Teaching our children is an oft-discussed topic among parents. What and who should educate them, and which environment will provide the best platform for learning. Factors including genetics, culture, family structure and parenting styles are considered. Variables like demographics and geography find their way into the equation. We debate, we rate, we rant. We theorize, and
“What’s wrong baby?”
“Mama, I need to poop.”
My first thought was literally, “Oh crap.”
We’re more than halfway through summer vacation (WHAT?!).
Helicopter parents are a readily identifiable species: Omnipresent, hovering, constantly scanning the area for dangers (both real and imagined) that might warrant swooping in to rescue their beloved child(ren). Many people know at least a few who fit that description, and some of us will recognize ourselves therein. Although I do not know if there
I quickly lose sight of the fact that she is only 4 and a half. I’ll be the first to admit that I have become complacent. I leave her to her own devices at times. Especially when I am trying to run a house by myself. She is also painfully independent (see aforementioned slamming of bedroom door). I trust her not to put peas up her nose or to eat crayons. I am far too trusting.
These days, most of my time is divided between wishing my toddler would talk more, and silently willing nearly everyone else to shut the f*ck up. You see, my beautiful, bright, sweet little boy has a speech delay – which, while both common and curable, is not without its own set of trials and tribulations.
Every morning, I wake up in bed with 3 guys, a girl, one turtle and several rabbits. Far from a sordid arrangement, the reality is closer to a cramped and sometimes stinky circus that includes me, my husband, our toddler and dogs, along with a few of my son’s current favorite stuffed animals. We never planned
Fall is more challenging than Summer. This is just a truth. Summer is the time for eating tomatoes from the garden with balsamic vinegar and calling it dinner. For staying up a little late and chasing fireflies in the yard. Fall is none of these things. None. Of. Them.
For lots of reasons, I figured we were just done. Chief among those reasons is the fact that I’m not enthusiastic about becoming a mom of a newborn, again, at the age of 38.
He has taught me that I cannot control everything (or everyone) in my life. And not only is that okay, that is exactly as it is supposed to be, because it is usually somewhere in the unexpected chaos that is life with my son, that I make mistakes, or actually get it right, and either way, we learn, and we grow. Many days are spent yelling like a crazy woman, and many nights after he has gone to sleep are spent longing for a chance to do better tomorrow.