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Reality Mom - Reality Mom: My New Found Reality
Before my daughter was born, I worried about eating properly to provide her with adequate nutrition. I hadn't eaten a healthy diet since I left my parents' home and moved into my own place. Fresh fruit and vegetables, lean broiled meats and plenty of milk became my mainstays. I tried, really tried, to limit my coffee intake, which for me meant stepping down from a pot or so a day to one cup in the morning. (I still drank tea of course. Tea has anti oxidants and is good for you!)
When she was born, I continued my healthy diet to ensure that she had enough nutrients to grow strong and develop a healthy body and mind. I offered solid foods one at a time, as the doctor directed. Giving her rice cereal, then carrots, slowly building up to green veggies and finally, meats. She was a rosy, well nourished picture of infant health.
Then one day someone slipped her a cookie. A small sugary wafer that melted in her mouth and brought a toothy grin to her face. I took it as a sign that the end was near.
I was right.
Cookies, it turns out, are a portal to the world of junk food. And junk food is the devil's tool. From cookies she progressed to ice cream, pizza and eventually, fast food burgers and fries. Meals became a nightmare of me trying to entice her to eat one bite of carrots while she asked for fries dripping with ketchup.
I confess, I am a weak woman. I gave into popular demand and started to serve hot dogs, chicken nuggets and tater tots. (For those who may not know, tater tots are bits of potato shaped into a nugget then deep fried.) Without meaning to, we sunk to the depths of junk food hell.I didn't know how bad it was until she refused a plate of pasta and homemade marinara sauce and asked for canned spaghetti.
In desperation, I turned to my pediatrician who offered the sage advice that I should give her "whatever turns her on to eat and drink. You can sort out the nutritional nightmares later." A scary thought but it did help me to relax a little.
Not that I have completely given up the battle. I still offer her vegetables and healthy snacks but I've developed a sort of stealth nutrition plan. I've developed a "cookie currency" that where servings of vegetables are exchanged for cookies. As developer of the plan I control the exchange rate. A serving of spinach yields a cookie. I know it amounts to extortion but as any experienced parent will tell you, you do what you have to.
I know that Father's Day was yesterday but better late than never. I wanted to say a word about dads. Sometimes it seems that dads are not appreciated. On television they are often portrayed as well meaning buffoons who haven't a clue about their children. Television dads used to be the all knowing patriarchs, always available to guide their children and dole out discipline with a firm but fair hand. Lately, dads on television have become boorish slobs, more interested in drink than how their children are getting along.
The reality is somewhere between the two extremes. Real dads are involved with their children. They know how to soothe a crying infant and can deal with a cranky toddler. They've taken their children to day care and to the pediatrician. Real dads coach soccer and lead boy scout troops. They carry order forms for band fundraisers to work with them and help deliver dozens of boxes of girl scout cookies.
Real dads know how to mend a skinned knee and how to soothe a child who is heart broken over the death of a beloved pet. They can whip up a peanut butter sandwich and know that sometimes what's really needed is a trip to the ice cream shop.
A real dad is his son's first super hero and his daughter's first knight in shining armor. Even though he knows he has faults, in the eyes of his children he has none.
He understands that everything he does is being watched by adoring little eyes who will mimic him, sometimes at the worse moments. He will do anything to protect his children from harm. Most importantly, he knows that work will always be there but his children will only be children for a short time. That his most important work is his partnership with his child's mother, preparing them to take their place in society.
Even if real dads are not able to spend all the time they would like with their children, they realize that every second is precious. Because one day they will be gone.
We've read "Goodnight Moon" so many times in our house I find myself reciting at odd times. We were on a jag of watching "The Little Mermaid" but I am happy to say that Ariel has been replaced by Belle and "Beauty and The Beast". I'm sure I'm not the only mom who finds herself having to read the same books, watch the same DVD, follow the same ritual of dinner, bath, story and bed EVERYDAY. With no deviation allowed. PERIOD.
Because deviation would set off a chorus of wails that frankly, I don't want to have to endure. The little tyrant umm, darling must have her rituals.
Rituals are important. Rituals help children develop a sense of trust in their world. They know what to expect and when to expect it. "First, we're gonna eat, then get a bath and a story and bed, right Mommy?" It starts when they are newborns and they learn that crying brings the appropriate comfort in the form of food, dry bottom, whatever. Children develop a sense of security from routine.
Repetition is another thing all together. After the 10th screening of "The Little Mermaid" I was rooting for Ursula, the sea witch. I considered hiding the DVD but decided to tough out her infatuation with the movie.
Evidently, repetition is important too. Repeating the story helps children gain self confidence. Knowing what comes next in the story and being right is very confidence boosting. And, like having a routine for eating, bath and bed, the routine of the story helps children feel safe.
I have two extra children in my house, but they don't count as tax deductions. Both are very quiet, I hardly know they are there until I discover that the milk has been left out. Then, when I ask who forgot to put away the milk, the response is always the same. "Not me." and "I don't know". These twin trouble makers (try saying that fast!) create more havoc than an army of monkeys. And they do it without ever being seen.
I call them twins but really, "Not me" is a bit older. "Not me" started living with us when my oldest daughter was 3. One day, someone had colored a lovely picture of a kitty cat on the wall in the bedroom. When I asked who drew the picture she responded, "Not me, mommy
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We've all seen it. An adorable, rosy cheeked toddler dissolved into a mound of quivering, screaming flesh while an embarrassed parent stands by watching helplessly. Meanwhile, every other adult in the vicinity watches as the parent tries in vain to stop the howling of the offended child. If the parent tries to pick up the child to remove them bodily, the child will either:
1. go completely rigid, making moving them difficult, or
2. go completely limp, making moving them difficult, or
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I love the phrase "Reality Mom". Like "Reality TV", the phrase implies that we are going to be witness to LIFE in black and white, no shades of gray to hide the ugly truth. Yea right. Does anyone REALLY believe that those people on the television aren't aware of the camera EVERY SINGLE MINUTE? Sure. And those same folks are not being coached by some network toady off camera encouraging them to pander to the desire of the public to feed off of the drama and misfortune of others.
That's not what a Reality Mom is anyway. At least not to my understanding
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It hurts when a teary eyed toddler turns from you and declares that you are a "mean" mommy. Thankfully, I already have a savings account opened in her name so she can pay for therapy when she's old enough. She's going to need it to get over the damage that her "mean" mommy is doing.
Being a mean parent is a God given right responsibility. Without mean parents our world would be full of self indulgent, rude people who haven't a clue how to behave or care for themselves
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I was at dinner with my family the other night, when the waiter seated a young family with a toddler at the table next to ours. This might be cause for alarm as the idea of sitting next to a screaming child who cannot or will not sit properly at the table can quickly spoil a meal for everyone nearby. But the little boy sat at the table and talked to his parents very nicely. He was only about three so I was pleasantly surprised to see such a polite little fellow. Not only was he quiet, he waited patiently for his meal (my grown husband was grumbling about the poor service!).
So when I got up to leave the restaurant, I smiled at his mother and complimented her on what a well behaved son she was raising
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I once heard someone say that we spend the first year waiting for our little pumpkins to be able to speak and the next twelve years wishing they would speak less. (Until they become teenagers. Then of course, they equate speaking to their parents as extreme cruelty.) Whoever said that was joking of course, at least I think they were.
There are times when talking to a child is like talking to a mad man. At worse, talking to a child is like talking to a mad immigrant. One who doesn't speak the language well but who tries to communicate like a native speaker
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Before you become a mom.
1. That pregnancy, despite the hype is not necessarily beautiful. Your feet swell, your hormones run amok. Your once flat belly begins to look like you're trying to shop lift a watermelon from the grocer.
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and I'm not leaving a forwarding address. That's the way I feel some days. Motherhood is wonderful, don't get me wrong. I love my two girls. They are wonderful kids. But some days...
I used to tell them that if I heard anyone call "MMoooom" in that drug out whiney tone of voice one more time, I was changing my name and not telling them my new name. It became a kind of game because, of course, they knew I was joking. I'd stop responding to their cries of "MMmoooom!" with a simple, "Mom who? My name isn't mom." And we would spend the next few minutes with them guessing my new name
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147 Posts dating from November 2006
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