We Gotta Get Out of This Place: the Parent's Lament

I've been traumatized. Consider this a note slipped to you from a hostage. I'm sure, I know as a therapist, other mommas and daddies are challenged by their own tough dramas with their small kids too. I'm not alone. Sometimes knowing this fact is comforting.

Sometimes, however, my children...comment se dit?...screw with me in ways for which no degree in counseling seems to prepare me. I cope only as I can. I strike a yoga pose alone in the back yard, deep breathing, run a mile: all the correct jazz. Processing the nuttiness (like blogging!) can bring down the blood pressure too. But today...today....

I blame myself, of course, because that's what parents do. I had three babies in four years. I know the look that came over your face reading that last sentence, too. Insanity, I realize now, only too late. They're seven, five, and three. So, being educated in child development and trained to coach parents effectively, I know: there will be intense times. I did it to myself. I knew the job was dangerous when I took it.

But recently the bar has been raised. My daughter in particular, the three year old (I'll call her Paris to reflect her current level of perceived entitlement), has taken on the surliness of Christian Bale on a movie set. She has become Impossible. For some strange and woeful reason, among her demands is that her father not look at her, touch her, or basically interact or serve her in any way. He is Not The Mommy. Egad.

Add to this the lung capacity of Pavarati and a will of iron, and I'm telling you, it's a shellacking. Allow me to paint you the picture: bucolic family Saturday afternoon. Naptime, as it does every day of her waking life, arrives. She screams her intent of having none of it. There are tears. There are dramatics. And the toddler acts up too.

I mean, did anyone else today keep their howling toddler in a basket hold for twenty minutes while she decided if she wanted to go to bed with stories or no stories and turned purple screaming? Only to go finally limp in my arms and say, "I love you, Mommy. Cuddle me." My blood pressure is just now regulating. The kid's going to kill me.

"Grow," my husband squints, wiggling his fingers before the children as if to age them with magic. I know it's wrong to want everyone to go ahead and get five, but wow. Just wow. You just don't see it coming when they hand you that cute little swaddled thing in the hat in the hospital. I hear it's worse with teenagers. I'm thinking about hopping on the back of stranger's Harley here pretty soon.

So, let's huddle together, hostages! Here's to the parents of small children: I salute you, unseen soldier. I salute your lack of sleep. I salute your Job-like countenance in the face of fire, your lack of adult movies and beverages, your fate to discuss consistency and frequency of poop in place of Truth and Beauty. The Earth is continuing to spin on its axis, though, darlings. Time will pass, and we're gonna look back on this and laaauugh....

Conquer Fear, or: My Life is Worse so Cowboy Up

Are you battling fear? Of course you are. You, unless the cat has learned to log in, are human. I am both human (though debated historically) and a warrior in the battle against fear. My husband has a lemon of a liver, for those of you who haven't been following the bouncing ball, so I've been flexing my fear-vanquishing muscles a bit of late. I encourage you to read more about Primary Scolering Cholingitis. It's a sweetheart of a disease, hard to detect, rare, and the only treatment is transplant. He's 38. Congratulations! We're having a liver!

Whoa, isn't Eliska supposed to make with the funny? Don't click away yet. It is, as the kids say, all good. I'm coping well. And as usual only thinking of you, dear reader, and how to pass along all the wonderful wisdom I am mining from this unique experience (okay, you may or may not be sniffing a whiff of sarcasm in the air now).

Because I'm not going to blow sunshine up your skirt: there are some pretty impressive fear triggers. Life-threatening diseases are up there. But I've acquired some skills out of necessity that help you cope when anxiety is really shaking you by the lapels.

Get good at healthy self soothing. Sorry, folks, this does not include (perhaps sadly) margaritas, valium, macaroni and cheese or Ben and Jerry's, retail therapy, or casual sex. Although these are some time-honored tricks widely used to calm down, they tend to be on the self-destructive side. No, I now have the A, B, C, and Ds I do every day to keep everything in check: organic, mostly plant-based diet, check. Vigorous moving about often, check. Professional counseling: check and check. Girlfriends at which to moan, rail, and laugh, check. And meditation and yoga are the new xanax...they just take a little longer to swallow. I'm not disciplined, just that fragile.

Check yo head. Your thinker is your best friend or worst enemy. Forcing yourself in any situation to find the positive, even if you're not feeling it, can at least give you a sarcastic laugh. Example: you run red light and nearly kill me. Instead of "I will follow that man and pull him from his car for a beating," the new choice is "Oh my. Perhaps his wife is about to draw her last breath at the hospital." You can pour fire on the problem by telling yourself, "I will die alone and a bag lady with a shopping cart filled with cats." I prefer the cool water of, "I can make myself totally safe by opening my heart and loving." Actively attend to what you are grateful for. Which dovetails nicely into...

Friend God. Can you tell I've recently reactivated my Facebook account? Listen, I'm not religious, which is tantamount to Ellen saying she's not into men. But I've been developing a relationship with my HP (Higher Power, not Hewlett Packard, you geeks) all my life despite the antics of Jesus' followers. Science supporting spirituality: energy is neither created or destroyed. For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. Think of a person, an event, a coincidence that changed your life for the better: the odds are astronomical that it happened. Highly improbable...but it happened. Odds are much higher for other outcomes. Look into becoming a believer. Spirituality, however it looks, is comforting and meaningful.

Give and get good face. Y'all, I love Twitter and Facebook and my lovely blog. But God help us if the electricity goes out and we actually have to look up from our iPhones to help one another. Please, if you are out with me, I DON'T WANT TO SEE YOUR PHONE. I know I am old. Perhaps even greedy for your attention. Nay, even needy as a Hollywood starlet! I will own it. But to ignore cashiers while you chat (please God, keep me from turning on the next woman I hear out say, "Nothing...I'm just in Target...") is bad enough. Please don't make me share you with your plentyoffish.com profile.

Always my pleasure to help out. These are just a few tips for handling fear and her lovely cousin Anxiety. I hope you got a chuckle even if the advice is bunk. I gots, as I always say, more. Feel free to reach out if you're interested in more on this topic or anything else under the wellness sun.

Social Media Envy, or: I Am Officially the Elderly

"I was with it once! Then, they changed what 'it' was. Now 'what it is' is scary and strange! It will happen to you..."

If you watch The Simpsons, you probably recognize that quote from Grampa Simpson. It's a perfect sum of my latest experiences as I become A Blogger, and, more terrifyingly, a twit. I mean, a Tweeter. My husband is an enabler! I married an IT engineer, and he just really thinks it best that back away from the hardware as I am to computers what Michael Vick is to veterinarians.

It's so sad to watch me fumble with technology that others my age have zero issues with. I mean, the cast of Jersey Shore can bip around the internet with adroitness, for the love of Mike. Did you notice I managed to get my Twitter feed to appear to the side, there? A major accomplishment for someone just learning Power Point and how to download j-pegs that left me smug for a whole afternoon.

And did you know there's a whole set of etiquette to learn with each of these social media thingies that no one will let me get by without conquering? Who wrote these rules? Friending, unfriending...I'll tell you about that when I'm finally forced onto Facebook. But I'm totally intimidated by learning this navigation of following, unfollowing, how to post pictures and videos...and I'm supposed to, for some reason, really want tens of thousands of followers. So I'll thank you later when I am more educated.

I take personal risk with this post! My intellect is already questioned due to my abnormal obsession with The Young and the Restless (as a therapist, I have a theory about why I adopted friends that are two dimensional, but I digress). I consider this post a bit of a personal confession, dear reader, because I have a feeling it will hold me accountable to joining this century. Making public my shame over my Techno Fear will force me to adapt, I hope. Kinda like those Biggest Loser candidates that they make take off their shirt in front of high school stadiums full of people they know: accountability!

So I invite you to bear witness to my inartful clumping about townsquarebuzz.com, mckinneymommadrama.blogspot.com, and Twitter at @eliskacounce. I'm (sometimes quite unintentionally) hilarious when I'm not annoying the poo out of you. You'll either be kind enough to help me or your hate mail will shame me into learning. A win win!

Holiday Lessons Learned, or: Why You Suck as a Houseguest

Happy New Year's, revelers! I must say my yuletide, despite an alarming amount of shopping, cooking, and cleaning, was fun and refreshing. I hope yours found you similarly. However, now that the yule log is smoldering out, they're stretching the BCS Bowl season into March, and we're at least three days into the shame of broken resolutions, I think two good lessons have emerged that I would like to highlight for the betterment of you, dear reader.


Speaking of New Year's Resolutions, I've got one: let's all work on this apostrophe as a plural, shall we? You are not the Smith's. You are The Smiths. Or the beautifully uncomplicated The Smith Family. It begs the question: Merry Christmas from The Smith's? The Smith's what? The Smith's house elf? And just who is this The Smith person who refers to himself in the third person? My teeth are itching.

But it's been awhile since I wielded my red pen as an English teacher. No, today, dear reader, is your quick list of reasons why you are a lousy houseguest. Just because I am invested in your wellness, really. It's like telling you about the spinach in your teeth. I yell because I care. You just might suck as a houseguest if:

You show up ill, physically or otherwise. If you have something you wouldn't wish on your host, you might suggest alternate housing, especially if your host has small children and you have explosive vomiting/diarrhea. And could you keep your mood pleasant? I know some trips can be hellish, but when you're scowling and slapping your children as soon as you arrive, they're likely to want to ask you to just get back in the car.

You think childcare comes with the room. Hey, buddy, I've got three small kids of my own. Come follow yours around, feed them, and keep them from destroying property.

It never occurs to you to offer to help in the kitchen. Male, female, it's just the decent thing to do. "Hey, you're doing a lot. Can I help some way?" Practice it. Don't let someone toil alone in the kitchen while the party whoops it up in another room. It has a direct correlation to seething. And related:

You fail to show enjoyment and gratitude. You have had guests. You know the truth: you, though loved, are expensive and disruptive. Compliment the house, the food, the trouble everyone's gone to, the fellowship, the fun. McKinney Momma says: you don't have to have money to never come empty-handed to a friend's.

You don't leave it as you found it. No one expects you scrub the guest bathroom before departure, but would it kill you to make the bed, throw out your trash, and walk your dishes to the kitchen?

Aren't you glad you have me to tell you, "You have just a little something...right there..." when you need it most? Again, you're welcome. You'll be so glad when people talk less smack behind your back. Related note: if you've been my guest recently, I'm sure I'm not talking it about you!

Some wait until their loved ones are asleep to sneak to the liquor cabinet, the internet for dubious lacivious pleasures, to the fridge for the forbidden snack. But then, there is me: denying myself the extra hour of sleep for you, dear reader! I've been herding three small children for the last fourteen days of holiday school break. I know there are others of you who share my pain. To blog for me is to hear for the first time today, perhaps, my  own voice in my head. Thank you.

I know you other Matriarchs (and Patriarchs!) understand! Let us not undersell the majesty of the role of mother, though, with the simple label "Mommy." Oh, no. It is not "Mommy" who strategizes a catering menu for a week, constructs a shopping list broken down by grocery store departments. "Mommy" suggests a softness not inherent in The Matriarch who dons her New Balances for the hours in Target with her list broken down by departments, holiday joy set in her sights.

Of course, there is a method to the madness. We have values, we Matriarchs. Smells and memories for our children and loved ones, sights and joys to treasure and pass on. Which is one of the reasons I am pleased to wait for the small ones to abed, even the weary Knight of Local Technological Corporation to doff his shield for the eve, to steal the chance to possibly connect and share with some of you other royals who live and get it.

And what cannot be lost: the incredible luxury in what we live. As we prepare to usher in and celebrate the new year, Matriarchs can't just be responsible for the catering and the cleaning. It's also about passing on the the awareness of the luxury in which we enjoy here in Collin County; the kind of wealth that the Matriarch in Afghanistan. in Iraq, in Darfur could only imagine in her wildest dreams.

I am blessed to be here in North Texas with you and your children in 2011! Stayed tuned! I got more. Please: know you are wealthy beyond belief. Act accordingly. I'll do the same.

Who the hell uses celery seed and what aisle is it on??

I just gots to give a shout out to the other women who are doing exactly what I am today...wondering where the hell the flour sifter is and if it could be actually possible that I haven't used it since 1998. Kitchen Bouquet? Are you kidding me? What IS that, and what's in it? And if you're checking gramma's recipe, WHAT EXACTLY IS OLEO and on what planet can I procure it???

Time for several belly breaths. I mean, was it really necessary for me to create and decorate both gingerbread men and sugar cookies with the kids? And made chocolate candy? AND my grandmother's signature dessert (actually, it's funny: both sides of the family had the recipe. The Catholic side called it Better Than Sex and the Baptist side called it Sin. Makes sense).

But I digress. All I know is between three meals, two snacks, and two deserts today combined with two casseroles tomorrow I have officially flipped my culinary wig. Not counting the trip to the grocery store (the third in as many days!), I have been on my feet cooking and cleaning more than Florence from The Jeffersons. Have I mentioned my recalcitrant family will probably wrinkle their collective nose at my beloved, traditional family dishes as well, just to make all this furious activity a little more insane?

Just a reminder, ladies. I know you're out there, going great guns in the final 48 hours. You're infusing all the food with tons of love and perhaps a pinch of resentment when folks don't notice and appreciate your toiling as much as you'd like. It's fever pitch time...except it really doesn't have to be.

Realize: It comes without pumpkin pie spice as well as boxes and bags (and what's up with that cheat anyway?? Back in my Momma's day you used your three separate bottles of cinnamon, nutmeg, allspice all together...and you liked it!).

Enjoy this time. They won't remember what they ate, but they will remember Yulezilla. Peace on Earth, darlings, and pass the potatoes flavored with the best kind of Christmas spirit.



 

Word up, Dr. Drew...

"We have gone through a 30-year period where terribly unhealthy things that contribute to unhappiness have been normalized as 'just another choice,' just another way of doing things, when in fact that's bullshit. Divorce is an extremely unhappy, extremely stressful, extremely problematic thing. Thank god it's an option for some people. But...it impacts people's mental health. The least it does it create problems around intimacy until the fourth decade of life. It tends to normalize after that. But it takes people to their 30s or 40s to, under the best of situations, to expunge the experience. That's a lot of suffering. And that's often a lot of failed relationships and other failed relationships and more children exposed to divorce. The problem with divorce is that people consider it an option. You just shouldn't consider it an option unless it's absolutely necessary."

Dr. Drew, y'all....

Unsolicited adivce: or, shut up and listen

Ooh, an aggressive title got your attention! Stay tuned for the twist, though, because my thesis is multi-layered. Here's my unsolicited advice of the day: you really need to get off your cell phone during certain times. Tweeting during funerals, for example, should be widely panned. Texting and driving makes you a nightmare. And don't get me started about cell phones during date night....Grrrr.

I know, I know, I have the electronic tether too. Emails, tweets, calls, texts, daily calendar reminders all make my pants vibrate every other minute just like yours. But there's one time in particular I want to talk about when it's really, really important to step away from the Crackberry that doesn't get much attention.

Whether you are a dad or a mom, if you are a parent whose children attend school or daycare, I implore you to not be staring at/talking to an electronic device when either picking up or dropping off your kid/s. Of course, those of y'all who know me are aware as a counselor, I'm big into the concept of mindfulness: being here now. And I get it that Megatronics Corp expects you to do those conferences calls at their beck, so to speak.

But partings and comings-together are incredibly important in your relationship with your children. They need and deserve your full attention when leaving for school. School time might have been awhile back for you, but this is their life and challenge now. They're small or young, and this is their gladiator arena. They want to look in your eyes as they go in, see your smile, see your calm assurance for and interest in them. They need kisses and hugs for which you are actively present.

Pick-up time is key as well...your child, whether or not they act like it, want to know you are interested in seeing them again, interested in the story (even though teens can make it tough). They want to nestle back into the family, feel snug again. They may wear their heinie on their shoulders, but this tendency does not make it any less true that they crave your attention as much as any two year old.

Thank God for the concept of good-enough parenting. I hardly claim to be the perfect mother (actually milk might come out of my family's collective nose at my making that proclamation), but being in counseling practice and by being dragged into maturity by my own brood, I have figured out that you don't need to be perfect...or anything near. Like Woody Allen says about life, turns out 80% of good parenting is just showing up.

Take a Lick of the Valium Block Already, It's Christmas

Okay, people! Clearly you are in need of some advice from McKinney's premiere mom/counselor. Come, sit down a minute. You've been stressed. You're road raging. You're snarling at sales representatives. I'm sorry to say it, but you look miserable. McKinney Momma to the rescue! Luckily, I am always ready with the advice.

Decide now you're going to enjoy yourself, dammit. Make a conscious decision to put your eyes on the positive and overlook the faults of others. Where you put those peepers magnifies. Side note: use of terms like "peepers" makes me seem 120 years old. 23 skiddoo!

Use your senses to really put yourself in the moment when the good is happening...smell it, taste it, touch it, hear it! Christmas is a time for wonderful sights, smells, and sensations. The more you stay in the moment, the more joy can register in your brain.

Make an exercise of finding the reason to be grateful in any moment. For example, sure you're stuck in traffic, but are you with screaming kids? Hey, a reason to be happy. You're probably in a climate controlled car with your choice of audio, too, so not too shabby. Guy in front of you has 20 items instead of less? Focus on how lucky you are to pick out food at the grocery store and take it home. Your address does not include the word "Darfur" in it. You're blessed. Consciously reflect on that fact.

Nourish your body with breath,movement and mostly plants to eat. Get enough rest. It's a choice.

Giving to people really does light up the brain in a bio-chemical way. Look into giving a damn.

Play! It's Christmas! Make a cookie, sing a carol (I like "Nuttin for Christmas" right now), wrap a gift, pay it forward with a random act of kindness. Watch the Charlie Brown special in footie pajamas.

Now, I hope to see y'all out in a much better humor. You're welcome.

Let nothing you dismay...

Did you know that you can follow the Dalai Lama and Deepak Chopra on Twitter? Me, too, of course, but I digress (it's at Eliskacounce. Follow me! I'm feeling along in the Twittaverse). Weird to think about clerics and monks tweeting. Do they have Blackberries?

At any rate, I love that I can get updates about Miley Cyrus' leather pants and bong usage right alongside words of wisdom from religious figures. The Dalai Lama (and I have to get away from the visual of him in his robe hunched over his IPhone...surely he cusses AT and T too) tweeted yesterday this quote:

"Remember that calmness and compassion are an important part of living a fruitful, positive human life."

Holla, brotha (I'm almost certain I would ssy something different to him in person). I would like to retweet your idea of calm and compassion, particularly for my fellow Collin County citzens during this holiday season. Be CALM when the salespeople appear slow or perhaps lobotomized. Be COMPASSIONATE with the road rager, for he knows not what he does.

Be kind, becuase everyone you meet is fighting a great battle, no matter how much money they do or do not have. Your act will be rewarded in a fruitful and positive life.

McKinney Momma Holidrama

The only way to make it through this time of year and come out on the other side with any semblance of sanity is to retreat to the moment. Find joy in what you can...I did a little inner dance over self-adhesive stamps this morning, for example, when I had to mail forty Christmas cards. Can you imagine the licking?? On the other hand, stop imagining the licking.

Slow down. Do whatever you're doing with deliberateness instead of the usual crazed done-and-I'm-on-to-the-next one we Mommies do so well. Bake the cookies to bake the cookies...smell, taste, really hear and experience each moment. Stop. Hear the carol. Notice your feelings.

All too soon the magic of watching Christmas through your young children's eyes will be over. Enjoy them now. Christmas is amazing for  them, no matter what material goods they might be receiving. Talk about the magic, the believing, the spirit.

I'm also a big believer in the best Christmas tradition as having fun. Please don't let your children remember you as the Yulezilla who would rather have every detail of the decorating and menu perfect than have family members enjoy themselves and you. They won't remember what present you got them this particular year or even if the turkey was dry or delicious. They will absolutely remember you crying and cursing in the bathroom with the door locked.

Good luck with the holidrama!

The Bitch Goddess Megatronics Corporation

My husband's job with Megatronics (not its real name) giveth, but damn, do it taketh away. I'm thrilled with the health insurance; God forbid that ever goes away with my three Typhoid Mary children, but really. Laptop open constantly, all hours day and night, holidays. No time off...even at the holidays. Oh, the days are there, but Megatronics will punish you for using them. Phone bud in the ear, mumbling like a schizophrenic.

This is not a rant against my husband! To his credit, he's doing everything he can to keep me supporting the entire economy of North Texas. But Megatronics is sucking the life out of my already health-compromised husband. He's complicit, of course, but that's for another blog.

It's such a Dickensian dirty little secret, isn't it? You work for one of these big companies, and in this economy everyone's so damn happy to not have been amongst the quarter of staff fired in 08 or 09. Please, sir? May I have some more? You WILL work as many hours as we ask, salary boy, and you will smile and ask for more or go without treatment for your lemon of a liver.

Sick kids? Oh well. Unfed animals? Too bad. Skyrocketing divorce rates among workers who literally are expected to be up at any hour of day or night to answer an email, engineer software, or be on a conference call to India? Alas. I am working very hard not to put an expletive in front of "India," by the way, because I'm a good Southern girl with appropriate breeding. But I am starting to bristle whenever I hear the accent.

But you'd be proud! I'm adjusting. I am here to be the maker of the home for now, while the babies are small. And to support my other wives and mommies. Holla back, those ladies who do all the housework, all the shopping, the maintenance of every social relationship, the cooking, the butt wiping, and some of you work full time too...just not at the Megatronics job that carries the insurance, so you draw the short stick and suck it up for the good of your family.

You do not go unseen or unsung! March on, my domestic sistahs!! I gots love for ya!

Out of the mouths of babes

So this was fun. Got up Saturday morning, managed to get two of three of the offspring stuffed into holiday-appropriate garb by 8am (ugh! It's Saturday!) and packed into the Blazebago to truck down to Megopolis to a charity event featuring, of course, Santa. Naturally the middle kid is scared of Santa, so I've got 1of 3 and 3 of 3 (just deal with the geeky Borg reference) trundling down the road on time with not a small amount of Mommy sweat shed.

Now, naturally I have to get lost because my iPhone is an iPain in my iAss and gives me the wrong directions. So, a frantic call to hubby at home with Skeerdy who saves my aforementioned  ass with directions to where I am actually going.

Having arrived on two wheels into the parking lot, we are thankfully on time thanks to my earliness neurosis. I can relax! I foolishly think. We have snacks, we see Santa (kick ass Santa, by the way: if you're local, look into the December 12 Hope's Door Santa thing in Lewisville. He rocked!), I'm feeling like we may escape with few or no emotional scars. Alas, it will not bear out.

Here's the gem, the parenting moments we all cherish. That I will look back on and laaaaauughh..... I am chatting up the CEO of the organization sponsoring the event, networking my brilliant counseling behind off, thinking how it's all going well, talking to her about possibly volunteering for her in the spring. I'm telling her about how I am making some changes professionally in the spring, would she be interested in my being a part of the organization...here's what rolls out of my seven year old son:

"Hi! Yeah, we can't afford the country club any more so my mom's coming home!"

And...scene.


 

Toys R Us is a Canto of Hell

I should have known pulling up in the parking lot...as I waited patiently for my spot, bitch rolls right in in front. Welcome to the Me First population of Collin County Texas, where we love me some me. Parking lot of course nothing but SUVs and minivans, including of course mine, the Blazebago. Fifteen minutes after opening and the place is packed. Hey, where's that recession? Damn, I thought everyone was too poor to collect more lead-painted Chinese toys this year. Thought the new hot toy was twine, for Chrissakes, listening to the news.

Clearly Texas has Frugality Fatigue as the place is crawling with parents, faces haunted like hostages, attempting to wheel squeaky, delapidated carts in between aisles a cart and a half wide. Children scream. Women in questionably waisted jeans stand slack-jawed in front of the Pink Aisle...Barbie? Hello Kitty? Lobotomy?

Faces are grim. It's December the 1st, and they've already got the Look. But is it good news or bad that all these men and women are willing to wait in line for twenty minutes for the priviledge of owning a talking General Grievous? God help us all.