Ruth Witte

Let It Snow Let It Snow Let It Snow

Year by year the complexities of this world grow more bewildering. We need all the more to seek peace and comfort in the joyful simplicities and to teach our children to do the same. For in so doing, we enable them to seek contentment within themselves rather than relying on electronic devices for their entertainment.

Being from Maine, I’ve always liked it when winter really acts like winter, with lots of snow and subfreezing temperatures. If you are like me (and most kids!) and there is a rumor of a big snowstorm, you wake up every half hour all night long to see if it is still snowing and whoop with glee when school is canceled. Perhaps you are able to stay home as well. Make it your priority to create some wonderful memories with your children!

Remember the joy of winter as a child, and reacquaint yourself with the luxury of that pleasure. Shovel snow together, but don’t be surprised if your kids want to shovel the yard and not the driveway. Create snow angels.; build a snowman; make a snow fort. Go sledding at Babcock Park Hill, or Stonybrook, or some other great place near your home. Chances are quite good you won’t have to go far.

Take a walk in the woods on snowshoes or cross country skis. Look for winter birds, and squirrels’ nests. Notice animal tracks and try to identify them. If you find any animals hibernating (bats, insects) do not disturb them, as they may die if they are awakened. Notice how tightly leaf buds are wrapped so they won’t freeze; observe what happens if we get a stretch of warm weather. Go to a frozen stream. Notice ice formations and water running underneath. (Stay onshore lest one goes through the ice!)

Make bird feeders using popcorn and cranberries; pine cones with peanut butter rolled in birdseed; seed cups using the peels of half oranges and lemons with string hangers. Decorate the trees with treats for the birds and animals.

Have a Neighborhood Winter Carnival. Snow sculpt a glorified snowman, dragon, Big Bird… Set up target games for hurling snowballs. Have a tug of war in the snow. Afterward, share in the warmth of a pot of cocoa made with real milk, or hot spiced cider and popcorn.

Even if housebound, having an expectation of time together as a family for a couple of hours without electronic devices affords the quiet companionship snow days and Sunday afternoons are perfect for. Playing cards or board games; sprawling around the living room, each with his or her own book, or reading a book aloud together as a family; making valentines for school and each other; writing letters to grandparents or journaling; working a jigsaw puzzle together; making tacos, or shaking it up with a dance party, lay a foundation for close ties between siblings

This time of year, as the pace seems to slow somewhat, it is easier to find moments for quality time with the children. Sometimes when we are immersed in the trials of parenting and day to day living, it is hard to realize how truly fleeting this precious time with little ones is. Children have so much to teach us. Please take the opportunity to really enjoy this priceless gift of childhood. And take lots of pictures! You won’t regret it. (RDW 1-19-11)

Disciplining your child: It’s not what you think.

When expecting our first child, we make certain basic preparations. We read parenting books, obtain a crib, stroller, car seat, high chair, layette. If both parents hold jobs, childcare arrangements must be made; new living arrangements, perhaps; a bigger car…

Having children forces us to reconsider and rethink everyday matters that we take for granted, as it becomes necessary to create a safe environment. We need to put covers in electrical outlets; locks on drawers and cabinets; keep dangerous objects (chords, sharps, glass…) out of reach; cleaning supplies, medications, and other hazardous materials locked away. We constantly scan for objects a little one might choke on; enclose areas that might be harmful; gate the stairways…

In the beginning, our main concern is to keep these vulnerable little folk safe and cared for in a way that babies are incapable of doing for themselves. Paying close attention to details involving basic safety becomes second nature. We become disciplined in remaining vigilant.

Even as babies become mobile, they are not ready to learn what is and is not okay to get into. Punishment is pointless- a slap does not teach a baby not to do something. She feels only the pain, coming from the one she looks to for safety and comfort.

Babies and toddlers are curious and get into everything. We must eliminate temptations—put knick-knacks up; video equipment, and stereos out of reach. When an active baby or young toddler approaches danger, the best intervention is to remove the child from the area while calming telling him no, and distracting him with something appropriate. That is all that is needed at this age.

As their world expands, we begin to teach young children how to avoid dangerous situations themselves. This involves setting limits, creating boundaries- teaching discipline.

Discipline does not necessarily mean punishment. It can be characterized as a rule or set of rules governing conduct, involving self-control, will power, and consequence. It provides clarity and stability and intention and safety, which are necessary for the pursuit and fulfillment of our highest potential. Without discipline, our world is chaos and we become so burdened by confusion and distraction that it becomes difficult to follow any path, let alone to create and pursue meaningful life goals.

Raising well behaved and successful kids are hard work that takes the better part of twenty years of vigilance and consistent guidance. We must learn how to mold their behavior in a way that is effective in teaching them to successfully cope in this world and lays the groundwork for positive learning in all areas of their lives. Being clear and consistent about expectations and consequences regarding behavior eliminates much of the ambiguity that can interfere with having a fully satisfying life.

If you destroy that in anger, you will have to use your allowance to replace it.
If you’re not careful with your library books, the librarian won’t let you borrow more.
If you are mean to your friends, they won’t want to be your friends anymore.
If you don’t do your homework, you’ll get behind and it will be harder to learn the material.
If you spend all of your money on candy, it will take longer to save for that toy you want.

Over the years I have noticed a definite shift in the current approach to parenting. So many parents are more concerned with being a child’s friend than being the one who enforces (self) discipline.

In more extreme cases, there is no attempt to correct inappropriate behavior. These parents believe that it is best to allow kids to fully express themselves in the way that the child sees fit, and that by interfering with his actions, they are somehow limiting the capacity for him to be who he is.

As a result, these kids tend to walk all over their parents, becoming the literal ruler of the home-(”You can’t tell me what to do-I’ll come when I’m good and ready”). These children may be inclined to show little consideration for the rights and property of others, steamrolling their way through public venues and other people’s homes. Meanwhile, the parents are helpless to intervene, if not oblivious to the upheaval their kids are creating.

At the other end of the continuum is the overprotective, controlling parent who doesn’t let their child out of their sight, limits activities for fear of injury to the child, demands perfection in every endeavor, or constantly steps in on the child’s behalf, thereby not allowing him a chance to work things out for himself or to learn from his mistakes.

Neither one of these approaches is fair to the child.

Kids want to be given guidelines and to know what to expect. Toddlers begin to understand the meaning of no; indeed, it is one of their first words! And everyone has observed a little one mischievously, or defiantly look the parent or caregiver in the eye and proceed to do the very thing he has been cautioned not to do.

When creating rules and boundaries for young toddlers and preschoolers, remember that the bottom line is Safety. Little kids can make sense of this.

Biting, hitting, kicking, pinching, pushing and throwing things at people hurt. It’s never okay to hurt someone.
Keep your toys picked up so no one trips on them and gets hurt.
Matches and lighters can burn you and start fires. They are never for playing with.
Sharp things cut people. Knives and scissors are not for children unless a grown-up says it’s okay and is paying attention.
Don’t go near the pool/pond/river without a grown-up: children need supervision near water because it’s not safe.
Jumping on the furniture is dangerous- it’s not safe to be wild in the house because there just isn’t enough room- you might get hurt or break something.

Setting limits is good for everyone. A child who has no restrictions lives in pandemonium; with clear limits, he knows where he stands. Being inconsistent confuses him and makes him try harder to get away with everything that he can. Children will test the limits we set, but if we remain consistent, then there is no need for a huge struggle. You both know what the boundaries are, and if they are significantly crossed, there are consequences. It’s just the way things are.

The Joys of a Good Dump

We write to communicate, make lists, leave messages, write thank-yous, correspond with family and friends, share recipes, arrange for events, leave reminders, fill out applications, pay bills, make labels, give directions, make complaints, take minutes… The list goes on and on.

Then there are those of us who write because we have to. We have something to say, to explain, to teach, to understand, to envision, to brainstorm, to remember. We need the page to seek answers, put things in perspective, come to terms. We write to create a record, an illustration of the evolution of our families and ourselves. We want to leave something behind that is tangible.

Are you kidding?? I don’t have time for that. Besides that, I can’t write!

Relax. Writing can take different forms and need not be the least bit intimidating.

In Success is a Journey, Jeffrey J. Mayer recommends creating what he calls a “master list”. This is no ordinary, “manageable” to-do list. This is a mind dump! Get yourself a small notebook (4×6”). Make a list of every single thing you think you need or want, or wish to do or have: obligations, home improvements, events, things that you really want to do with your family, places you wish to go, shopping lists, chores, decorating ideas, recipes, every single thing that has been running around in your mind keeping you awake at night and making you feel stressed and miserable

I keep mine in my purse year-round for writing movie ideas, books I want to read, great quotes, gift ideas, garden ideas. Even if you don’t use it as a checklist (I rarely even refer to mine), you can look back at it another time and be amazed by how much you have accomplished, or how much it didn’t matter. Plus, it serves as a diary of sorts.

(Remember this: So often when we are beating ourselves up for not getting this or that done, it is the result of our own unrealistic self-expectations. Once I realized that no one else knows how much I don’t get done, it didn’t matter as much!)

Another form of writing is journaling. Journaling is one of the best things I have ever done for myself. It had been recommended over and over before I finally decided that I was willing to do whatever was necessary to be a better parent and a better person, and this turned out to be the ticket.

The challenge comes not only in being faithful but in completing the three pages that are necessary to untangle the mess that clutters our thought processes, preventing us from fulfilling our deepest dreams and fullest potential.

Now, three pages is a lot to write every day and at times you will find yourself at a loss for what to write. So you look around you and write about the mess, or how lovely your house is, or the weather, or any random thing and before you know it, you have found another thread to unravel.

Setting aside time for journaling- each morning, or while the kids are doing their homework, or after they are in bed- will change your life. It helps one to center; to work out conflict, anger, depression; to plan and dream… When you have those old negative tapes running around inside your head (“I’m fat, ugly, stupid, a bad mother, a bitch, blah, blah, blah…”), you can get them out, over and over if need be until they become so diluted they become meaningless; or you realize that you can only whine so much about something before you recognize that the only way things are going to change is if you do something about them!

Writing helps to keep your mind free so that other thoughts and inspirations may enter. When you go back to reread your pages at a different time in your life, not only do you have a record of happenings, you are able to see just how far you have come on life’s path.

When I get out of the discipline of writing a full three pages every day, I become out of sorts and lost. Like the Master List, it keeps my mind open to inspiration and the positive energy that helps us to create the life we are meant to have.

You deserve to do this for yourself. Still, need convincing? This will set an amazing example for your kids. And isn’t that what being a good parent is all about? -RDW (2007, revised 2010)

Leaving the Gender Gap Behind

I believe that the women in my generation have faced the biggest challenge in coming to terms with the legacy of the submissive role that previous generations of women in our family and society have accepted.

I was bound and determined not to fall into the subservience that had been so prevalent. I knew in my early twenties that should I have children, I would go back to work rather than lead the life of drudgery that my mother had for so many years.

Given that we are on this earth to learn certain lessons, I am blessed with four sons, clearly making one of my life objectives learning to reconcile my role as a woman in today’s world, and teaching my sons to fit into a role more in line with what I hope is to become the norm. I am inspired by Mahatma Gandhi, who said, “Be the change you wish to see in the world.”

As it turned out, I did stay at home with my children. Lucky for me I like snakes and frogs and spiders. I was not able to deter their interest in weapons or to squelch the tendency to employ anything in hand (sticks, rocks, legos, blocks) as a gun. I learned to accept the broken glass and furniture and holes in the wall created by four very robust males who insist upon wrestling and tumbling about, even to this day. Wishing not to transfer my fears to them, I was able to learn to squelch my terror as they jumped off 40-foot cliffs into the river, climbed 60-foot trees, created dangerous contraptions and explosions and all of the other foolhardy things that boys do. I am still repulsed by the rude and disgusting habits that seem inborn: hawking in the sink, belching, flatulence, whizzing all over the bathroom and leaving the seat up…

In an effort to discourage the idea that women are here to serve them, I have insisted upon their self-sufficiency, teaching them at a young age how to prepare their own lunch, do dishes, dust, and vacuum, set the table, do laundry, and be responsible for their own room.

Dinner table conversations revolve around topics that are generally of much greater interest to the men in my family than me, and I so often feel left out as they discuss their “manly” movie interests, and mathematical, scientific and computer pursuits. Sometimes I find myself obsessing over the woulda, coulda, shoulda. Maybe I should have made more of an effort to develop the interests that they have. If I made more of an attempt to get involved in reading and watching science fiction, learning to like the music that sounds like noise to me, participated in more of their activities, I wouldn’t feel like such an outsider in this family.

I refrained from doing more of these things in my endeavors to develop my own identity and place in the world. And while I was doing this for myself, I felt as though I was doing it for my mother, and her mother as well.

Our Parenting Roots

Often we develop our manner of raising children by way of the example set by our own parents, whether that be to mimic their style, decide to take a different approach altogether, or something in between. In identifying our personal and family values, and how these came to be shaped by our ancestry and upbringing, we become better prepared to make conscious decisions about our own approach to parenting.

You can learn so much about how you have come to be the person you are, by considering the basis for your parents’ child-rearing practices. What was going on in the world in the way of current events, media (music, television, movies), and the economy, when they were young and as you were growing up? What social issues were being addressed? What was their religious upbringing and how has that affected your spirituality? What interests and ways of life have you acquired as a result of your upbringing (Sports? Politics? Environment? Social action? Career goals? Dietary habits? Communication style? Discipline? Behavioral expectations?)

From whence I come

I come from stock of the Depression era, with resultant parental frugality; and my childhood sense of deprivation in the midst of the well-off and ritzy suburb of Boston in which I spent my first 13 years.

I come from the fifties… Ozzie and Harriet, Leave it to Beaver, and Father Knows Best sense of strong family values and clear division of labor, martinis and cigarettes, the middle of five children- three sisters and a brother

I come from the sixties… Flower children, the Vietnam War, peace mongers, Kennedy assassinations, Martin Luther King and civil rights;

I come from a safe neighborhood, unstructured time, freedom to play and roam, to time fraught with stranger anxiety and relative isolation.

I come from the seventies… the Woman’s Movement and Environmental Awareness.

I come from Christian upbringing, Sunday School, parental pillars of the church, church fairs, pageants, youth group, Sunday School, potential seminarian…to become a “rejector” of Religion and an avid spiritualist with deep faith in a power greater than myself.

I come from generations of book lovers and wordsmiths; trips to the library and bookstores a weekly occurrence. Love of good books and writing is in our genes!

I come from a house filled with classical music; show tunes, Mitch Miller and Benny Goodman. I am a wannabe musician, former Student of the clarinet. Today I connect and attend to other cultures through world music…

My mother was a leader, a mover and shaker in the Girl Scouts as I grew up, hence my active involvement in scouts throughout childhood. That and family camping initiated my love and concern for nature and the environment.

I come from the anti-bureaucrat (my father)… resisting becoming controlled by state regulation and refusing to be categorized and limited by guidelines deemed necessary by the powers that be…

I come from a long line of alcoholics: family secrets, roles, and messages concerning worth and potential. I come from Violation by presumed friends of family and upstanding community members.

My Father

Dad was the working man, breadwinner, fearsome, fun-loving Boss who fixed things, painted and wallpapered, did the yard work, shoveled us out after a blizzard, and took us to the museum, the library, the park, historic sites, sailing, camping, and comet chasing at 3 am.

He had a strong work ethic and high expectations. He was strict, and we were afraid of him. He was bull-headed and “never wrong”.

Having grown up during the Great Depression, he was a frugal man, always pinching pennies, and insisting upon a clean plate at dinnertime (“take all you want but eat all you take”). Never one to waste anything that may be of use someday, he recycled long before recycling was in vogue.

Ever the consummate engineer, he did his own plumbing and electrical repairs amidst oil can, baby food jars filled with old screws and nuts and bolts, TV and radio tube tester heaped around him on the dining table. I have a vivid recollection of him sitting on the edge of the bathtub shaking the commode in his lap and cursing as he tried to remove the Ban deodorant bottle that had been flushed down the toilet and lodged in the trap.

He considered the impact of his employment situation on our family, uprooting us from what he considered to be a pretentious community and the unreasonable demands of his work in a large corporation. We relocated to a small town in Maine which offered easy access to what he considered to be the finer things in life.

For you see, my father truly was a Renaissance Man. He was a wildlife enthusiast and taught me to be a grateful witness of natural beauty through all of my senses. A loyal patron of the arts, he sought opportunities to expose us to the humanities, passing along his deep appreciation of good music and art.

Despite the overwhelming financial obligations of starting a business partnership, raising his family, providing medical care for a desperately ill child, and putting his daughters through college, he persevered day after day. This is an amazing feat that is so often taken for granted. But his business sense was extraordinary and after many years of diligently paying off his debt, my father entered into a position of financial security.

For all of his hard work and the pressures of day to day life, Dad had a tremendous sense of humor and took great pleasure in shocking people. He loved a good practical joke and was so much like a big kid in so many ways.

Between his loathing for bureaucracy and disdain for taxes, he made a practice of giving much of his wealth to organizations he deemed worthy by virtue of their impact on his community and the world.

His curiosity and enthusiasm for life carried him through to the end of his days. When he was 75, he learned the art of Chinese cooking. At the age of 80, Dad started piano lessons and taught weather classes to senior citizens. His death in 2004 left a gaping void in the presence he held in the lives of so many.

My Mother

I once came across my mother’s old girl scout book (c.1929), an explicit account of how each room in the house should be cleaned, beds made, table set, how to do laundry, how to cook, how to take care of minor injuries, and most importantly, how to catch and keep a husband.

As I grew up, there was a strict division of labor within our household. Mom stayed home with the five children, taught us right from wrong (deferring to Dad as necessary), took care of us when we were sick and made a full course sit- down dinner seven days a week. She cleaned the house (Monday: bathroom and kitchen; Tuesday: dust and vacuum downstairs; Wednesday: dust and vacuum upstairs; Thursday: wash and hang laundry; Friday: iron (no permanent press back then!); Saturday: change beds, go shopping for groceries and make Saturday/Sunday dinners. She was given a meager weekly allowance, which she carefully eked out to cover groceries, dry cleaning, housekeeping necessities, and cigarettes. She had to ask for extra money to get her hair cut. Discretionary funds were out of the question. It was her job to care for her sick, incontinent and demented father-in-law who despised her. In fact, the huge house she was responsible for was not her house but her in-laws, complete with hideous décor and furnishings, which she abhorred and was powerless to alter in any way.

At age 45, Mom was uprooted as she approached menopause, and hit the bottle, had to contend with a gravely ill daughter and a marriage in which she was miserable. It was not until she was 54 that she got “out of the house” and into the workforce. The transformation in her sense of self was astounding to behold. Her resolve for independence and self-expression allowed her to break out of the subservient role that had defined her and the women in our family for so many generations.

My mother had a determination and gift for turning the most earth-shattering experiences to the advantage of others. She was highly respected as a leader and mentor for youth and young adults, inspiring me and other women following in her footsteps to create a better world for ourselves and our children. She was a mother not only to her own children but to others in the absence of their mothers, teaching me that motherhood must extend beyond our own children to any child in need of mother spirit.

My parents shared a strong sense of community and dedicated themselves to the betterment of society through their involvement with our church and its youth, the Girl Scouts, and the local hospital. They never hesitated to give someone a helping hand, a ride to church or the Synagog or doctor, making dinner or repairs for an elderly neighbor, footing the electric bill for someone in danger of having the power turned off.

While my parents had a difficult and at times stormy union, they remained committed to their 48-year marriage, joking that it cost too much to divorce, until my mother’s death of lung cancer in 1996.

*****

Once you have a clear picture of where you have come from and how you have come to be the person you are, you can begin to identify the values you wish to carry into the future, as well as those better left behind.

This is a fantastic opportunity to set, or reset, the compass for future generations. As you determine how your own background will influence your parenting style, you must realize that you will be the primary example for your children. You are their most significant role model and they are likely to follow your lead:

If you show respect for them and the other people in your lives, they will learn to be respectful.
If you are environmentally conscious, spend time in nature, and feed the birds, they will learn to appreciate and care for the natural world.
If your children see that you find great pleasure in books, they are more likely to become avid readers themselves.

On the other hand:

If there is swearing in their presence at home, they will curse in public.

- Physical and verbal abuse encourages bullying.

Children raised in a racist or sexist home find it difficult to see others as equals.

Living with Alcoholism

I was thirteen when I realized my mother had a drinking problem. I watched in horror as she spiraled deeper into the bottle. Her growing instability and mood swings were pretty terrifying in light of the mother I had known to that point.

I kept constant vigil, secretly trying to smell her breath, searching through the cabinets and basement trying to find her stash, tearing through the village in a panic to find my Dad and let him know that it was happening again.

The humiliation as our secret became public; the confusion as to why this was happening and what I needed to do (it was all my fault, after all); the strong sense of guilt that my epilepsy was the reason for it; the fear for her safety when she would disappear; anger and disgust in the face of her drunkenness; and the helplessness in making it go away largely defined my adolescence.

Approximately one in four people is affected by alcoholism during their lifetime, but the stigma is so great that many remain unaware of what goes on in the homes of some of their friends and neighbors.
Alcoholism is a family disease. Not only does it tend to run through the generations of a family (grandfather, mother, uncle, brother, daughter…), it also negatively impacts those who are closest to the one with the drinking problem (parents, spouse, children).

Often there is a change in the behavior of spouses and children as a means for dealing with addiction in their home lives. The family members develop coping mechanisms in handling the pain involved with having an alcoholic parent:

The Hero is a high achiever, trying desperately to compensate for the family’s distress by being extremely “good”. She never breaks the rules and performs exceedingly well in school and all of her activities. She constantly seeks approval, but no matter how hard she tries, in her mind, it is never enough. Her sense of inadequacy is tremendous.
The Clown draws attention away from the pain and dysfunction at home by entertaining others, by being “cute” or funny. This behavior provides a good cover to the supreme sense of insecurity that this child feels.
The Scapegoat attracts negative attention by acting out, getting into trouble, hanging out with the “unsavory” crowd, often making extreme fashion choices (body piercings, tattoos, spiked hair, or perhaps a Gothic style). Feelings of anger and helplessness and being misunderstood abound.
The Lost Child tries to make himself invisible, keeping to oneself, attracting little attention or leaving to hang out with friends outside the home as much as possible. This child feels lonely and unimportant.
The Enabler is usually the child (or spouse) closest to the addict emotionally. S/he tries to protect the alcoholic by making excuses for her behavior, picking up the slack around the house, bailing her out of jail. This allows the drinker to continue without suffering the natural consequences of her drinking: social ostracism, financial effects…

While sibling rivalry is normal and necessary in children, becomes a huge problem when childhood competitions are carried into adulthood. On-going sibling conflict may be in response to family dysfunction, such as alcoholism, the mistreatment of others in a way that is detrimental to a child’s well being, or the catastrophic illness of a family member.

The result is a struggle of negative, childish feeling and a supreme sense of inadequacy and even betrayal which has followed us into maturity. At family gatherings, old conflicts reduce these adults to the childish response played out as youngsters. It is likely to cast a dark shadow over our relationships with our partner, children, professional relationships, and friendships. We are setting the example our children are likely to follow if the cycle is not broken. Guidance by a professional may be what is required to break these destructive patterns of communication.

I have heard it said that one of the most valuable gifts you can bequeath to your children, is to work out or come to terms with unresolved quarrels with your family of origin.

Recently, most of my siblings and I gathered for the funeral of a beloved aunt. As usual, I was filled with fear and trepidation at the prospect of reuniting with my family of origin. I cannot stand the “games”, the secrets, the competition, the dishonesty; the pitting of one against another, and the tremendous sense of being so judged and completely misunderstood.

The opportunity presented itself to work through these lifelong rivalries that had escalated upon the event of our father’s passing, tearing us apart in ways that seemed beyond the scope of reconciliation.

After once again rehashing old wounds, we agreed to make a pact:

We will let go of past grudges once and for all.
We will say what we mean and mean what we say.
We will talk to each other, not about each other. We will keep our relationship and issues with each other between ourselves; and not pull the others into disagreements that have nothing to do with them.

Our eldest sister, the “Queen Bee”, who was burdened with way too much responsibility at too young an age, and continued to think that she must step in on behalf of her grown siblings, is hereby dethroned! We will now stand as equals.

Autumn: A Bountiful Season for Thanksgiving

As the children play about the neighborhood, I drink in the glory of autumn as though I am seeing it through their eyes. The day is fairly bursting with joy! The wind kicks up, tugging and coaxing the leaves to take the plunge from their perch above, and they skitter down the street blanketing the neighborhood in a wash of gold. The musty, earthy smell of the damp garden wafts though the house riffling the pages of my book. Melodic wind chimes on the porch work themselves into a frenzy of crashing crescendo. Just as suddenly, the only sounds are the chipping sparrow in the flaming bush outside my window, the rustling breeze, the sweet tinkle of chimes whispering, conversing in a way that seems to make perfect sense. A flock of kids swishes through the leaves in a gale of laughter, and the cats sit mesmerized in the window.

Experience the wonder of this magnificent season through the eyes of a child.

Rake leaves into a giant pile and dive into them!
Take a nature walk. Notice the seasonal changes: bird migrations, the critters getting ready for hibernation. Collect chestnuts, acorns, pine cones, beautiful leaves… Take note of the beauty even as the dismal weather sets in: flowers gone to seed, the many shades of brown and gold…
Describe the cycle of seasons as you put the garden to bed: divide and replant bulbs, tucking each in for its long winter nap. Pull out dead annuals, cut back perennials, mulch, etc.
Get out the bird feeders. Remember to keep them filled through winter. Once the birds find your feeder, they count on you to keep them fed and will die if there is not another source of food nearby. Don’t forget to put a bell on your cat as a warning to these feathered friends. Keep a bird book nearby for identifying the visitors to your feeder
Distract the squirrels from your bird feeder with those acorns and chestnuts the kids have been collecting. Point out the squirrel you see burying a nut in the garden and wonder that it is able to find it even under a blanket of snow. Ask what happens to the nuts that are buried and not found. Search the treetops for squirrels nests.
Collect beautiful leaves to press
Find an apple tree or farm market and get as many apples as you need to
Cut an apple in half horizontally and discover a surprise inside
Arrange apple slices around a dish of peanut butter “dip” for a healthy snack
Make applesauce, or freeze pies for the holidays. Children don’t always realize that the things we buy at the store come from somewhere else first
Peel an apple, carve facial features into it, allow it to dry out and create a puppet from the wizened head

In the years to come, you will reflect back on these days with joy as your growing children reminisce about the priceless gift of childhood you have given to them. (RDW 10-19-12)

Ruminations on Being a Parent

Twenty-five years ago I stood on the rocky coast of Maine, lost in the rhythm of waves crashing along the shoreline and contemplating the imminent birth of my first child.

I could not have imagined that this day would arrive in the blink of a cosmic eye.

My pregnancy had been filled with thrilling, scary, idealistic anticipation; the awe of being in love with the child unfolding within my body; the fantasy of fulfilling my dream of motherhood; the satisfaction of believing that all of my experience to date had helped to prepare me to be a “good mother”.

There is nothing more magical than giving birth to a first child. Those first nights gazing into your newborn’s very soul, feeling that you are the only ones on the planet while the rest of your world slumbers and the constellations circle the night sky.

Having children gave me an opportunity to reconstruct my own childhood experience; to learn forgiveness and humility as I realized and learned to live with the imperfections in my parents and in myself; the priceless gift of once again seeing the world through the eyes of a child; the opportunity to experience that sweet innocence minus the judgment, distorted perceptions and cynicism that are the inevitable by-products of growing up.

As the years have passed, every moment has been a whole rainbow of feelings; the immensity of the task of being a parent playing itself out day after day after day, with all of its joy and fear and protectiveness and inadequacy and guilt and triumph and frustration and satisfaction and doubt and resentment and pride and enormous indescribable Love.

In being a mother, I have found myself constantly defining and redefining who I am, and who I hope to be, as an individual, a life partner, a parent; persevering through tough times that, had I not had my children to consider, may have turned out very differently.

Parenthood has forced me to come to terms with my own fears and shortcomings; to open myself up to the reality that I am not my children, and they are not me; to learn the arts of negotiation and compromise and letting go.

The miracle continues to blossom forth every day before my very eyes- that tiny bundle of wonder and joy and utter vulnerability evolving into the kind, sensitive, confident, funny, smart, talented men that my children have come to be a quarter of a century later.

Motherhood has enriched my life and taught me in ways that I couldn’t have imagined, and I am so very grateful for the experience. My sons are, without a doubt, my greatest teachers. RDW (2-24-11)

My Perfect Day

I stumble through my days in a perpetual state of discombobulation and oblivion, sifting through my thoughts for my current intention, wading through chaos for the object I seek. I long for clarity. Repeatedly, it occurs to me that my mind is a reflection of the clutter that smothers me at home and at work. Approaching my day is like walking through a sand storm.

I try to convince myself and others that my approach enhances my life through the flexibility it offers. By winging it through my days, I remain open to the flashes of inspiration that occur so suddenly, and fleetingly. Still, how much more fulfilling my life could be if my mind were not a swarm of gnats, filled with the distraction that so interferes with the perfectibility of my days. Ah… to create a perfect day would require more hours than we are given. Would that I had the wherewithal to construct my days just so…

I awaken before anyone else in time to take advantage of my mind in its relaxed state and without distraction. It is still and dark, the sky just beginning to lighten in the east. I enter the kitchen which remains in the clean and tidy state of the previous evening. I savor the aroma of coffee as it culminates in gurgle and whoosh. The kitties wrap themselves around my ankles in purring contentment as I prepare their morning meal. I pour my coffee, settle comfortably in the living room, warm laptop alleviating the slight chill I feel. My eyes sweep the artful rugs, books lined neatly on the shelves, tasteful knickknacks, paintings, stained glass lamps that provide a warm glow to the woodwork. The scent of freshly mowed grass and lilacs wafts in on the morning breeze. Strains of George Winston play quietly in the background, filling me with the memory of young love.

I am ready to begin my work: developing curriculum, writing an inspiring newsletter, planning for the coming season. Today I do the final draft of a piece of writing in preparation for Writers and Friends. The next hour is spent completely absorbed in the task at hand, and I am surprised when I hear the first wake up call upstairs, provided by the morning news. I slip back into our room for a warm snuggle with my beloved. We laugh and talk and listen to the stirrings of our sons.

I return to the living room to spend the next hour with my journal, dreaming, writing about the hilarious or invigorating or disturbing events of the previous day, taking inventory, making lists… This is perhaps the most important thing that I can do for myself, for when I am neglectful of this task, I become unhappy, irritable and discontent. Golden sunshine suddenly floods the living room as the sun makes it’s way over the hills in the east.

The shower is running constantly as the boys begin their synchronized morning ablutions. The slightest delay on the part of one leads to a squabble, but thankfully they are old enough to work these things out among themselves. They crash down the stairs to begin the kitchen dance in which they move about each other in relative silence, making their lunches and preparing breakfast among themselves. The house is a flurry of activity and swift goodbyes, abruptly silenced as they rush out into their day.

I close my journal, relieved that I have started the day off on the right foot. I descend to the basement to put a load of laundry in. Then clattering about the kitchen, singing along to Simon and Garfunkel or Cat Stevens, or the Moody Blues, I load the dishwasher, put things away, clean the counter, sweep the floor, and think about what to make for tomorrow evening’s meal. Gathering the ingredients, I start a pot of soup and pull a container of spaghetti sauce from the freezer. Once the soup is on, I head upstairs to make my bed, collect laundry, and shower. I luxuriate under the hot water with my favorite scented soap and shampoo. I further pamper myself with lotion and fresh, crisp, clean clothes. As I step into the hall, the fragrance of the soup prolongs my sensual delight. But now I need to step up my pace as I throw the laundry into the dryer, eat my own breakfast, and walk briskly to work. The day is perfect: clear, green, kissed with dew and the scent of new spring.

The phone is ringing when I enter the building and one of my closest friends is wanting to make a date for lunch. It has been some time since we have seen one another and my heart soars. I take a moment to return phone calls before the children arrive and thank heavens that I have mended my ways and left the building in readiness for today’s class. There is a plan, and everything that I will be needing for the day is ready in a place where it will be easily accessible. The children arrive happy and expectant, playing together while I speak briefly with parents. When the parents have left, I check in with each child. One presents a masterpiece that she has created for me.

The day goes smoothly, there are no tussles between children, everyone likes the snack I have chosen for the day, we have created works of art that make us proud, learned of something new, loved a story that had not been heard, and danced the wiggles out. The children depart, leaving me once again in silence.

My friend arrives for our lunch date and we go to a new place we have just discovered. We become so immediately absorbed in deep conversation that we lose ourselves and have forgotten to look at the menu. When lunch arrives, it so hits the spot that I swoon with pleasure. The world once again recedes as we resume our heart to heart, feeling completely at peace with one another as we divulge our innermost thoughts and concerns. Neither of us is in a big hurry, so we stop to browse our favorite garden center and come across a plant once seen, and since coveted. Not only that, there is a perfect spot for it in the garden. On the way back to my house, we burst into side-splitting laughter that hurts, brings tears to our eyes and leads both of us to dribble a tiny bit. We acknowledge to one another the amazing, incredible gift that is our friendship.

Traces of Eau de soup greet me as I enter the house looking forward to a well-deserved nap. I’m exhausted and have no trouble drifting into that state of total relaxation in which I am at the surface of deep slumber, thoughts wandering about non-sensibly between the strains of music penetrating my consciousness. I awaken feeling refreshed and rested to the sounds of boys horsing around downstairs and to the scent of fresh coffee. We banter over music that rather jars my senses and I feel intense gratitude for their presence in my life. I wish I could stay home with them, but have places to go and people to see.

My writing partner pulls up out front as I gather the things I need for the rest of the afternoon. I am filled with anticipation as we greet one another and pull out of the driveway. I heave the accustomed sigh of contentment as we enter the building and then settle in the garden for a bit of catch up before we turn our attention to the matter at hand. I marvel that spirit has brought the two of us together in our writing pursuits, because we make an awesome sounding board for one another, providing one another with support and encouragement and inspiration. The allotted time flies by and we part with a sense of magnetism toward our next writing endeavor.

I reluctantly turn to matters of business: phone calls, bills, classroom preparation for the following day. By now, I must summon my reserves, and thankfully get a second wind and so accomplish the necessary tasks before going home.

As I enter the house, I am greeted with the mouth-watering aroma of spaghetti and warm bread, my timing perfect. The table is set, and my dear husband greets me with a warm hug and kiss. The boys clamber in the kitchen as I serve up dinner. I am so tired that I eat in comfortable silence as I drink in the circle of love and appreciation and respect that flows between the six of us. The table is cleared and the kitchen cleaned up by the boys while my husband and I relax in the living room reviewing the day together.

I move into the evening by planting the garden treasure acquired earlier in the day, enlivening my soul-nurturing gardens as my spirit becomes one with the running water, the birdsong, children’s laughter, and the warm breeze rustling in the leaves. The phone rings. It is my Robin calling to discuss plans for our next visit. – RDW (6-23-08)

Part II: Laying in Wait

Bed rest. Weeks of confinement and being sequestered in my bedroom with admonitions to stay put, the only exception being to use the bathroom.

It is a mixed blessing really- an opportunity to send long handwritten letters to everyone in my address book. It is a chance to read and sleep, be waited upon, and to complete needlework and quilt projects (the Michael Hague Christmas stocking I’ve been stitching for Henry since he was 8 months old; the rainbow Trip Around the World quilts for Henry’s and Phillip’s beds).

The precise therapy that every frazzled young mother yearns for- and it totally sucks.

Imagine the pending holidays: gifts to make and acquire and get off in a timely manner, tree to get up and decorated, cookies to be made, parties to attend, carols to sing, and being helpless to participate in any of it.

Friends are enlisted to assist round the clock with Phillip, age 1 ½, and Henry, 3 ½ years old. Thankfully they are able to shower those boys (and me!) with love and attention enough to get us all through this difficult time.

Donna and Cindy, the dear wonderful women tending to my household (mothering my children, doing laundry, dishes, shopping, changing diapers, cleaning, running errands, cooking, … and getting paid to do it!) while I am bedridden sympathize with my predicament, and chide me to enjoy being queen for a day or however long it takes these babies to safely enter the world. They help me to keep the bright side to all of this in view, serve me nutritious lunches too big to cram into the limited space afforded by two rapidly growing beings within, and marvel with me as the babies perform their gymnastics beneath skin stretched so taught it threatens to split wide open.

The boys are so sweet marching up and down the stairs to visit, or share lunch, or read stories (The Little Engine That Could, Chicken Soup With Rice, Good Night Moon, The Cat in the Hat- over and over again until every word of these treasured favorites is remembered yet, almost 20 years later). Their little table and chairs have been brought into the bedroom along with various projects for us to complete for grandparents and Daddy. We make miles of paper chains, paint sweatshirts and pictures to be framed, and make wrapping paper.

But it breaks my heart to see them go back over the stairs to carry on with the life that I am no longer a part of.

The Boston Pops Christmas music drifts up the stairs, as do Henry and Phillip’s little voices laced with excitement over the arrival of the pine-scented Christmas tree. The aromas: warm cookies straight from the oven, and hot chocolate, and popcorn to be strung with cranberries, seem to reach from the holiday magic of my early childhood and once again I am filled with self-pity. It is so not fair that I am to miss such an important and historic moment in the early lives of my children.

I can’t stand it a moment longer and creep down the stairs to at least observe and supervise the tree decorating. You know how it goes- no one else can get it just right. All previous lessons in letting go are forgotten for the moment. (Naughty Ruth- bad, bad girl!)

That visit in the real world satisfies me for a few days until a dear friend brings a promising recruit for the family practice my husband belongs to.

“Can you just come downstairs for a few minutes, she so needs to meet you.”

“Oh, I guess a couple of minutes won’t hurt.” (Bad girl, Ruth).

Furlough #3: The boys are planning to watch the Bugs Bunny Christmas special. “Come on down,” pleads my husband.

“Oh, I don’t want to watch that, I’ll wait until Charlie Brown or The Grinch or Rudolph are on.”

“You should come down now, it will be good for you.”

“But I really don’t want to watch that.”

“Please???”

“Oh, all right!!”

As I make my way down the stairs, I look out the window to the left to see a car in the driveway.

“Huh, someone is here.”

I turn my head to the right to find the living room lit with the warm glow of dozens of candles and filled with about 20 women! My heart leaps into my throat. We’re having a Blessing Way!

A Blessing Way is an alternative to a baby shower, the focus deeply spiritual, as opposed to the commercial bent of a typical baby shower, which neglects the sacredness of the birth process. Women gather to bestow upon me loving care and energy to help guide me through the birth. This involves massage, washing of feet, brushing of hair, singing, and prayers for a hale and hearty birth experience.

The initial self-consciousness gives way to the restoration of my resolve and gives me hope to endure the last difficult days of a long and tumultuous pregnancy.

Given my life circumstances and my incapacity for being told what to do, it is rather amazing that there are only four breeches to my sentence of bed rest, the last of which is our traditional ooh and ah ride to check out the Christmas lights around town. On Christmas Eve we all bundled into the car wrapped in blankets, Mickey Mouse and Alvin and the Chipmunks providing festive music to the occasion. The cold night air and the magical twinkle of colored lights in my first excursion into the world outside of the hospital or our house since the day after Thanksgiving fills me with great joy and that sense of magic that fills my children with awe.

Finally, on the day after Christmas, I have reached term regarding the safe delivery of those little dickens’ that have totally dictated my life for this last month. I’m free!

************

I re-enter the real world to carry on with my life to the stares and audible gasps that the spectacle of my enormous belly evokes from passers-by. Each day the stretch marks get angrier and I fear that the babies’ gymnastics will push beyond the limits of the elasticity of my skin.

When I go to the grocery store, I knock over a display of oranges because I have not compensated for the space required by the three of us. My arms are barely long enough to reach the cart.

When I go to use public facilities, I am no longer able to close the door. And when we have dinner, I set the plate on my belly because I can’t reach it otherwise.

The due date for the babies passes. Day after day I long to reclaim my body, but since they were refused entrance into the world the first time, they are quite content to stay put.

I teeter on the creaking stepladder painting the dining room. The boys and I build a giant snowman in the front yard, providing quite the spectacle for our neighbors as I awkwardly push the snowballs about with my fingertips. When we go sledding, my sled plows through the powder to skim bare the earth; it takes three people to help me up from the ground.

The babies won’t budge.

Drastic times call for drastic measures. On the sly I consult with a friend who is a midwife, seeking her advice in inducing labor. She suggests taking Castor oil. My partner in crime, Cindy, beloved caregiver and friend, makes the necessary purchase and makes a rather disgusting concoction for me to drink. No-go. Cleans everything but the babies out of my poor beleaguered body.

Dear Cindy seeks out Black Cohosh Tea, a remedy used by midwives for inducing labor, certainly not available in this little berg. She brews another nasty potion, which I readily gag down- to no apparent avail. They stay put.

**********

It is not until 4:15 AM two weeks after their due date that I am startled awake by a monstrous and searing contraction. If there is a Richter scale for contractions, this had to have been a 9.5, and increasing my 3 cm dilation to a gaping 9 cm.

I awaken my husband in alarm, only to have him roll over, mumbling to wake him when my labor is serious. This is the point, of course, that is famous in the annals of birthing, cursing superlatives flying out of the poor victim of delivery and the birthing experience in an attack of the person responsible for this agonizing and miserable predicament.

I’m sitting on the edge of my bed, stark naked, huge belly spilling over the edge, waiting for the contraction to end, only to realize that it is continuous. Amidst the indescribable agony, I so wish that Tony could have a taste of it. (Oh to be handed that little bundle of joy with none of the immense torture, and taking half the credit to boot).

Then Baby Phillip wanders into my bedroom in his yellow sleeper, huge brown eyes, and pacifier; the stark contrast between the intense pain of transition and the soft warm little hand that takes mine is so dramatic that the moment will forever be precious in my mind.

I am finally coaxed into the car as our bleary-eyed neighbor stumbles in to care for the boys while I bring their siblings into the world.

As we cross Main Street en route to the hospital, one thing is certainly clear. I want drugs! I have proven twice that I can give birth with no medication, and I’ll be damned if I have anything left to prove. I want drugs! And oh my God you better step on it!

We arrive to the maternity ward to the great dismay of the nurses on duty. We have forgotten to call the hospital to let them know we are coming. As I undress and am begging for drugs, I am aware of the poor woman in the other bed, calmly hanging out with her family and having to listen to me freak out.

There is a mad scramble to prepare for the double birth. My family doctor and his wife (my coach), the attending OB-GYN, our pediatrician friend, Susan, who is planning to be on hand in case of complications, are still in oblivious slumber.

The nurse who checks me says to my doctor husband, “I don’t know how you feel about this, but you might want to check her. I think she’s fully dilated!” –And to me, “Don’t push!! No, you can’t have drugs it’s too late for that now!”

Rush to the delivery room with frantic admonitions not to push. Cold metal sterility seems blinding to me. Doctor and coach rush into the room, and with my friend’s gentle grasp of my hand, I calm instantly.

The magic words “You can push now” vaguely reach my ears before “Baby A” practically shoots across the room in one push. It feels so, so, so, so good!! And I think to myself, this is how it’s done!

It’s a boy!

Just after Baby A arrives, the missing cast members: obstetrician, pediatrician, anesthesiologist, additional nurses trickle in. Given that my husband is well known throughout the hospital, word has rapidly spread far and wide, and bets are being made as to time of birth and gender of the babies.

As with the births of my older sons, the crushing contractions cease and all is well with the world.

“Would you like to hold your baby?”

“No I can’t do that right now. (i.e, Are you crazyI’ll crush the poor kid trying to get this other one out!)

Everyone relaxes and we wait. And wait. And wait. Susan has taken charge of photography, having missed the opportunity to record Baby A’s entrance into this world. My husband takes the baby and I greet him, but yet refuse to welcome him into my arms for fear of doing him bodily damage.

I’m frustrated that everyone is taking this all so lightly, chatting and joking, and having a grand time. I need to concentrate.

Now, I had imagined that the second would arrive in mere minutes- totally disregarding my friend Laura’s comment that it could be an hour between births. But nothing happens.

“You aren’t feeling any contractions?”

“No.” The monitor shows no contractions.

“O.K. Ruth, we’re going to give you a Pitocin drip to see if we can get this show on the road.” And I’m thinking, oh God I don’t want to do this again.

The contractions start slowly but quickly pick up in frequency and intensity. Baby B is breech. Doctor jokes, “Don’t quote me but I think it’s a boy!”

By this time, I am watching everything that is going on from up in the corner of the room. The anesthesiologist says, ” We’re going to put you to sleep for a moment” and before I have time to object I’m awake again being introduced to my fourth son! He is one hour and four minutes younger than his brother, something he will never live down.

I eagerly reach for both squirming little prunes, albeit the most lovely of fruit.

And I Thank God I won’t have to contend with adolescent daughters!

The Beginning…