My First Child is a Bit on the Hairy Side

Almost everyone thinks I have three kids. They are wrong. I have four, and no, I am not referring to my husband (in fact, I cringe every time I hear a woman make that remark).

I am referring (of course!) to Gosh, the best dog in the world. We got Gosh, our fur-kid, 2 years before we had a human kid and I have loved her as a child ever since. Because Gosh is the eldest, I started referring to her as the “older sister” after Devi was born. It was very cute when I would ask Devi “where’s your sister” and she would run over to Gosh. However, I will admit that this concept became a bit confusing for Devi and when she informed me that Gosh would get hands “when she grew into a people” I knew I had some explaining to do. It took months before I could convince her that Gosh couldn’t grow into a “people”.  Her honest little-kid mind doesn’t see Gosh as a dog, but simply as a member of her family. 

However, Gosh is a dog, and as a dog she does have limitations that my other children do not have. Though I try my best, I cannot always include her in all of the outings with the kids. She cannot go to the library, playgroup, or Museum of Science. However, she can go for walks, hikes and to the park and it is for that reason that I routinely take all my kids to the neighborhood park.  It is a place that they all can enjoy.

I have been going to this park on almost a daily basis to play ball with Gosh since she was a puppy. Now that I have the other three kids we get there a bit less often, but still 3-4 times per week to play and run around. At the park, I tend to get one of two reactions from the other parents who see me with my crew: either they are impressed and think I must have it all together to manage so much or they think I am crazy. Their attention is usually caught when it dawns on them that the three kids (age 3 and under) all belong to me. This invariably prompts comments such as “Boy do you have your hands full!” The not-so-subtle translation of which is: “I am so glad I am not you”. And then they see Gosh and say “You have a dog too? Wow, I could never find a way to bring the dog even with one kid”.

I get it. I do understand how someone could feel that way. Trust me, trying to watch 3 kids and a dog requires a lot of energy and I would seriously need 20 eyes to watch them all properly.  However, I simply do not feel the same way. If I am going to take my kids to the park, then I am going to take ALL my kids to the park. I can’t just leave one home unless there is a good reason. Don’t get me wrong, there are times when Gosh does have to stay home. But I can list them on one hand:

1. There is a playgroup at the park and there are just way too many kids that would be chasing her or scared of her or otherwise interfere with her ability to enjoy the park.
2. She has already had too much exercise during the day and it would be bad for her knee (she has a luxating patella)
3. It is too hot or cold and she would be miserable.

On all other occasions I bring all four kids to the park. And I love it.

I love that Gosh enjoys playing with all the neighborhood kids. I love exposing the other kids (especially those who were previously scared of dogs) to a very sweet, playful, good-natured pup. But mostly I love the fact that my children, all my children, can play around outside with each other. Chase. Tag. Fetch. Fun! It makes me happy to watch them play together as inter-species siblings.

Because in my mind, that is what they are. Siblings.

Things That Go Bump In the Night

Admittedly, I like the creepy-crawlies. Those things that go bump in the night. Monster movies, bats, spiders and Edgar Allan Poe. Spine-tingling, goose-bumping, scary fun. But that is me, and I am not 3 and ½ years old.

When I had my first child almost four years ago, I tried to do everything right. I ensured that she had all the right nutrients in exactly the right amounts for healthy growth. I made all my own baby food with organic vegetables purchased at Whole Foods. I showed her black and white picture cards to stimulate cognitive development and taught her sign language for milk, diaper and bird. She really picked up on the sign for bird and I was proud that my little baby was signing bird whenever anything (bird, leaf, or random piece of garbage) fluttered past on the wind. In short, I obsessed as every new mom does.

It was while I was in this state of obsession that I began to think about issues that might arise as she got older. I thought about things like potty training and nightmares. I had no clue on potty training, but I was pretty sure that my creative mind could conquer childhood nightmares. And thus it began. I created my own stories and lore to tell my daughter so she wouldn’t be afraid of monsters. I imagined her telling me she was scared of monsters under her bed, to which I would explain “Of course there are monsters under the bed!” I would then explain to her that monsters can only come into the house with permission and that we choose to let the good monsters in because we know the secret question. Oh, what’s the secret question you ask? Simply ask the monster what his favorite food is and you will know by his reply if he is a nice, friendly monster or if he is a nasty baddie. Is his answer ice cream? Excellent! We have made a new friend and you can invite him in the house. Did he answer toadstools or kitty-cat whiskers? Uh-oh! You can rest assured that you have a bad monster on your hands and he must be told that he is not allowed into our house.

Naturally, the day came when she was scared of monsters. I explained monsters (my version of monsters anyway) and …… it worked! Monsters quickly moved from the scary unknown to a normal ingredient in toddler life. I taught her how to draw monsters. Monsters with 2 eyes or 6 eyes, arms, legs, tentacles, horns, hooves, teeth, claws and strange, striped antennae! We made play-doh monsters, designed monsters on the computer and gave our monsters names like Harry. We were having fun AND I was some sort of super-mom capable of defeating such a common childhood problem!

Or was I? Umm, no, as it turns out, I was not.

My grand monster story couldn’t explain away witches. So I told her that witches are scared of foxes and gave her a stuffed silver fox to keep witches away. But that didn’t stop lions or tigers. So I told her that lions and tigers are scared of rhinos and her blue stuffed Mr. Rhino would poke them with his horns if they came near her. But that didn’t stop sharks. Or alligators. Or t-rex. Or the dark. My grand monsters story worked on monsters. Just monsters.

It slowly dawned on me, as I tried to chase away all those things that go bump in the night, that I was waging a hopeless battle. I wasn’t merely trying to protect my daughter from monsters (and sharks, alligators, even peacocks one night), but I was actually trying to insulate her from the emotion of fear itself. I wanted to protect her from feeling scared, afraid and helpless. Well, of course I did- I am her mom after all! But could I? Should I?

Of course not! There are reasons people experience childhood fear. It helps us to grow and develop into adults who can cope with new and unknown situations. Eventually my daughter will learn not to be afraid of sharks, alligators and all the other creepy-crawlies and she will learn to understand the emotion of fear for more tangible and real reasons. Sure, in between now and then there will be sleepless nights, bad dreams and many flashlight searches to ensure nothing is sneaking under her bed.  And I will comfort her as I open the closet door to make a final check for lions. I am a super-mom who taught my daughter not to fear monsters, but I am not destined to be the conqueror of all childhood fear.

Bats, Babies and Bedtime Stories: A Bloggy Beginning

I love bats. And babies. And bedtime stories. And …… blogs?

Well, that remains to be seen. But on the other three, I am one hundred percent sure: I love them. And if this blog turns out to be the perfect way to tie them all together, then I will love blogging as well.

I never thought I would be a happy mom. In fact, for a very long time I didn’t think I would ever have children. Just pets. Mostly dogs. Maybe some cats. Or a tea-cup pig. But no kids. Then, life changed, as it is wont to do.

I met a guy, fell in love, changed universities, moved to Wisconsin, got some cats, moved back to Boston, got married, bought a house, fell out a window, got a dog and then had not one, but three kids. Pretty standard stuff (except for maybe the parts about Wisconsin and the window).

When I had Devi, my first child, it was soon obvious that parenthood could easily become all-consuming. I wanted to be the perfect mom: apple pie and Toll-House cookies, stories at bedtime and all the warm fuzzies that go along with it. But what did that mean for the “me” part of me?  I didn’t want to lose myself in parenthood. I still wanted to be me: a little goth (well, maybe a lot), a little punk, a little bit of life on the darker side. Would I have to sacrifice myself to become the perfect mom? Would I have to get a short haircut, wear mom jeans, practical shoes and drive a mini-van while rockin’ out to Raffi? Did I have to read her ‘Goodnight Moon’ or could I lull her to sleep with my own stories about the Bat King? Couldn’t I be June Cleaver AND Lily Munster at the same time?

The answer is obvious. I am who I am and the essence of “me” couldn’t simply change because I became a mom. To let parenthood change me in such an all-consuming way would not only sacrifice everything that I am but would also portray a false ideal to my children- the very children who I want to raise to be independent and unique. I realized that by being myself I AM being a good mom. The best mom I can be.

Sure, my children may have some unconventional notions. They will assume that all their friends have gargoyles to protect their houses and that they know the secret questions to ask monsters. But I am pretty sure that when I was five I thought every grandmother spoke French and everyone’s mom danced along to ‘Dance Fever’ each week. Somehow or other I managed to survive both French and disco to become my own person. I am sure my children will survive the skeletons and the bats and manage to eat some apple pie along the way.

And they will be them. And I will be me. Part soccer-mom, part boogey-mom, but always me.