...When a Story Calms the Storm

One day, there was a superhero who lost his powers.  He flew all the way to Noah's house to ask for help.  Rat-a-tat-tat.  He knocked on the window, but there was no answer.  Knock!  Knock!  He pounded on the door, but there was no answer.  Ding-dong.  Ding-dong.  He rang the doorbell, but there was no answer.  Nobody in the house could hear the superhero because Noah was throwing a fit.  Noah was so loud, he hurt everybody's ears, and the poor superhero couldn't get his powers back.

Moral of the story?  Don't throw temper tantrums, or you won't be able to help superheroes. 

Trip to the zoo!  After several trips to the zoo, we have definitely concluded that our kids do not like animals.  Because ants and plants and garbage are way cooler. (Oct. 2014)

Not too long ago, I read some where (perhaps in Bringing Up Bebe), that an effective tactic to distract young children when they are "hurt," is to tell them a story about a time you got hurt.  You might be surprised when their tears and screams stop at the sound of, "When Mommy was a little girl..." Though I often forget to use this method in the shrill screeches of my three-year-old daughter, I have learned to use a story-telling method to avert chaotic situations.

Noah loves superheroes, so a story like the one above silences his voice and opens his ears.  The kids eagerly ask me to tell it again... and again.  During Rounds 2 and 3, they fill in the blanks, and by Round 4, they become the story-tellers.

Right now, the exterior of our mini van looks like raw evidence of a dust storm, and the inside resembles a children's nursery.  (I hope at least some of you can relate, so I don't appear to be an entirely deficient mother).  Miriam usually sits in the back, playing with a toy.  Then she drops the toy.  Then she screams... and screams for me to pick it up.  I used to reason with her; I used to scream back at her; I used to ignore her.  Now, I retort with this tale:

The boys need their rest!

If I had very, very long arms, I would catch a helicopter as it flew by.  If I had very, very long arms, I would reach up to the moon and collect all the star dust.  If I had very, very long arms, I would reach to the bottom of the ocean and find treasure.

"Noah, what would you do if you had very, very long arms?"
"Nothing!  I don't have them."
"Miriam, what would you do if you had very, very long arms?"
"I would pick up my toy!"

Moral?  Don't drop your toys while Mommy is driving.

Earlier this week, my saint-of-a-mother was babysitting the kids while I was at the doctor.  I came back to the house as everyone except Miriam was eating lunch.  Miriam was complaining about her spoon.  So my mom told her the funny and captivating story of "Naughty Miriam."  I had to smile.  Whether I subconsciously learned the tactic from my mom (who certainly has achieved "expert status" in raising eight kids) or from the author of Bringing Up Bebe, or from my own trial and error in raising my kids, all I can say is, it works.  When I create the state of mind to tell a tale, it keeps my heart rate down and changes my mood.

Miri and Gus reading

We all have a craving for stories.  You might fulfill yours through the tales of Charles Dickens, George Lucas, or the Kardashians.  Even our Master Teacher taught through stories; so I guess I'll take my lead from Him.

...When You're Carrying Too Much Weight

It's true: the baby is nearly five months old, and I can't pull my pants up much past my knees.  If it's not yoga or doesn't have an elastic band, it ain't fitting.  I'm not sure if I can chalk it up to it to being my third baby or being thirty.  No, I haven't tried exercising.  Or dieting.  I suppose I'm not that interested in how to lose the weight; however, I would like to know: At what point do I break down and "upsize" my wardrobe?

Noah was out shooting hoops the other day.  He suddenly started yelling, "I'm frustrated!  I'm so frustrated.  I'm frustrated... like Mommy!"  Yikes.  Having my two-year-old associate me with frustration sent me through a series of flashbacks.

"Knock it off!  I'm so frustrated.  Look at the mess you've made!"
"All you guys do is fight!  I'm sick of it.  It's so frustrating."
"Do you know how much you're frustrating me?  Follow the rules!"
I can assure you all of these were relayed in loud volume and a lost temper.

Yes, my boys are naked and my daughter is wearing a Cinderella dress.  And, yes, that is the silverware compartment from the dishwasher filled with blocks.  Not to worry, they're just a group of Care Bears driving a cloud car.

For the past few months, I have been dealing with very uncomfortable and sometimes painful symptoms.  Some of these symptoms include severe light-headedness and numbness of my arms, legs, and face.  These months have been filled with doctors appointments, diagnostic tests, and anxiety of the unknown.  A spinal tap eventually ruled out multiple sclerosis.  An MRI of my brain found lesions (which Nick is hoping is a sign of telepathy), but all the other MRIs found nothing.  My most recent neurological study showed a potential dysfunction in my autonomic nervous system.  So now we will be exploring that avenue.  All other details aside, living with these symptoms and not having a diagnosis has been a real weight on my shoulder.  As a result, I'd venture to say I've been a pretty terrible mother.

Miriam wearing the Care Bears night gown I wore as a little girl.  Also, my childhood pencil collection is sprawled all over the floor.

When you muster up the courage (or exhaustion) to finally tell God, "I quit!  You do it," He does.  He even will do it in very tangible ways.  I have had many people help me shed my pounds of anxiety.  My mom has watched the kids for all of my appointments and was my caretaker and nanny after being debilitated by the spinal tap.  My in-laws have flooded me with support, giving me medical guidance and encouragement.  Family and friends (and MOPS) alike have come alongside me to uplift me in prayer and visited to entertain the kids.  I've even been graced by the input and support of some east coast relatives, with whom I don't get the chance to talk to all that often.  Just this week I have been blessed with meals provided by the Holy Angels community. I am so thankful to each person who has helped me and prayed for me and am so grateful to God for His faithfulness.

He asks for a Pop Tart every day, for all three meals.  In reality, he gets to enjoy one once a week... in his super cape!

Noah was frustrated because he couldn't make a basket.  He remedied the situation by dragging a chair over to the basketball hoop.  Usually, though, when my kids are frustrated, they cry.

I am frustrated because I have ten pounds I can't lose, and none of my clothes fit.  I'm frustrated because half of my body is numb, and I am carrying kids around all day.  I'm frustrated because I'm so light-headed, I can barely think straight sometimes.  I'm frustrated that my time and money is being spent on doctors.  Slowly, I am learning how to drag little chairs to prop myself up, but I'm also learning how to cry for help.  At the end of the day, when the wave of anxiety comes in the darkness, I take comfort in knowing that someone much bigger than me is in control.  He always is... and He'll take the weight off my shoulders if I let Him.

Gus at about four months

...When the Ants Go Marching

First butterflies, then ants.  Onto the next page!  I quickly skip over the lice section.  Ew.  That tick looks gross.  I skip that page, too.  Now beetles, then dragonflies.

Taking full advantage of the California "drizzle"

Lately, my kids have been obsessed with an insect encyclopedia.  I've learned quite a bit about bugs.  Did you know that the "real" name for daddy long legs is "harvestmen?"  I didn't.  Did you know that I'm not allowed to like the morpho butterfly because the picture is a male?  Neither did I.  Miri taught me that fact.  Apparently, we only like females.  My kids seem to be the most obsessed with the ant page.  Over and over again we read about fire ants.  It's always amazing how the minds of little children are like sponges.

"Fire ants eat flowers.  And fruit," informs Miriam.
"When fire ants bite you, it stings!  So I smash them with my SUPER CAPE!" Noah emphasizes.  He also chases flies around the house donned with a broom and his super cape.

This month, our family has been bugged.  Every day, I wake up, armed with a can of Raid (or its friendlier counterpart, Orange Guard), to hunt down a few armies.  On any given day, we will find ants in about three rooms of our house.  Kitchen, bedroom, bathroom -- you name it.  We can't escape it.  I guess it comes with the hot and dry territory.  I'm just a little exasperated.  It's either time I learn to coexist with these bugs, or cough up the cash to hire an exterminator.

Augustine's Baptism, 8.17.2014

 

 

 

A few weeks ago, we were blessed to baptize Augustine Gregory and welcome him into the Catholic Church!  The sacrament was especially memorable, because Gus was baptized alongside his little cousin, Gianna.  Our wonderful celebration came to a tearful end as Miriam was attacked by hornets!  I think we ended up counting five stings.  After the initial pain and fright of it all, she was a real trooper.  "But what is the difference between hornets and bees?  Why did they attack me?  Did you used to get stung when you were little?"  Luckily, Tot shared an interesting story about working as an exterior painter and getting stung more times than he could keep track of.  I, on the other hand, used the situation as a vocabulary lesson and taught her the word "aggressive."  We then looked up her perpetrator in the Insect Encyclopedia.  Its limited options led us to label it as a yellow jacket wasp.

Brothers

 

In addition to the constant battling of ants, there are so many things that have been bugging me lately: the constant fighting and yelling, the relinquishing of the sacred nap time; the onslaught of doctor appointments.  Bed time never comes soon enough.

As is the way of irony, one evening after the kids had been all tucked in bed, I notice a big bug on the ceiling of the living room.  Luckily, I have a husband who is my Spider Hunter, and literally hunts down black widows and brown widows on a weekly basis (another reason why we need an exterminator).  He quickly encourages me not to fear! -- it is a butterfly you see!  A butterfly?  On our ceiling?  At ten o'clock at night?  Thank you, kind husband! -- now please get it outside!

The dynamic duo

He excitedly runs into the bedroom to rouse our children.  "Wake up!  Wake up!"  Reaching into the closet: "We're going to catch a butterfly with the nets from Elefun!"  So, together, we watch Tot catch a butterfly from our ceiling with a play net.  Then, we get out the flash lights to watch the butterfly escape into the dark night (and probably get eaten by a bat).  Nick grins at me, "This is what Tots are for!"

I can shoo away those bothersome things at the day's end.  It's those better memories that crawl into your heart.  Like when Miriam asks Noah to "marry" her so that they can "dress up fancy."  Or when Noah was thrilled to get his first set of army men, exclaiming, "This guy has a gun!  This guy has a gun, too!...WOAH -- all these guys have skateboards!"  And when the morning after Gus's baptism, I find his bassinet laden with all his gifts that his siblings so kindly opened for him.

It's the butterfly nights we remember.

He's always smiling

*In case you want a bug book for your toddlers, this one is actually pretty great!

...When You Don't Know Who You Are

I'm having an identity crisis!  All day, every day, this is what I hear:


"Mommy, I'm Tinkerbell.  You are Captain Hook."
"Mommy, I'm Elsa.  You be Anna."  (I have yet to have the privilege of being Elsa).
"Mommy, I'm Harmony.  You are Tender Heart Bear."
"Mommy!  I Batman!  You be Blue Beetle!"  (I still don't even know who Blue Beetle is).

Here in the Hnatiuk home, we are in a relentless world of make-believe.  From one hour to the next, I cannot remember who I am.  I used to think it was pretty cool when I got to be the "step mother" figure.  This way, I could occasionally get the "princess" to do something I wanted her to do.  A few days ago, however, my daughter taught me the arguably best role-play ever.  EVER.  (How come no one in the mommy world filled me in on this one)?  In case you haven't learned the secret, here it is: Let your child be the control figure and YOU be the measly Insignificant.  Go all out.  Set him/her up with a crown, a throne, a scepter.  You will receive chore after chore, task after task.  And before you can snap your fingers Mary Poppins style, you will have cleaned half the house!

I recently read The Awakening by Kate Chopin.  The protagonist expresses her point of view, arguing, "I would give up the unessential; I would give my money, I would give my life for my children; but I wouldn't give myself..."  What is the difference between sacrificing your life for your children and sacrificing your self?  I am not going to dissect this literary quote, but I will say this: as a stay-at-home mom, you need to make a conscious effort to keep yourself intact.  There are mothers I know who have put forth valiant efforts to do so.  A.D. once encouraged a small group of moms to do weekly guided journaling, exploring questions such as, "What interests did I pursue prior to having children?"  Though I never find the time to journal, I still reflect on these questions of personal exploration. 

I suppose my identity bleeds through in our make believe sessions.  Pretending to be Captain Hook, I am reminded that I am often the "bad guy."  When I'm Princess Anna, I remember that I, too, like to shove chocolate in my face.  Being Tender Heart is pretty cool, because I like to be the leader.  (R.M. can attest to that)!  Lastly, Blue Beetle reminds me that I... still need to figure out who the heck that is.


Her identity crisis
July 2014

His identity crisis
July 2014



The baby's crisis
July 2014

It's nice to rediscover the elements of my identity that have fallen out of reach.  I have a few mini escapes that offer me a foothold to my self.  For instance, I got to teach a mini lesson in C.D.'s classroom; I get to moderate a super cool book club (we'll be celebrating our third anniversary this October!); I get to beat my husband in Hive... but keep losing to him in Galaxy Trucker.  These were my pre-children interests, and it's invigorating to still take part in them.  It's truly thrilling, though, to have your daughter ask you to play "teacher," to see your kids light up at the mention of going to the library, and to witness sibling rivalries emerge over games like Elefun.

My awakening occurs at any hour during the night by three little people who need me to be "Mommy."  So let my prayer during this season be, Lord, give me the endurance I need to minister to these little souls you have entrusted to me.  Like Samuel, help me respond to Your calling for me.

 

 

 

This sweet baby hangs out all day.

 

 

 


Noah turned two!

 

... When There Just Aren't Any Words

The bright side of not being able to nurse:
Tot and sister get to help!

We all know there are bad days... and then there are bad days.  I find myself having more of the latter these past few weeks.  Health issues that have led me to wean my baby are part of the problem. The adjustment to taking care of three kids is a contributing factor, too.  And then the I'm-so-tired-I-can't-remember-when-my-baby-was-born-so-please-don't-ask-me reality often turns a bad day into a bad day.  For these days, there just aren't any words.

But I found an exception.

I recently sent a text that read: "Yesterday was such a challenging day, I almost had a breakdown.  Instead I just said the 'F word' a hundred times."  Not one of my proudest moments.

Usually my kids are the ones who leave me speechless, but, occasionally my husband does, too.  For instance:

1.  After the two toddlers were in bed, my husband was on the floor "playing" with the baby.  He gave me a sheepish grin.  "Guess what I just did?"  Grin got bigger.  "I just gave Gus some chocolate ice cream!"  You just gave my 3-week-old baby chocolate ice cream?!  No words. 

"The only time I don't get mad when I share my bacon is when I get to
share it with my kids." -Nick
June 2014

2.  I momentarily set the baby on the living room chair, which spins, so I could be hands-free and attend to something else.  Miriam and Noah flocked toward Gus.  They began spinning him on the chair.  When I reported this incident to Nick later that evening, he gave me another sheepish grin.  "Oh, I taught them how to spin the baby."  Oh, really?  Did you?  Dead silence. 

3.  Noah is entirely obsessed with pirates, carrying a foam pirate sword with him wherever he goes, including his bed.  A dozen times a day, he hands me a sword and says, "I'm Peter Pan!  You're Captain Hook!  Fight, fight!"  We start slashing our swords.  Recently he began narrating, "I cut off your arm!  I chop off your leg!  I cut off your head!"  Again, when I report this to Nick, he said, "Yeah, I know.  That's how we play."  Ah, no big deal.  Maybe dismemberment is just a one-year-old boy thing?  Zip.  Zilch.  Nada.

Our Pirate, June 2014

We've been blessed to have three kids before our fourth anniversary.  I would compare these four years to a merry-go-round that induces morning motion sickness.  Nick, I bet, would compare them to the most thrilling roller coaster of his life.

"Mary Poppins"  June 2014

When Nick and I first met in a college seminar class, he claims he was attracted to me because I showed up late, in sweats, with coffee, and sat in the back corner every day.  He's lucked out, because I still show up late, wear sweats every day, and am attached to a cup of coffee.  Clearly, I was not interested in this class and paid no attention to anyone else who was in it.  So when he approached me after class to ask me to a dance, I politely had to ask, "Who are you?"

Eleven years later, I can go on and on about who he is.  But I'll leave it at this: Nick loves being a husband, and he loves being a tot.  Even on my worst days, I still win because he is my "Free Parking" in Monopoly, my "Province" in Dominion, and my "city" in Settlers.  (That's top-notch romance).  I'm grateful for all the times Nick has left me speechless, because those are the moments of impact. They are the memory-builders.

So, for all those times when there just aren't any words, those Basement Words will have to do: I love you.

6.26.2010

...When Two Hands Aren't Enough

 "But Mommy, I need help!  I don't have enough hands!"  Miriam started to get an anxiety attack as she attempted to clamber up into the minivan while securing all her princesses within the grasp of her little fingers.  All I could think was, I know the feeling.

Now that there are three young ones in the house, I find myself on the verge of my own anxiety attack, shouting, "I only have two hands!  You need to WAIT!"  To which Miriam whines (in case you want the full picture), "But waiting is too haaaard!"  So far, life with three (age span of 37 months) is actually not too different than life with two, except in two ways: (1) I'm doing everything I was doing, only on even less sleep, if that's possible; and, (2) there are moments where things are exponentially more challenging.

Our newest tadpole, Augustine "Gus" Gregory
5.10.14

I've been coping with the sleep issue by continuing my 1-2 cups of coffee a day.  And, YES, that is while I am nursing.  I've also decided to make the most of my awake hours by increasing one of my favorite hobbies: reading.  I think I've read four books* since Gus's birth, compared to the one book a month I had been able to read pre-Gus.  So that's pretty cool.

What do I do during those exponentially more challenging moments?  After screaming, "I only have two hands!" I remember that they are, in fact, only "moments," usually lasting no more than 45 minutes.  They are finite, and in retrospect, never quite carry the "I-want-to-blast-everyone-to-outer-space" intensity as they do in the midst of the emotional furry.  When all three kids are screaming uncontrollably at once for three different reasons, I place each of them in a separate room, with the doors shut (of course), muster up a mustard seed's worth of composure, and start tackling one door at a time.  Yep, this is how I cope.

All my helping hands

Thankfully, I have four little hands that help me throughout the day.  When they're tired of coloring and nose-picking, they help me by sweeping the floor.  [TRANSLATE: Grab a broom the minute Mom is reaching for the dustpan and send the pile of breakfast leftovers scattering the floor once again.  Fight over whose broom is whose.]  When they're bored of sword fighting and climbing, they help me entertain the baby.  [TRANSLATE: Find the exact moment Baby falls asleep in swing, and start pushing the swing faster than Tot pushes us at the park.  Giggle hysterically.]  When these four little hands have finished building Arendelle and playing the piano, they help me fold laundry.  [TRANSLATE:  Quickly unfold all pieces that have been folded, and turn them into a rocket ship.  Make Mom sit in the back as we blast off to the moon.]

Once the day is done, I wonder about these four little hands.  I wonder if the hours they spend making Stone Soup in the backyard will manifest into serving chicken noodle soup at a homeless shelter.  I remember how just the other day Noah saw Miriam crying over wanting the toy he had, so he gently went up to her, saying, "Here, Miri-bella."  I hope those sharing hands will find their way onto a school playground soon.  In instances when I've discovered that those four little hands have left toys in the grasp of the two tiniest sleeping hands in our house, I pray that those receiving hands will find a way to follow the Good they see.  I just need to remember that I don't only have two hands, because God's lending me His every step of the way.

Biggest Blessing: An extra pair of hands was here to help!

*I need to make a plug for a book I recently read.  It was so good, I couldn't put it down and made my husband read it aloud to me during contractions.  Dead serious.  Check it out: Wonder by R.J. Palacio

...When Your Kids Teach You How to Hunt for Treasure

Yesterday we enjoyed a very blessed and joyful Easter!  In the afternoon, Miriam told me, "Easter is the best day ever!"  Then, at the day's end, I asked the kids what their favorite part was.  I'm pretty sure Noah said, "Jello jigglers!" though I can't quite remember.  Miri replied, "The treasure hunt!"  In her world of maps, action, and pirates, she did not go on an Easter egg hunt but, rather, a treasure hunt.

Tot and kids decorating eggs
4.19.14

By ten o'clock this morning, I had picked up every single piece of our Tupperware that was strewn across the floor.  Then, I found myself staring at the Easter grass scattered everywhere.  The kids had decided to go swimming in it, then digging in it, then using it (along with the Tupperware) to make me "delicious" ice cream, soup, and salad.  This bending-down-business at 38 weeks pregnant gets old fast, and I just couldn't find the energy to pick up a single piece of the Easter grass.  Solution?  I texted my husband and warned him what he'll find when he comes home... and told him he'd be cleaning it up.  Ha!  I'm lucky he's so loving.



Then I decided I needed to go on my own treasure hunt.

The joy in finding treasures from the Easter Bunny!

 Recently, in my daily Bible reading*, I came across this piece of wisdom from St. John of Avila: "One act of thanksgiving to God when things are going wrong is worth a thousand thanks when things are going the way they want them to go."  I must have read this a dozen times.  Lately, I've felt as though everything has been going wrong.  And the anger builds up.  And I yell at my kids.  And I roll my eyes at my husband.  Even my cousin, texted me saying, "Everything you say begins with 'ugh.'"  Ugh.  It was too true.  St. John of Avila was guiding me, and I wanted to follow his direction.

My oldest and youngest treasures

So, the next time both kids were throwing ridiculous tantrums, I shut each of us in our own rooms.  I let the prayer, "Thank you, God, for this moment of chaos," combat my anger.  I heard an Echo in my prayer: "...because I really am thankful for my kids, who just happen to be creating this chaos."  Then, when I was hit with some bad pregnancy-induced pain and had to go to yet one more appointment, I found myself saying, "Thank you, God, for this pain."  This time the Echo called, "...because I really am thankful for my good health and the health of the baby in spite of it all."


These are baby steps in my progress toward gratitude, faith, trust, and optimism.  Easter Sunday was a powerful reminder for me to look for my daily treasures.  During the kids' Easter egg hunt yesterday, Noah "seized" all his treasure, by trying to stuff everything in his mouth before moving onto the next piece.  Miriam, on the other hand, was very discerning with her treasure, politely indicating that, "This one can be for Noah or Nathan," if it wasn't quite to her liking or not her preferred color choice of egg.

Miriam hunting; Noah eating

Next time, when my kids hand me a sword and tell me to be Captain Hook, I hope to look for a true treasure, instead of waiting for the role-playing to end.  I think my beginner's step will be to follow Miriam's discerning nature.  Maybe one day, though, I'll be good enough to imitate Noah and seize all the treasures He bestows upon me.





*If anyone is looking for a Bible plan, I highly recommend this one: My Daily Catholic Bible
I started about 13 months ago, and am almost halfway through.  Clearly, my progress is slow, but it's still been so worth it.

Easter Mass; 4.20.14

The real treasure in this blog?  I do not need to send pictures to anyone who requested them for Easter.  (JA, I'm talking about you!)

...When Every Day is Valentine's Day

Tomorrow is March 14th.  You may recall this day to be "Pi Day," and if you're still a student, you're especially excited to gorge on pie in math class tomorrow.  For me, however, tomorrow is the one-month anniversary of Valentine's Day.



February 2014

Now, before you think this is going to progress all lovey-dovey, let me briefly tell of some of the affectionate happenings in our household today.  Don't worry, I'll leave out all the common hitting/pushing/kicking incidents.

First Instance
Noah begins crying in pain.  I run over.  "Miri, what did you do to Noah?"  She responds, "I forked him."  Thankfully, the stab wound on his bare back was only minor.

Second Instance
Noah points at my stomach and says, "Big belly," with a big grin.  Then promptly leans over and bites it. 

Third Instance
At bedtime, we prepare the kids' toothbrushes with toothpaste, then they independently brush their teeth and, finally, we do a final thorough brushing.  As Nick was brushing Noah's teeth, he notices that he is, in fact, brushing his teeth with soap.  I shoot Miri a glare, to which she confesses, "Yes, I did put soap on Noah's toothbrush."  Oh, and please picture her saying this with a huge smile, almost as though she's fighting back giggles.

So, why does every day feel like Valentine's Day?  Because Miriam has been entirely obsessed with Valentine's Day ever since February 14th.  Every day, she gleefully approaches me with a "Happy Valentine's Day, Mom!" and hands me a "Valentine."  Today I got a Payless shoe ad.  She explained to me how my Valentine was special because it had lots of shoes.  Yesterday I got a toy or two that she pulled out of a purse.  Often, I get scribbles and drawings and "letters" that she reads to me.  And Mr. Copy-Cat is always just one step behind, holding up a random object to me saying, "Valentines!  Valentines!" 

My kids have been delivering these sweet Valentines to me nearly every day for a month, usually while I am preoccupied with a chore, annoyed with misbehavior, or exhausted with life.  It's been awesome to have that big love delivered by such little hands in a very real way every day.  What an image of the way God must be holding up Valentines to us in every moment of frustration.

Family Day at the Aquarium
March 2014

 P.S.  A daily Valentine from Husband would be quite the mood changer, too, wouldn't it?  (Hint, hint)

P.P.S.  Tomorrow isn't the 14th, is it?  Oops, one day off.  Time for bed.

 

...When You Feel Like a Loser

Start by taking this single-question quiz:

Do you think I feel like a loser because...
A.) I can't keep up with the dishes?
B.) The constant toys on the floor prevent vacuuming?
C.) I gained 8 pounds in one month? 
D.) Other

Correct answer: D
Although, A, B, and C are all true*, option D, "Other" is the best choice for the following reason: My daughter is always the winner. 

Depending on how well you know me, some of you may describe me as "competitive."  Others may choose to disagree with or qualify this descriptor.  Personally, I wish I could quantify it by listing my LTWP (life-time winning percentage, in case you didn't pick up on the acronym).  However, I would grant myself the permission to omit records of all games played on my 30th birthday, since there has to be some advantage to climbing that hill.

For the past two months or so, I have been mulling over another single-question quiz: Is my daughter inherently ultra-competitive, or has she adopted modeled behavior from someone?  Nature vs. nurture.  I'm leaning toward nature on this one.

Example 1
[During mealtime.]
Miriam: Mommy!  Who's winning?
Me: We don't race when we eat, Miriam.  You need to chew.
Shovel, gulp.  Shovel, gulp.
Miriam: I win!  I am the winner!  Noah is the LOSER!
[Victorious arm waving and shouting.]

Example 2
[While in the car, regardless of destination.]
Miriam: Mommy!  Who's winning?  Which car is winning?
Me: I don't know, Miri.  There are lots of cars going very fast.
Miriam: No, I am the fastest!  I am winning! (As she "drives" with her personal paper plate steering wheel from her car seat.)
[Upon reaching destination.]
Miriam: I win!  I am the winner!

Example 3
[While playing Hungry, Hungry Hippos.]
Miriam: Mommy!  Who's winning?
Me: Anyone can win.  Sometimes different people win.
Miriam: Look, I win!  You are the LOSER!
[Points at me and makes a pouting face, as if she is either mocking me or expressing the emotion I ought to feel.]

February 2014
Miriam cheating while competing with Noah in Hungry, Hungry Hippos
(I was the "loser" yellow hippo, before my self-worth couldn't bear to play any longer)

I could go on and on, but I think you get the point.  No matter what we do, my daughter (not I) turns it into a competition.  If I insist that I won something, she proceeds to explain to me that although I did win, she also won, and, "Mommy, when two people win, that is called a tie."  In fact, I'm getting so tired of hearing her proclaim herself the "winner" all day long, that I taught her the word "champion."  So, the bottom line is, that for twelve hours a day, my two-year-old daughter makes me feel like a loser.  Oh, my sweet revenge will come when Noah is able to beat her and call her the loser.

Though I'm embarrassed by her behavior, I am awfully proud of her competitive nature.  Goodness knows I've never modeled such arrogant mannerisms... I just wish she wouldn't legitimately beat me at Hungry, Hungry Hippos time after time.





* I have provided some photo evidence below.

If you chose option "A," you are right on target.  This is what I am ignoring in the sink right now in order to write this blog.  And the picture doesn't even include what's on the counter.

 

If you chose option "B," you have the right idea.  This is just one small corner of one carpet in one room of the house.  So, if you want the complete image, multiply by at least ten.

 

Lastly, if you chose option "C," just ask my OB.  Or my husband.  It's true: I gained eight pounds in one month, but will kindly spare you the picture. 

...When You Remember High School Physics

I can still hear Mr. Abbott's monotonous voice: "For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction."  I was one of the very lucky students to have had Mr. Abbott for both Chemistry and Physics before he passed away in 2001.  May he rest with God.  He was the real-life Hollywood version of the classic lab-coat-monotone-thick-glasses teacher.  He was awesome.

His voice carried little to no intonation, but if you tuned in, you found yourself laughing at his dry humor.  Mr. Abbott was also great on the board.  His diagrams were drawn with such precision, and his equations were elegant.  You often hear that when you become a teacher, you adopt all the things you liked about your favorite teachers and (try to) leave all the qualities of your awful teachers behind.  When I became a teacher, I consciously adopted Mr. Abbott's philosophy of test-taking.  Mr. Abbott strongly believed that all students work at their own pace; some of the brightest students can be the slowest.  As a result, he offered "unlimited" time to finish an exam.  As a competitive student, I thought it was unfair until it worked to my advantage; as a teacher, I realized it was a sign of deep understanding and compassion.

For Every Action, There Is an Equal and Opposite Reaction
Yes, Mr. Abbott, you branded this into my memory in my junior year in Physics class.  So much so, that it haunts me in my parenting.  Yes, Sir Isaac Newton, your third law of motion most certainly does have a direct correlation to parenting.  Well, not parenting, per se... more like sibling interaction.

My husband and I have absolutely loved watching the relationship between our son and daughter develop.  When Noah was born, Miriam was only 15 months old.  And, though it brought me great pain, (and even pains me to type it now), Miriam hated Noah for at least nine months.  Being a mother of two for those first nine months was emotionally difficult.  Miriam would physically attack Noah any way she could whenever she could.  There was little to no sibling affection shown on her part.  I think we only have one picture of Big Sister holding Baby Brother... because it only happened once.  Don't even think about a picture of her hugging or kissing him.  It doesn't exist.


Miriam holding Noah, August 2012
(This was probably a "force hold," as you can see.)
 

About nine months and many prayers later, Miriam must have realized that Noah wasn't going to disappear.  Or maybe Noah just got more "fun."  Either way, they slowly began to interact positively.  The pushing/kicking/hitting/screaming/biting only occurred when Noah "got in her way."  Okay, this made sense.  A little brother totally gets in the way of a two-year-old's play.  Still, I felt like I was constantly reprimanding, disciplining, and time-out-ing. The vigilance was exhausting.  After the really long days, I would say to my husband, "I can't wait until Noah can hold his own ground and fight back!"

This is where you, Mr. Newton, come in.  Now, at the ages of one-and-a-half and two-and-a- half, for every ten minutes of play, the equal and opposite reaction is ten minutes of fighting.  In fact, it has become so predictable, I was able to sit back and take a picture just the other day:


January 2014
Noah and Miri fighting because Noah is the "Destroyer," as Miri has nicknamed him

My husband and I love it.  The playing, mostly, but in all honesty, we do find humor in the fighting.  Noah can hold his own now, so, with close observance, I often let them "duke it out."  I know many parents don't subscribe to this philosophy, but I feel that it is equally natural for siblings to both play and fight, so we ought to provide them with a safe environment in which they can resolve their conflict.  Now, don't get me wrong, they often can't resolve their conflict on their own, so we definitely step in to coach (or discipline) them... just not right away.

As we continue to watch their sibling dynamic develop, we get glimpses of their unique bond: they are teammates, competitors, adventurers, companions, explorers, and partners in crime.  "Yamo" has already predicted the mischief to come once Mommy is distracted with New Baby.

So, what's the opposite reaction of ten minutes of mischief?  Ten minutes of cleaning?...

Huntington Gardens, August 2012
(I just found this -- looks like genuine sibling affection.  Love it.)