Author: Brett Baker

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Magazines Village

Real world problems: Responsibility is a life lesson that starts at home

File photo.

I’ll never forget the first time Simon gave me lip about taking his plate to the sink after breakfast.

“That’s a mommy job,” he said.

I raised my eyebrows and said, “No baby. That’s a family member job.” What I actually wanted to say was, “Oh no you didn’t!” But that’s not what this article is about.

I’m a firm believer in preparing my kids for the world instead of trying to shape the world for them.

In my earliest days as a parent, I caught myself avoiding situations or experiences if I could foresee tears or tantrums in the outcome. I would let Simon leave his toys out before he went to bed and clean them up for him after he was down. I would put his shoes on for him, so we could get to preschool on time. I thought I was controlling the chaos, but what I was really doing was creating a world for my son where, with every little toy I picked up for him, I showed him that he could make choices without consequences—that I would literally clean up the messes he made instead of helping him to learn from them.

Growing up, my own mother always said her biggest job was to prepare my sisters and me for the world, and, well, I have never been one to let down my mother, so once I realized the disservice I was doing for my kids, my turnaround was quick. Not pretty, but quick.

I began to see tears and tantrums differently: They weren’t something to avoid. They were opportunities to teach, guide and explain.

“Teaching responsibility and independence is a huge part of being successful in and out of the classroom,” says Laura Schaaf, a third grade teacher at Johnson Elementary. “I always challenge and encourage my students to try things on their own before they raise their hand for help. I want my students to think independently and know that taking risks and working through mistakes is part of the learning process. While they may get frustrated through the process, there is so much more to gain from allowing them to exercise and develop their problem-solving skills.”

The first time I told Simon to clean up his toys before we played outside, he stayed in his room for 45 minutes (yep, we timed it) and cried before he picked up one toy. The next time it was 30 minutes. After that, 15, and so on, until he finally understood that he has responsibilities as a family member and doesn’t just get to do what he wants to do whenever he wants to do it.

Don’t get the wrong idea, here, people. I don’t have a magic parenting wand that entrances my kids and gets them to clean the house. We have moments every day where my kids push back, yell “I don’t wanna!” and ignore me when I tell them it’s time for a chore. But the difference is that now I don’t make exceptions, because the world doesn’t, either.

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Magazines Village

Naming conventions: With your kid’s moniker, buck trends

Simon says, "Choose whatever name you want!"

I remember the moment my husband and I decided on a name for our first child. I wish I could tell you that the clouds parted and the sun shone on my belly as the universe accepted the name for its new inhabitant. Names are big deals, after all. The truth is, we were driving to Sam’s Club to buy toilet paper and tubs of hummus. I was doing a little jig in the front seat, trying to “hold it” as the baby karate chopped my bladder.

“I don’t think I care that people will think of the chipmunk,” I said, after stressing about the connotation for weeks.

“OK. I don’t either.”

“OK, so Simon?”

“Simon.”

That’s how our son was named.

I did all the pregnant woman stuff: prenatal yoga, walking clubs, and Facebook groups where I got to form opinions on things that I didn’t even know I could have an opinion about: What kind of sippy cup is best? Should my mesh crib bumper have ties or velcro?

I also learned that keeping baby’s name a “surprise” is what people do now. You don’t tell a living soul, then you announce the name, along with a photo of the newborn baby on Instagram, then you make sure you link it to your Facebook, too. I’m not making fun here. A quick scroll through my own social networking accounts would show you that I do just this. It is, after all, what the “cool” moms do these days.

A few other trends I noticed to which I adhered:

1) The baby must have a name that is unique, lest someone else in their kindergarten class have the same name.

2) Whatever you do, the name must not be on the list that pops up when you Google search “100 Most Popular Baby Names” (I named my second child “Owen” which is no doubt on the popular list, but it’s OK, because it’s a boy name and she’s a girl. I know you were worried. Phew, right?)

And some others, which I noticed after I had my own babies and therefore couldn’t get in on:

1) You can make up a name for your baby. Or you can make up a different spelling of a common name. Both are acceptable.

2) Your children can have themed names; all children’s names can start with the same letter or come from your favorite book, for example.

OK, I’m obviously being a bit dramatic here, people. In all seriousness, naming my kids was my favorite part of being pregnant. I loved picturing a sweet little face to go with the name. I loved doodling it on notepads and ordering products with their monogram on it. As with most things in life, my choice of names for my kids was met with some opposition and some acceptance. Most people get really annoyed that I named my daughter a predominantly male name. She rocks it, though. And I have a “boy” name, so I’m allowed, right?

Here’s what I’ve learned: Whatever name you choose for your kiddo, own it. Love it. You only get to do it once!

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Living

True life: I’m married! What’s marriage really like, three years in?

Photo: Courtesy Brett Baker

I folded my husband’s laundry for the very first time when our marriage was just a few days old. I sat cross-legged on our mattress—which had no bed frame—and thought about how happy he’d be when he came home to see all of his clean clothes folded and put away. I was a good wife already, I thought. I had even ironed some of his dress shirts.

When I heard his car pull up, I ran to the front door and flung my arms around him dramatically like they do in the movies. I told him what I’d done.

You can imagine how deflated I felt as I watched my new husband retrieve, unfold, and re-fold all of his laundry because, as he said (in the kindest way possible), I hadn’t “done it quite right.”

You see, my brand new husband was 6’7″, and apparently there’s a certain way one must fold his shirts to make sure they all fit in the drawers instead of ramming up against the corners like a shop full of discount area rugs.

This is why they say the first year is the hardest, I think. It’s a peculiar cocktail of expectation, bliss, growing pains, and adrenaline. It takes just a little while to break it in, to realize that all arguing isn’t bad and that some expectations aren’t meant to be met; it’s O.K. if we each do our own laundry or don’t eat our dinners at our kitchen table most nights. It’s just fine that our favorite date nights include Chipotle, Netflix, and being in bed by 9:30pm.

It seemed to me that everything during that first year had to be a conversation. “How should we cook the eggs?” or “Where should we put the Christmas tree?”

One of my very favorite parts of marriage now is how all that can go unsaid. My husband knows that my attention span is too short to get the trash all the way to the outside trashcan, so when it’s sitting by the front door, he’ll silently take it out. And I know that, for some reason, when my husband vacuums the downstairs, he always forgets the kitchen. So I’ll be sure to do it instead.

Three years, one dog, two bad car purchases, the birth of one son, and thousands of loads of laundry later, we’ve found our year-three pace. And we’ve accepted that this complex relationship that we call a marriage will always be changing, growing, stretching and finding a way to get more comfy in our home.

So much can change in three years, although I do still meet him at the front door.

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Living

Oh, baby! Dating your spouse after having a child

File photo.

I went on a date with my husband last night. We sat at the bar on stools; my knees kept knocking into his because I bounce my legs when I sit. We sipped on cocktails and discussed whether or not you’re supposed to drink from the skinny little black straws or if you’re just supposed to use them to stir. We flirted and giggled, and you’d have thought we were on our very first date. You would’ve thought it was last call on a Friday night and that he would soon walk me to my car before we went our separate ways.

In reality, it was a Monday at 4:59pm. We met outside of the restaurant just minutes before it opened. We were the very first customers of the evening. We felt embarrassed at first as the bartender hesitantly moseyed over to ask what we wanted. Like do these people know what time it is?

We must have looked like children on Christmas morning, brimming with anticipation. That’s when he couldn’t keep it in any longer, and my husband explained,

“This is our second date since we had our baby.”

I recently read a brilliant tip on dating when you’re married: Instead of leaving the house together and finishing your make up in the car while hubby finds a parking spot, meet there.

So we did. I got ready at home. My husband left work a little early, and we met there. I got giddy and checked my lip gloss in the rearview mirror.

When we met up on the downtown mall, I felt pretty and put-together and prepared.

He didn’t know that just minutes before, I was wiping spit up out of my hair with one arm and writing notes with crayon for the babysitter with the other. He didn’t realize that I cried in the car on the way over because Leann Womack’s “I Hope You Dance” came on the radio.

Our date went from 4:59pm to approximately 6:35pm. I had to be back at the house to nurse at 7pm, so it wasn’t your traditional dinner-and-movie evening. But it was necessary and so decadent.

I think it’s vital to a marriage to stay romantic even if you have to piecemeal your way through making it happen.

My husband sent me a text after I left to drive home: “That felt like our first date.”

So, piecemeal or not, I think it worked.

Brett is a faith and lifestyle blogger in Charlottesville. She and her husband, Nathaniel, have one human son, Simon, and one doggy son (their “first-born”), Turk. Read more of her work at brettbattenbaker.blogspot.com.