I’m Not Really Here Today!

That’s right, today my blog is over at Take-2-Mommy as part of a series by New Jersey bloggers called “Jersey Mamas Got Blog.” Since Jenn—the fabulous creator of Take2Mommy—is the mother to two boys, she asked me to write a post about parenting my son. I readily agreed.

Unfortunately, this turned out to be much more difficult than I had first imagined.

In the end, I was forced to take a look at how I may be parenting my son differently than my daughter. I hope you’ll stop by and read my latest post. While there, feel free to leave a comment—I’ll be moderating and responding as if it were my own site.

Thank you!

Oct 26 2011

A Halloween Costume Nightmare

This is an update to my previous post The Halloween Overachiever.

When I last wrote, I was beginning to feel the stress of another Halloween. In fact, I was already doubting whether I could actually pull off my daughter’s costume this year. This stress lasted all the way up until the last second when I finally had to put it on her.

For the last couple of years, the kids and I have traveled down to Virginia to visit my sister to go to “Boo-at-the-Zoo.” Besides having a wonderful time with my younger sister and the kids, it’s a great opportunity for me to give my daughter’s costume a “test run.” Unfortunately, this year, I waited until we were already there to find all the pieces—and there were many. I naively thought that I’d just run out to the local Halloween store and pick up the last few things—but this most definitely was not the case.

This latest creation required an additional skeleton costume, but my daughter refused to buy one straight from the store. She had a vision in her mind of how she wanted to look, and a baggy, pre-made skeleton just wouldn’t do. I figured that if I had no other choice, I could just buy a tight black shirt and tights and paint the skeleton on to them. This was not something I wanted to do, but I could if I had to. It would all come down to timing. We had to be at my sister’s friend’s house by 3:30, so that we could drive into D.C. together.

The morning went something like this:

First Stop (9:30 am): Wal-Mart (around the corner from my sister’s house) We saw online that they carried a tight Halloween costume that would most likely do the trick, but it was sold out.

Second Stop (10:00 am): Springfield Mall (5 minutes further away). We thought that there was a pop-up Halloween store there—but we were wrong. We walked by Claire’s and got excited when we saw a picture of skeleton tights, but they didn’t have her size. I even ran into Spencer’s, just on the off-chance they had it—no luck.

[At this point, it was about 10:30 in the morning, and I could either run around the mall looking for the black shirt and tights, then head off to the craft store for fabric paint OR we could go to a bigger mall twenty minutes away to check out another Claire’s for the tights and the possibility of finding the rest of the costume at the Halloween store there. I was losing hope, but my sister—being a true optimist—believed we would find what we needed.]

Third Stop (11:30): Potomac Mills Mall Besides the fact that Claire’s didn’t have her size again, we walked the entire length of the mall only to discover that the Halloween store was on the opposite end. And this mall was BIG! I broke out in a sweat as I sped through the mall, looking back every few seconds to be sure that my kids could keep up. By the time we reached the Halloween store, I was on the brink of losing my mind. We found one skeleton costume that I begged my daughter to try on to see if it would work. She made me come into the changing room with her, and when she told me that it wasn’t comfortable, I lost it. Not a proud moment. I went on and on and on about how difficult she was, asking myself out loud why I always let her do this—basically completely freaking out. I do give my daughter credit, however, she didn’t get upset by my tirade, and only asked that I keep my voice down so people wouldn’t hear me. I felt terrible. When we walked out of the dressing room, I noticed that they had thigh-high socks with skeleton bones. Out of desperation, I bought them.

My daughter then remembered that she had seen a short-sleeved T-shirt with a skeleton torso at Justice a couple of months ago. They had two left in size 7—my daughter is a 12—but I bought one anyway.

Since she already had skeleton gloves, so the last thing we had to cover up were her arms. Just at that moment, we walked past Aeropostale, which was having a sale on hoodies. Bingo. I bought her a black one—that she could use again—and told her that she would be a trendy skeleton.

We made it back to my sister’s with just enough time to shower and get her ready. And here she is, the final product of all my hard work, my daughter as a Dead Skeleton Fairy.

Another Halloween is almost done, and as much as I don’t want my daughter to grow up too fast, I can’t help but ask myself, at what age do kids finally stop dressing up? But the next question is always, what is she going to be next year . . . ?

This follow-up post was inspired by Mama Kat’s Pretty Much World Famous Writer’s Workshop. Check it out!

Oct 17 2011

The Halloween Overachiever

I don’t know when it started. I guess it’s possible that she may have always been this way—even as far back as inside the womb. I am referring to my daughter’s need to be the best at whatever she does. When it comes to Halloween, it’s no different. She pushes it to the limit—or at least to my limit—always needing to have the most original costume possible. This means that it can’t be purchased straight off the shelf, and since I don’t sew, I can’t make it in the traditional sense. Instead, I am forced to come up with creative—and hopefully affordable—ways to help her achieve her vision. Over the last few years, I’ve actually started to develop anxiety as soon as October 1st arrives, wondering what brilliant idea my daughter will come up with next—and whether I will actually be able to help her pull it off.

When she was little—and I was still somewhat in control of the choices for a costume—the biggest challenge was deciding on which Disney princess she was going to be. She started out by being Snow White when she was three—an easy costume that only required a dress and a ribbon for her hair. Then, at four, she wanted to be Ariel. I would have been happy with only buying the elaborate dress that she had to have, but she was adamant that she couldn’t be Ariel without her long, red hair. So, I gave in. Now looking back at all of the Halloween’s since that one, I do believe that this is where it may have begun—the ambitions of my sweet Halloween overachiever.

Jasmine, at age five, was still somewhat simple. The costume, and all of it’s accessories, were an easy purchase—straight off the shelf—and it should have been enough. My daughter already had long, dark hair, but for her, she wanted it to be longer. Instead of having to buy another awful synthetic wig, I was able to find a clip-on hair extension that gave her a waist-length ponytail.

At six, she informed me that she was done with Disney princesses—she wanted to make her own costume: Elf Princess. She already had the perfect dress, so she only requested three things: 1) a wig; 2) prosthetic elf ears (yes, I had to glue them on); 3) sparkly fake eyelashes. In the end, once I got over the trauma of gluing on fake eyelashes on my sweet 1st-grader, I was stunned to see that I was actually able to pull it off.

When she was seven, she surprised me by wanting to be a Nerdy Boy for Halloween. To be honest, I wasn’t thrilled with having to buy boy pants, shoes, shirt, and suspenders for her costume, but I was happy that I didn’t have to buy another wig. We taped up a pair of glasses, and tucked her hair into her shirt to hide the length. Her costume turned out to be such a hit at school that the following year there were quite a few girls wearing a similar one. (Unfortunately, I don’t have a photo—what was I thinking?)

At eight, her entire costume revolved around wanting a real purple wig from an actual wig shop. We decided that she would be a perfect Mannequin. She dressed in black with long, black gloves and a lot of jewelry. To finish it off, we bought a pair of purple fake eyelashes, and applied a lot of makeup. No one even recognized her during the Halloween parade at school—a huge success!

When she was nine, she decided that she wanted to be a “Stressed-out Working Mom.” (She swears that she wasn’t being me, but I don’t believe it.) Fortunately, this costume did not require another wig. Instead, we teased out half of her hair, and put the other half in pink fuzzy rollers. She wore a nightgown under a bathrobe, with one stocking and slippers. To finish it all off, we added some messy makeup so that she would have a frenzied look.

Last year was the most elaborate of all—and it nearly put me over the edge. She wanted to be a Zombie Pageant Girl. I had no idea how to transform her into a zombie, but she had total faith in me—and a lot of ideas. She wanted to use liquid latex to make wounds, make-up so that she’d look dead, some glued-on garish wounds, and a lot of dripping blood. Of course, she would also need a dress, a sash, a wig, and a crown. The end result actually blew me away—she was transformed.

And the bar was set even higher.

Today, I am once again experiencing the agony of trying to figure out how to help achieve this year’s vision. In all honesty, I’m not sure if I’ll be able to pull it off. I’m not going to reveal it yet, but I will soon. There isn’t much time left to figure it out—Halloween is now only two weeks away!

Like with so many things in my daughter’s life, her desire to be unique—to be an individual—leaves me feeling somewhat in awe of her. It’s for this reason that I want to support her creativity, to help her turn her wonderful imagination into a reality. My advice to my daughter is to never forget these wonderful Halloween costumes—even when she has out-grown trick-or-treating and she no longer wants to dress up—I hope she takes the memory of them with her. And, I hope that she will always hold onto her desire to stand out from the crowd.

I’m linking up with Lovelinks #27 this week!

Oct 7 2011

My Daughter, The Parent

When my daughter was four, she begged and pleaded for us to give her a brother. We weren’t planning on having another child, we were even toying with the idea that maybe one child would be enough. My husband had just started his own business, and I was due to be promoted within the next few months making me one of the lead editors on a new program. On top of all that, we were finally seeing the light at the end of the very long tunnel known as “paying for others to watch our child”—just over a year left until kindergarten. Although it was sweet that she wanted a brother [NOTE: She did not want a sister. She had informed us that we already had one of those and we didn’t need another one], it was not in our plan. So, when we found out a few months later that we were indeed pregnant, we jokingly told her that she had wished him into existence.

Nearly seven years later, I believe she loves her brother as much today as she did when she wished for him as a small child. There are times that I also believe she may even think he owes his existence to her—and should therefore do everything she says. Most of the time, what she tells him to do, in fact, comes from a place of worry and love for him.

Not unlike a parent.

She yells at him if she thinks he’ll get hurt when we are crossing the street. She corrects him when he mistakenly uses the wrong word in a sentence, and she teaches him the correct pronunciation of words he finds difficult to pronounce. She yells at him when he does taekwondo kicks while walking down the street, in part because she is embarrassed, but also for fear that people may think that he’s odd. And at times, she is my echo, repeating every “no” or “stop it” I tell him, chiming in to somehow strengthen my point of view.

The problem with this is that my son does not want two mothers.

Each correction, raised voice, accusation to “stop it” or “don’t do that,” causes him to react with complete and total outrage—screaming, yelling, and threatening her with bodily harm. As their mother, it often feels like I am living in the middle of a war zone and I am meant to be the peacekeeper. In the end, at a loss for how to stop the fighting, I dole out punishments—somewhat arbitrarily—as I am unwilling to listen to the who-did-what-to-who’s.

I had always prided myself for trying to see life through my daughter’s eyes, especially when I struggled to understand her behavior or attitude. Up until last year, I don’t think I ever truly did this with my son. Depending on how their arguments started, I would often tell him to 1) ignore her; 2) not take everything she says so seriously; 3) understand that she loves him and that she’s just trying to help him. He would reject all of my rational justifications for her behavior, and his anger would turn into tears, while stating the unthinkable words “I hate her!” These words—words that were banned in our home—would sting like a slap in the face. No matter how I much I tried to nurture their relationship, I was failing.

Then one day—after a particularly terrible fight between the two of them—I suddenly found myself remembering what it was to be a child with an older sister. Unlike my children who are nearly five years apart, my sister is only 15 months older than me. When I was young, I remember looking to her as if she were the keeper of all the answers to my every question. As I grew, I remember wanting to be like her—and even more than that—I remember wanting her to love me, to like me, to think she was lucky to have me as her sister. But as children, this was not meant to be. Her every word or opinion about me—the music I listened to, the friends I had, the clothes I wore—left me feeling that I somehow wasn’t good enough. There were times I even felt ashamed to be myself in front of her for fear that I would be ridiculed for it. It would take us many years to mend the relationship that was so damaged when we were children. More than anything, I want to prevent my children from hurting one another so deeply that their relationship may be fractured as adults.

Looking back, it’s possible that my sister’s only intention was to help me find my way in the world—just as I know my daughter is trying to do for her brother. More importantly, I now know that this isn’t her job. My advice to my daughter is this: in order for her brother to grow up to be a confident young man, he needs his sister to show him the way through her actions—not her words. No matter her intentions, he needs to feel that she sees him—and loves him—for who he is, mispronunciations and all. My advice to my son is to know—even when his sister inevitably corrects him or gives him unwanted advice—that she loves him more than anyone else in her life. And, he should always remember that it was she who wished for him, and that she has always been thankful that he has come into her life.