The Measure of Success

Imp has many things in this world he wants to do, and he is finally figuring out how to do them. Chase the cat, climb the gate, figure out how to open the entertainment center, knock all his toys off the shelf -- you know, important things. I love watching him when he sees something he wants across the room. You can watch the decision to move form in his face, and then he goes (faster and faster each day), gets that thing, sits down, studies it, and occasionally lets out a gleeful "AAHHH". What delight it is to be able to move and achieve a goal. For months he had to subsist laying on his back or belly, fully at the mercy of his parents, but now, he can get into almost anything he wants, often to the dismay of his parents. But we can't help being proud when he figures something new out, even if it is something we don't particularly want him to do (last night, he figured out how to pull the stopper out of the drain during his bath, for example).

Success in life is measured in many ways. Accolades, awards, degrees, certificates of completion -- all signify that you have achieved in the eyes of others. But what about the simple successes, the day to day achievements. Nobody is going to give you a certificate for getting out of bed in the morning, or eating a healthy breakfast, or just doing the work you are expected to do. These successes may seem mediocre, but they are successes nonetheless.

When we are children, we get praise for the simplest things. Lifting our head up, crawling, clapping our hands, having a good diaper, etc. As adults we stop praising each other for the simple things, but that shouldn't stop us from praising ourselves. We can still measure success by awards and accolades, but why wait for someone else to give them to us?

Today I earned virtual gold stars for not eating a big cookie in the breakroom, for biking to work, for staying on task with my experiments (I am writing this blog while incubating my protein in various solutions) and for helping the students in my lab with their various tasks. Tonight I can earn more virtual gold stars by "working out" with my son (consisting of dancing around the living room and maybe doing some baby-resistance exercises), folding the laundry, or working on my son's scrapbook. No one else may sing my praises, but as I praise my son for pulling himself up on the couch or figuring out how to put one stacking cup in another, I can think to myself about the praise-worthy things I have done each day, and let my son's gleeful noises be all the praise I need.

Bumps and Bruises

Little Man is officially to be renamed Imp in this blog. He is getting more and more mobile every day -- crawling, pulling to standing, cruising, and is discovering more and more things to get into. Imp gets this look in his eyes -- smiling, bright, and blue -- that makes you know he is going to get into something. At seven months old, he still has much to figure out, but he is learning so much every day. One of the main things he is learning is how to deal with bumps and bruises.

One of my friends (I can't remember who) said that they trained themselves not to gasp and rush to their child when they fell, but rather to shout "SCORE!" and wait to see if the child was actually hurt before rushing to their aid. This way, the child is more likely to smile at your silliness after a fall rather than immediately look at you and start crying. I thought it was a great idea -- kids learn fast how to manipulate their parents. So my husband and I have been trying this with Imp -- and considering how many times he seems to fall in a day, he is picking it up fast. At least 95% of the time, he falls, we shout "SCORE!" and he smiles and gets back to whatever he was doing. It's amazing to me just how durable the child's skull is. We keep him mostly in our living room, which has carpet on most of the floor, and have blankets on top of that, so most of the time he's falling onto something with some cushion, but still -- it's impressive how quickly he can recover when you don't make a big deal out of it.

I like to think we're teaching him a useful life lesson by not making such a big deal out of his falls. It's important for kids to know their parents are there for them, but also important to know that fussing over every little thing is in fact an impediment to getting stuff done (in Imp's case, these are things like chasing the cat or pulling all of his toys off of the shelf). And he is learning how to fall better every day. When he first started pulling himself to standing he would fall straight backwards and inevitably break into tears. Now, he tends to sit down when he's feeling unstable, and I've even seen him work on figuring out how to pick up something he's dropped by going to one knee and then pulling up again. He still sometimes overestimates his skill at holding on with just one hand, but again, he's getting better every day. 

Every bump and bruise is therefore a lesson, not a tragedy. It actually serves as a good reminder to me as I struggle with day to day issues to watch how quickly Imp recovers from each fall. If I dealt with every injury - mental and physical - with as much alacrity as my son, and got so quickly back on task, I could be a lot more productive. It's easy sometimes to dwell on our injuries and forget the lessons we can learn from them. One more thing watching Imp is teaching me. Next time I fall, maybe I'll just shout "SCORE!", dust myself off, and keep on moving. Okay, maybe I'll do that quietly in my head rather than out loud. But it's the concept that counts. :)

Mom Hair

"Mom Hair (from Urban Dictionary)

When a woman who has long hair cuts it very short. Usually done after having a child when the woman has no time to deal with her hair.

You remember how long her hair used to be? Now she's got that weird Mom Hair going on."

I have resisted now for months the urge to cut my hair. I went from mid-back to shoulder length when Little Man was 2 months old after one particularly bad spit-up when I was wearing my hair down (let me just tell you how gross that was). Now, he is 7 months old, and getting quite good at pulling my hair out of it's pony-tail holder. I feel that it is time once again to go under the scissors. That's right, after years of protesting that I would never do it, I am going to get Mom Hair.

This will not be the first time I have cut my hair short -- when I was in the 4th or 5th grade, I had it cut above my ears, and my best friend proceeded to tease me by calling me by her brother's name for months. As cute as my mother might have thought it was, shaggy and boyish was not a good cut for a chubby kid with large, thick glasses. By the eighth grade, my hair was more than halfway down my back, and remained somewhere between there and my shoulders until college when I once again decided to go short. I cut it and let it grow to maybe chin length, and then cut it again, each time in a slightly more haphazard way. I even had my roommate cut it once. The worst cut I had was junior year, when I chopped it to pixie-length and dyed it fire engine red. Once again, super short hair is not a good look for an overweight, square-faced female unless she actually wants to look like a boy, which really, I didn't. So after that I once again let it grow out, keeping it between shoulder and lower-back length. While I sometimes had the urge to chop it again, my husband's pleas and looks back in my photo albums from Junior year have kept those urges at bay. Until now.

Now, my reasons are quite different for getting a short hair cut -- I'm not doing it because my mother thinks it will be cute, or because of some college-age exploration, but because my very active, very loving little boy finds great pleasure in trying his best to help me go bald. Pain is a rather good motivator. And while my husband is lamenting my decision (he would love it if I grew my hair long enough to sit on, I'm sure), the thought of not having to constantly pull my hair back is rather liberating. I am very much looking forward to having a "wash-and-go" cut, especially for the summer. I hate how hot and heavy my hair feels on 90 degree days, when pulling it back tight enough to get it off of my neck does nothing but give me a nasty headache, and doesn't serve all that much purpose as wisps keep finding their way out of the ponytail holder. 

And In many ways, I am proud of this mark of motherhood. Now, I don't plan on joining the haircut with a pair of high-waisted jeans or anything (http://www.funnyordie.com/videos/44801db035/mom-jeans) but I kind of enjoy looking like a Mom. It's taken me long enough to get here after all, what with that whole PhD thing taking up a good portion of my young adulthood. I like the way I look with a baby strapped (sometimes literally) to my hip. They really do make rather adorable fashion accessories, until they spit up everywhere. But at least now I won't have to worry about getting that spit up in my hair. And if anyone points out (as I'm sure they will) how I have succumbed to this particular stereotype, I will proudly shake my head and say "Yep, I have Mom hair. And I love every reason why." (Well, except the spit-up thing, but they don't need to know that, now do they?)