'Tiger Mother' not lacking in approach

I first heard about the “Tiger Mother” on Facebook when a friend in Colorado, who doesn’t have children, asked what mothers thought of Amy Chua’s controversial parenting techniques.

I was the only person who answered.

When I, too, asked friends to comment about her book, it was the same muted response.

Do parents even care about the “Tiger Mother” or has the media overblown this author’s attempt to explain much stricter Asian parenting styles through her controversial book, “Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother?”

Regardless, I couldn’t resist writing about her parenting styles.

And you’ll find I won’t be critical of her methods, just asI would expect her not to be directly critical of how I raise my children.

If you haven’t heard about the “Tiger Mother,” let me explain.

Chua is a Yale professor of Chinese descent who uses the book to explain her tough-as-nails parenting style, comparing it, in contrast, to a more lax Western parenting style.

For example, her daughters aren’t allowed to have sleep-overs, playdates or any grade lower than an A on their report cards. They can only play the violin or the piano, and practicing those instruments takes hours. Her children aren’t allowed to chose their own extra-curricular activities, and she was once ostracized from a dinner party for calling her daughter “garbage” for not showing her respect.

And none of this shocked me when I first read the excerpts from Chua’s book. Although I wouldn’t necessarily chose some of the routes she took in raising her daughters, who am I to say it’s wrong?

First, I am one of those semi-lax Western mothers.

Second, my children are still children. My success as a parent, in my opinion, will be contingent upon how my sons tackle their teenager years and travel into adulthood.

Chua can write a book like she did because her methods have seemingly worked thus far with her daughters. Had her girls, ages 15 and 18, rebelled by burning their instruments in protest, I doubt the book would’ve even made it to the publisher.

But more than any of that, I think the parenting style is just that — a style. Let’s face it — Chua is still being a parent. And who can argue with that?

In my job, harsh reality tends to slap me in the face. On almost a daily basis, I read national, state and even local stories about abusive parents who have harmed or taken the life of their innocent children.

Those people aren’t parents. They’re monsters.

The fact of the matter is that Chua is not afraid to be a parent, nor is she afraid to admit what kind of parent she is. It doesn’t shock any of us because her children are alive, well taken care of, adjusted and enjoying success in their lives.

If we don’t agree with Chua’s methods, then we just do it differently. The important thing, in terms of parenting, is that we do it.

Is there an app to help me?

My smart phone is loaded to the brim with apps for my kids. Matter of fact, outside of the old standby boredom beater, Solitaire, all of the apps I’ve downloaded thus far were found with little people in mind.

And the preschool learning apps have especially intrigued my thirdsie, the little guy who is gearing up for a big change this fall.

Rarely a minute goes by that Alex doesn’t say, “Can I play coloring on your phone?” I open the app, hand him the phone, and with his nimble little fingers, he pieces together puzzles, dot-to-dots and coloring pages. Let’s just say technology has trumped anything I did at his age.

What he doesn’t realize is that he’s learning and honing his fine motor skills.

And that mom is secretly trying to prepare him for kindergarten.

But what I am slowly learning, is that he’s smarter than me.

I asked to him last week, while playing a puzzle game that spells out words, if he would spell the words to me.

“No. I don’t like to spell,” was his response.

And there went one of those teachable moments right out the car window. Or, so I thought.

Then, without warning, he started spelling.

It flew back in.

He spelled “boat,” “kitten,” “goat” and even “matryoshka.”

Alex is a pretty smart cookie, but only when he wants to be, because as smart as Alex is, he’s just as stubborn.

Each time he would finish spelling a word, I would say, “Good job, Alex.” And he’d spell some more. Finally, he said, “Mom, I like it when you say, ‘Good job, Alex.’” Ahhh, and who said kids weren’t precocious?

Alex entered preschool in the fall, with great zeal.

And as soon as he entered preschool, I started looking toward kindergarten.

Sure, he knows he’s going to big brother’s school next year, but what’s “next year” when you’re 4 years old?

So as big brother hones his reading skills, little brother is getting the practice he needs to be on the right track.

Kindergarten is a big deal.

Sending my third to school is a world of difference from sending my first.

I should be an old pro by now, but as is always the case, each kid is different.

Jacob was much more adult-like than his brothers, as the first, and Lucas suffers through developmental delays that made his trip to school a little bit rockier. Alex only wants to be like his older brothers, but on his own time with his own set of rules.

But, after sending two different kids through kindergarten, I am learning the importance of making sure they’re ready.

And that takes more than reciting the alphabet and being able to count.

It’s a big world, and these days, most kindergartners leave that first year of school knowing how to read, write and even have math skills. And the lesson I took away from sending the first two sons to school, is that it takes more than just academics to get them through kindergarten. So as we read books, recite our address and practice body parts, we’re also instilling a healthy dose of maturity.

And that’s hard, especially for mom.

Alex doesn’t know what’s going on, but I know I’m sending a little boy off into the great big world.

And, even though I know he’ll be emotionally ready to take that step, I have to wonder, will I?

But that’s the age-old question now isn’t it?

I wonder if there’s an app for that?

The Best Parade EVER!!

Sure I was 36 weeks pregnant, considered full term and managing the biggest event the city of Mitchell sees in a year. But I could do it. No problem!! I am super woman, which includes super mommy and super volunteer, and I can do anything and control everything.

How many times has that little belief bitten me in the butt? Let's just say it has been numerous and mostly, I get proven wrong. I think God gets enjoyment out of showing me who's boss. He does have the right.

The bets were on. The laughter was numerous. Oh so many women looked at me that last week in September and said, "Oh honey. You're never going to make it to Saturday."

I'd come home and look at Beloved Hubby and say, "Do you know how many people insist on telling me I'm not going to make it to Parade Day? I've already talked to Little Man. He knows he has to wait." And we'd laugh.

We're still laughing.

In reality, planning the biggest event in Mitchell, also known as the Persimmon Festival, is one of those advance things. Decisions are made a year in advance. Pre-planning makes it a success and my counterparts and I pre-planned and planned some more. So in reality, I knew if I gave birth that week, which was highly doubtful, the festival would still go off and go off without a hitch.

That planning came in handy. Contractions started Thursday night and continued through Friday morning. By 1 o'clock Friday afternoon, I couldn't deny what was becoming obvious and I called my doctor. He advised me to go to the hospital, and at 12:45 a.m., on Parade Day, Little Man arrived.

We were no longer thinking about the festival.

He arrived healthy and happy. He weighed 7 pounds, 1 ounce, and was 19.5 inches long. He looks like his Daddy. The baby everyone in Mitchell was calling Puddin' made his Persimmon Festival debut. And we barely recognized the significance. It took my boss, the newspaperman, to call me because he wanted to write about the Festival Chairwoman having a baby on Parade Day. That's when I said, "Wow. I guess I did, didn't I?"

Things were quiet around the hospital on Saturday. Everyone was at the festival, after all. But the hospital was abuzz with the news. The nurses would come in and say, "So you're the festival chairman and had the baby during the festival?"

I no longer think of it. Time has passed and we've moved on. The festival, I am glad to say, is over for another year. From now on, I am happy to be the bystander and not the planner. My festival was a success in more ways than just one.

And next year, I won't be waddling down Main Street. Instead, I'll be the proud mom pushing the stroller who knows she controls very little.

Little man

I realized this morning that I haven't touched my blog since well before Little Man arrived in the wee hours one fine fall day. Perhaps I've been a little busy?

But when I logged on, my last blog post was actually weeks before Little Man's arrival. Yes. I was busy then too. That was back in the days when I was planning a festival. (One that went off without a hitch I might add despite the fact that all that Main Street walking prompted Little Man to come four weeks early. It was quite the feat for Festival Guru to have Little Man on the Biggest Day of the Festival, otherwise known as Parade Day.)

These days center around nursing, sore nipples, diaper changes, midnight feedings and tiny little baby kisses ... We all steal them quite mercilessly around here. There are a lot of smiles, coo's, laughs and awwws around our house these days. I think two adults and three little boys have fallen madly in love.

I have a lot to write about. I doubt I get it all in today, but my first project is to write a blog about our birth experience. It was divine. But, first, I wanted to prove I was still here and post a picture of Master Emery, the picture perfect miracle who has kept Mamma so busy she hasn't had a minute to blog since his arrival.

And isn't that as it should be?

Thank you, God, for movement

Is there anything more comforting to a mother than the movement of her children? And is there anything more sweeter, from her perspective, than to watch them sleep?

Emery moves; he moves a lot.

I like that; I like that a lot.

Emery is new baby boy growing within. I can't see him, although ultrasound pictures have given us the closest glimpse. I can't hear him, although doppler has provided insight into how strong his little heart is. And I can't touch him, although I can lay a comforting palm on the right side of my growing belly and lovingly pat his bottom.

My hand automatically follows every little movement Little Man makes. He squiggles, and my hand follows. He rolls and my eyes look down. He tickles from within, and a giggle escapes my lips. I love to watch him roll, tumble and move within, because I am his Mommy and I thank God every single day of my life that he's given me the ability to produce life.

(And I say this even as yet another practice contraction takes hold of my growing uterus.)

The fact is that I don't mind any of pregnancy's little inconveniences. And you'll never hear me gripe about the baby's movements. It means he's alive and well within, and if I have a million pregnancies, I will never stop marveling at the joy that is growing within. It's beautiful, miraculous and an absolute wonder of nature.

Each time he moves, I smile.

Blissful, content and loved. That's how I feel as Emery grows within, because I know I've been given no greater gift than to feel those little movements.

Mommy Mistakes

I wouldn't exactly call myself a perfectionist. I just hate to make mistakes. It carries over from work to home, and it's simple. I don't mind admitting when I am wrong, and I don't mind being wrong. Matter of fact, I am wrong a lot. I just hate to do something, then do it badly.

If I write a story, there's nothing I dislike more than to see I spelled a name wrong, or got a fact wrong. My job is to get it right, and so I'm going to try my best to make it correct. I only get one chance. Print is print. Can't erase today's newspaper and start over again.

But those mistakes aren't the ones I'm reflecting on now. Work is work. Let's face it, there are more important things in life.

What I want to talk about is harder; they're called Mommy Mistakes. We speak of them in hushed tones. We don't want to admit we might be less-than perfect mothers. We all have to be the best, but when we're not, the ones who suffer the most are our children. That's a tough pill to swallow.

A few years ago I was involved in a Bible study group on Sunday nights with a bunch of women who were all nearly twice my age, if not more. It was a wonderful group, and among other things, it made me realize that I am not the only woman who makes Mommy Mistakes. They all shared about their experiences as young mothers. One admitted she still harbored guilt over slapping her daughter in a hurried moment before church one day. She wondered how she could sit in church, knowing what she'd done just an hour before. The moment, more than 20 years old, brought tears to her eyes, and we prayed over her pain.

I've had plenty of Mommy Mistakes in the past 11 years. Just the other night, I blew up because I threw away my son's homework. It was a simple error. It was a Friday. He normally doesn't have homework on Friday, and I looked over everything, then threw it all away. He told me, more than a day later, there was homework mixed in. I was so mad at myself. I yelled at myself, but he saw my frustration and anger, and that hurt me. I hurried out the door, ran to the trash trailer and started digging through the bags. It helped let out my frustration, and only me and the trash knew how hurried my hands were. I found it, relatively unscathed, and little boy completed his homework as intended.

I know discipline is necessary, and I don't mind handing down necessary punishment. I know it has to be done, but it never doesn't hurt me inside, even if it's just a little. But to me, a Mommy Mistake is when I get overly upset and yell too much, or when I yell over nothing at all, or I get mad over a mistaken mistake.

Mommy Mistakes happen. When they do, I often fall to my knees, long after boysies have forgiven mom and have received fair share of hugs and kisses, and pray for God to grant me the wisdom to know when Mommy Mistakes are on the horizon. I pray for His help and guidance as a parent and ask him to help me strive, every single day, to be a better person and a better parent.

I don't think Mommy Mistakes are ever going to be OK, and I won't say, "Hey, Krystal, you need to be a little less hard on yourself." I should strive every single day to be the parent God wants me to be, and that's a forgiving mother who loves and cares for her children, but spreads that love and forgiveness on herself ever now and again.

Mommy wants to nest

The urge has been overwhelming me lately.

And, quite frankly, all I want to do is stay home and be a mom.

Of course, as I say this, my phone rings. It's another call about the Persimmon Festival. I don't scream into the phone, "I'm 32 weeks pregnant!! Who cares about French fries, rides and vendor contracts??" The urge hasn't made me crazy. Not yet.

But the urge is there.

Instead of screaming or getting testy, busy Kryssy has just been busier, and she's been nestier. She wants to stay home and play with her house. She doesn't even want to shop or visit friends. It's all about her little house, nestled out in the sticks. She wants to cook, clean and do laundry. Even hubby has been staying closer to home. Matter of fact, on their nights alone, they've spent a lot of time just gazing at one another over take-out at the kitchen table. Many date opportunities have been skipped in favor of time at home.

I don't remember a time with the other boys that the feeling was this strong. Matter of fact, I can remember, as a relatively new mother, searching for signs of nesting. I wanted to be nesting because, in my mind, it meant baby was on his way. I am over that these days. I don't believe Emery is any closer to arriving than God's plan for him. He'll come, and he'll come when he's darn good and ready. And just because I am nesting doesn't mean I'll be anymore ready for him. In the days leading up to his arrival, I'll still be running around the house frantic trying to figure out if there's anything we're forgetting and making sure there are batteries in all the contraptions.

But, right now, I am having fun being a mom and looking forward to continuing that. I can't wait to meet my little man and introduce him to the brothers who will love and protect him from here on out. I'm looking forward to spending time in my jammies and staring into the faces of the guys who've made my life complete.

My focus isn't on work. And festival-planning is nearly done. It'll all work out, and I'll take care of what needs to be done.

But, right now, my focus is on more important endeavors. And I can certainly feel the maternal pull. The glow isn't from pregnancy; it's from what lies ahead.