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Author Archive
Sunday, July 19th, 2009
by Naomi Goldberg
Courage: Taking your kids to the park wearing a white outfit.
Determination: Working to lose those post-pregnancy pounds.
Dexterity: Balancing a screaming baby, the shopping cart, your credit card (and your sanity) in the supermarket.
Dignity: Leaving the restaurant with a smile after your baby vomits on you.
Enthusiasm: Sounding interested when your child endlessly decides what he wants to be when he grows up. A fireman and policeman. Or maybe a pilot? Rescue hero? Astronaut?
Optimism: Assuming your baby will sleep through the night.
Precision: The ability to break a candy bar exactly in half so no one gets a bigger piece.
Resilience: Not taking it personally when your child says, “I hate you!”
Sense of Humor: What it takes to make it through bedtime.
Stamina: Outlasting your two-year-old’s tantrum for “More candy, Mommy!”
Willpower: Munching on carrots instead of pizza and cupcakes at birthday parties.
Wisdom: Knowing when to referee during your kids arguments and when to let them work it out.
Love: No explanation needed.
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Monday, July 13th, 2009
by Naomi Goldberg
It’s taken me a few years to realize that friction is a normal part of the parent-child relationship. At first, I blamed myself, assuming that any negative behavior– whining, tantrums, defiance– was a blemish on my parenting skills. Since I couldn’t treat these imperfections with Noczema or cover-up, I bought parenting books instead.
And the parenting books have helped, some more than others. They’ve been full of techniques, theories and (the ones I prefer), encouragement.
To really help, I believe that parenting books should come with a disclaimer. Keep in mind, the authors would tell us, that you have the power and your kids don’t. In other words: Watch out! Thin ice ahead!!
Because this imbalance of power is the source of a lot of friction. Don’t you remember what it was like to be a kid? It’s tough when someone else calls the shots. All too often, in our quest for caffeine and a few minutes of downtime, we forget how our kids feel. How often do we insist they wait for a napkin, a band-aid, or a listening ear?
The flip side to being the one in charge is that we get to give out the freebies. Dessert before dinner. Extra late bedtimes. Trips to the toy store. Parental philanthropy can take on many forms.
Of course, when your benevolence goes unappreciated or is met with cries of, “No fair!”, the power struggles begin. That’s when it’s time to take a deep breathe and remember: It’s a long path, but we’ll eventually show our children that the real power lies within themselves.
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Monday, July 6th, 2009
by Naomi Goldberg
She’s who I want to be. Her life’s in order, her house is clean, her outfits match. She always enjoys spending time with her kids and seems oblivious to the long hours between now and bedtime. That going to the bathroom alone is a luxury doesn’t seem to bother her.
She has a healthy sense of self and believes she’s doing a good job. She appreciates her kids but often puts herself first. And she never feels like fleeing.
She’s rarely cranky, except briefly when she’s covered in vomit. Her house is full of toys, noise and mess, but all she sees is the laughter and love. She often feels worn out, but never worn-down.
She unapologetically nurtures her marriage, and she and her husband find time to talk. They look relaxed together, and they believe that resenting each other is wrong. Their conversations are meaningful and upbeat, verbal celebrations of their shared life goals.
She’s a friend I admire, a friend I avoid: someone I like, and someone I’d like to be.
Some days, we have a lot in common, and on those days, I feel good. I smile at my kids, feel confident about my life, my choices, myself. She and I talk and laugh together as our kids play, and everything feels right. We are close friends, equals, and I relax in the knowledge that I bring a lot to our friendship.
But yesterday, I crossed the street when I saw her. My kids were crying, I was cranky, and she was the last person I wanted to see. I needed to be by myself, not with someone who’s everything I’m not.
Today was a bit better, but not for her. She was having a tough time with her daughter, she confided, and wasn’t sure what to do. I’m an expert on uncertainty, but not much more, I told her. I don’t think she heard. She was too busy finding solutions, problem-solving with her trademark enthusiasm and positive energy.
She’s a good friend and role model, and I appreciate all she’s taught me. She helps me grow, helps me handle the ups and downs of parenting with greater ease. She has introduced me to my better self, and I’m grateful. But I’m also jealous.
I stop caring if she and I resemble each other when the days and nights become an endless, hopeless blur of tiredness and other people’s needs. When my kids test the limits of my sanity, I throw away my definition of perfection and pray for patience instead.
Accompanied by the soundtrack of despair, my prayer helps me get through one minute, then another. And somehow the minutes turn into memories that my children will have of an imperfect mother who always tried to do her best. A mother who struggles to find the joy hidden in the tapestry of motherhood, who loves her children but makes mistakes.
And that’s where she and I meet, united in our efforts to raise our children well.
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Monday, June 29th, 2009
by Naomi Goldberg
It’s summer: time for swimming, adventures, and spray parks. As a book we read just put it, “ Lay towels in the sun/ Dragonflies cruise/ Bumblebees hum.” The book is called “Marshmallow Kisses” and I think the title captures what summer’s all about– freedom, fun, and the inevitable gooey mess.
Another sign of summer? Scraped knees. Everywhere we go, my kids pick up scrapes as souvenirs. The upside is that we’ve become pretty good at begging for band-aids. This sounds kind of pathetic, but reframed, actually teaches my kids a valuable life lesson– how to ask for help when they’re hurt.
Another life lesson my kids seem to have mastered is the ability to move on. “Don’t think about your boo-boo,” my oldest son counsels his brothers, “that only makes it worse.” This is good advice, gleaned from his six years of living and learning. Seems like the “big kid” status and all it entails– riding a bike, learning to read, teasing younger kids– comes with some insights as well.
My kids have also showed me that there are different approaches to pain. When the time comes, one of my sons insists on a natural approach with no unnecessary interventions. He asks that his band-aid be ripped off quickly and with some wincing and shrieking, the job is done.
My other son is the exact opposite: he needs a lot of hand-holding and as much pain relief as possible. “Dr. Bob,” our Bob the Builder ice pack, must be present, and his band-aid must be taken off very slowly. Eventually, the results are the same: the band-aids are removed, exposing the miracle of newly healed skin.
Sometimes, this miraculous cycle of play/scrape/cry/heal/play seems to be more about a need for TLC than anything. I don’t think this is necessarily a bad thing, but it can be a noisy one.
When copious tears are shed for a single speck of blood, I try to react with patience (Do you want a hug? some ice? a band-aid?), rather than with frustration. In general, band-aids are the preferred remedy. My kids think band-aids are sacred, like a constant hug for their hurt places. Not bad for $1.99 a box.
Of course, this only works when they’re little. As they get bigger, a kind of cynicism sets in. “Band-aids don’t help,” my oldest has begun to whine, after his boo-boos have been neatly kissed and bandaged. “It still hurts.”And what can I say? It’s true, it does still hurt. But that’s part of the adventure of summer, too– the freedom and the fun, the scrapes and the scratches.
I just hope my kids know, as they run and jump, play-and-fight-and -fall, that I’m always there, waiting and watching with all the band-aids and marshmallow kisses in the world.
Marshmallow Kisses by Linda Crotta Brennan, is a wonderful children’s book about the joys of summer.
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Monday, June 22nd, 2009
by Naomi Goldberg
I’m on a secret mission. Each day, I must stealthily work to decipher codes. I’m a spy, trained to overlook enemy messages and hone in on the truth.
My mission: to see my kid’s strengths. My kids: adorable, funny, sweet; active, aggressive, difficult. They’re wonderful kids, but in the blur of tantrums, defiance and whining, this is easy to forget. Often, I’m too busy counting the hours until bedtime to pay attention to what they’re doing right.
I became a secret agent to combat these dark forces. As my kids get older, my mission has become more complicated. Somehow, a lot of information became classified, such as how my boys used to love to snuggle and that their favorite color was purple. As they get older, it becomes harder to see the sweet shadow of the baby in the boy.
Luckily, my spy agency has equipped me with special tools. Some are classics, like my magnifying glass, which lets me magnify and compliment good behavior. Other tools are high-tech, such as my abiliy to think abstractly.
Another advantage? Deep pockets. I’ve financed many undercover missions that have been highly successful. Late at night (after bedtime!), my oldest son and I sneak out, avoiding surveillance cameras and jealous siblings. Using our secret code (”7-11″), we head out for Slurpies and some much needed one on one time. Special outings, undivided attention– these techniques have helped many spies.
Still, it’s difficult. Because, I’m a double-agent– good guy and bad guy, rolled into one– my mission can be very taxing. There are confrontations, criticisms, harsh words. At times, I can’t see past my kids bad behavior, and I get discouraged.
But there’s always the next day, when my mission starts again. The secret, I’m finding, is not to lose sight of who you are and the wonderful people you’re helping your kids become.
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Monday, June 15th, 2009
By Naomi Goldberg
With three sons, I know a lot about rescue heroes. Firemen, policemen, ambulance drivers, you name it. And really, what could be more exciting? You have danger, blood, glory—and a loud siren, to boot.
This week, I had the chance to be a rescue hero. But instead of acting, I stayed where I was and let someone get hurt. It felt terrible, which is why I want to tell you about it. I’m hoping you’ll see my side of things.
It all happened at the kindergarten graduation party. You’ve probably seen it yourself: the balloons, the cake and potato chips. The kids, all dressed alike, smiling, nervous, suddenly looking so big that it seems impossible that they were once so small.
The program begins, and it’s lovely. Poems, songs—the kids are doing a fabulous job. Now they’re stepping forward, saying their lines with a friend.
Except for one child, who happens to be my son. He’s not smiling or singing; he’s looking down. It’s almost his turn for the microphone, and he’s scared. When the time comes, he inches towards the podium, panics and moves back. Now he’s taking deep breaths, crying for real.
“Stage fright,” people are whispering, because labels make things easier. But not for my son, who is still on stage, crying. He’s shy and this was too much for him. A rescue was in order.
But you know what? I let him stay and get hurt. I watched his friends sing as he sobbed and listened to the applause. I took pictures and smiled, and when it was all over, I gave him the biggest hug ever.
You see, rescue heroes get all the glory. There’s danger and blood and a loud siren, to boot.
But for my son, I want something different. I want for him to move past the loud sirens, the labels, and judgments to the quiet voice inside him that says, “You can do it.” I want him to know that I believe he can rescue himself.
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Monday, June 8th, 2009
by Naomi Goldberg
The quiche came out so perfect– its crust light and flaky, its filling moist and firm– that I think I’ll share the recipe with you. It’s an easy recipe, since it only has five steps. Just make sure you have the following ingredients:
* one prepared deep-dish pie crust
* one onion
* one (8 oz.) container fresh mushrooms
* 1/2 cup grated mozzarella cheese
* one cup of milk
* three eggs
* 1/2 teaspoon salt
* 1/8 teaspoon black pepper
STEP ONE: Allow the pie crust to thaw for 15 minutes.
In my case, this involved excavating the freezer in the hopes of finding a pie crust. My kids were helping me, which means they noticed the Popsicles, which means we had an impromptu Popsicle party.
And lots of happy, drippy helpers to fix the cracked pieces of pie crust. “It’s like play dough, Mommy,” said the cooks.
STEP TWO: Dice the mushrooms and onions. Saute in a little oil.
I really should buy one of those gadgets that makes dicing vegetables easier, but so far I haven’t had the time. Plus, the one I want is called “The Alligator” by Williams-Sonoma, and honestly, the idea of adding another wild animal to my house isn’t that appealing.
So here I am, cutting up the onion myself, making good headway. It’s hard work, cutting onions— it always hurts my eyes– but my kids are watching quietly, so it’s all good.
Then I hear my boys talking. “Mommy’s crying!” one of them says, his voice shaky. “Yes, because someone died,” his brother tells him.
Deep in the mushroom-onion goop, I make a decision to have a talk with my kids. Do quiches need to marinate? Can’t hurt.
STEP THREE: Mix together the eggs, milk, salt and pepper.
After our conversation on death, dying, hospice care and mortal injuries, we’re back at work. My kids have fun cracking the eggs and take turns mixing very nicely.
STEP FOUR: Assemble the quiche: In the pie crust, layer first the mozzarella cheese, then the veggies. Pour the egg mixture on top.
My kids are helping me sprinkle mozzarella cheese when they suddenly become inspired. “Snow!” they yell, throwing cheese bits at each other.
I continue the rest of the recipe myself. My kids are insulted. “You never let us help,” they say. Unmoved, I pour the egg mixture over the quiche, watching it embrace the crisp vegetables, envelop the silky cheese.
STEP FOUR: Bake at 350 degrees for 30-35 minutes.
We’re done! The quiche is in the oven, my kids are in their rooms. Both must stay in their places until the timer rings.
NOTE: This recipe yields one perfect quiche, three sometimes-cranky kids and one tired mother.
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Tuesday, June 2nd, 2009
by Naomi Goldberg
I need a magic mirror.
“Mirror, mirror, on the wall,”I’d ask it, “Who’s the fairest of them all?” “Mommy!” the mirror would reply, and the bickering would end.
But there’s no magic mirror; instead, I have three kids who fight all the time. “Mommy, it’s NOT FAIR!” they tell me, many times a day. “It’s my toy. I got it first.”
Right now, they’re fighting over a small race car. As their voices get louder, I’m not sure what to do. Should I break up their fight? I wasn’t there when it started, and I don’t know who’s to blame. My need for a magic mirror grows.
Maybe the kids can work it out themselves? Loud screams tell me that this solution will involve bodily injury. The battle has begun: one hits and kicks; the others pinch and pull hair.
I remind myself that I can handle this. It’s just sibling rivalry. And I’m an authority figure. A benevolent dictator, right?
I try bringing in other toys, but they are rejected. I try steering my kids towards the kitchen (”It’s snacktime!”), but they won’t budge. I try to stay calm, but I can’t.
The next thing I know, I’m holding the race car, and my kids are looking at me with wide eyes. I think they’re scared of me. I must have yelled loud enough to shatter even a magic mirror.
If I spoke to it now, the magic mirror would tell me I messed up. “You’re not the fairest of them all anymore,” it would say. “There are other mothers that are more fair, more capable, more patient.” And I would believe it.
How else can you explain how often my kids drive me crazy? The baby bites, my other kids whine and have tantrums. It must be my fault.
“I’m sorry,” I tell my kids, and I mean it. I’m sorry I yelled at them, sorry they have a mother who makes so many mistakes.
But my three sons smile and run over to hug me. As I snuggle my magic mirrors– my kids, who reflect my strengths and weaknesses– I feel more hopeful. Fights, mistakes, apologies: they’re all part of our happily ever after.
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Thursday, May 21st, 2009
by Naomi Goldberg
I’m told that my kids will outgrow it all: their clothes, their toys, their constant need for Mommy. I’m told that before I know it, they’ll no longer be babies, but children and teenagers. I’m told (or warned, really), “Little children, little problems. Big children, big problems.”
What I worry about is different. Shoes, clothes, discipline styles– these can all be replaced and refined. I’m afraid that my kids will outgrow something more important: their optimism, their excitement for life.
Because right now, my one-year-old is the most confident, optimistic person I know. He smiles at everyone and waves when they smile back. He makes friends with strangers on airplanes and hugs anyone who opens their arms. His world is a good place, a place where he’s guaranteed a warm welcome (and bottle, too).
My other boys are different; their life experiences have been colored by sibling rivalry and friends who don’t share. Their optimism is less visible, not as magnetic. It’s more an attitude (”Life’s an adventure”) than an assumption (”Everyone’s here to take care of me”).
And yet the way my older kids wake up each morning, eager to explore, still amazes me. No matter how early it is (and it’s often 5 a.m.), they’re prepared for adventure. Sometimes I participate in their adventures, organizing outings to the park and other wonderlands. Other adventures I’m forced to condemn, such as their efforts to put rocks in the toilet or flood the kitchen floor.
Regardless of what they’re trying to do, my kids are confident they can succeed. Sometimes this is touching (”Mommy, today I’m gonna catch that green lizard!”), and sometimes less so (”I kicked him because he caught the lizard first”). But it’s always an inspiration.
It’s a kind of magic, I think, the way kids see the world. When I’m in a bad mood, I need more than roly-polys to cheer me up. An ice cream cone? Sure, it’s a nice treat, but hardly the thrill of a lifetime. I’ve lost the ability to see how a band-aid can transform a painful scrape into a badge of courage.
Maybe it’s all in what you choose to focus on. Half-empty or half-full? Although wars have been waged over whose sippy cup has more juice, these fights don’t last long. There are too many exciting things to do (”Look– a new hot wheels car!”) to waste time fighting.
As my kids grow from babies to children to teenagers, I hope they’ll keep some of this magic. When they’re “big children” struggling with “big problems”– cliques, social pressure, feeling excluded– I hope that this optimism helps them through.
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Thursday, May 14th, 2009
by Naomi Goldberg
I always thought it would be easy to take care of my kids when they were sick. I kind of assumed that their fevers would activate my maternal instincts, giving me extra strength. With this stamina, I’d give my kids everything they needed: time and attention, chicken soup.
As it turns out, this is a fairy tale.
“Once Upon A Time: A Tale of the Three Bears”
Once upon a time, there was a family of bears. Mama Bear, trying to be a good mother, woke up early to make some nutritious porridge for her children.
The porridge smelled delicious. It sat, nice and warm on the counter, while Mama Bear went to wake up her kids.
They were scalding hot. All three bears had fevers. Mama Bear gave them Tylenol and wiped their foreheads. She turned on the air conditioner and kept them all hydrated.
Several hours later, after the third vomiting spell, Mama Bear was desperate for some fresh air. She longed to go out for a quick walk in the woods, but couldn’t leave her boys alone.
At that moment, Goldilocks, their friend and neighbor, walked in. “Welcome!” said Mama Bear. “Break anything you want– the chairs, the beds–just please give me some time by myself.”
And that was all Goldilocks saw of Mama Bear for a few hours, when she returned to wash the dishes (now full of congealed porridge), and take the kids to the doctor.
“At the Doctor’s Office: The Story of the Little Red Hen”
Three feverish children sat at the doctor’s office. As they began to fight, the nurse informed their mother that the doctor was running an hour behind schedule.
Their tired Mama mustered up some enthusiasm. “Who wants to read a book?” she asked, holding up a brochure about diabetes.
“Not me,” said Son #1. “I want to paint.”
“Not me,” said Son #2. “I only want play dough.”
“Not me,” said Son #3. (These were his first words).
“Then I will read it myself,” said their mother, and she did.
Finally, the doctor arrived. He examined all three children and prescribed antibiotics.
“Who will fill the prescription?” the doctor asked.
“Not me,” said Pharmacy #1. “We don’t have that medicine in stock.”
“Not me,” said Pharmacy #2. “We’re closing early today.”
“Then I’ll get the medicine myself,” said Mama. She drove off to a distant pharmacy with her sick children.
While she was paying for their medicine, her kids began to fight over the chocolate bar she gave them.
“Who will share?” asked Mama.
“Not me,” said Sons #1,2 and 3. So Mama bought another chocolate bar for them herself.
To Mama’s relief, the antibiotics began to work after just one dose. By the time Papa came home from work, the boys were feeling better. “I’m impressed,” Papa said as they ate dinner. “The medicine really helped.”
“Medicine?!!” Mama glared at him. “It wasn’t the medicine–it was me. I took them to the doctor myself. I took them to the pharmacy myself. No one helped me keep track of their dosages or bribe the kids to take their medicine. It wasn’t the antibiotics–it was ME.”
Papa smiled. “I’ll let you rest after dinner,” he said. “Meanwhile, could you pass the bread?”
Happily Ever After: A Fairy Tale Ending
After four days at home, my kids are feeling better. While they were sick, I took care of them as best as I could. This means that I worked to be that storybook heroine– ever patient and kind– but sometimes slipped into the evil stepmother role. Taking care of kids is not as simple as the fairy tales make it!
At least I have my happy ending– three kids, now feeling better.
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