This bed is my bed, that bed is your bed

I stumbled onto another fight on Facebook (remember the last one was about moms having a life?). I learned a lesson and decided not to participate in this one, which was raging on several different status updates.

This one was about family beds.

I want to say one thing up front and loud and clear: IF you sleep in a family bed, I AM NOT JUDGING. (Shocking, right?) There are a lot of things that are none of my business--your checking account balance, your spouse's pet names, how long you think leftovers are edible, your comfort level with mildew in your shower--and sleeping with or without your kid is one of those things.

By posting this, I only ask that you extend the same courtesy.

I have been reading in a flood of momblogs, parenting blogs, and tree-hugging, love thy mother, we are allonelife blogs, that a family bed is the only way to go. That putting my child in a crib alone from the age of 1 minute is a cruel yet easy way to turn him into a black trench-coat wearing sociopath.

These articles paint me as the antichrist of moms: apparently, I sit in the vastness of my king bed's unused space, laughing like an evil genius at my child's piteous crying. Alone, sad, and miserable in his giant crib, his brain and soul are being malformed with every moment. I, on the other hand, should have my parent license revoked for ignoring his desperate need to be near me every second of his life.

I will concede that I value my personal space more than the average human being. I hated pregnancy because I had a giant parasite sitting on my bladder and punching my lung for 3/4 of a year. So, it's true that I may be at an emotional disadvantage with my children. I don't like crowds, I don't like it when strangers feel comfortable enough to touch me, and I really don't like it when my kids feel the need to hang off of me all the time.

After 9 months of of having my body transformed into a Macy's Parade balloon, I was admittedly not eager to bring that little sucker into the bed with me. When the kids transitioned out of cribs, I had the luxury of buying them each queen sized beds. Now, if they are sick or have nightmares or want a little cuddle, I can accommodate those needs and then boogie on back to my own bed when done. I don't have to try to fold up onto a toddler or twin bed to soothe, read stories to, or snuggle. But, be sure that the moment the fever is lowered, the books is closed, or the boy is asleep, I am out of that bed as fast as I can stealthily go.

Kids are hot little furnaces, they kick, they gnash their teeth, they flail their arms, they talk, whimper and whine, and frequently wind up perpendicular to the pillows when they sleep. It's like sleeping with a Wild Thing. On vacations, or other times when I'm forced to co-sleep, I have awoken with feet in my kidneys, inexplicable soreness, feet and hands in my face, and general malaise from a lack of rest. Always after these experiences, I am eager to return to my blissful temperpedic; M can jump on the bed and not even spill my wine. Perfect!

So, no. I have never slept in the same bed as my child unless unreasonable hotel/cruise rates required it. Am I a bad parent? I don't think so. When they were babies and cried in their cribs, I retrieved them, rocked them, soothed them, and stuck them back in their cribs. I wasn't a horrible ogre who ignored heart wrenching wails and let them gut it out alone. I loved them, but I gave them the space I would want.

The boys are now school aged, and have never had anxiety about leaving me or their dad for a day at school. They know that we will always be there for them, and that if they fail in any way, we are here to console them, and cheer them on again. I resent that family-bedders are telling me that, somehow, my children are suffering from that lack of closeness. Why does different have to be worse?

I am SURE there are benefits to the family bed. Those were just not benefits that outweigh the cons for our family. AND THAT'S OKAY. My kids are not suffering, I promise. PLEASE STOP TELLING ME TO DO IT YOUR WAY. I'm not telling you to do it mine.

A two person limit per bed worked for us. It may not work for you. Please don't lecture me, criticize me, or tell me how cruel I am.

This bed is big enough for all of us.

Other People's Kids

You know what sucks? Taking care of friends' kids. Not because there are more kids to look after, but because you realize that your friends are doing a damned sight better than you at raising their kids. Yesterday, I picked up two extra kids from school. W is 2 grades older than Ethan, and one is Sam's bromance, T. Their sister, V, is a toddler and stayed with grandma. So, the usual whine and cry of snack is delayed because all kids are chatting happily. There is no bicker and bitch about the day at school. We drive home as I outline the plan for the afternoon: homework, play, dinner, tee ball for S. No complaints. Everyone piles into the house smelling of summer and boystink. S has a meltdown. Probably because he's hungry, but he should always be hungry, so that's really not an explanation. He sits on the stairs cursing my name, parenting techniques and questioning my intelligence. E does his homework as though he's a space cadet, and trying desperately to impress W, his senior and therefore guardian of all coolness. W finishes his homework and cracks a book silently. T watches and asks him questions periodically about Harry Potter. Does W snap and call his brother stupid? Does T physically pester, poke and annoy his brother? No. They have normal, adult verbal exchanges. I look on, mystified. When homework is done, everyone boogies upstairs to play Lego. Like Lego is what the world is missing to create world peace. They are up there, giggling and playing, and actually complimenting each other and admiring one another's workmanship. I can hear mine squabbling. S slips into his uniform without complaint and we all head off to dinner. The OTHER boys both agree on where to eat. Mine bicker. We go with majority rules, and grab burgers and fries. W is very responsible about taking care of some stitches (for a previous injury that I had nothing to do with, thank you!). He swallows medicine, gargles with nasty peroxide and complains NONE. The salty fries, however, irritate his injury, and I offer to stop and get some Advil. This is the response (Brace yourself, as these are words not normally appropriate for a child): "No, that's ok. I'll be fine. I don't want you to go out of your way or spend extra money on me." Just for that, we're stopping. At the tee ball park, the three non-participants play catch with one another nicely in the shadows. No bickering, no drama. They even come over and watch the final inning of S's game without mentioning how boring it is OR how S was the final out of the game. "Good job. Nice game, S." Did E offer S words of praise? Nope. Hell is still toasty. Everyone came home, and W and T went off to bed and shower without a single complaint, even though I know that I sent them to bed earlier and with night time baths which isn't how they do it at home. E and S accused each other of flooding the bathroom, using all the soap and going into one another's rooms without permission. To top it all off, I go up for lights out and W is all snuggled in reading his Bible. "Can I just finish this paragraph?" Of course. I don't need another reason to be struck by lightning in the middle of the night.

Judge Julie: A Response to Surviving the Mommy Mafia

This morning, I read a post on CNN.com about surviving the "mommy mafia."
http://www.cnn.com/2010/LIVING/wayoflife/04/13/mommy.mafia.jen.klein/index.html?hpt=Mid

While I certainly agree with the author's claim that moms and women judge one another, as the primary judger in my household, I feel compelled to offer my two cents. And judge her assessment of the underground mommy life.

It's a 'dirty little secret' that's 'not really a secret'? First of all, most moms are women. If, by the age that you become a parent, you haven't figured out that your female cohorts are judging you, then you have either been raised in a barn, or blissfully ignorant and mercilessly teased behind your back. Girls judge, tweens judge the most, high school girls judge, and even cultured young women of college age judge. Don't you remember? Being too thin/fat? I was too thin until some time in middle school. Then, not thin enough. Don't you remember having glasses/thick eyebrows/pimples/braces/poor fashion advice from your mother? We all went through it. Even that annoying head cheerleader went through it on some level.

I notice now, by the way, that one of my high school's class cheerleaders has a Facebook page that could illustrate a John Cheever novel.

Being judged is a widely known part of life. Who's judging you and why and how you cope with it...those are the dirty little secrets.

First of all, I'll be honest. I'm probably judging you. Whether you're a mother, or not, my first mental process upon meeting you is assessing you. I hope, to some degree, that you're doing it to me. That's why we have a term for it in our language: the first impression. I don't care if you're wearing white after Labor Day, what I care about is that crazed look in your eyes...is it the kind of crazy that instantly bonds me with others or is it the kind of crazy that says 'potential serial killer, beware'?

I can't instantly form an opinion of the quality of your character, but I start forming an idea right away. I can tell if you're health-conscious (are you eating a Snickers for breakfast?), trendy (iphone in hand?), have a regular babysitter (this, I infer from whether or not you have a professional-looking haircut and color. No one has fantastically coiffed hair unless they have time for it. And with kids, this means babysitter.) And, let's be honest, if you have a babysitter, there's a good chance I'll befriend you. Who would have thought that sixteen year old girls would become a commodity in parenting econ 101?

Of course, first impressions are often misleading. And mine remain pretty malleable until I know you better. Do I judge you based on the cleanliness of your children's clothes? No. Do I judge you based on the sparkle of happiness hiding in the corner of their smiles? Hell, yeah.

The mommy mafia author suggests that we judge based on a myth of the perfect mom. Does some one still think there is a perfect mother? In this, the 21st century, uber-tolerant social veneer, a digital age where you can find cohorts on the Internet for every niche of interest? No one, except my mother, still believes in The Perfect Mother. My mother thinks that she was clearly NOT perfect, and judges herself for it, which is ridiculous, because of course she wasn't perfect, but no one is.

June Cleaver is dead.

Judging is such a strange term for what we do. Certainly, we compare. We watch others, we learn from others. When we see that kid in Wal-Mart ripping stuff off the shelves, and telling his mother to shove it, we compare. We judge. It's part of how we learn to parent--don't we judge our own parents in our own minds?

I don't compare moms to this rubric of a perfect mom, as though I were grading an essay:
4/5 for children's fashion
3/5 for personal fashion
4/5 for consistent discipline
1/5 for publicly spanking
1/5 for having a cocktail with dinner in front of children
5/5 for child's use of napkin and cutlery

18/30=60%=D parenting. I'd prefer to think that judging is done on a curve. Wouldn't we all rather be a little more like some moms we know than other moms we know? Isn't that necessary role modeling? Isn't that how we strive to be better parents/wives/friends/people?

As I get to know you, I form judgements based on what I think is important in life. Are the things in my life the only things that are important? Of course not. My life lacks things that very clearly other people think is vitally important. The core things, though, are shared by nearly everyone in my life. Those are my friends, my frenemies, my circle, my peers. This is the cohort in which I am raising a family. Therefore, these are the things I judge my friends by. These are the things upon which I base my advice when it is sought, these are the ideals by which I measure and judge myself. This is how I own my failures and savor my successes.

There are few things that are absolute in the complicated life/job that is parenting. These are the ends. The means are variable. If you were to ask me for advice, (which I know you really want to do right now, after reading this. Your thoughts are undoubtedly running the gamut from A to B: what a bitch to what a megabitch) you would be asking me to make a judgement. And here is how I am judging you:

Is your child happy? Perhaps not at this particular, sitting in the corner moment, but overall?
Do you seem satisfied with your life? No, you are not running through meadows in a Massengill commercial. But, are you the black and white frowny face in the depression medication ad?
Are you making your parenting choices from a rational, well-informed place or are you hopping on the trend bandwagon? Trendy Parent Magazine's article on "The All-Kale Diet" is not a reason to change dinner plans. Especially when three months later, Trendy Parent prints a tiny retraction, noting that the "All-Kale Diet" may turn your child green
Are you doing what's best for your individual child, or are you signing up for competitive cheer leading to avenge Lucy Perfectpants from the 7th grade cheer squad?
Do you have a semi-objective support network? A partner who's around enough to have valuable input? A mother (in-law) who doesn't always second-guess? A sister who has kids older than yours who aren't in the juvenile justice system? A sister who doesn't have kids, but has the nerve to tell you that yours are wild hoodlums? No one can raise a child alone. A meaningful support network tells me you're not trying to go it alone.

So, yeah. I'm judging you. If you tell me that your child can only eat organic raw foods, I'm going to be skeptical. You tell me that you're buying an oxygen tent for your kid to sleep in because of pollution, I'm raising an eyebrow. You're telling me that your 3 year old is taking Latin because it'll help his understanding of English etymology, and I'm rolling my eyes.

These aren't problems. These are choices to make, and things to focus on to avoid thinking about the things that scare us all about being parents.

On the other hand, you tell me that your kids' obsession with candy is making dinner time a nightmare, I hear you. If you tell me you're worried about the quality of your kid's education and are investigating alternatives, I'm listening. If you tell me your doctor recommended a procedure, and you're just not sure, I'm on it.
These are dilemmas, and every parent agonizes over them. (If you don't agonize about them, I'm judging you) These are the things that take mettle. These are the things that evoke the judgement of others. These are the things for we seek out our friends, our families, our support networks to help counsel us. These are the very decisions for which we, and ultimately, our children will be judged.

Finally, math I can do!

Kids babysitting kids is my favorite thing. It appears to defy all logic, and yet it represents prism-like simplistic beauty. I have taken my kids and friends' kids in all permutations and combinations these past few weeks, and I have come to some mathematical conclusions.
Theorem #1:
Having one of my children at a time is enjoyable.

Theorem #2:
Having two of my children at a time is not enjoyable.

Theorem #3:
Having one of my friend's children, and none of mine is enjoyable.

Theorem #4:
Having two of my friend's children, and none of mine is not enjoyable.

Theorem #5:
Having two of my friend's children and two of mine is very enjoyable.

Theorem #6:
Having one of my friend's children and two of mine is enjoyable.

Ergo, having four children is much easier than having three (they compete for one another's attention.) Having three children is easier than two, especially when those two are mine. Having one child is the easiest of all. Which affirms the egos of all those only children out there, and confirms the argument of every first born who claims that his/her sibling ruined everything.

Peer babysitting, the foursome combination, is by far the best. The faces and toys are new. The games are more fun, and the refereeing is minimal. I can poke my head in, demand all murder stop, and then leave them be for another half hour. With the twosome combination, the bickering is relentless, the arguing is petty, and the nerves are jangled, at best. The twosome of other people's children is tricky when navigating the rules of punishment. I am reluctant to punish other people's children, but often feel compelled when they are demolishing my house. And of course, the children I know tend to be charming and funny and bright and lovely when I am with them in an individual setting. (I qualify that statement because I am sure there are god-awful kids out there who are not fun to be with at any time. Thankfully, I don't know any of those.)
So, if any of my friends are interested in the geometry of peer babysitting, let me know. I am willing to use my children as guinea pigs for testing your own theorems!