We've Moved!

Soooo .... obviously I haven't posted in a while.
With new jobs, new schedules, growing boys, etc., posting long detailed blogs just wasn't working.
I'm hoping I can make some magic work in 140 characters or less -- now you can follow Tarababble on Twitter @Tarababble.
Woo hoo!

My Mom

Henry has taken lately to calling me "my mom."

"Come and play, my mom!"

"Can I have a jelly bean, my mom?"

"I'll be Yoda, and you be Obi-Wan Kenobi, my mom." (We've also been very into Star Wars lately.)

At first I thought the new moniker was a sign of possession -- this is my mom. But it's not how he says it. He says it the same way an adult would when talking about his or her mother: "Oh, my mom is coming for the weekend."

I think, maybe, being "my mom" is a result of Henry starting to have a life separate enough from me that he talks about me to other people -- to his preschool classmates, to his grandparents, to his little buddies. He refers to me when I'm not around.

I've decided I like being "my mom" as opposed to "my mom." I like that I am "my mom" casually and warmly and naturally, because I really hope that's how he talks about me when he grows up, too. I want teenager Henry to smile when he talks about hanging out with "my mom," and 20-something Henry to tell his roommates and girlfriends how awesome "my mom" is. And dangit, when that kid has kids, I'd better hear the sentence "My mom will come and help out for a couple weeks." (Or a couple months. Not to be pushy, distant-future in-laws.)

My mom, my brother, Gandalf, and me

I want that kind of relationship for my sake, but I want it for him, too. I get to talk about my mom like that, and I'm glad I do.

My mom is amazing, no questions asked. Oh, I know she wasn't always perfect when I was a kid, but only because she's confessed to such terrible slights as accidentally impaling me with a diaper pin once. If we're going off my memory alone, my mom is strictly awesome.

My mom spent her entire 22nd birthday in labor with me -- though, because I was stubborn from day one, I held out until 2 a.m. the day after, so we don't share a birthday.

My mom started college when my brother and I were toddlers, juggling her class schedule with my dad's so they could be home with us. I remember going to class with her and coloring while she took her tests. She graduated with a perfect 4.0.

My mom chaperoned a field trip to Seattle when I was in seventh grade. We were supposed to go to the art museum one afternoon, and even though my mom loves museums and knew it would be educational for us, she snuck my friends and me away from the pack and took us to Planet Hollywood for strawberry milkshakes, because we were 12 and it's exactly what we wanted.

My mom going fishing at Big Creek

My mom has been a teacher for almost 20 years, and even when she talks about how tiring and frustrating her job can be, she always circles back to how much she loves her kids, and I've never met a kid who didn't love her.

My mom can play "Amazing Grace" on the flute more beautifully than anyone on earth. My mom can spend an entire day fishing from a lawn chair on a dock even if she hardly catches a thing. My mom can recite Emily Dickinson poems.  My mom spent last weekend coaxing 10 baby ducklings from their eggs, checking on them in her classroom every few hours because she couldn't stop thinking about them.

I remember back in our childbirth class when I was pregnant with Henry, we went around and talked about who we wanted in the birthing room with us. I was the only person who said "my mom," and I realized then how blessed I am.

My mom has always trusted me, always supported me, always been willing to give me advice and help, always listened when I told her I wanted to do things on my own. She let me mess up when I needed to, and though we rarely argued she set me straight when I needed to be. (For the record: You were right about all those times you made me dress nicely for an important event, Mom. Sorry about that.)

My mom, aka Gramma, and little Henry

My mom was amazing when I was a kid. But she's amazing now, too. I'm closer with her now than I ever was, and I'm learning more and more all the time that I love her as a mother and just in general, as a person.

Happy Mother's Day, my mom.

(And happy Mother's Day to the rest of you, too. I've got to run -- got a date with a cheeseburger. If you'd like to stick around, you can read the previous post in the Mother's Day series here.)

The Problem With Other Mothers

For the past few years, my Mother's Day gift has been a simple tradition: a beer and a bacon cheeseburger at a local pub.

Mom at Work

This year, I'm adding a little more -- I want my lunch alone. All alone. And I want to read while I eat. And if anyone interrupts me to do anything other than refill my water or ask if I want dessert (and I will), we will have words.

With a successful Easter series (start here and work backward if you haven't read it) behind us, I'd like to welcome you, dear Babblists, to the Mothers' Day series.

We begin with a thought launched in my mind by two articles posted on Facebook today by two of my beloved Mom-Friends -- people  I met through our mutual state of having young children, but I love for more than their ability to have kids that entertain my kids.

The first is a brief piece by author Erica Jong, posted in a debate about attachment parenting on the New York Times website. The second is a blog post by April Perry on the Power of Moms site.

The posts are unrelated and the main topics are quite different, but both address a similar problem: the habit of mothers to constantly compare themselves to other mothers, and to certain standards of parenting that may or may not actually exist.

In every city, in every social circle, and I have no doubt in every culture, there is a magical Perfect Mother hanging around, and every other mother simultaneously hates her and wants to be her. I love that both of these articles are in essence asking moms to knock off trying to be perfect.

"We all parent the best we can," Jong writes. "Being human, we’re ambivalent. We want perfection for our babies, but we also need sleep."

And says Perry, in harmony, "Whatever it is we feel we are lacking, can we collectively decide–as deliberate mothers–that we are not going to sit around feeling discouraged about all the things we’re not?"

These messages are so good, and so important. I need to hear them all the time. I'm not perfect, and I remind myself often that it's OK. I don't even do some of the things I'd like to for my boys, like making all of Little Dan's baby food, because I happen to like sleep and reading more. That's OK too.

But here's where I'm going to twist this a little farther: As much as it's reassuring to be told I'm not perfect, it's funny how fast being imperfect turns into a matter of pride.

Example: My boys live in hand-me-downs, yard sale scores, consignment store finds, and clearance-rack specials. New, full-price clothes are gift territory only. I'm quite content with this. I grew up in a similar manner, and I think it's good for people and the environment to re-use and recycle clothing. I also get a lovely little endorphin rush from getting a good deal. (Got these $56 shoes in like-new condition for Henry for $17. Continuing to brag about it. Go. Me.)

I've embraced the fact that my kids don't wear the latest styles, that all their name-brands are second hand, that one pair of shoes that fit is good and two pairs is awesome. And that's great. But ...

I know a mother whose kids who are always in the latest styles, in brands so posh I've never heard of them. They own multiple pairs of dress shoes. And I can't guess how many times I've caught myself observing them, muffling an eye roll, and thinking, "Ugh, how wasteful and shallow."

I'm pretty good at not wanting to be the Perfect Mother. But I have a problem not hating her.

This is the other side of the story that we've got to be telling to each other, moms (and dads, and grandparents, and anyone with little children they love). We're all doing this differently. We have different tastes and values and habits, and different ways of expressing them. Our incomes and situations force us into certain decisions and those situations aren't always readily apparent to the outside eye. We all have different standards of perfection, basically.

It's important to forgive ourselves for the things we don't do, and to embrace the way we do them. But it's also important to forgive all the other moms for doing it differently.

There is room, of course, for encouraging habits I think are good, for supporting positive changes of views and actions. But I have to quit disguising judgement of others beneath acceptance of myself.

I'm working on improving my attitude. I don't wear Danny around, but I need to tell the babywearing moms that they're awesome, too. I don't cloth diaper, but I need to express my admiration for the laundry-loving moms who do. I work a little and stay home a lot, but I know and love some women who have to work, some who want to work, and some who devote 100 percent of their time to the running of their homes, and I need to tell them all that they're important and interesting and good at what they do. And I need to tell the mom of those dressed-up kids how adorable her kids are in their spiffy outfits, because they really are adorable, and I can tell she loves putting together their adorableness.

Step one of ending the ridiculous Mommy Wars is loving ourselves. But it's empty without loving each other.

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Happy Mothers' Day to all you mothers and all you who love a mother. Stop by again as the series continues ...

Friday Flashback: Visitors!

I've said before that high school wasn't exactly my favorite thing. Now, I'm wary of anyone who calls the awkward social teenage times the "best years" -- but now that it's been nine years since I graduated, it's easier to enjoy the good memories and forget about all the angst. (Though sometimes I laugh at the angst. Ha, ha. Angst.)

The Roberts family got a delightful blast from the high-school past last week: my friend Natalie stopped by for a few days ... from Switzerland!

Natalie was an exchange student my senior year of high school. We played soccer together on a goofy co-ed rec-league team, and hit it off pretty quickly. She was absorbed into my group of quirky, nerdy, artsy friends, and some of my best memories of that year include her.

Natalie (as Pippi Longstocking), Nina (as Pocahontas)
and me (as "Very Cold," because it's North Idaho), Halloween 2002.
Yes, we trick-or-treated. Yes, it was awesome.

We'd last seen each other seven years ago at a wedding. That was a brief visit -- short enough that no one can seem to remember if Tim was even there -- so getting to spend two days with her was pretty great. She also brought along her former host-sister Krista, who was a quiet eighth-grader last time I saw her and has transformed into a sweet, hipster-y Seattleite. (Also along for the trip: Krista's dog Wayne, who quickly became Henry's new best friend.)

We got a little nostalgic for senior year, naturally, and cataloged where all our old friends are (made way easier by Facebook, though we still thought up a few people lost to time), but the best part of the visit was figuring out that we're still friends now.

Our lives have taken different trajectories -- in particular that I married and had children young, which is an oddity in Switzerland -- but our personalities still mesh. She was thrilled to meet my boys, I was thrilled to hear of her world travels and her job teaching elementary school.  It was good catching up on old times, and good getting to know each other as adults, as our conversation wandered to topics of culture and relationships and politics that just hadn't been on our radar as kids.

We walked around town and played with the kids and went to a hole-in-the-wall bar and a cool coffeeshop and ate Swiss chocolate and enormous American hamburgers. It was just good to hang out again, really.

Now I've just got to figure out a way to get to Switzerland!

(Here are just a few photos from the weekend -- Henry was not interested in sitting still, and poor Danny had an ear infection and spent most of the time sleeping feverishly. And I'm just terrible at taking pictures. ... Argh.)

Looking for worms

Henry and Wayne

If Henry lets us actually take a picture, he often has to pose with his light saber

I'm Still Here!

Greetings, Babblists!

Just dropping this quick note to say that Tarababble still exists, though posts have been rare lately. I've been busy keeping up with other projects, playing outside with Henry and Little Dan, and resting my carpal-tunnel-tastic wrist while watching endless episodes of "Bones" and "Parks and Recreation." (Educational TV, you know.)

But here's what you have to look forward to in the coming weeks when I can squish in some blog time:

- The promised followup to the parental leave post about benefits for stay-at-home parents. In light of the popularity of the parental leave topic -- and the importance of it -- it will likely come up more in general.

- Some pictures and stories from the awesome visit we just had from a old friend -- from Switzerland!

- A little Friday Flashback reminiscing about events five years ago, when I graduated from college and embarked on my brief daily newspaper career.

- Some thoughts on hope (been writing this one in my head and will type it someday!)

- And, if you ask nicely enough, more terrible poetry ...

Thanks for sticking with me, folks! Now get off your computer and go play in the sun.

Friday Flashback: Bowlerama

Today on Friday Flashback, we zip alllll the way back to Tuesday, upon which I experienced one of the triumphs of my adult life: finally winning Mystery Oldie of the Day on the radio.

With my mongoose-like reflexes I dialed in and correctly identified -- with merely a two-second clip ("for-ev-eerrrrr") to guide me -- "Truly, Madly, Deeply," by Savage Garden.

Which is an oldie now, apparently. It's a song that carries for me a truckload of emotional baggage, as it was released 15 years ago, when I was in the seventh grade. Every time I hear it I feel a little nauseated and sweaty and have flashbacks to junior high dances. And no, I don't remember all the words. But Tim does :) .

Anyway -- the prize for being the Mystery Oldie Super Sleuth was a gift certificate for the local bowling alley. Which brings us to: a flashback to yesterday, and Henry's Very First Bowling Trip.

It was awesome.

So have a truly, madly, deeply good weekend, Babblists.

A Mother of a Problem

As much as I am a news junkie, my brain just doesn't have the capacity for too much of the national chatter lately. But last week's Ann Romney vs. Hilary Rosen smackdown over stay-at-home motherhood caught my attention.

Mom and the bosses

I'm not particularly interested in discussing the nuances of stay-at-home parenting work vs. at-the-office work. It's an old debate. But every time the subject of motherhood enters the news, I listen, especially when we're talking about valuing motherhood (and fatherhood) as an important part of our society.

I always hope the conversation trickles toward a topic that is pathetically neglected in the United States: the support we as a nation offer new parents.

Let's play a game: You're a grocery store clerk. You're married to a construction worker. You don't make a ton of money, but you're not desperate economically. You find out you're pregnant. As you prepare for the birth, your plans include what you will do for maternity leave when the baby comes.

If you live in Sweden, your government guarantees 480 days of leave -- that's one year, four-ish months. Two months of it is guaranteed for your husband. You'll receive 80 percent of your regular pay for the first 390 days of your leave, then a flat rate. You start imagining a world of playdates and snuggling, of being there to see your baby smile and crawl and walk, without a thought of how you're going to pay for it.

But Sweden's the usual suspect, right? You pay taxes out the nose for benefits like this, which Americans don't stomach well. But how about a country that's a little closer cousin to the USA?

If you live in the U.K., your employer must offer you up to one year of leave. Your employer will give you 90 percent of your regular pay for the first six weeks and a flat rate for weeks 7-39 (and it doesn't matter that you work for a small business, because public money will reimburse them for most of it). Weeks 40-52 are unpaid, but available. You're relieved to know you're guaranteed a few weeks to recover physically and emotionally from your birth. You and your husband decide you can afford an additional four months off -- enough time to establish breastfeeding, get in some form of sleep routine, and relax with your new little critter before you head back to work.

Doesn't sound too bad, but Britain is still a pretty wealthy country. It can't be so good everywhere, right?

In Serbia you'll get a year off, 100 percent paid by the government, as long as Baby is your first or second kid.

In Poland you get five months, 100 percent paid. In Kazahkstan you'll get a little more than four months, 100 percent paid. In Indonesia you'll get three months, 100 percent paid. In Venezuela you get 18 weeks, 100 percent paid. In Algeria you'll get 14 weeks, 100 percent paid.

In Somalia you get up to 14 weeks at 50 percent of your pay.

In Afghanistan you get 90 days at 100 percent of your pay.

And what about here at home?

In the United States, your employer must give you up to 12 weeks off under the Family and Medical Leave Act*. They can pay you but don't have to, and most don't. The government, federally and in the vast majority of states, offers you nothing.

You save up some vacation time, but it's tricky -- you only have two weeks to work with. You have one week of sick leave and you use it up on morning sickness and doctor's appointments. You scrimp and save, but the birth itself is going to cost so much -- a few thousand dollars, even with your insurance, and you make just enough not to qualify for Medicaid. Your husband can pick up some overtime, but you want him at home to help you navigate new motherhood and bond with his child. Your parents would love to help, but they're not rolling in the dough either.

Your baby is due in just a month, and you still haven't figured out how to get more than four weeks off. What if you have a C-section and have to recover? What if the baby's colicky and you never sleep? Your boss is sweet and supportive, but reminds you that you need your FMLA paperwork in, and soon, so you have to decide.

So what do you do? (Going in the bathroom and crying is an option, but it won't get you far.)

And what do we as Americans do about this? It seems we're pretty content. I can't believe we are.

This isn't a question of taxes or state's rights or big government or whatever. It's a question of what we really value.

We say we value families, that healthy children are the path to a healthy future, that good parenting is the bedrock of our society. The vast majority of people do consider parenthood a job, whether one performed full-time or in conjunction with others.

So if we consider parenting so important -- as Ann Romney said, good ol' Mitt often told her that her job was more important than his -- why are we content to have one of the poorest family leave policies on the planet?

I lean toward supporting a federal  program. For better or worse, the government is the existing system able to pay for and administer policies like family leave. (And yes, I'm saying I'd pay more in taxes to support a federal program. Happily.)

Most countries listed above go the federal route, though some (like Somalia and Afghanistan) put the burden on employers -- which I can't imagine would fly well in our land of small businesses. Heck, if you're really against the government getting involved, we could always create a network of nonprofits that help people afford to stay home with their children.

And if you're  against improving our parental leave policies, tell me why. Let's get this debate started -- because the rest of the world is laughing at us for failing to.



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* - as pointed out by astute reader cadylee, this only applies if you work for a company big enough to have to abide by FMLA at all.
Facts and figures in this blog come from the incredible interactive NPR map found here.