Yellow Ladybird

I’ve always had mixed feelings about giving kids an allowance. On the one hand, I like the idea of teaching them the value of money, the concept of saving, and the satisfaction of being able to purchase something they really want… and the occasional post-purchase regret when they realize maybe they didn’t really want that thing after all. On the other hand, I don’t like the idea of paying my children to do household chores. I’d rather everyone in the family help out around the house simply because that is part of being a family and sharing a home.

Katherine is seven now and she has several friends who earn an allowance. We’ve also been having some trouble getting her to help out around the house without a fair amount of whining (her) and nagging (us). So we decided to come up with a compromise. Katherine now has a list of chores she has to do each week that she doesn’t get paid for – basic things like clearing the table after dinner, laying out her school clothes, packing her lunch, etc. If she is able to complete those without the whining or nagging, then she can opt to do several additional chores in order to earn an allowance. She has a nice little picture chart on the fridge and she moves magnets onto the tasks she’s completed. At the end of the week we can see what she’s done.

In case you can't read it, that last one is “Make Pancakes.” One morning Katherine woke up early and made pancake batter (popping into our bedroom to ask us for the exact measurements along the way). We decided to see if we could get that to happen on a weekly basis.

Katherine was so excited by the prospect of having her own money that she made a list of things she planned to buy before we even began the first week of chores. At the top of the list was an American Doll, followed by a Rainbow Loom. To give her a little perspective, we stopped in the toy store to price these items, and then figured out how long she would have to save her allowance in order to buy them (allotting for 1/3 that will go into her long-term savings and 1/3 that will go to help someone in need). She’s decided she’d rather let Santa bring her an American Doll (we’ll burst that bubble another time), and she’ll save for the Rainbow rubber bands and forgo the actual loom. She should be getting her rubber bands around mid-May. 

My sister sent me an article on play last week. The information in the article isn’t anything I haven't read before, but it is always interesting to see the growing evidence for the importance of imaginitive play.

Here is a brief summary of the article:

About 50 years ago, with the advent of toy advertising, children’s play suddenly began to change. Fueled in part by the mass production of increasingly specific toys (or, what I call “one trick pony toys”), play began to focus on things rather than activity, and imaginative play began to diminish. My personal favorite example that illustrates this point is the shiny red toy fire engine with sirens and flashing lights that can only be a fire engine. A shoebox with a stick jammed into, however, can be a fire engine with a ladder one minute, a sled for dolls the next, or whatever other prop the children need depending on where their imagination takes them. As the author so eloquently summarizes, the specific toys and predetermined scripts for play “shrink the size of children’s imaginative space.”

In addition to the influence of the toy industry, early education now focuses on academic achievement tests rather than allowing time and space for social and imaginative play; and at home, parents are creating increasingly structured schedules filled with adult-directed activities, leaving children with little or no time for independent, imaginative play.

Without imaginative play, children do not develop executive function skills, a component of which is the ability to self-regulate. Self-regulation is responsible for controlling one’s behavior and emotions, resisting impulses, paying attention, implementing self-discipline, etc. Imaginative play provides children with the opportunity to practice (primarily through private speech and self-policing), and thus develop, self-regulation. Not surprisingly, research shows that children’s executive function ability was better seventy years ago than it is today. 

I understand why the toy industry continues to produce billions of crappy toys (that’s capitalism, after all), but why is there such a disconnect between the information in this article (and hundreds of other articles and books that all say the same thing) and current educational and social trends? What will it take to convince society that the best way to promote cognitive development in young children is to just let them play? 

Alexandra turned two this week. When Katherine and Clara each turned two, it was a big event. I poured over beautiful wooden toy catalogues to find a gift they would treasure. I made and painstakingly decorated a cake. I bought balloons and planned a special day. We paused our usual routine to celebrate their birthdays. After all, “two” holds many milestones: the switch to counting in years rather than months; the end of diapers; the start of speaking in sentences; and the equally endearing and exasperating “No! Do it own self!” Two marks the last of the baby days and the beginning of little people days.

I looked forward to this move into childhood for Katherine and Clara. But for Alexandra, I put her second birthday out of my mind. On a few occasions, someone mentioned her approaching birthday (a grandparent looking for gift ideas, a friend asking if we had plans for a party) and it startled me. What? Two? Who’s turning two? Oh… Alexandra, right. I knew that. Then I’d push the thought away, reminding myself I still had time left with my one-year-old. But when the day before her birthday arrived, I had still done nothing to prepare. I didn’t even have ingredients for her cake – and I always have ingredients for a cake (you never know when you might need cake).

It’s not that I don’t look forward to a new stage of life with my children. Family skiing, all-day hikes, and afternoon outings without the fallout from ‘no nap’ are on the horizon. We are almost at the point when all three kids can pee by themselves and tie their shoes… A new era of family fun - and freedom - is opening up. I’m just not sure I’m ready for these early years to be over, even if what is to come will be just as wonderful, if not better.

But Alexandra’s birthday arrived and there was no getting around it. Luckily, thoughtful gifts from relatives, sibling-made decorations, and a chocolate cake, albeit last minute, covered up my reluctance to acknowledge this birthday. And while I didn’t spend hours searching for that perfect gift (besides, what could a two-year-old with two older sisters possibly need or want?), I did take five minutes to pop into the local toy store to purchase a pink tutu (what two-year-old doesn’t need or want a pink tutu?). Alexandra was quite pleased with it all.

Happy Birthday baby girl!

Balancing the Wish List

Usually, I’m the queen of “less is more” and firmly believe the path to happiness is less stuff. My husband, Dave, and I have always been a no-dryer-one-small-car-no-microwave kind of family. My kids each get one drawer in the three-drawer dresser they share. Anything that piles up is deemed clutter and has to go. Our minimalist mentality – as harsh as it may seem - was a necessity during the first ten years of our relationship. With little money and a tiny city apartment, we simply couldn’t have a lot of stuff.  But now that we live in a house that has closets and a basement, our minimalism is optional and I suddenly find myself making list after list of things I want, including the dreaded second, bigger, car.

A year ago, I’d nix the wishes on the wish list before they even made their way onto paper. Any offers from friends that started with a “We have an extra…” were met with a resounding “No, thanks.” My mom finally accepted that gifts to us should be perishable, preferably in the form of chocolate or coffee. Now, not only are my wishes going down on the wish list, the fulfillment of one simply triggers the next.

This cycle started out naturally enough when the whirlwind of moving twice within a year put us in a high-energy mode that didn’t shut off when we finally landed in our empty, new-to-us house this summer. Bursting with ideas on how to turn this house into our home, we refocused our energy on settling in. First it was major cleaning projects to clear out spider webs and scrub away the previous owners’ grime. Then we turned to standard purchases, like a child-gate for around the wood stove and gardening tools, having never had either a wood stove or a garden. From there, little home improvement projects sprouted up in every room: curtains here, better lighting there, replace the rotting window frame, put up a screen door… Now, I find myself in the habit of walking from room to room and only seeing things I want to fix, change, or buy. But the wish list extends beyond home improvement. My excitement for snow season has triggered a whole slew of new wants: cross-country skis, after all, the ski trail is right across the road; snow shoes for my seven year old; oh, and what if we made an ice rink in our backyard, the kids would love it! Before long, I’ve wasted an hour researching backyard ice rinks and have made out a list of materials we’ll need for it, including ice skates for all three kids. We won’t actually do it because we’re on a tight budget, but I’ll want it.

I don’t think wanting is necessarily a bad thing. After all, the absence of want, also called hope in some cases, is a symptom of depression. Wanting is healthy, and it can inspire creativity and resourcefulness. We don’t want to spend money on curtains, but I can figure out how to make new ones from old ones, and my children get to watch me struggle through the process of measuring, piecing together fabric, and sewing straight hems. When I proudly hang the slightly lopsided curtains, my oldest asks if she can make something using the sewing machine. Christmas lights, not fancy track lights, now brighten our kitchen – it looks a bit funny now that the holidays are over, but I can see while I chop vegetables.

But an endless wanting of stuff clashes with my minimalist values, and I worry that my infinite wish list is preventing me from enjoying what I already have. Instead of appreciating our new home in the country, I fret about how to manage carpooling with one small car and three children. The warped window frames overshadow the beautiful view from the sun porch, and I look past the 160-year-old wooden beamed ceilings and all the history they carry.

Perhaps I need to figure out that balance of simply living in our home as it is, and planning – pacing – changes over the next twenty years. After all, we hope to be here at least that long, so what’s the rush? Adding bit by bit will make it sweeter than hurrying to reach the end state as soon as possible. The kids will enjoy a backyard ice rink just as much, if not more, in five years. Besides, they are perfectly content with sledding this year, and I can be too.

But a second, bigger car? Well, some things may fall into the necessity category that we give in to sooner rather than later.

As we wait in the bitter cold temperatures for winter to really start (you know, with that big dump of snow I'm always hoping for), I decided to check out what was going on in the greenhouse. Well, it wasn't warm in there, but it wasn't frigid cold, and it smelled like fresh earth - a total contrast to the stark, empty smell of ice and snow. I usually don't mind the sharp winter air, especially on sunny days when everything seems to glitter, but that little reminder that spring is close, just tucked under the old crunchy snow, was very reassuring.

It also occurred to me that a certain little sister would love to dig in all that dirt. The snow can be tough for little fingers trapped in bulky mittens, especially when big sister playmates are off building sledding jumps and cross country skiing around the yard. And with little sister's birthday coming up… perhaps a winter mud party in the greenhouse? 

"There is no such thing as poor weather, just poor dressing." I've been reminding myself of this a lot lately, especially with days on end of 33 degrees and icy rain, and now -20 degrees plus an even colder windchill. That's pretty close to what I would call "poor weather", if there were such a thing.

My kids don't really care. They're happy to slip and slide on the sheet of ice that used to be our yard and driveway, and getting soaked and/or frozen gives them a strong case for hot cocoa - with marshmallows - when they come in. I like to think I don't mind the cold either. Long underwear, warm socks, hand and foot warmers, and my mom's 40-year-old down coat that I took over years ago usually keep me warm. But only if I stay moving, as in a very brisk (bordering on jog) snowshoe through the woods. Standing around outside while my almost two-year-old trudges along at .2 miles per hour, as cute as it is, does not keep me warm. So for myself, I've been choosing inside over outside.

Of course, it's cold inside too. The kids have been scraping ice off the insides of their bedroom windows each morning. I've come very close to giving the wood stove a big hug, it is so inviting. And coffee has become more than a once-a-day caffeine friend. It is a major source of warmth. I suppose there is no reason I can't have both of these things outside too. Standing around a winter bonfire with thermos in hand might actually be quite pleasant… But then again, look at Alfred cat. I'm pretty sure he's saying I should give up this crazy talk of going outside and curl up next to him for a while.

A lot of people start out the New Year with a word in mind; something along the lines of a resolution or theme for the year. This year I'm going to play along… and my word is pace. As in, I'm going to focus on pacing myself. A typical Type A personality, I have a habit of taking on more than I can handle, and then taking great pleasure out of organizing everything into a carefully crafted albeit logistically complex schedule that tends to leave me feeling overwhelmed.

I know from experience that it isn't realistic to limit what I take on - I could never choose what to cut out even if I tried - but I can try to pace myself. I'm not quite sure what pacing myself looks like yet, but I'm hoping that if I keep the word in mind, I'll figure it out. As I work on the first 'carefully crafted complex schedule' of the season, which involves juggling new jobs, more volunteer work, extra writing, home improvement projects, and preserving time for outdoor activities (snow shoeing!), I think the first step is to realize that I don't have to do everything all at the same time. In other words, one thing at a time...

Sometimes I Choose Chores

“Will you sit and knit with me, Mama?” my seven-year-old asks.  A request to melt any mama’s heart.  Yet I reply with a list of morning chores I have to do, trying to keep my tone neutral so as not to also say, “See how much work I have? See how hard my life is?”  The dirty cloth diaper needs to be rinsed out – the sooner the better.  The breakfast dishes are piled on the counter, soggy cereal drying to the sides of the bowls.  It will be annoying to have to scrape it off later when I can just rinse them out now.  Crumbs are everywhere on the floor – if I don’t sweep, the mice will come.  I have a small window to get it all done after one meal and before the next, especially since a large percentage of that time will be spent changing (more) diapers, wiping butts, helping with sips of water, tying on capes, and kissing bumps and scrapes.

“Help me sweep the floor,” I say to Katherine, “then I’ll be finished sooner and we’ll have time to knit.”  She frowns, “I don’t want to sweep.”  Not wanting to engage in a battle over sweeping by holding her to my request, I let it go, shrugging.  She hovers around me as I go about cleaning up, like a puppy underfoot.  My mind drifts to Ma in the Laura Ingalls Wilder books.  We’re reading On the Banks of Plum Creek at bedtime and the story is fresh in my mind.  I am intrigued by the strong rhythm of their daily chores, children who help without being asked, the simplicity of survival on the harsh prairie.

I don’t long to milk a cow at dawn, or polish the stove, or do the laundry by hand, day after day after day.  The combination of obligation and monotony would not outweigh the benefits of its simplicity, at least not for me.  But there is something to be said for a routine that never waivers, and upon which survival depends.  If I don’t clean the poopy diaper or rinse out the dishes first thing in the morning, scalding hot water and anti-bacterial soap will kill whatever grows in the meantime. Therefore, it is easy to feel the guilt of pushing my children aside.  I don’t really need to do the dishes right now, but I sort of wish I did.

All the slogans about choosing laughter over squeaky-clean floors and messy kitchens being happy kitchens let us off the hook.  Choose your children over household duties.  There will always be laundry, but your toddler will grow up.  I don’t disagree - but what if I want to do the dishes and put things away?  Piles of stuff distract me and I function better all around when my surroundings are sparse.  So I’m torn between wanting to do household chores and cherishing every moment of my daughters’ one-, four-, and seven-year-oldness.

But just the other day, I had a rare morning alone with Katherine thanks to a dual play date for her two sisters.  “Knit with me,” she implored as soon as they were out the door.  I surveyed the mess and sighed. “Let me clean up, then we’ll knit. We’ll have time,” I promised.  She scampered off to her room and I powered through the chores, in total, uninterrupted, quiet.  Twenty minutes later she reappeared. “I neatened my room, Mom.  Are you ready to knit?”  I was.

It dawned on me, as I snuggled down on the couch with her, as promised, that I am still in the throes of early childhood, when needs run high, interruptions are constant, and just underneath the surface of all their cuteness, my kids can be exasperating.  But my morning alone with Katherine was a reality check, a glimpse of what the future will be with children who can wipe their own butts, get their own drink of water, and tie on their own dress-up clothes.

Maybe I’ll make it through without Ma’s strict cleaning schedule.  Or maybe that wouldn’t help anyway.  After all, Ma only had one small room to keep clean and could fit all of the family’s possessions in a covered wagon.  Besides, for all we know, she may have been just as exasperated as I am, and that sentiment simply isn’t captured in the books because it was written by her child.

Regardless, I’m hanging onto hope that one day my three daughters and I will happily knit together by the fire. In the meantime, to give myself permission to do chores, I may paint across my kitchen wall: Clear counters keep me calm. 

On this last Sunday before it all starts up again, I decided it was a pie-for-breakfast kind of day. So as soon as the kids excused themselves from the table and settled in with a bunch of puzzles by the fire, I served myself a piece of spicy pumpkin pie. We didn’t end up having pumpkin pie on Christmas because someone forgot to tell someone else to buy evaporated milk, so I’ve been waiting for the right moment to make it. Of course any old day is a good day for pie, but the end of winter break – a lovely two weeks of lazy mornings, no school drop-offs or pick-ups, and pjs all day – seemed like just right time. So pumpkin pie for breakfast it was.

One by one the girls noticed the pie and migrated back to the table for a sliver of their own, and Dave and I gave in to “second coffee”, which we try to limit to special occasions. Like pie-for-breakfast day.

It was a lovely, peaceful morning with perfect children and a perfect breakfast.

But in the interest of keeping it real, I should report that our lovely, peaceful morning of perfect children and perfect breakfast dissolved by about 9:30am, before we had even finished second-coffee. Little sister stealing big sister’s puzzle pieces, big sister excluding middle sister, middle sister taking over big sister’s space, flying puzzle pieces and tears…  I guess it was just what we parents needed to ramp up our energy and face the end of break. I would even say we are now looking forward to the school routine tomorrow.

On the plus side, their bickering gave me the long-awaited opportunity to implement the “We get along” shirt (thanks for the idea, Jenn!). The punishment is that they have to wear the shirt for as long as it takes for them to figure out how to have fun together. I wouldn’t say it was a huge success, but it did stop puzzle pieces from flying.

Happy back to school!