When I was eight years old, my parents put me and my then-five-year-old brother in our yellow Volvo station wagon and told us we were going somewhere special.  I can still remember getting to the George Washington Bridge and knowing we were heading into New York City, a place I’d been many times.  I asked if we were going to the Bronx Zoo or the Museum of Natural History, since those were two places that we visited fairly often.  They said no.  Even though it was a Saturday, I asked if we were going to my mom’s office in the Chrysler Building.  Nope, that wasn’t it either.  Finally, after winding through an area of the city that I’d definitely never seen before, we got to our destination – Yankee Stadium.  I was going to my very first major league baseball game.  There are many memories from my childhood that have since become rather fuzzy, but that day is still vivid.  I had my first bag of ballpark peanuts and was delighted when I was told that I could just drop the shells on the floor.  We didn’t have much money in those days, so our seats were in the far sections of the stadium that housed the most “New York” of Yankees fans.  I learned quite a few new vocabulary words that day which I was told never to repeat.  I can still picture the round, moustached face and sweaty brow of the guy who sat behind us and “taught” me those words as he berated his hometown team every time they got behind.  I don’t remember if they won or lost that day, but I do know they played the Blue Jays, and that Don Mattingly was at first.  It was 1986 – his best season ever.

My brother doesn’t remember nearly as much of this day as I do.  He’ll tell you it was because even as a kindergartner, he knew the Mets were his team.  But I think it’s simply because he was younger at the time.  He had a great time, just like I did.  He was old enough to sit still and enjoy the game.  We both were.  But I was old enough to watch it and remember.

I am reminded of that Yankees game every time Charlie’s grandfather asks us when we can take him to a Phillies game.  He’s asked quite a few times in the year since Charlie was born.  And each time, Charlie’s dad and I have exhibited a united front as we explain that we think he’s too young.  Phillies fans are notoriously rowdy (not that Yankees fans are angels, mind you) and game times are either too late or smack dab in the middle of nap time.  And when summer gets underway in Philadelphia, 1 pm is not the time you want to be sitting outside in full sun with a tired baby.  Charlie is also a guy on the move.  There’s no way he’d be interested in sitting to watch a game that he can’t see over the heads of the people in front of us.

But this isn’t so much a story of all the reasons why Charlie isn’t ready for the Phillies.

It’s more a post about how grandparents can sometimes – sometimes – overstep their bounds and what we, as parents, can do to reign it in.  When we say that he’s too young for a professional baseball game, our position on the matter is not going to change if the same question is asked 5, 10, or 20 times in as many different ways.  If I say that I don’t want him to eat chocolate yet or have butter on his string beans or be forced to play with a toy in one specific way or be made to sit in someone else’s lap while he’s screaming and reaching for me, then those things aren’t going to happen.  I’m his mother and my husband is his father, and WE are the final say.  No one else is.

I’m all for allowing grandparents to spoil their grandkids.  I’m also a believer in the idea that a whole community of friends and family can participate in the raising of a child with much success.  But both of those ideals should happen in the context of what parents want, not in the absence of it.  Does it sometimes feel as if your child’s grandparents are constantly trying to prove to you that what they did while raising you was right and what you are doing is wrong simply by virtue of the fact that it’s different than what they did?  It’s so hard when I see my son as a person to nurture while others see him as a shiny thing to show off.

I want Charlie to go to a Phillies game (and a Yankees game, too).  And I want him to share those awesome moments of live baseball with both of his grandfathers.  But I want him to remember it – from the smell of the crab fries to the sound of a cracking bat.  I want him to remember watching his favorite player stride to home plate, lift his bat, swing, and send a ball soaring into the seats behind right field.  And I want him to be old enough to understand what I mean when I tell him not to repeat the words being said by other fans around him.  Perhaps it’s asking too much to want all that for Charlie as well as some respect as the authority figure in his life, but it’s what I want.  It’s what I think Charlie deserves.

Have you had to say no repeatedly to a family member that wants to go against your wishes for your child?  What did you do?  How did you react?

Before I get into this week’s post, I have a message to the Baby Fever Gods – what do I need to do to get you off my kid’s back??  It’s SPRING…this should not be happening.  He’s a good boy.  Stop making him sick.  I’ll make whatever offerings you want.  Just let me get some sleep and let his nose stop being a mucus faucet.  Thank you.

Now back to our scheduled program…

I’ve talked here before about the decision between suburbs and city living.  But as the Philadelphia school system continues to implode, it’s becoming less of a decision and more of a necessity.  My husband and I are public school graduates who went on to amazing higher ed institutions, so we believe in the possibilities of public education.  However, we both had pretty negative social experiences at our suburban public schools and hate the idea of putting Charlie through the same thing just so he can get into an ivy league college if he wants to go that route.  We’ve always shared the goal of raising a child in the city – it’s just becoming really darn hard to do it.

There has been a lot of talk among parents in my neighborhood since the local school district announced its plans to essentially dissolve into an all-charter school program.  Many of us had found local elementary schools that seemed promising but are now in danger of losing what little funding they did have.  Our friends who are teachers are worried about their salaries and job stability – that sort of low morale can’t possibly be good for the classroom.  In lieu of going after property tax delinquents, the city has decided to drastically increase taxes for those of us who do pay.  While I would happily pay more than the pittance we pay now, I fear that a sudden increase in taxes with little evidence of those taxes being put to work will do nothing more than drive more families out of this city – leaving the school system with even less smart, activist, like-minded parents.  Charter schools have far less reports of violence than other district schools, but that’s also because they can have selective admissions. If Philly’s system is all pseudo-charter, will schools be able to exclude kids with behavior problems?  Even if they can, is that fair?

My parents made many sacrifices to live in my hometown so that I could go to one of the best school systems in the country.  I think of them whenever I hear a parent say that their local Philly school is “good enough.”  My parents refused to settle for just “okay,” and I got a great education as a result.  I’m not sure I’m capable of sending Charlie off to his first educational experience at a place that I think is “eh.” If I’m able to provide something better for him, I feel strongly that I should provide it.

We don’t look at suburban school systems as the automatic solution to our dilemma.  Firstly, we are not in the right tax bracket to move to the towns with the best of the best schools in NJ and PA.  Then there is the fact that behavior issues, grade grubbing, helicopter parents, latent racism, lack of diversity, and extreme bullying are all problems that can exist in even the must bucolic areas. And I’ll be honest – I have a huge fear that we’ll move to the suburbs and have our own personal Alex P. Keaton in the house – fratty, preppy, and into all of the things that his parents abhorred about their suburban home towns.  Is that fear a little ridiculous? Yes. But it plagues my thoughts every time I think about where we should live.

Charlie won’t go to kindergarten for another four years, but a potential opportunity is on the horizon which would necessitate a move sooner than later.  That move would force us into the suburbs and back into a world that we have purposely avoided for many years.  I do have many fond memories of my childhood in the suburbs.  And there are other pluses, too.  I’d look forward to a bigger back yard, family walks through the neighborhood, clean playgrounds, police that actually come when called, way less reasons to call them, and Wegman’s… oh how I love Wegman’s.

In the end, I just want to make the right decision for Charlie.  We had hoped that the decision could be made a few years from now, but we are doing our best to weigh the pros and cons now, but with the future in mind.

How did you decide where to live based on educational opportunities for your child?  Looking back on your decision, do you still think it was the right one?  Share your experiences here!

I’m back after a nice week off to deal with ear infections (Charlie’s THIRD), messy houses, work insanity, and the variety of other things that I’m sure all of you are enduring as well.  Charlie had a fantastic first birthday week, with two cakes, more Little People toys than any boy would ever need, and a whole bunch of developmental leaps that seem to expand on a daily basis.  I try not to be the mom that’s worried about the fact that he’s not walking yet – I know it’s normal for boys to start walking a couple months after the one year mark.  He’s into cruising and standing so I know it’s just a matter of time.  He has started to try to repeat words that we say – the big one right now is “kitty.”  Charlie’s dad is a huge cat lover so this makes him incredibly excited.  I sort of wished his first words would be “Fight the Patriarchy,” but “kitty” will do for now.

Today’s subject actually comes from a reader and friend.  Her son is nearly three, so this subject is a bit more relevant to the “toddlers plus” crowd, but I am excited to put it out there and get some feedback from the amazing parents that read Partum Me?!.  Her little guy, J, is an adorable, sometimes shy, always gentle little guy who plays well with other kids.  He goes to daycare with a another little guy (we’ll call him T) who is considerably more high-energy than J.  T has taken to hitting, and sometimes biting, J, often in the presence of adults.  The mothers of these two guys are social friends, so when J’s mom talked to T’s mom about the situation, she was disappointed to see how unresponsive T’s mom was about it.  At some point, T actually bit J right in front of both moms and T’s mom didn’t issue any sort of time out or admonishment for the behavior.

J’s mom and I have been friends since we were little kids.  We talk about parenting stuff all the time, even before I had Charlie.  Despite being the best of friends, our parenting styles are very different, but what I love about our relationship is that we can put our differing opinions out there and always trust that the other is doing what’s right for her situation.  She asked me for my opinion on the situation with J and T and for the opinions of my readers.  I suggested a second, more directed conversation with T’s mom, in which my friend could ask that she have a conversation with T about hitting and biting.  If the response was not what she wanted, I told my friend to make efforts to help J make friends with some other kids in the class.  I also suggested that she talk to J about what to do if another kid hits/bites him – if Charlie were in J’s situation, I would tell him to tell the hitter/biter that it’s not nice to do that and then go tell a teacher.

Here’s where my friend and I disagreed – she wonders if the time is right to teach J to defend himself.  For example, if T starts hitting or biting and won’t stop, J can push him away or use some sort of physical motion to get him to stop.  I don’t think that J’s old enough to understand the subtle difference between “self defense” and “hitting back.”  At this point, I worry that trying to help him understand that idea will just result in J thinking it’s okay to retaliate.  A hard line of “no hitting and no biting” is what I advocate for this age.  Anyone who bites or hits should go into a time out or at least be pulled aside to be told that what they did was wrong.  These little guys are still at the age where biting and hitting is used as a form of communication; they are no longer pre-verbal, but still have to be reminded to “use their words.”  T’s family is going through some serious changes, so maybe this is his way of expressing how he feels about it.  He still needs to learn that it’s wrong, but I don’t think that getting clocked by his buddy is going to help.

This subject seems to be somewhat taboo.  In preparation for this post, I posed this situation to two mothering message boards in which I participate and only got one response.  Seems most parents aren’t sure what to say about this.  But I know that my readers will pipe up!  Have you been in this situation before?  What do you think J’s mom should do?  If you are the parent of a kid who demonstrated aggression at this age, what did you do? 

Dear Charlie,

I can remember folding freshly-washed baby clothes labeled 12M and tucking them away in the backs of drawers, marveling at how far away a year seemed to be. But here we are.  Today, you turn 1.  And oh what a beautiful year it has been.

Amazing, isn’t it, how one little person can do so much to humble a sort of big-personality lady like me?  Just like many mothers out there, I have watched you go from the tiny blob on the ultrasound to an interactive little person with a personality all his own.  The speed and ease with which you pick up new things is not atypical for a child your age, but I still can’t help but marvel at how fast you move from one skill to the next.

Everyone (and I mean everyone) tells me how much you look like your daddy, and it’s certainly true.  You have his jaw, his mouth, his nose, his eyes (but my eye color!).  Yet when you break out into one of your patented ear-to-ear grins, I see me…and your Nana…in that smile.  And obviously, your baby fine blonde hair is thanks to me, too.  I sort of like that the physical parts of you that came from me are subtle and sometimes only visible when you are at your happiest, which is often.

With a father who is a mathematician, it is no surprise that you are a precise little guy.  I watch you practice tasks over and over again until you get them just right.  A block needs to go in one specific spot, a car needs to go down a ramp just the right way, a drum needs to be beaten at exactly the proper speed.  You have his brains, for sure.  Like many kids your age, you are into pointing at objects and waiting for us to tell you what they are called.  Sometimes, though, I give you the word and you point at the object again, as if you want more information about one specific aspect of it – a single bird in a large landscape image, a racing stripe on a car, one word in a sentence.

I see a lot of me in your strong and fiery personality.  You are easily frustrated but also determined to get something right.  You’ll have your fit but then get right back to work.  You are also at ease in most social situations – entertaining everyone around you with claps, smiles, and babbling.  You cry only in your most aggravated moments and are quick to get over something and get back to being your usual bubbly self.  You like to look people in the eye and sometimes I wonder if you are already capable of gauging body language and adjusting your behavior to it.  You sometimes seem so intuitive it’s almost a little scary.

You are growing up in a house where music is loved and it shows in you.  You like to make music or move to it every chance you get.  I can’t wait to see where this interest takes you, considering all of the joy that music has brought to the lives of both of your parents.

I can’t wait to see where we go from here, Mr. C-Man.  In the next year you will surely be walking, talking a little (or maybe a lot if you take after your mother in that area), and exploring the world beyond our doorstep so much more.  Promise me you’ll still hold my hand at least sometimes and still snuggle at least every once in a while.  I know my days with those moments are more numbered as you get bigger, but I know we’re good for a bunch more in the next year.  For my part, I promise to hold you up while still letting you fall when you need to.  I promise to really work at getting and staying healthy so that we can run around together for as long as we’d like.  I promise to help you be a good little person who is aware of his surroundings and the feelings of others.  And most importantly, I promise that I will love you, unconditionally, more and more every single day.

You have made our life as a family so much harder, but so much richer that the hard parts don’t even register.  I am so proud of all that you have done this year, my sweetest pea.  Thank you for being ours.

Love,

Mommy

I had a post partially written for this week, all about what to do when someone else’s toddler hits your toddler and the bully toddler’s mom doesn’t seem to care about it.  But then I got blindsided by double tragedies and my focus was interrupted by the strange grief that comes when you don’t know the people that were lost but still have some distant reason to feel awful about it.  One was the wife of a law school buddy and former work colleague from my lawyering days.  She was 35.  She and her husband had known each other since childhood but hadn’t fallen in love until they were adults.  They had two little boys under the age of 4. She was in perfect health but died suddenly and unexpectedly.  The other two deaths were two of the members of my local firehouse. They died when a wall collapsed in a building next door to a massive abandoned factory building just a few blocks from my house. The fire in the factory had been extinguished but these two guys were fighting a smaller auxiliary blaze.  The heartbreak of this story is that my community had been telling the city over and over again, for years, that this building was dangerous and at risk of collapse or fire, and every single complaint was ignored. One man was a father of three, the other lived with his girlfriend who no doubt envisioned a future with a family of their own until she got that call.

Of course, I am heartbroken for the families of these three people who have lost everything in what seems like an instant.  What also connected me to these situations was an overwhelming fear of being taken from my own family with no warning.  What would my husband do without me?  How would my son remember me?  Would they have to sell our family home? I worried about the arrangements I hadn’t made, the goals I hadn’t met, the things I hadn’t said.  In the last few days, I’ve found myself consciously remembering to savor a moment with Charlie, or give my husband an extra smooch, or just stop and take an iPhone photo of flowers in bloom.  (The modern way of stopping to smell them, I guess.)

I often preach non-judgment, here, while still feeling immense guilt for what I perceive to be my own minor shortcomings as a mother.  But over the last few days, I have refused to worry about things like whether the fruit Charlie had a for snack at daycare came in syrup made from high fructose corn syrup.  I’ll rush home in the evening as I always do, but it will be to spend more time watching Charlie motor around our living room instead of pushing to get dinner on the table so I can do some more office work before bed.  I try to take care of myself, but have thought about it more in terms of my longevity as a wife and mother than whether I meet the standards of conventional beauty in our society.

Sure, the utter fear of sudden death will fade as the days tick by, but I hope the legacy of these three people that I never met will be that they made me value what I have a little more.  I didn’t know the people that were lost, but I do know they were good people.  I hope it brings comfort to their families and friends that their goodness had such far-reaching effects.  Their spirits will be a little part of every extra squeeze I give when I have Charlie in my arms. I promise that next week’s post will be a little more light-hearted but for now, I implore all of you to go hug your little ones, your partners, your most cherished people/animals/shoes (you know who you are!) and invoke the memories of everyone you know (or maybe don’t know) who never got the chance to give that last hug to those they loved that much.