Hired Help

At six, chores are sort of like homework.  Fun, exciting, and a hallmark of being grown up.   Sure, Sophia hates to pick up her toys like every other child on the planet.  But tell her that she has a chore to do and she jumps up with enthusiasm.  Give her a whole list of chores, and she’s on it.  If I start cleaning, she practically begs me to join in.

I’m not being facetious.  She really does want to help.

And I wanted her to help too.  What got in the way?  My goddamn perfectionism.  Allowing her to mop the kitchen floor nearly drove me insane.

“Soph, you want to start off in the back and work your way out of the room.” 

“Let me do it my way, Mom.”

“Honey, your way is going to get this side of the floor all wet and then you won’t be able to get to the other side without walking all over the clean part.” 

“Okay, okay.  Like this?”

“Yes, only take a look where you’re mopping.  You missed a huge spot right there.” 

She gave the area a brief swabbing, still missing a large swathe.

“Here, let me show you.” 

“No I want to do it!”

“And I want you to, but I want to show you how first.”

“I already know how!”   I wrestled the mop from her, and demonstrated.

“Hey!  You’re doing the whole thing!  Let me have a turn.” 

“There is plenty more to do,” I assured her.  I rinsed the mop and handed it over.

She ran the mom back and forth over the area I had just mopped.  Within a few minutes she stopped.

“What’s the matter?”

“I’m tired.  Can I go read now?”  I’m not sure which she found more exhausting—the mopping, or me standing over her, making unwelcome suggestions.

Perhaps it wasn’t merely a matter of my impossible standards.  Maybe I was selecting the wrong tasks.   I saw a list of “age-appropriate chores,” on the Motherlode, the New York Times parenting blog, a few days ago, originally posted on Maria Montessori’s posthumous Facebook page:

Yes.  She could definitely be doing more, I concluded.  Starting now.  I was not going to raise an entitled, dependent, shiftless post-millennial who leaves a path of Legos and drawings of penguins in her wake.  

So at breakfast, I proposed that we come up with a list of weekly chores that she would be expected to perform.

Sophie loved the idea.  “Okay, mom!” she said, springing from her seat.  Thirty seconds later, she had fetched me a blueberry-scented marker and a sheet of paper from my printer. 

“Write at the top, ‘Sophie’s Chores,’” she instructed. 

I did, and then paused, the marker hovering over the paper and the sickening smell of artificial blueberries filling the air, “How many chores do you think you should do, each week, Soph?”

“Seven.  Write the numbers one to seven.”  Seven seemed like a lot to me, but who am I to squash such ambition?  Together, we composed the following list:

1. Bring my dishes to the sink.
2. After school, put my things away.
3.  Fold my laundry, take the basket upstairs and put my clothes away
4. Set the table.
5. Dry the pots and pans.
6. If I play with something, I put it away.
7. Make my bed.

“Can I get started on it right now?” Sophie asked eagerly.  “I’ll go make my bed.  Will you come with me to watch?”

“Hold up a sec, Soph.  We have to discuss the terms of the agreement.”  I don’t like to dumb it down. 

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean, if you’re going to do all this work for us, I think that you should receive compensation.  Money.  An allowance.   That way, if there’s something that you’d really like to have, you can save your money and buy it yourself.” 

Now, I know that it’s generally not a good idea to reward children for things they are already intrinsically motivated to do.  But I wasn’t thinking of it in terms of an incentive.  I’d really like for her to start to learn the value of a dollar and the virtue of saving. 

But what to pay her?  A quarter was my first thought.  She has no sense of value yet. She would be pleased to earn this and watch her shiny coins pile up.  But then I thought about how very long it would take to actually be able to buy anything.  Even a pack of gum is a $1.50.  Kevin and I settled on a dollar.  If she did everything she agreed to do.  Payable on Sunday. 

As a child, my own allowance was sporadically paid.  I’m not sure if this was because I was an entitled, dependent, shiftless Generation Xer who didn’t hold up her end of the bargain (likely, I can recall trying to duck out of my duties to clear the table and rake the lawn, claiming stomach aches and allergies) or because my parents simply forgot to pony up (equally as likely).  So, I knew I would have to be on it, if this was to work…and continue to work over time.

So would she.  Well, it’s only day one, but Sophie has been holding up her end of the bargain.  Today she joyfully:

• Took her dishes to the sink
• Made her bed
• Folded her laundry, took it upstairs and put it away
• Took out the compost
• Put away her trains when she was done playing with them.  Ditto for Twister.
• And began to set the table of her own volition, before we told her that we were going out to dinner.

I have no illusions that she can keep up this pace.  But it was a banner day.  Tonight, as I tucked her in to her freshly made bed and she promised, “I’ll make it as soon as I get up in the morning, Mommy.” 

“You did good today, kid.”  I told her, and together, we took inventory of her hard work. 

“I think you did about a week’s worth in one day.  Tomorrow’s Sunday.  You’ll get your first dollar.”  Immediacy is key.

Her face brightened.  “Then I’ll give some of it to you, Mom.” 

“Huh?”

“I’ll share it with you.  Because you helped me.” 

Letting Go

Sophia just told me that she wanted to go to the pool, which—in my mind—justifies the fact that I am holding her down and vigorously applying sunscreen to her tender baby flesh. 

New skin is perfect.  Smooth, poreless, incredibly soft.  I would stroke my child all day long if she let me. 

It is my duty to protect this skin!

I am half sitting on her, one hand gripping her arm, the other smearing white sticky goo up and down it, intent on my mission, deaf to her protests. 

Then, from beneath me she cries.  “I AM NOT A TOY.  I AM A PERSON.  STOP TREATING ME LIKE A TOY!”

Is this a ploy?  Is she trying to arouse my guilt for trying to shield her from the searing North Jersey sun?  Or could this be how she feels?  Manipulated, like a doll, as if she is not real.  As if I have no respect for her feelings.  Her humanity. 

I feel sick.  I let go of her. 

She is still livid with the injustice.  Clawing at me.  Hitting me. 

Unfortunately, we are not alone.  I have an audience.  My friend Pam is there, along with some of the other parents and kids who share our cabin at camp. 

Pam says calmly, “What do you usually do?”

“Give her a time out until she calms down, but how do I do that here…?”  Here, at camp where no space is private.  Pam acts swiftly, picking Sophie up and depositing her into an adjacent room full of bunk beds.  It’s where the adult campers with disabilities have been sleeping.  But right now it is empty.  As Pam closes the door I hear the thud of Sophie’s sandal against it.  Pam chuckles. 

This is the second tantrum Pam has witnessed.  The first was in the shower, when I tried to wash Sophia the other night.  As I soaped her up, she squirmed away, as slick and slippery as an eel.  Pam held her and told me, “You know, you’re much too thorough.”

It’s true.  Whether I am washing Sophia’s body, brushing her teeth, wiping her butt, combing her hair, or applying sunscreen, I make sure I get every nook and cranny.  It feels obsessive as I’m doing it, but I can’t bear the thought of missing a spot.  It rises from my gnawing perfectionism.  From the fear that I might be remiss as a mother—any pimple, cavity, snarl or sunburn evidence of my failure. 

But the truth hurts.  I couldn’t hear her.  Not then, in the moment, frustrated and overwrought.  “Can we talk about this later?”  I asked her, not kindly.  In that moment, I just wanted her help, her extra hands.  The patience every mother has for a child that is not her own—not her advice.  Pam got it.  She gave me what I needed.  We got through it.

And now, my daughter is raging in the other room, and I am ready to listen.  I need another pair of eyes.  An objective, unemotional view.  Wisdom from someone who has been there. 

She tells me that she used to fight every battle, until it was killing her.  She tells me how she has learned to let things go.  I’m listening.  I believe her.  I have known her to be every bit as hardcore and unyielding as I am. 

She suggests that I let Sophia do more on her own. 

You mean, give up control?  Let a four-year-old wash herself?  Brush her teeth?  Comb her hair?  I have tried to let Sophia do some of these things, with less than stellar results. 

I would have to be okay with that.  I try it on.  I feel the muscles in my arms and chest tighten with resistance. 

Then I hear a voice inside my head telling me to question anything I hold dear. 

“Okay.”  I tell Pam, “Thank you.”  She hugs me.  We check on Sophia.  She has fallen asleep.  I have not learned the lesson my broken foot was meant to teach me. 

She was exhausted. 

When we get home, I give Sophia a bath.  I hand her a washcloth and tell her that we’re going to try something different.  This time, she’s going wash herself, and I am going to help.  She likes the idea, proudly soaping her chest and legs—letting me get the hard-to-reach places, like her back.  She still dilly-dallies.  She still resists me.  But it’s less combative, more collaborative.

And now, a few weeks later, I realize that Sophia has not asked me—not even once—to wipe her butt after using the toilet. 

More importantly, I haven’t offered. 

Preventing Perfection

Sophia said something the other morning that freaked me out. 

Kevin had been out of town for a couple of days, and we were having a leisurely morning.  She woke me with a stack of books, asking if we could snuggle and read them together.

Absolutely.

Gradually we had dragged ourselves out of bed and I was puttering around the room, putting laundry away that had been sitting in a basket for about a week.  Sophie was doing gymnastics on my mattress. 

“Watch this, Mommy!  Are you watching me?  Watch me!”  She was flat on her back.

“I’m watching, I’m watching.”  I say, turning from search in the closet for an empty hanger.

Sophie arches up into a bridge.  I am impressed.  I didn’t know she could do it.

“Isn’t it a perfect bridge?” 

Perfect.  I am fairly certain it is the first time I have heard her use this word.  And it jumps out of the sentence at me, as if she had just cursed. 

Perfect is a concept that tortures me.  I walk around with this theoretical, aspirational, physically impossible sense of how things should be, and beat myself up when I fall short of it.  The mantle of perfection makes it impossible to enjoy the pretty good.  It robs me of satisfaction. 

I love reading stories of people who were able to suddenly “let go” of their perfectionism, or at least some glossy image of who they think they should be.  People like Anna Quindalen, who in her 1999 commencement speech that became the book, Being Perfect, urged the young grads of Mount Holyoke to “Give up the nonsensical and punishing quest for perfection that dogs too many of us through too much of our lives. It is a quest that causes us to doubt and denigrate ourselves, our true selves, our quirks and foibles and great leaps into the unknown….” 

How I envy Anna.  Sure, I have moments, periods even, where I am happy with things-as-they-are.  But then I slip back into my perfectionistic ways, and the happiness evaporates.  I know there is a “better” way to be, I just can’t be it.  I’m hoping that it is a developmental leap one finally makes in the latter third of one’s life.  Just as the sudden the way I acquired object permanence in infancy, one day I’ll wake up and embraced my flawed self. 

Please let that be the case.

But even if it is too late for me, if I am already too far gone, perhaps I can prevent perfectionism in my daughter.  Maybe it is possible to teach her that the goal is not a flawless performance, but the pride and the joy in the doing. 

It is worth a try.

I smile at Sophia, who is thrilled with what she has discovered her body can do, and I tell her.  “Sophia, perfect is such a silly word.  There’s no such thing as perfect.  Let’s think of a better word to describe your bridge.  Something that says how proud you are of it.”

“How about awesome?”

Yes, I think, that’s perfect.  

Reality Check

Last night a well-meaning person, okay, my therapist, not-so-gently pointed out to me as I sobbed about Sophia’s disorderly eating:

“You’re obsessed with having the perfect child.”

“That isn’t quite right,” I corrected him (something I do frequently), “that would put undue stress on Sophie. I’m obsessed with creating the perfect childhood. That just places the undue stress on me.”

Cognitively, I know there is no such thing—that I’ve set up an impossible ideal and an impossible task for myself. And, in setting up this impossible ideal, I’m stressing myself out, which fosters anxiety in Sophie and ultimately takes us further and further away from what I’m seeking to achieve.

Case in point: Dinner last night.

Just a day before, my babysitter had wild success in coaxing Sophia to eat a nice sized portion of the calzone I had made. So, anticipating an easy dinner, I set the calzone before us, poured myself a glass of wine, and cut off a tiny bite for her to chew. The first two pieces went in fairly easy. The third was rejected outright.

“No.” Sophia announced as she held out the nibble, unclenched her fist, and it dropped in slow motion to the floor. I took a swig of the wine and grabbed her pretty kitties book. “This pretty kitty has long fluffy hair,” I read, and tried to pop another bite into her mouth.

Sophie spit it out, narrowed her eyes and repeated, “NO!”

“C’mon, Sophia,” I reasoned, “you loved it just the other day. It’s the same thing.” I placed a bite in her hand, for her to feed herself

“NooOoo.” This time the word had three syllables, the second, high pitched. Again, she chucked the food on the floor.

“Oh for heaven’s sakes, Sophia.” (My attempt at not swearing.) I sighed, exasperated and narrowed my eyes. “It’s either this or yogurt. What’s it gonna be?”

Sophia returned my fierce gaze. “DOWN!” Now I’m sorry, but three bites does not a meal make. And I had just read in my weekly parenting update that Sophia should be eating 40 calories for every inch of height. That meant 1160 calories to fuel all 29 inches of her. So, calculating that she had eaten a maximum of 15 calories, I started to freak out.

“I’m going to the bathroom!” I announced, and removed myself from the situation, to regain some composure. I took a couple deep breaths, reminded myself that this was one meal, in one day, of a lifetime of meals.

Okay. I’m going back in.

“What did you decide, Sophia?”

“Down!”

“Down is not an option.” I offered the calzone one more time. It joined the other bits surrounding her chair. “Okay…yogurt it is.” And I fed her the same meal that I feed her every night, plain full-fat organic yogurt, two tablespoons of flaxseed, and fruit. Total calorie count: 215.

I saw the pediatrician in a little bubble over Sophia’s head, chastising me, “too healthy. More fats. Too healthy.”

***********************************************************************************

My friend Stacey and I are enjoying a leisurely stroll along the Cooper River, pushing our respective strollers, her baby fast asleep, mine wide awake. I’m sharing my concerns about Sophia’s eating habits and my undying commitment to feeding her a nutritious diet, when, a man walks toward us, pushing a tricked-out stroller, his toddler obscured by a snack tray laden with Wendy’s: hamburger, fries, and what looks mysteriously like soda. After he passes, I give Stacey “the eye.” My judgmental, disapproving eye.

“Look, “Stacey says to me. “Maybe there’s a middle ground. I mean, there are some parents out there giving their kids Mountain Dew and Snicker bars for a snack. You’re at the other end of the continuum. A little yogurt with fruity gel or a nutrition bar with a little sugar might not be so bad.”

As she talks, I feel ridiculous. Of course, she’s right. And who am I kidding? I’m ADDICTED to sugar. I need at least one sweet a day. Preferably chocolate. Preferably dark.

Yes. I am a hypocrite. I know that’s not at all what Stacey was pointing out. She was simply saying, everything in moderation. But it’s true.

When I was pregnant, I held my breath when I passed a smoker. I didn’t have a single sip of wine. I exercised everyday. I wanted to be perfect host. To give her the very best start. And now that she’s here, I feel an overwhelming sense of duty to make sure she is as healthy and happy as can be.

But I still experience a little thrill when I hear the music from ice cream truck wafting down the street. I haven’t forgotten the joy of my first taste of chocolate chip pancakes at IHOP. And don’t even get me started on Halloween. We’d stay out long after people had turned off their porch lights ringing bells and knocking on doors in hopes of extracting one more bar of candy from our neighbors.

The truth of the matter is, being as happy as you can be takes a little sugar. And a little fat. And even a little processed food

Perhaps I am equating perfect with happy. Perhaps perfect and happy are not the same thing. And perhaps, just perhaps, happy is the goal. That does seem more attainable.