Being Mom

{/center}          I am a stay-at-home mom, and an epileptic. With the advent of my first pregnancy, after laying dormant for eight years, my seizures returned. Because of my physical limits, we chose to pursue old school child rearing approaches, a.k.a how our parents raised us. My husband and I had a tacit agreement --- no baby swim classes or Mommy and Me music time. We created a child raising plan based on three simple ideas. We had limits, our children could learn without extras, and they could be happy with simpler things.

         My anticonvulsants tired me and I stayed close to home most of the time. The neighbors sometimes spotted me pushing a stroller on our seventeen house cul-de-sac. A new carpet provided a safe place for my son to crawl and play and disassemble the CD player. However, We did attend a mother's group once a week, driven by someone who, unlike myself, held a driver's license. Otherwise, we stayed put. He played happily with our little, active kitten Buster. I spoke to him often and I sometimes played music. My son didn't suffer, but thrived instead.

         He was still thriving when I delivered his little brother. My husband and I didn't change anything. Simple toys ruled, with the one big exception a musical cube that played Mozart. Play-Doh and bubble soap were staples at our house. Sidewalk chalk art regularly adorned our driveway, some of it letters, numbers, and shapes. Oh, and water soluble tempera paint. One time we cut out Christmas tree shapes for a cardboard tree of our own. We used the tempera paint to color it green, with red and yellow dots for ornaments, and hanging decorations made from beading supplies. The activity was completely spontaneous and really fun.

         Books were a must. I can still recite their main bedtime story, beginning with " In the great, green room." Thank you, Margaret Wise Brown. In our house, Doctor Suess shared shelf space with Sandra Boynton. Language mattered and baby talk was anathema. My husband and I spoke normally, and we explained often. It appeared to work, if a two syllable first word ("Buster!") is any indication. When my brother-in-law from Alaska visited several years later, he was amazed when my younger son exclaimed "Look, a contrail!" Not only did my preschooler know the word, he could define it. It didn't seem remarkable to me, but I expected that he understood words of that sort.

         Having done this, I feel saddened by those parents who believe the extras are valuable. The value lies in your time together, without teachers, without play dates, and without the distractions the world likes to surround us with. Step back and think about what matters. Simplify. Enjoy your child with uninterrupted time, and you'll both t