Honing My "Cry-dar"

Since becoming a mother, I've noticed I've developed a pretty good "cry radar" for other people's kids. Like, I'll see a frustrated mother scolding her little kid at the grocery store and think, "yo, Mom, your kid is clearly tired and unsure of the situation and probably just wants a little compassion or a hug or something. Can you just stop for a minute and empathize with him?"

Why is it that when I hear some other mom's kid cry, I immediately know what the problem is, and have an instant solution?

I wish I could emotionally detach enough to have that same kind of insight with my own kids sometimes.

I'm a Failure Because...

Let me begin by saying that this is not going to be a very helpful post. I'm warning you (with peace and love): if you're looking for help of any kind, you're probably not going to find it here. If you're looking for advice or good cheer, you've definitely come to the wrong place.

If you're a person who knows even a little about psychology, I'm sure you've heard of the cognitive distortion called "all or nothing thinking." Unfortunately, that's the way my brain works. Everything is either black or white. There's no gray. There's no half-filled glass. It's either full or empty. That's just the way it is.

And when you're a perfectionist on top of it, you're pretty much doomed (at least inside your own head. I suppose I appear relatively "together" on the outside).

So, the other day, I was going about my business when I heard Prickly Dad upstairs, vacuuming the family room. Granted, I was filled with gratitude that he was helping. I have a wonderful husband. But then the cognitive distortion started:

I'm a failure because my husband is doing housework.

And it didn't end there. The thoughts just kept on coming, one after the other...

I'm a failure because I can't keep up with my chores.
I'm a failure because I'm not the perfect wife.
I'm a failure because I can't get this depression cured.
I'm a failure because I'm always tired.
I'm a failure because I don't feel creative.
I'm a failure because my hair looks like a squid.
I'm a failure because my stomach is flabby.
I'm a failure because I can't find a bra to fit these stupid boobs.
I'm a failure because I ate gluten today.
I'm a failure because I can't get my family on a paleo diet.
I'm a failure because I feed my kids Teddy Grahams.
I'm a failure because my kids' nails are too long.
I'm a failure because my kids need haircuts.
I'm a failure because I'm an American and I think consumerism is dumb.
I'm a failure because I can't get motivated.
I'm a failure because I don't feel like playing with the kids.
I'm a failure because these stupid breakfast cookies didn't get made again.
I'm a failure because I'm too sad to appreciate any of this.

Sadly, trains of thought like this are pretty typical for me. As you might know, I've struggled with mood disorders my whole life, so I'm just used to it. I think my defeatist thoughts and plod along as best as I can. The thing is, that night when my husband was upstairs vacuuming, a novel idea popped into my head at the end of that barrage.

What if I were to stick the word "not" in all those sentences? Wouldn't that make all those hateful declarations a little more truthful?

I'm NOT a failure because my husband is doing housework.
I'm NOT a failure because I ate gluten today.
I'm NOT a failure because my kids need haircuts. 

I have to admit, these revised statements are true. Adding "not" to my black-or-white thoughts doesn't automatically make me a smashing success as a mother or as a human being, but none of the things mentioned above is bad enough to warrant labeling myself as a failure.

It's a baby step, but I took a step. I'll try to remind myself that things can be gray.

Do you feel this way, too? I want to share some resources that might help.

• Cognitive Distortions Worksheets
• The Power of Love (make sure to read the "affirmations" part)

The Three Types of Hugs

My kids have been out of state with their grandparents for the last week. I'm not going to lie--it's been bliss. I've been able to do things like read, sit quietly, nap, clean, and think: things that mothers of little ones can't usually do uninterrupted. It's been a wonderful vacation.

Since yesterday, though, I've been feeling out of sorts, even sad. Of course I miss my boys. But I also know that by tomorrow, when they've been home 24 hours, I'm already going to be counting the weeks until their next overnight jaunt with relatives.

So, what gives?

It's the hugging. And the cuddling. I need hugs to live. This is not an exaggeration. I'll even take it a step further. They can't be just any hugs--they have to be a certain type of hug. For me, at least, hugs fall into three categories:

The perfunctory (socially prompted) hug: this is your run of the mill "okay, Little Johnny, hug your Aunt Mary" or darn it, everybody else is hugging; I'd better hug or I'll look like a tool hug. There are two people with their arms encircling one another to some extent, but there is no connection on any higher plane.

The in-between hug: this hug probably includes some semblance of a squeeze or a pat and sentiments that include thoughts like I really enjoyed seeing you or you matter to me or I feel some kind of kinship with you.

Pie, the Hug-Master General

The Energy Transfer: this, my friends, is the mother of all hugs, the hug that most nurturers can identify; the kind of hug that says, I get you. I love you unconditionally. Just let go, and I will hold on to your troubles for a minute so you can have peace. This is the kind of hug I imagine God gives. God and a very, very small inner circle of people closest to you.

I learned The Energy Transfer from my mom, and in turn, am teaching it to my husband and my boys. I think The Energy Transfer is a magical thing that has to be experienced and learned (I don't know why I think that, I just do.) I remember staying overnight at my Grandma's when I was a little girl and feeling out of sorts. I knew a hug would make me feel better, so I asked Grandma if she would stand up and give me a hug like my mom would. She did...it was physically identical to a hug from my mom, but it was missing something. It was missing the energy. That's when I realized the power of The Energy Transfer, and the fact that not all hugs were the same. I, personally, need The Energy Transfer to live.

And that's why I've been out of sorts the past couple days. I've been missing the daily hugs and cuddles of two little boys who already, at the ages of six and four, are masters of The Energy Transfer. In just a few hours from now, they will both be getting the hugging of a lifetime.

Want more proof of the power of hugs? Check out these links.

• 10 Reasons We Need at Least 8 Hugs a Day
• How Hugging and Kissing Help Your Health
• 8 Health Benefits of Hugging
• 6 Surprising Stress Fixes

The Mompetition Is Us

Scroll down for this week's Sunday Parenting Party.

First of all, let me say that I did not invent the word mompetition. It popped into my head the other day during one of those moments when I was doing something totally over the top for my kids (like making an elaborate, gluten-free rolled fondant cake in the shape of an Angry Birds Star Wars pigtrooper that no one outside our family was going to see) just to prove that I am a loving mother.

The mompetition is the pressure we moms put on ourselves to measure up--but to who? The moms of the other kids in our kid's class? Our best friends? Our mothers and sisters? Mom bloggers? Our skewed ideas of what a perfect mother should be doing? Our very selves?

I was in my therapist's office the other day, railing about the fact that it never ends: the whole-class birthday parties that have to be planned and pulled off, the Halloween costumes that have to be made or tracked down, the from-scratch cake that has to be made and hand-decorated because it's a tradition--and this is all on top of the pants that still need to be taken in because your kindergartener has been wearing floods for a month, the laundry that constantly needs to be done, the three meals that no one likes that still need to be prepared every single day.

When I stopped to take a breath, my therapist asked me, "were you required to have the whole class over for a birthday party, or did you make that decision?"

All right..I get it.

Who am I really trying to prove something to? Myself.

Would the birthday boy felt just as special had I served a store-bought cake? Yes. Would he have cared if we had taken two friends to Pump It Up to celebrate instead of having a party? Probably not. Would Bug have felt less loved had I come home with a Darth Maul suit for Halloween instead of a Darth Vader one? No.

Do my kids know I love them? Yes. Do they care if I live up to my unrealistic expectations of the perfect mother? I don't think so. Am I a better, calmer mom if I'm not focusing my energy on beating myself up? Ummm...yes.

So, you know what I think? We, as moms, might want to blame our guilt-ridden misery on the other moms, the mom-blogosphere, Facebook, Pinterest, the media, society, and the like, but the truth is this:

The mompetition is me, and I can choose to drop out. Join me.

Welcome to The Sunday Parenting Party, hosted by Dirt and Boogers, Play Activities, Crayon Freckles, Taming the Goblin, The Golden Gleam, Prickly Mom, and The Tao of Poop. The SPP is place for readers to find ideas on nurturing, educating, and caring for children, as well as honest posts about the stresses of being a parent or caregiver. Links to reviews and giveaways are welcome as long as they are relevant to the topic. All parenting philosophies are welcome with one exception: please do not link to posts promoting physical discipline, as this is something we would feel uncomfortable having on our blogs. (P.S. By linking up you agree that your post and photos are Pinterest, Sulia, G+ and FB friendly. We will be showcasing ideas on The Sunday Parenting Party Pinterest board.)

Here are some of my favorite submissions from last week:

• The Secret Life of a Blogger (Dirt and Boogers). Spoiler alert: Amanda, my esteemed fellow SPP host, reveals a shocking secret...her life is not perfect! My favorite part of her confession is that she Photoshops the background messes out of her photos. High five!
• November Table Topics (Growing Book by Book). Here's a fantastic list of questions to ask at the dinner table to get everyone talking. I love playing Table Topics at adult dinner parties, and this post has a ton of open-ended questions about gratitude and being thankful that my six- and four-year-old would be able to handle (plus, I was just having a conversation with my husband about teaching the boys to be less self-centered and more cognizant of others. These questions are totally apropos).
• The Evolution of a Halloween Costume (The Sadder but Wiser Girl). Sarah is a girl after my own heart: why buy your kid a Batman costume for $35 when you can compromise your sanity and play "beat the clock" on the night of October 30th making one for ten dollars less? (BTW, Sarah, you did a great job. But, like me, are you asking yourself if it was worth it? I go through the same struggle every year.)

I Made It Through Birthday-Ween

Bug hasn't officially turned six yet...and Halloween isn't until later in the week...but the big, whole-class birthday shindig is officially in the books.

Wow. Has it really been six years?

Like this picture, it's all been a blur.

Tripe, Hernias, and Mommy Burnout

Scroll down for the Sunday Parenting Party.

Today's topic is Mommy Burnout. Let us now read a quote from my esteemed mother, Prickly Grandma (who says it happens to all of us):

"I remember when I used to have 'food slumps,' where I would fall out of my making-meals-day-after-day groove. The absolute worst time was when your sister had food poisoning and your grandma came over to watch you guys so I could take her to the hospital. The only thing I had in the freezer to make a meal was something really odd-ball, like tripe or lamb shanks. I tried to instruct your grandma over the phone on how to make that into a meal...and I was just so exasperated. Looking back, I think: couldn’t she have just ordered a pizza?

"It was probably around that time that I wished I could just go to the hospital for a few days to get some rest. As if on cue, I got a hernia.

"So I got a few days in the hospital, but it was a painful recovery (which made housework and chores that much harder).

"The moral here is: be careful what you wish for."

I love you, Mom.

Welcome to The Sunday Parenting Party, hosted by Dirt and Boogers, Play Activities, Crayon Freckles, Taming the Goblin, The Golden Gleam, Prickly Mom, and The Tao of Poop. The SPP is place for readers to find ideas on nurturing, educating, and caring for children, as well as honest posts about the stresses of being a parent or caregiver. Links to reviews and giveaways are welcome as long as they are relevant to the topic. All parenting philosophies are welcome with one exception: please do not link to posts promoting physical discipline, as this is something we would feel uncomfortable having on our blogs. (P.S. By linking up you agree that your post and photos are Pinterest, Sulia, G+ and FB friendly. We will be showcasing ideas on The Sunday Parenting Party Pinterest board.)

Here are some of my favorite submissions from last week:

• Why Do I Homeschool? (Suzy Homeschooler). I, myself, have not ruled out the option of homeschooling once Bug and Pie get a little older. If we do end up going for it, I hope to have many successful school days like the one Suzy describes at the coffee shop.
• The Year 2059 (Finding Ninee). Take note of Kristi's fine illustration of her dreams for the future, which made me laugh out loud. It's totally me, too. I've been subjecting my boys to all-Metallica, all-the-time for the past three weeks.
• Expectations vs. Reality: A Morning in the ADD Household (The Sadder but Wiser Girl). This one also made me laugh out loud. Sarah's kid dressed himself in shorts and black knee-socks. Enough said.

Explaining Depression to Your Kids

I'm in the middle of another major depressive episode -- and I'm using that term in a clinical sense as well as a literary one. I've been battling mood disorders my whole life, so this isn't anything new. What is making this particular episode different is that I'm realizing it's probably time to explain what's going on to my kids (they're four and almost-six).

I don't want to explain it to the boys ... I'd rather just try to go on as usual and do my best to put on my "happy voice" and muddle through. But I'm starting to get the feeling that they can see through my laughably-bad "normal" act. I know they know something is not right.

Sweethearts, Mommy is sick.

I need to tell them before they think it's their fault (and if they already do think it's their fault, we need to clear that up as soon as possible).

Mommy has an illness called depression. It's kind of different from other sicknesses because you can't see it from the outside. I'm going to get better, but right now, my brain isn't working properly. it's kind of like there's a door in my brain that is stuck shut and none of the "happy" can get out. That makes it easy for all the "sad" and "angry" to take over my brain and make me cry and yell more than I should. My doctors are giving me medicine that will help un-stick the brain door so the "happy" can get out, but it might take a while for the treatment to work. I'm probably going to need to rest more than usual until I feel better. I need you to understand that I love you no matter what. My sickness is making me cry, not you. I still want you to be good boys and follow the rules, but I also want you to remember that it's all the the extra "angries" in my brain that are making me get so upset. I still love you no matter what, and I'm really looking forward to getting better so I can be Regular Mommy again.

More resources:

• 6 Things Every Kid Should Know About a Parent's Depression (this is a MUST-READ)
• Depressed Parents and the Effects on Their Children
• Helping Children Understand and Cope with Parental Depression
• How Depression Affects Your Family

The Family "Vacation"

Look at that posture. I look totally dejected.

We just got home from a weekend at the beach, and I feel the need to pose the following question: is a family vacation ever really a vacation for the mother? If the answer is yes, I'm doing something terribly wrong and I need advice (see what my Facebook friends had to say).

It just seems to me that all I'm doing is taking my work on the road (that is, as soon as I've finished with the madness of packing clothes and sundries, trying to forget as few items as possible, and wishing I could measure up to Prickly Dad's idea of the right way to do things, all while attempting -- unseccesfully -- to stave off a panic attack from all the pressure). I'd venture to guess that no matter what your job is, it's going to be especially difficult and stressful to do it in an unfamiliar location and without your complete toolbox with you. Mothering is no exception.

It must get better at some point, right? Will there come a point when I can sit on the beach like I used to and listen to the ocean or read a book without the perpetual intrusion of "Mom! Look at me! Mom! Look! Mom! Mom! You're not looking! Mom! Mom! Mom!" Will I ever be able to have a meal in a restaurant without a kid insisting on crawling under the table or having to be placated with a Kindle game? Will the boys eventually grow out of their compulsion to jump on the hotel beds and, instead, act like civilized human beings?

Somebody just tell me it gets better.

I'm Afraid of Art

(Scroll down for this week's Sunday Parenting Party.)

I know I'm not alone in being a mom who heads for the hills at the very mention of doing a potentially messy or open-ended art or craft project with young children. In fact, I know I've read more than a few blog posts on the subject.

The completely embarrassing element of my mortal fear of kids plus art materials is this: I'm an artist.

I want to be creative with my kids -- I do. I even have a Pinterest board filled with the projects I'd like to do with the boys. I would love to sit in the front yard with Bug and Pie and do pastel sketches of the flowers. But I can't do it.

Just the thought of the mess and all the unknown variables sends me running for the Xanax. Bright colors all mixed together into a muffin tin full of muddy brown. Paint all over pants. Brand-new pots of Play-Doh smushed into a glob of smoky gray (but naturally not the same shade of gray of the carpet it will eventually be ground in to).

I can't even do my own artwork because I don't know what I would do when the kids started to grab at -- or even asked politely to use -- my pastels or charcoal pencils or sketchbook paper. I don't know what I'd do ... so I just don't do it. Every year my husband plants an award-winning entryway garden, and every year I want to paint pictures of it. But I can't, because I'm afraid of the potential mess.

This afternoon, my four-year-old asked if we could paint rocks. We saw some painted rocks last week while we were camping, and he's been asking almost every day if we could make our own. I would have liked to put it off indefinitely (even though I knew he really wanted to paint rocks). I recently read a great post on another mom blog about how to contain the mess when painting with littles ... I didn't have all the supplies to carry it out, but I did the best I could. Pie and I portioned the paint in a muffin tin. He helped me mix the primaries to make the secondaries. I showed him how to wash his brush before changing colors, and he paid attention. And we painted rocks out in the driveway. My five-year-old bundle of energy even ended up joining us (and I cringed as he decided to mix colors in our communal palette and proceeded to add black pinstripes to his rock, Jackson Pollock style). But it worked out. I didn't panic. I didn't necessarily like the twelve different shades of green that we ended up with, or Bug's action-packed brush handling, but we did it, and the boys were happy.

I guess I am capable of surviving a mess. If Mommy is an artist, I have to assume that at least one of my kids has talent, too, and I should be nurturing that talent. I just have to keep reminding myself of days like today when the boys and I made art and lived to tell about it.

Welcome to The Sunday Parenting Party! This week's hosts are denoted by the word {host} behind their link’s title in the list below. The SPP is place for readers to find ideas on nurturing, educating, developing and caring for children, as well as honest posts on the stresses of being a parent or caregiver. Reviews and giveaways are welcome as long as they are relevant to the topic. All parenting philosophies are welcome with one exception: please do not link posts promoting physical discipline, as this is something we would feel uncomfortable having on our blogs. (P.S. By linking up you agree that your post and photos are Pinterest, Sulia, G+ and FB friendly. We will be showcasing ideas on The Sunday Parenting Party Pinterest board.)

Some of my favorite submissions from last week's SPP:

• Kids Stuff World: Slash summer stress by staying home
• Connecting Family and Seoul: Finding your own happiness

What's Wrong with America: the Grocery Store

I'll be honest -- I'm not sure how this post fits into a mom blog, but let's call it the first installment in my "What's Wrong with America" series (hopefully there won't be too many more).

I had to make a quick trip to the supermarket last night (okay, there's the tie-in: we moms all grocery shop, right? Right). It was your run-of-the-mill milk, juice, meat, and bread run, and when I had everything on my list, I pulled my cart into the self-checkout line like I usually do.

Since this was meant to be a quick trip, I had gone to my neighborhood store (which I really dislike) -- a five-minute jaunt, as opposed to my preferred supermarket, which is about fifteen minutes from the house and involves a roundabout and about four times as many traffic lights. So you can see my rationale in my decision to stay local.

So after I had everything on my list, I hit the self-checkout, scanned my shopper card and placed my first reusable shopping bag in the bagging area. As I went to scan my scandalously-priced gallon of milk (which had been marked "New Low Price!" back on the shelf), the scanner voice announced, "unexpected item in bagging area." This scanner glitch was not unexpected, as this happens with every freakin' bag you place on the thing.

Now usually, whether I place my items in the bag or not after scanning, the machine insists that I didn't place them in the bag. Then the real-life attendant has to come and tell me I'm scanning and bagging too fast (I'm sorry. I grew up in the Northeast). Then the scanner gets hung up when I've scanned some arbitrary "too many" items. Then I have to get carded for buying cough syrup or something equally ridiculous. Then they need ID if I'm using a credit card after spending a certain amount of money.

We've all used many different self-checkout systems, and they're all annoying in their own ways, but this particular chain's choice in  equipment/software is the absolute worst (and yes, Acme, I'm talking about you).

So, last night, the whole scanner unit froze up right after I set down my first shopping bag, and I decided that I didn't feel like getting aggravated just then, so I voided the order and pulled my cart over to a traditional cashier line.

I said "hi" to the cashier. Cricket sounds. I politely handed her my bags. More cricket sounds as she tossed them toward the bagging area as if she were thinking, "bag your own damn groceries" (which I proceeded to do).

Okay, people. I realize no one in America aspires to a career as a supermarket checkout person. We all get it. But as I see it, having a miserable attitude about it has to make the job worse than it really is, doesn't it? I have two points to make on the subject. First: I know the job market is bad, but I have to believe there are jobs out there for people who don't want to deal with the public (file clerk? Cleaning? Data entry? I hate dealing with the public, and I could always find appropriate work through a temp service). Second: one of my cousins started out her career working in the supermarket deli when she was a teenager, and now, twenty-something years later, is some sort of union negotiator for the same company. She had a good attitude and turned a crummy job into a respectable career.

But back to my neighborhood grocery store and the checkout staff. I often wonder if the regular cashiers envy the ones who get to stand in the self-checkout area and address all the problems the customers have with their sh**ty system. Is that position a step up? I hope so, because even though I hate going to this particular store, I actually like the employees they have working that position. The best part of my shopping trip is chatting with either the big guy with the long braids, the balding older man with the beard and glasses, and even the lady who laughed out loud at my horrible driver's license photo the other day (her sincerity made me laugh and thus put me in a better mood). These people are pleasant and friendly (what a concept). Maybe the young, crabby cashiers are so busy being surly and resentful that they don't put two and two together: positive attitude leads to positive results.

Is this rant going to help anyone? I doubt it, but you never know, right? Kids, get your acts together and make the best of what you have. Local grocery store, keep rewarding those employees manning the self-checkout. And for the love of God, get a better scanning system before I have a stroke.

That's It ... No More Carnivals

It's times like this that make me think of a classic episode of The Simpsons, in which Homer, upon the family's return from their latest disastrous outing, states something along the lines of, "I think we should all agree to disband as a family."

Totally.

Of course, I'm not serious. I love Prickly Dad. I love Bug and Pie. I love this little family we have built. But I have to be blunt about one thing: I can't do carnivals. I, the mom, have a meltdown. Then one or both kids have a meltdown. Then Prickly Dad gets angry. This is the way it goes pretty much every time.

Why does this happen to me? There are too many variables and too many snap decisions that have to be made. Where is the ticket booth? How long is the line? How much are the tickets? How many tickets am I going to need? Do I buy a whole sheet now and risk having a bunch of leftovers, or do we buy a few now and a few later? Why is my 40" tall kid not allowed to go on the swing ride at this carnival when he was allowed to go on the same, exact ride at the other carnival, and how am I supposed to explain it to him? Why does this ride cost two tickets and this other ride cost three tickets? Why are none of the entrances to the rides clearly marked? Where do you line up? Where is the food truck that has plain hot dogs for the kids? How do I tell the boys they can't keep playing the carnival games because they're fixed and overpriced, and we could just as easily stop at the dollar store to get a cheap stuffed duck? Why don't they put lids on the lemonade (isn't this chaotic cluster-eff supposed to be for kids? Kids need lids)? And where the hell are the porta-potties?

On top of all this chaos, my boys, as is to be expected, want to do everything now, now, now ... and I can't respond to them properly because I'm having a meltdown myself.

I'm a "Highly Sensitive Person" (someone who, these days, might be diagnosed with a sensory processing issue). I don't do loud well. I don't do chaos well. I don't do over-stimulation well. I have a hard time making decisions under normal circumstances, let alone amidst the sensory bedlam of a carnival.

Prickly Dad tried to placate me last month at the State Fair with a deep-fried Reese's Peanut Butter Cup on a stick (I have to admit, it was heavenly), and I tried my best to stay calm. (Sidebar: I have to give a major shout-out to Wade Shows, the outfit that ran the carnival at this summer's fair -- they replaced the ticket system with swipe-cards and had excellent signage throughout the midway that clearly showed prices and entrance and exit points for each ride. They obviously understand frazzled parents.)

I wish I liked going to carnivals, but I just don't -- and we're going to have to figure out a way to be okay with that. Prickly Dad can take the kids on his own if he really wants to go. Or if he absolutely needs me to go, I can take a time-out and sit under a tree until I calm down if I need to (I had to do this recently with Bug -- he's been mentioning lately that he doesn't care for carnivals either). Everybody can't like everything, right?

That way, we don't have to disband as a family. Yet.

Some helpful links:
Characteristics of Highly Sensitive People
10 Tips for Highly Sensitive People
Planning a Disney Trip with Sensory Processing Precautions
SPD Kids and Amusement Parks

And now to the Sunday Parenting Party!

Last week was my debut as a co-hostess of one of my favorite blog linkups, and I was happy to discover another great mom blogger, Hannah, from Paint on the Ceiling, who submitted a post called "9 Things I've Changed My Mind About." Chelsea, from Moments a Day (who I discovered through Pinterest a few weeks ago), submitted "10 Life Lessons for Kids," which is also applicable to grown-ups. Thanks for posting, ladies!

An InLinkz Link-up

If Only We'd Had the Internet...

Al Gore's dilly-dallying had a major effect on my childhood.

Wait a minute...what? Dilly-dallying? Al Gore? Has Prickly Mom finally gone completely cuckoo-bananas?

Let's think about it. In this day and age, the Internet is a major player in any mother's life. We turn to it when our littles have anything from a tummy-ache to a string of temper tantrums. Now, I'm not knocking the library or the brick-and-mortar bookstore (which I still visit regularly), but let's face it: the Internet is always there the instant you need it. It's become an integral part of our lives.

As a little girl growing up in the 1970s and '80s, I had stomach aches all the time. I cried when I had to go to school. I remember being 12 or 13 years old and checking and re-checking to make sure there were no people hiding in my closet or under my bed, even though I was in my bedroom alone with my door locked. For a while there, I was convinced my teeth were falling out. And I continued to play sick or be sick so I could stay home from school. I was still throwing fits at age 14.

Looking back, I'm sure my mom knew there was something wrong with me. She took me to the pediatrician a lot for my stomach aches and filled scores of useless antibiotic prescriptions (our small town had one of those doctors who gave out an amoxicillin script at every visit, regardless of what your problem was). As I entered my pre-teen years, my mom started taking me to a string of social workers who tried talk therapy, and even took me into the city once to visit what I'm assuming was some kind of neurological clinic. Unfortunately, during that time period, none of those doctors was insightful enough to put two and two together: probably because childhood mental illness wasn't even on anyone's radar (think about it--if adolescent depression had been an issue back then, wouldn't there have been a Judy Blume novel about it? There wasn't. Touche).

I know now that I grew up with clinical depression and anxiety (with an obvious peppering of OCD in there with the teeth-falling-out thing).

Dang that Al Gore...if he had just started inventing the Internet 10 years earlier, the medical community could have been sharing information more readily and worried '70s moms like mine could have had access to more research and anecdotal evidence--as well as access to other moms around the globe with the same concerns about their kids. My mom would have logged on to AskJeeves or Dogpile and found that a child's complaints of feeling sick, refusing to go to school, clinginess, sulking, and crabbiness can all be signs of childhood depression (according to this NIMH fact sheet).

Thankfully, things started to come together for us in 1992 when my mom, after probably her millionth semi-futile phone call to the hundredth health-care agency, was put in touch with a psychiatrist who diagnosed my depression and put me on my first anti-depressant. Yes, I was a legal adult by then, and took charge of much of my own mental health adventure from that point on, but it was my mom who finally got me on the right track after wandering down dead ends for decades in search of help.

So later today, when you're Googling "stomachache tantrums behavior" for the zillionth time, say a little thank you to our fore-mothers who had to drive to the library and make phone call after phone call (on a rotary, curly-corded phone) for years on end to figure out how to help their kids. And say a little prayer of gratitude that now we have the Internet to help us.

Tantrums: Am I Part of the Problem?

(Editor's note [the editor being, well, me]: for some reason, the working title of this post--which has taken me over two weeks to write--was "Raising Little Jerks." I can't remember why. I thought y'all would find that interesting.)

I know I've been MIA for a while. To be completely honest (like I'm ever not completely honest), I've been trying to wrap my head around something that is very troubling to me as a mother.

Most of my recent posts have been about the issues surrounding my little Pie (who just turned four) and his meltdowns. He, like me, has an intense and gregarious personality. And he, also like me, doesn't know how to rein it in much of the time. So he's still having tantrums--not only at home, but at school.

After a big internal struggle, I finally decided to take the advice of Pie's school counselor and an administrator, and consulted a child psychologist. When the school staff first broached the topic, I admit my first thoughts were that they wanted me to get a label slapped on my little guy ASAP so he could be held back, medicated, kicked out of school...or who knows what else. I had been thinking he may have a sensory processing issue or, again like me, be a Highly Sensitive Person. I thought I might be able to solve Pie's problems myself with positive parenting concepts or a "Caught Ya Being Good" jar.

As a mother, my number one priority is to never, ever, ever allow my children to feel misunderstood (untreated anxiety and clinical depression totally effed up my childhood). Now, I'm all about acknowledging every utterance that passes their lips, validating every feeling they have, struggling to understand, examine, and rectify any internal battle they may be fighting. My boys will not have their childhoods marred by an undiagnosed or misunderstood cognitive or brain chemistry issue. Period. End of story.

I had been researching attachment parenting/positive discipline and reading Peaceful Parent, Happy Kids: How to Stop Yelling and Start Connecting. I was really digging the "time in" concept and teaching coping skills rather than sending my preschoolers into exile and expecting them to figure out how to deal with their emotions by themselves. I wanted to make sure they knew that I understood what they were going through.

So sometimes when Pie would have a meltdown over not getting his way, Prickly Dad would scoop him up, march him upstairs, deposit him in his room, and shut the door. On some level I was all for this, but I could only hack about 20 minutes of screaming before I would want to swoop in and comfort him and try to validate his feelings. A lot of times I'd go into his room and hold him tightly and whisper soothing words until he calmed down. Sometimes we'd end up playing or reading a story.

I described my "method" to the psychologist (along with the reason I was so compelled to make sure the boys knew I understood their feelings). Long story short...she wondered if I was unintentionally rewarding Pie's behavior. She suggested I consider leaving him in his room and letting him ride it out (coincidentally, Pie's teacher had suggested a similar strategy and recommended I read Love and Logic Magic for Early Childhood).

I'm not going to say I was devastated, but my core was was pretty shaken for the next several days. Could it be that my insistence on validating my boys' feelings was turning them into little monsters? Was I a failure as a mother? (The answer to that question is obviously no, as my own therapist helped me figure out a few days later. I'm big into catastrophizing, all-or-nothing thinking, and sundry other cognitive distortions).

Unfortunately, I don't have an ending, happy or otherwise, for this story right now. I finished reading the Love and Logic book, plan on reading another one, and realize in my heart that no matter what I do, my boys know that they are loved, valued, and respected. That's the best spin I can put on it while I figure out what to do about Pie's tantrums.

Featured in The Sunday Parenting Party

Attachment Parenting for Introverts

I've been thinking a lot lately about Attachment Parenting. I certainly didn't follow it when either of my kids were infants (when I look back, I probably tried way too hard at times to invent Detachment Parenting), and I honestly don't think I'd do it if I were able to relive the boys' baby days. I'm an introvert and I need my daily solitude.

Plus, my kids are so clingy that sometimes I think they're practicing "Attachment Child-ing."

Me and Pie.

Looking back, I see now that because of my constant stress and lack of self-care during the past five years, my boys probably don't have as full a sense of safety and security as I would have liked. I let them both "cry it out" before age one. I've sent them to their rooms for being naughty when I see now that they were most likely acting out because they needed me to help them feel safe and secure. I've angrily sent Bug back to his own bed plenty of times in the middle of the night because I was totally against co-sleeping (even though co-sleeping has been going on since the beginning of time).

So, during a recent Google search, I came across this article: Why Introverts Fail at Attachment Parenting, and this tidbit that jumped out at me--"Introverts require periodic alone-time in order to function properly, so constant connection to their children is simply not reasonable."

It's true: there usually comes a point at the end of the day (sometimes I can stretch it out to a day and a half) when I just can't handle being talked to or touched any more until I can have some "alone time" to recharge my battery. Denying myself my needed quiet and solitude usually results in a crazy woman who flips out on everyone and everything in her path. That's most likely what would have precluded me from practicing Attachment Parenting.

But, do I agree that introverts simply can't be "attached" parents? I'm not sure. I do think that it would take an amazing amount of discipline on the introverted mom's part to clearly separate time with the child and alone time (that would mean no more trying to fit in ten minutes of zone-out time for myself on the computer while the kids are playing next to me. Zone-out time would have to be completely separate from present-with-the-kids time).

In my own case, whether or not I could have done Attachment Parenting during the early years is sort of a moot point. However, I'm coming to the realization that if I could try to integrate elements of Attachment Parenting into my "style" (most notably, positive discipline strategies and determining the true needs behind behavior issues) and make sure to address my alone-time requirement, my kids might become less clingy and attention-seeking (I'm thinking I probably "created the monster" by trying too hard to isolate myself while I should have been fully present with them). It's taken me five years to figure out what the "balance" is supposed to consist of, but I don't think it's too late to fill in the empty spaces in my boys' senses of safety and security. Hopefully there's still time.

Here's some more to read...

• 6 Survival Strategies for the Introverted Mom
• How to Be a Happy Introvert Mom
• 10 Survival Tips for Introverted Parents
• Tips for Introverted Parents Raising Extroverted Kids
• Mothering as an Introvert

 This post has been featured on Taming the Goblin

My Life in Tabs

Is it just me, or do other people keep track of what they need to do by opening up a new browser tab?

It's kind of like a snapshot of my brain...a window into my soul...the story of my life at the moment. But after a while, there are too many tabs to fit on one screen, and some of them have to be closed. So what do I do? Write a blog post, of course (come on...'tis the season for the "roundup," right?).

Here's what's on my plate during Christmastime, 2012...

Natural Stress Relief: I really want to learn Transcendental Meditation, but it's just way too expensive (over $1,000). This alternative method claims to teach a similar technique for $25. I have to get my stress and anxiety under control.

Pinterest | Search Results for "Self Regulation": I recently discovered what is termed "self-regulation" in the autism community--the ability to conduct yourself appropriately in a given situation despite an overflow of emotions. I, myself, never learned how to effectively self-regulate. Now my son is struggling with impulse control and I need some ideas (for both of us).

Sears Home Services: Our ice maker has been dead for a month.

Victoria's Secret Kiss Tees: I have boobs that are way too big for my body (I'm 5'2" and 125 lbs. and take a DD). Who deals with giant hooters better than Victoria's Secret? Their T-shirts are cut in such a way that flatters my figure without making me look like a freak (or a "ho"...or pregnant).

Seasons Pizza: I guess I can close this tab. (BTW, if you're gluten-free and you're ever in Delaware or Maryland, their GF crust is fantastic. Just sayin'.)

Money Saving Mom | How to Develop a Routine that Works--and Stick to It: I'm currently working on her plan. She's all about starting small and building on your successes.

Pendle Hill Retreat: A mom friend of mine recently attended a weekend workshop here and I want to do one, too. I need some restoring...badly. For those of you across the Atlantic, I've discovered through Google that there's also a Pendle Hill in England...that's haunted. I'd like to hit that up sometime, too!

And last but not least, everybody's favorite site, Amazon.com. What are they suggesting for me today? Meditation books for kids...a balance board...a butter lamb mold...Walking Dead comic books...oh dear...I think they've figured out how to mind-meld with me. I'm going to go downstairs now and make myself a tin-foil hat. Happy holidays!

On Being the Grown-Up

I've been with my current therapist a pretty long time. I don't know the exact length off the top of my head (and I'm not going all the way down to the kitchen to get my therapy notebook out of my purse to check), but it's probably been close to two years.

And we're just now, finally, starting to get somewhere.

I've learned a lot from this therapist, which is why I've stuck it out this long. We've come to dumb, everyday realizations like always offer your husband a sauce with his dinner if he likes sauce so much…even with dishes that aren't supposed to have sauce and it's not realistic to expect a two-year-old to sit quietly on a train, so it's better for your stress level to adjust your expectations. And we've come to core-shaking realizations, like this one:

I don't want to be the grown-up. I want my preschoolers to be more sensitive to my needs. 

But recognizing and admitting these feelings is supposedly a big step.

You see, said my therapist, a parent will usually reflect on his or her childhood and think, "I had grown-ups around me who met my needs. I felt safe and validated. Now it's my job to recreate that environment for my children so they can grow up to be well-adjusted adults."

In contrast, when one of my boys asks me for a cup of milk, I immediately twist it all up and think, "you want me to get you something again? Do you know how tired I am? Do you know how upsetting your noisiness is to me? Look at everything I do for you. Can't you let me just sit down for one minute? Why doesn't anyone ever care about my feelings?"

My therapist told me to step back and examine the actual situation: yes, a three- and five-year-old have a lot of demands, but they are little dependent creatures, not mini-adults. They look to their Mommy to help them and provide for them. Counting on you to help them survive is the only way they know.

Then it hit me: my goal here as a mother is to raise well-adjusted human beings. With that in mind, it would totally behoove me to be there to meet their needs without copping an attitude: to provide milk, food, hugs, a feeling of security and a sense of importance. So they can grow up and look back on their childhoods and remember an environment in which they felt safe and nurtured and validated. Plus, this new attitude might actually be reflected back at me at some point, which would address a host of other problems.

Wow…I have some really heavy stuff to think about. But I'm starting to think I might be ready to be a grown-up now.

Why Do I Write this Blog?

I hope I'm not the only blogger who has had this thought. I've considered wiping the whole thing out several times after feeling a mixture of personal defeat and narcissism ("our society is getting too voyeuristic, and you're just adding to the problem. Get over yourself!" and/or "how could a basket case like you help anybody?").

I've struggled with chronic mood disorders my entire life (moderate-to-severe depression and anxiety). Being a stay-at-home-mom with two preschool-aged boys has been the biggest challenge I've ever faced (and the mental-health issues coupled with my introversion and injected with an intense personality don't make things any easier).

I'm determined to use my talents as a writer (and artist when I can get motivated) to help the world at large move past the stigma of mood disorders. I mean...our ailments aren't any less legitimate than a physical one...and most of us are productive members of society, right? I write this blog for any mom out there who feels like she's the only one struggling with psychiatric issues and little ones at the same time. To that mom I say: I know how hard it is…and to prove it, let me share my own struggles and triumphs. Hopefully something I say will make your day a little better or give you a little glimmer of hope.

All right then, girls…let's get our Mom hats on and do this thing!

Life Is Full of Surprises...

My kids actually ate these.

...like this one: the boys devoured these repulsive-looking pancakes. I wanted to sneak some blueberry puree into the batter, because I'm worried about their fruit/veggie intake again--but I didn't expect the actual pancakes to turn out, well, blue.

I was going to ditch the entire bowl of pancake batter and start over because I assumed the kids weren't going to touch them. Well, you know what they say about assuming things...

Bug walked up to me at the stove, looked at these nutritious freaks of nature, asked "why are they blue?" grabbed one, and started chowing down. My little picky eaters liked that they were blue!

I guess I should try to stop making such an ass out of u and me (mostly me).

I Don't Even Have a "Plan A"

It's raining today, the boys aren't cooperating, Pie's month-long tantrum continues, Bug is screaming because he got play dough in his eye. And I'm exhausted. Yes, Pie (aka "The Little Dictator") had me up and down all night, but it's not even that: I'm exhausted on every plane: physically, mentally, spiritually...and any other planes that might exist.

Today's last straw was when I finally found a minute to sit down on the couch. Pie found me immediately and demanded another scrambled egg right now. I started to explain to (read: plead with) him that I needed a minute to sit down; he could eat anything else on his plate while he was waiting...blah, blah, blah. Then it hit me: he doesn't care. He. Wants. His. Egg. All I am to him at the moment is a scrambled-egg dispenser, not a separate individual with her own needs and feelings.

While the second egg was in the microwave, I made notes on the back of an envelope: try to find out how to deal with feelings of being overwhelmed, feelings that it's me against them, and the realization that I'm responsible for what kind of tone I'm setting for myself (and in turn, the kids)--there's no one here to help me.

One of my go-to bloggers, Meagan Francis of The Happiest Mom, sums up my current state of mind almost exactly:

In my post a couple of weeks ago about obstacles to happiness as a mom, I listed “being overwhelmed” as one of my top 5. While commenters chimed in with a whole list of other obstacles–things like lack of time for oneself, loss of control, and unrealistic expectations–I reflected about how all of those things can, for me, lead to feeling overwhelmed. So maybe being overwhelmed isn’t so much a single obstacle as it is the end result of many of the things that are part and parcel of a mom’s life: noise, mess, chaos, ever-changing routines, an incredible sense of responsibility, never enough time in the day…etc.

Francis suggests identifying your triggers and getting a plan (at least that was my personal take-away). So now I'm revisiting a concept I've put off again and again for over four years now: getting the boys and myself on a schedule. Another blogger I read today (Mommy Ponders) wrote a post about getting on a schedule and planning an activity (which flopped that day)--and not having a "Plan B." Then something else hit me: I don't even have a freakin' "Plan A!" Could that be the heart of my problem?

I seriously don't think I can conquer these feelings of utter exhaustion unless I do something, and maybe putting a plan or a schedule in place is what that "something" is. That, and coming to terms with my principal role as scrambled-egg provider. Bawk.

(Post-script, September 2012: I hashed these thoughts out with my therapist soon after writing this post, and discovered that things weren't as bleak as they appeared. I will write a more in-depth update on this soon. Eggs to you!)

Getting Advice from the Airlines

Print this and post it on the fridge.

Have you ever listened to the safety spiel they give on an airplane as you're waiting on the runway to take off? No, I don't mean taking in every ninth word an you consider whether you should really order the Miracle Tank Top Bra for $75 from the copy of SkyMall you pulled out of your seat-back. I mean really listen (well, at least to one very important statement).

"Make sure to secure your own oxygen mask before assisting others."

Okay, if you're anything like me (high-strung,  a "Highly Sensitive Person," chronically anxious or depressed, etc., etc.), you know about this piece of advice. However, when my mom pointed it out to me a few years ago, it actually sunk in for some reason. I'm not saying I follow this principle like I should, but at least I know I should.