Devon Corneal2013-05-21T04:03:27-04:00Devon Cornealhttp://www.quebec.huffingtonpost.ca/author/index.php?author=devon-cornealCopyright 2008, HuffingtonPost.com, Inc.HuffingtonPost Blogger Feed for Devon CornealGood old fashioned elbow grease.What I Know About Stress In My 40stag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.31786262013-04-29T11:52:32-04:002013-04-30T17:14:27-04:00Devon Cornealhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/devon-corneal/
Ten or 20 years ago this week would have sent me reeling, but remarkably, I'm not freaking out. I'm tired, and would rather be home, but I'm doing OK. I'm not proud that I lost a night's sleep, that I forgot to eat dinner, or that I'm away from my family. I have promised myself to be better about scheduling in the future. That being said, my stress level is actually pretty low and I think that has everything to do with age.
In addition to hot flashes, 40 brought me perspective. Situations that would have seemed impossibly difficult in my 20s and 30s aren't overwhelming. It's not that a lot of travel or a heavy workload aren't draining, but I finally understand that although life is tough, the rough spots are temporary. I know that chaotic weeks are often followed by calm, a nap can help fix the effects of a sleepless night, and my husband will come home. I've learned that tasks have to get done, so you just have to buckle down and do them -- the sooner, the better. Once you accumulate enough life experience, the ups and downs seem less like a roller coaster and more like rolling hills.
That being said, I've also come to realize that that stress is highly personal. Everyone has different triggers and tolerances. For instance, my husband can survive, and even thrive, on very little sleep. He can go weeks with less than 5 hours of sleep a night. I start to fray at the edges if I don't get my full eight hours. Neither my body nor my mind can handle it. I also don't do well with conflict, home renovations and I hate to drive. I can, however, handle errands, travel, noisy children in confined spaces, and a messy house. Understanding what stresses me out helps me avoid those situations or ask for help. This is why my husband always has to fight with the credit card company and do the bulk of the driving when we go on road trips. I, on the other hand, have attended close to 40 children's birthday parties. He thinks he's getting the better end of the deal, which is one of the reasons I married him.
Which leads me to one of the most important lessons I've learned in my "old" age. The best way to avoid stress is to surround yourself with loving and supportive people. Nothing else even comes close. There is a lot out there to struggle through. Jobs, aging, financial downturns, war and politics will always be around and will always be stressful. Stress comes with the good things, too -- a big vacation, a promotion, the birth of a child, a marriage, a long-awaited move to a new home. While seemingly positive, these challenges and changes bring their own tension and discomfort. We can't avoid stress anymore than we can stop breathing.
We can, however, make sure that the people who go on our journey with us make our lives easier, not more difficult. Life is short, and hard, and messy and there is no reason to keep people in our orbit who make it harder or messier or who ruin what little time we have here. I wish I had known that earlier. If I had, I would have walked away from the judgmental, the disloyal, the unsupportive, the inconsistent, the narcissistic, and the liars. I would have stopped the self-inflicted stress of allowing people in my life who were not interested in enriching it. I would have settled for nothing less than relationships built on mutual support, authenticity, vulnerability and loyalty because I would have understood that the people interested in that type of connection will stick with you through any ordeal. Those people will be the ones who catch you when you fall and buffer you from whatever life throws your way. Those people are the people you take your five-year old across the country to visit and who you get up at 4:30 in the morning to come home to. When it comes to reducing stress, they are better than Valium, therapy, exercise, meditation, yoga, or a stiff drink and you can get them without a prescription, spending money or breaking a sweat. And that, my 40-year-old self thinks, is pretty amazing.]]>The Talk My Preschooler Wasn't Too Young To Havetag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.31111222013-04-18T15:29:54-04:002013-04-18T16:18:35-04:00Devon Cornealhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/devon-corneal/
Last week, he came home from school and informed me of his thwarted plans to marry one of his classmates.
"Mommy, I want to marry Victoria, but her brother Robert says I can't. Her friend Kyle says I can."
Oh, poor Robert, I thought. That boy is in for a rude awakening.
"I don't think Robert gets to decide who his sister marries. I think Victoria will choose who she wants to marry."
Victoria is a very nice little girl, so I'm not opposed to his plans, although I asked him if he could wait to get married until he was a little older. I'm still dealing with kindergarten registration -- I can't handle wedding invitations too.
His mouth full of crackers, Little Dude nodded.
"So, when I grow up I can marry who I want to and Victoria can marry who she wants to and Robert can marry who he wants to?"
"Yep. Victoria can marry whomever she wants. She can marry you, or she could marry Kyle if she wanted to."
Little Dude burst out laughing.
"Victoria can't marry Kyle mommy! Kyle is a girl. Girls have to marry boys and boys have to marry girls." He gave me an exasperated look.
And there we were. At the kitchen table eating a snack, staring the issue of gay marriage in the face.
Now, I know there are parents out there who have prepared themselves for this talk. I thought I was one of them. I realized in this moment, however, that there are parents who are truly ready to converse with their kids about gay marriage, sex, death, religion, divorce, adoption, and global warming and then there's me. I talk a good game, but I am more of a "fly by the seat of my pants" girl. Which is why I had about thirty seconds to figure out how I was going to respond.
My hesitation confused me. I am very clear about where I stand on gay marriage and the subject of homosexuality. I think we love whom we love. Period. I think we should be able to marry whomever we love. Full stop. I want my son to know that and believe it with all his heart. I don't want him to "accept" or "tolerate" gay marriage. I want him to advocate for it and believe that marriage should not be a privilege afforded only those whose have opposite sets of genitals. The only thing I'll teach him to "tolerate" are the people who stand in the way of that equality -- because even the incredibly wrong-headed can change their minds. I hope.
So with all that, why didn't I just plunge right in? I wondered if he was too young to talk about being gay? I considered distracting him and avoiding the subject entirely. I cursed Kyle's androgynous name. I asked myself if I was putting too much pressure on myself or on him if I launched into a serious talk. I prayed that a book would magically appear with a script for the whole damn thing. I had only a few seconds before things got awkward and I was stalling. This was not my best parenting moment.
I realized I was letting the social noise of other people's hang-ups change what I wanted to say to my son. I was channeling commentators and pundits and loud voices from people who have never met me, or my son, to determine what I wanted him to know about the world. I had forgotten that this is a boy who has been raised in love and that this issue isn't about anything but love. My 5-year-old is perfectly capable of handling a conversation about that. We can talk about politics and religion and social stigma when he's 6.
So I got a grip. I remembered what parenting is about. I reminded myself that this was my opportunity to raise a boy into a man who could treat himself and every other person he meets with respect. This was my first shot to teach him that families that our different from ours aren't anything special -- they're just families.
It suddenly got very, very easy.
"Well, it's true that a lot of times boys marry girls and girls marry boys. But sometimes girls fall in love with girls and boys fall in love with boys. If they do, they can get married too."
"They can?"
"They can."
"Really?"
"Really."
"Ok. I still want to marry Victoria though."
"Fine by me."
And just like that, we were done.]]>Life Lessonstag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.30366422013-04-08T10:44:02-04:002013-04-09T12:18:50-04:00Devon Cornealhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/devon-corneal/
The first morning I woke up to an unfamiliar sound. In the darkness, I heard:
"Emmmm, emmmm, emmmm, muhhhh, muhhhh, muhhh."
"Aaaah, aaaah, aaaah, ahhhh."
"Puhh, puhhh, puhhh, puhhh."
I was just awake enough to determine that it wasn't a fire alarm, no one was screaming, and I was not covered in blood. I went back to sleep.
The sun was just starting to peek around the edges of the curtain when I heard this:
"Effff, effff, efffff, fuhhh, fuhhhh, fuhhhh."
"Ewwww, ewwww, ewwww."
"Tuhhh, tuhhh, tuhhh."
WTF? A quick glance at the clock told me it was after 8. I was on borrowed time. I could tell him to stop, but then he'd know I was awake. Whatever the kid was doing, it couldn't last for long. I put the pillow over my head to drown out the animal noises coming from the other room.
I had forgotten, however, that while pillows keep out sound, they do nothing to protect you from the tug of a small hand on your pajamas. I opened my eyes.
Little Dude was standing next to me in mismatched pajamas, his hair askew. He handed me a piece of 8 ½ x 11 paper, folded neatly in half. It was covered with writing.
"Mommy, I wrote you a letter."
"Whaaa?"
"A letter. I wrote it all by myself. See?"
I propped myself up and squinted at his offering. A creamy piece of hotel stationery was filled with hearts and x's for kisses and "I love you" and "Mommy" and words like "map" and "pan." Suddenly, I wished I had recorded all that annoying early morning noise, because far from being mindless chatter from a boy intent on waking me up, it was the sound of effort and concentration and the hard, hard work of putting pen to paper to tell someone else how you feel.
It was one of those moments when I loved my kid so much my heart felt like it would burst out of my chest.
I read what I could (he's trying, but he's not quite Hemmingway) and asked him to read the rest to me. I've learned from past experience that it's better not to guess when it comes to my kid's creations. I once told him I liked the beautiful shark he drew me. It was a police helicopter. He was not amused. Little Dude pointed at the bottom of the page and told me that the chaotic mix of letters said that he loved me and was excited to go to New Orleans together. He showed me the colorful "bottle full of hearts" he added at the end. He asked me to put his letter in an envelope, so I would "keep it forever" and went out to play with his toy cars. Just like that, he moved on.
I did not.
Little does he know that I will keep his letter forever, and not just because of the x's and hearts. I'll keep it because I want to remember hearing him slowly and arduously learn to spell. I'll treasure it because it may be my first sign that those hours of reading bedtime stories may be working. I'll take it out every so often to capture the hope that my son might love words as much as I do. I'll use it as inspiration when I'm staring at a blank computer screen wondering if I have anything interesting to say, and how in the hell I'll find the words to say it. If a 5-year-old can sound out "map," I don't think I can complain when I have writer's block. I'll preserve it as a reminder to tell each and every one of his teachers how much I appreciate everything they do, because, although I tell him stories, the men and women who are with him every week have taught him the magic of writing. I'll fold it up carefully and press it beneath his baby book, where I described his first days. I'll hang on to this mish-mash of words and gobbledygook because it symbolizes to me the moment he took his first step towards keeping secret thoughts in diaries and journals, slipping notes to his friends away from prying teachers' eyes, and writing a love letter.
I didn't realize until he handed me his letter how much this milestone would mean, but I know now that it was worth losing a little sleep over.]]>What's Worse Than 'Attacking Other Women'tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.30212942013-04-05T10:48:32-04:002013-04-05T13:36:15-04:00Devon Cornealhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/devon-corneal/
As in any community, people don't always agree. There are differences of opinion about whether we should care for kids full-time or work outside the home, whether we should lean in, own guns, send our kids to private school, have abortions, lie, eat organic, believe in God, adopt, divorce, sleep around, co-sleep, have one child or a dozen, or move to the suburbs. I love the diversity. It allows for divergent paths, unique families, and a myriad of goals. It makes life complicated, but it exposes us to an array of views and, every so often, may change our minds.
Then it happens. In the midst of a dialogue, no matter how civil, someone almost always steps up and pleads for us to stop disagreeing because, wait for it, women shouldn't "attack" other women. In nearly every debate about motherhood, someone characterizes the conversation as another round in the mommy wars. We pounce on people for being "judgmental" for no other reason than they don't share our views and have the temerity to say so.
I'm confused. When did dissent become the same thing as hatred? When did an open dialogue become an attack?
I want women's and mothers' conversations, ideas, theories, and analyses to be taken just as seriously as men's. I'd love it if our gender ceased to be the most important item in our biographies. Just because a large part of the women's blogosphere covers things like parenting, marriage, children, psychology and work-life balance doesn't make those topics frivolous. (Nor does it mean that women aren't covering issues outside of those topics.)
You know what makes our ideas and opinions less important? Pretending that we are so fragile that we can't handle a healthy and robust debate.
We are made of sturdier stuff.
That doesn't mean I think it's appropriate to trash talk people for fun or criticize their point of view for fun. I'd like to bar vicious anonymous comments, misogynistic slurs and cruel taunts. I am tired of remarks that focus on what a woman looks like rather than what she says. I see no value in shaming women for their choices or judging them because they chose a different path than yours. None of that seems designed to do anything more than diminish and belittle.
But I do support challenging our ideas in a wide forum. I have no issues with Sheryl Sandberg wanting to start a movement encouraging women to "lean in" or to write a book and give interviews calling for women to change the way they approach their jobs. But if I think that misses some larger contextual points, then I am damn well going to say that (as anyone in a four block radius of me knows). I'm going to ask us to put those ideas to the test -- not to accept them blindly because they come from a successful woman, nor reject them on the same grounds.
You know why? Because that's how you figure out what the good ideas are, that's how we explore all the facets of a problem and avoid dead ends. And nothing in that process should scare us. I don't speak up because I'm contrary or, heaven forbid, "shrill." I don't take joy in opposing another women's ideas. But I don't see the point of silencing my thoughts for fear of being labeled any of those things. I loathe being distracted from the important conversations we should be having because we're scared of being called judgmental or divisive, and I want us to stop telling each other that we are.
Because here's what I believe to be true. We can be wrong. We can be right and people will still disagree with us. Sometimes we have opinions that are just that - opinions. I want us to be able to handle the dissonance that these complexities create and move on. There's nothing to be lost by acknowledging that our point of view might not be the best one. We lose nothing if someone says "I think there's a better way to accomplish X," unless we refuse to hear them. If there's a war on women, it isn't being waged by the women who speak up. It's being waged by those who want us to stay quiet.]]>A Marriage of Equalstag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.29923772013-04-01T12:42:35-04:002013-04-01T12:48:44-04:00Devon Cornealhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/devon-corneal/
Interestingly, not a single person ever told me to dedicate my time to finding a husband. Even my grandmother, who regularly encouraged me to get a boyfriend, and who may have secretly hoped I'd find my future partner in the halls of my alma mater, never suggested that I focus on securing someone to put a ring on my finger. I'm thankful that the people in my life thought I should spend my four years at an institute of higher education reading Moby Dick instead of planning a wedding.
This may explain why I find Susan Patton's cringe-worthy letter to the undergraduate women at Princeton (who she describes as "the daughters she never had") so shocking. Her advice, if you missed it, is as follows:
" . . . the cornerstone of your future and happiness will be inextricably linked to the man you marry, and you will never again have this concentration of men who are worthy of you. Here's what nobody is telling you: Find a husband on campus before you graduate."
My grandmother is rolling over in her grave. I'd like to join her.
I have a long list of people to whom I think Patton should apologize. I'd start with the lesbians at Princeton, because if Patton is to be believed, their only shot at happiness is traditional marriage to Princeton men, which is likely not part of their plan. (Gay men will be OK under her plan, so long as they plan on living in one of the few states that authorize gay marriage.) She may also want to tell her youngest son, a junior at the school, that she's sorry. Patton clearly adores him, noting that "the universe of women he can marry is limitless," but I'd be surprised if he isn't being hazed within an inch of his life right now. No one wants their mother using the campus newspaper to search for a future daughter-in-law.
As a parent raising two boys, I'd like her to apologize to Princeton's male undergraduates for treating them like interchangeable commodities, and rather indiscriminate ones at that. In Patton's eyes, these young men have value only as future husbands and providers. They are complacent fish in a barrel, waiting to be hooked by their female peers. Yet, even as she sings the virtues of catching one of these highly educated men, Patton deems them shallow, noting that they "regularly marry women who are younger, less intelligent, less educated. It's amazing how forgiving men can be about a woman's lack of erudition, if she is exceptionally pretty." Seriously? Did she really pull out the old "guys are just looking for the hottest girl" rhetoric?
I think Patton should save her biggest mea culpa for the young women on campus who were exposed to what is, quite possibly, the worst advice I have ever read on the subject of marriage and happiness.
Patton cautions educated women to find a "smart" man, which she believes they are best equipped to do between the ages of 18 to 22 in the rarified world of a private university. Oh, and did I mention that Patton believes these young women can only date men one to three years older than they are? Once you're a senior, underclassmen are off limits. It's a tiny window ladies, better make the most of it.
As a woman who did not meet her husband until her early 30s, I think it is entirely possible to lead a happy, productive, and satisfying life if you leave college with a diploma, but not an engagement ring. Rather than scare tactics, I'd like to tell young women that you can find personal and professional happiness if you wait to find your life partner until after you've learned something about life. You will not die a desiccated old maid if you haven't married by your 30s or 40s or choose never to marry at all. You do not need a husband to be fulfilled, but if you choose to marry, the partners available to you are as vast as the ocean and one of life's many joys is in unexpectedly finding someone to love at a moment when you weren't looking for them.
There's plenty wrong with Patton's advice to young women today, but what troubles me most is how she distills marriage into a gendered and mercenary pursuit of a "smart" partner with the right pedigree. I wouldn't give that advice to daughters if I had them and I sure as hell won't give it to my sons, because not only do I think the essential truths of marriage are genderless, I also don't think "smart" people are any better at marriage than anyone else. Last time I checked, there isn't a university in the world that confers a degree in how to achieve a successful marriage. Not even Princeton.
If having intellectual conversations with your spouse is important to you, then Patton's advice to find someone with a similar educational background and "smarts" may be useful, but smarts aren't conferred by degrees. There are plenty of dullards with Ivy League diplomas, and brilliant minds at state schools, on farms and in art studios. Even if "smarts" matter, marriage is infinitely more complex than an IQ score, and we should make sure our children understand that.
So what will I tell my boys? The exact same thing I'd tell daughters if I had them. I'll say that marriage is hard and challenging and worth every minute if you pick the right partner. I'll say that the right partner isn't necessarily the person with the best education, multiple advanced degrees, a huge bank account or the straightest teeth. I'll encourage them to look for someone kind, generous, loyal, honest, supportive, passionate and loving and who believes in them even when they don't believe in themselves. When they wonder how they'll know who to marry, I'll ask them if the person they're with understands patience and compassion and trust. I'll awkwardly suggest that there is a difference between intimacy and romance and that both are important. I'll say that a true partnership should be able to withstand a fight, but shouldn't be riddled with battles. I intend to tell them that life is uncertain and likely to veer off course and there is a reason marriage vows contain promises to commit through sickness and health. I'll hold my tongue after I tell them that a successful marriage is made of respect, self-confidence, and laughter, all in equal measure. I won't ever once ask them where their partner went to school, or what their grades or SAT scores were. I'll say that there is no expiration date on finding love.
And I will remind them, over and over again, that no matter what anyone else may say, the cornerstone of their future happiness rests on no one but themselves. Who they are when they enter college and who they choose to be when they leave will determine the course of their lives. They may learn a lot in college, but that's really all they need to know.]]>Why You'll Never See Me At A 'Yo Gabba Gabba' Show Againtag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.29030872013-03-19T13:54:23-04:002013-05-19T05:12:01-04:00Devon Cornealhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/devon-corneal/
Brobee, Toodee and Plex,
I took my son and his friend to a "Yo Gabba Gabba Live" show a few weeks ago and have been meaning to write to you ever since, but it has taken me a while to put my feelings into words. Not since Barney and Mr. Roger's Neighborhood have I been so profoundly affected by children's entertainment. I'm not normally the type of person who writes to celebrities, so I hope you appreciate how intense my feelings are. I will never be the same again.
I hate you.
I know I shouldn't lash out at people whose jobs are designed only to bring joy and the occasional positive message to little children, but really, I hate you.
First, what is up with the ridiculous names and hideous costumes? How do the five of you jump around on stage in those rubberized suits without passing out? Y'all looked like Weebles (for those of you too young to know what I'm talking about, Weebles were only the BEST toy ever) but not in a good way. DJ Lance is the only one who escaped the indignity of looking like he had been shoved in a revamped Teletubbies outfit, but that orange jumpsuit makes him look like an escapee from a music video from the 1970's.
Then there was the music. I felt like my ears were bleeding. I don't know what was worse, the songs themselves or the maniacal mother behind me screeching the lyrics while her daughter put her hands over her ears and kicked the back of my chair. I couldn't tell if the girl was trying to block out the music or her mother, but in addition to the overpriced merchandise in the lobby, I could have used some earplugs. This is just a thought, but your audience is a bunch of preschoolers with delicate ears, so how about making sure they can still hear their parents yelling at them after the show? These are kids who can hear the sound of the cookie jar opening from three rooms away -- I guarantee they'll be able to follow "There's a Party in My Tummy" if you turn the volume down just a smidge.
Speaking of "There's a Party in My Tummy," is there any way to mix up the lyrics a bit? I know these are little kids who value repetition, but I'm pretty sure they can handle something more complex than the two line "There's a party in my tummy, so yummy, so yummy." I'd be happy to point you to some examples of music both kids and their parents can enjoy. How about Bare Naked Ladies' "Snacktime," The Laurie Berkner Band, Dan Zane, or Jack Johnson's "Curious George" soundtrack? You made a good choice though with Biz Markie. I never thought I'd be exposing my son to beatboxing at such an early age, but those ten minutes saved me from throwing myself over the balcony.
Most horrifying was how the adults behaved. I've been to college grunge concerts, frat parties and even a bridal sale at Filene's Basement and I've never seen people behave so badly. I was prepared for tantrums, meltdowns and the occasional stink-eye, but I expected them from the kids, not their caretakers. The adults in attendance shoved my kids out line, pushed past them on the stairs, and snapped at them while trying to get to their seats. They let their own children scream, cry, kick chairs and run around like maniacs. There was one dad whose son wailed through the entire show, calming down only during intermission when the music stopped. I know exactly how that kid felt. I wanted to tap his dad on the shoulder and say, "Hey, I know it's a drag, but this one just isn't going to work. Give your kid a break, suck up the $70 you spent on tickets and go get some ice cream."
To be fair, bad parental behavior isn't really your fault, but still. For a group that claims, in part, to promote prosocial behavior in kids, the audience was surprisingly hostile to the lessons from the stage.
And I understand that tours are how you make money and don't begrudge you some stuffed toys and t-shirts in the lobby. Both the boys got miniature Plex dolls to take home with them. Miniature, because I couldn't bear to pay for the larger versions. After spending over $100 on tickets, I had to limit the swag, not that you made that easy with your brightly colored goods strategically placed in every nook of the theater. You mixed things up too -- toys, shirts, glow sticks. Glow sticks? Are we at a Dead concert? I'd like to give a special shout out to the woman walking through the aisles to hawk merchandise in case we missed it in the lobby, on the landing and right outside the theater doors. She miraculously arrived with a pile of glow sticks right when you were singing the song about being afraid of the dark. What are the chances?
I give you credit. You go out on stage with energy and enthusiasm and the kids loved it. My IQ may have dropped 15 points, but no one can say you don't deliver a show where kids can shake their sillies out. That being said, I've learned my lesson. Until my kids are old enough to appreciate Matchbox 20, we'll skip the concerts.
Sincerely,
Devon "the cranky mom in Seat L20"]]>What I Know About Fear Now That I'm In My 40stag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.28627362013-03-15T12:37:49-04:002013-05-15T05:12:01-04:00Devon Cornealhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/devon-corneal/In her new book "Lean In," Sheryl Sandberg notes the ways in which fear can hold women back and the importance of pushing through that fear. She writes, "This book is what I would do if I weren't afraid." We asked women of different ages to share what they've learned about fear so far.
I wish I had good news for you. I wish I could tell you, on this side of grey hair and sagging boobs and the beginning of crows feet, that once you hit 40 you stop being afraid. You don't. I'd love to be able to tell you that age conquers your demons, insecurities, phobias, and your darkest nightmares. It doesn't. In fact, you might acquire some new ones along the way. I want to reassure you that 40 holds the key to stepping into life unafraid. Alas, I can't. My forties have brought me many things, but a cure for the things that go bump in the night is not one of them.
Ain't life grand?
But all is not lost. In between checking out my stretchmarks, bemoaning my wrinkles, and complaining about my new aches and pains, I've figured out that while I may not be able to conquer fear, I'm damn sure not going to spend the next forty years cowering in a corner.
Fear expands to fill the space you give it.
Fear is a lot like the crap I have in my kitchen junk drawer. No matter how large or small the space, the minute I my guard down the drawer fills with rubber bands, paper clips, broken tape dispensers, ballpoint pens, business cards, half-eaten chocolate bars and screwdrivers. I've discovered that junk and fear will fill up exactly as much real estate as I give them. If I'm not careful I'll end up on an episode of Hoarders. So, I've learned to stick my fears in a tiny closet and I try to be ruthless about cleaning it out.
You fear in proportion to how much you love.
When I was younger my fears were pretty benign. I worried that a boy wouldn't like me, that I wouldn't get the job I wanted, that I would say something stupid. (For those of you keeping track, the boy didn't like me, I didn't get the job, and I said many, many stupid things.) I had lots of little fears, but looking back, none of them really mattered. It was only after I got married and had kids that I figured out what true fear feels like, because the thought of something happening to my husband or kids can send me to my knees. Although I don't enjoy them, those moments remind me how lucky I am to have found a life that I'm scared enough to lose.
Getting older isn't worth being afraid of.
Wrinkles, muffin top, and grey hair aren't really that scary. I know, because I have all three and, while not ideal, it is not worth losing sleep over. Mostly because a lack of sleep is just going to give you circles under your eyes to go with the wrinkles, but also because we're all going to get old. Which is what made me realize that . . .
You can't waste time being afraid of things that are going to happen.
You are going to get old. You are going to get wrinkly. You will die. If you are afraid of those things you will spend thousands of dollars of anti-aging surgery, lotions, potions and pills and will likely end up one of those creepy people with puffy lips and plastic skin. This is not a good outcome. Please, save your money and go on a fabulous vacation or buy yourself a killer set of earrings. Invest in something worthwhile instead of wringing your hands over something that you can't control.
If you have time to be afraid, you have time to do something productive. Get off your ass.
I recently had a little melty one night over something I was scared might happen. My husband, who is in so many ways wiser than I am, let me have a cry, then encouraged me to get a grip. He suggested that rather than waste time being afraid of something that hadn't occurred (and, in the end, did not come to pass), I make a plan to deal with the potential bad thing. It was great advice. If you have time for anxiety, fear or even terror, you have time to get up out and find something useful to do. Seriously - go volunteer, give blood, make a plan, do some laundry, walk your neighbor's dog, make cookies for your local firehouse, call a friend, garden or play with your kids/grandkids. Keeping busy will distract you (remember - fear takes up as much space as you let it), and something good comes of it. Do not be a slave to your fear.
Fear makes people do stupid, destructive things.
The older I get, the less time I have to waste on niceties. So here's some tough love - when you feel afraid, be careful, because you're one step away from hurting yourself or other people. In my forties, I've seen this most often happen in divorces. The story usually goes something like this: one spouse is afraid of being alone/being poor/being judged/being left/being humiliated/not ever finding someone else to love/being replaced/[insert scary thing of your choice here], so instead of owning his or her fear, that person lashes out. They say things they will regret, insist on ugly court battles, and use their children as weapons or shields. Their fear controls them and they slash and burn years of relationships, financial capital and self-respect. Fear is powerful and scary, but how you act because of that fear can be even more destructive.
What other people think does not matter.
It does not matter, not even one iota, what anyone else thinks about you, your choices, your body, your job, your past, the car you drive, the college you went to (or didn't go to), the clothes you wear, the home you live in, the people you select as friends, the clubs you do or do not belong to, the addictions you fight, or the beliefs you hold. The only thing that matters is what you think about those things. Fearing other people's judgment or disapproval is like being afraid of air. It's always there even when you can't see it. So it's best to get on with things.
You are stronger than your fear
You are. Believe it. I know a yoga teacher who tells her students, "Look that pose in the eye and make it your bitch." I like to think the same about fear.
]]>The Pursuit of Happinesstag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.28059822013-03-04T12:35:53-05:002013-05-04T05:12:01-04:00Devon Cornealhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/devon-corneal/
"I just want my children to be happy."
Some people coo the words earnestly, leaning forward with clasped hands to emphasize how important their children's happiness is. Others are more off-handed, breezily noting in the midst of conversation that life isn't so serious, and happiness is easy to achieve -- if we just let our children find their bliss. Others voice their hopes in a whisper, afraid that too brazenly asking for happiness might tempt fate to deliver exactly the opposite.
It surprises me that we often talk of happiness as if it's a profession, wishing our children could be happy in the same way we'd like our daughters and sons to be doctors or teachers or engineers. Hoping, maybe, that with enough hard work, schooling and practice, they can get Ph.D.'s in joy and contentment. "Look at her," we'd all say, "that's so-and-so's oldest. She's happy."
It's natural to want see our children contented or giddy with excitement. I love watching my boys laugh at a joke or find pleasure in spending time together. I'm secretly pleased that our basement is not soundproofed so I can hear my stepson yelling with his friends when they play video games or overhear Little Dude's monologues as he builds a new train track. The moments when they are giddy make me smile and let me know we're not completely failing as parents. I hope they have a million perfect moments throughout their lives.
That said, when I think of what I genuinely want for these boys, happiness is not the first thing that comes to mind. If I had to choose one thing to teach them, it would not be "how to be happy."
I hope saying so does not make me a bad parent.
It certainly seems to put me at odds with an avalanche of books suggesting that happiness should be our primary objective. Everyone from the Dalai Lama to Gretchen Rubin has advice on how to be happy. And it's all useful and helpful if what you are seeking is more joy. Which, oddly enough, I'm not.
It's not that I want my kids to grow up depressed or miserable. I hope they avoid lives of quiet desperation. There's no need for them to dress themselves in sack cloth and deny themselves the pleasures of the world. I won't roll my eyes or disapprove if they are occasionally punch-drunk-off-the-rails-out-of-their-minds euphoric or if they call me to tell me how happy they are. (I do hope when they call they aren't actually wasted though, because drunk-dialing is just annoying.)
But what I've learned is that happiness is easy to attain in short bursts, but hard to maintain over time. It's like the snow you catch in your hands -- it eventually melts. I am happy when I've had a tiny bit too much to drink, find the perfect chocolate, or get to sleep past 7 in the morning. I have had happy moments both big and small. But the pleasure I get from these things ebbs and flows -- I can wake up happy and then have a perfectly miserable day. So I don't know how to encourage my children to set out on a quest for something that ephemeral.
So if happiness isn't the goal, what is? For me, it's a sense of purpose. If I had my way (which, alas, I rarely do), the Declaration of Independence would promise us "Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Meaning" instead of the "Pursuit of Happiness." No offense to Thomas Jefferson and the founding fathers. Bang up job. Really. But happiness seems like a pretty transitory thing to spend a life chasing.
Meaning, on the other hand, endures. A life can contain a thousand happy moments, but it may not be a life well lived. The search for joy or pleasure alone doesn't seem to be much to be proud of. Hedonists can be happy, but I don't know many parents who want a life of selfish indulgence for our kids. A life committed to a goal, even it means you struggle and fail and ask, "What the hell am I doing?" -- that's a life to celebrate. It's a journey that may require you to sacrifice your own happiness or well-being, as any parent on the wrong end of a sleepless night will tell you, but the rewards far outweigh whatever small moments of happiness you may miss.
Where happiness can be shortsighted and narcissistic, meaning takes the long-view. Where happiness often focuses on what we get or take from other people, meaning is about what we give to them. Where happiness is enjoyable, meaning gives you reserves to get through hard things.
In an uncertain world, I need all the reserves I can get and I think my kids will too.
I have no idea where my children will find meaning. Maybe they'll discover it in church, a cause, a profession or a calling. I just hope that they do. Because I found meaning when I became a parent. I also found happiness, but even though I love my boys dearly, not every day is filled with sunshine and singing. I am not always "happy," because sometimes parenting is hard, but the purpose I find in it gets me through the more challenging moments. Being a parent gives my life meaning and helps me persevere through the difficult, because I know every sacrifice is an intentional choice to invest in someone other than myself with the hope that their life will be better for it. I may not always be cheerful, but my life is rich and full and better than I could have ever dreamed it would be. One day, I want my children to be able to say that too.
So the next time someone says, "I just want my kids to be happy," I'll secretly hope that mine won't be. I want them to find something more. And, oddly enough, that would make me happy.]]>What's in a Name?tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.27670412013-02-26T14:02:20-05:002013-04-28T05:12:01-04:00Devon Cornealhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/devon-corneal/
Imagine my surprise when my husband wanted a say in the process. Did he not understand that I was fully prepared to handle the name thing alone?
Naming a child can be an intimate experience -- full of promise and hope and meaning. It is also a public act -- a choice to mark your child with a moniker he or she will carry throughout their life. Sometimes it can be surprisingly polarizing. I recently met someone who gave his child the middle name "Danger." I spent most of our conversation wondering if I should have given Little Dude a better middle name, like "Ninja" or "Beware!" (With the exclamation point, of course.) Then there's the girl in Iceland who had to sue to have her name recognized because it wasn't on the official government registry of approved baby names. I won't be moving to Iceland any time soon -- I prefer a country where people can name their kid Moon Unit.
I love my son's name. His dad and I spent a considerable amount of time picking it out, and oddly enough, his name wasn't on any of my hundreds of prior lists. With all that effort, you'd think I'd be shouting it from the rooftops. You'd be wrong.
When I write about my son, I call him Little Dude. His name is not, of course, Little Dude, but I won't tell you what it is. I can tell you that it is not Gavin, which would have been my stepson's choice. I'm not sure he's forgiven us yet.
I use a nickname to give Little Dude some semblance of privacy as I tell stories about his childhood. Some readers find the alias endearing; others loathe it. One person called me paranoid for refusing to use his real name. But it isn't paranoia that drives my decision, it's respect. I write about being a parent because I value the connections I make with other people when I share stories. I find solace, validation, comfort, advice, and humor in other people's journeys and hope they find the same in mine. Parenting can be isolating and confidence shaking, and I like knowing I'm not in it alone. Yet in sharing my experiences, I draw the line at using my son's name or picture. I feel obligated to protect his identity until he's old enough to understand what I do and to decide if he wants his life shared with strangers. He's going to have to learn to accept, however, that between the ages of 0 and 6 his stories belong to me. The horse is already out of the barn on that one.
I don't know that there's a perfect answer. We all know that the very act of storytelling exposes our families to public examination, but we chronicle our lives publicly anyway. How we tell those stories is as personal choice as our decisions about what to share. Some writers reveal their children's names and publish family snapshots. I get that. I'm not even convinced that there's any real harm when the stories are cute or touching or sentimental or even embarrassing, although I wonder if my son will agree with me on that last one.
When the stories are darker, however, I think the lines have to be more conservatively drawn. I could not stop reading Liza Long's brave and tragic piece about her struggle with her son's mental health issues, but I still shudder when I think that she posted a picture of her 13-year-old son and called him a violent potential killer on the national stage. I don't doubt the truth of what she wrote, and I don't question her motives in sharing her story. I also think she exposed her son to the world in a way that can never be undone.
And that's the heart of my decision to hide my son behind a nickname and stock photos. The web has a finality and permanency that is easy to ignore. Stories and pictures can't be erased -- isn't that what we're trying to teach our kids about Facebook? So, even though my (and his) stories have so far been light and happy fare, no one gets to know my kid's name or see his picture until he's old enough to understand what I do and agrees that I can share that information. And maybe not even then. Because along with getting to name him, I also get to veto choices he might want to make. For now, I'll err on the side of anonymity in the hopes that some enterprising HR person Googling his name for a background check won't discover that his history of projectile vomiting and poor church attendance. And I'll cross my fingers that those are the darkest stories I'll ever have to tell.]]>A Parent By Any Other Nametag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.27186072013-02-19T14:41:46-05:002013-04-21T05:12:02-04:00Devon Cornealhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/devon-corneal/
Whatever happened to just being a middle-of-the-road mom? Can you try to feed your kid organic food, but still let them have a Nutter Butter? Can you insist on bedtime routines, but occasionally let your kids stay up late and or let them sleep in their superhero costumes? When did the rules become so rigid and extreme? I'd like to start a new club called the "I think I'm doing this ok but I might be wrong, but that's ok too and maybe you'd like to join me group." We meet every Wednesday night after the kids are asleep. And if you're late because your kid was on a sugar high and you caved and read her 10 stories instead of two because you didn't have the strength to argue, that's ok. We'll save some wine for you.
Sometimes I wonder how our parents and grandparents survived without a clearly defined parenting philosophy. We are all lucky to be alive.
It isn't that I dislike labels. I find them really useful when I'm shopping for the right size clothes, the shampoo that won't dry out my hair and my favorite tomato soup. I'm less comfortable clumping parents together into groups based on "parenting style." I have always thought people were different than groceries. Maybe I'm buying the wrong soup.
Labels can be handy. I occasionally call myself a "working mom." It's easy, accurate, and helps people understand why I'm frustrated when yet another lacrosse game is scheduled for four in the afternoon. But I also think labels are simplistic and reductionist. Sure, they give us a way to categorize, evaluate and choose among various options. At the same time, they make it easier to judge or criticize or demean another person for choosing a different path. I think that does all parents a disservice.
Parenting is complicated -- labels are easy.
Labels also change. They fade and tear and fall off. They become obsolete. They are replaced by newer, brighter, shinier logos. The product gets rebranded and gets a new celebrity spokesperson. This is as true for parenting as it is for anything we buy in a store. French parenting is all the rage this week -- next month something new will be on the shelves to tempt us.
I understand the desire to adopt a label that says, "I am this type of parent. I do these types of things." Who doesn't want to belong? Wouldn't it be easier to use someone else's perfected techniques to raise our kids rather than struggling through each day trying to figure out sleep routines, feeding, and activities on our own? There are plenty of reasons to buy a parenting book, take a seminar (did you know there are seminars!?), find a support group or adopt a particular parenting strategy. I used to have a shelf of books designed to help me decide how to vaccinate my son and how to make babyfood. I wanted information and I wanted a lot of it. Now, I know more about vaccines than I ever imagined and I make a mean vanilla applesauce.
If you find yourself concerned, confused, scared or uncertain, get yourself a parenting book and read it from cover to cover. Before you become overwhelmed and overtired and overworked, pick up the phone and call your most fervent parenting acquaintances. If you have questions -- ask. If you don't like the answers you get, ask again. There is a wealth of information out there on everything from colic to breastfeeding to tantrums to teenage rebellion. We should use it. But use what you need and feel free to leave the rest behind. Just because a certain parenting method says it is imperative to breastfeed or co-sleep or let your kids cry it out or set firm boundaries or let your kids walk to school when they're five or never let them see you cry does not mean you have to do it. You can chart your own path because, and this is important, no one else has ever raised your kids before.
You know when your parents told you to stand out from the crowd -- to challenge conformity and be your own person? It was true when you were 13 and it's more important now. Refuse to be constrained by someone else's idea of how you should parent. Reject the idea that someone else is doing it better just because they have a philosophy or plan. Remember that long before there were labels, there were parents raising generations of kids.
There are two things that most parenting styles have in common. The first is that every single one of them has the same goal -- to raise happy, healthy children. We all want the same thing, no matter the label we choose -- or don't choose. The second is that no matter what type of parent you decide to be, you're still a parent first. No label can change that.]]>To Know Is Human, To Comprehend, Divinetag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.26634072013-02-11T13:25:55-05:002013-04-13T05:12:01-04:00Devon Cornealhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/devon-corneal/
My teenage stepson, like most high schoolers, asks fewer questions. But because he's in the midst of big life changes like dating, driving and thinking about college, my husband and I pepper our conversations with information we think he needs to hear. We aim for subtle and hope to penetrate his independent adolescent mind. While driving him to a friend's house, we may note casually, "It's best to keep both hands on the steering wheel at all times," or "Pump the brakes gently when stopping in the snow." We dispense relationship advice during movies, like "We know Bond is cool, but he has lousy taste in women. They're hot, it's true, but you can do better." When he catches us trying to respond to email when we shouldn't be, we nod and say, "Yes! A cell phone is not a substitute for real human interaction." We try for funny like, "College is a time when you learn to balance freedom with hedonism, so in between the parties you have to study," and "Gatorade and a protein bar do not constitute a meal." He definitely does not think we know everything, but we keep talking. Just call me Sisyphus.
I think we're giving the boys good advice. Together, we have over 80 years of grey hair, mistakes, successes, hard knocks and embarrassments to pull from. But late at night, once they're asleep, I worry. And an explanation for my anxiety came from an unexpected source.
Last week, when former New York Mayor Ed Koch passed away, a friend posted a quote of his on her Facebook page. The late mayor once said to a reporter who badgered him about a particular answer: "I can explain it to you, but I can't comprehend it for you."
While I never expected that a lifelong bachelor with no kids would give me the best piece of parenting advice I've ever gotten, there it was.
Not that Koch meant to help me with his flippant put-down of an annoying journalist. But I take wisdom wherever I can get it, and I read his words as a reminder about what I can do for my kids, and more importantly, what I can't.
Because here's the thing: We can give our kids information, we can lay before them a buffet of facts, observations, war stories and personal experience, but we can't process it for them. We can't comprehend it for them. By some magical alchemy they will have to take what's available to them and make sense of it on their own. Or not. It's the "or not" that keeps me up at night.
Comprehension, I remind myself, often only comes after failure or pain or mistakes. I hate to see my kids suffer. I give them information to help them avoid pitfalls. I cringe when they make mistakes, but I know in some circumstances it's the only way they'll really "get" something. I didn't understand the immense responsibility involved in driving a car until I had my first car accident. (Yes, I did say "first." Let's just move on, OK? I'm trying to teach a teenager to drive and I'd rather focus on my stellar driving record over the past decade.) I didn't know why it was so important to be both kind and honest in relationships until I treated someone badly. I learned how to balance frat parties and 8 a.m. classes only after a dismal first semester at college. (In all fairness, I actually learned not to take 8 a.m. classes, but sometimes we learn the wrong lessons. That's part of the process too.) It wasn't that I didn't have information about all those things before they happened, but I didn't grasp the bigger picture until I made some mistakes. I expect it will be the same for my kids.
As parents, we may think our job is to fill our kids with facts, tiny protectors from hardship, but there aren't enough warnings in the world to prepare them for the challenges ahead. Even if we could, would we want to? Facing those challenges is the best way -- and frankly, the only way -- for them to understand the messiness and purpose and joy of life. Life is about more than data; it's about experiences and the feelings you can't explain and the moments when you see things clearly for the first time. Our job as parents is to be here when they finally appreciate everything we were trying to tell them and, rather than an "I told you so," remind them what Albert Einstein said: "Any fool can know. The point is to understand."
]]>Bye, Bye Babytag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.26154632013-02-04T11:30:47-05:002013-04-06T05:12:01-04:00Devon Cornealhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/devon-corneal/
Still, the minute they left, I turned to my husband and said, "Thank God, we only had one baby."
The adorable ball of sweetness, rather than triggering my instinct to pop out a sibling for Little Dude, reminded me of all the reasons I do NOT want to have another. The constant vigilance, bottles, drool, inexplicable cries, making baby food, diaper bags, diaper pails, diapers, the lack of time to myself, talking in sing-song voices and wondering if I will ever again take a shower that lasts more than two minutes. I love my son and treasure every stage of his life, but I'm glad his infancy is in the rearview mirror.
I don't think my take on this is unreasonable. Nor does my husband, who likes to sleep in even more than I do. We seem to be in the minority. At one time or another, nearly everyone we know (and plenty of people we don't) has told us we should have another baby.
It was worse when Little Dude was younger. For years, near strangers would stop me to encourage me to get pregnant. Toy stores, the gym, the park -- no place was sacred. The grocery store was the worst. Waiting to ring up my weekly haul became an exercise in politely deflecting unwanted advice from the efficient, but intrusive, Nosey Cashier.
Nosey Cashier: "Hey cute boy! Your boy is cute!"
Me: (smiling) "Thanks so much."
Nosey Cashier: "You having another one? "
Me: (hoping that a short response would end the conversation and show that our family was just what it should be) "Nope, we're done."
Nosey Cashier: "What? You can't stop at one. It's selfish. This boy needs a little brother or sister. That isn't right."
Me: (panicking and trying to pay as quickly as humanly possible while fumbling for my keys and preventing Little Dude from stealing candy from the register) "Oh, well, you know. Ummm, thanks. Have a great day!"
I know why I don't want more kids. I want to sleep. I enjoy one on one time with my son without the distraction of another baby. I like having my body back and I don't miss feeling like my sole purpose in life is to make milk for an infant who doesn't appreciate the sacrifice. My husband and I are re-familiarizing ourselves with date nights. I'm planning a mommy/son trip to visit an old friend this spring and for the first time in years my packing list does not include wipes, a diaper bag or a stroller.
We also have my teenage stepson. I don't know that his existence would placate Nosey Cashier -- he's twelve years older than Little Dude and will be heading off to college just as his younger brother starts first grade -- but he is a fabulous big brother. Still, even if he wasn't part of our family, we would have stopped at one.
I have never, not even once, wanted another baby.
This isn't to say I haven't considered Nosey Cashier's position. I've wondered if, in fact, I'm being selfish by not having another kid. I guess it depends on how you define selfish. If it means I take into account and value my own needs and desires, then yes, I'm guilty as charged. But selfish doesn't necessarily mean cold or heartless. Looking after your own well-being isn't just prudent, it's essential. There's a reason the emergency procedures in airplanes tell you to put on your own oxygen mask before helping anyone else, including your kids. I'm no good to anyone strung-out, stressed or overwhelmed. There are people who were meant to have lots of kids. I am not one of them. That doesn't bother me in the slightest.
What does trouble me are the assumptions underlying the baby-pushers' advice. They seem to fall into two camps. The first is that we're on our way to creating a spoiled monster -- the dreaded "only child." I've considered carrying around a picture of Franklin Roosevelt or Chelsea Clinton in my purse to hold up when these conversations happen. (Lance Armstrong used to be on my list, but, well, you know.) Believe me, we take this one seriously, but I'm sure we can put an end to any narcissism or self-centered behavior without having to set up another college savings plan. We've got help on this front. When my then 4-year-old told his cousin that his job was to drink the juice box and hers was to pick it up and throw it out, he discovered how little tolerance anyone in our family has for a sense of entitlement.
The second assumption, which bothers me more, is that by refusing to have another child, I'm scarring my son by denying him a companion and future best friend. I think a close sibling bond is amazing -- but it's not a sure thing. For every friend I have who relies on her brother or sister, there is one who can go months or years without talking to hers. There's no guarantee that a baby would grow into Little Dude's best friend or alter ego. My "little" brother and I aren't close -- he's a very good person, a kind father, and I admire that he doesn't have a mean bone in his body -- but we don't have weekly telephone calls and we rarely see each other. I love him, but I'm not his confidant and he's not mine. I have high hopes that Little Dude and Awesome Stepson will grow up to be friends as well as brothers -- they're well on their way -- but even if I knew that wouldn't happen, it wouldn't change my mind.
I think you should have a baby when your family feels incomplete without another person in it. I don't think you should have a baby to create a playmate, to keep your firstborn in check or to make sure your child can ask someone else to pay for half of your nursing home bills.
In the end, we can only do what we think is best for our family, which means my husband and I are done with diapers and bottles. Neither of us regrets putting the infant and toddler years behind us and I have no pangs when I donate Little Dude's outgrown clothing and baby paraphernalia. My nostalgia as I remember my son wearing a favorite shirt or playing with a well-loved toy is tempered by an equal dose of liberation and excitement. I take that as a sign that we've created exactly the family we are meant to have.]]>Qué no debe decirse a una madre trabajadoratag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.25814242013-01-31T02:25:53-05:002013-04-01T05:12:01-04:00Devon Cornealhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/devon-corneal/las cosas que no deben decirse a las madres que no trabajan fuera. Habría bastado con que citara cualquier cosa de las que ha escrito Elizabeth Wurtzel en el último año, pero eso habría sido demasiado fácil. Por el contrario, Shearn elaboró una lista que era divertida e inteligente y que señalaba aspectos muy acertados. Y eso me hizo recordar las preguntas o los comentarios que he oído sobre las madres trabajadoras. No creo que nadie se proponga ser grosero ni criticar, pero me ha sorprendido lo que personas bienintencionadas y, en general, consideradas, dicen a las madres que no se quedan en casa a cuidar de sus hijos. Se vislumbra en sus palabras una hostilidad, una crítica sutil, que me hace desear que la gente pensara antes de hablar.
(Antes de que nadie se ponga nervioso, que quede claro que apoyo por completo y sin reservas a las madres que deciden quedarse en casa. Son mujeres que trabajan. Trabajan mucho. Han tomado una decisión válida y maravillosa, así que, por favor, dejen de asesinarme con la mirada. Hay días en los que las envidio más de lo que se pueden ustedes figurar.)
¿No te puedes permitir no trabajar?
Supongamos por un instante que no puedo. Imaginemos que trabajo para ayudar a pagar la hipoteca, y hacer la compra, y enviar a nuestros hijos a la universidad. ¿Y qué? Qué conversación tan incómoda, ¿verdad? Ahora te pregunto yo cuánto dinero gana tu marido para que tú puedas permitirte no trabajar. Mejor no meternos en estos líos.
O digamos que me puedo permitir no trabajar. La pregunta supone que el motivo por el que trabajo es meramente económico. Cosa que es en parte, sin duda. Si pudiera ganar dinero viendo televisión basura y haciendo yoga todo el día, lo preferiría. Pero como no es así, tengo un trabajo mas tradicional; sin embargo, no es solo cuestión de dinero. Valoro mi educación y los años que he dedicado a mi carrera. Creo que es positivo para nuestros hijos ver que trabajo fuera de casa para que sepan que una mujer no tiene que limitarse a ser esposa y madre. También sé que, un día, nuestros hijos se irán a la universidad o a emprender sus propias vidas, y quiero seguir metida en el mundo laboral para que, cuando llegue ese momento, no me encuentre con un gran agujero en mi currículum y que me sea más difícil encontrar empleo entonces. También me gusta la igualdad que existe en mi matrimonio, porque ganamos dinero tanto mi marido como yo. Esa es mi opinión. Y esta pregunta en concreto devalúa todas esas consideraciones y, por consiguiente, mis decisiones. Por favor, no me la hagas.
Daría lo que fuera por descansar de mis hijos un día entero.
Si lo dices de verdad, me encantaría ayudarte a actualizar tu currículum. ¡Puedes descansar de tus hijos todo el día, todos los días! Por supuesto, esa "libertad" implica sentirse culpable por no estar con ellos y preguntarse si están bien porque están en casa con una niñera o en la guardería. Ir a trabajar cada mañana y decir adiós a mi hijo que está en la ventana del cuarto de baño de arriba no es un día en el spa. Es como hacer un triatlón. Cada día comienza con un chapuzón de agua helada, seguido de carreras para asegurarse de que todo el mundo llegue bien y a tiempo al colegio o al trabajo y luego un recorrido en bicicleta de ocho horas, para culminar con una media maratón de cena, deberes, baños y el ritual de ir a la cama. Durante el recorrido en bicicleta, no solo se espera que pedalees fuerte, sino que además tienes que atender llamadas de teléfono del colegio, la niñera y el médico, responder a invitaciones de cumpleaños, salir rápidamente a comprar material para un trabajo de pintura y manualidades, encargar la compra y unos vaqueros nuevos por internet y acordarte de devolver los libros de la biblioteca, porque todo hay que hacerlo YA. Con suerte, puede que quede algo de vino abierto en la nevera.
Echaría demasiado de menos a mi hijo si estuviera todo el día sin verle.
Lo sé. Lo entiendo a la perfección. Pero se supera. Porque no tienes más remedio.
El problema actual de este país es que las madres no se quedan tanto como debieran en casa a cuidar de sus hijos.
¿Verdad? ¡No puedo estar más de acuerdo! Eh, un momento. Me parece que no te refieres a la necesidad de permisos de maternidad y paternidad pagados, horarios flexibles de trabajo ni teletrabajo, ¿no? Ni te vas a manifestar en apoyo de los padres trabajadores (porque a algunos padres también les gustaría pasar más tiempo con sus hijos) para que puedan tomar las decisiones más apropiadas para sus familias, ¿verdad? Lo único que quieres es que las madres se queden en casa. Es posible que esas personas estén mejor viviendo bajo una nube de presión económica o psicológica que les obligue a adoptar una visión tradicional de la familia, pero no lo creo. Si vuelvo a ver otro comentario de que las familias en las que trabajan los dos están deteriorando el tejido de la sociedad, voy a volverme loca. Que yo sepa, nadie en mi familia ha disparado jamás a nadie, ha robado nada, ha hecho trampas en un examen, se ha saltado un semáforo ni ha tirado ni siquiera un papel por la calle. Pero claro, llevo toda la mañana trabajando, así que puede ser que las cosas hayan cambiado desde la hora del desayuno.
¿Por qué tuviste hijos si luego dejas que los críe otra persona?
Esto es algo que me han dicho varias personas. Que le han dicho a amigas mías. Menos mal que no tenía el poder de reducirlas a cenizas con el rayo de láser de mi mirada. Si me lo vuelves a decir, te remitiré al primer apartado a propósito de los motivos por los que trabajo fuera de casa. Y después te pediré que seas UN POCO MENOS CRÍTICA, MUCHAS GRACIAS. Tuve a mi hijo porque sentía en todas las fibras de mi ser la necesidad de ser madre y teníamos la sensación de que nuestra familia estaba incompleta sin otra persona en ella. Querer y criar a un hijo no es incompatible con tener ayuda para hacerlo. Estamos agradecidos y orgullosos de contar con personas maravillosas que nos ayudan, desde familiares y amigos hasta profesores y niñeras. Pero que quede claro que somos mi marido y yo quienes estamos criando a nuestros hijos. No estamos en casa todos los días, pero tenemos presencia en las vidas de nuestros hijos en todo momento.
No sé cómo lo haces. Debe de ser muy difícil.
Lo es. No sé cómo lo hago. Pero no creo que sea porque trabajo, creo que es porque educar a los hijos es difícil, tanto si te quedas en casa como si vas a la oficina. No sé cómo lo hace nadie. Es algo magnífico y lleno de compensaciones y de amor, y es lo más difícil que he hecho jamás. Compaginar los hijos con cualquier otra cosa, ya sea un trabajo remunerado, llevar la casa o encontrar tiempo para ver la televisión, es casi imposible.
Debes de ser muy organizada para poder compaginar todo.
Esta afirmación me produce una reacción de amor/odio. Al principio me halaga. Creo que soy organizada. Luego recuerdo que estoy al borde de una crisis de nervios, con nada que vuelva a perder las llaves. Tengo calcetines desparejados, mi hijo se ha ido al colegio con mermelada en la cara y llevo una semana sin hacer ejercicio. Tengo pilas de libros y ropa y no sé qué más en mi dormitorio. Ayer me olvidé de una llamada importantísima y perdí el pase para ir al planetario. Cada día fallo en algo. NO existe el equilibrio. Solo un caos minuciosamente controlado. Vamos, como la vida de cualquier otra persona.
Siempre habrá tiempo para trabajar más adelante; sus primeros años son demasiado valiosos.
Todos sus años son valiosos. ¿Y por qué no se le dice esto a los padres?
Tienes aspecto de estar exhausta.
¡Vaya! ¡Gracias! ¿Quieres regalarme un día de spa? ¿Y cuidar a mi hijo para que yo pueda relajarme? ¿No? Entonces finjamos que mis ojeras no se ven.
Por lo menos, atesorarás cada minuto que pases con su hijo.
Bueno, quizá no todos. Porque a veces mi hijo es un pequeño monstruo, y yo llego a casa a la hora de las brujas, justo a tiempo para obligarle a comerse las zanahorias, lavarse los dientes e irse a la cama. Que, como cualquier padre sabe, es sin duda la hora más relajante del día. Por eso tengo siempre una botella de vino en la nevera. A pesar de eso, por supuesto, adoro el tiempo que paso con mis hijos, pero me cuesta creer que sería distinto si estuviera más en casa.
¿No te preocupa pensar que estás perdiéndose cosas?
Cada día. Pero entonces mi hijo viene corriendo a mis brazos cuando le voy a buscar al colegio, y se sube a mi cama por la mañana para decirme que soy "la mejor mamá del mundo", y sé que todo saldrá bien.
Traducción de María Luisa Rodríguez Tapia.]]>Cosa non dire a una madre che lavoratag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.25805732013-01-30T07:51:43-05:002013-04-01T05:12:01-04:00Devon Cornealhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/devon-corneal/una lista di cose da non dire alle madri che stanno a casa. Avrebbe potuto limitarsi a citare una cosa qualunque che Elisabeth Wurtzel ha scritto nell'ultimo anno, ma sarebbe stato troppo facile.
Shean, invece, ha elaborato una lista divertente, intelligente, che punta nella direzione giusta. Il che mi ha fatto pensare alle domande o ai commenti che ho sentito esprimere sulla condizione di madre che lavora. Non penso che qualcuno si proponga deliberatamente di essere sgarbato o giudicante, ma mi ha sorpreso sentire cosa dicono persone benintenzionate e generalmente cortesi alle madri che non stanno tutto il tempo a casa con i loro figli. In alcune di queste affermazioni c'è una sottile ostilità o una forma di giudizio che mi induce spesso a desideare che tutti si fermino a pensare prima di parlare.
GUARDA LA GALLERY DEI 10 LAVORI CHE RENDONO LE MAMME FELICI IN FONDO ALLA PAGINA
(Prima che qualcuno s'infiammi, sappiate che io appoggio completamente e senza riserve le madri a tempo pieno. Lavorano. Lavorano sodo. Le loro scelte sono valide e degne di rispetto, perciò smettetela di guardarmi con occhi torvi. Ci sono giorni che le invidio più di quanto possiate sapere).
Non puoi permetterti di stare a casa?
Poniamo per un minuto che io non possa permettermelo. Immaginiamo che io lavori per pagare il mutuo, per riuscire a fare la spesa e per mandare i figli all'università. Come proseguirebbe questa conversazione? Sarebbe imbarazzante, no? Subito dopo mi ritroverò a chiedervi quanto guadagnano i vostri mariti per consentirvi di stare a casa. Facciamo un patto: non arriviamo a tanto.
Poi, poniamo che io possa permettermi di stare a casa. La domanda presume che il motivo per cui lavoro sia esclusivamente finanziario. In parte lo è, certo. Se potessi guadagnare denaro guardando pessime trasmissioni televisive e facendo yoga tutto il giorno, lo farei. Dato che non posso, mi dedico a un lavoro più tradizionale. Ma non si tratta solo di soldi. Do valore alla mia istruzione e agli anni che ho dedicato alla mia carriera. Penso che ai nostri ragazzi faccia bene vedermi lavorare fuori casa, così sapranno che una donna non è relegata al ruolo di moglie e madre.
So anche che un giorno o l'altro i nostri figli se ne andranno, per frequentare il college o avviare una loro carriera, e voglio tenere un piede nel mondo del lavoro cosicché, quando arriverà il momento, non mi troverò a fissare un grosso buco nel mio curriculum che renderebbe difficile trovare un impiego. Mi piace anche la parità che esiste nel mio matrimonio grazie al fatto che io e mio marito mettiamo entrambi dei soldi sul conto. Vale per me e non pretendo che valga per tutti. Ma questa domanda in particolare svaluta tutte queste considerazioni e, di conseguenza, le mie scelte. Per favore, non fatela.
Darei qualunque cosa per stare lontana dai miei figli un giorno intero.
Se dite sul serio, sarò felice di aiutarvi a sistemare il vostro curriculum. Potrete stare lontane dai vostri figli tutto il giorno, tutti i giorni! Naturalmente, insieme a quella "libertà", stare lontane da loro vi infonderà anche un senso di colpa, e vi chiederete se stanno bene dopo che li avrete affidati a un asilo o a una babysitter. Andare al lavoro ogni mattina e salutare i miei figli alla finestra del bagno di sopra non è come prepararsi a una giornata in un centro benessere. E' come una sorta di triathlon. Ogni giornata inizia con un tuffo mattutino nell'acqua gelida, quando tutti andiamo a scuola e al lavoro per affrontare una pedalata di otto ore, che culmina con una mezza maratona fatta di cena, compiti, bagno e preparazione per la notte.
Nella vostra pedalata non solo sarete tenute a faticare parecchio, ma dovrete anche rispondere a telefonate che arrivano dalla scuola, dalla babysitter, dal dottore, e rispondere a inviti per feste di compleanno, allungare la strada del ritorno per acciuffare al volo materiali per un progetto artistico, fare provviste e comprare un nuovo paio di jeans e ricordarsi di restituire i libri alla biblioteca perché tutto questo dev'essere fatto SUBITO. Se siete fortunate, è rimasto ancora un po' di vino in frigorifero.
Sentirei troppo la mancanza di mio figlio se stessi lontana da lui tutto il giorno.
Lo so. Lo capisco perfettamente. E' una cosa con cui s'impara a convivere. Perché bisogna conviverci.
Oggigiorno, il problema di questo paese è che poche mamme stanno a casa a crescere i loro figli.
Lo so! Non potrei essere più d'accordo. Beh, un attimo. Non state chiedendo a gran voce congedi genitoriali pagati, orari di lavoro flessibili o la possibilità di scegliere il telelavoro, vero? Non state manifestando per chiedere maggiore sostegno ai genitori che lavorano (perché - ammettiamolo - anche alcuni padri vorrebbero essere in condizione di trascorrere più tempo con i loro figli) in modo che possano fare le scelte giuste per le loro famiglie, vero? Volete solo che siano le madri a stare a casa. Può anche darsi che quelle famiglie vivrebbero meglio sotto una nube di problemi finanziari o di tensioni psicologiche pur di aderire a una visione tradizionale della famiglia, ma io non ci credo.
Se sento ancora commenti sul fatto che le famiglie in cui entrambi i genitori lavorano stanno minando il tessuto stesso della nostra società, perdo la testa. Stando alla mia ultima verifica, nessuno nella mia famiglia ha mai sparato a qualcuno, ha mai rubato qualcosa, ha mai imbrogliato a un esame, è mai passato con il semaforo rosso, né ha mai gettato rifiuti per strada. Ovviamente ho lavorato per tutta la mattina, quindi le cose potrebbero essere cambiate dopo colazione.
Perché hai fatto dei figli per poi lasciarli crescere da qualcun altro?
Diverse persone me l'hanno chiesto. Diverse persone l'hanno chiesto alle mie amiche. Per fortuna non possedevo il potere di incenerirle con il mio sguardo a raggi laser. Se sento di nuovo questa domanda, vi rimanderò al punto 1 per l'elenco dei motivi che mi inducono a lavorare fuori casa. E poi vi chiederò di essere UN FILO MENO GIUDICANTI, GRAZIE. Ho avuto Little Dude perché ogni fibra del mio essere voleva essere madre, e io e mio marito avevamo la sensazione che la nostra famiglia fosse incompleta senza un'altra persona.
Amare e crescere un bambino non è incompatibile con il fatto di avere un sostegno per farlo. Siamo riconoscenti e orgogliosi per l'aiuto che riceviamo da persone meravigliose: familiari e amici, insegnanti e babysitter. Ma statene certi: siamo io e mio marito a crescere i nostri figli. Non siamo a casa tutto il giorno ma siamo una presenza costante nelle vite dei nostri figli, in ogni momento.
Non so proprio come fai. Dev'essere dura.
Lo è. Non so come faccio. Ma non penso sia dura perché lavoro; penso sia dura perché essere genitori è difficile, sia che resti a casa, sia che tu esca per andare in ufficio. Non so come tutti noi riusciamo a farlo. E' una cosa meravigliosa, appagante, piena d'amore, ed è la cosa più difficile che abbia mai fatto. Trovare un equilibrio tra la gestione dei figli e qualunque altra cosa, che sia un lavoro retribuito o la cura della casa o trovare il tempo per guardare Honey Boo Boo, è quasi impossibile.
Devi essere molto organizzata per riuscire a gestire tutto.
Ho una reazione di amore/odio a questa affermazione. All'inizio mi crogiolo nel commento. Sono convinta di essere una persona oganizzata. Poi realizzo: un altro mazzo di chiavi perse e sono al tracollo. Ho delle calze spaiate, mio figlio è andato a scuola con la marmellata sulla faccia e non ho fatto ginnastica per tutta la settimana. La mia stanza è disseminata di pile di libri e abiti e chissà cos'altro. Ieri ho dimenticato una conference call e ho perso il modulo per l'autorizzazione della visita al planetario. Ogni giorno mi scivola via qualcosa. Non c'è un equilibrio impeccabile. Solo un caos attentamente controllato. Più o meno come la vita di tutti.
C'è sempre tempo per lavorare quando i figli sono grandi. I primi anni sono troppo preziosi.
Tutti gli anni sono preziosi. E perché la gente non dice questa cosa ai padri?
Sembri esausta.
Caspita, grazie! Vuoi regalarmi una giornata al centro benessere? E vuoi anche badare ai miei figli così posso rilassarmi? No? Allora limitiamoci a fingere di non vedere le mie occhiaie.
Almeno tu fai tesoro di ogni minuto che passi con tuo figlio.
Beh, magari non proprio ogni minuto. Perché a volte Little Dude è un mostriciattolo e io torno a casa all'ora delle streghe, giusto in tempo per costringerlo a mangiare le sue carote, fargli lavare i denti e metterlo a letto. Il che - come qualunque genitore potrà confermare - non è il momento più rilassante della giornata. Ecco perché tengo sempre una bottiglia di vino in frigorifero. Ciononostante, com'è ovvio, faccio tesoro del tempo che passo con i miei figli, ma stento a credere che sarebbe diverso se non lavorassi.
Non hai paura di perderti qualcosa?
Ogni giorno. Ma poi mio figlio corre ad abbracciarmi quando lo vado a prendere a scuola, e la mattina salta nel mio letto per dirmi "sei la mamma migliore del mondo", e so che andrà tutto bene.
]]>Ce qu'il ne faut pas dire à une mère qui travailletag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.25810982013-01-30T03:11:54-05:002013-03-31T05:12:01-04:00Devon Cornealhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/devon-corneal/liste de choses qu'il ne faut pas dire à des femmes au foyer.
Elle aurait pu se contenter de répéter n'importe quelle phrase écrite par Elisabeth Wurtzel l'an dernier, mais ça aurait été trop simple. Shearn a présenté une liste drôle, intelligente, et pertinente. Cela m'a fait réfléchir aux questions et commentaires que j'avais entendus en tant que mère qui travaille. Je ne pense pas que quiconque ait voulu se montrer impoli ou critique à dessein, mais j'ai été surprise des propos bien intentionnés tenus par les gens à des mères qui ne s'occupent pas de leurs enfants à plein temps. On y sent une subtile hostilité et une pointe de jugement telles que j'ai souvent souhaité que les gens réfléchissent avant de parler.
(Avant que quelqu'un se fasse une fausse idée, je précise que je soutiens à fond les mères au foyer. Elles travaillent. Elles travaillent dur. Elles font d'excellents choix, et je vous en prie, arrêter de me fixer comme ça. Il y a des jours où je les envie plus que vous ne l'imagineriez).
Tu ne peux pas te permettre de rester à la maison ?
Imaginons un instant que, non, je ne peux pas me le permettre. Imaginons que je travaille pour aider à rembourser le prêt, acheter à manger, et envoyer nos enfants à l'université. Comment va-t-on continuer cette conversation maintenant ? C'est embarrassant n'est-ce pas ? Le temps de réaliser, vous allez voir que je vais vous demander combien gagne votre mari pour vous permettre de rester à la maison. Mieux vaut ne pas en arriver là.
Imaginons ensuite que je puisse me permettre de rester à la maison. Cette question sous-entend que la raison pour laquelle je travaille est uniquement financière. Ce qui est en effet une des raisons. Si je pouvais gagner plus d'argent en regardant de la mauvaise téléréalité et en faisant du yoga toute la journée, je le ferais. Comme ce n'est pas possible, je fais un travail plus traditionnel - mais ce n'est pas qu'une question d'argent. Mes études et les années que j'ai consacrées à ma carrière comptent pour moi. Je pense que c'est bien que mes garçons me voient travailler hors de la maison, et qu'ils réalisent qu'une femme n'est pas faite que pour être épouse et mère. Je sais aussi qu'un jour, nos enfants iront à l'université et qu'ils se construiront eux-mêmes une carrière : je veux donc garder un pied dans le monde du travail pour que ce jour venu, je ne me retrouve pas à fixer ce gros trou dans mon CV, compliquant encore plus mes recherches d'emploi. J'aime aussi que l'idée d'égalité dans mon mariage parce que mon mari et moi mettons de l'argent à la banque. C'est mon humble avis. Mais cette simple question dévalorise toutes ces considérations, et donc, mes choix. Je vous en prie, ne faites pas cela.
Je ferais n'importe quoi pour pouvoir passer une journée entière sans mes enfants.
Si vous le souhaitez vraiment, je serai ravie de vous aider à peaufiner votre CV. Vous pouvez être libérée de vos enfants toute la journée, tous les jours ! Bien sûr, avec cette "liberté", vient la culpabilité d'être loin d'eux. Vous vous demanderez s'ils vont bien parce qu'ils sont à la maison avec une nounou ou dans une crèche. Aller au travail tous les jours et faire un signe à mes enfants derrière la vitre de la salle de bains n'est pas un moment de fête. C'est comme dire qu'on adore le triathlon. Vous commencez chaque journée par un plongeon matinal dans une eau glacée, préparant tout le monde pour l'école/le travail, puis vous pédalez durant huit heures, et vous finissez avec un semi-marathon comprenant le dîner, les devoirs, la toilette et le coucher. Durant votre course à vélo, on s'attend non seulement à ce que vous pédaliez dur, mais aussi à ce que vous preniez les appels de l'école, de la baby-sitter, et du docteur, que vous commandiez les courses et une nouvelle paire de jeans, et que vous vous rappeliez de rendre les livres à la bibliothèque parce que tout ça doit être fait MAINTENANT. Si vous avez de la chance, il restera un fond de vin dans le frigo.
Mon enfant me manquerait trop si je devais passer mes journées sans lui.
Croyez moi, je comprends très bien. Mais vous vous y ferez. Parce que vous n'avez pas le choix.
Le problème dans ce pays aujourd'hui, c'est qu'il n'y a pas assez de mamans qui restent à la maison pour élever leurs enfants.
Je sais ! Je suis entièrement d'accord ! Oh, attendez. Vous ne plaidez pas pour un congé parental rémunéré, des horaires de travail flexibles, ou du télétravail, n'est-ce pas ? Vous ne manifestez pas pour soutenir les parents qui travaillent (parce que, soyons honnêtes, certains pères aimeraient aussi pouvoir passer plus de temps avec leurs enfants) de sorte qu'ils puissent faire les bons choix pour leurs familles, n'est-ce pas ? Vous souhaitez simplement que plus de mères restent à la maison. C'est possible qu'il soit mieux pour ces familles de vivre dans un stress financier ou psychologique afin d'être en adéquation avec une image de la famille plus traditionnelle, mais je n'y crois pas. Si j'entends encore une remarque sur la façon dont les familles où les deux conjoints travaillent sapent le véritable tissu social, je vais devenir folle. La dernière fois que j'ai vérifié, personne dans ma famille n'avait tiré sur qui que ce soit, volé quoi que ce soit, triché lors d'un examen, brûlé un feu rouge, ni même jeté quelque chose dans la rue. Bon, c'est vrai, j'ai travaillé toute la matinée alors peut-être que les choses ont changé depuis le petit-déjeuner.
Pourquoi fais-tu des enfants si c'est quelqu'un d'autre qui les élève ?
Des gens m'ont vraiment dit ça. Ils l'ont dit à mes amies. C'est une bonne chose que je ne possède pas le pouvoir de les pulvériser avec mes yeux laser. Si j'entends encore ça, je vous renverrais à mon premier point sur les raisons pour lesquels je travaille hors de chez moi. Et puis je vous demanderai d'être UN TANTINET MOINS CRITIQUE MERCI BEAUCOUP. J'ai eu mon petit bout parce que chaque parcelle de mon corps avait envie de connaître la maternité et que ma famille se sentait incomplète avec une personne en moins. Aimer et élever un enfant n'est pas incompatible avec le fait d'avoir de l'aide pour y parvenir. Nous sommes fiers et heureux d'avoir des personnes merveilleuses autour de nous qui nous aident - de notre famille à nos amis, en passant par les enseignants et les baby-sitters. Mais ne vous y trompez pas, mon mari et moi élevons nos enfants. Nous ne sommes pas à la maison tous les jours, mais nous accompagnons à chaque instant nos enfants dans leurs vies.
Je ne sais pas comment tu fais. Ca doit être très dur.
C'est le cas. Je ne sais pas comment je fais. Mais je ne pense pas que c'est parce que je travaille, je pense qu'être parent est aussi difficile que l'on reste à la maison ou qu'on travaille. Je ne sais pas comment n'importe lequel d'entre nous y arrive. C'est merveilleux et gratifiant et ça apporte plein d'amour, mais c'est la chose la plus difficile que j'ai jamais faite. Etre capable de s'occuper d'enfants et de quelque chose d'autre en même temps, que ce soit un travail bien rémunéré, ou tenir une maison, ou trouver le temps de regarder Koh-Lanta relève presque de l'impossible.
Tu dois être super bien organisée pour tout mener de front.
J'ai une réaction mi-figue mi-raisin quand j'entends cette phrase. Je commence par savourer cette affirmation. J'ai l'impression que je suis effectivement bien organisée. Et puis je me rappelle - je suis au bord de la crise de nerfs. Je porte des chaussettes dépareillées, mes enfants sont allés à l'école avec de la confiture sur la figure, et je n'ai pas fait de sport depuis une semaine. J'ai des piles de livres, de vêtements et Dieu sait quoi encore dans ma chambre. J'ai oublié une téléconférence hier et j'ai perdu l'autorisation pour le planétarium. J'oublie quelque chose tous les jours. Il n'y a pas d'équilibre. Juste un désordre contrôlé avec soin. C'est à dire que ma vie ressemble à peu près à celle de tout le monde.
Il y aura toujours du temps pour travailler plus tard, ces premières années sont si précieuses.
Chaque année est précieuse. Et pourquoi on ne dit jamais ça aux pères ?
Tu as l'air épuisée
Sans blague ? Merci ! Tu veux m'offrir une journée au spa ? Et garder ensuite mes enfants pour que je puisse me reposer ? Non ? Bon alors, faisons comme si on ne voyait pas les valises que j'ai sous les yeux.
Au moins tu chéris chaque minute que tu passes avec ton fils.
Et bien, peut-être pas chacune d'entre elles. Parce que parfois Petit Bout est un monstre et que je rentre à la maison à l'heure fatale, juste à temps pour le forcer à manger ses carottes, le faire se laver les dents et se coucher. Moment le plus relaxant de votre journée, comme vous le confirmeront tous les parents. C'est pourquoi je garde toujours une bouteille au frais dans le frigo. Malgré ça, bien sûr, je chéris tous les moments que je passe avec mes enfants, mais j'ai du mal à croire que ce serait différent si je passais plus de temps à la maison.
Tu n'as pas peur de passer à côté de quelque chose ?
Chaque jour. Mais ensuite mon fils court dans mes bras quand je vais le chercher à l'école, grimpe sur mon lit le matin en me disant que je suis "la meilleure des mamans", et je sais alors que tout ira bien.
