Two summers ago I developed the rash of all rashes. There was only one medication the doctors told me would make it go away: prednisone. A steroid that crosses into breast milk. Breastfeeding was too important to me, so, I declined. That is -- until today. After almost 30 consecutive months of breastfeeding, I reclaimed my boobs.
It's been hard to see Dad so sad, because in much the same way he wants us to be happy, that's what we want for him too. I am compelled to let him know that I no longer take my time with him for granted, at least not in the same way I might have just six months ago. Up until that time, there would always be another phone call, another visit, another chance to say "I love you." Now we know that those moments are gifts; sometimes small, but always appreciated.
Your child has a new best friend. They can't see enough of each other, and are constantly running back and forth for play dates; sharing secrets and secret handshakes. It's terrific. Except for one thing. You can't stand the kid's mom. So what to do? Try these tips before you reach the end of your relationship rope.
A recent tweet caused me to reflectively ponder my parenting skills (or lack thereof), and to ask myself: What evidence is there to prove my adequacy for this profound responsibility we call parenting? So here they are. Ten evidences that I have actually "parented" in the last 24 hours...in descending order.
There we were, enjoying our salty fries and other deep fried goodness, when I noticed a family sitting close by. Mom on her iPhone, kid one on an iTouch (with headphones on) and kid two on an iTouch (also with headphones on). There they were, eating their food, playing their games and uttering not a single word to one another. I'd never seen anything like it. And I could feel a little judgement of my own rising within.
I'm all for uniqueness when it comes to naming a child. After all, no one wants to give their child a name that will be shared by three or more kids in their grade school classroom. That being said, parents still need to consider certain parameters when making a decision that will affect their child for many years to come. Case in point: the poor child incredulously named "Adolph Hitler Campbell."
Why is porn not being policed on the net? Regardless of your opinion on the existence of porn in the world at large, children of any age SHOULD NOT have access to it. This is serious stuff. It deserves our undivided attention. Especially because kids, by and large, learn much by modelling behaviour they see.
It has only been a couple weeks since the surgery, a double mastectomy, and my body is still in recovery mode. On some mornings, I can hear Nate playing downstairs with his dad and I feel my heart swell with happiness. "How lucky I am to be a part of this family," I think. On other mornings, on those when the pain is bad, I think how sad it is that I am in this bed and missing out on the cuteness that is surely happening downstairs. My chest is sore, but mostly it is numb. Watching Nate run and play and laugh reminds me that the surgery may have (temporarily) broken my body, but it certainly did not touch my heart, nor my capacity to feel love.
Like many Indian girls, I wasn't allowed to date when I was a teenager. But today, it's been a different childhood for my 18-year-old. In fact things are very different in my household. My husband and I do our best to cope with the reality that she wants to date, even though we never had the same opportunity as teens.
A study by Today.com that suggests three is the most stressful number of children to have. A mom of three explains that the stress level increases when it comes to things like crossing the street, versus two kids. But I have four kids, and to the best of my recollection, I don't recall sprouting an extra arm when that last child arrived.
There are days when I feel like there is an alien invading my little boy's body...who is this demon? His sister went through a bit of the same at this age. Willful. Stubborn. Naughty. My darling son is all this with the added bonus of also being completely irrational (no...you cannot wear your basketball shorts out in the freezing rain), disobedient (I already told you, you are not allowed to eat Easter eggs for breakfast) and violent (if I had a dollar for every time I've gotten a foot in the boob...).
I'm starting to accept that all the research in the world can't prepare you for the day-to-day realities of parenting, and that the parent you hope to be isn't necessarily the parent you will be when you are faced with the child you end up with -- who is, after all, an individual in his or her own right. What matters is that I am the right mother for him, and he is the perfect child for me.
"My daughter is 11 years old.The boys and the girls at school call her names that shouldn't even exist. They tell her she's ugly, that her face is like a pancake smothered in poop. They have created a 'We hate Brittany' club. I tell myself all the time -- 'this has to stop. And it has to stop now. Today.' But it never does."
Recently I was asked if I ever worried that I was putting my children at risk for developing eating disorders by being so open and honest about my own. The truth is that they always knew their mom was a bit "different," they just didn't know why. I may have convinced myself that they were oblivious to my disorder, but how could that be true when we'd be walking out the door to go for dinner and one of them would ask, "Are you eating today, Mommy, or just watching?" or they'd shout, "Look, Mommy's a dinosaur!" because the bones of my spine would poke out so sharply from under my skin.