What Do You Expect?

December is a whole month filled with expectations. We’re all expecting something – a present under the tree, a few days of vacation, visits from family, stress, snow, or maybe just homemade Christmas candy.
I’ve been musing on expectations lately for lots of reasons. I coach a group of pre-teen girls in an incredible national program called, Girls on the Run. I get the chance to know these girls on a different level then as a parent or a friend’s parent. I enjoy hearing what they think about a wide variety of social and health issues. And it is exciting to see them train for and complete their first 5K. Listening to them this fall as we ran our laps or “checked in” at the beginning of our sessions, I heard their frustration with their teachers’ expectations and their assumptions of their parents’ expectations. When asked about their own expectations they get giggly or quiet, and then tell me they expect to have fun. I wish that was all the world was expecting of them.

As the weeks passed they girls regaled me with tales of the lunchroom. Seems their expectations of lunch and the administrations expectations were worlds apart. At our school, sixth graders rule. They have been in this building for seven years and it is theirs. So when new regulations are pressed on them that include expectations of quiet during the lunch hour (actually more like 30 minutes), they protest a bit. And the protests have been getting louder and messier. I’m not sure what this will lead to in the spring when sixth graders tend to be notoriously wild - their last chance to be top of the heap before fall when they will gather at the middle school as lowly 7th graders.

The thing about the lunchroom battles that is evident to me is that everyone has a different set of expectations. The kids expect some free time to carry on with their friends – laugh loudly, tease each other, and maybe get a little rowdy. The staff expects them to sit in their seats and keep their voices down. Now the expectations have shifted. The kids to be yelled at for any move they make, and have recess and other privileges revoked for the smallest infraction (their interpretation). The staff expect the kids to be out of control, throwing food and insults, and generally ignoring authority. Comments are made about a grade that is disrespectful, difficult, and unruly.

As I’ve said before, I’m not in the lunchroom, so really I have no place even writing all this, but it’s a free internet and this is my blog so I will. I think the basic problem here isn’t disobedient sixth graders or mean staff. I think both sides need to change their expectations. And maybe they could share their expectations with each other. Respect begets respect I find. Maybe the sixth graders won’t listen. Certainly within the realm of possibilities. But then, what do you expect?

Now let me tell you another story of teachers, students, and expectations. My older son is in eighth grade. At the end of summer when we received his class assignments, he discovered he had an English teacher who is known far and wide around here for her expectations. She expects her students to work hard, really hard. She expects them to learn. She cuts no breaks. She treats them like they are high school students because she sees her job as not only teaching them 8th grade English, but also preparing them for their high school careers. As she said on Back to School night to a room full of expectant parents – “no college will ever request your child’s 8th grade transcripts”. So she pushes them to be real students, knowing that they may fail at times. She expects them to take their education seriously, because she does. And you know what? They do it. Or at least most of them. If you don't set that bar high, there's no reason to expect very much.

I tell you these stories because in all my years of working with kids, my own and other people’s, it’s very clear to me that kids will fulfill your expectations. Whether you vocalize them or not, kids know what you’re expecting. If you’re expecting them to be difficult, lazy, indifferent, or rude, they will be. And if you’re expecting them to smart, caring, creative, and fun, they will be. I believe there are some studies out there that prove me out.

I will be the first parent to admit that sometimes I have pretty negative expectations for my children, especially at the holidays. They will be wild. They will be out of control. They will only think of themselves. And I know that when I change my expectations (or someone helps me change them, thanks honey), the results are dramatic. I find it extremely helpful to let my kids know what I expect. This worked really well when they were small. I remember taking my wild 5-year-old shopping in a dish factory outlet with my mother. At the door I told him – “There are lots of amazing things in here! And you may look at all of them! But if you would like to touch any of these things, you must first ask me.” It worked like magic. We broke nothing and discovered that rubberized nonstick basting brushes feel really funny in your ear.

All this thinking about expectations made me consider my incredibly disobedient, incorrigible puppy. She’s almost two, but she is still a puppy in my mind because she is so bad. And I tell her she’s bad all the time. In fact, I’d say I expect her to be bad. And she fulfills my expectations. When I let her go with me up to the barn to feed the horses, she chases the chickens, scattering them far and wide. And then she runs in the pasture and rolls in horse manure. And the whole time I’m yelling for her. But she doesn’t even look in my direction. She won’t even acknowledge my presence. Which makes me mad. Really mad. I hate dogs that don’t come when you call them. So I mutter and curse and do my chores. And when she doesn’t come when it’s time to go in, I leave her to the dark and the cold. And vow never to take her with me out to the horses again.

She is my running partner too, and I have extremely low expectations on our runs. I know that if another dog appears in any yard that we pass, she will forget that I exist, so I start jerking on her choke chain the moment I see another dog and we struggle past, Gracie gasping for air and me saying things I hope no one can hear above all the barking.

So I’ve decided to change my expectations of my dog. And I realize I need to communicate these expectations to her and that isn’t easy since she doesn’t speak English or listen to anything I say. But I am going to start by not calling her a rotten horrible puppy. Her new name is “Good Dog”. I’m going to praise her more and when she wants to jump on the kids or chase them and bite their fingers, I’m going to distract her with an ear rub and remind her that she doesn’t chase children. When I find her with the insert from my favorite pair of shoes, I’m not going to take the inserts and smack her with them and call her all kinds of unkind things, I’m going to exchange the insert for one of her six thousand chew toys scattered all over my house and remind her that she doesn’t chew shoes, she chews ugly stuffed bunnies.

I’ve heard it said that there is freedom in having no expectations. That sounds so wonderfully Zen-like. But we all have expectations of our children, our families, our pets, our friends. I don’t care what Buddha says, it’s impossible to have no expectations. It’s human nature, so don’t beat yourself up for it. Here’s the thing, if you’re going to have expectations, and you are because you can’t help it, why not expect good? Why not expect kindness? What happens when we treat people the best we can because we expect the same from them? Maybe we won’t always get the best from people. Maybe. But I’m fairly certain that if we expect people to disappoint us, they probably will.

Christmas time is crazy when you have kids at home. No way around it. Expect it. And you can’t change that by simply chanting, “I expect my children to be quiet and obedient little cherubs this year…” Expectations have to be grown in the soil of reality. But realistically – why can’t this be a great Christmas? What are you expecting? I’m expecting there to be chaos, but amongst that I expect there will be moments of joy. I expect my kids to be emotional and excitable and I expect that it will require more patience from me so I don't disravel into yelling and threatening. I expect my kids will want to wake me up before the sun, so I’m going to plan for that. I’ll tell them they can’t get up until 7am. And expecting that this will be difficult for them, I’ll leave a small present from Santa on the end of their bed. Something that will keep them busy (and quiet) until 7. Sometimes our kids need a little help living up to our expectations.

What are you expecting this Christmas? More than that, what are you expecting next year? Expect good things. Good things from your kids, good things from yourself, good things from this world. There's no reason to expect anything less.

Danger: Christmas Expectations

Plans, expectations, and schedules are definitely not things to stake your happiness on, especially if your happiness involves children. Or animals. At Christmas time. Christmas is chock full of expectations. And not just for the kids. We all remember idyllic Christmas experiences. Of course, we were kids then, so we probably don’t remember the huge fight we had with our little brother or the amazing mess we made of the kitchen – just the delicious cookies creaking under the weight of all those cinnamon red hots and silver bullets. We don’t remember the car getting stuck in the mud at the tree lot and mom ruining her favorite shoes, just the long search for the perfect tree, the complimentary hot chocolate, and the excitement of driving home with a tree strapped to the roof.

I’ve gotten better at curbing my expectations. My children have forced me to. Still, now and again, I can succumb. This past weekend was mapped out in my mind as the All-Christmas weekend. Friday night we would do a little Christmas baking and work on our shopping lists before settling down in front of the TV with popcorn to watch our much anticipated family movie – Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy (my oldest is a big fan of the books, as are his mom and dad). We would wake up early Saturday morning to attend the Santa Breakfast at school and get pictures with Santa. We’d do a little Christmas shopping, before heading out to get our tree that afternoon. Then we’d spend the rest of the day decorating and listening to Christmas carols. Sunday was church, an interruption of the Christmas festivities for the first indoor soccer game of the season, and then we were having dear friends for a Christmas dinner. Throw in a little wrapping and finishing touches on some homemade Christmas gifts and it was truly to be the uber Christmas weekend. The best laid plans.

Things began to go awry late in the afternoon, as I puttered in the kitchen singing along to Jimmy Buffet’s Christmas Island. My youngest child, who is normally my happiest child, wasn’t happy. Pretty much anything set him off. If I hadn’t been so caught up in my fantasy Christmas weekend, I might have picked up on the fact that there was more to his discontent than a long week at school and a much anticipated visit with Santa. But before I could even go there, I was interrupted by a chicken crisis. Seems the wind had blown the chicken pen gate shut during the day. Now it was growing dark and the most of the chicken’s hadn’t been able to get in to the pen to sleep in their hen house. Only six had been able to fly successfully over the fence and find their perches. Shining the flashlight on their annoyed faces as my daughter’s fear ramped up, I had a premonition that this weekend of holiday cheer was not to be.

We spent an hour looking for the lost hens and found three. I stacked up hay bales to climb up and retrieve one from a rafter in the barn. (How is it she could get up there, but couldn’t scale our four foot wire fence that sags in spots from the cat’s antics?). One was huddled behind the feed bins and one was roosting on the lawnmower. That left six still missing. We took a break from our searching to eat a quick dinner. So much for the amazing dinner I had created to launch our wonderful weekend – a decadent cream of crab soup and handmade French bread. There was no time to linger over a glass of wine and rub out tummies. There were hens in danger of freezing or being eaten by a fox.

As the temperatures dropped rapidly (the forecast was for 16 degrees over night!), we expanded our search. This turned up two more hens roosting on our tomato frames that were stacked against the bike shed, clearly in enemy dog territory. If the chickens were in the dogs’ area, they were obviously disoriented and panicked (and lucky to be alive!). One more chicken was discovered huddled underneath some bikes in the shed. That left three chickens out for the night. Once it gets dark, chickens hunker down. They don’t squawk or cluck or make noises of any kind. Two of the chickens still missing were Bard Rocks which are a dark color with little specks of white. So we were essentially looking for a small, silent dark blob in the dark. We finally gave up and decided we would pray that the hens would make it through the night. By the time we reached this decision, it was nearly bedtime for 2 out of 3 kids, so we nixed the much anticipated movie night and played a quick game of scoreless scrabble instead.

Saturday morning began before daylight when my youngest child woke with a migraine – begging for his eye cover and throwing up with every movement. He gets these migraines periodically and they pretty much level him. But today? On this weekend? So much for Santa and his breakfast.

I went out to see what had become of our three lost hens. There was no movement anywhere until I let out the rooster. He began crowing and yelling and strutting all over. He was definitely aware that some of his harem was lost. I didn’t think there was much hope, but then a squawk arose from a pine tree at the bottom of our property, far, far away from the chicken pens and the barn. Soon a very frightened hen was frantically darting for cover from bush to bush making her way back to her man. Another hen turned up later in the morning, unannounced silently sneaking back from her night out. But the third one was gone. Of course it was Thing 2. Thing 2 was our parade chicken, a great layer, and a beautiful Rhode Island Red hen. Why couldn’t it have been a bard rock? I made the mistake of thinking this out loud and my daughter chastised me with a horrified look.

After the chicken recovery, my daughter and I headed over to the school where she ate her fill of pancakes and I volunteered with the school book sale. Thinking we could still salvage something of the weekend, we went home to access the damage. I mentally laid out hopes of Christmas shopping and wrapping and convincing my husband to hang up colored lights outside. A friend stopped by to bring my son’s soccer shirt for the game the next day and as she was leaving her child noticed that one of our chickens was bleeding badly.

It took three of us a good deal of time to catch the bleeding chicken, which led me to believe the wound wasn’t mortal, despite the blood. We brought her inside and washed her up in the mudroom sink. She wasn’t thrilled at this adventure, but she allowed it. The wound was pretty huge. One entire side looked just like the chicken you see in the grocer’s meat case. On my daughter’s instruction, I slathered it in Neosporin and used a blow dryer to dry her off as best I could. As I sat cradling the wounded chicken, blood covering my jacket, holding a blow-dryer to her feathers, I wondered if anyone else’s weekend was going like this. This was not the Christmas weekend I had planned. I shook my head at my life, but I smiled because despite the blood and the chicken and the wrecked weekend, we have a good life.

We put the hen in a crate inside to keep her warm and see if the bleeding would stop. We couldn’t let her out with the rest of the hens if she was still bleeding profusely. Maybe you aren’t aware that chickens are savage beasts? If one is bleeding or injured, many times the others will peck it to death. Seems there is no compassion in the chicken world. Of course, the injured hen was my last remaining Rhode Island Red. Of course it was.

By the time the chicken was tended and the child with the migraine feeling better, there were two extra kids at my house and it was too late for chopping down a Christmas tree. In keeping with the Christmas Spirit, the kids decided to create a haunted house in the basement. Huh? That’s what I said as I listened to them make the mess downstairs, shrieking and laughing. I guess the blood was inspiring. So much for our Christmas weekend. Luckily that night I escaped for a Christmas party with my book club (no children, no hubbies, and definitely no bleeding chickens, just lots of cranberry-infused vodka and good company).

Sunday wasn’t much better as far as the Christmas celebrations. We didn’t make it to church because our hilly driveway was a sheet of ice (much like a luge course) and our friends didn’t make it down for dinner because the weather was worse up north. We did squeeze in the soccer game midday. After that, my husband retired to the couch and the football games and I retreated to my workspace and fought with my sewing machine (I don’t sew- this was for a new project you’ll hear about in an upcoming post).

So much for Christmas expectations. We still don’t have a tree. We’ll have to mail our letters to Santa. There are no twinkling lights in the trees around my house. There are two presents wrapped, and still no cookies baked. But the chicken survived. What more could I want?

I realize this post isn’t offering you any new information on Kid Friendly Organic Life, but I hope it is offering you a warning. Beware of Christmas expectations. They are not what Christmas is all about. In the end, my kids had a really fun weekend (minus the migraine). They got to play with friends, have an exciting chicken adventure with flashlights and danger and mom & dad, created a haunted house that was good for many laughs, and my daughter even learned to make an apple pie for the company that never came. It was a good weekend. It just wasn’t what I expected. And maybe that’s fine. I have to keep learning this lesson. When it comes to kids (and animals), it’s best to let go of the expectations and be grateful for what comes your way.

Like this morning when my 7-year-old came racing in to the kitchen chasing after the puppy as he shouted, “You can’t eat Baby Jesus!” at the top of his lungs. Seems the puppy was taste-testing characters out of our crèche scene and Baby Jesus was the tastiest. We rescued Jesus and laughed until we cried as the puppy came trotting back in to the kitchen dragging the entire barn backdrop and trailing a few wisemen! Nothing is sacred in our house. Except maybe a good laugh.

Let the Pasta Get Mushy and Take the Long Way Home

I think I pulled every weed on our property this weekend. Nah, I just wish I did. If you live anywhere in the mid-atlantic you know we got the rain of all rains this past Friday and Saturday nights. I mean inches. The police had to shut down the far end of our hollow because the creek was so high it covered the road. Big rain. Love it. Not so great if you were getting married this weekend, but other than that, the earth needed it and the skies delivered.

I had a bunch of projects planned for this weekend. Canning peach BBQ sauce, helping my daughter re-design her sandals (the puppy removed the beadwork), and planning an Alopecia presentation for my son’s class were some of the projects I had hoped to accomplish. Cleaning out the barn (it flooded several storms ago), catching the escapee chicken (she needs her wing clipped), and planting my fall crops (spinach, lettuce, and a cover crop over the part of the garden that is finished) were all things on my agenda. None of them got done. Not one. What got done was the weeding that was incredibly overdue. I weeded all day Saturday and Sunday in between taking my daughter to play rehearsals and my boys to soccer practice and games. When it was all done, the pick up truck bed was completely filled with weeds right up to the top of the cab. Think I put off the weeding too long?

That’s the thing about raising plants and raising children, you have to seize the moment. And sometimes you have to take what you can get. There were plenty of hours this past month when I could have weeded the gardens, but the ground was too hard and the sun too hot to make it worth my while. I had to wait for the big rain to make my job easier. Seems to work the same way with kids. It’d be great if they could share quality time with me according to my agenda, but when I try to force it I get monotone answers and annoyed responses. How was the bus ride? Fine. Was anybody being mean? No. Are you sure? I don’t know, what’s for snack? So I wait for the right moment. Car rides and early evening when I’m frantically preparing dinner seem to be the moments my children choose for real discussions. I’ve learned to let the pasta get mushy or take the long way home.

We have to wait for our moment. And sometimes when that moment presents itself we will be forced to cast aside plans in order to make the most of it. I tend to hang around in the kitchen a lot hoping for these moments. Our kitchen is the heart of our house. It’s where everyone is. My son spreads out his dungeons and dragons on the table, my husband opens his laptop on the counter, my daughter dabbles on the piano, and my youngest tears in and out chasing the puppy and scavenging for food. Our place is pretty big and there are plenty of nooks to claim some privacy, yet everyone congregates in the kitchen. So that’s where I am. By being present I am available. And that’s what I think kids need most. An adult who cares about them and is available. An adult who is ready to drop what she is doing and listen or act, as the need may be.

My kids are at school, but my garden needs me too. Today I’ve got to seize the moment and get my fall seeds in. I’d planned on posting about seed saving or a green product I’ve discovered, but it’s gorgeous outside and the garden needs me. So I’ll offer a little object lesson on living organically and instead of sitting here spouting off stories, advice, or ideas, I’m going to go get my hands dirty. Living organically, raising children, and growing things all require flexibility and spontaneity. But most of all they require that we stop thinking about it and get to work. So that’s what I’m going to go do.