Less is More

My baby starts Kindergarten in the fall.

There, I said it.

They say that acceptance is the first step to recovery.

Now will someone please pass me a Xanax?

Mothers with school-age children have been scaring the shit out of me preparing me for what is to come and I have spoken with several Kindergarten teachers on the matter. The themes and overall consensus is deafening; Kindergarten today is not how Kindergarten used to be.

Gone are the half days.
Gone are the days focused on play.
Gone are the days of sticking your fingers into butter tubs filled Elmer’s glue because you can’t be trusted with an entire glue bottle.
Gone are the days of The Letter People. (remember them?)

If you are lucky, your child is able to experience these joys in Pre-School, but nowadays Kindergarten is a structured all-day program where your child will be expected to read, write, compute basic math equations and flawlessly perform a craniotomy before the year is over or risk being ostracized and publicly stoned.

Okay, maybe that is a tad dramatic. But seriously, the idea of my child being expected to read before she is six, sends me into a tailspin of panic. Not because I don’t think she can’t handle it; in fact I’m confident that she will fall head over heels in love with reading (she takes after her momma, after all), but I’m kind of a sucker for the idea of letting my kids actually BE kids.

I want my kids to run through mud puddles, play dress-up, and have make-believe friends.  I want them to watch cartoons strictly for entertainment purposes; not because Beethoven plays in the background or as a means of learning spanish.  I want them to play House and learn how to rock a baby and affectionately say “Bye Sweetie. Have a good day at work. I love you.” I want them to have tea parties and learn to say “Yes, please” and “No, thank you” (preferably in British accents).  I want them to play Chutes and Ladders and learn that sometimes you win and sometimes you lose, but to do both with grace.

When did that become an outdated mindset? Why do we feel the need to push our children to excel faster than their normal development? Why do (some) parents/educators feel that it is more beneficial for a five year old to learn to read than to learn how to socialize and share? Why have we shifted into this paradigm where academia trumps emotional and social development?  Call me crazy, but I’d rather my five year old have a firm grip on her emotions and behavior, have a never-ending imagination, and ever-lasting love for play than hold a place in the advanced reading group.

This is why, for the past year, I have boycotted the homework my daughter has brought home from pre-school. (Seriously. DAILY homework in Pre-school? You’ve got to be kidding me, right?)  Granted, the homework is not graded and has no bearing on how my daughter is assessed in the program, so I’m not a TOTAL bad-ass for refusing to do it, but I stand firm on my decision despite the silent pressure I get from some mothers.

Notice I said mothers. Lily’s teacher, thankfully, supports my decision and has reassured me that I am not setting my child up for a lifetime of academic failure.

However, each day as I drop her off at school, a handful of mothers pull crumbled worksheets out of their child’s book bag and proudly hand them to the teacher. I swear, they look at me with displeasing eyes and thoughts of pity as I shrug my shoulders and walk away, never, ever handing over a worksheet.  I imagine they go home to their husbands and as they prepare nutritious organic meals for their families they say “her poor little girl. Her mother obviously does not care about her education. I mean, she didn’t even do the assignment. How will her daughter ever learn that the sky is blue and the grass is green if she doesn’t do the Color-By-Number work sheet?”   I picture her child sitting at the table surrounded by unbroken crayons, diligently doing his homework while my kids “fly” around the house and saves their baby dolls from evil villains while wearing a bathing suit, rain boots, and a cape.

Okay, I’ll admit, those mother’s probably aren’t judging me or my child’s lack of homework.  They’re probably just wondering what shade of lipstick I’m wearing, if I cut my hair recently or why somedays I wear professional attire to drop off my child and other days I look like the Crypt Keeper in yoga pants. I’m completely comfortable knowing that my delusions stem from my own fear that somehow I am making the wrong decision by not insisting on completing the homework. Isn’t that our constant worry as mothers? That despite doing our best, despite doing what we think is right, we will still inevitably screw up our kids?

At this point, I don’t think my daughter needs to do homework.  Each day after school, we empty her backpack and her ‘homework’ is placed in a folder. Every so often, when she is bored, she will ask “Momma, can I do some homework?” 

Sure, little one. Pick one out. Pick two if you like.

The contents of our we-are-so-bad-ass-we-do-homework-when-we-like folder

Because right now, I can boycott homework and allow you do the homework at your own pace, if at all. I won’t be able to do this for long. Soon we will have to sit down at the kitchen table and do nightly homework. We will have to practice spelling words and color in the lines. We will have to practice sight words and use flashcards. We will have to spend our evenings reviewing addition and subtraction instead of building a fort out of blankets and cushions.

But right now, your only responsibility is to be little.

And my responsibility is to let you.

I will let you be little.

Our house is a disaster.

The kids have been sick since Thursday night and Marty had to work all weekend. As a result, dishes are piled in the sink, tissues litter the coffee table, and the laundry is piling up (again). A ‘sick station’ is set up on the counter with the medications, drops, and clean tissues. (And there may or may not be a home-made medication chart to ensure proper dosing and administration).

Thankfully, I was able to get the remaining Christmas decorations taken down (since Lily kindly reminded me that it is no longer Christmas) in between wiping noses and starting DVDs; but a pile of new toys still sits in the middle of our living room.

Seriously, our house is a mess.

I’ve spent a good portion of Monday morning just trying to get the house back in order. Not clean, not organized, just livable. But as any mom knows, cleaning the house with children in it, is damn near impossible. I was becoming increasingly irritated but hoped that while two-thirds of our children slept, we would be able to get most of the house work done.

My husband had other plans. As I emptied the dishwasher and then loaded the dishwasher, he settled into the couch in his pajama pants, a snack, and cuddled Lillian on his lap.

I could have killed him.

I began slamming cupboards, unnecessarily clinging glasses, and stomping my feet as I tidied the kitchen.  Being the observant husband that he is, he sweetly asked if anything was wrong.

Poor guy, he didn’t even see it coming.

It doesn’t matter what exactly was said, but it wasn’t pretty and it contained some of the worst words to use in a marriage, “I’m the only one” and “You never.” (Even as I said the words, I knew they weren’t true). After my rant, Marty looked down at Lily and politely said “Sorry kiddo, I’m going to go help Mommy clean.”

That’s all it took. No fighting, no yelling, no “you’re-being-ridiculous.”

Suddenly, I wasn’t mad at him anymore. I was mad at me. I have a difficult time sitting down and relaxing, especially when there is still so much to be done. But I knew in that instant, that if I continued to clean, I would continue to stew over the fact that he wasn’t cleaning.  Honestly, even if he chipped in a little bit later, even if he mopped the floors, even if he folded all the laundry and scrubbed the bathrooms, I would probably still be upset over the 45 minutes he sat on the couch while I cleaned the kitchen.

Stupid, right?

I realized that it was me that I was really frustrated with. It’s me that is sometimes the problem. I realized that my husband doesn’t mind if the house (sometimes) resembles the rubble of a natural disaster and that I put the pressure on myself to keep the house clean (even though I fail miserably at it most of the time). No one was stopping me from curling up on the couch for an hour, except for me.  And while my house would still be a disaster, my kids and husband wouldn’t notice the mess… but what they would notice is that Mommy wasn’t slamming cupboards or grumbling about the mess.  That afternoon, I spent a glorious 75 minutes curled up on the couch, scouring Pinterest for meals I will probably never cook and crafts I will never make…and it did wonders for my mood. (Kind of like those rare trips to Target without a toddler posse in tow). I felt rejuvenated and ready to tackle Mt. Howmuchdirtylaundrycanfivepeoplemake, even though I knew it wouldn’t get done…. and that the uphill climb would continue to grow as the day filled with boogers and pinkeye progressed.

It’s a struggle, but as mom’s that are genetically programmed to put everyone else’s needs before our own, sometimes we just need to get out of our own way, realize that the house is going to be a mess for the next 18 years, and that sometimes an hour spent relaxing is more beneficial to ourselves, our husbands, and our children than an hour spent cleaning the kitchen.  

Even if there still are smashed bananas on the kitchen floor.

It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas….

Actually, our house looks like Santa Claus himself decked the halls, hung the stockings with care and painted the walls with Christmas cheer.

My husband said it looks like Rudolf threw up in our house. But whatever, I love it and so do the kids.

And isn’t that part of what makes the Christmas season so magical? For a few short weeks, a wand is waved over the world and we all turn into children again.

For the past four years, since I became a mom, I have sworn that this year I will not stress about presents, having a perfectly decorated house, or making Pinterest worthy sugar cookies.

Sometimes it is incredibly difficult. But with a little effort and an occasional ten second does-this-really-matter pause, I can remind myself that ten, twenty, thirty years from now, I won’t remember the presents, but I will remember the presence.

And so will my kids.

Because in my children’s eyes, any Christmas cookie that they get to help decorate is perfect.

Because in my children’s eyes, the Christmas tree is 30 feet tall and beautiful, even if the ornaments aren’t color-coordinated and there are a few burned out lights.

Because in my children’s eyes, any red light in the sky is Rudolf’s nose.

In my children’s eyes, Thanksgiving marks the flipping of a switch and their world is transformed into a winter wonderland.

And this year, I hope to soak it up and enjoy the presence.