Instruction Manual

I wish there was an instruction manual. 
When browsing at the doctors office or on amazon or at the health food store or at Green Apple, there is a practically never ending section on how to raise a child. Its staggering to see how many books, blogs, articles, studies etc that are out there for proper child rearing. 
How should you empower your son?
How should you empower your daughter?
How should you deal with special needs child, your normal child, your "spirited" child, your vegan child, your 2, 4, 6, 8, 10, 12, year old child? How should you speak to your child? To your teenager? How should you, from a scientific standpoint, love your child? How should you discipline your child?
It can be overwhelming.

In studying medicine, whether as a nurse or doctor, there is a phenomenon where, for ever illness that is studied, the student becomes convinced they have the disease. I feel its the same with the books on raising children. I find myself becoming convinced that my child is whichever difficulty the book in front of me is asking for me to address. 
Don't get me wrong, I love books. Reading, as a parent, is helpful. Especially making sure that my kid is on a healthy trajectory growth-wise. I do believe though, it's easy to get bogged down... overwhelmed with the information. I also feel that some of the books, articles or blogs (eek) create some sort of herd mentality about "right" social behavior or physical development. This makes the already mind-wracking, insecurity-producing job of parenting that much more freakified. 

Of course I've had the conversations with the mothers, who have read the books and swear that their regiment is the only thing that works. She read all the books and found a really solid way to work, which is why her kids are so amazing and smart and capable and well behaved. My first reaction is to wonder if we are talking about the same kids because they seem like little pissants to me. Then, I wonder if I'm not seeing how freaking brilliant they are and well, she didn't have the problems with her kids that I have with my kid, so maybe I'm the one doing something wrong. I like chasing my own tail, so I let that one go around about a thousand times before I realize she's not raising my kid 

The fact is, there is no right way (short of physical, mental, sexual abuse) to parent. Mostly, because no two kids are the same. Even within a family. I look at my two bright, shining kids and see two very different people. Beyond basic physical requirements -clothing, shelter and food - the way they show their need for attention is very different. The type of attention needed is very different.

I wish there was one, single perfect piece of writing that gave you EXACTLY EVERYTHING I needed to know about how to do it right. How to not, at the end of the day, feel like I'm more than a mediocre mother who's had a couple of bad spells. 

So here comes the confessional part:
I yell at my kid. I've yelled at him in public.
I've been known to speak in anger. 
I've aggressively acted in order to get my way with him.
I've put him in bed - not nicely.
I've put him in time-out.
I've put myself in time-out.
I've counted to five.
To ten.
Once, I slapped his face. 

Do you have any idea how many rules and unspoken laws of parenting today-style I have broken. Scads. Dare I say tons? I do.
But see, if I had an instruction manual on how -through the power of encouragement - I could get my son to listen to me, to do as I ask after asking nicely; to get my daughter to sleep through the night - I would be able to be a guilt-free parent.

I would be able to look at the judgy-judgerson parents that gasp when I snap at my kid in the grocery store, yanking him away from yet another item on the shelf, and say, "Hey, this is by The Book." Better yet, I would be able to follow chapter 2 in The Manual and avoid having the boy ignore me in the first place. 

I think, just like kids (when they are young) look at us as though we are gods, we lay some expectation on ourselves to behave with absolutely no mistake. We forget that we remain human even though we are parents and no matter what, we make mistakes. 

I know, I know... parenting is hard. Parenting is damn hard. I also know the single absolute that will come from ANY parenting is that you screw your kids up in some way or another. Its unavoidable. I don't care how "good" of a parent you are OR how many damn books you read.
You will - just like I do - fuck. it. up. 

I guess we all just have to pray that we don't do such a stupendously bad job parenting that our kids hate us when they grow up... like as an adult. Not a teenage 'cause, let's face it, they hate us then. 

Bentonite Clay

I am letting this bentonite clay crack and burn on my face, in my hair and down my neck whilst writing this.

Why, you may ask?

Vanity. Pure and simple.

More complex is: why the vanity?

Several reasons really.

-Age -I’m 40. The difference from 30 to 40 is dramatic. From 20-30, you get a brain, but retain the body. From 30-40, you start feeling what it is to age. 40 really likes to hand you (your now sagging) ass on a platter.

-Post partum- It is NOT pretty. Think teenage pimples (without the teenage boobs). Hair so thin that you seriously consider using your grampa’s toupee - and yet there seems to be enough that it still comes out in such huge clumps as to clog your shower drain. There is no amount of superwoman / cross-fit style exercise that is gonna get me back in a bathing suit. The stretch marks alone are a hazard. The mask is for the teenage pimples.

-Age = wrinkles. I have to admit that I actually am pretty lucky so far. I don’t have that many fine lines on my face. On the other hand, I avoid at all costs ANY magnifying mirror -excepting cases when I pluck eyebrows and then I don’t allow my eyes to wander - so I really can’t tell you how many fine lines I have.

-Experimentation - I never was much of a masker… I suppose it has to do with my mother not being much of a masker - she was more a soak in the bathtub (for HOURS) reading a book -type, so I didn’t have much reference. I want to know what the big deal with masking is, so I thought I’d give it a shot.

-I don’t have the time or money for the spa. This, while my baby sleeps and the tornado is at school, gives me some “me” time.

It’s actually kind of interesting when I try to raise my eyebrows or smile. It feels like I’m pulling all the skin off…

It really has, in the past, made my hair soft.

SO check-it.

Bentonite clay (can get it at amazon) with Apple Cider Vinegar. Mix to a thick paste (it will fizz like with baking soda) and spread it on evenly. Let it dry. The container says 20 minutes, but I like to leave it on longer… I’m almost up to an hour now, but gonna rinse here in a second.

So that’s my idea for the day. Best not crack and shed all over the couch.

I suppose I should start this blog with an explanation.

Then again, explaining myself suggests that I’m defensive and I lose any mystery I might otherwise conjure.

Oh well.

Here’s the thing:

These are ideas…

ideas, for me, are a mutating, morphing thing.

These are opinions…

opinions, informed by experience and knowledge…

experience is ongoing…

knowledge is ever growing

so

opinions can change.

These are observations…

filtered through the lens of my life.

I have two kids still in diapers (one on the way God willing and the creek don’t rise). I have a job. I have two silly dogs and an excellent husband. IE - I’m busy.

I’m also not one of those super organized, highly efficient, never-need-sleep, super moms - that can do every lovin’ craft, while working full time, while volunteering at school (or homeschooling for chrissakes), while writing 4 novels a year, while hiking the John Muir trail, while keeping a full and organic vegetable garden.

I am not that woman.

This is where I will attempt to reconnect with words. I love words. I love them almost as much as I love breathing. I love that they can be confused, misinterpreted, misspelled and generally abused. And, though I have stories to tell, I think, while my spare time in between:

cleaning

working

cooking

engaging

loving

bathing

exercising

guilting

I plan on slowly resurrecting my connection to words. Perhaps no novel right now, but I can have ideas, opinions and observations.

So, while my husband is at work, my toddler is at school, the baby (and the dogs) are napping and I have so much bentonite clay on my face that I can’t open my mouth to talk on the phone, I will write.

With honesty,

integrity,

and the reserved option to change my mind at any moment.

Man, my face is pulsing. I bet I look at least one hour younger when this comes off.