All 50 Stars

This month marks the first occasion my kindergartner was assigned homework. Their class is learning about geography, so with our guidance, they were asked to make one flag of any country, state, or organization that is important to our family. When asked, my daughter explained that only some of her friends from school live in America, and I glowed with pride knowing she would one day knock ‘em dead during the Q&A portion of the Miss America Pageant.

The funny thing about home projects with our kids; they often turn into a version of art-therapy for parents by revealing some deep-rooted perfectionism in the form of glitter and Popsicle sticks.

What are we so worried about? That the flag will look like our kindergartner made it?

I have seen some of the flags that the “students” made. Davis is a land of overachievers, where the average parent education level is a master’s degree, so I am confident the kindergarten teacher knows that we know there are 50 stars on the American flag and a 5-year-old cannot draw a bald eagle that resembles anything that looks like a bald eagle. This has everything to do with our pride and ego and nothing to do with our child’s ability to use a glue stick.

After we discussed the options for flags we could use: Ireland (“the colors aren’t fun”), Italy (“looks like a Christmas flag” (which was appealing!) “but Christmas is over”—again, truly a pageant answer if ever I’ve heard one) and many others, we landed back in the U.S. I had to sit on my hands so I would not micromanage when Charlotte created a box that would clearly not be large enough for all the states. Nobody really cares about the Dakotas. As we were about to leave this morning, I realized baby sister likely ingested at least 2 stars and 4 were scattered like Hansel’s breadcrumbs on our walk to school. Those that are good at math will notice we didn’t even get close to 50.

On this occasion, I decided to sit back and let my child create. And while she was doing that, I was diligently entering online Girl Scout cookie sales that Charlotte “sold” to our extended Irish/Italian family. Because I am guilty too. I pick up when I’ve asked them to. I put lunch boxes in backpacks, because I don’t want them to be hungry, while I’m teaching them a lesson in responsibility.

We are here as parents to set our kids up for success, but we don’t always get it right. We have to learn how to walk the line between being observers and doers; holding the scissors and guiding their cuts, and we must recognize when we are helping them with their school projects or just plain projecting.

It's not you, it's me

Probably one of the most honest things we should admit to as parents is sometimes we don’t like our own kids. We always love them sure, but we don’t always like them. Luckily their big eyes and mispronunciation of the letter ‘w’ make annoying traits like whining or their inability to put used toilet paper directly into the bowl tolerable. But that’s the easy stuff. I’m referring to their developing personality with mannerisms and quirks that mimic our own qualities we’ve spent years in therapy trying to dilute. Traits like: stubbornness, know-it-all tendencies, and good old-fashioned moodiness. The irony being it’s not actually them you are mad at, it’s yourself. I’ve created my own army of mini replicas of empowered females and they don’t want me to brush their hair because they “don’t care how they look”.

 I understand the science behind why they lack impulse control with their amygdala constantly firing on all cylinders, but that doesn’t make conversations like this any less infuriating:

“It’s time for you to start eating more vegetables other than carrots.”

“No. They taste disgusting.”

“Sometimes we have to keep trying something and we will start to like it over time. I’m 35 and just discovered I love Brussel sprouts.”

“They smell like farts.”

No arguments there.

I put a piece of broccoli in front of her the size of a thumbtack and she begins to cry like I’m lighting her LOL dolls on fire. It’s a stand-off until she eats it, we won’t leave the table.

“You are so mean.”

“It’s my job to keep you healthy and safe.”

She eats it and stomps off like she’s 16 and I just made her take out her nose ring.

I don’t enjoy this part of parenting, as I’m confident no one does. It’s the part of the tape that we weren’t able to play all the way through; because in the early days we are busy shopping for newborn rompers and envisioning baby yoga classes. The day-to-day battle of wills, blended with a cocktail of questioning and refusals is enough to admit, that if we were dating, this is the point where we’d break-up. Luckily they are magical, lovable little creatures with their endless redeemable qualities—because without these the fire station would surely be swarming with kids holding a Dear John Letter and their plates full of broccoli.

In Her Resolve

I love a fresh start. There is a cleansing quality that exists only in those first few days of January, allowing us to purge the sins of the past year and begin anew.

I believe that we are capable of change. Like the way a mother’s heart can expand with the arrival of each child; it doesn’t seem feasible, until it is.

Everyday there are a million reasons I cannot complete a task. Monday, unbeknownst to me, the mobile dog groomer returned our dog with a nail clipped down to the quick that proceeded to bleed all over carpets, couches, and clothes. I emerged from the baby’s room after putting Josephine down for a nap to the set of “Kill Bill”. Rage-steam cleaning took precedent over anything I had planned for myself. This is the cycle I feel trapped in as a mom: When all priority-roads lead back to my family, how can I achieve my personal goals in 2020?

My oldest daughter has taken up an interest in wanting to walk on the moon. We’ve explored the path to becoming an astronaut. Do I think this will be her ultimate career choice, I don’t know. But do I think she has the potential to one day travel to space, absolutely. Why would we teach our children they can be anything they want to be, if we don’t believe this for ourselves? I want to be a writer, so I will be one. I am becoming one.

My personal goals this year all revolve around Wit and Spit Up. I am taking the necessary steps towards building my brand and expanding my audience (hi Mom!). I’ve written out my SMART goals (Specific, Measurable, Achievable, Realistic, and Timely) a skill gained through Fit4Mom Davis-Woodland and years of IEP writing for my students. Here is one of mine:

I will write at least one blog post a week over the next year.

Please tell a friend about Wit and Spit Up, share what moves you, and come back weekly to hold me accountable!

Here is a reminder I needed to hear exactly on this day, exactly at this moment: I am actually capable of anything, because I transformed myself from a woman into a mother. And I do mean transformed. I think back 10 years ago over what I believed to be hard, compared to what my body and my mind has endured now, and that’s how I know, our potential is limitless. I can still want things for myself, what’s good for me is good for my girls. A family’s road can be paved by individual achievements, a mother’s resolve, and hopefully less dog blood.