Tell them why:
Tell them why:
THE FULL PLATE project was created in response to my first born when he hit the ripe age of 10 and started complaining that his chores were “unfair” and that he “had too much to do.” (Which, of course, was completely absurd, but there was no way to get through to him around this, until…
THE FULL PLATE project: after which he NEVER complained again.
In fact, he was actually HAPPY about his small share of chores; okay, maybe not happy, but at least satisfied because he didn’t want to have to face the reality (and potential consequences) of The Full Plate project again.
Another bonus was that this activity was a wakeup call for my husband, who realized that he wasn’t the only one “doing everything.”
And lastly, as a mom, The Full Plate project provided a sense of validation and recognition for ALL I did (and do) behind the scenes of home and family life.
The best part is that no one knew what hit them. When the night came for The Full Plate family activity (Step II of the three-part project), I made their favorite dinner and even served dessert…
…And then I put out 4 clean plates and a bunch of what look liked fortune cookie strips, and life as they previously perceived it changed…
Now, all I have to do is mention The Full Plate project and everyone gets moving on their share of the household work.
Does this sound like something you’d like to try with your family?
Find out about the next group of moms tackling this challenge as we “gather” in a private FB group (with password access to the three-part project on this site) with flexible online participation according to your schedule.
Contact me with questions or to inquire about joining the next group.
Next group launching with the New Moon of the New Year.
Current rate: $33.33.
Sign up with a friend; combo rate: $55.55
(Private/non-group online facilitation available at: $77.77-111.11)
More writing on chores:
We were taken aback by this deep appreciation for our small world given his desperation to escape it a year earlier, and we mistook this as a leap in maturity rather than a deep disappointment in his experience at college and in himself there.
His new plan is to take a semester’s leave and to volunteer in his field (International and Community Development) to help bring the excrutiating static classroom experience to life; and to shed light on how to move through with passion and meaning and integrity.
With this aim, he has been working with a non-profit organization in Central America to find a good fit. They have decided on a women’s artisan cooperative in Costa Rica in the same town that he visited with his Junior High class in what seems like another lifetime ago.
He leaves in two weeks.
As parents, we’re not sure about our role; which has been increasingly true for a least a couple of years now.
I’m beginning to understanding that parenting, all of it, is not so much a nest as it is a reverse toll booth or a turnstile or one of those revolving doors through which others move from the outside to the inside to the outside again.
In this analogy, I find it important to distinguish the role from myself. This distinction seems to have growing relevance as our children become adults.
I want to communicate support and encouragement without robbing initiative and autonomy, and that is a tall order.
Breath has become one of my greatest tools. And silence. And listening.
The pensive infant with the swipe of dark bangs and the blackbutton eyes of a Raggedy Andy doll. The placid baby with the yellow ringlets and the high piping voice. The sturdy toddler with the lower lip that curled into an apostrophe above her chin. ALL MY BABIES are gone now.
I say this not in sorrow but in disbelief. I take great satisfaction in what I have today: three almost-adults, two taller than I am, one closing in fast. Three people who read the same books I do and have learned not to be afraid of disagreeing with me in their opinion of them, who sometimes tell vulgar jokes that make me laugh until I choke and cry, who need razor blades and shower gel and privacy, who want to keep their doors closed more than I like.
Who, miraculously, go to the bathroom, zip up their jackets and move food from plate to mouth all by themselves. Like the trick soap I bought for the bathroom with a rubber ducky at its center, the baby is buried deep within each, barely discernible except through the unreliable haze of the past.
Everything in all the books I once pored over is finished for me now. Penelope Leach., T. Berry Brazelton., Dr. Spock. The ones on sibling rivalry and sleeping through the night and early-childhood education, all grown obsolete.
Along with Goodnight Moon and Where the Wild Things Are, they are battered, spotted, well used. But I suspect that if you flipped the pages dust would rise like memories.
What those books taught me, finally, and what the women on the playground taught me, and the well-meaning relations — what they taught me was that they couldn’t really teach me very much at all. Raising children is presented at first as a true-false test, then becomes multiple choice, until finally, far along, you realize that it is an endless essay. No one knows anything. One child responds well to positive reinforcement, another can be managed only with a stern voice and a timeout. One boy is toilet trained at 3, his brother at 2.
When my first child was born, parents were told to put baby to bed on his belly so that he would not choke on his own spit-up. By the time my last arrived, babies were put down on their backs because of research on sudden infant death syndrome. To a new parent this ever-shifting certainty is terrifying, and then soothing.
Eventually you must learn to trust yourself. Eventually the research will follow.
I remember 15 years ago poring over one of Dr. Brazelton’s wonderful books on child development, in which he describes three different sorts of infants: average, quiet, and active. I was looking for a sub-quiet codicil for an 18-month-old who did not walk. Was there something wrong with his fat little legs? Was there something wrong with his tiny little mind? Was he developmentally delayed, physically challenged? Was I insane? Last year he went to China. Next year he goes to college. He can talk just fine. He can walk,too.
Every part of raising children is humbling, too. Believe me, mistakes were made. They have all been enshrined in the Remember-When-Mom-Did Hall of Fame. The outbursts, the temper tantrums, the bad language, mine, not theirs. The times the baby fell off the bed. The times I arrived late for preschool pickup. The nightmare sleepover. The horrible summer camp. The day when the youngest came barreling out of the classroom with a 98 on her geography test, and I responded, What did you get wrong? (She insisted I include that.) The time I ordered food at the McDonald’s drive-through speaker and then drove away without picking it up from the window. (They all insisted I include that.) I did not allow them to watch the Simpsons for the first two seasons.
What was I thinking?
But the biggest mistake I made is the one that most of us make while doing this. I did not live in the moment enough. This is particularly clear now that the moment is gone, captured only in photographs. There is one picture of the three of them sitting in the grass on a quilt in the shadow of the swing set on a summer day, ages 6, 4 and 1. And I wish I could remember what we ate, and what we talked about, and how they sounded, and how they looked when they slept that night. I wish I had not been in such a hurry to get on to the next thing: dinner, bath, book, bed. I wish I had treasured the doing a little more and the getting it done a little less.
Even today I’m not sure what worked and what didn’t, what was me and what was simply life. When they were very small, I suppose I thought someday they would become who they were because of what I’d done. Now I suspect they simply grew into their true selves because they demanded in a thousand ways that I back off and let them be.
The books said to be relaxed and I was often tense, matter-of-fact and I was sometimes over the top. And look how it all turned out. I wound up with the three people I like best in the world, who have done more than anyone to excavate my essential humanity. That’s what the books never told me. I was bound and determined to learn from the experts.
It just took me a while to figure out who the experts were.
(On Being Mom, by Anna Quindlen)
she had been narrating their lives for so long
Thirteen is… training-wheels adolescence. Fourteen is hardcore, biker adolescence.
Parenting a teenager is a lot like New England Weather… Everything is going along nicely… the sky is clear, the birds are singing, the world is right-side up, and then BANG! A storm rolls in. Thunder. Lightning.
Suddenly you’re without power.
Maybe all your connections are zapped.
“Where did that come from!” someone says.
And you say something like: “Polar Vortex.”
Or in our case, “FOURTEEN!”
We’ve arrived. Just yesterday. And as if on cue, the thunder rolled in, the lightning struck, and I was ready to quit. Give up. Move out.
It took all the maturity and self-restraint cultivated over the past 50 years not to put the power back in my hands. To let my heart lie there, trampled upon, without striking back.
And it took all the self-compassion cultivated since becoming someone’s mother, to walk away, to lick my own wounds, without taking any of it too personally.
There is a scene from a favorite movie of mine: Spanglish. With Adam Sandler. Do you know it? Remember what he says when he finds out that his wife has betrayed him? Something about hearing the universe crack…
My universe, as a mother, cracked twice this week. Once with each of my offspring. And I have to admit that I could barely summon much affection for either of them afterward.
Maybe they deserve it. Maybe I’m being melodramatic. Maybe THIS is parenthood. Or maybe this crack is an opportunity for something new.
I’m on the lookout for what that is. For how it will shape me. And reshape our lives together.
But right now?
And he’s come close. But I’ve remained. His mother. Taller. By a lot. And then a little. And a little less. And a little less than that.
I saw it coming…
He’s been home sick. On the couch. His neck. His chest. Some how broadening, right there, in front of me. His back, his silhouette, becoming a man’s, swiping the child inside.
This morning I sat in the kitchen, and he passed me, noticing… something.
“You look small,” he said. “Stand up so that I don’t feel so tall.”
And I did.
And then, we did, what we’ve done, all year long.
Stood back to back.
Called for someone to come compare us.
It was his older brother who broke the news. We held our breaths. He chided his younger brother to stop tilting his head to make himself taller. And then he spoke the words that I’ve been waiting for. Been resisting. Known would come.
“Aidan is taller.”
A wide grin broke across my 13 year old’s face.
I took a seat.
(Tears sprung to my eyes.)