April 3, 2012 · 3:29 pm

Outsourcing

You might think the mere act of carrying Dylan in my belly for 37 long, bloated weeks would make me uniquely qualified to to help him overcome his aversion to food.

It doesn’t.  In fact, it appears that, as his Mama, I am unequivocally the least qualified candidate for the job.  As far as food goes, Dylan and I are like oil and water, or gas and a match.  I dread helping him with homework when he’s older, and if I ever have to homeschool him (which, by the way, would only ever happen at gunpoint), I’m certain it will end in tragedy.

So, what’s a Mama to do?  Outsource.  You can outsource almost anything related to parenting these days.  The most obvious example of outsourcing is childcare, but a brief Internet search reveals a plethora of professional services available to parents, including:

Baby nursing

Baby-proofing

Eco-proofing

Potty training

Parent coaching

Sleep training

Preschool selection

Private transportation

Thumb sucking termination

Baby shower, babymoon, and birthday party planning

Discipline training

Please and thank you coaching

Etiquette training

Personal shopping

Wardrobe dispute consulting (my personal favorite!)

Life coaching

Lice removal

Birds and bees (sex) talking

Bicycle training

Homework helping

College touring

There isn’t much we have to do anymore if we don’t want to (and if we have the resources to pay for it).  Regardless of socio-economic status, though, there are Martyr Mamas like me who wouldn’t want to miss out on any of these amazing, invaluable, and/or insanity-inducing parenting moments…except for lice removal.  If lice enters my house, I’ll pay any amount of money to have someone else clean the mess, and those people better bring a big ‘ol jug of wine with the rest of their supplies.

As a Martyr Mama, I want to be solely responsible for teaching my boys everything they need to know to be happy, healthy and successful in life.  I want to fix all of their problems and prevent trouble from ever entering their personal space.  I want to prepare them for healthy relationships, teach them the difference between right and wrong, encourage them to love themselves, and help them understand what’s truly important in life – love, health and happiness (and their Mama).  I’m not delusional (well, maybe a little bit).  I know I can’t do it all by myself.  I just wish I could.

Last spring, when I was in the beginning stages of diagnosing Dylan’s sensory issues, I realized I needed a level of expertise that I couldn’t provide no matter how hard I tried (and boy did I try).  Early on, Mike and I met with a child therapist.  The “Feelings Doctor,” as Dylan came to know her, was a great resource for us, and Dylan liked her a lot (especially the toys in her office).  A lot has happened since then, including finding an occupational therapist whom has literally transformed Dylan from the inside out.  The only mountain we’ve been unable to move – yet – is food.

If you’ve read about it, heard about it, or seen it on television, I’ve tried it.  I’ve made games and charts, offered rewards, played with the shape and presentation of food, planned rainbow menus and done a dozen other things to make food fun.  Nothing has worked.  About six weeks ago, I had a panic attack (again) about Dylan’s food rules, and I decided to bring the Feelings Doctor back to the table.

With the Feelings Doctor’s help, we’ve set up a green light, yellow light, red light food labeling system and have hosted weekly picnics at her office with a variety of green, yellow and red light foods to try.  We haven’t had much success yet, but she’s making more progress than I’ve been able to make at home.  The truth is, sometimes you need another cook, or someone other than Mama, in the kitchen.

Of course, I want to be the one who does It.  I want to be the one who gets Dylan to take that first bite of chicken, mashed potatoes, pizza, or spaghetti.  The one who teaches him that eating protein and vegetables will make him healthy, strong and fast on the soccer field.  The one who reassures him that trying new food won’t make the world crumble around him; rather, that it will open up new experiences and adventures, and expose him to new people, cultures, and traditions.  The one who teaches him that food is one of life’s greatest joys.

I’m a (Martyr) Mama.  I can’t change that, and I can’t help but selfishly want to be at least partially responsible for all of the wonder Dylan experiences in his life and the greatness he achieves along the way.  But I’ve also learned that sometimes it’s best to step back and let someone else do the pushing (or the delousing, thank you very much).  That way, I’m free to watch in awe and when he finally decides to leap, or, in this case, eat.

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Filed under food, food issues, Martyr Mama, parenting

March 30, 2012 · 2:00 pm

The Bank

I went to the bank yesterday morning.  When I say I went to the bank, I mean I actually went inside the bank.  You should know that I don’t like going inside banks.  In fact, the mere thought of the inside of a bank conjures up all kinds of terrifying images in my head.

Besides real crime – I watch a lot of cable news – there have been countless movies and television shows about bank robberies. “Point Break” comes to mind immediately, and do you remember “The Nine,” a short-lived television show about nine people who survived a bank robbery together?

For the record, I’ve never been involved in an armed robbery at a bank or anywhere else for that matter.  I’m just smart (or crazy) enough to know that the physical act of being inside a bank increases my chances of being robbed, held hostage or shot.  In other words, online banking is just fine, thank you very much.

As long as we’re discussing places that give me irrational feelings of fear and anxiety, I don’t like going to the post office, fast food restaurants, or gas stations either.  I’ve just let a little bit a lot of Crazy Mama out of the bag here, haven’t I?  Now that we’ve established that I’m a nut case (but a good Mama, I swear), let me tell you about the bank yesterday morning.

Normally, I would have used the drive through, but I had to deposit a birthday check for Riley and I, somehow, misplaced his savings account deposit book at home.  Oops.

The birthday check is a big deal in my family.  It’s money, yes, but it’s so much more than that.  My dad’s father, my Papa, gave all of his grandchildren one hundred dollars on their birthdays.  As a family tradition, my parents did the same.  After my Papa died, my dad kept his father’s ritual alive by giving my sister and I two hundred dollars on our birthdays.  My parents still send us birthday checks (they even send one to Mike), and now, Dylan and Riley (and my sister’s three children) receive them as well.  It’s a giving tradition that, so far, includes three generations of our family.

The bank was surprisingly serene (unlike the thoughts in my head), and the personal banker who helped me order a new deposit book was super nice (and she had lollipops on her desk).  Her computer was moving slowly, so we chatted a bit.

“Do you ever bring your children to the bank?” she asked me.

Hell no, I thought.  “Not usually,” I said.  I wondered if talking about armed robbery in a bank was as taboo as talking about bombs at the airport. “I actually don’t come inside the bank very often myself.”

“They might like to see where their money goes.  It’s a great way to teach them about saving.  You should bring them in.”

She was right, but I had a don’t-bring-the-kids-inside-the-bank rule.  “Oh, my kids are still so young,” I said.

“I brought my daughter to the bank for the first time when she was three years old,” she said.  “I filled out the deposit slip for her, but she put the money on the counter all by herself.  She could barely reach it, but she loved the satisfaction of doing it on her own.”

The irony of my bank phobia – besides the fact that I’ve never been involved in an actual robbery – is that I have fond memories of going to the bank when I was a kid.  I remember going in the vault with my dad to see our family’s safe deposit box, and I remember depositing birthday checks and savings bonds into a special account for me.  When I was older, I remember opening my first checking account to deposit paychecks and cash tips that I earned as a waitress.  These memories aren’t just of special times, but also of important family rituals and life lessons.

The truth is, my boys have no idea what happens to the cash and checks that fall out of the cards their grandparents send them.  Maybe if they came with me inside the bank (deep breath), they would have a better understanding of saving, giving, and tradition.

When the new deposit book was ordered, I thanked the banker I and told her I would make a point of bringing my boys to the bank the next time there was a deposit to be made in their accounts.  (I would try, anyway.)

Actually, the level of personal service I experienced at the bank was impeccable (the post office could learn thing or two from them), and nothing horrible happened during the 15 minutes I spend inside.  Maybe it’s time to take the bank off my list of dangerous and scary places.  Even if my initial attempts to teach Dylan and Riley about the value of money and tradition are a flop, at least they’ll enjoy the lollipops.

Do you take your kids to the bank?

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Filed under Crazy Mama, money, phobia

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