Time Management 101

Lately, I've been wondering exactly how working mothers handle the whole time management and the guilt thing. I've been observing a friend who has a full time, stressful job at a high-tech company. She runs several committees on the elementary school PTSA. She's creating the website for her son's Cub Scout troop, and she--and her husband--have both gotten to our kids' elementary school early the last few months so as to help out with the shortage of crossing guards (we are a walking school).

And yet, I am pretty sure she's not neglecting her kids. They are both well-mannered, polite, good kids who don't appear to be the monsters that kids can be if they aren't getting the necessary attention. I've been at her house to work on PTSA stuff with her, and her youngest son is apparently perfectly aware that she is "working." He did sit in the room with us and work on his puzzle, but he didn't constantly demand her attention. He didn't attempt to sabotage her meeting with me because she wasn't giving him all her focus. It was obvious to me that she had drawn a line in the sand, and he respected it.

I have a difficult time doing this. Especially, it seems, with my daughter.

In terms of solitary play, my son has always been independent. True, he would cling to my leg like a terrified monkey whenever we went to friends' houses or the drop-in play at the kiddie gym, and he cried whenever I dropped him off at preschool for the entire first year (he was known as The Howler). But at home, he liked to play with me for a bit, and then he'd wander off and be fine on his own. For the last few years, since his sister has been able to actually play, he is happy to play with her for awhile, but then he's done.

His sister is another story. Perhaps it's because she's the opposite of him, and she wants someone to play with all the time. She gets sad and mopes if she thinks she's not the center of attention. She gets excited about going to school, and she wants to have playdates every single day, and sometimes twice a day. She loves birthday parties and people and interaction. She needs to be entertained, and she has a tendency to get very mad when no one will help her achieve that goal.

I also know I have not pushed her to be independent nearly as much as I pushed my son. If nothing else, he had to grow up when she came along. I was also very concerned about his lack of social skills, and I worked hard to help him feel comfortable being independent.

With her....I've started to push, on several things, several times...and then I let it go. "This is it," I think. "She's the last one."

Not thoughts I ever expected would influence my hard-headed logical self. But my children have found pieces of me I never knew existed.

So, it is my daughter who, last week on Veteran's Day, when we were all home and it was raining heavy like it does at this time of year, demanded my attention even after I spent all morning with them. Who cried and stamped her feet and sang her favorite litany ("Mommy doesn't love me, Mommy doesn't love me!") from behind her bedroom door while she threw her stuffed animals at the door. And it is because of those same demands why I am sometimes rushing to get my homework done or put together the my son's PTSA newspaper which I voluntarily edit, or even call a friend.

That same day, I had to call the president of the PTSA. It was all quiet at her house, and I remarked on this, wondering what she did with her kids on this rainy holiday. "Oh," she said, "we did our thing this morning, and now they're listening to their music on the computer and I'm doing my thing."

I was impressed and amazed and in awe. Imagine that: they did their thing together, then they did their own thing, apart. Not forever, just for a few hours. That was when I understood that the thing between me and my daughter could be fixed. Should be fixed.

I emailed the same friend and asked her for advice. She basically said she wants to talk to me about it in person--it's easier to explain and find out from me what's going on. But I'd already been thinking, and talking to my husband, and I already understood the difference: I didn't see any time as "my" time. When the kids were home, all time is "their" time.

The problem with that is twofold: 1)even if I had nothing else to do, ever, there is only so long I can play Star Wars guys, which includes doing a full range of voices for Clone Troopers, SuperBattle Droids and Darth Vader, and 2)I do have other things to do. Even taking away the PTSA work and my Facebook "work" and writing "work" and the whole talking-to-my-friends "work," I still need to come up with meals. Sometimes I need to pay bills, make phone calls to doctors and speech therapists and teachers, make travel arrangements, carpool arrangements, birthday party arrangements. Sometimes I even need to clean another room besides the kitchen (OK, that's so at the bottom of my list, but it would probably be good for the kids to see me clean just for kicks, and not because people are coming over).

And sometimes, the kids just need to play by themselves or with each other, and give us a break from being with each other.

But I feel like such a bad mom when my daughter looks at me with her big hazel eyes and holds my hand and tells me she loves me and really, really, really needs me to play Pet Doctor with her (this is before she has the temper tantrum if I say no).

And why do I feel like a bad mom? Here's the deep thinking realization part: because I don't really value anything else I do except be a mom. Nothing else I do seems as important, or as worthwhile, or as worthy. And, technically, it's probably not. Editing the PTSA newsletter is not worth losing my kids. Writing poems and stories that so far, continue to just get rejected from every magazine on the face of the planet is not worth giving up time with my kids. Updating my profile on Facebook is definitely not as worthy as playing Star Wars guys for a bazillion hours with my daughter (judging by the happiness she gets out of it, that is).

The problem is, all of these things are things I enjoy. They make me happy. They make me feel connected. They make me feel successful.

Raising children is the most difficult job in the universe. If you are successful, you don't necessarily know it until someone else tells you, or until your kid is 40 and says, "Thanks, Mom, for teaching me all that you did." And then, if you're 80, like I will be, will you really care? Will you even be able to hear them, much less recognize them? One can only hope, but the point is, raising children, you don't get a pay raise every year for doing a great job. You don't get bonuses. You don't get awards or community recognition or people wanting you to speak all over the world because you are so damn good at what you do (that's my husband).

A lot of the time, you get other people criticizing your methods. You get advice from strangers on the street. You get "looks" on the playground and in the airport. You get isolation from people your own age.

Sure, you get the "I need a magic kiss, Mommy, to make the owie better." You get the "No, YOU have to put me to bed." You get the "I miss you so much in school, Mommy," and the "Look what I made you, Mommy!" You get the love, and the love is definitely far better then all of that stuff mentioned above. But that doesn't mean it's any less hard, on a day to day basis, when you give all day long and just want one hour to yourself to send people Pieces of Flair on Facebook or write a story that no one else wants to read but your husband.

It doesn't mean that what relaxes you, what makes you feel centered and whole, is any less worthy then talking like Darth Vader to the delight of a little girl.

Today, after talking to my friend some more and talking to myself a lot more, I tried something new. I took the kids to the park for two hours. We walked down the hill; I even brought the wagon, at my daughter's urging, although I was very firm in letting her know I would pull her down in it, but she would have to walk on her own going up (we have the heaviest wagon in the world). I pushed them on the tire swing for half an hour, at least. We walked over to McDonald's and took food back to the park for a late fall picnic. We played on the tire swing until my shoulders ached. We played football. We played hide and seek. We started to play hide and seek freeze tag, but my daughter was sagging, and she got really mad for some reason or another.

I did not get on my cell phone. I did not keep looking at my watch, until the very end when Daughter was obviously worn out. I did not go to the bathroom for a very long time or find a really good hiding place (like my car) where it took them a long time to find me. I did not even use the fat lip my son gave me when his elbow slammed into my face on the tire swing as a reason to sit down. I did not suggest we go home until they were very, very ready to go home.

And when we arrived home, I told them very simply, very nicely, but very firmly, "It's time for you to play by yourself or with each other and it's time for me to do some work."

My son, who would have done this anyway, said, "OK. Sounds great!"

But my daughter....she was the one I was worried about. She is the reason I've thought about doing this before, but have never really done it because, can I say this? I am sometimes afraid of her. Strangers have noted she is a "spitfire," "firecracker," and "headstrong." They have no idea. I have been described as the same, my whole life (my mother just laughs when she sees us together), and yet I feel like she has bested me a thousand times over. The worst part is, I know she knows her...passion...makes me choose my words carefully. Today, on account of talking to myself in my head the whole time we were at the park, I was not afraid of her. I didn't consider all the negative reactions she could have. I didn't ask. I didn't really wait around for her to give me her opinion. I kept moving, mentally, so to speak. Once I said it, it was a done deal.

She looked at me for a long moment, and I could tell she was trying to find the cracks in my armor. I must have appeared whole, because she just said, "OK. But you'll play with me in a little while?"

"Of course," I said.

"OK," she said. "Hey, Brother, you wanna' play with me?"

It could, of course, have been an exceptional day. I could have spent so much time with them they were honestly tired of me. The McDonald's could have acted as an unspoken bribe.

Or I could have figured out that, if I feel my time is worthy, my kids will, too.