Since I recently began contributing to SpanglishBaby, I have been re-energized in my efforts to keep my son surrounded by Spanish. The shifting balance of Spanish and English has been particularly interesting to watch. He has always responded differently to each language, but has recently developed preferences according to the rules of his interactions thus far.
I speak only Spanish to him, with few exceptions (i.e. when I’m frustrated and can’t find exactly the right words). He watches equal amounts of Spanish and English television — his favorite is Pocoyo — and I only read to him in Spanish. (This becomes funny when translation is involved.) Most days, it’s just the two of us interacting en espanol.
In the past few weeks, he’s become quite opinionated about my use of English. He doesn’t flinch when I use English with other people in front of him, but he completely ignores me if I speak directly to him in English. Today, I took him to Starbucks. Because I was speaking to the barista in English and my brain was in that mode, I asked if he wanted a cookie in English. He didn’t even look at me. But when I said “quieres una galleta?” he nodded and said “mmhmm.”
Things are the opposite with my mom. He spends a lot of time with her when I’m working and on her days off. She uses only English with him, but she’s starting to learn some Spanish words. He laughs when she speaks Spanish and sometimes even shushes her.
This awareness of separate languages is an exciting development because he’s simultaneously advancing towards the stage of nonstop talking. He said his first complete sentence (5 words) a few days ago, but it was English and Spanish mixed together. I was so excited to hear him mix the languages (code switch) because it means that he has a command of both grammatical structures. I feel like a scientist conducting an experiment, and being blown away by the results. Every myth that we grow up with about our limited brain capacity explodes at the moment that a 2-year-old says a coherent sentence in two languages, with native accents in both.
I suppose that for someone who grew up in a bilingual household, this wouldn’t be such a crazy discovery. For me, though, it’s an amazing thing to witness. I know plenty of people who grew up speaking Spanish at home and English at school, so I know it works. Still, there’s no lesson like seeing it happen in your own child. We think that the “firsts” stop after the first step, the first word, but I’m learning that there are many, many more to come.
I wish that every child in the world could have the gift of bilingualism, but all I can do is encourage other parents to do what they can to expose their kids to a second (or third or fourth) language. There is room in those little heads for all of it.
I invite all of you to check out one of my favorite parenting websites, for which I am now a contributor.
SpanglishBaby is a wonderful blog/store/community for parents raising bilingual children. It is a source of information, support, and friendship for me and many others.
Please check out my first post, and make this site one of your new favorites!
First of all, I must apologize for having been MIA for a month. I’ve been paralyzed by the long wait for grad school decisions. I have yet to hear anything, so I’ve decided that instead of obsessively checking discussion forums and application status pages, I’ll use some of my time to write about my latest parenting conundrum.
My little boy is now 25 1/2 months old, and has recently made a cognitive leap that has me scratching my head and wondering what other parents do. He listens to nearly every word I say, even when I’m not talking to him, and responds by saying or doing something related to what I was talking about. This may seem like a “duh” — that a child of two years would be fully capable of understanding the gist of adult conversations — but it’s the level of necessary adjustment in my topics and tone that has me confused.
When a baby or young child is in the room, s/he tends to be the center of attention and the object of praise. As parents, we get used to talking about the little one’s latest discoveries, frustrations, and milestones without much consideration for what the child is absorbing. Now that my son has settled into toddlerhood, he is developing empathy, curiosity, and the capacity to be embarrassed. If I am talking to a family member about something cute he did, he repeats it so they can see for themselves. If I seem upset during a phone conversation, he responds with a furrowed brow and a hug.
These reactions are exciting because they represent greater levels of personality formation, and make me even more intrigued to find out who he becomes as an older child, teenager, and adult. Yet, I waver between knowing that it is necessary for him to see or hear the truth of a situation (like an argument between me and my mom) in order to function socially, and wanting to protect him from all things negative.
Like most other aspects of parenting, this remains a gray area. I can’t lay down rules and always limit my own behavior in front of my child, but I can try to judge which conversations and interactions might be overwhelming for him. I can talk about my worries and fears in an adult way when he’s not around so that he doesn’t feel my stress so much. I can encourage his empathetic responses and explain things that might upset him. It seems to be a decision I have to make on a case-by-case basis. Right now, that’s the best answer I’ve got to the question of when to restrict my true feelings or vocalizations.
Does this get harder as kids get older? What should I be expecting in the next few years?
Where do you think we should draw the line in terms of talking about private things and about our children in front of them? Are these things damaging or essential?
In the rush to put together a birthday party for my big 2-year-old, I didn’t have much time to be in disbelief about the quick passage of time. Since then, though, I’ve been amazed every day by his verbal prowess, the rate at which his feet are growing, and the fact that before I know it, I will have a “kid,” not a “toddler.”
There have been many turning points since January 2, 2008, when he was born. My emotional growth in these two years has mirrored my son’s physical growth. A lot has changed: my educational attainment, my relationship status, my locale, and my waistline.
I have learned that:
I keep a journal in which I write little notes to my son. Maybe someday he’ll enjoy reading my thoughts throughout the years. I frequently have the urge to talk to the adult version of this person I’m guiding through life, and I wonder what I’ll say to him in ten, twenty, forty years. I am already proud of who he is, and aching for more clues as to who he’ll become.
Sometimes, parenting just sucks up every ounce of kindness, patience, and love I have. It’s like I start each day with a cup full of these qualities, and by the end of the day, they’re gone and I can’t imagine where I’ll get more for tomorrow.
The thing that’s most frustrating is that it seems as though no one around me understands why I get so frustrated. While some of them are parents too, they are past the point of having to devote 50% or more of their energy and thoughts to someone else. Parenting is a lonely business more often than not. Even when I am surrounded by people, I always have one eye on what I’m doing and one eye on my son. I am, of course, the only one who’s completely distracted 24/7. When I need to use the bathroom, he follows me or cries for me from the other room. If I walk outside to check the mail or take the dog out, I have to hurry because who knows what he’s doing inside?
I can’t wait for the day when I can take a leisurely shower — and remember to shave both legs — without calling to my child every few minutes just to be sure he’s alive and well.
Yes, this is likely every mom’s life. But this is my experience, and my experience is often frustrating. It’s just plain difficult, and it’s nothing to sneer at. The reproducers of this world can pretend to have it all together, but little ones (especially little ones who are about to turn 2) get the best of any caregiver by the end of a long day, sometimes even just a long hour. When you’re doing it alone, the good and the bad is multiplied. It’s hard to keep them balanced and avoid consistently swinging from one extreme to another.
We had a wonderful Christmas, but as most parents know, holidays are no-napping, sugar-eating, staying-up-late, screaming-for-toys days. There is no lounging on the couch in a turkey-induced stupor for those of us named Mom.
It is ironic that the past few weeks (my blog-neglecting weeks) have been so difficult, yet so fun. My little boy has a mind of his own now, and is learning to put his opinions into words. I get countless hugs and kisses every day, and am pleasantly surprised by his independence and caring gestures.
There are nights, though, like tonight, when I grit my teeth as I hold my crying child and think “if only he were a crying newborn again.” I miss the baby phase so much. But there are things about being around an insanely tall, intriguingly bilingual 23-month-old that cannot be matched by the company of a helpless baby.
I suppose finding the humor and joy in every moment becomes more difficult when you’re experiencing the low points by yourself. The important thing is that I am sticking it out, waking up every day intending to stretch out my allocation of kindness, patience, and love for as long as I can. Being a mom is the only job in which you lose your mind over and over, but continue to come back for more. It has to be that way, and I’m very glad it is.
I do not remember a period of time in elementary, middle, or high school when I didn’t worry about what I was wearing or how my hair looked. I was the tallest of all my friends, and often the widest. I wanted to wear the tiny clothes from Limited Too and 5-7-9, but my hips never wanted anything to do with juniors’ clothes. Worst of all, I started breaking out at age 10 and haven’t stopped.
Everyone has their body woes, and there’s no doubt that we exaggerate our own flaws. Still, the formative influence of the preteen years on girls’ lifelong body delusions is profound.
Size is relative, and competition is fierce. Depending upon who we are around, we might feel thin or fat, tall or short, trendy or outdated. This is particularly damaging when we reach the stages of pregnancy and nursing.
Pregnancy is the only legitimate excuse a woman ever has to eat what she wants and gain weight on purpose. It is equally liberating and terrifying. After years of trying to have control over your size and shape, you have to relax into whatever mold the baby and your body decide to put you in. Postpartum, you still have much of the weight/skin, yet feel that you have none of the excuses. We all hear about the Heidi Klums of the world losing all their baby weight in a month, and suddenly feel pressured to be runway-ready with a newborn in our arms. In reality, it is incredibly unhealthy to rapidly lose weight while breastfeeding, and even if you are not. There is a reason for those fat stores, and getting rid of them intentionally means depriving your exhausted self of what little energy nature gives you to get through new motherhood.
The younger you are, the quicker you bounce back, but your body is still permanently changed from the pregnancy and birthing experience. It seems to me that it’s even more difficult to face the physical alterations of motherhood when you’re a young mom, because the world doesn’t yet expect you to be going through them. If I were in my 30s or 40s, complaining about stretch marks and shopping for “mom jeans” would be acceptable. At 23, I still want to look my age (i.e. shop at American Eagle), but according to the modern timeline of life experiences, I’m a good decade ahead. A young mom can’t say a thing about the way a baby has changed her body without an older mom looking down her nose and shooting her a “just-you-wait” scowl.
In some ways, I appreciate my body more now because I can look into the eyes of the little person it created. But it’s difficult to ignore the temptation to compare myself to women my age who haven’t had their breasts stretched and butts widened. At the same time that I miss the feeling of a creature fluttering in my belly, I am critical of my new hint of a muffin top and smaller bra size.
Just like many other things in life, the mommy body is a paradox. Skinny-girl worship in the media hits us with the same force as messages about loving The Shape of a Mother. It is impossible to maintain the pre-baby figure, even with the help of cocoa butter and surgical intervention.
All I know is: I can’t wait until my friends have an opportunity to grow in all the right places. Then, while I may not always love my body, I’ll at least be able to talk about it in an appreciative way, rather than an “ohmygod, i am so fat this week” way. Body talk changes when baby talk begins. Let’s start talking.
Generation Y. We grew up with cassette tapes and VHS movies, Walkmans and LiteBrites. Now, we are the Facebookers and Tweeters, the perpetually connected.
Many of us had few worries until recently. We got everything we ever needed, and most of what we wanted. Our parents turned their Clinton-era riches into our cars and college educations.
So, why is every 20something I know severely depressed?
Part of it is just the natural side effect of pulling away from those who kept us fed and clothed and happy. But Generation Yers have to deal with something unique: literally not being able to pull away. We can’t all afford to pay for our own apartments, cars, food, cell phones, and certainly not our own health insurance. Yet, we want to be able to. None of us wants to rely on our parents forever. Do we have a choice, though, in an era marked by the lowest relative wages since the 1970s and a steadily rising cost of living?
The “Great Recession” has contributed to the burgeoning ranks of unemployed and underemployed college graduates, but this problem was present before the real estate bubble burst. Young, educated people have met unprecedented problems in the job market since 2000. A decade ago, it was less clear that this was a symptom of nationwide financial sickness. Now, even though the reality of a fruitless job search is widespread, we still blame ourselves. That’s the American way, after all: to believe that we all have control over our economic circumstances. All that we’re getting from this attitude is a huge amount of guilt, and large piles of unpaid bills.
Our parents and grandparents could call it entitlement, could say that we expect too much and aren’t willing to work hard enough. These are the same people that brought us up to believe we would find the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, if we just followed the rules.
We should all be concerned about more than attitudes when an entire generation is incapable of supporting itself. I have all the desire in the world to keep my son happy and healthy, but the fact remains that if either of us had a dire health emergency, I would not have the funds in place to keep us from sinking into a bog of medical debt. Even things as vital as food are driving a wedge between those who can afford them and those who can’t. It’s no longer true that you can simply invest some elbow grease and reap fair rewards, and we certainly can’t get ahead as quickly as our parents did.
While this exaggerated period of struggle is disproportionately affecting those of us who already have children, it is also defining the ability of the childless young people to ever create a stable home life. Economists have identified our generation as the first since the beginning of the 20th century that will not be better off than the previous, and who knows what that will mean for our children? If we can’t give them anything close to what we had, will they have even more challenges? Or will they be better able to face financial difficulties, and therefore well-adjusted?
There are exogenic cultural factors in the 20something, “I’m broke” dilemma. But on a personal level, no matter their origin, feelings of worthlessness can be devastating. If we push and push and never see results, we lose faith in ourselves and our belief systems. I only hope that my peers can find something worth living for when they have nothing to live on, and learn to distinguish between the things they can change and the things that happen to them.
Amen.
I can cook, clean, iron, and wash things just as well as the next person. But, I don’t. I don’t like doing any of these things, and I take shortcuts whenever possible.
I’ve always been anti-domestic activities, but I’m even more so now that the majority of my time is spent with a toddler. Why would I use the precious naptime hour to wash dishes? Perhaps if I had an office job, hence a reason to have pressed clothes, I’d care a little more. But I’m very practical about these things: I don’t care any more about walking around the house in wrinkled shirts than I do about putting on makeup to go to the grocery store.
When things are simply purposeful, not all-consuming, they have the potential to be more enjoyable. I can use folding clothes as a reason to take a breather, and I can enjoy cooking an elaborate meal once a month because most of the time, I grab cereal or make myself a wrap.
It’s like anything else in life; balance is key. When I start tripping over toys, I go on a ten-minute organizing spree. When I feel like a slob after days in the house, I curl my hair and find an excuse to leave. I could certainly live in pajamas 24/7, but I avoid the routines that run so many people’s lives.
A healthy work ethic is important, and I was certainly raised in a busy household. I think I am the only one of my immediate family members who can sit down for more than twenty minutes at a time without jumping up to start the next task. Perhaps it is a kind of rebellion, a decision to get away from things I don’t value but always had to do. I feel about housework like I do about the few “regular” jobs I’ve had: what is the point of doing this exceptionally well?
The long and short of it is: I’d rather be reading. Or writing. Or running. Always have, always will.
So, as the mom who must instill that same work ethic in my son as he grows, how do I get across the importance of duties without clouding the lesson with my own distaste for all things mundane? I definitely don’t want to be stuck with doing his laundry while he waxes poetic about the uselessness of such a thing. Yet, I want him to pick up on the idea that the drudgery is but a means to an end.
Maybe there will come a day when I have more kids, more work, and more living space, and suddenly have to stick to a shower-scrubbing schedule. But for now, I refuse to spend buckets of time doing things I hate.
When you get pregnant at a “young age,” the world stops turning. At least, that’s what everyone expects it to do. As I watch my baby approach his second birthday, I’ve been reflecting upon my pregnancy and how my life might have played out had I not been blessed with the very best of interruptions. Here’s what I imagine it would look like:
Having a baby is just part of life — an event that holds down the fast-forward button rather than pressing pause. No matter if you are 20 or 40, a newborn’s arrival could be seen as a disturbance, but so could a job loss, a move, a death, or any number of significant moments. If we think about a baby as an interference in our well-laid plans, we won’t be open to the surprises it brings.
And I don’t just mean surprises of the dirty-diaper variety. For me, the greatest surprise has been how watching my son grow has inspired me to go back to school and pursue things beyond motherhood, to question who I thought I was. He has pulled me out of my comfortable place in the mud, without saying a word. Everyone should be lucky enough to experience this: being blindsided by a change so human, we could never have created it with mere ambition.
Was I born with an inflamed social conscience, or has it simply come to overwhelm me over the years? I guess you could say it’s ironic that someone like me — more listener than speaker, more loner than star — is so preoccupied with things that require a voice.
I get frustrated with stagnation, especially in social conditions. Maybe it comes from studying human rights and political science in depth, although my concern for the oppressed existed long before college. Maybe it’s an inescapable part of the Leo-Virgo cusp personality. I just know that I’m constantly fighting with myself, and a world that seems resigned to letting things happen unfairly.
Inequity persists for obvious reasons (the drive for surplus being number one), and because there has always been a powerful-powerless dichotomy, many people assume it is human nature to exploit others to raise your own social position. I don’t subscribe to this too-bad-so-sad philosophy, though. People stay at the bottom of the social food chain because they have been ignored or used by those at the top. This can start to feel much like the biological food chain, in that we think we need to feed upon the lowliest to maintain our place — that others must be miserable in order for us to be happy.
I am not okay with people saying that this is just the way things are, that I shouldn’t feel guilty about my place in society, or responsible for that of others. I DO feel guilty, or at the very least uncomfortable, about being a member of the white upper-middle-class in America. By virtue of birth, I am one of the luckiest people on earth. But it takes work to preserve that luck, and wealthy white people work hard at that. So, we can’t simply say that those who are born into unlucky circumstances (poverty in America, but especially in the developing world) got themselves into it, and must pull themselves out. The tiniest tweak in quantum order could have reversed our worlds, and nothing that is so dependent upon chance could be worthy of exacerbation. (Besides, What the Bleep Do We Know?)
Instead of trying to close the income gap, the rights gap, we widen it with fear. Political banter about the U.S. health care system or the state of American education is small talk, disguising the real issues underneath. If we don’t believe we have an ultimate responsibility to provide these things for all people (and I do mean ALL people), policy cannot change them significantly. We should be diving into the original mess of our assumptions and prejudices, swirling around for awhile, and revolutionizing the way we think about humanity and happenstance.
This doesn’t mean feeling guilty, because that is only a recipe for reparations. Still, it is difficult to feel anything but apologetic when there is no genuine public outlet for discussing such things as gender, poverty, the environment, and the direction of the human race. Churches and schools have their own agenda, as do private organizations. Motives aside, involvement in these groups can prove positive, but what is the underbelly of charity work? Morality. A relative concept. Thus, the difficulty in looking at the shackled from the vantage point of the free is that we apply standards that must sometimes be swept aside in order to right the wrongs that are wrong to us all.
I can live my life in a Starbucks world and appreciate its luxuries, but I never forget that there are other worlds, and I never want to. I am stuck between the ease of indifference and the cliff of hopelessness. Are you?
I know my restless nature will produce good things in the end, but I feel a burning desire to relate to people with my level of discomfort first.
