From Extreme Stress to Easter Sunday

The thing about extreme stress is that it burns itself out eventually. You can't stay that stressed out for long before you collapse in a heap, have a good cry or an afternoon nap, and then let it go for a while. Or at least, that seems to be my coping technique for the time being.

Letting it go.

Not completely, of course, it's still my life after all, that I'm called upon to participate in, but I'm trying to do the work I have before me to be done each day without letting it consume me. Without imagining that I control the outcome or can will things into being with the power of my mind (a delusion I seem to be particularly susceptible to).

Whoever dies with the most stress doesn't win.

I took a line from the "Our Father" and made it a mantra: your will be done. I repeat it when I feel stressed, and it's proven to be surprisingly effective! Although I think the particular package of stress that I've been carrying around recently (aka: what the heck's going to happen to the rest of my life, starting any minute now?) was just plain getting too heavy and was ripe to be set down anyway. The teacher will appear when the student is ready, and all that.

So I guess I could claim I've been praying, although it's mostly just that phrase said again and again, on an as-needed basis. Still, that's something, right?

My mom's birthday falls on Easter Sunday this year. My husband and I -not-practicing-religious-anythings- never celebrate Easter except as a family holiday, getting together for brunch or dinner with extended relatives if we live close enough. This year we're dyeing eggs with the kids, but that's more a good excuse for an art project than any real observance of the holiday. But I grew up Catholic and all six of us girls got new dresses and hats for mass on Easter Sunday, and searched the house for candy to fill our baskets every Easter morning. My mom still goes to church on Sundays and I proposed to my husband that we dress the kids up and take them this weekend. It's her birthday, and that's where she chooses to spend it, so I thought it might be nice to join her.

And it's fitting to say thank-you -on the celebration of the resurrection- for my prayer: your will be done. I let go, and God appears, and carries my load. I'm sure it's a story told countless times in countless creeds; the Catholics don't have any special claim on grace in the universe. But here I am in this story, in my story, and when I look around at what's before me to do, it's to be in charge of dinner rolls and green salad for twenty, hard boil a dozen or so eggs and bring dye kits, suffer through a couple hours in the car with my kids to break bread with my family, and to keep on praying my four word prayer.

And I think it might also be to celebrate mass with my mom on her Easter Sunday birthday.

The Best Laid Plans

I wanted to work part time when I had children. I was adamant about this. I quit my full time teaching job and taught yoga for a couple years, looking for a part time teaching job, waiting for my husband to find full time work and health insurance. In December of 2006 I was hired to work 16.5 hours per week, teaching infants, toddlers and their parents. That was perfect. Exactly what I had in mind. Something simple, a small-j job, just keeping my toes in the professional pool, a backdrop for almost-full-time motherhood, something I hoped for very soon in my future.

* * * * *

My husband found a full time teaching position in September of 2007, and signed up for family health coverage. I got pregnant in October. I worked through my pregnancy, enjoyed my 16.5 hours per week, planned a life in my mind for my baby, for our family. Three weeks after the birth of my first baby I returned to work for a one week training before finishing my three month leave. It was on infant brain development and I brought my newborn son, who lounged in his carseat next to me in the conference room and nursed in my arms while we listened to lectures. We were guinea pigs for the demonstration on how to do home visits. I looked up to the women who taught the training. They were both in their sixties, stylish and smart. Someday, I thought, someday that will be me. My career will peak -like theirs- later in life. Now is the time for my family. Now is the time for my babies. But someday I, too, will be sixty-something, stylish and smart, standing at the front of a conference room, the very picture of competence.

* * * * *

I hoped to come back 12 hours a week, and then gradually work back up to my 16.5. Instead, they rewrote the grant while I was out and expanded my role in the program. I came back 18 hours a week. Less than 6 months after I returned they offered me a promotion. It required 25 hours a week, which then crept up to 30. I negotiated, and ended up at 20 hours with a teaching assistant. I was stressed out a lot of the time. But I loved the work, and it grew more manageable over time as my skill set grew. It wasn't so simple anymore though. Somehow I had ended up in a capital-J Job.

* * * * *

Time passed. I miscarried. I couldn't get pregnant. I weaned my son, waited a couple of months, conceived. Members of my team at work left; new people were hired, and suddenly I was the person with the most seniority and a position of leadership. I got better at the work; it wove its way deeper into my identity; it became a career. Small c. That's more than I wanted, but I found I could handle it. Small c. I could handle it.

* * * * *

I had my second baby, took another 3 month leave, ended up working a little bit of it, and then drew some boundaries and settled into a long winter with my babies. Daydreamed stay-at-home-motherhood, but committed to my small-c career, to my part-time, perfectly balanced, so-well-plotted-out-on-paper-before-I-ever-had-babies, my precisely planned, small-c career.

And then the funding was cut by the federal government, and the professional rug was pulled out from under my not-yet-steady work legs.

Still lost in the magic of my babies I concocted a Plan B. Plan B happens in my home. Plan B happens with my babies. Plan B probably ends up bringing home more money than Plan A because Plan B doesn't spend over half my income on child care. Plan B ain't anything fancy on the ol' resume, but that's okay because I am nothing if not the master of beautiful bullshit, most especially in the realm of the ol' resume. Plan B, while not the thing of beauty that is sticking-with-Plan-A-because-it-took-me-long-enough-to-get-here-and-I'd-prefer-to-avoid-any-more-change-right-now-thank-you-very-much, has a helluva lot going for it, assuming it works out alright, which it probably would.

* * * * *

I went into work this morning to find a surprising e-mail. There's a chance we can continue our program. We'll be in the running for a small pool of state funds against a number of other highly competitive programs. If we win, we'll be funded for one more year, and then begin the process of seeking alternative federal grants, revamping and reorganizing our program to align with the goals of the federal government's vision for the future of education in our country. For this to work I will need to be a teacher, an administrator, a team leader, a grant writer, a political player of sorts in the field of early childhood education, and an advocate for the work that we do on a local, state, and national level. Please don't get me wrong; I'm not bragging. I'm not claiming to know how to be all these things. Quite the contrary. I feel as if I'm suddenly staring down the barrel of a capital-C Career.

* * * * *

How in the hell did I end up here so soon?

Too Much, Too Soon

I'm usually good with change. I thrive in ambiguity. I have a high tolerance for living in the in-between; it's always seemed to me to be the place where dreams and possibilities reside. One reason I love my job is because it doesn't always look the same. We have to work toward what's officially called "continual improvement," which really means constant change in the service of making things better. Data is collected and analyzed all the time and we can decide on a dime to change a morning class to evening to accomodate a student's work schedule, or devise a brand new parenting lesson plucked from the results of a recent rubric that suggests reading storybooks to toddlers is a skill that needs some brushing up.

It's what I liked best about being home with my kids too. The rush of realizing -through an ongoing process of careful observation and constant reflection- exactly what my children needed in any given moment, and then successfully supplying it. My brain moves fast; I never stop thinking; I've always related well to people with ADHD although I don't think I have it myself. I like when life requires me to think as fast as I want to, and then to implement those thoughts almost instantaneously. It's a challenge that makes me feel alive.

What I take for granted when I find the thrill in these challenges: I have gotten enough sleep, enough of the right things to eat, and a chance to exercise. In short, I've got to be in fightin' shape to get out there and get the job done. And right now: the job is kicking my ass.

I'm exhausted. Constantly stressed out. I feel like my stomach acids are eating me from the inside out. This is too much change, too soon, and way too much time in the muddled middle, uncertain of what will happen next.

I became a super-bitch on Sunday morning, huffing and puffing over piles of laundry and snapping at everyone in sight. It was all of sudden, and my husband began to press me on it: What is going on with you? What is this really about?

Suddenly I heard myself shout: My job is over! It's gone! It's gone! And I LOVE my job! And then I burst into tears. I actually had no idea what it was really about before I said it. In fact, until I finally spit it out, I found it irritating that he kept questioning me. Can't a girl huff and puff over a pile of laundry and snap at everyone in sight for no apparent reason? Apparently not. And thank you sir, for asking, and asking, and then asking again, because I didn't know why I became a super-bitch. All I knew is suddenly the bitch flag was flyin' high and the super-bitch cape seemed to be secured very tightly around my neck and I didn't have the slightest clue of how to go about loosening it.

Then he reminded me that the federal budget that finally passed this weekend, eliminating my program, was for this fiscal year, and not next fiscal year, and so technically speaking, I'm still waiting-and-seeing, which is actually not comforting at all. I'm both impatient for and resistant to change right now. I want it done already, and I also want it not to happen at all.

But it's happening.

And the most I can aim for is to navigate it with a modicum of grace.

This morning I carried my daughter into my son's room to wake him, so we could get on with our day. He was fast asleep and didn't respond to my voice or my hand on his back and she was squirmy-whiny, so instead of waking him I sat down in the recliner in the corner of his bedroom to nurse my squirmy girl. She pounced on my breast like a small rabid animal and nursed like she was coming off a fast. It's teething, starting already. Both my kids are crazy little nursers when they teethe, preferring my poor nipples to any of the nice teethers they have on the market nowadays.

She settled into a tentative peace, relaxing and suckling for a short while in my arms. And then she began to squirm again, flailing her head back like an infant possessed, stretching my nipple as if it were made of taffy. This is a sign I recognize. I removed her from the breast, placed her in a sitting position on my lap, administered a few sharp pats to the center of her back and heard the loud burp I knew would be coming soon enough.

I felt as if I could sit in that dark room, listen to my son snore, and breastfeed my daughter forever. I want to hide out in a cave. Most days I feel as if I can't take anymore.

But like her, even if I found that temporary peaceful place, I am still subject to forces rising within me that I can't quite control. Even if I took a week and lay on a beach somewhere (oh, please! oh, yes! oh, yes please!), there would still be real, immutable facts of life that have concrete and tangible consequences, and I can't control them. I can't daydream them into alignment or frogmarch them into submission. I can only sit, and squirm, and burp in the face of God. And trust that the universe loves me like a mother and will somehow take care of me despite it all.

I'm not at trusting yet. I'm still at squirming. I see a lot more squirming in my future. Maybe I can squirm my way into fightin' shape.

Lots of Words for Plumb Worn Out

I am so tired.

So tired that after I wrote that sentence, I considered leaving it as is, a one sentence blog post. Then I figured it would be more appropriate as a status update on Facebook. I sat, staring stupidly into space, wondering if it would be easier to click over and rewrite it, or copy and paste it. I thought about it for what might have been a very long time.

Neither one seemed easy enough.

I am so sleepy.

My first day back to work was my colleague's first day out. Her three month medical leave perfectly backed up against my three month maternity leave. We didn't quite get to pass the baton. And her medical needs escalated so quickly at the end that there was no time to arrange for a substitute teacher. So my first day back, we're down a teacher -the only teacher qualified to teach GED classes- and I'm winging it.

Covering for my colleague, without any of my regular duties, could be my whole job, and I wouldn't run out of things to do. But that's not my whole job. And I'm feeling so spent.

I planned curriculum for my leave, left three detailed months in the hands of another colleague, who covered my parenting classes while I was home parenting my own children. I came back to big stacks of curriculum to assess so I can take over my classes again. But I haven't even had a moment to skim the stacks. So I'm winging it, making lessons out of thin air, observation, and an ongoing attempt to get to know the new parents who started our program while I was out.

Curriculum -planning and teaching it- used to be my whole job. It kept me plenty busy. There's so much more to do now. And I'm beat.

The funding is cut, but the advocacy isn't. There are letters to be written and congressional offices to be called, and websites to be visited to stay on top of the changing news, and information to be digested, interpreted, shared with my team. There are questions to be formulated, and answers to be sought, and plans to be made, and back-up plans for when the first plans potentially fall apart. I am so winging it here.

Political advocacy is a job I've never done. It's a job I might have grown into slowly, through years of experience in the field. Or, in this case, overnight. And not a night with nearly enough hours for sleeping, did I mention? I am feeling fatigued.

We have a major visit quickly approaching, in which the person directly responsible for funding our program comes to see if we are meeting all the requirements in the legislation that originally created it. This happens once every four years, and it's the first time it's ever happened with me at the helm. I'm following detailed written instructions and a long list of highly specified legal requirements. And yet, it still pretty much feels like I'm winging it.

Preparing for this visit could easily fill every minute of every day between now and the time it takes place. But I don't have that many minutes available. And I'm feeling so done for.

After the visit is done I start our annual report. At this point, it looks like I will still have to write the whole darn thing, even though it may well be the last time I write it, since further funding is not -as of this juncture- forthcoming. Every year this report is the biggest, hardest, most time-consuming-est thing I do. With so many other things to do, I'm afraid this year I'll be winging it.

I'm dog tired. All petered out, played out, tuckered out, plumb worn out.

But when I look back on this fifty years from now, I don't think that's what I'll remember. I think I'll remember that I did it. That I kept my head above water. That when my limbs were nearly limp from exhaustion, I kept on treading.

The Think Aloud

In grad school I had to take a number of classes on best practices in teaching literacy. I found these classes almost unbearably boring at the time (and yes, I do work for a literacy program now, but it's not my job to teach literacy to the adults; I teach parenting. And literacy with birth to three year olds, which is part of my job, is very different and -in my opinion- much more fun!), but some of the information stuck with me, and even comes in handy sometimes. This morning it offered me a new strategy in managing the minefield that is my toddler's emotional development.

I talked in a recent post a little bit about how we're using time out non-punitively, as a place to go when your feelings are out of control, to express them safely and pull yourself together. This is difficult. It's a much more challenging balance to strike as a parent than using it like "the naughty chair" SuperNanny espouses (I'm not anti-"the naughty chair" either, although that name really needs to go. I just want to try another approach.). What makes it so complicated is that I really want to put my son's emotional choices back in his own lap. I don't want control. I don't want it to be my job to decide when he's out of control, when he can pull himself back, and when he needs assistance to do so. I want him to own that, as well as he can at two, and ultimately, in the long run of his life. So it's a slower, more halting process, and I have to be observant, reflective, and willing to revisit the same questions over and over as circumstances and his skills change. This requires more of me as a parent than making a list of grievances that will land him in the naughty chair and then enforcing the policy the same way each time. Consistency is important, but so are critical thinking, empathy, and flexibility due to circumstance. And so is grace, as my friend's posts here so eloquently reminded me when I was struggling with my boy last week. Weighing all of this can be a really hard balance to strike, especially if I'm tired or stressed.

I say "I" here because I have the kids alone for most of the day. My husband leaves for work before they wake up (most days), so I'm on morning duty and then I spend the afternoons with them while he's at work as well. So I'm usually formulating and testing our discipline strategies, and then we talk it over in the evenings. We try to be generally on the same page in our approaches, but I have a non-interference policy. If I don't like the way he's handling things, I talk to him about it later, but at the time I let the two of them work it out (I say two because it's only ever my son he battles with. For now. Heh! I'm sure the three month old will be pushing the envelope soon enough!). Even if we disagree, I figure he's their dad; they're going to have to learn to deal with him one way or another! So these are largely techniques I'm trying on my own, at least at first.

And thus it was with the think aloud. The think aloud is a technique straight from literacy teaching techniques 101 (or 501 if that's how grad school works), and I never expected to use it in my parenting. It's a way to demonstrate how strong readers think. Research has shown that when strong readers read, they are constantly making connections to the text. Three types of connections they make are: text to self (how does what you're reading connect to you?), text to text (how does what you're reading connect to something else you've read?), and text to world (how does what you're reading connect to the world as you know it?). A technique to teach these connections is called the think aloud. While you read a story, you pause and "think aloud" about these type of connections, making your invisible thought processes visible for those students who struggle to make the connections for themselves: Oh, the little piggy in the brick house reminds me of my grandmother's house! It's made of brick too!

This morning I was standing at my daughter's changing table, getting her ready to go the sitter's house, so I could go to work. My son was whining at my knees: I don't want you a go to work! I want you a stay home wif me!

I tried to explain that I had to go to to work, but of course, at two, he wasn't getting it, and continued to whine. Suddenly I found myself in the midst of a think aloud:

I DON'T WANNA GO TO WORK EITHER! I WANT TO WATCH TV ALL DAY AND EAT CANDY!

Now Mommy, you have to go to work.

NO! NO! I DON'T WANT TO! I'M TIRED! I DON'T FEEL LIKE IT!

Mommy, you have very important work that you must do. You can't stay home and watch TV all day, no matter how much you want to. Can you pull yourself together or do you need some time to sit in time out?

OK, FINE! I CAN PULL MYSELF TOGETHER! I GUESS I WILL GO TO WORK.

My son stared up at me, head cocked to one side like a little puppy, face twisted into a mask of concentration. Then he slowly broke out into a great big grin and said: Mommy, argue wif you-self again!

He didn't give me any more trouble getting ready for the day. It's nice to know that expensive special education degree, complete with expired certification and no intention to work in the field, is good for something after all!

Baby to Big Boy Blues, Part 2

For Part 1, go here.

Friday morning our son woke up early. Early enough that his father was still home to get him out of his crib. Or try to anyway. As soon as he entered the bedroom he was greeted with this all-too-familiar cry: NOOOO! ONLY MOMMY! ONLY MOMMY!

So my husband left the room dejected and I got him from his crib, and already nobody's particularly happy.

We've been dealing with this ONLY MOMMY! ONLY MOMMY! thing on and off for quite some time now and we've taken different tacks, none of which have been especially effective. I tell my husband not to wear his heart on his sleeve, not to show our boy so blatantly what power he holds over his father's emotions by issuing his ONLY MOMMY (usually accompanied by I DON'T YIKE HIM!) proclamations. My husband is about as capable of disguising his emotions as the toddler himself though, so that hasn't worked. We've flatly insisted that his dad do some things for or with him and resolutely followed through, which is somewhat effective, but when my husband is so hurt and angry that following through means a household full of fighting and two crabby males for the remainder of our time together it's very difficult to sit it out and then sit with the fallout. I do a lot of setting the stage, soothing, reinforcing the positive, re-framing the issues. For both of them, frankly. Usually I don't mind it. I've been smoothing the rough edges of my husband's emotions for over a decade. He does equivalent things for me in other areas, and I'm just as big of a baby in my own ways, so we deserve each other. My son is two; I expect it. Sometimes, though, it's exhausting.

And sometimes the easiest thing is to do it myself from the outset. If I offer to do it early enough we avoid the rejection and everybody's happy. It's not the best long-term technique, but I don't think it's the worst thing either. The only approaches I've taken that I feel bad about are using bribery and guilt. Once I said to my son: I'll take you for a walk outside if you're nice to Daddy, and another time I pulled him aside after an incident and laid it on pretty thick about how bad he made his father feel, and didn't he want to say sorry? The guilt worked; the bribery didn't. But I didn't feel good about either one, and haven't used them again.

So it wasn't a good start to the last day of a difficult week. My husband left for work and I continued to prepare and pack for the day while my daughter slept upstairs. Her sleeping was the last bit of luck I had on my side, and I needed it to get everything done. If she woke up crying, it was all over. So when I had to run up there to grab a sweater I told my son he could follow me only if he was extra-extra-quiet so as not to wake his sister. I dashed up the stairs, looked quickly for my sweater, and couldn't find it. Then I thought maybe I knew where it was, in a different closet downstairs (we're midway through a closet rearrange which, especially when combined with the paucity of clothing choices that both fasten around my fatter-than-ever waist and look professional enough for work, make dressing each morning a fraught endeavor), so I sailed back down the staircase moving in fast-forward speed to try and find it.

It was at this point that my son decided he absolutely needed my help to walk back down the stairs, a task that he's more than capable of completing independently. I was already all the way at the bottom of the stairs before he began to whine. I stopped, looked up at him, and calmly said: You can walk down the stairs by yourself, bubby. I need to go get my sweater right now. Hold on to the railing, and you will be fine.

He was standing mere feet from his sister's bassinet. He opened his mouth and began to scream at the top of his lungs. This is new. Just this week he began the screaming. He does it when he's not getting his way. The screaming is the primary reason we're using time out. He was standing at the top of the staircase that we use as the time out space. In order to escort him there, I would have to walk back up the stairs and, you guessed it, help him down. Exactly what he wanted in the first place. I walked away, and looked in the downstairs closet for my sweater, which wasn't there either. I returned to the bottom of the staircase, where he was still screaming as loud as he could. And I lost it.

How dare you! I hissed at him, How dare you!? We talked about being quiet! We talked about how your sister is sleeping, and now you are screaming! About walking down the stairs by yourself, which you are perfectly capable of doing! I will not help you! I am angry with you right now! I am very angry with you!

I walked away again, full of righteous fury, but later, when I got to work, I cried. I cried because I lost my temper, which I almost never do. And I cried because it isn't entirely his fault that he expects my help with tasks he's capable of completing on his own. It's my fault too. And it's not fair to hold his hand one day and lose my mind the next at the same request. So I cried in my office until my colleague came in, shared some stories about her own kids, an older boy and younger girl with a similar dynamic, and reminded me that the occasional yelling never killed anyone.

And here's the thing. After I walked away? He stopped crying, walked down the stairs on his own, found me and said: I'm all better now, Mommy. Yes I CAN walk down all by mine-self!

So while screaming (on either of our parts) might not be the best way to get there, it's clear that he is capable, and that we'll have to seek other paths to get him to do things without ONLY MOMMY all the time. I never found my sweater and felt way too fat all day at work with the only replacement I could find at the last minute. But my daughter? She slept through the whole thing!

Baby to Big Boy Blues, Part 1

Since the birth of my son -my first baby- I haven't spent a lot of time worrying about my parenting. I don't go in for mother-guilt, and I generally think I'm a good parent. I have fun with my kids and enjoy their presence. I can count on one hand the number of times I've raised my voice in the past two and a half years, and when I did, it was usually strategic; I still felt in control.

Until this morning.

There was a moment a few months ago where I recognized myself in an article I was reading, and it gave me pause, but didn't fundamentally change the way I parent. I was reading a magazine in the waiting room of my OBGYN. It was written by the mother of two boys and she talked about how she allowed her second son to feel more frustration before intervening than she ever did with her first. Her second son was demonstrating greater independence than his older brother, whom she claimed would probably still be happy to allow her to cut his meat into tiny pieces for him when he went away to college. I felt a ping! of recognition when I read that. My boy, too, might be happy to eat his dinner bite by bite from a fork in my hands for the foreseeable future, even though he's more than capable of feeding himself. I recognized it, but I didn't take any specific actions to change it, and honestly, I didn't really see it as a problem.

Until this morning.

He's had a tough transition this week. The baby girl and I have been fine. I jumped back into work with both feet and although I landed directly in the deep end, it's nothing I feel I can't handle. My daughter got dropped off Monday morning having never tried a bottle and by Wednesday she sucked down everything I had sent for the day by 10:30am and I had to leave work early so she wouldn't starve! But that was the biggest problem we've had with her. She's smiley, sleeping fine and gulping milk from both breast and bottle like the little champ that she is.

My boy, on the other hand, is struggling.

He was thrilled to go back to his sitter. He loves her, and he loves her granddaughter, a little girl five months older than he is who will play with him all morning long and is far more fun than I am! She also got an inflatable bounce house for Christmas and has it set up in the house. He's in heaven while he's there. It's the coming home part that's tough. So many changes recently in our family, in our home, in our lives, and this is just one more to get used to, one more adjustment he has to make. He's been acting out every afternoon and evening, moving from temper tantrum to temper tantrum without missing a beat while his father and I wear ourselves exhausted trying to determine the best way to deal.

We've been using time out, but making every effort not to use it punitively. Instead, we've presented it as a safe place to go when your feelings are out of control. It's okay to yell and shout there, or to punch pillows or cry. I've used it myself when I'm mad, modeling how it works, and if he asks (in his "big boy voice" not in a screaming screech) one of us will sit there with him and help to provide comfort. He doesn't seem to want to go there (except the once when he was on his way into bed and asked to go into time out instead to "stay up and work out his bad feelings about going to bed". Um, no. But good try.), but once he's there it seems to work as intended. He's been slightly less tantrum-ish each day, and although we're exhausted, we feel like we're generally headed in the right direction.

Until this morning.

And now I'm a lot too tired, a little too sad, and way too weary at the end of this very long week to tell you the rest, so...

Until tomorrow...