Blog

By Kathy P. Behan

Seems like old times and yet, the circumstances are entirely new. I’m temporarily taking care (see that’s one of the differences) of a baby again and even though she certainly is my child, she’s kinda sorta not, cause she’s my granddaughter. Our bond is irrefutable but it’s more complicated than simply a parent-child connection. For starters, to coin a popular phrase, “I’m not the boss of her,” I follow the dictates of her parents. For another, I partner with Reese’s parents to coordinate her care. I’m not solely responsible for it.

Luckily, my sweet granddaughter, has bright, motivated and well-read parents. As a result, the instructions that I’m given are practical and sensible, so they’re easy to follow. My son and daughter-in-law are doing a fabulous job raising this little one but sometimes, backup is also needed. For instance, when Reese’s folks had to return to work, they decided they would try to find a way to keep her out of daycare for a while, until she was a bit older and flu season had passed. Both maternal and paternal families banded together to make this happen. Aunts, Grandmothers, Grandfathers, even a Great Aunt and a Great-Grandmother signed up to help.

I’m on the first shift in this collective baby-care arrangement. And yeah, it all comes back – the exhaustion, trying to decipher the baby’s needs and cries, attempting to perform multiple tasks one-handed while balancing the baby with the other, the challenge of getting anything done besides caring for the child. It’s tiring and a bit overwhelming.

But then there’s the good part, and truly, there’s much more of that. I have the privilege of taking care of this tiny, precious, cuddly, new little person whose smiles instantly melt my heart. Reese happily waves her arms and kicks her legs like an excited puppy wagging its whole body. Her coos and conversational coughs are simply adorable. And is there anything that comes close to the feeling of a baby snuggling against you.

I’m so grateful to have this special bonding time with my granddaughter. These days will forever be imprinted on my heart. I just hope, in some small way, Reese will be able to remember them too.

Kathy P. Behan, a mother of three, is a nationally published freelance writer specializing in family and health matters.

BY KATHY P. BEHAN

A friend called the other day to tell me her husband had just been sterilized. That brought the count to four of couples I know who’ve recently made this decision. Being a member of the “to be” or “not to be” parents again debating society, I envy these people their certainty.

How do you know when you’ve had enough kids? Actually there are days when I know. Those are the days I’m refereeing arguments and complaints non-stop. That’s when I know two children are too many and I’d be insane to have a third. Then there are those other times when the kids are so adorable, fun and cooperative; the kind of days you had kids for. Or, you check on them while they’re sleeping, nestled cozily in their beds and looking like angels. That’s when I get this tug at my heart, and picture what another child might look, or be like.

I love my boys; they’ve added a dimension to my life I’d never have had without them. But being a parent is awfully hard work, especially when you’re starting from scratch with an infant. I’m not sure I can, or want to handle the extra chaos, organization and maintenance of another child; not to mention the physical, financial and time demands of a third.

On the other hand, my biological clock (don’t you just hate that term) is rapidly winding down, and I don’t want to have a huge age difference between my kids. I really do think I want another child; I’m not ready to call it quits on my baby-making days.

Of course I’m not alone in making this decision. My husband’s in the trenches with me, fighting the same baby battle. However, the odds are he’s heavily leaning toward a new addition. After all, he’s a fabulous father and thrives in his daddy role, and he comes from a large family (10 kids!). But he’s nice (or cowardly) enough to say that since I’ll be the one most profoundly affected by this choice, I should have the ultimate say.

When considering this debate on a purely logical and factual basis, the odds are heavily stacked against number three. Yet these aren’t the only factors to take into account. There’s another element that must be added to the equation, probably the most significant one; my heart. Maybe that’s the only reason that’s truly important. After all, God did give us emotions as well as brains.

In this case maybe the smartest thing you can do is to follow your heart. At least that’s what I’ve decided to do. (Editor’s note: This column was written around a year before the author’s number three, a daughter, was born.)

Kathy P. Behan, a mother of three, is a nationally published freelance writer, specializing in health and family issues.

By Kathy P. Behan

My older sister knew she was in trouble when she found herself serving Dim Sum and shrimp cocktails at her son’s third birthday party. Granted, Mona’s spending habits have always been a bit over the top, but this was excessive, even by her extravagant standards.

Her motivation? Not to dazzle or impress her guests; it was just to do right by her son. You see, Mona suffers from that common affliction known as birthday-throwers’ anxiety. This is a syndrome that strikes even the most secure adults. It takes many forms, depending on the level and severity of the ailment. And frankly, Mona had it bad. In her case, it manifested itself in an overriding impulse to throw money at the party, and maybe then it would go away.

Mona now has two children, and months before their birthdays, the drama begins. “What should I do for Devin’s (or Taylor’s) birthday this year?” she asks anxiously.

“How about playing some games, eating a little cake, and opening a few presents?” I calmly respond.

“What, are you insane! Organize games. Keep all those children entertained. I couldn’t take the pressure!”

The result has been that Mona’s children and their guests have been treated to a dazzling assortment of birthday amusements. She’s rented petting zoos, skating rinks, laser tag arenas, and even amusement parks.

Even though Mona’s anxiety is extreme, almost everyone I know, including me, shares her apprehension to a certain extent. Unlike my sister, most of us can keep a monetary lid on it, but like Mona, our overriding concerns are to do something that the kids will like, keep the house from being destroyed, and, most importantly, get it over with for another year.

These are all worthy ambitions, but there are two complicating factors that muddy, if you will, the birthday waters. The first is that you don’t want to embarrass your child. You want to make sure you’re not planning something that will make him or her the doodie-bomb of the second grade.

What makes birthday party planning even more of a nightmare is the “birthdays past” factor — we’re all haunted by the ghosts of long-ago birthdays that for some reason or another went awry. Most of us have had at least one party that can best be described as a social disaster. There can be many reasons for this, but usually we’re embarrassed in front of friends because of a gaffe committed by one of our well-meaning parents.

Even though this is probably a standard, though painful rite of passage we all must go through, we party-planners live in mortal terror of putting our children through a similar ordeal.

I know that I have been skirting the edges of birthday catastrophes for some time now. Though compared to Mona I’m cool as a cucumber, I have been known to get a bit hyper about my children’s birthday celebrations. This is partly because we always manage to have at least one kid who turns out to be the proverbial party pooper, and ends up trying to dampen everyone else’s enthusiasm. You know the type. They’re the ones who complain throughout the entire birthday. “I hate playing games!” “I hate doing projects!” “I hate this kind of cake!” ”I hate (fill in the blank)!”

These can be very dangerous guests because they may infect the children around them with their uncooperative and ill-mannered behavior. If left unchecked, the result would be birthday party mutiny. I try to handle the situation by staying on top (sometimes literally) of the problem child.

Birthday parties are really fraught with emotional and psychological trauma. No wonder most of us regard them with a degree of dread. Each year I hopefully ask my eldest child who’s now the ripe old age of 11, “Aren’t you too old for a birthday party?”

So far, the answer has always been a resounding, “No!”

That’s why I’m still not off the party hook with any of my children. Of course this means that at least for the foreseeable future, Mona and I will continue to exchange our annual hysterical, poignant and commiserating birthday planning phone calls.

Kathy P. Behan, a mother of three, is a freelance writer specializing in family and health issues.

By Kathy P. Behan

There we were at Burger King, just finishing our meal, when in walked two mothers with four children between them. Granted this place is not known for its ambiance, but it had been reasonably quiet. That soon changed.

The two mothers sat near a window, but set their children up at a table in the middle of the restaurant. The kids, left on their own, immediately shifted their energy from eating, to chasing each other around the table. The chase expanded with the kids running around the whole place, laughing and shrieking while they weaved in between tables and other diners.

The mothers interrupted their meal just long enough to tell their children to “stop that” as they ran by.

Not surprisingly the game continued, completely unabated. When the kids eventually tired of this, they began to climb from stools to the top of the condiment table. Once there, they would take turns jumping off and shouting.

At long last, one of the mothers got up and told the children not to do that anymore because, “one of you could get hurt.”

The kids stopped for a few minutes, but then resumed their climbing, yelling and jumping. The mothers continued their “ignoring.”

Another time, we went to see a local production of “Jack and the Beanstalk.” Soon after the play began, a girl (probably about 5) jumped out of her seat and ran to the foot of the stage. She alternated between running, dancing and jumping right in front of the performers. For obvious reasons, her antics were incredibly distracting to the audience, and also to the actors.

After an unbelievably long time, the mother hauled  her daughter back to her seat, but not before the child issued a series of bloodcurdling screams. Less than 15 minutes later,  the girl was back. This time an usher had to remove the child.

At a Boston Pops performance a beautiful, velvet-clad, little girl stood on her seat singing, dancing and clapping to the music. The people around her were noticeably annoyed by her behavior. Both her parents just looked on adoringly.

What do these three instances have in common? If you guessed “bonehead parents,” you’re right. These people allow innocent bystanders to be bothered by the loud, impulsive and obnoxious behavior of their children, without any regard for those around them. They can’t — or won’t — control their kids, so the rest of us are subjected to their offspring’s rampant misbehavior.

Why would children ever be allowed to act in such a selfish, annoying manner? Maybe these parents think they’re doing them a favor. After all, life is full of rules and regulations, why not cut the kiddies some slack? Or perhaps their little psyches will be damaged by someone saying, “Sit down and be quiet. You’re bothering people.”

Even though I’m not sure of these parents’ motivations — laziness, fear, cluelessness — I am positive of the result it’s going to have on the child. He or she will grow up to be a Spoiled Brat. These kids are getting the message loud and clear that they’re the center of the universe, and they can do exactly as they please. They don’t have to think about anyone else.

Any time I see this sort of conduct, I immediately think of my parents. They would tell my sisters and me (endlessly) that they always wanted us to be the kind of kids that other people would like to have around, so we’d better behave.

Growing up, we were routinely hauled out of grocery stores, restaurants and churches for behavioral infractions. My parents’ method worked. We all grew up to be quite nicely-behaved adults.

Now, as a parent, I try to put the same principles in practice. The bottom line is that if my kids are not under control, we’re out the door. I wish all other parents would do the same.

Kathy P. Behan, a mother of three, is a nationally published freelance writer, specializing in health and family issues.

by Kathy P. Behan

“You have a game at what time,” I incredulously ask Cullen, my 13-year-old son.

“Six — but the rink’s a half-hour away, and the coach says we need to be there at least 30 minutes before game time,” Cullen calmly replies. “I’ll set Dad’s alarm for 4:30.”

The 6 and 4:30 hours we’re talking about here are not reasonable, civilized, evening times, oh no — they’re freezing, pitch-black, world’s-asleep a.m. hours.

Welcome to hockey.

This sport has been the bane of my existence ever since my eldest child starting playing. I should have known better. I should never have let him try it. After all, his father was a hockey player who still has the scars and the early-morning affinity to prove it.

Cullen was hooked from the moment his wobbly little ankles could support him on skates. When he started to play, we used to secretly call him “The Cruiser,” because he didn’t know how to stop, and would frequently cruise by all the action. By the time he’d be able to turn around, the puck would be on the other side of the ice.

He was determined though. Over the years, he’s worked hard to improve his skills, and it has paid off. Even though he’s a defenseman, he’s the third highest scorer on his team. No one works harder at practices or digs deeper during games.

Cullen’s not fazed by the crazy hours or the fact that he sometimes has to play two or even three games in a day. Besides being perpetually sleep-deprived, my son has also had to deal with a drastically hampered social life. He has missed out on countless sleepovers, evenings at the teen center or just hanging out with buddies because of his schedule.

He never complains though, and neither does his father. They know this is the price you pay to play.

It’s been a much harder adjustment for me. I resent the toll that hockey has taken on our family time. Practices and games frequently claim all the prime weekend hours, and tournaments are invariably scheduled for school vacations.

The time, in a way, is the least of it. Now that my son is older, he’s part of the wild world of checking. Players are taught the most effective ways of hitting and taking an opponent out of the play. To watch my priceless child being smashed into the boards, hooked from behind, or sent careening onto the ice is heart-stopping for me. Worry and dread are my companions during every game.

I’m also constantly astounded — and embarrassed — by the behavior of hockey parents. This is not the supportive and genteel group you tend to find on the sidelines of say, a tennis match. This crowd is loud, testosterone-driven and rabid. The worst part is that I sometimes find myself getting caught up in the frenzy too. I don’t know what it is about this sport that brings out the axe murderer in us all.

Despite all its considerable drawbacks, I have to admit that hockey really is exciting to watch. It’s fast, furious and skilled. And even though it’s an extremely aggressive sport, it also teaches kids discipline. Players learn to check not only their opponents but their tempers as well. They have to take a hit, and not react in mindless anger.

Cullen and my husband love this game, and every now and then I get caught up in the fever too — especially when I watch my son score on a breakaway.

Ultimately, if Cullen ever makes it to the pros, he certainly won’t have me to thank. Even though I enjoy watching him play, I’ve been trying to talk him out of this potentially dangerous, “inconvenience on ice” ever since he started.

At the awards banquet, he should express a lot of gratitude toward his father — his main chauffeur, coach and biggest fan.

Oh I’ll be there all right, in the background, still grumbling about the crowd, the brutes on the other team, and why we had to get up so early.

Kathy P. Behan, a mother of three, is a nationally published freelance writer, specializing in family and health issues.