parenting | Jennifer S. White

It’s Been a Long Day (but Too Short Before Goodnight).

Jennifer — Sun, 19 Mar 2017 19:04:49 +0000

It’s been a long day.

Can you see me?

I know your shoes and coat are wet from the rain; I can see you’re trying not to make tracks on the kitchen floor.

It’s been a long day.

Was it a good one?

You’ve been so busy, and I’ve felt jealous of your work; even if it’s not another person; even if it’s not your first choice.

It’s been a long day.

I’m tired.

I didn’t mean to barely say “Hello” as you came in. I meant to hug you hard and kiss you gently.

It’s been a long day.

Can you hear me?

Can you hear my heart pound because it needs yours pressed to it, in between the child’s cries and my rattling off what we need to do for dinner?

It’s been a long day.

I want to hear about it.

I want to listen as you explain to me what you’ve worked on, what frustrated you, or what kept you away from eating the lunch you put back into the fridge.

It’s been a long day.

I want to talk to you.

I want to say more than “She needs this for school tomorrow” or “I have an appointment this week.”

It’s been a long day.

Can we dance together?

Can we shift our bodies towards each other, instead of shuffling out of one another’s way as we cook and pack lunches?

It’s been a long day.

Can I touch you?

Can I nibble your ear a little too aggressively—where the kids won’t see—and then I’ll drift back to grabbing a cutting board, like you don’t want to move into the bedroom?

It’s been a long day.

Please look at me.

Please see who I still am, beneath these layers of responsibilities and roles that I’ve cloaked myself in—that cushion me from you.

It’s been a long day.

I hope it’s not over?

After our kids go to bed, and our own eyes are heavy, will you stay up with me?

It’s been a long day, my love.

(But too short before our “Goodnight.”)

The post It’s Been a Long Day (but Too Short Before Goodnight). first appeared on Jennifer S. White.

I Wouldn’t Want To Be Here With Anyone Else but You

Jennifer — Sat, 18 Mar 2017 13:27:16 +0000

I tell you I love you, but it’s as if you don’t believe me.

Maybe it’s because I woke you up this morning, barking a list of things we needed to do immediately so our daughter wouldn’t be late for school. Maybe it’s because sometimes I pull away too quickly when you try to hug me. Maybe it’s because saying “I love you” isn’t good enough.

Lately, it has to be.

Our time together is unbelievably limited; OK, believably limited for other parents of small kids with these “busy” lives we all seem to lead.

Our time together is Netflix; and quickies; and sipping wine when we’re exhausted, but the kids are finally in bed. Our time together is weekends that go too quickly and whiny grocery store trips. Our time together is less and less about “us” and increasingly more about everything else.

Our “us” is the most important thing to me.

Our “us” is different than it once was, and not always “good different,” I know; but our relationship is the most valuable aspect of my life.

Our “us” is why we have these small children—we wanted to raise a family together; we wanted to bring more love into our already full-of-love closeness. We did. These two new, tiny people did bring so much more love into our daily lives; yet there’s also significantly more responsibility, and there are more roles we now have to play.

We play not only wife and husband, scientist and writer, cyclist and yoga instructor; we play, too, these all-consuming roles of Mom and Dad, and we love it. And I wouldn’t want to be here—experiencing these parts and pieces of our lives—with anyone else but you.

I want more of you.

I, too, want more sex—I want more making love. I want more date nights, and late nights, and groggy morning-breath moments in bed before we have to get up. (I want more time with you in a bed without children.)

To be fair, I miss me also. I don’t get enough time alone, much less enough time together. But I love this life we’ve created; and our family, and everything we’ve evolved into and effortfully—lovingly—built.

Still, I don’t want our “together” to feel so far apart.

I tell you “I love you” and I know it isn’t good enough. Words are special, especially to a writer, but they can never be enough all by themselves. Instead, we need time off work and people to watch our kids, and, essentially, luxuries we don’t often have.

You always have me.

You have always had me.

You will always have me.

“I love you” doesn’t give to you what I wish it did. But I say it anyway, so that in between the childcare to-dos—the laundry lists of…laundry; the pick-ups and drop-offs; and appointments; and bedtimes; and coffees; and goodnight kisses—you know I’m still here.

Seeing you.

Wanting you.

Needing you.

Offering everything I am and have to you.

And loving you as best as I’m able to right now; right here; where we are—together.

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Being Your Mother Is the Hardest, Best Thing I’ll Ever Do.

Jennifer — Fri, 03 Feb 2017 14:09:27 +0000

I remember the day I had you like it was yesterday. But it wasn’t. It was two years ago.

I remember the second night with you in the hospital. Your dad had gone home to help your older sister get to sleep. He’d stayed as late as he could. My mom came in his place and slept on the hard, fake leather sofa in our room. She slept, but I didn’t. You didn’t. (You were a newborn baby after all—who would expect you to?)

I laid there on the uncomfortable bed, slightly tilted into a half reclined-half sitting up position, wondering if I’d made a mistake.

Could I handle more years of sleepless infant nights?

Could I handle two small children by myself when your dad went back to work?

Could I be a good enough mother?

The answer to all of these questions was, “No.”

The truth was it would be hard. The reality is I called your dad at work several times a day crying. The brutal fact is I’m so flawed, as a person and as a mom.

But I didn’t make a mistake.

And now you’re two, and I already know why they say things like, “It won’t last forever,” or, “Don’t be the first to let go when your child hugs you.” I understand, too, that I’m not a good enough mother, but I’m what you’ve got.

I’m not in awe of you enough. I’m not always happy just sitting together and reading books. Sometimes I want to read on my phone instead. Sometimes I do.

But these days with tiny-you—even our hardest ones—are always my best.

Still, it hits me every night as bedtime approaches. Waves of our day’s moments when I could have been more present—when I should have reacted differently; when I needed to stop my own thoughts and be more available within yours—crash into me and it hurts. It hurts because I’m not sorry.

I’m not sorry for sometimes wishing bedtime would come sooner. I’m not sorry for wanting desperately to just sit on the couch, alone. But what hurts is knowing each of these moments quickly add up, as I see your tiny face grow into more of a little girl and so much less of a toddler.

What hurts is witnessing how each day you need me less and less, and each day I have to let go a little bit more.

What hurts is knowing these minutes of you clinging to me, and needing me, for nearly everything are becoming fewer and fewer, until one day, you’ll be left to choose how much of your time is spent with me.

What hurts is wondering if you’ll feel how infinitely I love you despite my marred humanness.

I remember the day I had you like it was yesterday. But it wasn’t. It was two years ago. Before I know it, it will be twenty.

Before I know it, I won’t remember it as clearly.

Before I know it, I’ll be an older, wiser mother annoying new mothers with “how fast it goes.”

Before I know it, my memories of your babyhood will be what I hold closely instead of your tiny hand.

Being your mother is the hardest, best thing I’ve ever done. Being your mother is the hardest, best thing I’ll ever do.

I laid there on the uncomfortable bed, slightly tilted into a half reclined-half sitting up position, wondering if I’d made a mistake.

I didn’t. You remind me of this every day.

Every time your shining blue eyes twinkle at mine in a giggle, or your angry brow furrows in my direction, I see who I’ve made, and I know of the many, many mistakes I have and will make, their best correction will always be you.

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People Mean Well When They Say the ‘Baby Phase’ Goes Fast, But…

Jennifer — Sat, 03 Dec 2016 14:17:53 +0000

I know people mean well when they say the “baby phase” goes quickly.

I know they mean to both remind parents with little kids to seek out daily joy and also to provide comfort by pointing out that these particular hardships won’t last.

But …

These difficulties will turn into new ones. Kids, and people, will always face adversity in life, just like there’s always something special and wondrous present in each day.

But when we’re inside of this space with little kids — having to choose between spending time with our spouse and getting enough sleep; fighting little people to put on pants; showing them how to go to the bathroom in the potty while simultaneously never getting to use the bathroom alone ourselves ― it’s easy to offer tidy, pretty statements like “enjoy it” without genuinely offering worthwhile help or guidance.

Life isn’t always neat and tidy. Usually it’s not. Parenthood, of all life’s experiences, easily offers the most daunting responsibility, sheer happiness, and challenge.

Of course we know it “won’t last forever.” We know, too, our kids will grow and we’ll miss these days when they were so fully dependent on us. For me, this awareness amplifies these feelings of frustration and stress rather than alleviating them.

Right now I’m trying to get my toddler out of the house for an errand, and my 2-year-old won’t put on pants.

She. Will. Not. Put. On. Pants.

I’m close to giving up and letting her run pants-less around the house instead.

And it’s funny, isn’t it? This image of a grown-ass woman struggling to get clothes on a child? You have to laugh. I have to laugh. But still, the word “struggling” best describes how I feel in this moment.

I inhale deeply, and walk away from my toddler sitting on the living room carpet in only a diaper. I walk away. I remind myself she’s asserting her independence, and how I react to this assertion sets up not only the theme of our parent-child relationship, but how she learns to have disagreements with the world around her.

I’m not a good example most of the time ― that’s how it feels.

It feels like I yell, and I never wanted to be the parent that yells, yet here I am doing exactly this sometimes. It feels like I don’t have patience. It feels like I’m not doing a good enough job as a mom.

But I know I am. And I have to keep looking for where I shine as often and as freely as I look for where I need to improve.

I know that people mean well when they say things like “The baby phase doesn’t last forever” or “It goes so fast.” Perhaps the better words to share, though, are simply: “You’re doing a great job.”

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It’s Just 15 Minutes to a Grown-Up, but Not to Kids.

Jennifer — Sat, 26 Nov 2016 15:51:02 +0000

She sits in my lap and we read this same book three times in a row. Each time we finish it, she says, “Again.”

My throat feels dry. My head aches dully. I want a sip of water. I read the book again; we get to the end, and her little voice says, “Again.”

I put the book down and she cries. Her cry gets louder, and my headache becomes momentarily sharper. I tell her Mommy needs something to drink.

The truth is that even though this day is coming to a close, I haven’t fully woken up. The truth is that this book isn’t really that cute. The truth is I know she wants to read, but I have a billion other grown-up things I feel like I should do.

After drinking some water, I decide to return to the couch, where she still sits holding her book and whimpering. She climbs back into my lap.

Her big sister, home from school, leaves the TV show she was watching, and curls up next to me. I cover her feet and legs with a blanket, too, and squeeze a girl’s hand in each of mine. We read the same story together again, and then they temporarily leave my side to get more books.

We sit intertwined like this—reading, and holding hands, and snuggling—for about 15 minutes.

Dinner still needs to be made.

The kitchen is filled with both clean dishes that need to be put away and dirty ones that need washing.

I still have to make my oldest’s lunch for school tomorrow.

Both of my kids should probably have a bath.

For 15 minutes, I ignore all of this and instead bury myself inside of the softest part of being a mother—that special place where there’s only me with my children, holding hands and being together.

The dishes can wait 15 minutes.

Starting dinner can wait for 15 minutes.

Packing a school lunch can be done in 15 minutes.

Everything can be put on hold for this tiny span within my life, but if I get up and walk away to do these chores weighing on my grown-up mind, and come back only a minute later to say, “Ah, never mind kids, let’s read a bit,” more often than not they’ve found another little kid interest and have moved on.

And I’m left standing in the doorway alone, wishing I’d sat down for just 15 minutes.

The post It’s Just 15 Minutes to a Grown-Up, but Not to Kids. first appeared on Jennifer S. White.

35 Life Lessons From a Toddler.

Jennifer — Sat, 29 Oct 2016 14:54:39 +0000

Recently my toddler turned 2 years old. Like many parents, I feel I’ve learned more from watching my kids grow up than they’ve learned from me.

Here are 35 pieces of wisdom I learned from my toddler, all in one day:

1. Crying really does work better than screaming. But scream first anyways.

2. Fruit snacks are the best choice at any time of day.

3. When you’re overheated, just take off your clothes. (It doesn’t matter where you are. See above picture, not taken at home.)

4. Seat belts are uncomfortably tight, but we have to wear them anyways. Regardless, make sure you yell in the car about your seat belt being too tight.

5. Car rides are too bumpy. Make sure Mom knows.

6. It’s impossible to walk by a grate in a parking lot and not jump on it.

7. Always choose the one with sequins.

8. Forgiving and making up after a fight doesn’t have to be hard. Just kiss and snuggle and say, “I’m sorry.”

9. It’s important to communicate our needs. When we can’t, the next best thing is to toss yourself on the floor and cry.

10. Mommy is a fruit snacks dispenser. Or at least she should be.

11. A big sister is the best. Except for when I want to play with every single one of her favorite toys and she actually wants one for herself.

12. I don’t have to kiss or hug anyone I don’t want to.

13. Candy from strangers is only OK on Halloween, even though that’s still kind of confusing.

14. Adding 750 different grains to a bread makes it both healthier and more disgusting.

15. Tissues are actually for fingertips.

16. The best place to sneeze is on Mom’s face.

17. As for throwing up: always choose the softest place to puke. Examples in order of preference, from least acceptable to most: bowl, carpet, Mom’s hands.

18. Experiment with which feet you like your shoes on. Stay strong in your choice no matter what.

19. Take the road less traveled. Like, the one with the most mud, or the wet grass even if there’s a sidewalk nearby.

20. Tutus go with everything. Everything. Everything.

21. Dad’s the sucker. Go to him first, and then again after Mom says “no.”

22. Don’t let a single day go by without the people you love most knowing it. Or without screaming at them for no real reason either.

23. Encourage Mom to shop at stores that give you stickers.

24. Every day is a new start—and a new opportunity to ask for fruit snacks for breakfast.

25. The secret to making sure Mom stays off her phone and plays with you is to consistently cry loudly whenever she makes a phone call.

26. When your parents kiss, they like it if you stand right between their legs.

27. Restaurants are so much fun. I don’t know why Mom and Dad don’t take me out to eat more.

28. For some reason, Mom always needs company when she goes to the bathroom.

29. The best things in life are free—hugs, spending time with my family, going outside. So I don’t know why Daddy has to leave and go to work every day.

30. Fix everything with tape. Lots of it. Like, lots. (And when Mom says the tape is broken, ask her for tape.)

31. Trying new things is fun. Unless the “new thing” is a vegetable.

32. Don’t ask Mom where hot dogs really come from.

33. Making people laugh is awesome. If someone does think you’re funny, do whatever made them laugh 10 more times.

34. Poop goes in the potty. And in the bathtub.

35. My family is the best. I love them so much. They love me so much. They make every day worth getting up for. At 6 in the morning, even on weekends.

The post 35 Life Lessons From a Toddler. first appeared on Jennifer S. White.

Why All of This “Mom Guilt”?

Jennifer — Fri, 21 Oct 2016 22:07:21 +0000

She smiled up at me. The sun hit her face, and half of it was white-lit, the other half shadowed and displaying the temporary tattoo we had given her for her second birthday.

The day wasn’t what I had imagined at all. It was a struggle. It was a typical day with little kids instead of a picturesque birthday one. My 6-year-old daughter had been almost more excited about her sister’s birthday than my toddler. They both woke up ready for “a party.”

But my now-2-year-old was fussy, and unhappy. (We think maybe she had a cold.)

My oldest was disappointed that the day didn’t contain anything over the top, aside from birthday cake and presents.

Mom guilt washed through me.

I felt emotionally crippled by the significance of my “baby” turning 2, by the remembrance of her birth and how not so far away it seemed, and by this somewhat panicky sensation that I was incapable of making a day special enough to celebrate how joyful this child’s addition to our family and to the world is.

I stuffed this feeling down, mostly.

I crammed it behind alternate too-bright smiles and a crinkled-with-stress forehead. I hushed it behind the gifts, the cuddles and even the one timeout we gave our birthday girl. I took my oldest to the grocery store ― just the two of us on an errand she loves, while my husband and the birthday girl stayed home. I wanted to warm the overall feel of our day.

The next day, the mom guilt still radiated through me.

I’m not someone who believes in, or gives time to, regrets ― thinking of how I would do things differently isn’t worthwhile. And yet: I couldn’t stop thinking of what I could have done differently to make my toddler’s birthday better.

My husband even commented the next day, as we sat together after the kids had gone to sleep, that mom guilt was obviously eating me. He never uses that term. He doesn’t usually comment on how I seem to feel either, but asks instead. It must have been obvious.

He doesn’t have the same guilt because he doesn’t have the same pressure. He’s equally a parent in our household ― he’s easily the better parent ― but it’s me who feels this thing, so appropriately named “mom guilt.”

Why do women feel this?

Why does it haunt us?

Why all this “mom guilt”?

Mothers are expected to fulfill so many roles, while also maintaining our own feminist independence. We attack women who are happy as stay-at-home moms. We feel sorry for women who don’t maintain their own self-care. We guilt women who are successful at work.

Societally, we want women who are strong and independent, yet who are also perfect mothers; who are sex goddesses ― but not too sexy, or sexual for self-pleasure.

We polarize women, and women buy into it, even in our most private emotions.

My husband has his own pressures, too. Our marriage is a modern one where we share household responsibilities and child care when we’re both at home. But it’s only me experiencing these waves of “mom guilt.”

My sadness over my last baby turning 2 hit me powerfully days after her actual birthday. I let myself cry over how I much I miss my oldest child when she’s at school all day, and how “before I know it” my brand-new 2-year-old will be at school, too. I let myself panic a little that I’m investing so much of my heart and self into these two children whom I’m raising to leave me.

For another day I felt pathetic, as the guilt left. I felt sad for myself that I’m pouring so much of me into these two people. I questioned if my passionate desire to be present in their childhoods meant I’m neglecting my own needs.

“Is this where the guilt comes from?” I wondered.

I turned this question over and over and over for another day. This is what I kept coming back to: I’m happy. I love my life. I love being absorbed in little-kid smiles, and school bus schedules, and squeezed-in moments for the “me” outside of the “mommy,” like when I get my hair colored or go out without my kids or husband for an afternoon.

The guilt comes from knowing I could always do better than I did, and caring enough to churn over where I can grow and better myself as a parent. The guilt is born from love, even if it’s not healthy, for me or my family.

After all of the overthinking, I let the guilt go.

I didn’t let it go by pretending it was gone and I didn’t have negative emotions in the first place. I acknowledged my guilt was real, and that it was definitely not my last time dealing with it. I chose to validate and respect the difficulty and significance of being a mother, combined with the complexity of being a living, breathing, imperfect person.

More, I reminded myself consciously that lifetimes aren’t made up of one day or one bad choice, or one argument.

Childhoods are made of parents trying their best, with love and attention, and apologies, and examples; they’re made up of little kids learning, and growing, and making their own mistakes.

I want to display to my daughters, especially, that a bad day doesn’t equal a bad life.

I want to show them we can have days, or even weeks, when we feel sad and life feels heavy, but that it moves and shifts and changes all of the time, and so do we.

Yesterday the sun was out and the air was unseasonably warm. My little girls and I sat outside after my oldest had arrived home from school. I watched them laugh and play and eat snacks at their plastic picnic bench. They looked happy.

I breathed in this contentment for when “mom guilt” shows up again at our house unexpectedly; for when I need a vision of how good my life really is, and how great of a mom I am.

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Why I’m OK With Motherhood Being My Way Of Life.

Jennifer — Thu, 20 Oct 2016 16:33:57 +0000

Recently I questioned if “motherhood” should best describe my lifestyle, despite my complexity as a woman and a human being; despite the societal pressure to not be happy as “just a mom.”

It’s a choice, yes. It’s something that happens, too. It’s a “role” we have, among possible other ones, like “partner” or “sister” or “writer.” But for me, motherhood has evolved far beyond the comparatively tidy descriptors of having given birth and raising children.

My expectations of motherhood weren’t that it would be easy or perfect, but somehow I still didn’t expect how difficult normal things would become. Grocery shopping, for instance, was once something I loved doing, and now it’s something I expect neck pains after.

Many everyday occurrences have become near-special occasions. Showers, drinking coffee before it gets cold, driving in the car with no one screaming — these are all activities that, post kids, take slight planning and endurance.

It’s also cliche true that nothing can prepare us for the sensations of love that becoming a parent gift. Yesterday my toddler was fussy and unhappy, so we got out of the house and ran an errand. She fell asleep in the car, and I let her nap a little, while I sat in our driveway on Twitter. When she awoke, we went inside, and my previously cranky toddler was happy. She was smiling. A lot. She was playing with me and doing things like crawling around in a downward-facing dog position shouting, “Look! I’m a lion, Mommy!” (Only it sounded like, “Yook! I’m a yion, Mommy!”) My heart melted and oozed and dispersed throughout my body into a warm, fuzzy feeling of euphoric love.

I’ve found the hardest part of being a parent has been continuing to positively develop my relationship with my husband outside of our current lifestyle of raising small children. To be fair, I was probably more arrogant than most that our relationship wouldn’t change much after welcoming kids into our lives, if only because we’ve been together since we were kids ourselves. We had already been through everything hard and challenging — or so I thought.

Maintaining my relationship with him is hard. We have to either consciously carve out “us” time by planning ahead for other people to be with our kids, or we have to actually stay awake and alert after they go to bed, instead of just collapsing into “Netflix and chill” mode.

More than just my relationship with my husband, my relationships with my friends and people in general have changed.

Wikipedia describes a lifestyle like this: “The term lifestyle can denote the interests, opinions, behaviors, and behavioral orientations of an individual, group, or culture.”

My “job” as a stay-at-home mother — my role as a parent, among these other roles I’ve collected and nurtured — has definitely influenced my interests, opinions and behaviors.

Merriam-Webster defines a lifestyle as “the typical way of life of an individual, group, or culture.” Isn’t there a culture of motherhood? Of parenting?

There’s a serious reason the funny jokes parents make about wine, and needing showers, and toddlers interest us — we want to connect with others. We want to feel understood. We want to know our lives are being lived in a parallel way by others. We want to live nestled inside of a community while also being fully present in this often consuming space of parenting little kids.

Being a mom is my lifestyle right now.

When people ask what I do, if I say “writer,” I get a lot of follow-up questions and quizzical looks. However, when I say “mom” I get mostly soft, understanding nods as a response. Perhaps it’s possible for anyone who has ever been a parent to understand at least a fraction of who we are immediately, even if women, mothers, families and people are always unique and complex.

My lifestyle is complex.

My kids are complex.

After having my second child, it really hit me how profoundly individual and special we all are, right from birth. As an identical twin with, sure, many similarities, but also many differences from my “identical” sister, I already knew first-hand that truly no two people are alike. Yet the clear, wonderful differences of these two tiny ladies my husband and I are raising underneath our roof have inspired me to be fair as a parent, while also recognizing that people, and kids, have individualized needs and care requirements.

We should try to understand people through who they are, through their unique life experiences, and not through merely our shared ones. I’m trying to teach my kids to embrace individuality, and that being different is special and wondrous.

It’s equally interesting to me to witness other women, and mothers, battle each other. It frightens me, especially as I bring up two females, to see how women can seemingly get off on tearing one another down — fighting over the definition of what a “mother” is, or how alike and dissimilar stay-at-home “versus” working moms are.

I can’t help but be curious.

I can’t help but ask, what if we saw our current lives as parents with small children as lifestyles — if we could find where our lives overlap, connect and unite, rather than where jagged lines separate us?

The post Why I’m OK With Motherhood Being My Way Of Life. first appeared on Jennifer S. White.

6 Battles I’m Glad I Stopped Picking With My Toddler.

Jennifer — Sat, 15 Oct 2016 19:11:10 +0000

Parenting is exactly why the phrase “pick your battles” was invented.

However, not everything has to be a battleground. Instead, some aspects of raising children can be frustrating, and also healthy teaching tools for both our kids to learn independence and for us to learn how to let go of a little bit of control.

My toddler and I are both happier since I started letting her do these six things:

1. Make messes.

My toddler likes stickers. A lot. She likes to put them all over the carpet. It drives my husband nuts, but I’ve finally realized that her enjoyment of them is a battle to not choose.

Messes that aren’t permanent or hard to clean up ― especially those where I get 7 minutes of a happy kid and 7 minutes of time to sip hot, or at least lukewarm, coffee in relative peace ― are worth letting happen.

Allowing my toddler and my 6-year-old to make messes in a healthy way ― like through art or learning how to eat a new food ― is something that’s a normal part of childhood and parenting.

While it’s occasionally challenging for me to watch ice cream melt all over hands and clothes and act like I don’t care, kids, and people, learn by actively doing something; by making mistakes (aka messes).

2. Let go of my hand.

My oldest likes holding my hand. My youngest ― my toddler ― has always, always wanted to “do things I-self.”

There are places she should hold my hand ― in a crowded parking lot, or going up and down our dangerous basement stairs. Other times ― when the worst that could happen is she runs a little ways away and I chase after her, or she sits down in a store aisle ― these are instances I’m learning are healthy for me to let go of a little control.

I am in charge, but she is a separate person from me. I want her to learn how to assert her strength and independence while in safe environments.

3. Cry.

This one, frankly, sucks.

My toddler cries easily and often, which is another way she’s different from her big sister. It’s been a brand-new learning experience for me, and another great lesson in how wonderfully different we are as individuals. But loud, volatile toddler crying is a great way to be buying the extra large bottle of Excedrin.

Nonetheless, she needs to cry sometimes, and I need to find the strength and earplugs to let her.

Like when she wants fruit snacks for breakfast (every day for two weeks).

Or when she needs to just cry and let out the emotions she doesn’t completely understand or can’t articulate.

I’ve also found there are times to comfort her, and others that present great opportunities to teach her how to healthfully self-soothe (like the deep belly breathing we’re working on together).

The hardest part, aside from hearing my little kid wail, is knowing when it’s appropriate (and, in this case, we know our children best).

4. Get my attention.

Semi hand-in-hand with the above suggestion is realizing my toddler sometimes throws tantrums because she simply wants my attention. She needs me to remember that many of the “important” things I have going on outside of her and her needs can wait, at least for a minute, at least for a good hug.

Which leads me to…

5. Get me off my phone.

This is a ginormously important consideration for modern parents. For those of us parenting in this age of smartphones, we need to be mindful of our phone usage; of how it affects our kids. Particularly, that they are learning this delicate art of communication from us, including the importance of giving others our full attention.

This, for me, is harder than I wish it was. I remind myself every day to put my phone down, not “mmm-hmmm” or “OK, honey” over my phone while I’m still paying more attention to a screen than my child.

6. Do things herself, no matter how long it takes.

This one, in all honesty, often has more to do with my own impatience and desire to speed things up than it does her capacity or desire to do things by herself.

Still, letting my kids put on their own shoes ― even if it takes them 76 times longer than it would if I did it ― is how they’ll learn. This is how they’ll learn not only to put on shoes, but to believe in their own capability.

My personal rule is they have to try things on their own first, and then I’ll help. For my toddler, this hasn’t really been difficult because she loves to do things by herself, but even this sassy kid has moments where she screams at me in frustration to put a puzzle piece in for her, and I have to encourage her try.

Because when she gets it, and I only helped by backing down a little bit, there’s nothing more special than a toddler’s ecstatic, “I did it! I did it, Mommy!”

The post 6 Battles I’m Glad I Stopped Picking With My Toddler. first appeared on Jennifer S. White.

Is It Possible to Be A “Mommy Blogger” Who Doesn’t Write About My Kids?

Jennifer — Mon, 03 Oct 2016 18:22:03 +0000

I write about my experiences as a mother without getting into specifics about my children as much as possible, but is it really possible to be a “mommy blogger” without writing about my kids?

Recently I read an article about a blogger who decided to stop writing about her kids. Completely. It caught my attention because I blog about my life with kids.

I write about my nearly-2-year-old and her just-turned-6 big sister because they take up most of my world. The stresses, happiness and physical needs of life as a mother make up, what feels like, 99.9% of my life. I’d like to say something like “my focus shifted easily towards writing about being a mother to young children,” but the truth is I fought it and continued to write about other aspects of myself, but they continually fell flat. While I am a person outside of being a mother, this is my life right now.

What I don’t want to do is abuse the funny, adorable or stressful ways they are parts of my life by writing stories that aren’t mine to share. Instead, my intention is to explore myself and my life. And I haven’t always written only about being a mother—I haven’t always been one.

I’ve written and published stories about relationships, friendships, families, eating disorders, yoga, ADHD, happiness, and just being a human being. Still, my most probing, heartfelt work—regardless of whether the subject matter was specifically parenting—has been written since becoming a mom, not because the love of my kids changed me—although it has—but because I’ve consciously committed myself to authentic, “real” writing.

I want my girls to grow up, and share, and be themselves without fear or shame. I want to be an example for them of finding joy in who we are, even if we don’t always fit in properly with societal standards; even if it’s true we are imperfect.

It’s important to me that I write carefully about my children. I don’t want to publish—even on my social media accounts—stories that would embarrass them. I try to share from my experience as their mother rather than using their own lives for my words. My stories should be my stories, even if they are inspired by these gorgeous little characters I share my life with.

I afford my husband this same respect. Although he’s a present father, I eliminate him from my stories often. I’m the one choosing to bare myself when I publish, not him, and not our two tiny kids.

But regardless of how hard I try to shield them, my kids are still in my stories. The truth as a “mommy blogger” is it’s impossible to not share at least snippets of my family, even if I fictionalize stories, without including them in some small way. What is possible is to check in with my intentions as a writer.

Why am I sharing this story? Are these 140 characters on Twitter necessary for a quick laugh? Whose expense is my joke at? Mine, or someone else’s? If my goal as a writer is to honestly explore myself and my life, and to make a career from it, then my larger goal should be to accept that my kids won’t always be small, and I won’t always have them as main characters.

I can’t always be a “mommy blogger.”

I want to be a present parent with my kids.

I want to live in the real world before I commit myself to writing about it.

But I also want to transform the ordinary difficulty and constant joy of parenting into words for others in similar situations, so we can read and feel less alone in this typically lonely experience of spending so much time with little people.

If I were to answer my own question it would be “no”—no, it isn’t possible to be a mommy blogger who doesn’t write about my kids. Because of this I need to hold myself accountable for what I choose to put out there.

The post Is It Possible to Be A “Mommy Blogger” Who Doesn’t Write About My Kids? first appeared on Jennifer S. White.