MamaBlogga

A couple weeks ago, I read a book that I just thought was fabulous (so did Jane of Seagull Fountain, which is where I heard about it). It was one of those books where the characters really seemed to come alive.

Sarah, the protagonist, becomes a mother fairly early on in the book. Although this isn’t a major theme in the book, she struggles with motherhood at first, starting with a very difficult labor, and continuing with a hard adjustment to motherhood, for her and for her marriage. In her journal, Sarah writes:

I wonder if every new mother feels as if there is nothing left of herself. Every minute of my day and every last thing I do is tied to this little someone else.

—Nancy E. Turner, These is my Words, p 120

That was very much how I felt when I first became a mother. It was supposed to be all joy and roses, but it seemed to be all baby, all work, all the time.

Now, though, I’m beginning to get a little distance from that work. Hayden is pretty independent—he can open the fridge by himself now. He seems to be turning more and more into a small person (instead of a baby or a toddler) every time I look at him.

Rebecca is eleven months old now, and, as I’ve said a number of times in the last couple days, her cuteness quotient has leapt to near-lethal levels. I’m able to have time to myself, play with the kids, and (due very largely to the support and efforts of my husband), the house hasn’t fallen down around my ears.

Every minute of my day and every last thing I do isn’t tied to them (though still many if not most of my minutes and most of the things I do, especially during their waking hours). I’ve gotten to the point where I can get some, if not all, of “my” own, personal stuff done—and I think it’s done wonders for my sense of fulfillment and accomplishment overall.

What do you think? Is being able to do something by yourself, for yourself vital to fulfillment?

(By the way, has anyone read the sequels to These is my Words? Are they as good as the first (or at least worth reading )?)

I’ll be honest. I don’t particularly enjoy spending days slaving over a hot oven to prepare baked goods to show my neighbors which among them are my favorites. (Hi guys!) I personally would not be the slightest bit offended if we didn’t get any neighbor gifts.

But this week, I discovered the best neighbor gifts ever. I was all set to host my book club Thursday night—I’d read the book, cleaned the house, picked up refreshments (again, not spending the day mixing and baking), made cocoa (one homemade thing, plus milk was $1.85/gal!), warmed those not-even-semi-homemade cookies in the oven, set out the Little Debbies, fed the baby—and then we waited.

No one was early.

No one was right on time.

No one was five minutes late.

No one was ten minutes late.

No one was twenty minutes late.

At that point, we decided no one was coming—and we had more than a gallon of hot cocoa on the stove. And we had nothing to store it in, thanks to Ryan’s slightly overzealous cleaning, taking out the empty milk jug.

So we bundled up the kids, grabbed a tray of cookies and the pot of cocoa and headed to visit our neighbors. (This never happens in the winter, okay? It’s cold out there!) We spent a delightful couple of hours visiting with them, their older daughters taking turns holding a very placid Rebecca and their sons and youngest daughter playing with Hayden—and I even got to discuss the book club book!

We told them that would “count” for our neighbor gift and a better way of expressing how much we really enjoy having them as neighbors I can’t imagine. Thanks for having us, especially on such short notice!

This week I saw a review of The Dangerous Book for Boys on Parent Hacks, and boy does it ever sound fun.

I have to add a little background on myself here. I’m the oldest of four daughters. No boys. I was afraid to have a little boy because I had no idea what to do with boys. Since we’ve had Hayden, I’ve really come to embrace being the mother to a little boy. After writing the Mothers-of-Boys Manifesto, I’ve really become driven to look for things that are uniquely for boys.

To find something that is uniquely geared for boys, that isn’t dinosaurs or cars or fire trucks, is very appealing. Although my son is way too young for this as yet, I’ve already begun compiling a little mental file of some fun experiments we’ll try one day. (Just last week we were playing with non-Newtonian fluids.) (You know, cornstarch & water.)

To hear about a book that collects all kinds of adventures and “boy crafts” that I can just imagine boys enjoying for the last four decades is really exciting for me. But I have to admit that I was put off by the title: after all, why would I want my son reading a dangerous book? (And to be completely honest, I thought at first that by ‘dangerous’ it meant ‘inappropriate.’)

Do you think the ‘Dangerous’ is in the title for shock value? I mean, I know that the book teaches little boys to make a bow & arrow, but really, I imagine that my boy(s) will be getting into at least that much danger in Cub Scouts.

We try to be low-key parents. Like today at the playground, when I totally didn’t catch Hayden when he rolled over while going down the slide and nearly smacked his face on it. Oh, wait, that was just an accident.

Really, I think that the stereotype of the uptight parent is overplayed in the media. To me and most of the parents I know, “danger” constitutes something that’s going to kill or maim him. Playing in the yard? Fun. Playing in the street? Dangerous. Playing with fire? Dangerous. Playing with fire with one or both of your parents? Fun.

Then again, I do come from a family of all girls. The most dangerous thing I can remember doing is flipping over the handlebars of my bike and hurting my tooth. Maybe I should get this book now so I can direct my son’s dangerous play in a “safe” way. Is that even possible?

If a book has to tell you that something is “dangerous,” which I suppose means dangerous in the irresistable way that draws kids to “dangerous” likes moths to a flame, then is it really dangerous? Honestly, I’m not too worried about the things he’ll read in virtually any book like this. I’m more worried about the games he’ll make up—like when he’ll try to jump over his little (future) brother’s head even though he’s never gone off a ramp before (visions of two bloodied children in the emergency room dancing in my head).

In a way, though, I’m very ready to embrace my son’s love of adventure. The visions of bloodied children in the emergency room are almost like a coping mechanism—as long as it isn’t that bad, it’ll be okay. I want him to embrace that danger (within the larger parameters of safety, such as our fenced-in backyard).

Would I do the same for my daughters? We’ll have to talk after I have one or two, but for now, I don’t really think I’ll have to. Of my sisters, only one even approached the level of danger that little boys are so famous for. I still cringe when I hear others’ boy stories, and I just don’t expect that from my girls. If they’re as adventurous as their brother(s), I wouldn’t discourage them from playing together. (I’d love a Dangerous Book for Kids that they could all use together!)

I do want all my children to be safe, but not so safe that they’re afraid to do anything. I do want them to have a healthy sense of adventure—and I accept tentatively embrace that there’s some danger that will accompany that. And I want this book.

(note on the title: Ah, good ol’ Steve Irwin. What a sad day.)