Author: singlebusymommy

When am I lawn mowing and when am I helicoptering, and please grant me the wisdom to know the difference between the two—and when I’m doing one of them. I say this to myself as I am about to press the “block” button on my phone, denying a friend of J’s to continue to harass her (or at least that is what I call it). I have asked myself this lawn mowing and helicoptering question before, like I am sure you have.

When do you step in for your kid? When do you remain on the sidelines (ready to coach if asked) and let your child handle the sticky situation on his or her own. If you are a parent who reads up from time to time—with all of that free time you have available—you’ve likely come across these two descriptions of “parenting styles.” If not, let me enlighten you:

Lawn mower parents push everything out of their kid’s way so he or she doesn’t have to handle it. These parents go to whatever lengths are necessary to prevent their child from having to face struggle, adversity, or failure (aka “life”). We’ve all been there. Your kid is hurting and your instinct is to jump in and protect and smack the dragons down. But what we may not realize (especially in the heat of the moment) is that the “struggle” is how a kid learns and grows. Push that challenge out of their way and how will they learn to handle situations such as defeat, failure, and disappointment in the future? Think of a chick pushing out of its eggshell, a challenge before even being born.

Hardships are what provide us with the life skills that we all need to survive. Kids with these mower parents will grow up not knowing what to do when they encounter a struggle and go into a panic attack or shut down. Many end up, sadly, with coping mechanisms like addiction and blame or end up feeling anxious, insecure, and like a failure, and they don’t know why. They’ll bomb their first test in college and say “I’m stupid” instead of realizing that college is different and you need to study harder or join a study group to help you learn the material.

The helicopter parent is very similar. They hover and over-focus on their children like a helicopter and get too involved and take too much responsibility for their children’s lives and experiences, specifically, their successes or failures. The term is most often applied to parents of high school or college-aged students. These parents get too involved with projects their kids are supposed to do on their own and, by the way, “time manage” on their own, too.

Helicopters call the professor about the poor grade their kid got. But this style can of course happen earlier. Think of the parent who insists their child get a certain teacher or coach or who provides too much input on homework and projects, just doing too dang much! You know who you are.

And I feel for you, helicopter and lawmower moms and dads. I get you. And I am guilty as well, at times, though I try not to fall into these traps. We have all been in situations our kids are facing for the first time. We know what to do, we know what works and what doesn’t, we know what will happen in the end. We see that foot with the pink chipped toe nail polish about to land on a banana peel and we are expected to just sit there and do nothing? We want the best for our kids. We want them happy and thriving, not on anti-depressants and collapsing at the first failure screaming that they are stupid and a loser.

What you have to tell yourself before standing up from the sidelines and engaging is the scuffle is that by going through these failures (which, when you’re young, the consequences of these situations are usually minimal) and figuring it out on their own, kids gain confidence. These experiences help them believe in themselves, their actions, their choices, who they are. It’s like putting money in their self-confidence and self-awareness bank. When they handle a situation or even better turn a failure around, when they fix it or get an A for a project they did all by themselves, this is the best self-esteem shot in the arm you could imagine! These hardships, those failures are turning your child into the happy, confident, kid who believes in him or herself. In other words, the kid you are hoping to raise but are undermining (with the best intentions) by ‘mowing or ‘coptering.

Step back, let them figure it out. I tell this to myself, too. Be there to answer questions, in fact just be there. Answer every question and pose questions, like this one: What do you think? Or, How does that make you feel? These are winners for me dealing with situations with J. It leads her to the right to the answer that she comes up with on her own. Way better than telling her the answer outright. When you find it yourself, you own it.

Another thing I do is strategically leave helpful books around (not sure if they are ever picked up, but they may be one day). And give your kids as much responsibility as they can handle including getting the bread out of the oven and making their own pancakes.

And I say all of this as I am about to block a friend from texting on my phone. A kid who is a bad influence and I’m sick of it. I see the affect it has on her and she doesn’t know how to handle the situation. She just wants to be friends and doesn’t understand the drama. This is when you can step in as a parent and throw some ideas out there and let her decide what to do. “How does that make you feel?” you can ask. “Do you want to have a friend that treats you like that?” Then you sit back and hope.

So there you have it, am I lawn mowing if I “block” or basically locking the front door keeping the  invader out. Or am I getting too involved her affairs?

Hummm. Well, I think of it this way: my phone, my account, my rules. They can sort things out at school when they see each other and I will be to listen when she comes home.

—(Learning as I go) SBM

Last night, I stepped up to the hostess stand and was greeted by a cheerful young hostess awaiting me with her laptop, a pad, and a colored pencil. She asked how many were in my party please. And I said “just one.” Tapping on a—not turned on laptop—was needed to check table availability. I was in luck. A table was available even though she wrote my name and the number in my party on a waiting list.

I was told to “Come right this way please” and I was led to a large table that had a little clutter (including my mail, folded laundry, and the added bonus of a sleeping cat that my hostess quickly shooed away). At the place setting was a red woven placemat, a glass for water, another for wine, a fork (on the left), and a white paper napkin with a fork, knife, and spoon (in that order) on top of it, salt and pepper shakers, and a pineapple candle I was asked to light because my hostess didn’t know how to work the lighter. I obliged. The candle smelled like Hawaii.

A chair was pulled out for me and I was asked by my gracious hostess who became my food server to please sit down. “Would you like something to drink?” she asked, as she handed me a menu that had on the flip side Appetizers that included: pretzels, edamame, fruit snacks, a yogurt snack stick, and a few other delectable selections if you are 11 years old.

I asked for a little wine and water, my server wrote these down on her pad and left to turn on YouTube music and specifically my favorite song right now: Bohemian Rhapsody by Queen. She returned moments later and placed down my beverages and was ready to take my order.

Hummm, I scanned them menu. I declined an Appetizer simply because, I said, as good as it all sounded, I was trying to be less “extra” (we don’t say “fat” in our house, or “lazy,” for that matter —a word I proclaim not to know the meaning of).

I asked for two tacos (the ones the food server didn’t eat last night at a restaurant and we took home). As I was enjoying the music, no phone around, and was browsing through a book on a Dalmatian that lived at a Fire House, my plate of food arrived: two tacos, warmed up slightly, just as I ordered. I was asked if I wanted salsa.

“Yes,” I said, “The one that came with the tacos last night.” Unfortunately, my food server had to confess that she ate up all of that “good” salsa with chips, so sadly, it was no longer available. I told her I would take whatever salsa was available. I proceeded to eat the filling of each taco but not the soft doubled-up corn tortillas that were drenched in juices and no doubt delicious. My food server watched as I scrapped off and ate the filling (the part she doesn’t like) and I asked if she would like to eat the tortillas? She said, “Yes, please.” And, all four of them were gobbled up in no time.

And then, as my food server gave me time to enjoy my meal, well, she got distracted on YouTube and the next thing I knew Bohemian Rhapsody gave way to a YouTuber who does “squishy makeovers” and has over 7 millions views. That’s right, 7 million views to watch a teen squirt fabric glue and paint onto torn squishys to make them look new. Yep, 7 million views.

“…Any way the wind blows …” (giant gong crash sound).

—SBM

 

 

 

 

I’m not saying these are exclusive to SBMs, heck, these are every mom things, but since SBMs don’t have an extra set of hands to, say, take out the garbage, fix “no signal” message on the TV (sheer instant panic), or change the battery for the house alarm, you might find yourself doing the following, a… little more often. So here it goes:

You know you are a Single Busy Mommy when you …

• Wipe the counter with your bare hand
• Eat what you kid didn’t eat on his or her plate over the sink
• Take personal pride when all of the glass (notice I didn’t say plastic) food containers are put away with their corresponding lid
• Misplace your coffee and glass of wine all over the house and find it days later
• The second you get home the hair goes up in a bun, the Hanes 100% cotton white tank goes on (you don’t wear polyester), stretch bike shorts, and a pair of flip flops
• Do 25 jumping jacks while the pasta is cooking
• Feel your only time “off” at home is when your kid is in bed or on the toilet
• As tired as you are, you hate to go to bed when your little one is down because this is your only “me” time
• Wake up tired since you were up late indulging in me time
• Think the best dessert is throwing a handful of roasted almonds (or macadamia nuts) in your mouth with an equal amount of semisweet chocolate chips (bakeless, bowl-less, and clean-up less, dessert. Any questions?)
• Say: “Did you brush your teeth, wash your face, brush your hair, make your bed?” every day since the first day of kindergarten, which is 365 x 6 (starting at kindergarten) in my case that would be in the neighborhood of 2,190 times
• You save a frog in the garage that the cat was playing with and to do so you had to move three huge bins of Xmas decorations, the golf clubs (yeah, I used to play golf), a shop vac, and reach into a bunch of spider webs and dust to get to it and then you carefully rinse it in the sink to get the dust off
• You set the frog down on your porch, crouching down hoping it will hop away and isn’t “broken” from the grab and rinse cycle
• Are thrilled when it hops away!
• Are expert at not bearing weight on the foot that just landed on a lego
• You can shower in 10 minutes flat
• You do a set of 25 squats when you dry your hair
• Dream about being able to fit in all of those clothes you are hanging onto that you used to wear
• Daydream about clean closets and laundry being done
• You loathe having to bring side dishes anywhere – aren’t I doing enough already?!

Just sayin’ …

—SBM

Why do we do this to our kids? There are so many family situations: one mom, one dad, two moms, two dads, raised by grandparents, a guardian, foster kids, the list goes on, and what about children who lost a parent due to illness or an accident? Every year many kids in elementary schools have to face the Mother’s and Father’s Day activities in school, which could be a particularly sad moment for them. Other kids may ask them uncomfortable questions that a child may not even know how to answer yet.

Do we really need to do this? Or would it be better to interpret these celebrations on a family and more personal level in which the celebration of “parents” (whatever you have) can be adjusted to fit your particular family. A friend of mine texts me Happy Father’s Day every year (along with Happy Mother’s Day) and I can’t help but say that she gets it. I am both.  But that takes care of me, what about my child and others facing these holiday conventions that hurt?

Celebrating our parents or guardians, those who feed us, clothe us, and rock us to sleep at 2 a.m. when they can barely keep their eyes opened is good, and it is wonderful to take a moment out of life’s busyness to acknowledge and give thanks to those who parent and care for us. Flowers, slippers, candy, cleaning the kitchen for you, a nice dinner, breakfast in bed (I never got this one, that’s the last thing I’d want, but if that’s what one likes, bring it on) once year a year to say thanks is all good.

But the standardized cookie-cutter approach of these two holidays seems out of touch to me and sorely in need of a refresh.

Consider that what was once commonly referred to as “Secretary’s Day” is known today as “Administrative Professionals Day.” See, there you go. This one was modernized to reflect modern times. Maybe it’s time to rename the conventional “Mother’s and Father’s Days” in a way that recognizes the diversity of family structures.  I don’t know what that name would be, any ideas? Even Parent’s Day would be better.

Of course changing this institution is a tall order. Getting rid of one or the other or combining the two would impact the bottom and top line of many a company that rakes it in during these occasions, offering greeting cards, flowers, and gifts. Yep, raking it in. But I wish the convention would stay out of the elementary school curriculum of annual activities.

Here’s an idea. Instead of making gifts and cards for Mother’s Day or Father’s Day in school use this as a learning opportunity to discuss and acknowledge the many different kinds of families in our communities as well as the many caring adults who are in our children’s lives.  An article entitled “Diverse Families on Mother’s Day and Father’s Day” offers great ideas on how elementary school teachers can take advantage of these holidays to make it more welcoming for all students and their families. Heck, schools can create their own “Parent’s Day” or “Family Day,” seriously, why not?

—SBM

If you’re like me, you are more than one person. Or at least it feels that way. The amount I get done in a day and still make brownies at the end of it even surprises me at times. I have several huge projects in the air constantly: new carpet for the loft and the stairs (which includes moving shelves with books, measuring the area—of course the carpet guy can do that, but it’s faster if I go to carpet store with measurements of the room, right?)—painting the guest bath because, dang it, I tried to match the paint to the original (that was discontinued) and just won’t match, no matter how many trips I make to Home Depot to try again.

And wait, in the middle of it all I find myself feeding vacationing friends’ cats, or dog, watching another friend’s child for 2 days in a row. What is up with this? Is it because I can get it done that they ask? Is it that everyone else said no? Do I have a welcome mat plastered on my face? I guess I have to say “Yes” to that. “No” does not come naturally to me.

Okay, note to self: “No” is a powerful word. People respect you when you say No because you’ve set a limit and now they know how far they can go. Without the “No” they don’t know when to stop and they just keep going and taking.

So stop them. Just say No. Don’t get up earlier to feed and walk the dog. Sleep in…

You can, you know.

—SBM

I have a theory (or dang it, a self-fulfilling prophecy), that the last one (screw you have to screw in, nail you need to hammer in, or the last leg of the chair you need to attach) will be the toughest. If something is to go wrong, it’s at that final stretch, as you marvel at how easy it was putting XYZ together and can’t wait to move the shelves into your closet so you can start putting your tiny pig figurine collection in place and stack your sweaters neatly, that the last—whatever it is—is when things go south. You have get down from the ladder, get another screw, or nut, or nail. Ehhh …and you were so close to done.

Either the part won’t go in, gets stuck, or you drop the last bolt or screw and the little bastard goes careening under the refrigerator or worse ends up (you hear it rolling and wince) to some un-retrievable place to spend its eternity.

With Ikea furniture, yes, that bookcase that would be perfect for J, every piece of IKEA furniture has the built-in potential to be the “last screw.” Nothing but problems with this stuff that’s packed so neatly in the box with a deceptive siren call faintly singing … “This will be a cinch, you’ll have it together before dinner.”

Not so much. For most of the process—if you’re like me—you’re angry, hot, sweaty, on the floor, pushing the cat away, grabbing the instructions again and spewing expletives at how stupidly and needlessly complicated putting these crappy shelves together are.  And that little strange smiling guy in the instructions who seems to know exactly what to do?  He doesn’t. He leaves out important steps and tips such as: “make sure you are putting this weird round screwy screw in the right place because you can’t undo it once it’s in.” You can’t go back.

You’d think that little detail would be important to mention, wouldn’t you? A screw you can’t reverse engineer? Reverse engineering requires a hammer, a butter knife, banging the piece on the floor, hitting the back of it, shaking it, and screaming at the cat to get out of the way!

No, the little guy suggests you call IKEA if you get stuck. And yeah, like I want to stop what I am doing in the heat of the moment and get on the horn with the Call Center in the Philippines and explain this nonsense when my frustration level is at its highest and I can’t understand what customer service guy is saying, though I do get that he is “Very sorry for the inconvenience it has caused me and for my frustration.” No, you’re not. You’re reading a script and texting your friends while on the phone with me.

I was rotten one time. My friend who is an engineer came over and asked if he could help me with anything around the house. I pointed to the IKEA box and said, “Oh, could you put that together? It’s just a simple coffee table.”

Just a simple coffee table. Yep. My engineer was on the floor, reverse engineering, flipping pages of the instructions back and forth, and 45 minutes in, he asked for me a butter knife.

Which brings me to the roller cart from “h” “e” double hockey sticks. The other day, J and I bought from IKEA one of these rolly cart things with pop-in wheels that holds all of your art stuff and gets you all organized. It looked like a breeze, just three basket-like holders, too sides to connect them, wheels, what could be so hard about that? I thought.

But we get it home and everything out of the box including a plastic bag of I’d say 40 little parts, which was the first clue this was not going to go well, and my gawd, it took two people, pinching metal together until it hurt my thumbs, a shouting match between J and I, “Where’s the screw don’t lose that screw!!” a half a dozen expletives, complaints at how stupidly difficult this process was until we finally get the thing together and the bottom bloody shelf is crooked!

CROOKED!?

We went through all of that and the bottom tray is crooked!? J said, “It’s okay mommy,” at which point I reasoned with myself.  There is no way I could have done this alone. J said there was no way we were going to go back and do it all again just to straighten the bottom shelf. Crooked is fine.

Put stuff in it, no one will know, I said. And, to this day, no one does.

—SBM

Clearing the clutter, important everyday items within reach and accessible, organizing with small boxes, it’s all good. I watched the entire series. I first thought the folding of clothes into small Bento Box-like sizes was crazy, heck, but now I am doing it. It is amazing how much space you save with this folding method and the best part is that you can see everything in one quick glance versus clothes piled on top of each other and the ones on the bottom never being worn. This folding method takes a little longer, but it is worth it. And the clothes folded this way unfold un-wrinkled.

The other huge take away is to get rid of stuff and only retain what you really want, like, and need. Marie refers to this as keeping items that “spark joy.” It’s so true. Those pants in your closet you always pass by for others? Just get rid of them. You’ll never miss them. The boatloads of kid gifts that float into the house all year long like markers (how many does a kid really need?), stickers, coloring books and—don’t get me started on this one: stuffed animals—let me just say these clutter-makers are going to end up all over the house and constantly need to be put back, yep, mostly by you—actually I didn’t even need to say that.

It is amazing how much we acquire in our lives in a given year.

One family on the show, the mom saved EVERTHING. Plastic bins contained two- to three-year old toddler clothes, toys, every year! She didn’t get rid of anything. You need to see this episode in which the husband reacts to her (come on, it’s hoarding) on one clean up day and just leaves the room saying he couldn’t deal. This was probably the first time he saw was really happening at the house. Boxes and boxes and boxes in the garage.

Something I wish was more discussed in Marie Kondo’s method is reuse (of things we normally through away such as cans and glass containers, both of which can be re-used in a variety of creative ways and given a new life), recycling, shunning the use of “plastics” as much as possible and, in general, being more aware of items you throw away—and not just dropping unwanted items into the garbage. Clothes you don’t want any more someone else most likely will. And that goes for everything you’re getting rid of that still could be considered a useful item or even taken apart for reuse.

I would recommend watching the series, it’s a relaxing and fun watch. You’ll be amazed at how much you pick up and start applying to your own life. Clean and organized just feels good.

—SBM

 

I am helping a neighbor who is feeding an alarming number of cats who have wandered into her backyard and found nirvana—food, blankets, a chicken coop that has been transformed into “cat” room & board. There are 16 of them—at last count. None of them spayed or neutered, none of them touchable—they all scatter when my neighbor Milly opens her sliding screen door. Those 16 cats have the potential to be 60 un-adoptable cats in no time that are in the process of creating more just like them.

When I first met Milly and became aware of her situation, I offered to help catch the cats and get them all fixed, all 16. She agreed but didn’t seem completely sold on getting this done. To her, she was just feeding cats, being a kind soul, and the cats could come and go as they pleased as far as she was concerned. A nice thought, but entirely irresponsible in the name of being kind.

I explained that if she didn’t get this done, she’d have three, four times, 10 times as many cats. That’s more food for her to buy. That hit home.

I scheduled appointments, one after the other at a clinic and we (rather, I) started to bring in the cats, as many as she could catch. This meant dropping off traps at her house the night before, J and I getting up an hour earlier than usual that day, picking up the cats at Milly’s house around 7 a.m., a 30 minute drive to the clinic, with traffic, and J possibly being late to school. Then, picking the cats up at the end of the day and bringing them back to the house to assume their nirvana life with Milly, but now at least they were not reproducing.

It was a huge undertaking that would take time, but I was willing to do it because the cats needed it, she was completely unaware of the situation she was creating that would result in many cats roaming the neighborhood, getting hit by cars, getting on people’s nerves, it was a disaster in the making. If I walked away from it all no one would fix this.

As we began trapping and going to the clinic I got to know my neighbor better. And here is the rub. She has no doorbell, and is always somewhere in the house where she can’t hear me knocking. There is no cell phone coverage at her house (just a few streets over from my house, yep, zip, “no connection” at her place), and she is, as I discovered, very unreliable. Hit or miss, either she wouldn’t answer her phone to come to the door to let me in when I arrive—knowing I am coming—she’s gets lost driving to pick up the cats (her end of the deal), so it’s not worth having her do this, or she’ll catch two cats but then once I get there the cats have already escaped by slipping through the cage wires, a cage that was meant to contain dogs, not cats, who can tiny themselves and slip out if scared. And, so, the entire plan is foiled in spite of all of my preparations.

These incidents happened with every appointment. She’d apologize, thank me for my patience, make me chicken adobo, and we’d schedule the next appointment. Meanwhile, I was getting more and more frustrated, taking it out on J who’d have to endure my wound up display of anger, getting her dinner late, and the hassle of getting up an hour earlier for the appointment each morning.

When are we done?

When does a friendship or act of kindness transform into a burden that is having a mostly negative impact on one’s life?  When does one say no more? When is enough, enough?

I tell myself one just knows when he or she is done and that last straw has been added and you’ve reached your limit. I reached this stage last night with her as once again she failed to pick up her phone. I waited with J in the car in front of our house cursing “pick up pick up! You’re expecting me!” but we went home and then she called. She suggested meeting up the next day instead and that was when I said in my head, that’s it. This is the last time.

I told her no. Tonight, I said. I went back to her house and dropped off the traps. I told her I had so much to do and she looked at me with a vacant look, as if to say what are you all worked up about?

Later that night she sent me a text thanking me for my patience. I didn’t respond.

—SBM

 

Do you have a “Yellow Binder” filled with your favorite recipes? If not you’ve got to get this going. My Yellow Binder holds all of my favorite recipes, tried and true, never fail. Always good.

These are my go-tos because I can always count on them working and being delicious. These recipes have bragging rights. Either I’ve made them as-is or they are recipes I’ve doctored up a bit, either way my Yellow Binder recipes are fab.

Why is the binder yellow? No reason. It’s just the binder I had when I got this started this process years ago, it could’ve easily been red, green or black but I had yellow. Then I just referred to it as the Yellow Binder and the name stuck. Now it seems a perfect name.

Start one of these if you don’t have one already because it will save you oodles of time digging around for just the right side dish, dessert, or dish to make or bring. You can also add full dinner entrées plus sides. Ohhhh think of the time you’ll save and you’ll always have a smash hit dish… yum!

–SBM

My quest continues. It has been years and yet I am still in search of a bag that suits my needs. Why is this so hard? I go from one handbag to another and for some reason I’m not satisfied, either because:

• The bottom is not flat, has no feet and tips over.
• The pockets on the sides are identical so you always go to the wrong one looking for something, Dang it!
• The pockets inside the purse are like a black hole, reaching down deep into the guts of the purse, curving to the other side, which makes anything you place in them disappear. Totally useless.
• Straps are too round and don’t stay on your shoulders and keep slipping down.
• The straps are too long or too short to slip your arm into and wear on your shoulder.
• The bad is heavy empty (this one is just plain wrong!)
• There are too many pockets you go insane looking for your lip balm, keys, a pen, you name it.
• No set place for keys.
• No set place for phone.
• The interior fabric is not glued to the sides so you feel like you are reaching into a pillow case.
• The opening is too narrow and or in some way hard to get into. Forget that!
• Black color inside makes it so you can’t find anything! Everything you put in a purse seems to be black – eye glasses case, compact, lipstick.

I’m sorry—prove me wrong and apologies in advance about what I am about to say—but men should not be designing handbags. You guys don’t get it! Sorry Michael K. Tory Burch is the closest I’ve come to finding a bag that works for me and I always go back to this black tote and comment to myself how no other bag in my closet works as well. But my complaint for this tote? There are no feet so the bottom is always placed directly on the floor. And the fabric (vinyl) can look wrinkled and you can’t press it so you there, have to live with it.

True, we all want different features in a bag but come on, what are the profiles of users?

• Minimalist mom who carries practically nothing in her purse but keys, wallet, maybe lip balm.
• Maximalist mom who carries everything in her bag, too much makeup, a book, snacks, velcro, burnt out light bulb she needs to match and replace at Home Depot …the list goes on.
• Harried mom who can’t keep track of basic items, always in autopilot tossing these essentials in her bag forgetting to remember where they ended up, losing her cool searching for them. Constantly.
• Mom who likes style above all else. Damn the inconvenience, this bag looks cool!
• Designer bag mom, similar to above, designer bag above all else. Who cares if it’s a pain. We’re not talking about this mom here.

Want to create the perfect bag and go into business together? Yep, I know, sure… if I had more time. In the meantime, a shout out to designers out there: come on already, get this right! Moms need this. At least this mom does.

—SBM