Author: theantelopediaries

Why I Avoid Saying “No” to my Daughter

~ theantelopediaries

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My daughter was born two years ago today, even though her numerical birthday (August 12) is in two days. I actually counted all the weeks of her life thus far to get to that.  I’m kind of a stickler.  But throughout her life, I have worked to avoid saying the word “no.”  Instead, I try to redirect her. It came easier during her first year of life, but in the second, it is proving to be harder because she is expressing her will more passionately.

I let her do a lot of things. If she wants to play with the bunny on the balcony, I allow her, with supervision. If she wants to stand on a chair and use the kitchen faucet to fill containers, I let her, with supervision. If she wants to play with markers, I let her, if only to have some time for myself to check my email. She has colored her leg instead of paper before, (“Meh—iii,” she says to me when that happens) but she is learning, as evidenced by her legs remaining clean this past week.

If she wants to play with a tub of water in the living room, I put a bath towel on the carpet to catch the splashes. (We don’t really have another room large enough to let her do it comfortably.) I let her because I don’t want her to live in the world of “no.” They’ll be plenty of that world later.

For the record, I have said “no” to her. If she wiggles while I am trying to put a diaper on her, I tell her “no,” even shout it sometimes when the first “no” doesn’t seem to make an effect. If she wiggles in my arms or refuses to hold my hand as we are crossing the street, I tell her “dangerous” and hold her tighter. I say “dangerous” when I do things against her wishes so that she starts to get an idea of why I do not allow it. She may not know what dangerous means, or why something is dangerous, but I want her to trust me that it is. In those situations, I’m willing to say no.

But in most everything else, I’m pretty easy going, which is not at all how I am about most aspects of my life. My permissive attitude lies in contrast to some of the other parenting styles I’ve noticed. One afternoon, at a local library earlier this year, Polina took some books from a bin in the children’s department and spread them on the floor. A little girl, perhaps 3-4 years old, came up to us and sternly informed us that books belong on the shelf, not on the floor. I was surprised and didn’t know how to respond. She was so right, but oh so wrong.

“She’s only 18 months,” I stammered.

The girl’s eyes remained serious. Then her mother called her, and she ran toward her. I was relieved. I didn’t know what to say to her. That experience reaffirmed to me what I didn’t want Polina to be- a Gestapo-like enforcer by the time she is three.

A few weeks ago, at a family gathering, Polina took a chord with bells that hung on the back door of someone’s house and began carrying it. The bells hung on the door so that the family dog could indicate when he needed to go to the bathroom. I heard some of the children say that the bells belonged on the door.  I guided Polina to put the bells back. Of course she was disappointed and cried because she didn’t understand why.  Neither did I for that matter.

If it were my house, I wouldn’t have been so adamant. So a kid wants to play with bells. They are interesting to someone. So what? If a dog has to go, I would have taken them out just to be sure there wouldn’t be an accident. But it’s not my house, or dog, or bells. In someone else’s house, I abide by their rules.

Another time, Polina took out a plastic container full of rubber bands that we keep in a drawer and played with them on the carpet. We were about ready to leave, and I could see Pete was upset about something. Sure enough, it was the rubber bands. It took me five seconds to pick them all up and put them back in the drawer.

(Interestingly enough, any time a child takes something out and joins it with something else, or takes it away and puts it back, that is rudimentary math, and some studies show that this kind of play is more important for brain development and retaining concepts than traditional academia per se. I learned about these studies and gained more insight about the importance of play in the book NurtureShock by Po Bronson and Ashley Merryman.)

If they don’t have to do with safety, morals, or permanent messes, why do we have boundaries about what is acceptable children’s play? Expecting kids to act like adults is unrealistic. It reminds me of 19th century paintings where children are serene, collected, and dressed in adult style clothing. Children are portrayed as mini-adults.  In reality, children are more like Norman Rockwell drawings- active, curious, and prone to messes and mistakes.

Expecting kids to act like adults is unrealistic.

Perhaps lay people should acknowledge what scientists have already “discovered,”- that childhood is a separate period from adulthood. Perhaps we should look at it as such, and not demand so much that they act like adults. What if children demanded that we act like them? That would be pretty stressful.  No wonder children cry when they reach their limit. We are frequently asking more of them.

I am not saying that children should be free to run wild, like some Lord of the Flies apocalypse. I’m advocating moderation and patience because in the not too distant future they too will enter adulthood and adopt the culture of such.

What are the benefits of saying “yes” instead of “no?” Based on my own experience, it builds responsibility. My mother allowed me to do a lot of things, albeit not in the name of indulgence. She just wasn’t around much to say no. Because I had a lot of freedom to do what I wanted, I was very cautious about what I participated in, because at some base level, I knew I would be the one hurt.

It’s similar to what I heard about France’s approach to drinking. They allow children to taste alcohol. In many states in the US, it’s not even legal to sell alcohol to anyone under 21 years of age. Many kids go crazy over alcohol once they are able to get their hands on it. The French, meanwhile, because they have always had access to it, don’t make such a big deal over it. It is Freud that popularized that what is forbidden can actually be appealing. Like Eve with the apple.

One of the earliest things I allowed Polina to do was to sip her fruit puree pack by herself in her car seat while I was driving. Many times there were messes because she squeezed the puree pack over herself and her car seat. But now, she sips without a problem and even puts the cap back on.

Peter came home this evening from grocery shopping and commented how Polina, sitting in the driver seat of the car, took an open cup of water from the beverage holder and put it beside her in the passenger seat without spilling it. (He put her in the driver seat while he unloaded groceries from a shopping cart into the car.)

“In the old days that wouldn’t have happened,” he commented, unaware that I was writing this blog when he made that comment.

I think she learned not to spill through trial and error, which of course involved many spills. She played with water over a kitchen sink, in our living room, and numerous times when she drank from a glass instead of a sippy cup. I can understand parents who don’t let their children or their home get messy. For me, it’s not that important. It’s more important (and easier for me) that she learn not to spill water than it is to forbid her playing with water in the first place.

So, I’m open to suggestion and input. I’m always seeking, always curious about new ideas so share your comments with me if you are so inclined.

This post was originally written on August 10, 2014.

A Buffet Disaster

~ theantelopediaries

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Yesterday was one of those days that you meant to go well, but it didn’t. My husband and I took his 84-year-old mother and our two-year-old daughter to an Indian buffet we go to weekly. It is a small mom and pop restaurant- two sisters work in the front while their parents cook in the back. They have one hired help. We have been going there for many years, and they have watched Polina grow from a newborn to a toddler.

We took my mother-in-law there because we wanted to share with her some of the things we enjoy in this town.  We got the closest table to the window that was available, which also happened to be by the entryway.  That was unintentional mistake number one. Usually Polina sits in a high chair, but since she is tall, that day I let her sit at the table in a regular seat. That was soon to be unintentional mistake number two.

Polina ordered her usual- “raa” (rice.) She went to the buffet and pointed to it for added emphasis. I gave her a little cup of rice and a teaspoon. We each got our food and I sat beside her. Polina used the spoon to feed herself. The unintentional consequence is that some rice missed her mouth and fell on the floor.  (She twists the spoon to get the rice into her mouth, as opposed to covering the spoon with her mouth.)  As she put more spoons into her mouth, more rice fell beside her. At no point did she throw any of the rice onto the floor.  It was an unintentional consequence.

My mother-in-law didn’t think so. I could see she was embarrassed by the mess.

Because we were sitting by the front door, the rice was right in the entryway, possibly carried by feet to the far corners of the restaurant. I did feel bad about the rice on the floor, and perhaps it was a tad worse than usual.  Peter has gathered the grains together with a napkin before, to which the sisters ask him to stop and tell him they will clean it.  I mention this because we do generally try to be considerate.

Then Polina wanted to get down and, as her usual custom, run to the two sisters who work with the customers. The sisters treat her with mango lassi, and when she has had enough, she runs back to our table. This happens every weekend.

Putting her in an adult chair came back to bite me. It was easy for her to get down and run to the two sisters more often than if she were in a high chair. Furthermore, it happened to be a busy lunchtime for them. I kept my eye on Polina. I did not see her be in anybody’s way, but that’s not what my mother-in-law thought. I saw that she was uncomfortable with Polina being able to run back and forth.

I got up to ask the sisters if Polina was in the way. They insisted she was not. I went to the back to get a high chair, but it was stuck on top of the other high chair. I tugged and tugged, but it wasn’t budging. I couldn’t get it off.

I went back to our table. Polina’s small bowl of rice was empty.

“No more rice. She’s had enough,” said my mother-in-law.

She has to eat something, I thought to myself.

“We offer her different foods, but she prefers rice,” I responded.

I could see the disapproval on her face, and I went into defense mode.

“She’s not even two years old yet. She’s using a spoon. She’s not throwing it. How is she supposed to learn? This is how children eat,” I said, aware of my desperation.

“Yes, but not in public,” my mother-in-law responded calmly.

Then we would never eat, I thought to myself. We would never eat anywhere because expecting a two year old to behave like an adult is impossible.

My mother-in-law initially proposed treating us for the meal. We refused, of course. After all of this embarrassment, she used the money to give the sisters a big tip. I wished she had saved her money, because her using it in such a way made me feel uncomfortable in front of them.

That night, I woke up in the middle of the night feeling…. embarrassed. That Indian restaurant is our second home. We tip well and clean up after ourselves to the degree possible. (We do not leave the awful mess I saw so often when I worked as a bus girl for a chain restaurant when I was a teenager.  We stack our plates and put our napkins and silverware on top.  We do what we can to make it easier for the sisters.)  It was an unusual day in that Polina was running around more than usual because of the ease with which she could get off the chair.  And the restaurant was busy.  A perfect storm.

The family has always welcomed Polina with open arms. They take her back into their kitchen (Peter and I joke that when Polina learns to talk, she could tell us their secrets to cooking), give her lassi behind the counter, play and talk to her as time permits. If Polina becomes unruly, we take her out for a walk. It usually means she wants to run around. (Living in an apartment, I don’t blame her.) We do our best so that she is “seen but not heard” there, but I never felt embarrassed to the degree I felt waking up in the middle of the night.

I had a day to recover. The day after, a Friday, we took my mother-in-law to our other favorite Indian buffet. This time, we chose a table outside, and we got a high chair. Polina ate rice as usual, but since we were outside, we knew the birds would eat any rice that fell on the ground. Polina did not run around anywhere and stayed in her high chair.  It was a beautiful sunny day and we were shaded by a giant umbrella. My mother-in-law told Peter that it was one of her favorite days of the trip. She mentioned several times how much she enjoyed the meal and the atmosphere. Then we went to one of our favorite parks for more quality time. Polina ran around and played with a water wheel while my mother-in-law sat at a bench and watched.

Aaahhh… redemption. I felt so much better that she didn’t return home on a down note.

Lessons learned from this experience? Don’t sit by the entry way and put Polina in a high chair. Unintentional mistakes turned to easy fixes for a more enjoyable meal.

Originally written July 24, 2014.

Finding Freedom in a Bathhouse

~ theantelopediaries
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This is a picture of Japanese women in a bathhouse, but the scene is similar.

A week ago today, I was frantic. I hardly had a break that week being a parent (Boo hoo you say? Right there with you because I was in that camp. I’ll share what changed in another post.) I looked and felt horrible. Let’s start with my hair. It hadn’t been cut in seven months. Seven months! That’s like, 2013. For those of you who think that women’s hair doesn’t need to be cut that often, let me add this- I also had it colored in 2013 and since then, the roots had grown out and the ends looked orange. Except for the good facial wash that kept my complexion going, I looked like sh**t. And as the cosmos teaches me, every time this happens to me, when I look like sh**t, I start to feel like shi**.

We’re in the middle of buying a house (which, in our case, hasn’t been less time consuming than looking for a house), my husband is working on a medical malpractice case (as a plaintiff) after working a full time job, and we have a curious and active toddler that has been potty training. Should I say more? My nerves were frayed and everything, everything, came before my hair.

It caught up with me and I was desperate. When I reach a nadir, my way out is a rocket ship. I was a woman on a mission. Find a salon, any salon, that used something close to natural hair color. Sunday morning I found one of the few places that was open on Sundays, and they had an opening at 10:30. Two hours and a color and cut later, I felt much better.

That day, recognizing the importance of scheduling sanity, I booked an appointment at a spa. They were running a special that included a day spa, Korean body scrub and a massage. I knew Pete would have the 4th of July off from work, so I booked a 9 am start time.

Today, I went, and found myself in the company of naked women. I was the only one in the spa carrying a towel around my torso. It moved from covering my top to my bottom to nothing at all. Being the only one walking around with a towel somehow made me feel more of a target.

Women, who I presume are Korean, given that it is a Korean spa, walked around the pool area dressed in black camis and boxers holding numbers that corresponded to our locker number.

“Number 37” pleasantly called a 30-something woman.

I followed her to an area just off the pool area. She told me to lie face down, and I followed her direction. I lay naked with my exposed butt up in the air. I know some people do this regularly- go to spas I mean, but let’s face it- in our modern world, awash with sexuality, being naked still feels… strange.

She leaned toward me and said, “Hi, my name is Hyung. H-y-u-n-g. What’s your name?”

I told her.

“Nice to meet you Julie.”

After asking if I had sensitive skin, she began vigorously scrubbing my body. She wasn’t interested in side talk, and it seemed to distract her. She scrubbed my body with persistence and determination. I wondered if anything was coming off.

“Yeah, you see?” she said, pointing to 1 cm long grey elliptical strands coming off my skin.

I couldn’t help feeling awkward lying naked on a table as another woman scrubbed me.

“Are you okay?” asked Hyung. “You seem… tense.”

I assured her I was fine, that this was my first time doing a Korean scrub and that I was a little nervous. It soon became apparent that there was nothing to fear about this being sexual. She was very focused in her work and with the amount of naked bodies being scrubbed, there was nothing unusual about this situation. The unordinary became very ordinary with a collective.

Periodically, she would pour hot water over me with a bowl to wash away the dead skin and keep the skin warm.

After working on my backside, she asked me to shift to my right side, then to my left, as she continued scrubbing. My top leg covered my private area. And then she asked me to lay face up. I was fully exposed. An open sandwich so to speak. Some things look better covered.

She never went to this private area, but she did scrub my breasts. I’ve never had a woman scrub my breasts, and except for a doctor, never had another woman touch them. This was really interesting, I thought.

After scrubbing my entire body, she lathered me up to wash off all the dead skin. I hadn’t been washed by another woman since I was about six years old.

“Please sit up,” she said matter-of-factly. She held a bowl of water for me to wash my face. I felt wonderful, and I thanked her for the scrub.

The massage was less eventful. My masseuse was a young woman who recently joined the spa. Because I’ve had many massages in the past (though none in the past three years), I knew which areas she could have done better, but it was relaxing nonetheless.

I visited some of the other rooms in the spa. I could have easily spent another couple hours between the dry and wet saunas, meditation, sand, salt, charcoal, reading, cabin, chill, and other rooms I’m forgetting the names of right now. Strangely, while I looked forward to an escape a week ago, I longed for my family now. I drove back and met my family at our usual weekend Indian buffet.

This time, instead of feeling stressed, I felt very giving. Because these women had given to me, I was able to give back. The circle was complete, and I was a lot happier.

Finally, a Mama

~ theantelopediaries

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Polina finally said the word “mama” this evening, shortly before going to sleep. I have been working on it with her for several months, at least since the beginning of the year. She said “dada” early on. Actually, everything became “dada.” She pointed at objects and said, “dada.” Of course, when Pete came home, he loved to hear “dada.” When I asked her to say “mama,” she responded, “dada,” to which Pete would respond with a sardonic laugh.

“Mama” I said again.

“Dada.”

And the chuckling continued.

After several months of this, Polina began responding “yaya.” She never called me that, or anything for that matter, but when I asked her to say “mama,” she responded “yaya.”

“Yaya?!” I said, so many times. “Ya mama.” (Translation: “I’m mama.”)

“Yaya,” she said, with a smile, oh so many times.

In the last several weeks, she began saying “ma.” I noticed it when she was on the toilet. She has a book of photographs that she likes to peruse while she is on the potty. It contains pictures of Pete and me and members of our extended family. She pointed to Pete and said, “dada.” Then she pointed to a picture of me and said, “ma.” I was at once pleased and wistful at the thought that my little girl is growing up. She only called me “ma” on the toilet. Outside the bathroom, if I asked her to say “mama,” I was still “yaya.”

And so it continued until tonight, shortly before bed, when Polina said, “ma” followed by a pause, and then…. “ma.”

“Ma” she said again. Pause. “Ma.” And then she fell asleep.

Funny thing is that I’m more ready for that title now than earlier. I’ve only been called Julie or Julia my entire life. Never “sis” or “auntie” because I’m not either. I’m just Julie to my friends or Julia if you don’t know me. I got another name tonight, not just by matter of fact, but because I was actually called that, which I think is more important.

I carried my baby around and I thought of her as my baby, but I didn’t think of myself as a mama except in some third party sort of way. It probably has something to do with the huge distance I felt from my own mother growing up. She wasn’t a particularly loving mother and didn’t know how to show affection. Consequently, I thought of myself as a mother in fact only. I couldn’t get too close to it.

But tonight, I became a “mama” by my daughter’s choice, so to speak, and I’m more ready to accept that title now that I have almost two years under my belt. I feel more comfortable with the title, like a shoe that has been worn in, or a new job that you finally feel comfortable mastering.

I just hope I can live up to that title.

Originally written June 14, 2014.

Discouragement Is Not a Reason To Give Up Hope

~ theantelopediaries

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Polina turns 20 months old this weekend, and we have been potty training for several months now.

She is consistent going to the bathroom in the morning, when she also normally has to go number 2. About 95% percent of all mornings, she has a number 2 on the potty, and I am relieved because I don’t have to worry about it for the rest of the day. Yahoo. Diaper changing has become more refreshing, to say the least.

So yesterday, when Polina didn’t sit on the potty, I was disappointed. I was in the bathroom with her about 15 minutes as she played with the potty and found things to take out of baskets in our bathroom. I patiently put them back and redirected her back to the potty.

It wasn’t going anywhere.

Okay, I sighed. I knew what would happen, because it has happened so many times before.

If she poops in her diaper, it actually goes very near her peep hole. She doesn’t like me cleaning there, and to be frank, neither do I. But she can’t have poop in her crotch. So I have to wipe the stupid thing off.

Wiping with a damp paper towel, careful to get everything off, leads to her squirming and crying. It’s no fun for either of us. So I put her back on the potty, hoping she will learn to use that instead.

When she didn’t go, I wasn’t looking forward to this happening again.

“Do you have to go ‘ah ah?’” I asked periodically.

She didn’t respond.

I went about my business. I was washing dishes when suddenly I hear, “ah ah.” I see Polina by the bathroom, her arm outstretched.

“I think she has to the bathroom. She’s pointing to the bathroom,” said Pete.

“Pete, can you get her?” I asked, on emergency pilot as I hurried to wash the soap off my hands.

I got to her first and snapped one side of her diaper off with one hand.

“Aaaagghhhhh!” I cried.

A walnut sized chunk of orange poo rolled from the diaper onto my thumb.

“Aaaaaagghhhh!” I cried again. Pete looked and chuckled.

“Pete, can you take her!?”

Pete, as usual, calmly sat her on her toilet seat on top of our toilet and closed the door.

“Good girl, Polina.” I heard him say.

I, meanwhile, had enough time to roll my thumb over the toilet to drop the poo, but not enough time to wash my hands. So I waited outside the door, with my icky thumb, patiently waiting to wash my hands, because I certainly wasn’t going to use the kitchen sink for that.

“Good girl, Polina.” I heard Pete say again.

“Did she go?” I asked through the door.

“She went.”

“Is it a big one?” I asked, since she hadn’t pooped in the morning.

“Yes, it is. Do you want to see it?”

“Yeah, I do.” I said, opening the door with my clean hand.

Polina did go on the potty, and it was a big Mr. Hanky. It was so big, I’m pretty sure she was constipated in the morning when I kept asking her to go.

I washed my hands thoroughly. Polina got a sticker for using the potty. The family was happy.

The moral of the story is- discouragement is not a reason to give up hope. Maybe there is something bigger than you expected right around the corner.

Originally written April 13, 2014.