Being Number Two

If you are second in your family’s birth order, this placement may be hazardous to your health.  For example, your older sibling may want to use your head as a surface to prop up her chin.

                                                    

Or, your parents may momentarily forget that you exist, which could lead to all sorts of trouble.  Case in point: On an afternoon not too long ago, our entire family was hanging out in Dave’s and my upstairs bedroom.  Since our house is a one-and-a-half story, the upstairs is one giant room with quite a bit of space to run.  While Dave, Cecilia and I were lounging on the bed, Ellen was doing just that: running as fast as she could, back and forth between the bed and the top of the stairs.  Dave and I were cheering her on, and she was absolutely loving it until she stopped in her tracks, coughed loudly, gagged and threw up on the carpet. 

            Dave and I immediately hopped off the bed and ran over to her, first because we know how traumatizing it is to throw up when you’re three, and second because we could tell from her glassy-eyed stare and slack jaw that there was more where that came from.  So, she continued into one of Dave’s dirty shirts (which was conveniently lying in the middle of the floor, per usual) while Dave held it for her, and I rubbed her back saying, “it’s okay, you’ll be okay” while Addie curiously sniffed the wretched results of the first gag onto the carpet.    

            As all this was going down, there suddenly sounded a loud thump from behind us.  “Oh shit – she fell off the bed!” I declared while abandoning my post by the Puker and running to the other thing that was “going down” – namely, our dear second daughter. 

            Fortunately, C started screaming right away (a sound much more appreciated than silence in this situation), and it all ended well.  As a matter of fact, by the time I scooped C up and wiped her tears, Ellen was saying “I frowed up a little bit.  Why did that happen?  Can you tell me why that happened?” and Dave was already on his way back up the stairs with a wet rag and the bottle of Resolve.  He said to me with a smirk, “it’s a good thing my laundry pile was over there to break her fall.”  I guess I have to give him that.

Teetering

Today I’m wearing a shirt that says “Balanced Mom.”  I bought it last October to complete a Halloween costume which was my recreation of Kate Gosselin (ironic since in the eyes of the public she’s one of the least balanced out there, right along with the Octo-Mom and any of the various “Susan Smith” types).  When I made the purchase, the thought crossed my mind that wearing such a T-shirt is a rather bold and presumptuous move, particularly if one can’t fall back on the excuse of Halloween, and for that reason I briefly wondered if I would wear the shirt on a regular day.  Well, obviously the problem of having a tiny (and now mostly ill-fitting) wardrobe trumps the problem of worrying over the accuracy of a T-shirt slogan – the shirt fits and at the very least does not highlight problem areas, so indeed it has been worn many times.  I figure I can get away with it if I wear it in a spirit of sarcasm.   

It’s possible that the last time I wore the “Balanced Mom” shirt was on the day when I found myself holding a handful of fruit snack wrappers from the car, with a snow drift blocking my way to the big garbage can, Dave blocking my way to the house, Cecilia crying in the car and Ellen very methodically inserting her leg almost to the knee in a second snow drift, and I just could not deal with the presence of such literal and metaphorical GARBAGE in my life.  I dealt with that overwhelming moment in a completely balanced way – by simply throwing the wrappers in a third snow drift, yelling at Dave that I really just needed to “have a GOOD CRY and then SLEEP for, like, a YEAR!!!!” and then leaving Dave to fish the garbage from the snow while I commenced the good cry on the way to preschool, with Ted Nugent and then The Who blaring so as to tune out Ellen’s repeated requests for “Wheels on the Bus.” 

I know I wore the shirt once or twice while I was pregnant with C, and so then it’s possible that “Balanced Mom” was emblazoned across my chest while I flipped Dave the bird and yelled out the door as he calmly walked away that he was “NEVER going to impregnate me AGAIN!!!!”  

I think the more often I can wear the shirt while having an irrational tantrum, the funnier it becomes.  If I plan on wearing the shirt a couple times a week, I should definitely hit an irrational tantrum or two.  However, that plan does require much more frequent laundry, so I might have to reconsider.

De-clawed

To be fair, I should disclose that I haven’t read Amy Chua’s memoir Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother.  But since she’s all over the media, it’s nearly impossible not to have some knowledge about her experience being raised by, and then raising her children by what she calls the “Chinese method”—a method that is considered “strict” at best and “abusive” at worst. 

            I respect Chua’s passion for raising her kids exactly how she sees fit, and I do believe that love for her kids is behind all her decisions.  She’s gotten a great end result – two daughters who are academically, athletically, and artistically leaders of the pack, and who are destined to be very successful.  For some people out there, that end result might just be tempting enough to make them consider taking notes while reading her book.  I know that since my children are very young, my parenting style may still be somewhat malleable – subject to the latest research, or at least the latest chatter at mom hot spots.  However, I also know that I am and will remain unwavering in my resolve to encourage my children to reach their highest potential with methods that do not rely on shame as a motivator.  You could call me a Tiger Mom, minus teeth and claws.

            I do agree with the philosophy behind the method – basically, that kids shouldn’t be allowed to take the easy way out all the time, and that they often need heavy encouragement (maybe even pushing) in order for them to find their greatest potential.  I believe that kids should be held to high standards.  They should be allowed, actually expected, to feel disappointment, discomfort, embarrassment, frustration – especially when those feelings are a direct result of behavior in which they chose to engage.  I believe that we should praise kids less for being “smart” or “talented” and more for “working hard” and “persevering.”  I agree that it isn’t always right to unabashedly applaud a child’s work if it is the result of poor effort and a lackadaisical attitude.   But some of the incidents in Chua’s book, which she’s either employed or been subjected to, make me wonder if this way of parenting toes the line a little too closely between pushing kids to be their best, and pushing them completely away from their parents due to debilitating pressure to perform and extreme fear of rejection.    

            If my girls are Nobel Prize winners, but are afraid to share with me their failures as well as their successes, their shitty moments as well as their shining moments, then I have failed as a mom.  I think it’s far better to join the ranks of mediocrity and be able to bask in the glow of unconditional acceptance, than to be at the summit of achievement and live with constant worry that there will be no one to love you if it all comes crashing down.