Diary of a Working Mom

Reading various blogs and Facebook pages and articles….and wondering if women are trying to put themselves back “barefoot and pregnant.”

I know what I am reading is not everyone’s opinions, and maybe I’m just not reading the right sites, but what I see scares me a bit.

Women who know they are in crappy relationships, but won’t leave because then they won’t have an income.  Women who have been led to believe that if they leave their child for a few hours each day, that child will grow up to be some kind of criminal who spends their lives in prison.  Women who put up with things that NO ONE should put up with.

How did we get back here?  Or did we just never leave and I was just lucky enough to have a mom who knew better?

I didn’t grow up with a privileged life.  The big “dinner out” was McDonald’s, where me and my 2 siblings had our choice of only a hamburger or cheeseburger, and we split a small fry.  However, I was taught to not want to be stuck there.  Thank goodness.

It slightly disturbs me to read questions from a young woman asking if she should quit her job and go on welfare because her ex who is not even taking care of the children thinks she should.  It greatly disturbs me to see other women encouraging her to do just that because otherwise she is not a good mother.  REALLY???

I am a working mom.  I was a working mom when I had my child, a working mom when I was still married to his father, a working single mom when we got divorced, and a working mom whose bills could still be paid if she didn’t work now that I’m remarried.  AND I’M A DAMN GOOD MOTHER. 

I can take care of myself and my child, no matter what, and I’m proud of that.  And so is my son.  He will never be the victim of having to live in an environment that is not good for him because I have the ability to remove him from one.  He will never view women as someone that should be belittled. He will never view a female as something other than an equal.  And he knows his mother loves him more than life itself.  And, well, I can’t say that he’s unhappy with some of the privileges that come with a mom with an income.

Working does not make you a bad mother.  If you choose not to, that is fine too, but just make sure you are doing it for the right reasons - because you don't need the income and you don't want to, because you have a special needs child that requires a stay at home parent, heck even because you just think working is evil - but not because people tell you that you can’t be a bad mother and still work.

I like my job.  I like the challenge it presents me.  I like the sense of accomplishment when I figure out an issue.  I like talking to other adults. 

And that’s why they have wine.  Thank goodness for the job that can pay for it.

A Spanking Is Just a Spanking

There are some people who say that the cause of violence in our society comes from spanking our children.  There are others that say it’s because we don’t. 

There are three incidents in my life that I think of each and every time the occasion arises where I need to discipline my child:  three things that have stuck in my mind over many, many years, and taught me great lessons in being a parent.  And none of them involve spanking.

The first is a time I got mad at my father for something and said I was going to run away.  The second is a time I was in my grandmother’s kitchen when I was 8 or 9 and I repeated a rude line from a movie.  The last is something my pastor talked about in his sermon at church, long before I even had a child.

When I said I was going to run away, my dad reacted by not saying a word.  Rather, he went and got me a suitcase.  I changed my mind.  Understand how your child thinks.

My grandmother looked at me with a hurt look, and, in her normal conversational voice, said “That is a really mean thing to say to someone.”   Teach your child WHY a behavior is wrong.

My pastor said that the key to discipline was to “know your child’s currency.”  In other words, know what consequence best fits that particular child.  Realize that not all children respond to the same discipline methods, even children in the same family.

Yes, I’ve spanked my child when I felt the situation called for it.  I’ve also used time-out, taking things away, grounding, and, more often than not, nothing more than a simple act like my dad or grandmother used.  In turn, I have a wonderful, kind, considerate, affectionate child with whom I have a great relationship.

Raising, teaching, and disciplining a child isn’t as simple as spanking or not spanking.  It takes a lot of work, a lot of understanding, and a lot of realizing that what you thought you knew just isn’t working.

And when it gets overwhelming, just lock yourself in the bathroom with a bottle of wine.  That’s why they have it.

(Hmmm, wonder if a wine rack would fit in here.....)

Disgusted

I am disgusted.  Thoroughly disgusted.

Posts on Facebook regarding the Trayvon Martin trial scare me.

Yeah, I get that there had to be “beyond a reasonable doubt” evidence to convict someone.  So do most Americans.  We’re not stupid.  That doesn’t mean we should be jumping for joy at the verdict.  Some of us are actually smart enough to think outside the box.  Some of those people are black, and it doesn’t mean they are pulling the race card because of it.  Although, I do have to admit, the comments I’ve read tonight have made me much more realize the need for that card.

A grown man gave into his need to be macho, and against police advice, confronted a teenager.  A teenager that was NOT committing a crime.  A teenager that was armed with a bag of Skittles, “just the plain ones” as my 11 year old pointed out.  A fact that most people have chosen to purposely ignore.

And, well, that’s it.  I don’t see how people can overlook that.  Of course I guess I’m ignorant, because I also don’t see how people can think their feelings on gun control are more important than someone’s life.  Or how that it’s OK that they smoke pot, but not that the victim did.  Or, well, I have a lot of trouble seeing how some people think they are perfect and therefore can judge whose lives are worth living.

I CAN see how upset the Martin family must be.  And I pray for their peace.  I truly hope they can somehow get some closure.

And that’s why they have wine.

A Matter of Perspective

Perspective.  It tends to evolve from our life experiences.  We all have a slightly different one.  Different doesn’t mean more wrong or more right, better or worse, smarter or dumber.  It just means “not the same.”

When I was a kid, we had a big old antenna that had to be turned to tune in different TV channels.  Calling Grandma on the phone was a rare and short event, because it was long distance, and long distance was not free.  My mom took us to the local beauty school for free haircuts. We didn’t qualify for free lunch at school, but we couldn’t afford the 50 cents it cost.  We ate bologna sandwiches every day, except for that special occasion that we would get the pimento loaf or ground bologna that was usually reserved for my dad.  I didn’t know what real cheese tasted like until I was an adult.  I had to drink powdered milk and orange juice that came in a can and tasted like metal.

I worked my first job, delivering newspapers when I was 12, and I spent my income on Christmas presents for my siblings.  After that I babysat for the people around the corner in order to be able to buy a pair of Nikes so the kids at school would stop making fun of my cheap shoes.  When I got my next job at 15, my parents had divorced and my mom was not receiving the child support she was supposed to, and was trying to take care of 3 kids. With my paycheck, I paid for all of my own necessities, paid to have cable in our house, as well as helped with things for my brother and sister.  

At 17, I moved to another city and put myself through college on a combination of working, scholarships, and student loans.  I didn’t have a car or a phone and everything I owned fit in a suitcase and two milk crates.  I just finished paying off the student loans, with a 10% interest rate, a year and a half ago, at the age of 44.

Average per capita income in the U.S. in 1990, when I started my first out-of-college job, was 18,667.00 (I made $6.60/hr, or $13,728.00 with a job that REQUIRED a degree).  At the end of 2012 was $42,963.00, 2.28 times higher.

That year, I rented a $450 1 bedroom apartment.That same apartment today is $705, only 1.56 times higher.

Average loaf of white bread in 1990, $1.29.Today, $1.45. Eggs in 1990, $1.16.Today, $1.61.Gasoline, yes, is about 3.49 times higher, but in 1990 I couldn’t even afford a car with my income at a professional job.I rode my bike to work.
 

34 years of working, and it’s just been in the last year since I’ve been married with another income, do I actually feel comfortable enough to go to the grocery store without adding up every cent down to the last penny to make sure I’m not spending too much. Though I can now afford more, I’ve had one professional manicure in my life, I get my hair cut at Supercuts, most of my wardrobe is used from Ebay, and the only Coach purse I’ve ever had I bought two years ago. At Goodwill. For $3.

My life wasn’t privileged.  My life was often a struggle.  I'm not bitter about any of it. I was taught no one owed you anything, and life is what you make of it, and so I’ve made choices and sacrifices and, well, made something of it. 

I’ve not only always felt grateful for what I have, I have always felt blessed.  What many see as necessities, I see as a waste of money.  When I look at the numbers, I can get a little confused when sometimes people believe that if you are not a young adult today, you can't understand their financial struggles.   I understand perfectly, as do many others, we just have different methods and ideas for dealing with them.  Maybe we should open up and listen to each other sometimes.

And that is my perspective. Yours may vary.
 
Life is hard.  That’s why they have wine.

I Guess My Medicine Hasn't Kicked In Yet

“Mom!”  Aiden yells from down the hall.  “Where are you?”

"I’m brushing my hair.”

Ten seconds later he is standing in the door to the bathroom.  “Yes, what is it?” I ask.

“Um, hmm.  I don’t remember.  I guess my medicine hasn’t kicked in yet,” he laughs. “Oh, wait…no, that isn’t it.  Hmm.”

I prompted him a little on what he was doing before he wanted to ask me something in order to try to help his recall.  After about 30 seconds he said, ”Oh, I remember. Is today July 7?”

A little over a year ago this conversation would not have gone so well.

Instead of the good natured chuckle he had at himself for forgetting what he wanted, he would have gotten a dark look on his face and yelled at me for making him forget because I wasn’t in the same room he was when he had a question.  He would have stomped off, slammed his door, ripped up some paper or thrown something.  I would quietly go back to what I was doing, so used to this scenario that I knew nothing productive could be accomplished till he was able to gain control of himself, and when that occurred I would go talk to him.  Most likely, he would never remember what he wanted to ask me in the first place.

I knew there was something just not right when he was a toddler.  He didn’t respond to things the way the parenting books say he was supposed to.  He would cry and seem in distress at a loud show, yet throw a temper tantrum on steroids if he couldn’t watch it.  He was vehemently scared of anything in the dark, it’s actually only been in the last year that he doesn’t sleep with the light on. He had severe separation anxiety when it came to being away from me, yet often acted like he hated me. He hated to color or play with play dough or most other things preschoolers liked to do.  As he got older, I noticed he couldn’t usually follow directions that had more than one step, and sometimes he’d forget the one step ones.   He had extreme difficulty controlling his emotions.  He had little attention span, jumping from one activity to another.

There was one exception, baseball.  There he has total focus.  But he is also abnormally obsessed with it, to the point that he can give you the stats for just about any player in the MLB at any given time.

It wasn’t until he started failing in school in 5^th grade that I could really get anyone to listen that he wasn’t just a “boy being a boy” or that he needed more handwriting practice (because every day after school since kindergarten wasn’t enough),  or that I just needed  to  improve my parenting skills.  He was sent for evaluations and was diagnosed with ADHD Inattentive type (formerly known as ADD) and that he had sensory processing issues and fine motor delays, as well as what seems to be dyslexia.

He started on medication for ADHD.  Parenting strategies changed – I no longer disciplined for forgotten homework, I came up with strategies to help him remember based on research I did on his disorder.  I was able to get him accommodations at school through a 504 plan based on his disabilities.  He’s on a waiting list for Occupational Therapy, for which he now qualifies, and his neurologist gave him some activities to work on his fine motor skills at home.  We’ve discussed what his diagnoses mean, and how it does not make him inferior in any way, and how it makes him the same kid he always was, that we just now have more tools available to struggle through difficulties.

He’s a happier, more confident, more successful kid.  He’s less perfectionistic, and is able to see that he is not a failure if his brain makes him process things a little differently.  His handwriting improved tremendously and he’s started teaching himself cursive.  He has no problem discussing his diagnoses with other kids and has actually helped some friends feel OK with theirs.

He can hold a normal conversation without it ending in a meltdown.

People often question why parents would seek out diagnoses for their children, or, God forbid, let them be treated with medication for them.  This morning’s conversation with my son, that is why.

And for the struggles I still have to help him go through, that’s why they have wine.

Notes to the Resident Grammar Nazi

I am bothered by misspelled words.  The wrong use of “their,” “there,” and “they’re” drives me insane.  I sometimes need to re-read things 5 times before I get the meaning due to the sentence structure, and think “Really?”

When I’m reading a professional article or document.  Professional.  Key word.

 I expect a professional to both have a good grasp on grammar and spelling, and to have a proofreader.  I expect someone sending a quick email or text, well, to be sending a QUICK email or text.  I realize that probably a majority of the time when posting on social media, people are doing so with devices that have spell checks with a mind of their own.

I actually proofread and correct the published documents at work.  AT WORK. I am in my late 40’s, you know, what they call old.  My eyesight, it likes to play games with me.  I’m not “bad” enough yet for full bifocal contacts, so I wear contacts for my nearsightedness, and have to put on reading glasses OVER THEM for, well, reading ANYTHING.  The smaller the print, the worse it is, and for all you 25 year olds out there, trust me, the print on your smartphone will be indecipherable in some very short years.   I don’t always carry my reading glasses.  It’s bad enough I have to carry a purse with allergy meds, hormone pills, my asthma inhaler, contact wetting drops, and of course my wallet so I can produce my ID to that 22 year old when I want a glass of wine and he won’t accept my obvious wrinkles as proof of my age.  I’m not carrying the glasses everywhere too! I honestly can’t even SEE some of the corrections my phone or Kindle likes to do. 

If I don’t post something correctly in a status, you can get over it or unfriend me.  Trust me, if our friendship (or like of the page I admin), depends on your perception of my perfection, I’m at no great loss for losing you.

And, well, I will admit, I AM NOT PERFECT.  Not even close.  I mess up. I put apostrophes or commas in the wrong place.  I skip words because I’m typing faster than I’m thinking.  I actually have more to live for than being known as the woman who never made a spelling mistake.  And that is all perfectly fine with me.  Maybe it’s my senility in my old age, but I’m having a problem coming up with a reason not to admit that, and so it really irks me when others think that they are God’s gift to the earth for pointing out a typo. 

You want to post a snarky comment on something I post or any of my friends do on Facebook because the phone decided it was changing “much” to “mush?”  Good, because I will bow down and admir….HAHAHHAHAHA……HAHA……HAHAHAHAHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! I can’t even finish that sentence.

Get over yourselves.  And have a glass of wine.  After all, that’s why they have it.