Separation Anxiety: When Stress and Kids Collide

I bet when you read that title, you thought I was going to write about my 19-month-old hitting that gut-wrenching stage where leg-clinging and crying as you leave is the norm. But actually, my daughter marches straight into day care and barely has time for a good-bye.

It's my son. My sweet, loving, sensitive, smartie-pants, newspaper-loving, school-enjoying kindergartner. During pre-k, he'd start shaking and crying anywhere from a few minutes to 15 minutes before he was picked up anywhere from one day a week to three or four days a week. The day care folks started arriving as early as 10 minutes before school ended and they'd often look in and see my son crying. He'd regularly accuse them of being late. They never were. But no matter, his perception over-ruled his ability to understand the hands of the clock--or even the fact that no other parent or caregiver had arrived to pick up another child yet (and oh boy, if another child got picked up, early, the tears could start even earlier). As the school  year went on, his tears were less frequent, but they never went away. The summer was worse--we ended up hiring various babysitters to pick him up from camp early since it seemed a significant number of kids left camp by 4pm and he'd get so worked up about leaving at the same time that some mornings he'd be crying and anxious before we even got to camp (the camp itself wasn't a great fit and we ended up cutting his time there short anyway).

So, when my son started kindergarten, I spoke to his teacher on day 2, when parents were invited in for orientation. She seemed surprised to hear about this end-of-day anxiety because, she said, my son seemed bright and quite mature for his age from the two days she'd interacted with him thusfar. But, she said she'd keep an eye out and that she'd work with him and us if the issue lingered. And it did. And she did work with him, to the point where I'd vote her teacher of the year. She somehow convinced him that late was this really, really far off point in time and his anxiety and tears seemed to be pretty rare. He'd have worse weeks, always coinciding with weeks where I worked more hours than usual.

Rare, that is, until recently. Now, he's generally fine, but when he feels anxious, the episodes are much, much worse. So bad, that when the first child was picked up from day care on Friday (he goes to day care after school two days a week and to an after school program three other days; we have a sitter pick him up 30 minutes before the after school program ends for obvious reasons) well, he got so upset that he threw up. Twice. He then imagined and instantly believed that I was not just going away for two days to help a friend pack and move, but rather that I was moving away with my friend--this despite numerous reassurances that I'd be back Sunday.

My son, it seems, has separation anxiety. He needs more parent time. Specifically, he needs more time from me. I noticed the anxiety episodes worsening months ago, but I was so elated that they were less frequent that I ignored it. The worsening coincided with me moving into a new role at work that requires longer hours more often and also required me to give up my work-at-home day. On that day, I'd wrap up early and pick the kids up from day care by 5:30. I also was able to pick up the kids another day of the week and I always tried to arrive so that they'd not be "the last" ones picked up. It might be a tie, but not the last!

This all ties in to what I wrote about missing time with my kids vs. my original mantra of simply not missing bedtime. But it's pretty obvious to me that I can't just settle for trying to figure out a way to be around earlier another night of the week. I have to figure it out, for my son's sake and for mine.

I've received some advice from a friend (and professional in family counseling) and I'm going to try it this week. If you've dealt with anxieties like this with your children, any advice?

Raising a Mini-Me, Part II : The Not-Good Parts

I've already written about how my son is school-obsessed and in love with newspapers. Truth be told, those are not bad traits of mine to inherit when compared to some of the traits my son has that I wish I hadn't passed on.

First, he's hard on himself. Sometimes really hard on himself. For the longest time, he'd get mad or upset, or both, when he didn't hit the baseball every time it was thrown his way. It wasn't until he understood what a batting average was that we could finally explain that even Derek Jeter only hits 3 out of 10 baseballs thrown to him by pitchers and that even the best players only might hit 4 out of 10. He calmed down but still gets upset with himself if he feels he's not doing as good as he could or feels he should. If you know me, well, this probably sounds familiar.


This carries over to school work at times. Anything but totally right is almost like failure to him--despite how many times I tell him that it's ok to get some things wrong sometimes. (Granted, he's not so concerned with whether his letters are perfect if, say, doing the last sheet of homework is all that stands between him and dessert.)

And then there's the anxiety around the simple need to be done with something. Not long before the end of a school day, he gets anxious. He's done. He wants to go home/to after school. All of a sudden, the last 10 minutes of the day, the three minute wait to be picked up, it seems like an eternity. He's sometimes been so worked up thinking about the end of the day that he's anxious at the beginning of the day. We've really lucked out because he has an incredible teacher who has managed to quell this when it comes to school. In other situations, we're still working on it (although it's not as common, and frankly, I totally get how he feels because I experience that moment when I just need to be done with something, the moment after which the anxiety kicks in.... so if he's had it and it's possible for us to leave a situation, I just leave).

I really don't want my son to be like me in these ways. But  I've found it hard to come up with the right strategies to curb these traits, even if I've been able to manage them in myself. Or, I'll come up with something that has worked for me, kidify it, try it and it doesn't work. I think I want what most parents want--to provide the sort of parenting and the kind of environment where a kid feels loved and confident enough to allow himself to get it wrong sometimes without feeling like he himself is all wrong. I'm pretty sure I've got the loved part down but I'm not entirely sure how to instill and live the confidence-building part.

If you've been down this road, any advice?

I Might Be Raising a Mini-Me. Uh-oh or Okay?

Since it was, oh, all of 10-degrees or so in New York City this weekend, we stayed inside. Hibernating in a NYC apartment--sans cool basement with lots of toys or fun stuff--can be a lesson in patience. If you know me, you know I need daily lessons in that subject (more on that later). But eventually, it was finally time for lunch and a nap for my youngest.

And what did my son want to do during that precious two hours of having mom all to himself (dad was still out of town)? He wanted to play a reading game. Followed by completing, oh, about 20 pages of a reading and writing workbook he pulled out from a pile of more fun activity books. This is a kid who ASKS to do his homework. A kid who blew through the first three levels of the sight words his kindergarten teacher assigned. A kid who read--with very, very little sound-it-out assistance--two first-grade level BOB books.He even talks about going to college (woah there, slow down, my boy).

Wait, it gets better (at least in the mini-me-ness). My son loves newspapers. Wait, no. That's an understatement. He really loves newspapers. He begs his dad to buy him one on weekends. He told one of my bosses--totally unprompted--that when he gets bigger he's going to "make a newspaper that goes all the way up to the sky" because the one the man at the subway station gives him (the AMNY) "isn't big enough and doesn't have enough stories." Granted, he goes straight for the sports section. But then he practices writing down the names of teams--any sport, any level--and their game scores from the day before. Voila! Practical math--how many points did the Jets lose by?

When I was his age or close to it, I loved to read. I loved school. I talked about college. And I distinctly recall being drawn to newspapers, although I suspect it was for different reasons.Although at the moment my son most often insists--when pressed--that he wants to be either a New York Yankee (shudder) or a street cleaner driver, he's started to sometimes answer that he wants to be a newspaper maker. I think he means journalist.

I'm not sure if I should encourage that or tell him he'd be better off operating the street cleaner. I surely love my profession, but like any, it has its downsides. And my husband--rightly so--thinks news organizations are screwed-up places to work. Corporate America, it seems, has less of a neurotic, crazy person tolerance. Or so he claims. But, it's also a career and a profession that becomes more than a job, it's often part of who you are as a person--or at least it is for me.

Granted, he's also a kid who studies the mechanics of carousels to try to figure out how his horse is moving up and down, so perhaps he'll end up an engineer or merry-go-round maker. All the same, maybe I shouldn't have dressed my son in that "Journalist In Training" onesie so often? Or maybe I should go with it--after all, despite the headaches and heartaches, I have loved being a journalist.

What do you think? Would you recommend your profession to your children? Why? Why not?

(Photo of "word nerd" onesie from Cafe Press.)

Career Redux: Alternate Perspective

Every January, there's a reunion I attend--it's of former staffers of a publication I worked for years ago. A year ago--and a year before that, and before that--many amazing writers, editors, designers and photo mavens were laid off from this publication. More followed in the layoff line not long after that.

At the reunion, I ran into two women who I respect and admire. One was laid off just before she had her second child, the other has a child in kindergarten. Both are now freelancing, earning far less than they were before, but both are reluctant to return to full-time work--at least not know. I know with time, even a layoff can seem like a blessing if you can still manage financially, but their reasoning was deeper than that. For starters, the woman who is now a mother of two recounted to me how she used to rush from the train, totally spent from a hectic day at work and wondering what she'd do to spend real, quality time with her child. Sometimes she even dreaded day care pick up, almost paralyzed at the thought of the next few hours, uncertain how she'd muster the mom-ness she wanted to feel. Now, she says, she's still dropping the kids off at day care, but when it's time to pick them up (earlier than the old days) she's excited, she can't wait to see them and she's got more to give them. The other woman has a child my oldest son's age, a kindergartner. When I asked if she wanted to go back to a full-time staff job, she said he daughter was in kindergarten and she was enjoying it for now--granted, more frugally. Both talked about going back full-time down the road, maybe in a year.

I'm not in a position where I could "afford" to be laid off. But I couldn't help but be a little dreamy-eyed at the idea of the lives they were living, even for a few months time.What's more, they'd lived through a big financial (and emotional) upheaval and seemed to have come out stronger and with clearer visions of what they wanted and needed out of work and life.

I suspect if I were to end up freelancing, my Type-A persona and deep-seated worries about making ends meet--even when I don't need to worry so much--would keep me churning out work and pitching to line up the next story or project. But, a girl can daydream a little about the way she'd be if she were, say, Type A-minus, right?

Turns Out, Missing Bedtime Isn't The Problem

When I was pregnant with my first child, I resolved that I wouldn't miss more than one weeknight bedtime a week--if I could help it--when I went back to work. For many years, I managed to stick to that personal boundary most of the time.

Over time, I've realized that this boundary wasn't really about being there at bedtime, but more about being  a part of that time of night where my kids want to cuddle up to me, tell me about their day (ok, just the one who speaks clearly does that), grab a favorite book and settle in for the night. To be in the right frame of mind to truly treasure that time--or even just be mentally present for it--I've got to be home about 15 minutes before that pre-bedtime routine begins. That means walking in the door by 7:15pm.

Before last fall, that was doable. Before last fall, I worked from home one day a week and was home by 6:30 several nights a week. But these days, I'm lucky to leave the office by 6:30 (except for Wednesdays, my one kid pick-up day). It's not unusual for me to get home at 7:30, after 9 or 10 hours in the office. And I often have another hour of work to do once the kids go to bed (if you're wondering, no, they don't pay me enough to work this much). I'm very efficient at work; I don't spend much time on chit-chat or watercooler talk. I'm so engaged in my work that I don't break for lunch (eaten at my desk, typically) until 2pm. I just have too much to do.

I think my absence impacts me more than it impacts my children. The one day a week I'm home earlier, I feel better. I can breathe. I'm all there. We have tickle-fests. We turn music on and dance. We actually play with the toys in the play room. There is time for both the mad dash of getting everyone fed, bathed and pajama'd and time to be truly engaged with my children before the bedtime routine begins.

So I have a revision to that be-home-by-bedtime resolution. I want to be home early enough to spend at least one hour of quality time with my children more nights each week (with that 15 minutes to decompress, that means getting home no later than 6:45). For now, I'd settle for two nights. Three would make me giddy. 

To be honest, I have no idea how I'm going to achieve this and keep doing my job well (please, don't suggest I chuck it all and stay home, that's not what I want to do). I've lost a great deal of control over my time--and the flexibility I used to have at work--in the last five months. If I can't get everything done in 10 hours at the office, how will I do it in 9?

When Dad is Away, Mom Still Gets Out the Door

My husband is away--sadly, for the funeral of a very close friend--which leaves me with the bedtime routines that I often handle alone if he's working late AND with the morning mad scramble to get two kids and myself out the door. Usually, I deal with breakfast, snack-making, clothes choosing (err, not for Lila, she re-chooses whatever I've picked most days), and conductor-like activities, such as the repeated reminders about teeth-brushing, book-bag-packing, get-shoes-on-now, the choruses of "why does it take you 20 minutes to eat a bowl of cheerios" and, of course, counting down the time we have left before we get to the "if-we-don't-leave-right-this-minute-we'll-be-late-for-school" stage. I also get myself ready during all of this, typically waking up to shower and down a few sips of coffee before the first kid rouses.

My husband, for his part, walks and feeds the dog, handles the wake-up routine of our toddler and serves as assistant conductor, echoing my all-aboards (save the we must leave nows, since he's often the one not ready to go when the rest of us are standing, coats-zipped, gloves-on at the door). And he stands watch over the kids while I  get dressed.

I outsourced the dog care to our ever-patient, awesome dog walker (thank goodness because the sidewalks were snowy and slippery... just imagine me out there with one kid throwing snow all over and the other trying to leap from my arms). And I got up 30 minutes earlier than usual to shower, dry my hair and prep the snacks for my kindergartner. The kids were fairly cooperative with the morning routine. It was a full five minutes before the we-must-leave-now moment.I was feeling pretty darn proud of my temporarily single self. But wait. What was that smell? That awful stench wafting from...?

And then I remembered the other thing my husband does every morning. It's one I hate. The 7:52am (give or take a few minutes) poopy diaper. Oh, the dreaded diaper. My daughter is, if anything, reliable. Right as we're putting on coats and double-checking bags for work and school, she's smelling up the works (and the apartment). Every. Single. Day. My husband dutifully changes her--even if she's already in the stroller and bundled up.

Foiled again. Stinky distraction dealt with (and yes, I did consider putting her in the stroller anyway and pretending she'd done the deed on the way to daycare, but I decided to reserve that sin for a day we were really running late) we got out the door with just enough time to get to school. 

I forgot my lunch on the counter and my jewelry on the dresser. But hey, I am not supermom, remember?

Please, Don't Call Me Supermom

Yes, it's true I work upwards of 10 hours a day in an office as an editor (and who's even counting those after-hour edits in the comfort of my pajamas)--and still have time to be a wife and mother of two kids (one easy-going but sensitive kindergartner and one force-of-nature, demanding 1.5yo who thinks she owns the place).

Oh, and there's the dog. And the babysitters. And the three-train shuffle, also known as Wednesday evenings (it's really more a science than a shuffle: to make it to after-school program pick-up before my son deems me to be late, I must be on the subway platform no later than 5:01pm--at 5:02pm, I'm destined to be late--only to switch trains two stops later and again several more stops later and lord help the slowpoke in front of me as I make that last dash to train #3). And then there are my work "kids," the reporters I love and devote my weekdays to. And day care pick-up. Wait, no, I outsource that to a babysitter... and my husband. Except for Wednesdays (did I mention the three-train shuffle is followed by the one-train dash and four-block hustle to get to day care late, but not so late that they think I neglect my daughter?). And then there are the snacks for school... diapers for day care... homework that's been helped-with and checked... grocery shopping... dog-food-getting... tear-and-booger-wiping...and volunteering (mustn't forget that it's bad form to beg off with a case of workingmomness).

Ok, so yes, I do all of this. But when one of my reporters calls me supermom, I don't know whether to laugh, blush or expose myself for the fraud in superhero clothing that I really am.

So let me set the record straight: I am not a supermom.

I'm truly just another hard-working professional mother who does her best to get more things right at work and home each day than I get wrong. And trust me, I get it wrong. Like the time I forgot to pick up my son from summer camp (I blame the BlackBerry, but it was the owner of said device that forgot to change her pick-up day from Wednesday to Tuesday). You know, the summer camp that was really not a good choice for him to begin with. I'd give more examples, but really, they'd pale in comparison to that double-whammy.

After years of contributing to a more professional blog about the trade-offs working parents make to, well, make it work, I've decided to launch my own personal blog about the decisions and dilemmas working moms (and dads) face, as told through my own daily wading through the adventure that is working motherhood. Maybe I'll learn a little something along the way. And perhaps my own stories will help anyone who finds this blog deal with their own dilemmas and decisions.