out of Kadesh

Drinking: Nashville’s favorite coffee, Drew’s Brews. Lost Weekend roast. YUM.

Reading: Unconditional Parenting by Alfie Kohn.

I’m on the last chapter of this radically eye-opening book. The major premise is not punishing your children for misbehaviors, and not rewarding them for what we consider appropriate behavior. Kohn calls punishments “love-withdrawal,” suggesting that children don’t have the capacity to understand that a mother still loves her child when she puts him in time-out. He encourages parents to keep long-term goals for their kids in mind when disciplining. For example, do we consider a “good” adult one who always follows rules or is quiet in public? No, we consider good people those with compassion, generosity, consideration. Yet by punishing and rewarding our kids, we in fact diminish the development of those qualities later in life. Children become more inwardly focused, i.e. If I do this what will I get for it, or If I do that I’ll be in trouble, as opposed to others-focused (helping others with no thought to what they might get for it). It truly is interesting. We want our kids to be smart but we don’t want them to question everything. We want our kids to be passionate but we don’t want them to show negative emotion. We want our kids to be happy but we don’t want them to show overly-enthusiastic positive emotion (especially in public).

Kohn suggests that instead of punishing our kids or trying to coerce them to do what we want them to do by offering rewards, we talk with them about the ways their actions affect others. He offers little else in the way of alternatives, other than to change our own thinking and believe that reasoning with our kids will work better than traditional parenting techniques. He backs up his theories with sound research and examples from his own family.

Kohn also focuses a lot on parental control issues. We enforce odd rules on our children to, in Kohn’s opinion, reiterate that we are in control. It’s infuriating to children, who are developing their autonomy only to have it squashed by over-controlling adults. “Don’t run in the house.” “Eat all your peas.” “Stop playing on the computer now.” “Stop screaming.” Kohn encourages parents to question everything they tell their kids. Why don’t I want my son to run in the house? If I’m nervous about his safety, can I go through the house and make sure dangerous items or corners are out of the way? If I’m nervous about my valuables, can I secure them out of the way? Or am I really nervous about anything? Kohn makes a strong case that many of our rules are either a way of placing ourselves in control of our kids, or a way of making our own lives easier, neither of which are positive parenting techniques, and certainly neither keeps in mind long-term goals of raising children to be healthy adults.

Finally, I’m struck by Kohn’s insistence on respecting our children. A child deserves respect, which can be given in a number of ways. For instance, he suggests that if a child is acting out, there is a reason for it. Spending the time and energy to find out the root of the problem (i.e. a child throws a tantrum because he is frustrated or needing attention) not only solves the problem more effectively than a blanket “You’re going in time-out,” or “That’s it, no story-time for you!”, it ensures that the parent-child relationship remains intact. Another form of respecting children is allowing them to make their own choices (“How would you like to decorate your room?” “What would you like to do today?”). Kohn admits showing children respect by talking out problems (he calls it “working-with” as opposed to “doing-to”) and giving children choices for their own lives is much harder than the traditional, Parent-in-Complete-Control technique, but warns of the dangers of not using this approach. Children who are shown no respect in their own household are consistently more depressed, have lower self-esteem, and grow up to have very damaged relationships with their parents, research indicates.

Whoa.

The one thing I am not 100% gobbling up is his idea that praising our kids is as damaging as punishing them. Kohn believes that kids who are constantly judged by their parents, even positively (“Good job!” “That’s a beautiful painting!” “So proud you got an A!”), are in danger of losing the true joy of what they’ve done. Reading becomes less about learning than about getting a good grade. Playing soccer isn’t fun; it’s about making Dad proud. Playing violin isn’t about enjoying music; it’s about pleasing peers. Kohn makes the case that praising our kids is just criticizing them in reverse. They begin to place their worth on what they DO and not who they ARE. They begin to think our love for them or our pride in them is based only on their success. I get where Kohn is coming from, and I definitely think kids can be OVERLY praised, but I disagree that praising my kids could be as emotionally damaging as spanking them or yelling at them, especially if I’m careful to always show them the same amount of love and pride no matter what they do.

In short, READ THIS BOOK. It’ll change your life. Like, for real.

Well, we’ve slipped into the seventh circle of Hell here in Kadesh. Noah’s got a fever.

As I type this, I’m literally sitting on the edge of my seat, my stomach in knots, waiting for Noah to start hollering from his crib again. It reminds me of his first three or four weeks. One night Lance made dinner and poured me a glass of Merlot to ease my jitters, but I was so cracked-out on postpartum anxiety that I couldn’t stand watching Elf and had to turn it off, wanted to dump my wine down the sink, and felt like vomiting my one bite of baked potato right back up. Those were the days Lance would leave the room and come back 30 seconds later to find me sobbing into Noah’s hair.

I knew something was wrong when he just started whining for no reason. Right after a nap, no less. When there were aunts and uncles and grandparents to play with, and a big swimming pool to splash around in. Also, he felt like a little toaster. I took his temperature and almost passed out when it said 102.5 degrees. Keeping it calm for Noah while I’m FRA-HEAKING OUT is something I’m still learning how to do. It’s like the most bipolar display you’ve ever seen. I’m all “AAAHHH, OH MY GOD, ok, tra-la-la, Noah, everything’s fine buddy! HAHAHA, let’s just go find DADDY! LANCE! La, la, la, here’s a toy to hold on to, LANCE OH MY GOD HE’S GOT A FEVER WHAT DO WE DO! Goo goo goo Ima getcha Bubbsikins! Smiley smile! HEEHEEHEEEE…” Noah’s like, Boy, somebody open up my diaper. I gotta pee on Mom to put out those flames shooting out of her head.

And as if him feeling like crap and having a constant fever, Tylenol, broken fever, sweats, fever again cycle wasn’t plenty enough to deal with for one family, he’s reached the developmental phase of sitting up and pulling himself up on his crib rails IN HIS SLEEP. Uh… how’s that for timing? If I ruled the world, my first decree would be this: fever should never coincide with already sleepless nights. Or maybe I’d eradicate fever and sleepless nights. VOTE FOR ME. THANK YOU. In order to get him to go to sleep at all, I have to lie down with him. And if I even MOVE, much less say, sneak away to wash a load of diapers, he wakes up and starts crying.

So much worse than the pain in the ass of it all, though, and worse than how sick with worry this has been making me, is how shitty my little guy feels. At 3:20 this morning, he was so hot that when I reached out to touch him, my fingers burned right off my hand. I cannot describe to you the panic one feels when one’s 8-month-old son feels like the top of a black car on a summer day. It’s not natural, I tell you. More Tylenol, a lukewarm bath, two more sweaty hours of restless sleep, and the cycle starts all over again. I have no idea what is wrong with him. He has no other symptoms. He’s a big ball of misery, and my heart is totally shattered, watching him be miserable.

Well, I’d love to stay and chat, but there’s an angry Bubbs standing up in his crib, waiting for me to dose him with cherry-flavored baby Tylenol.

Hi! I’m Lance, and I don’t usually write here. But my fabulous wife said it’d be okay this time if I promise not to use too much techno-babble. I’ll see what I can do.

SXSW. South by Southwest. An absolutely fantastic festival held every year in sunny Austin, Texas. It’s made up of three separate festivals, actually: a film festival, a music festival, and… ok, this last one isn’t really a festival. More like a conference. SXSW Interactive is where a bunch of awesomely geeky folks get together and share knowledge about creating really cool stuff. I got to go last year for work, and it really got me excited about what I do every day.

This year, my friend and colleague, Jeremy Vanderlan, and I are hoping to present a session at SXSW. We want to share how we built the HIV/AIDS Prevention and Service Provider Locator. It’s a tool that helps people find HIV/AIDS-related service providers near them easily, all in one place. We’re hoping our experience will inspire others to build similar tools to help people find what they need. But, in order to present, our proposal must be selected out of over 2300 other really cool proposals. There’s only room for 300 presentations during the conference.

So, I’m asking a favor. If you’ve got a couple minutes, I’d really appreciate you voting for our proposal by visiting the SXSW Panel Picker and registering. Voting ends August 27.

Thanks for your vote!

Tell me something, Reader. Am I the only mom whose baby goes OUT OF HIS WAY to do exactly the opposite of what is best for him?

He’s crawling now, and that means my hair is turning gray in big clumps. He doesn’t want to crawl around the ENTIRE FLOOR that I just vacuumed of all the stray dog fur and pieces of litter the cat tracked in on his freakin’ paws. His highness would rather scoot his diaper over to the vent and stick his fingers in. He wants to pull himself up ONLY on precarious bookshelves or sharp-edged coffee tables, or other devices designed to cause great pain when they come toppling down. He wants to explore all the electrical outlets and the plugs (and CORDS! Glorious cords!) that are connected to them. He doesn’t want any of the fifty toys that I’ve placed in strategic points around the living room for him to crawl to. Those are for babies. OH WAIT.

He also doesn’t want to chew on his teethers when there are perfectly good fingers and collar bones that just stick out at the exact perfect nomming angle. We have our own little Hannibal Lecter living right under our roof. “You see, Clarissa, flesh is MUCH more soothing on the gums than cold gel-filled plastic.”

Oh, except when it comes to nursing. I sit him down because my poor chest is about to burst with milk, and I get this reaction like, Nursing during the day? Are you serious!? There are dog’s paws to be tasted! Cat’s tails to be yanked! GET THAT BOOB OUTTA MY FACE! But then he’s hollering for me eight times a night to nurse because he didn’t get enough calories during the day.

Yeah. Forget about sleeping. He’ll cat nap on our evening walk, or take a power nap in his car seat on the way to lunch. And those cumulative 30 minutes will last him ALL THE LIVELONG DAY. And forget about trying to put him back to sleep once we get home. He’s all, IT’S GO TIME, LADY. GIVE ME THOSE COMPUTER CORDS. I am completely exhausted from standing over him in his crib at 4am while he spins around at alarming speeds. I’d bring him in bed with us again, but he’s so playful now he thinks it’s the perfect opportunity to get some extra crawl practice in. And some talking practice. And some ripping-out-Daddy’s-chest-hair-in-patches practice. (Lance LOVES waking up this way.)

So tell me. Is it Perpetual Opposite Day for babies? Or has Noah just not adjusted yet from whatever crazy planet he came from?

Dear Noah,

I’ll have to write this in short bursts, because as I type you are sticking your fingers into light sockets and chewing on your Daddy’s running sneakers. It’s actually impossible for me to set you down to pick up the computer without turning back around and finding you with electrical cords hanging out of your mouth. And you aren’t even crawling yet! You just sort of scoot around on your belly. In fact, you can turn in a complete circle on your belly, like you’re the spinner in Twister. If it’s this crazy now, I guess by this time next month I won’t be able to put you on the floor until I’ve cleared a one-mile radius around you.

Because you are one busy kid. In fact, I have less and less pictures of you that aren’t completely out of focus, because you never, and I repeat NEVER, hold still long enough for me to take a decent photo. Every time I pull out the camera you’re all like, MOM I have things to DO. And then you turn away, and I end up getting you all blurry, or sometimes I get the back of your head.

This month you’ve been, well, a little bipolar. Ok, Bubbs, I won’t water it down. You’ve been certifiable. One minute you’re laughing and babbling and playing with a toy, and the next you want nothing to do with the toy. You also do not want to a) nurse, b) be held, c) be put down, d) eat, e) be changed, f) be tickled, or h) chew on a teether. You just want me, and the rest of the neighborhood, to know that you are NOT HAPPY. I have been teaching you sign language since you were about two months old, and I’d just like to say one thing. PLEASE BEGIN TO USE IT. I swear Bubbs, on everything I hold dear, that I want you to be happy. If you’ll just tell me what you need, I’ll do it.

But maybe what you need is to just be angry for a minute. I understand that feeling. For now, I think I’ll blame your mood swings on teething. Those bottom two teeth are finally poking through! It’s very exciting, and also very painful, as you still bite my fingers and my collar bone when I’m holding you. I got used to letting you do that, but now it feels like I’m being attacked by a baby shark.

You’ve been really cracking your Daddy and me up this month, when you’re not biting me, ripping out chunks of my hair, or pinching the holy hell out of my arms/boobs/any other skin that is exposed. You started making a really funny face when you talk to us, like you’re sucking on an invisible lollipop. I guess you’re trying to figure out how to make your lips form words, but it is hilarious. You also continue to perfect that Poop Face. It really looks like your eyes might pop right out of their sockets one of these times. I’ve been feeding you apple sauce every morning just to combat it. And you’re just about an hour away from learning how to crawl all over the place, which is funny because it means you get up on all fours and rock back and forth, tongue sticking out in concentration, then usually you fall forward and bonk your big ole pumpkin-sized noggin on the hard floor. I waver between wanting to catch you each and every time, and letting you figure it out yourself. I think you’re doing a good job, because now you just sort of look at me, surprised, then smile, like bonking your head was exactly what you were trying to do. SUCCESS!

Let’s see if there’s any way I can remember even half the things you’ve learned this month. You can feed yourself little things, like blueberries and puffs and little bits of cheese or pasta. You mostly still miss your mouth unless you get help, but when you get that pudgy hand in there with that piece of squished food in it, and you release the food into your mouth, it’s just the happiest thing for everyone in the house. (Well, except Lucy, who has taken to hovering around your high chair so she can gobble up the scraps of food you drop on the floor. You seem to think that’s pretty funny.) When you drop something you look at me and say “OHH!” You don’t know how to clap yet, but instead you slap your big beer belly repeatedly with both hands, while squealing and smiling. When you do something you think we should clap for, you do this move. For instance, now you can “throw” a ball. And the second you release the ball from your pudgy grasp, you start your monkey dance until we all applaud you.

The throwing thing is precious, by the way. It’s so amazing that I’m able to actually play with you now. We read books together (you are still intent on tearing them to shreds, though), we play ball together, when I tickle you now you start laughing just in anticipation, and you know how to give me kisses and hugs (be still my heart). It’s kind of ironic, but it seems like you’re trying to make us laugh as much as we’re trying to make you laugh. It works.

I started out this letter thinking I had so many things to say about how cranky you’ve been, and I ended up only really remembering how hilarious and fun you’ve been. You take me by surprise every day, Noah. I love you!

Love,

Mommy

It’s so hot in Nashville this week that I’ve just been sitting inside the house with the AC running as much as possible. Yesterday, when our daily 4:00 Coffee Hour came around, we decided to skip the block-and-a-half walk to the coffee shop and (gasp!) brew our own. I did have to go grocery shopping, as the contents of our refrigerator were as follows: filtered water, dijon mustard, yogurt. We had been living on Lance’s leftover birthday cake for about three days when I decided if I ever wanted to poop again I’d better get us some real food stat. So I hauled my (significantly larger, after three days of cake) ass down to the local Turnip Truck. And then to Harris Teeter, to get the stuff I can’t get at the Turnip Truck. ((sigh))

Man, I hate grocery shopping. Now, I love cooking, and I love fresh food, but I loathe the whole grocery store process. It never changes. It’s boring. You bring your list. You wander down the aisles. You get way too much stuff. You check out. You spend $100 because you bought a bunch of organic produce and dairy, and that “ORGANIC” label should really just read “$2.50 MORE THAN THE INFERIOR KIND.” If you go when you’re hungry, you buy way too much. If you go when you’re full, you don’t want any of it. There’s no good time. Ugh, it just sucks, ok? I want someone to bring me bags of groceries every week, the exact kind I would have picked out for myself, and that way I’d never have to pass through those sliding doors into the land of fluorescent lights and canned goods ever again.

Which. BY THE WAY. I should not HAVE to go to the store to buy certain veggies, because our Night Garden should be producing green peppers, tomatoes, zucchini, and cucumbers. Oh, and cilantro and basil, too. But the only thing we have, besides one sad, deformed little pickle, is jalapeños. Don’t get me wrong, the dozens of jalapeños we have harvested are awesome. Totally spicy little bites of goodness. But I’m JUST SAYIN’, they would be better in fresh-from-our-garden pico de gallo.

The truth is, I have a confession to make. Ever since Noah started eating little bites off our plates, I’ve been cooking more carefully. I add little to no salt, for instance, because it’s not good for him. (That’s not the confession.) And now when I’m eating something, he starts reaching for it because he understands that I can give him bites of my food. (That’s not the confession either.) The truth is, I have an unhealthy addiction that I don’t know how to break, and for his sake I feel like I must. Ok. The true truth is that I do not WANT to break my addiction.

Here it is, reader: I freaking LOVE refined sugar mixed with white flour and baked at 350 degrees. AH! Where are support groups for this!?

I love muffins. I love cake. I love peanut-butter-oatmeal-chocolate-chip cookies. I love cookies. I love pancakes. I love pastries and baked items of all kinds.

The worst part is living the double standard of “Mommy can have this food but Noah can’t.” I’ll be eating a muffin with my coffee and he’ll reach for it, and I’ll give him a bite of banana. What about his first birthday cake? None of his baby friends are eating sugar. In fact, none of my friends with kids seem to share my addiction. I don’t understand it. I had a discussion with my neighbor the other day who was saying she was going to sweeten her baby’s first cake using nothing but apple sauce and pineapple juice. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t even own a bag of sugar. Good thing I found this out before knocking on her door asking for a cup. I hate an embarrassing scene.

Maybe this is why I feel so guilty about it. In every other way, I’m making all healthy choices for my family. Lance and I never buy candy or soda or any kind of chips other than tortilla chips. But if any of my mom friends saw me purchasing a cinnamon roll, everyone in the room would be mortified. I’d be judged, I tell you. JUDGED! Does this seem silly? I worry too much, right? You’re thinking, “Just limit yourself.” Um, I try to do that every week, promise. You’re thinking, “It’ll be ok when he’s older.” And just when do kids reach the age where sugar becomes ok? With childhood obesity such a huge issue right now, I feel pressure to be feeding Noah only fruits and veggies, brown rice, and whole-wheat bread until he’s 18.

I can’t be the only mom on the block that wants to bake cookies for her child, can I? No one is ever going to let their kids come over to our house. I’m supposed to want to serve up a platter of carrots and celery after school. Maybe some nice apples. That would be a healthy snack. You know they changed “Cookie Monster” to “Veggie Monster”? Can I repeat this for you? THEY CHANGED COOKIE MONSTER TO VEGGIE MONSTER. I love veggies y’all, but let me just say this about that. At the 4:00 Coffee Hour, I damn sure am not thinking ME WANT VEGGIES.

“I’m a lot better than babies because I can run really fast.”

(While turning Noah’s face away) “I don’t like it when people stare at me.”

“When you picked Noah up, he kicked me. Sometimes, when you pick babies up SLOWLY, they can’t kick people.”

Dear Lance,

I love you more than words can say.

Love,
Me

p.s. Your green striped shirt is like bookends to the year.