The Dying Art of the Housewife

My life is a long list of “things I want to be when I grow up”.  I wanted to originally be a Marine Biologist because I wanted to live on Vancouver Island. How bizarre is that considering where I live now!

But no matter how many paths I wandered down I always came back to “the family”.  In every endeavor I took part in, my family was always there in the back of my mind. Would this take too much time from my family? Would there be money diverted to this that would mean less for my family? Would I prefer to spend time with the people in my family or other people I had met along my path to the perfect career? 

It always boiled down to one thing. I was never prepared to put in the long hours it would take to start a new career or business. I spent lots of time planning how to work things out and then I would screech to a halt because it would mean endless hours away from my family. 

Even teaching created a conflict. I thought to myself, “Here is a job that gives me the time off my children have.” But there were committees to participate in, there was ALWAYS work to correct and planning required to teach the classes. What made it even harder was I never got the same grades and subjects from year to year. Every year I would have to start over with new plans. 

There was personal coaching. I even passed my Certification exam, which was very nerve-wracking. It was a series of written exams on all 120 hours of course content I received and an final oral exam. Yikes! But the examiner said I was very good at what I did. Then I found out that it wasn’t going to be as easy as sitting at home and talking to clients. I would have to go out to network meetings and groups and constantly be on the lookout for new clients. I tried creating alliances with other organizations but it always meant taking THEIR courses and paying out more money. So that bumped up against two of my issues: time and money.

I did several workshops for the local Women’s Centers but they didn’t want to pay...

Last Christmas Dale was away for 10 days and I had a lot of time to think about what was most important to me. The bottom line? My family was most important to me. It was important for my family to be able to come home to a clean and relaxed environment. Everyone had stress in their life. They needed this oasis in the storm of life. 

It was important to me that money be taken care of and planned on. I enjoy taking care of the money that comes into our household. Its key issue to removing stress. 

It was important for me to plan healthy food and activities. I mean what was the point of a nice, clean quiet house and everyone is too sick to appreciate it. 

It was important to me that Dale be taught how to become and independent adult and who knows him better than me. He can see all the job coaches and support workers he needs but it always comes down to how I can support him myself.

When I decided to write about the art of housekeeping I went back to our bookshelves and found a book that was probably the most instrumental piece of writing I had come across. It was an inspiration. Here was a woman who felt the same way as I did about being a housewife and how important it was to take care of myself as well. I was no good to anyone if I was angry, tired or sick. It is called “Simple Abundance: a Daybook of Comfort and Joy”. Every page represented a day of the year. Each day had a topic written about housekeeping or self-care. 

When I finally tracked down the book it seemed a lot thicker than I remembered. As I leafed through the pages I found sentences underlined and comments written. I found little reminders tucked in pages of things to do with my life: a plane ticket to meet Norm, a note from Norm and some from my children, a ticket to Keith’s Gr 12 graduation, a paper with a list of academic presentations for Lyndi’s Gr 9 graduation, photo’s and wishlist’s. I took an hour to go through each memento and realized that this book was a huge influence on what I became most passionate about - and that was my family.

Each section, each day was devoted to a particular aspect of the art of being a housewife. I found I bought a copy of a Companion book to go with it. I remember reading each daily devotion and then spending 45 minutes journalling. 

Is this a career calling for any woman? I doubt it but this is MY career path. I think it’s time for me to start reading each daily page over again and reaffirm what I truly am passionate about. Maybe I will find more memento's to stick between the pages.

Rudest Comment

This little blog is in response to a contest about coming up with the rudest comment someone ever made to you regarding your parenting.  Twitters Moms and Care.com are teaming up for this one. See their links in the side bar.

As a parent of a handicapped child who doesn't LOOK handicapped I've fielded quite a few of those. But there are some parenting skills that the roaming public feel compelled to comment on.

 

For example one such skill that spanned the raising of all three children had to do with my breast feeding techniques. I was always amazed at what people felt compelled to share. I was sitting in a shopping mall and my son was crying. He was hungry. He knew it, I knew it and my breasts knew it (breast feeding moms will know what I mean). I sat down with him, covered myself up and discreetly and we all instantly experienced a Zen moment of peace, quiet and contentment. 

Five minutes into the event and older woman (well at least much older than me) came up to me. She was hunched over, trying to get a better look and obviously going to make a comment to me that she felt was called for.

"You aren't breast feeding your child in public?!" she gasped.

Honestly when did this situation become a social gaff. For thousands of years women have been breast feeding their children in all sorts of social situations. However, in the last 100 years or so, it has become "disgusting" and inappropriate to breast feed in public. I refused to sit in a bathroom to feed my child. He had the right to eat anywhere just like any other human being.

I remained calm, looked her straight in the eye and answered, "No. I'm baking a cake." After which I ignored her and let my son ease his hunger and drift off to sleep.  She tisked her way down the mall and I had a little chuckle.

No Such Thing As Irresponsibility

I was coaching a client of mine when I came up against this comment. It was in connection to “fun” or “having fun” and “irresponsibility”. I’m not sure why it is, but as adults, we tend to link those two words together. As we grow up we believe that to have “fun” means being “irresponsible”. I think the adult population of the world is in dire need of a break from seriousness in the form of FUN.

I was curious to see what the difference in definition was so I looked it up and found that my dictionary stated that irresponsible was: lack of someone being in charge, having no authority, no accountability. Then I was intrigued to see what the definition of fun was. It was not listed in my dictionary. I started to giggle as I realized the significance of that.

In a world fraught with seriousness my own dictionary did not see fit to have the definition of fun. I was quite intrigued by now, so I asked my local speaking group, if they thought there was no such thing as irresponsibility and if fun was being given a bad name.

They all felt that irresponsibility was being unaccountable but that fun was not the replacement for it. Which is quite strange but amusing, when you realize I didn't really ask them what fun could replace . I persisted and asked how they would define fun. I was brushed off and they all replied, “Well you know… don’t ask such a silly (irresponsible) question.”

I believe as we become older we decide that to even have fun is irresponsible. Someone has to be in charge, someone has to have authority and most definitely someone has to be accountable. Do we take turns at this? Is there a fight over who’s the boss? In our rush, as adults, to be responsible did we throw “fun” out the window with the proverbial bath water? I didn’t understand why the two could not co-exist in a world of adults.

I know that fun is important to me. I know that with a handicapped child I’m very lucky. I get to play whenever I want with my child-like son and no one is the wiser. Was I supposed to share this secret? Was I being irresponsible by not sharing this? Nope, I always had too much fun to worry about what others were thinking. I suppose that meant I was in charge but it never felt that way.

I know that a lot of times my friends knew exactly how to get me involved in what they were doing. There were plans to go somewhere or do something. There would be much cajoling and begging.

“Come on Maureen, it’ll be a lot of fun and if it isn’t fun right away, you will know how to make it that way.” Did this mean I was responsible for making things fun? Now wasn’t that a bizarre position to be in. Imagine me being responsible, in charge of and the authority on fun. Would I be completely irresponsible if I didn’t respond or become accountable for the fun that was happening? I was baffled why it was me in charge of the fun department.

I think that in our rush to become responsible wage earners, parents, family members and business people we lost track of what brought meaning to life. What was the point of all that work if there is no fun? How responsible and accountable was that?

All I know is: I’m tired of being responsible, in charge and accountable for the fun that happens with the other people in my life. I’m going to be completely responsible and be only in charge of the fun in MY life.

My Sons Greatest Handicap

Someone in our support group had mentioned that the greatest disability our children had was: they didn’t “look handicapped”. With some disabilities it is visible and with others once a child moves or behaves a certain way it becomes visible. In a lot of cases, with my child, it’s not always apparent that he has a disability until you talk to him or if you watch him for an extended period of time. The other person will get this “funny feeling” that something is just not right.
I either leave to avoid embarrassment or try to explain why they are experiencing this strange sensation. A lot of times there is no quick explanation. I suppose this happens with other disabilities but sometimes there is a handy quick label to supply for an explanation. That just isn’t so with this type of disability.
It actually doesn’t matter what the disability is. Because whether or not it is visible or there is an explanation I am brought back full circle to the idea of who really is the disabled person here.
My child is usually not aware that he is receiving this type of reaction and quite often he doesn’t really care. So who is the disabled person? Why, me, of course! I am the one who feels compelled to explain why my child is acting the way he is. I am the one who feel compelled to leave because either I have to give the long version of his disability or give the short one and most definitely risk misunderstanding. That’s a whole other story.
In the first case I am disabled by my ability to succinctly explain what is different. I am disabled by the fact I feel compelled to explain my child’s behavior. My mind races for a simple way. I try to gauge how understanding this person is and how much I can tell them so they understand but don’t jump to conclusions.
If I run away I am disabled by my compulsion to hide my child, to protect him. I am afraid of their judgment and opinions, which really won’t make a hoot of difference to my child.
In truth, I am under no obligation to do either of these things but because I am disabled I feel driven to do this. But I have a lot of experience with both of these situations. I have a lot of experience with people who stare, glare at my inability to “control” my child so he meets their standards of how a child his age should act and talk. I have a lot of experience using different speeches to explain why he does what he does. Not many of them have been successful.
But that was awhile ago. I’m not cured of this disability but I’ve learned a new way to handle these situations and I learned from the best. I choose not to be too concerned by what my child is saying or doing. I choose to focus on the moment and deal with what I find inappropriate behavior, actions or verbal outbursts. If nothing too bad is happening I often will look at people’s reactions but quietly I say to myself, “It’s not me or my son who has the disability here. They do. And the sad thing is they don’t even know it.”

The Michael Jackson of Socks

I was washing my son’s clothes the other day when I came across what he had done to his socks. He’s in his 20’s now but sensory integration – how things feel when they touch his body in any way – has always been a part of his disability. He had neatly cut off all the corners of the toes.
“Honestly!” I sometimes wondered, “Does he not think I would notice this!?”
As I was chiding myself for not consulting him when I bought them, a smile crept onto my face.
An amusing memory, or a Magic Chuckle (see story about what a Magic Chuckle is) that showcased this very issue, popped into my head. At the time I did not know this was even called a “sensory integration issue”. I was just annoyed at how often I had to redress my child every single day.
Remember how Michael Jackson used to go around just wearing one glove? That is how my son got nominated for “The Michael Jackson of Socks”.
Moms of the world can attest to the energy and time that goes into dressing a child. In my case multiply this by five. Sometimes I hated to even bother. In fact if we weren’t going anywhere I wouldn’t and if we were….well you can bet I did it 15 minutes before we left and I could pin him down in his car seat. This still didn’t deter him from removing socks and shoes so sometimes I wouldn’t even put those on unless it was cold out.
My routine was solid. I would plan what I was going to do and dress myself first and then buttoned, zipped, pinned, pulled and tied my son into his. My hand was poised with the door half-opened when the phone rang. Before I could grab my son he was off, out the door. As I answered hello he was tottering down the steps. I wasn’t too worried. We lived on a farm with miles and miles of flat land. If he took off I would be able to see his head bobbling through a field.
I hung up the phone after five LONG minutes and flung the screen door open as I walked through it. I wouldn’t have to look far for my first clue: a pair of tiny Velcro sneakers on the steps. As I bent over to pick them up, for future redressing, I noticed his socks piled up 20 feet away. And so it began. I began to understand how Hansel and Gretel felt following a trail of bread crumbs.
I followed the trail to the corner of the garage and sighed. Yesterday my other two children had loosed several gallons of water from the garden hose into the pile of dirt behind the garage. It had turned the place into a massive area of quicksand. At least that is what they had excitedly called it. After playing in it yesterday they were quite leery of ever going back to it. I had had to drag my sucked down feet through it yesterday to retrieve two sobbing children. They’d gotten mired up to their knees. I could still hear the sucking sounds as I pulled little bare legs and feet from the unrelenting mud.
As I turned the corner I expected more of the same. What I encountered was a cooing young child in his glory. He was stark naked, up to his thighs in mud. He was just starting to wobble as his bottom smacked into the surface of this lovely, warmed by the sun, smooth, slippery mud that would caress his rosy body. It took an hour to clean him off.
I decided that it was time to “cure” him of this. It was too embarrassing having him do this in public. It took a month but my diligence paid off. The only “habit” I couldn’t crack was the removal of one sock. Yes he only took off one.
It was at this time Michael Jackson started a mini fad of wearing only one glove. My eldest son insisted his brother was just copying Michael and dubbed him: “The Michael Jackson of Socks”.
I personally believe it was his compromise at having to give up the joy of removing all his clothes.

What's a Magic Chuckle

I can’t even remember where I heard the phrase but it has saved my sanity more times than I can think of. But here is the best definition I have of it. A Magic Chuckle is something that happens to you throughout the day where you have the opportunity to laugh at yourself and what you are experiencing in a particular moment.
The reason to keep your eyes open for a Magic Chuckle is: A Magic Chuckle doesn’t always “seem” like a Magic Chuckle at the time (referred to as an MC after this point). This means that sometimes it can occur at your own expense, sometimes it happens because of what you do or who you are around or where you are and sometimes it horribly embarrassing. It’s always good to look for these because they are the biggest stress-busters and tension-releasers I know.
So an example of a MC might be: you are taking your child shopping with you and they, in their sense of innocence, might blurt out something impolite about someone. You might actually be thinking the same thing yourself. The only difference is, YOU keep your mouth shut but your child doesn’t.
An example from my life might look like this. My child is developmentally delayed and at the time he was at least five years old. You might have already taught your child by this age, that commenting out loud; on someone’s appearance is something you just don’t do.
On this particular day I was grocery shopping and as we turned down an aisle a rather portly person was coming towards us.
My child immediately turned his head in her direction and openly watched the person walking closer and closer to us. I kept my hand ready in case I needed to quietly and quickly cover his mouth in case something came out of it.
The closer we got the more attentive my son got and I just KNEW we were going to have an expose′ in the middle of the aisle. I wasn’t sure when but my son was just vibrating in anticipation.
I know, I know. You are thinking why I didn’t just whisper something to my child. This however might result in him repeating very loudly what I had just said to him or him responding innocently and out loud anyway. My experience with him had been the less said the better and action was preferable.
I decided to skip buying anything in the aisle and just circle back when this portly person had moved on. As I sped up it seemed like a race for me to get past them before my son spouted his opinion. But we smoothly zipped by, without appearing too much in a hurry or anxious.
I was starting to feel quite pleased with my ability to sense what was happening. You might, in hindsight, say I was feeling a little cocky. “Phew!” I thought, “We got past with no incident and no embarrassment.”
I slowed down a bit after several feet and started to take a deep breath when my son loudly pronounced, “Gee mom! She FAT!” with the emphasis on fat.
The woman abruptly turned around to me and glared at my inability to teach my child manners.
What can I say? At this stage there is no point trying to explain to anyone that my child is handicapped or so sorry but my son is just being honest, or just plain sorry. I’ve never had a happy result from anything I might try to say in a situation like this. My son doesn’t look like he has a disability and I’ve been accused of making it up just to have a reason for the rude behavior. Yes you heard right. If a child has a disability and it isn’t visible then your child is just being down right rude.
I was embarrassed and shushed my child but the damage had been done. I immediately went to the check out and never finished shopping. I didn’t want to run into her at the check out.
I tried as gently as possible to put my child in his car seat despite my anger and I sat behind the steering wheel gripping it while I hung my head. I on the verge of crying but a switch inside me flipped the beginnings of a sob into a spurt of laughter. Just like that I was giggling like mad. I mean when I saw the woman come around the corner it had been the first thing I thought, “She is overweight.”
My son just happened to say “out loud” what I had been thinking. Then events took a turn when I got a little too over confident thinking I had “saved the day”. It was absolutely hilarious. Was I laughing at the woman? Nope. I was laughing at myself and my belief that I had out-smarted my child. I was laughing at my child’s ability to come right out and speak what was so obviously the truth.
Now THAT was a Magic Chuckle.

The First Time

I remember, so clearly, the day I was told my child had a disability. It was an explosion of emotions. Some emotions were conflicting which didn’t make acceptance occur in a smooth motion.
I was so terribly upset that my child should be singled out for this rare disorder. By the time I got home, from the hospital, I was shocked to realize that I was really upset that I had been singled out. My child would wake up still the same the next day but I never would but how was I going to cope with this. It was the most selfish thing I ever felt.
Then I was angry – at just about everything. I was angry at how the Doctor had “coldly” informed us. I was upset that the only thing my ex-husband was concerned about was our child’s ability to have his own children. I was also angry that before we were even out the door he was looking for someone to blame for this and it was me. Neither of which were his fault because he didn’t realize he was disabled too.
I was angry that I would have to deal with, yet another problem, when I still wasn’t over the last one. I was angry it was my child and not someone else’s. Silly me, since there are millions of “someone else’s child” out in the world.
I was relieved. Man, how relieved I was and ashamed at my relief. At last I knew what was wrong. My son’s disability had a name and I had something to start on. I was relieved that it would give me direction towards what to do next and that “next” was to find out as much as possible about this disability.
I felt vindicated that after all the years of saying, “Something’s not right here.” I was right. Not an “I told you so” – right, but more like, “Hey my intuition was heading me in the right direction after all.” I knew I had been okay in trusting my instincts, as a mother. Previously I found, that the more things that went wrong with my child, the more I was apt to blame myself for maybe something I had done.
I was excited about the challenge of finally making headway to learn what I needed to help my child. I had a direction to march off to and it would only mean more help for me and my child. At the time, I just didn’t realize how much help it would mean for me.
After feeling all these feelings I then realized how self-centered all these emotions had been. This was the first time I realized, as a parent, how disabled I was. I would have to learn parenting all over again. My expectations for my child had to completely shift and I had to re-examine my own life expectations. I was no longer the part-time guardian of my child till he became of age. I was probably now going to be the life-time guardian of my child.
This thought brought on a whole new spate of feelings, which I promptly shut down. I wasn’t ready to look at this aspect of my disability yet. Right now my child was a child and he needed me to be strong, focused and to most certainly dig out my sense of humor from my toolbox. I had a feeling that for the next several years I was going to need it.