We've moved!

The Julz of Life blog can now be found at julzoflife.com.

Please also visit our forum for working parents where you can share a good laugh, participate in great discussions, or ask questions about mitigating your own bits parenting madness. 

See you there!

Cookie Moments

I consoled a sobbing 9 ½ year old this morning .  In between high pitched wailing explanations, I gathered enough information to know that it wasn’t at all about a “boring summer” or “summer going too fast and before we know it, it’s gone.” It was about change.

Her single digits waning, she’s feeling her age.  Her older sister doesn’t want to play American Girl dolls or build a couch fort or a plan an adventure outside.  She doesn’t want to play the games they both used to love.  “All she wants to do is read or talk to a friend or go to town for ice cream.”  After her 354^th something-fun-to-do suggestion to her sis was turned down, my daughter lost it.

Her sister is heading to Jr. High.

My little one’s cries unexpectedly summoned the whole family to my office where she had wilted.  As I moved her hair from her wet face and gently stroked the sobs back down to normal breaths, I found my mind in another house, in another time, consoling my first daughter as she was beginning school – 4 year old Kindergarten, to be precise.  I told the story as the four of us sat there, getting older.

Her big sister loved learning, she loved her backpack, her teacher, the idea of a school bus, but it was all change.  It was all different.

She had a cookie in front of her that had fallen from her hand and broken into a few pieces on the table in front of her.  She wasn’t a whiner kid, and so when she too fell to pieces over this broken treat, I sensed something more.  Instead of my first instinct, to tell her that it was ridiculous to mourn a broken cookie… that she still got to eat the WHOLE thing, I listened.  I hugged.  I gathered her into my lap, close to my chest, and let her sob.

“It’s okay, Honey.”

“No, it’s not.  It’s broken.  The cookie will never be whole again. I wanted it whole.  I liked it whole.”

I silently cried with her, knowing she was so right.  It won’t be the same again.  Not ever. It might still taste like a cookie and there will be thousands of other cookies in years to come that might even taste better, but that cookie will never be the same as it was a moment before it broke. 

When my eldest was at school, her little sister stayed home and napped, or had “mommy time” and she wasn’t there to witness or participate.  We rushed more, we met new people and saw them more and others less. We did new things, we learned new songs. Before too long, we moved where there were no fences around the yard, and now, those boundaries just keep getting bigger.

As my littlest reached for a tissue, signaling that she was done with her tears for now, I noticed the soggy eyes of my eldest staring out the window and down at her lap and I remembered the last sweet detail of the broken cookie moment.

While my eldest was cozied in my lap 8 years ago, still lamenting her cookie loss, I asked her if she was ready to eat her cookie.  She said, “no Mama, there’s still more sad in me.”  So I let go of the rushing, of the dishes, of the laundry, of the idea of a “big girl” and of moving on to the next thing.  I held her and her sadness, rocking us both gently, until it was gone.

My girls found common ground in a Wii game, giggling and jumping around. The day moved on.  There will be more (Lord willing), but not this one.  

Enjoy every morsel.

"My Kids Are Too Little To Contribute"

Often, I hear from parents, “I wish I had helpful kids.”

Others will see my kids making a sandwich and say, “My kids won’t do that.”

My first question is, "What have you allowed them to do for themselves?" At a year and a half, they can pull clothes from the dryer to a basket. There begins their contribution. Kids learn quickly that Mom and Dad are "supposed to" do it all if Mom and Dad are doing it all. Begin by relinquishing safe tasks.  Ask yourself, “am I willing to let go of the consequences (the possible spill, the imperfection of the job done) so that I might teach a life lesson here?  Is the child going to get hurt?” If you’re willing and the risk of injury is low, go for it.

“Would you dry this plastic dish for me?”
“Please bring that box of wipes to me so I can change your sister.”
“Would you put the books on the shelf for me, my helper?”

Positive reinforcement, consistency, and most of all, assuring them that they are a big part of the whole, will go a long way if taught early.  When they are really small, overemphasize their contribution…  “That was GREAT!  Thank you so much, Big Helper!!” As they get bigger, call out their ever-growing abilities and teach them things that might be a stretch. With supervision, we taught our daughters how to make salad (chopping veggies with a chef knife) at age 8. Now they respect blades in the kitchen and elsewhere rather than fearing them.

It does take time, but sometimes it takes time to make time.

A few Christmases ago, I wanted to make an apron for my youngest daughter, but instead, I decided to have her older sister learn how to sew it.  It took 3 hours to make the “jiffy” project.  At the end she said, “Mom, aren’t you glad I did this WITH you? We’re almost done and it only took 3 hours.  Imagine how long this would have taken without my help!!”  Indeed.

It would have been worth 6 hours for the pride and joy I see every time she tells someone that she made the apron her sister is wearing.

Teaching Contribution to Kids (and Building Confidence as a By-Product)

Chores.  This is a laborious topic isn’t it?   

Each year, we discuss chores at our house.  We believe in contribution from all members of the family as soon as they have the ability to pinch their thumbs and forefingers together.  Summer chores are different from school-year chores given our changes in schedules, so now is the season to revisit. 

Since “chore” is a horrible word in our house with connotations that inspire groaning, slumped shoulders and the anticipation of sweat, we’re changing it.  We used to have “chore charts” and we’re moving to “task tallies” or “contribution charts.” Sometimes semantics rule the world. 

When the kids were younger, we started by providing checklists that could be marked with a wet-erase and wiped off (using the fun laminated card was reward enough for a while.)  We moved to monetizing tasks (nominal allowance), providing a baseline that was expected of each of our children without monetary reward (since they are part of this family - eating, sleeping, dirtying clothing and dishes with the rest of us!)  As our kids got older, basic things fell off the task list (get dressed, brush teeth, make bed, get breakfast for yourself…) and tougher things went on (empty dishwasher, sort laundry and start the white load, prepare dinner on Tuesday, weed the flowerbed…)

Now that they are 9 and 12 and learning motivated by both money and consequences, neglect of the baseline results in lost privileges. Going “over-and -above” results in extra privileges or extra payment. In order to “qualify” for the over-and-above rewards, one has to first do what’s expected (baseline tasks.)  They are goal-oriented (I'm saving to buy a new bike... I'm earning a sleepover party for me and 3 friends), so this works for us.  Any mix of this expectation/reward system may work for your family depending upon the motivations and the ages of your kids.

Really, we’re just setting expectations and consequences, but I’ve found that there are more rewards for our family than that.  Often stereotypes and limitations begin really early and unintentionally at the family level when we aren’t paying attention.  Mom makes dinner (“Dads can’t do this.  Only Moms do this.  Therefore, boys don’t work in the kitchen.”) Dad mows the lawn and takes out the garbage (“Girls can’t mow the lawn or operate smelly machinery.”)  We may unintentionally project other limiting ideas as well.  “Only adults manage money, make grocery lists, plan parties, clean the house, make doctor’s appointments, talk to a teacher about a problem…”

The benefit of delegating isn’t just for you, it’s for your child.  They BEAM when they know they can do a “hard” task.  And when friends come over and I ask them to do something that is a bit challenging (“why don’t you make some quesadillas for your lunches?”), they are overjoyed to be the Lunch Yoda and to empower their friends with a frying pan and a chef's knife.  The confidence, independence and self-sufficiency these tasks build is invaluable.

So what do you give them to do??  When listing tasks for myself and debating delegation to a child, I’ve used the “why not” theory.  Why not delegate this?  Other than a task truly not being age appropriate (my 12 year old cannot borrow my car to fetch groceries), two primary and disputable reasons give me pause:

TIME - Sometimes, I have a very specific way of doing a task (put your freshly folded t-shirts on the bottom of the stack so you aren’t tempted to just wear what’s on top over and over) so I tell myself that I don’t have the extra time to teach them how to do it properly.  It takes just a few extra minutes and a few times repeated to get it to sink in.  I’m then afforded the luxury of leveraging that new task.  And, if it doesn’t sink in, some tasks are better half done that not done at all (the clothes are in the drawer, right?)  So it’s not really time, but laziness or…

PERFECTION – I am a recovering perfectionist.  I often approach finished work (my own and that done by others) and the first thing I notice is how it could have been done better.  While continuous improvement is lovely, it can discourage your helpers and generally defeat everyone when talking about the day-to-day tasks.  If towels being folded “properly” is a deal breaker, then you can either not delegate that task or, better yet, learn to delegate and let go.  Again, Done is better than perfect in many cases.

Success factors for increasing the contribution in your home:

• Keep it simple, keep it visible (kids’ ages will dictate what this looks like)  
• Follow-up DAILY with praise, constructive criticism, and accountability (consequences/rewards).  I won't lie.  We set a calendar alarm for follow up each evening.

Failure factors:

• System is too hard to manage
• No accountability
• No follow-up on consequences and rewards
• Tasks heavily depend upon adult for supervision or supply (may not be age-appropriate)

Let us know what has worked in your home!   Tell us and we’ll send you our Weekly Contribution Tally sheet and a list of task examples.

You Don’t Scare Me - Even if You’re a Horse’s Ass.

Sage advisors have often noted that it’s around highly careless people that one should be most cautious.  One would think that it’s the cunning and clever among us that would pose a bigger threat, but it’s the unpredictability and thoughtlessness of horse’s asses that can lead to danger quickly.

I had this notion challenged recently.  I’m now quite a fan of horse’s asses. The real ones. 

In October, I hugged a horse’s behind (literal, not figurative) and it was amazing.  I was kicked as a child after being placed at a dangerous distance from a pony’s back end (by knowing, older girls whom I looked up to greatly, but who found it funny when I was kicked.)  Although I've sat in awe and fascination of horses my whole life, admiring their beauty, being astonished at their keen intuition, and overwhelmed by their incredible lip dexterity, I have kept an overly safe distance between myself and their hooves – most especially their hind hooves.

With “horse people” present, I have approached their faces with care, and at times, delight, so I could gently touch my formerly favorite parts of them – their fuzzy ears, their velvet noses and their smooth, warm faces.  When it was just me staring into the batting eyelashes of these giant creatures, I was fine.  No pounding in my chest.  No flashes of hot fear in my inner ears. No nausea.  No fidgety feet at the starting line waiting to bolt.  There was a connection.  As long as I was nowhere near the feet, there was a connection.

My October weekend was different.  I was ready to expose myself to this creature.  I could hear him speaking to me in the silent shed full of watching women.

I cleared my mind and centered myself by breathing deeply into my belly and staring out into the pasture at a large tree.  I focused on the tree as the workshop facilitator helped me do a body scan, encouraging me notice the energy and tensions in each part of my body as she slowly traveled from head to foot.  I imagined the energy in the tree all the way to its threaded roots, holding it fast against the wind.  As I watched the specks of dust twinkle like glitter in the sunshine streaming through the shed door, I breathed in the calm and out the anxiousness.  

I was asked to turn to the horse and tell him my heart’s desire without any words.  As I turned, so did he and then he stuck his head out the back door into the sunshine.  I silently asked for courage and he walked out of the shed, into the sunshine, and then out of sight.  For a moment, I thought he was done with me.

I didn't have to go into the gated area of the shed with the horse (the activity could have been done through it), but I chose to walk in, taking a “horse lady” with me.  With cautious confidence, I stepped passed the opened gate, and stood where I was told.  As I did, the horse slowly, rather intentionally, clopped in from outside.  He gave me some space and when my mind and body were still, he came right up to my face with his own, immediately covering my cheeks with his visible breath.  I had no fear.

He moved slowly, giving me the left side of his face, of his neck, of his shoulder, his belly, and then he stopped with his left hindquarter staring me square in the face.  My breath caught as I was stabbed with fear.  I reached my left hand to touch the trainer and extended my right hand to touch his left butt.  He knew where I was and what he was doing.  I breathed.  In with the calm and out with the anxiousness.  In two breaths I was weeping.  Each inhale finding the fear within and each exhale pouring it onto the dusty floor in the form of tears. 

I let go of the trainer.  He turned more slowly, giving me his right hindquarter, pushing against me as I touched his fur with both hands.  He leaned into me, firmly but gently.  I did not back away.  I rested my head on his right rump and cried. There was no fear, only trust and gratitude for this loving connection. I won’t hurt you. Lean. Rest. It’s okay.

And then he farted.  This guy was definitely the horse for me, knowing exactly when comic relief was necessary.

He let me stay there; processing my fear and my triumph as I covered my mittens with fur and horse dust.  When I was ready to reemerge, he knew.  He took mellow but faster steps so that he was facing me once again, but he had moved me away from the comfort of the trainer.  I thought he was leading me to the gate, facilitating my exit like a gentleman opening the door.  No.  He had another challenge.  He again presented his fuzzy rear and stopped as if to say, See? Still not going to hurt you.

I smiled with immense gratitude.

The next day, I boldly placed myself in an arena full of horses having shed a heavy, unwanted layer that I’d worn for far too long.  We danced.  The horse ladies said that I wouldn't see a horse the same way again.  I trust it’s mutual.  

Fashion Conscious in Subzero Temps – A Public Service Announcement from my Digits to Yours

If there is one thing I regret from my youth, it’s my choice of fashion over function during February of my senior year of high school.  I was invited to a college fraternity formal in downtown Chicago ("The Golf Ball"). I was in a sleeveless, silk dress, hose, leather heels, and a Volkswagen Rabbit in subzero temps with even further subzero wind chills exacerbating the brrr. 

I did have sense enough to wear a coat (a thin, fancy, wool dress coat with a silky scarf covering the stylish v-neck).  I did not have boots (neither on nor with me), I did not have a blanket in the car, I did not have mittens (only very cute gloves that went well with my ensemble), and I left my good judgment somewhere between my hometown and the suburbs where I met my friends and my blind date who decided that I would drive. 

The car overheated due to frozen coolant, the engine block cracked, and the VW seized up and died on I-294.  There were no cell phones. It was so cold that four of us piled in the back seat, formal attire and all.  I stopped feeling my toes and fingers a half hour prior to this clown car move.  I took my arms from coat sleeves and my put my hands in my armpits after I saw that they were white.  After putting my gloves on my feet, I tucked them under me and sat fetal.  The police stopped but wouldn't give us a ride.  They said they’d call a tow truck and said there was a service station just up the exit ramp behind us. 

I can’t recall exactly how we got the car to the service station, but I know it involved pushing.  I do recall, however, the blazing hot sensation as my fingers and toes flamed back to life, and the pain and tingling that wouldn't cease for hours thereafter.  I was lucky.  I had 1st- 2nd degree frostbite.  Any further than that and I would have had blistering, permanent loss of feeling, and possible amputation.  That would have been a price far greater than the new engine I had to purchase for the VW.

I share this because to this day, it takes no more than a few minutes in just the right conditions (AC too high in the car, barefoot on the kitchen floor in the morning, more than a minute sorting through foods in the freezer, holding a gallon of milk by the handle with an un-gloved hand) and my digits turn white and go numb.  Gloves are only for temps greater than 40 degrees in my world.  Mittens are a must.  Slippers are an always item from fall to spring.  Boots are in the car regardless of snow.

Look, we both know you’re cute in that outfit.  If you’re going out, even to the store, pack a bag with the right warm gear.  The temps are going to take your breath away this week, don’t throw in your fingers and toes to boot. (Pardon the pun.)  And stand fast on this one when convincing the young people in your life to do the same.

Driving in Fog

As the weather changes and the earth is still catching up, fog happens.

It blankets the surface with a dense, often menacing, lack of foresight.  When I shine a brighter light, hoping to give myself more comfort or illumination on what’s to come, the fog is brighter, thicker, more impenetrable.  I could choose to stay in, not move at all.  But I have obligations, places to go, things to accomplish. 

So I drive in fog.

I go slowly, low beam my way through, taking each turn as it comes, hoping to stop at the signs and go on the greens, hoping that fellow drivers don’t swallow us up from behind, hoping for no wandering Bambi or Woozle in the road.  I accept that there’s more out there than the 1760 feet of road ahead of my halogens, but I can’t look now, can’t afford attention elsewhere.  Focus on the road.  Allow only memories of each turn and curbside landmark to waft into the mind’s eye to guide me.  Move forward, only a few more miles to go.

When the sun finally triumphs, slowly burning away the specs of water (they were, after all, only specs), and the breeze wipes away the rest like a ½ sheet of Bounty, the Earth is shining again, in colors brighter than before. 

And I can see things.

Things I want to do, things I want to be.  And they stack in front of me like shelves upon shelves of juicy novels and movies, ever-filling, ever-begging for me to stop everything and play.  Every time I reach for one, I break a nail and stub my finger on the glass.  I’m yanked back into the safe fog of begging laundry, schmutzy dishes, and tedious 1099 tasks, accomplishing each necessary job one tiresome minute at a time.  I watch the ever-greening possibilities through the glass, but do not touch.

And then the flowers bloom.

There is growth and change and sporadic flames of vibrant color.  Birds I can name suck the middles out of each bloom, boldly flaunting their own blooming bellies in the tentatively warm breeze. Three have stopped at the window this week, almost staring at me, daring me to fly along and stuff my beak in a bloom for a sip.  I’m thirsty.

So I will pour my own.  And drink.

I toast to the warm. I toast to the gifts. I toast to the dance and to the flight and to the symphony of the spring peepers and toads. I thank the sky for being visible and the earth for sipping and soaking it with me after so long being on the rocks.  I thank the front stoop and toast the deck for inviting me.  With my arms in the air, lungs full and curls fluttering in the wind, I fuel up.

And I drive with the top down.