk someone into sitting by my husband too?), they can go right ahead.  I'll welcome the four hours of peace.  Especially since I have a phobia of flying.  Not flying really, more a phobia of being suspended thousands of feet in the air without a parachute within arms reach.

Seated apart on the way home from our honeymoon.  It was a nice, quiet flight.  For me.

Oh, and we're flying on the fourth of July.  So there will undoubtedly be plenty of fireworks being deployed below us.  This is the recipe for my inevitable mental breakdown.  I can't even self-medicate with Ativan or booze because I'm responsible for three.  small.  children.

My solution was simple: read other mom blogs about how THEY dealt with this kind of problem and follow suit.  Pinterest, to the rescue!  I spend days and days perusing through every kind of mom blog post imaginable regarding traveling with children.  Plenty of road trip suggestions (we've got that down pat however, with family living just across the border in Wisconsin) and a few flying suggestions...but most of them are a list of things you should be sure to pack.  Not a one of them discusses how to overcome your neuroses regarding air travel and how to put on a superman face in front of your babies.  No matter how loudly and how joviantly I exclaim, "This is SO much fun!" A will see right through my schemes and the fact that I'm trying to convince her of XYZ will instead have her believing ABC.

She'll uncover the truth.

She's contrary like that.

Every time I fly I look over at my husband and say, "We are NEVER doing this again."  You can see how well that's working out for me.

I can't stay away.  But can't afford the gas.  Next time I'll walk.

So instead, I throw my energy into over-preparing the carry-ons.  I get to bring a diaper bag for miss W, I'm making myself a new woven wrap complete with a homemade batik job (you'll see pictures, I promise) for toting her through the airport, A's American Girl doll is getting her own special seat that straps to the suitcase handle, we've got sandwich baggie snacks, movies and laptop/cell phone/iPad charging all strategically planned.  I might even make a schedule/plan for who does what with which child.  This is how I typically deal with my paralyzing fears.  I seize control over everything else and pray that it distracts me enough so that in-the-moment-freak-out might be a little more subdued than it could've been.

Besides, I've done this before.  I did it on my own with two of the kids.  We fly to Maine regularly to see family, and usually my other half prefers to stay home to make money.  This year, when the topic of the trip came up...well.  I can be proud of a great many things regarding my parenting practices, but handling three children in a time constrained and thousands-of-feet-in-the-air situation is not one of them. The options were: stay home, or all of us go.

He'll follow me anywhere.  But he never said he'd enjoy himself.

I guess what this all comes down to is:

Please friends.  Either suggest a great non-prescription anti-anxiety remedy, or if you see my face on primetime news because I lost my mind mid-flight, had to be restrained by the air marshall and I need bailing out, I promise I'll repay the favor someday.

You're a Bad Writer

(This is all about the intentions when plagiarizing.  Not innocent reposts that are meant to share something you enjoyed.)

To the person plagiarizing shamelessly, you're a bad writer.

To the person who thinks it's perfectly fine to grab something off of social media because they think it isn't a formal venue for the written word, you're a bad writer.

To the person who doesn't take the time to pen her/his own ideas carefully and thoughtfully and instead depends on someone else's ability to do so, you're a bad writer.

To the person who intentionally edits things to remove the name of the proper author, you're a bad writer.

To the person who sees no reason to credit an author for something that means quite a lot to them, you're a bad writer.

To the person who cannot see past their own desires for attention, you're a bad writer.

To the person who doesn't understand that one person's heartfelt piece is about more than the number of people who read it and pass it on, you're a bad writer.

To the person who can't see that for someone whose passion is the written word and to pen it on paper or key it onto the computer screen means everything to them, you're a bad writer.

To the person who cannot understand how getting credit in a big way for something the author was content with sharing amongst friends and family, is rude and disrespectful on all levels, you're a bad writer.

To the person who can't understand why that perfectly contented author is all of a sudden quite taken with the issue of her/his written work being attributed to someone else, you're a bad writer.


(Written by me.  I've got no coffee.  This perchance could be the reason I am dealing with my emotions re: viewing my work in print with someone else's name affixed to it, in a passive aggressive and unhealthy way.  I'm sure you understand.  I shall call it: decaf-mom-rage.)

(I just realized I forgot to attach a cute picture for good measure.  Here.)

That awkward in between...

And I'm not talking about a ten-year-old.

Me.

Mid-twenties-driving-the-van-to-girl-scouts me.

Friends calling to hang out and drink until 2am me.

I had my babies young, A being born when I was only 19 years old.  I myself was still a kid.  Now staring down my next birthday I'm sitting here wondering if this will be the age I finally grow up?  I already feel the pressure, the strange, awkward, "Did A's mom seriously just say/do that?" most of the other parents think I'm immature because I have a lip ring and my kid is in second grade kind of feeling.  I know a few other moms out there like me, but they're not close enough to validate these feelings over a cup of coffee (or a cocktail) while our kids hang out at least once a week.  Or at least if they are, they aren't saying anything.

While other moms with 7-year-olds are calm and relaxed and talking about their hobbies, since, you know, they had their stuff together by the time they were my age...I'm all "What the hell day is it?  Cause I just woke up at 2pm and now I need to run my ass to class."  While other moms are chatting to their kids in the backseat all patiently because they're mature enough to have a level of patience I have not yet achieved, I'm turning up the dance songs on the radio and dancing along with the girls.  When we pull up next to a car of teenagers I quickly stop, because I'm not hip enough to be dancing like that. For god's sake woman, you have three children!

I'm too young to go to PTA meetings and be taken seriously.  I'm too old to be in the mosh pit at concerts, and be thought of as hardcore.  I'm at an age where I'm straddling the line, I'm expected to be one or the other but I still so badly want both.  Given the age of A, people expect I should've already chosen to straighten out my act and started volunteering with all the free time I really ought to have, because shouldn't I have became what I said I wanted to be when I grew up, all those years ago, like five years back?

I'm too old to stay up until 3am having a good time.  I'm too young to be content with evenings in, every evening.  I really ought to be filling out Christmas cards every year, where the heck are they?  I'm asked.  I don't even think we did a birth announcement for W....that's what Facebook is for isn't it?  I'm too young to find envelopes and stamps worth my very limited time and funds.  Got wifi?  Jump on and  tweet "It's a girl!"

I'm young enough that the piercings and tattoos and rock concerts could be "just a phase" but I'm old enough that they probably aren't.

My excitement in this picture is testimony for how much my tendency to enjoy the things I do is just a phase.

I feel like I'm growing up right beside my daughters.  The only mature person in our household is the male parental unit, and he still wears Transformers t-shirts.  We sit and do our homework together, A and I.  She talks about tattoos with me, because I've got lots of visible ones.  I find myself chuckling at her stories from school and when she runs her emotions by me in response to crap that happens to her during the day, I'm saying, "I know, right?!"  All these people are talking about their retirement funds and their savings accounts in the audience of A's activities and I'm like, hey, cool, I've got enough to go to Target for a pair of jeans from the clearance rack.  Yeah buddy.

At the same time all my friends from highschool (ok, most of them) are getting married and enjoying the careers they've devoted themselves too, creating pinterest boards full of what they plan to do for their very carefully calculated and planned children.  I'm just over here, a whirlwind of "holy crap I hope we land on our feet someday".  Others are going out and enjoying their 20's, the time when we're allowed to do stupid and be drunk at the same time, because by 30 we should know better.  And here I am, expected to know better because I have children but so badly wanting to do stupid and drunk because I'm still part of the 20's age group.

But then I think, damn.  I'm awesome all in my own category.  I'm a mixture of solid responsibility to my children, role model mom, having fun when I can squeeze in the time, and dressing and acting all the sorts of ways I want to, all rolled in a coating of pretty hilarious and fun.

To hell with what is expected of me.

Here comes 27.  Will I grow up next year?  Is this it for me?  Somehow, I don't think I will, ever.  And somehow...that doesn't really bother me as much as people lead me to believe it should.

One for the dad's

(Side note-  to the single moms who are dads as well, happy I'm-doing-awesome-all-on-my-own day!  I admire your strength and perseverance.  To the dads doing it on their own, an extra special happy father's day to you.  To the moms raising kids with another mom, happy you're-amazing-parents day!  Here's to ALL parents who love their kids!)

I've certainly been blessed with the right men in my life, as have my daughters.  I didn't always realize this; I'm sure most people don't realize before a certain age how excellent their parents are.  Maybe not even until they become parents themselves.   Nor do we take a moment every day to consider how amazing our husbands/significant others are.  Without mine, I'd probably be a much less balanced and very busy single mom.

I'd have to mow the lawn, back and front, all by myself.

No one would be here to make me coffee before I'm ready to drag myself out of bed.

No one would initiate tickle wars with the girls.

My movie collection would be 1/4 what it is today.

I'd have never learned to love bacon.  And then retrained myself to quit eating it.

I would never have watched Dr. Who.......ok maybe that's stretching it a bit.

I definitely wouldn't have developed such a respect for Superman.

I'd have a cleaner house, but a smaller, emptier bed.

I'd never have revisited my intense love for writing...because there'd be no one behind me pushing me, telling me to follow my heart and do what I love in life.

To the man who loves and raises my first daughter as his own, who sang her to sleep most nights when she was a baby, who did midnight feedings even before we moved in together, a very special daddy indeed.

Adoption day in March of 2009.  So happy.

Without my dad, I'd never have seen the whole country before I turned 13.

I wouldn't have been nearly as confident as I was to travel 1,600 miles from home for college.

Nor would I have had any support to do so, without him.

I wouldn't know as much about cars as I do.

I wouldn't know how to run a plow.

Or have my own snowmobile.

I wouldn't know understanding and infinite patience.

Nor would I then be able to apply it to my own children, comforted by the fact that someday they will appreciate it.

I wouldn't know how to split logs.

I'd have no one to call every other day, even though there is absolutely nothing new to talk about.

To the two men who are the center of my world, the two men responsible for fixing what was broken in my life:

Happy father's day.


 (And to the men who've meant so much to us but are no longer with us,  we miss you today and every other day of the year.  Happy father's day.)

Nekked Babies

I'm all in a tizzy today.

This morning, I'm feeding W (breastfeeding.  If that offends you, best leave now) and sitting on the downstairs sofa watching some animal movie with A.  Eventually N finds her way downstairs after she wakes up, and runs across the living room completely unclothed, diaper missing in action.  I, naturally, find this hilarious.  First instinct?  Grab the camera!

Second instinct?  Let's potty train, since she's so averse to diapers.

Clothing totally optional in N's universe.

Along with our day we go, potty breaks every twenty for two minute sits each.  An m and m for each successful patient sit.  We stayed dry too, by the way.  Not important.

At some point N finds her awesome orange stripy hat and her basketball armband, puts both on and is running about the house.  Again, so amusing I can't help but take a picture.  And the hat and armband are so cute I take a picture ABOVE the waist and slap it onto Facebook.  Why not?  You see pictures of babies in only diapers all the time.  I've put pictures of N up in just a diaper; this picture shows NOTHING more, since it doesn't include the diaper area at all.  The only way you know she's got no bottoms on?  I say so.


Some offhand remark about a wee nekkid babe.  It took no less than five minutes.

Pushing boundaries...oh...waaaiiit...yep she's got a diaper on.  

"You're picture has been reported.  Do you want to take action?"

Yeah, I sure do.  I want to know who finds a picture of a baby to be considered offensive nudity and I would like to ask what exactly is wrong with them.  So I take no Facebook action, opting instead to hold my ground.  This picture includes no offensive nudity, it is a sweet baby who dressed herself the best way she knew how and shows nothing below the belly button.

Does this make you uncomfortable?  If it does, there's something wrong with YOU, not the photo.

I see pictures almost daily of completely naked men with only a small obstacle hiding Sir Richard and the Twins.  I see profile pictures of chicks so scantily clothed I feel like I should be smoking a cigarette and basking in some afterglow.  How about memes and funny jokes that include images, sometimes drawn, of full nudity with only hands covering the bits considered indecent?  I've read status posts so detailed as to make me physically ill; but a naked baby?  My own baby.

"But, N wasn't wearing a shirt."

I know.  She's at such an age that she's so devel-...oh wait.  She's only two and anatomically indistinct from little boys starting at the waist up.  If I have to see pictures of your little boy without his shirt on, or even your not-so-little-boy without his shirt on, then how is my 2-year-old baby girl's top half any more offensive?

Oh, I suppose I ought not to delve into the gender discrepancy wars, because I'm afraid I'm already fired up enough.  As such, I will also steer clear of the pictures of women breastfeeding argument; Facebook allows those, for the most part.

Naturally, A is at an age where it would be most inappropriate to post such a picture.  I wouldn't.  I think after two, the time for half-naked babies on a public forum is toeing the line.  But what exactly is it about a baby without a shirt that would incite such discomfort?  Why can we erect billboards with gigantic exposed cleavages, but squirm at the sight of a baby's skin?  Why is it ok to go into public wearing clothes so tight and short and low-cut as to expose every inappropriate landmark save for the ones that would specifically get you arrested, but not ok to post images of your child for friends and family to giggle about along with you?

Or to fawn over.  Fresh and newly out, whoops, sorry, should've clothed her before I dared take a picture to show you.

It ended with Facebook deleting my picture and blocking me from my account until I looked through three to four pages of "how to socially network appropriately" training.  All over an innocent picture.  But please, make sure you share the pictures of your beach vay-cay including you in that brand new bikini that shows inch by inch 2 times what I had photographed and shared of my child.  Because we all want to see that.

SO much more appropriate!  Whew.  All this one is missing is her friend sporting a duckface and some fake tanned boobies.

Let me know if I should edit this post to add some black bars over all the offensive pictures of my children.  I'll get right on that.

Something is very, very wrong with our society, friends.  I am disturbed and concerned for where we are headed.

Sh__ no one told me about school-agers

Terrible twos?  Teething?  Potty Training?  Lately I'm looking back fondly on these things in the face of what I see on the horizon with A.  And no one warned me about this stuff.  Before and during pregnancy it was all diapers and midnight feedings, sleep while you can and godspeed.  Sometime around A's third birthday I asked my older brother...does it get easier after two?

"I'm going to rip apart every preconceived notion of what it's like to raise a child.  Enjoy the ride."

He laughed at me.  His daughter is a year older than my A, and all he had to say was: "It gets worse every year after."

I didn't take him seriously.  But now I shudder to think of how bad things'll be at 16...combined with her driving, I'll never sleep at night again.

No one told me the notes from boys start right away.

That the desire to have what everyone else has is practically an intrinsic quality.

Clothes.  Accessories.  Social media accounts.

That they're going to start naming their kids and discussing what their wedding will be like from the moment they can talk.

That gossip comes home.  No matter whether you want to know who was holding who's hand during recess even though this one sat by that one at lunch.

That girls have this innate need to gossip, also manifesting itself as soon as they start forming their own sentences.

She didn't even wait for first grade to start gossiping.  Preschool.   PRESCHOOL.

That being excited about summer vacation starts from about the second week of school, and when it finally comes you'll wish all-year-round school was policy.

That apparently once they start school, you're no longer very smart compared to their teacher.

And that every time you try to help with a problem, the response will likely be, "No.  My TEACHER said this..."

And that when you respond with, "Well then Mrs. S can come raise you," she'll take you seriously and start packing a bag.

That their damn feet start smelling.  What happened to my sweetly fragrant child?  Oh, that's right.  She's refused to bathe for two days because she hates washing her hair.

Don't be fooled.  There's a layer of grime an inch thick on this child.

That nails and hair and makeup are a thing.  And you'll be required to understand how those work.  If you don't, she might tell you to google it.

(Photo:  Jessica Krueger Photography)

That since they can now combine their love of talking with the extensive group of friends they've made via social networking on the playground, you'll never get your phone back.

Oh, and that phone call you're getting on YOUR cell phone?  That's for your daughter.  And she'll take it upstairs, thanks mom.

I'm fairly certain everyone focuses on the trials and trebulations of babyhood to distract you from how intense things get once 1st grade hits.  I was lulled into this false sense of security, that once she was out of the range of two, she'd miraculously transform into a lovely little cherub who would love me and love life and smile and be grateful and...

And oh my God I have to do this at least two more times.

Twitter!(?)

I'm giving Twitter a go.  Hoo-ray for social networking!  This warranted a second post in one day, I swear.

Bear with me while I get my footing...

twitter.com/mommolecules

Follow me there, I'll eventually promise not to disappoint.

How my job has made me a better mom...

...and the other way around too.

I'm pretty lucky, if I might say so myself.  Not only do I have a job (quite the accomplishment in today's world) but I absolutely, unquestionably love my job.  I love it so much, that I'm slightly nervous about graduating and becoming a nurse and discovering I enjoyed nursing assisting more.

I'll deal with that another day.

The third blessing of a job like mine is the amazing carry over of lessons and skills learned, back and forth between parenting and caregiving in the professional setting.

Parenting and caring for the elderly: Much of the same, only different sized diapers.

Today, I'm sitting around with my daughters, listening to one scream for no real reason, all three hacking and blowing snot on every surface within a three foot radius of their little bodies, one is demanding to watch Leap Frog movies on Netflix, the other is demanding to have complete control of my iPad.  I'm the calm epicenter of the chaos, but a few years ago I definitely couldn't have boasted such a position.  I remember being a very angry, impatient and short fused sort of parent.  

Bring it, oh ye tiny mongers of mania.

Since delving into my current position headfirst, I've learned so much about caring for people, about being compassionate, about how to really listen to people.

I've learned to abandon all stereotypes at the door, no matter what their chart tells me, no matter what I may overhear someone saying about this or that patient.  I've seen how treating them just the same as any other human being on this planet and showing them that they are worthy of the same care as anyone else can make them come alive.  I give them a chance to show me who they are.  I've learned to extend that same courtesy to my daughters.  I can't treat them each like a cookie cutter little girl.  I need to wait and see who they are, who they're becoming, see how different they are from each other as well as how different they may be from other little girls we know.  

I have absolutely no idea what she'll grow to be, but I'll wait and see.

I've learned that when faced with something scary and unknown, we just want to be heard.  Our questions, our fears, our uncertainties.  We want someone to take us seriously.  I slow down and I listen.  Everyone is saying something; you just have to be patient, you just have to wait and give them the time they need to get the words out properly.  Even the ones who are conscious but can't talk are trying to tell you something, in most cases.  It may be a busy night, I may feel hurried and stressed, but giving them just a second to be heard and demonstrating that I understand and that I'll follow through (if not now, eventually) can calm most people down.  My girls are no different.  Panic attacks abound in this house; tiny, high pitched panic attacks about crayons or food or clothing or toys.  Ripped paper and stomping feet.  Wails and plates tossed onto the floor.  Whereas they haven't been through enough life to learn social mores must prevail over emotional whims, the people I care for in the hospital may not be of sound enough mind to or may be too afraid to devote enough energy to minding their manners, perhaps they're in too much pain.  First, as at work also at home, I need to show I'm listening when I ask what they need.  Not in that offhand, "What the hell are you crying for?" kind of way.  But in the eye-level-gaze-meeting-reassuring-I-am-here-to-fix-it kind of way.  And then I do it.  If I can't, I explain why and I offer something else or I offer to find someone who can.  

Or I find someone who can give them an Ativan, but I can't do that at home with my kids, so that's not for this post.

Or candy.  Candy works too.

I've learned that everyone has a story to tell and they, usually, desperately want someone to hear it.  No matter how old they are.  Someone needs to listen and show interest, someone needs to validate the importance of that person's words.  I've learned that this starts so young.  I'm still practicing this at home with my children, but I've experienced firsthand how not listening to a child can create an adult who doesn't feel important enough to be heard.  An adult who won't talk at all, because they remember how they were once hushed or ignored.  Everyone deserves the kind of validation that comes from being heard, because with validation comes a sense of being important enough to garner a bit of attention.  We all deserve to feel important, and that starts right away, not at fifteen or twenty.  I listen to my baby the same as I listen to my toddler and my big girl.

From her point of view, this must've been quite the adventure.  She's got a grand tale to tell.

I've learned the power of the "placebo" (I can't think of any other way to describe it, so I use placebo).  Chemistry is wonderful.  Medications are powerful.  But so are hand holding, ice packs, positioning and comfort food.  Sometimes I feel that my position is much less important than the nurses, but I've seen that it's not less, it's simply different.  I attend to the needs of patients within my own parameters and sometimes that can be just as meaningful.  In the same manner, we avoid giving medications at home.  Barring a fever of 104 (though even then I don't medicate but because I can't figure out how to administer tylenol to a little baby.  That was a bad night) I comfort and quiet them any way I possibly can before reaching for our bathroom pharmacy.  We save money and we're closer, we trust each other to help in healing and I feel like it makes me a more present mom than I used to be.

It's a back and forth relationship.  As I learn to be a more patient mother, I become a more patient caregiver in the halls of my floor at the hospital, and vice versa.  One patient even asked me if I had difficult children, since I was tending to her"pickiness" so well.  The word was hers, not mine.  I considered it knowing exactly what she wanted, how she wanted it, and being able to communicate it very well.  When I leave the room I may smile at the nurse a knowing smile, it may exasperate me, but I'm impressed by people who aren't afraid to ask for just what they need.

I've learned to never take my job for granted.  I'm lucky to have been hired, lucky to be there, lucky to love what I do and for it to enhance my life in the ways that it does.  I had no idea two years ago that I'd be where I am now, but I am so grateful to the path that led me here just as I am ever amazed at destiny's hand in granting me three beautiful children and a fantastic husband.

So very lucky.

It's not just me, though.  It's a pervasive truth present in all of our lives.  We have something to learn about being good parents from every situation we find ourselves in.  We learn how to be good human beings daily from watching our children.  With every experience we gain, we have the choice to use it to become better, become more, let it grow us, let it build us into something great.  Take those opportunities whenever they come.  Watch how it changes you.  Watch yourself becoming great.