Schooling While Mothering.

I never dreaded returning to school. I never longed for the summer to be eternal. I was always very excited. New clothes, new supplies, new classes. The sweetness of the promise that this could be The Year.

AB was promoted to the next level of classes and she has been over the moon because now she is with the Big Kids. I’m jealous of her eagerness. The eagerness to learn, to do something new, to play. Her inquisitive nature has grown exponentially. She wants to know why things are they way they are. Why leaves are on the ground, why the moon is in the sky, why there is a fence around the grass, why that woman’s hair is pink…why, why, why? I do pretty well at first, but there is always another “why” waiting for me, so I eventually I must concede, “Well, I’m not really sure.” I have yet to reach the point of exasperation with all these whys because I find it fascinating.

All this leads me caused me to reevaluate my approach to law school as this past year was quite haphazard. I fluctuated between approaching it like a job then trying to be like the other students and it just plain did not work. I was left exhausted and frustrated. However, I did learn some valuable lessons that I’ve been able to implement this year which have made for a much smoother ride on this road called Schooling While Mothering.

1. Plan as if your life depended on it (because frankly, it does). Others may see you as anal or foolish, but your sanity depends on your life running like a well-oiled machine. Plus, if you have a routine down, then life’s hiccups (i.e. sick kid) will be much more manageable.

2. Carve out quality time for you just and the kiddo. I find that dinnertime and bedtime are the easiest ones during the week. While the weekend is precious study time make sure to set aside a few hours on Saturday and Sunday to take kiddo to the park, zoo or library. I mean, how often does kiddo get to hang out with you while the sun it out? It’s more quality time and it gets them tuckered out enough for their naps which gives you more productive study time…or procrastination time in which you veg out because you have managed to tucker yourself out as well.

3. Get up early and go to bed late. Acknowledge that coffee is your drug of choice and forever will be until you kids are at least 30 years old. I have come to believe that as long as there is a being in the world who calls you “Mom” or any variation of it, you will never get any rest.

4. Incorporate kiddo into study time at least once a week. There will be times when you just have to get some work down around the kiddo. To prevent pulling one’s hair out from all the interruptions, set up kiddo with some sort of activity and impress upon them the importance of that activity (i.e. ask them to draw the best dinosaur then can or fill the paper with as many squares as they can.) This will get you at least a good 10 to 15 minutes of uninterrupted studying.

5. Make time for you and take one night off a week. Turn off your brain. Watch or read something that requires as little thought as possible. Guilty pleasure it up to your heart’s content. Yes, that means go ahead and read/watch Twilight (even though you know you are to daggone old and the writing/acting is far from impressive) and eat that entire pint of Ben & Jerry’s Chubby Hubby ice cream (even though it way too expensive and totally unhealthy).

Bottom line: It’s only mothering…it’s not like your running a country or anything. (At least that’s what I keep telling myself.)

Good Cop + Bad Cop = Me.

The kid sure knows how to pull at the heart strings.

“I love you! I want you! I want yooooou!”

Granted these nuggets of undying devotion only come out with such passion when she is on a time out. When she sees that I am unswayed and not returning to her room, she turns on me.

There is a period of time where all I hear from her room are sorrow-filled ululations which quickly turn into cries for family members who cannot hear her. I am sure that if she had a clear concept of God and the heavens she would be appealing to them as well.

“I don’t like you! I want Grandma! Grandmaaaaaaa! Grandpaaaaa! I want Uncle Briiiiiii! Aunt TTTTTTTTTT!”

But alas no one come to her rescue. Her cries simmer down to whimpers and sniffles which then settle into silence. A few moments later she will either emerge with tear-streaked cheeks, shuffle over to me and fling herself headfirst into my lap whispering a muffled “Sorry…” or I will peek my head into her room and find her asleep in bed surrounded by her stuffed animals with her blanket pulled up to her chin.

Whatever the outcome, I always feel a sense of triumph. “Haha, I win! You cannot beat me, little one. I am the adult here. Ha and ha!”

But here is the problem. I feel this every single time my discipline works. I can talk a mean game and I can carry it out too, but I am always surprised when it works. Perhaps it is because there is always the moment when in the midst of it, I want to give up. Thrown in the towel. Say, “Fine, have the daggone piece of candy!” or “Fine, wear your swimsuit and rainboots and nothing else to school. Who cares that it’s snowing outside!” But I don’t and that is usually when she turns the corner.

Multiple times a week I feel like we are acting out this scene from Kramer v. Kramer.

Ted Kramer: [while Billy brings ice cream to the table] You go right back and put that right back until you finish your dinner… I’m warning you, you take one bite out of that and you are in big trouble. Don’t… Hey! Don’t you dare… Don’t you DARE do that. You hear me? Hold it right there! You put that ice cream in your mouth and you are in very, very, VERY big trouble. Don’t you dare go anywhere beyond that… Put it down right now. I am not going to say it again. I am NOT going to say it AGAIN.
[Billy eats ice cream]
Billy Kramer: [Ted picks him up] Ow! You’re hurting me!
Ted Kramer: OW! Don’t you kick me!
Billy Kramer: I hate you!
Ted Kramer: You’re no bargain either, pal! You are a spoiled, rotten little brat and I’ll tell you right now…
Billy Kramer: I hate you!
Ted Kramer: And I hate you back, you little shit!
Billy Kramer: I want my mommy!
Ted Kramer: I’m all you got.

And I feel horribly. How can you feel that way about your own child? But I do. Well, I don’t hate her. But I very strongly disliker her during those moments. Those are the moments when I wish I could just drop her on her father’s doorstep and say, “Here you deal with her because I can’t.” And I imagine that you can probably do that in a marriage. Leave that kid with the other parent and drive off into the sunset for a little while and return when a cooler head has prevailed. But I can’t do that.

So sometimes, I give myself a time out. I lock myself in the bathroom, turn on the shower as hot as it will go and give myself a stern talking to or say all the things that I wish I could say, but cannot because she’s only three and a half for gosh sakes. Once the mirror has steamed up, I have usually deflated all my own hot air and am okay enought to open the door.

Where is AB during my time out, you ask? On the other side of the door vacillating between crying for me to come out and asking if I’m okay and if I accidently locked myself in the bathroom. When I emerge she is always quite happy to see me and willing to talk about what went wrong. She will give me a run through of the prior ten minutes, “Annabelle threw the books and Froggie and Mommy said to pick them up and Annabelle said NO! and was put on time out and then Mommy locked herself in the bathroom by axident.”

Suffice it to say, while I have gotten much better at discipline over the past year, I am by no means a master. While it is clear that AB does not hold a grudge (with me anyway), I know that she is in no way being scarred by me being a consistent disciplinarian or, dare I say, a mean mom at times. I just wish that I didn’t feel like such a baby about it myself. Hurt feelings have no place in motherhood, right? Kids are always going to say things that they don’t mean. Heck, I constantly say things that I don’t mean in my bathroom time-out rants. I feel like I am on an emotional roller coaster though. I go from sadness that she is so upset, then frustration that she thought she could get away with it, then anger that she thinks that I am so horrible that she requires some sort of stealth rescue mission, then relief when it is over which is quickly followed by the dread that it is inevitably going to happen again.

I need to grow a thicker skin. Pronto.

In the Absence of Kinks.

AB’s  hair is chesnut brown with streaks of auburn that only show up when in the right amount of light. Her curls are loose yet defined. They are the curls that the kinks of my hair long to be. Her hair can be brushed into subtle waves. When wet it will spring back into its natural curl but longer.  Thankfully, she will never experience the burn of the hot comb, curling iron or relaxer. I live vicariously through her and let it lie as she flips it back out of her face with a grown up flair that it is apparently inherent in those with blessed with long hair. My mother worries that AB will become vain about her hair, while I worry that I will become (have already become) vain about her hair.

While pregnant, I wondered incessantly about what she would look like. What would her coloring be? Would she have her father’s blue eyes and my kinky ‘fro? Would she be a beautiful mix of the two of us, or would the concoction of the two of us come out all wrong, uneven, a sign of our failed relationship?

I gave birth to white baby with straight hair and big brown eyes. I deconstructed her parts into mine and his until she was no longer a baby but simply another belonging to be divided. I got the eyes, the nose, the smile. He got the ears, the eyelashes, the feet, the build. We split the hair – the curls from me, the texture (or lack thereof) from him. Her complexion has darkened thanks to sun and age; however she is still, and forever shall remain, darker than him but lighter than me.

Despite finding these elements of me in her, I still fail to see the resemblance. But then, I think about how I don’t think that I really look like either of my parents. There are no “spitting images” in my family. There are glimpses and fragments that  appear and disappear. Wispy ghosts of resemblances. 

This hair gives her anonymity. I like that she can slide through cultures with an ease that I cannot. She has been mistaken for a Latina (Dominican, Spanish, Mexican, you name it), an Indian (her surname, apparently, is quite common in India), and a Native American (“Oh, she’s got that Cherokee blood, right?”).

This mixture of African, Irish and Italian has given her a worldwide hue. I imagine her with her long multiracial hair tied up in a knot at the nape of her neck, backpack filled to the brim, notebook and pen in one hand and a camera in the other, traveling the world. I imagine that I have presented her with a key that will allow her to traverse this globe and be accepted by all. I picture her slipping in and out of cultural identities as she currently slips in and out of imaginary worlds from Sesame Street with Bert and Ernie to Priscilla’s Pink Planet.

She is the physical manifestion of what I wanted to experience in my youth. There is no pressure upon her to be black. There is no pressure on her to be white. She can be a chameleon and choose whatever she wants to be. This is my unintentional gift to her. This freedom that stems from the absence of kinks.

AB’s Bookshelf.

I’m not a big fan of reality. Let me escape into a good book or film anyday as opposed to having to interact in the real world. But alas as I have started my two new jobs over the past two weeks, I have gotten a big fat dose of the medicine called reality. Therefore, I decided that this edition of the kiddo’s bookshelf should include some big helpings of healthy imagination.

1. Adventure Annie Goes to Work written by Toni Buzzeo and illustrated by Amy Wummer:  Saturdays are Annie’s day for adventures. She’s even got the perfect outfit complete with advernture cape and sparkle tights. But when Adventure Annie’s mom has to go into work to find an important report that has been misplaced, Adventure Annie finds herself on a Big Report Treasure Hunt. Annie makes a humongous mess, but finds the missing  gold report. “Adventure Annie to the Rescue!” Bringing your kid to the office is inevitable. Your kiddo will be sick but you have to hand something in or child care falls through or as in Annie’s mother’s case, you were the last one to handle something of importance. And offices are always way more interesting when you’re a kid, even if it’s boring. A kid can turn the most mundane setting and make it magical. Case in point: Annie does not want to sit at the desk and draw at her mom’s desk, she wants to go on a treasure hunt which requires her to get into stuff including supply closets and other people’s offices. Sure when you bring your kid to work, you get your work done, but you also spend the same amount of effort cleaning up after them. Oh, the joys of working parenthood.
2. When Louis Armstrong Taught Me Scat written by Muriel Harris Weinstein and illustrated by R. Gregory Christie: It is hard to find children’s books for the preschool crowd that serve as introductions to various subjects. Most of the ones that I come up are too wordy. AB’s attention per page is quite short, but I want to expose her to various things that will lead to our fun discussions. So I am always on the lookout. This book was perfect. A little girl is visited in her dreams by Louis Armstrong who teaches her to scat by singing about bubble gum. It is goofy and fun. There were many giggles over our imitations of Louis Armstrong gravel and our own attempts at scat. Then we danced around to his classic duet with Ella, “Let’s Call the Whole Thing Off”.
3. Blueberry Girl written by Neil Gaiman and illustrated by Charles Vess: Neil Gaiman is prolific and splendiferous (and I am still bitter that we were left empty-handed when his Lit Fest event this weekend sold out with a quickness) . He wrote Blueberry Girl for Tori Amos when she was pregnant with her daughter Tash, which I found super sweet and it made the book even more endearing. Read this book, with great illustrations by Mr. Vess, with  “Ribbons Undone” from Tori’s The Beekeeper album on repeat softly in the background and have a little mother-daughter cuddle time. Blueberry Girl and Someday byAlison McGhee are two books that should help ensure that creepy Love You Forever is banished from bookshelves and baby showers everywhere.
4. Once Upon A Saturday by Leslie Lammle: Ah, those dreaded Saturday chores.  June uses her imagination to tackle the tasks that stand between her and  wild animals, lost treasure and learning how to fly.  She finds an alligator (or is it a crocodile?) in her oatmeal. A crow teaches her how to fly to the mailbox. She gets a helping hand from the wind while sweeping leaves from the porch steps. Last but not least, she drives out the monsters living under her bed. She accomplishes all of this wearing an adorable pink dress and pilot goggles. A-dor-a-ble. Ms. Lammle is one of those double threats who can write a great story and do kick-ass illustrations. The illustrations were just plain awesome.  I would love to get prints of some and to frame and put in AB’s room. A nice reminder that chores can be really fun if you just use your imagination. Hey, I still pretend that I’m playing “house” when I wash the dishes, cook dinner and other domestic activities.  A spoonful of sugar…

Happy reading!

My Funny Valentine.

My valentine sports wayward pigtails, a pink Hello Kitty bathrobe and a runny nose. She is pleased as punch with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich cut in the shape of a heart with a Hershey’s Kiss on top. So easy to please, this valentine of mine.

“You want to see my funny face, Mama?”
I nod. She puckers her lips, furrows her eyebrows and then dissolves into giggles. Oh, how I love her funny face. Her sunny, funny face.

I’m in love, I’m in love, I’m in love with a wonderfu gal.

Hard Work.

Mothering is hard work. I want to say that single mothering is even harder, but that is probably not true. It is just harder in a different way.

Lately, I have been bemoaning the frustration of having to do everything myself, with relief. There is no partner to come tap me out of the ring that is mamahood.

Then I think about how it was when the partner was around. He added more stress than relief, so we are much better off without. However, I know that there are fathers/husbands/partners out there who are wonderful. And I want one. Really badly.

But unless he is going to fall out of the sky into my lap, I am going to be partner-less for awhile. I have accepted this fact. I have no energy whatsoever to expend upon dating and looking for a potential mate.

I keep thinking that soon I will get everything under control and there will be a set routine. I keep waiting for there to be a break. But there is not. I feel overwhelmed with school work and AB.

So what do I do to make myself feel better? I daydream about Shia LaBoeuf (who I am convinced is the only man for me) coming into our lives and sweeping AB and me off to blissful happiness. (The detailed version involves me writing an amazing book, him being amazed by my amazing book, and as a result, being amazed by me, the amazing woman who wrote the amazing book and needing to start an amazing love affair that will last the rest of our amazing lives…with lots of amazing brothers and sisters for amazing AB a la the Jolie-Pitts).

Sadly, this fantasy works wonders on my mood.

Grades.

Law School/Mama:
The new semester starts tomorrow. I didn’t get my grades from first semester last Thursday. They were alright. They didn’t completely suck, but I definitely didn’t do as well as I wanted to.

2008 was full of firsts and it was completely imbalanced. I spent so much time feeling guilty, overcompensating and then shutting down, only to start the cycle over again, that I didn’t do very well on the parenting end or the student end.

I’ve gotten many compliments on AB from her hair to her politeness. But get her back home in the apartment with just me and she can just turn into a little terror. Aside from the normal toddler tantrums, it is my fault due to my lack of consistency and routine (which I believe also contributed to my alright grades).

Law School/Mama Grade: C+

Lit Star:
This aspect of my life fared a bit better as I met a couple of awesome authors and read more than a handful of awesome books. However, my writing fell completely to the wayside.

My sister and I have made a pact for 10 submissions in 2009. 5 by the end of June and another 5 by the end of December.

The New Yorker has declared January National 2666 Reading Month and I have wholeheartedly jumped on board. I got the boxed set of three paperbacks for Christmas which has proved much less daunting than the gargantuan hardcover one volume of 900+ pages.

Outside of my school work, I will be writing and reading everyday. I apologize in advance for what are likely to be a good deal of mundane and frankly boring posts, but hopefully there will be some good stuff buried somewhere in there.

Lit Star Grade: B-

Bottom line: I’ve got a lot of work to do.

Back to School Bust.

AB’s first Back to School Night was the evening. My expectations were way to high. Then I got there and was very underwhelmed. There was an activity and ice cream.

My suspicions were confirmed however, that my kid is the tattletale of the group. She holds a grudge and hates when others don’t follow the rules. Her teacher told me that she is always the first to let her know when someone is doing something they shouldn’t be doing, but apparently this is a good thing because she is using her words. Mmmhmm. She still talks about how my dad ate the last of her ice cream at a rest stop on our drive out here two months ago!  Out of the blue she will look at me and say in a very hurt voice, “Grandpa ate my ice cream.”

The new refrain is the result of a bossy girl at the bookstore on Saturday who took Annabelle’s seat toward the end of storytime. AB’s behind was still half on the chair when the other little one decided that she was going to help AB along by gently pushing her out of it. When confronted by other kids, AB tends to freeze up and stare at the other kid like they have sprouted a second head.  We were getting ready to leave anyway, so I didn’t make a big deal of it. Yet, the incident has stuck with her. Since then she has mentioned it to me about a dozen times. Tonight, before she fell asleep she told me, “The girl took my chair.” 

Now when she first started talking about it Saturday afternoon, I had a total parenting moment where I explained that it wasn’t very nice of the girl to take Annabelle’s chair and that next time she should say, “Please don’t take my chair.” It’s all about the manners, folks.  You gotta start young. So now when she tells me about the girl taking her chair half the time she adds, “And I say, ‘Please don’t take my chair.”

Now if only I can get her to stop picking her nose and eating it…

I am.

I am a mother.

I am a single.

I am a law student.

I am in love with Chicago.

I am happy.

Yet…

I am lonely.