When being who you are is not enough

Like most American households with inhabitants under the age of 12, we have an Elf on the Shelf. From mid-November until last Saturday, we counted the days, hours and minutes until he would make his annual December 1st debut.

When we brought our elf home two years ago, I had high hopes that his presence would, as the brightly illustrated,  irritatingly rhyming book that accompanied him suggested, encourage our kids to tow the line for at least 25 days out of the year. I don't even bother reminding them that the elf is watching any more, as he's watched them argue, whine and blatantly disobey for the past two years and yet Santa has still made substantial deposits under our tree each time. Oh well.

What the book also suggests is that this elf is supposed to sit (sit!) on a shelf (a shelf!) and observe. He can't talk, and he can't be touched (sensory processing disorder, perhaps?). He's just supposed to sit. On a shelf. Hence the name, right?

Wrong.

Each morning for the past week, our neighbor carpool pals have skipped through our front door and immediately begun to regale my kids with stories of where they've found their clever (and sometimes naughty) elf.

This morning, he had commandeered the family's shoes, arranging them like train cars under the tree and coaxing the kids' stuffed animals into hopping aboard while he played conductor. Two mornings ago (or was it yesterday? I've lost track.) he was riding a Lego dirt bike up a ramp of brightly-wrapped gifts. The day before that, they caught him with a Barbie on his lap (naughty elf, indeed.)

That elf is making ours look like a first-rate dud. Our elf sits. On shelves. Sometimes he moves from one to another but always (until yesterday when the beginnings of an inferiority complex finally drove him to swing trapeze style from our dining room chandelier. My daughter's response when they found him hanging there like a little red bat? "Our elf finally did something funny!" My son's? "Yeah. That's kind of funny. I guess." ) he just sits.

In his defense, our elf has to find a perch at least a few feet off the ground to avoid getting spirited away and possibly dunked in the toilet by our 16-month old, who poos-poos rules in general and would thus have no qualms in breaking the "no touching" rule.

Beyond that, I'm going to guess that our elf is tired from all his flying back and forth to the North Pole to tell Santa how ornery our kids are (not that it matters) and does well to climb back up to his shelf when he makes his move each morning at 5:00. Or maybe he's tired from all those loads of laundry he's been doing for me in the wee hours of the night. If anyone has a line on that kind of elf, please share the love.

And if anyone has any suggestions for clever, exciting and/or naughty stunts our elf could pull off between now and Christmas morning, send those along too. If I'm, I mean he's, not too exhausted, we may just give them a whirl.

We are what we eat

There comes a time in the StereoMom's life when she realizes that if she were at a cocktail party or work function and the small talk turned to literature, she would be forced to admit that the stack on her bedside table was more about form than function and that the last book she'd actually read had a very high illustration to text ratio.

When I reached that point, I dug out my library card (because we StereoMom's have to save our pennies for giant pickles from the snack cart in the school cafeteria so our child isn't the only one who never gets to buy a snack) and started surfing the stacks. My first choice was Sula, a Toni Morrison book recommended to me by our summer office intern, a 19-year old with nothing but time and, fortunately, good taste in books.

Energized by the intellectual jolt and intrigued by an article I'd read in one of the Edible Communities magazines, I trotted back to the library and plucked a couple of Michael Pollan books - specifically, Food Rules, An Eater's Manual and The Omnivore's Dilemma - from the shelves.

Unfortunately, the books did not come with any warnings for StereoMoms with a high propensity for "mommy guilt", and so it is that I find myself fresh off of Food Rules and at once inspired to ditch the fat, sugar, salt and general excess that characterize the so-called Western diet and horrified by the amount of fat, sugar, salt and general excess that characterize the dietary habits of our family.

When I crawled into bed with the book two nights ago, my husband asked me what I was reading. After I explained the premise, he gave me a look that said, 'Don't even think about getting rid of my fatty breakfast pork products'  before he rolled over and closed his eyes.

The more I read, the more I found myself nodding and silently condemning myself as a mother for passing off "edible foodlike substances" such as Cheetos (but I buy the baked version!) and "fruit" by the foot (my husband gets the blame for those) to my kids.

If my son had any idea what was contained in Pollan's missive, he would organize himself a good ol'-fashioned book burnin' and toss every copy in the barrel. The processed snack category is one of his favorite food groups, second only to candy and desserts.

Moving from our "as is" state to a state more like the one Pollan proposes (he doesn't suggest that people completely forgo treats like fried chicken and cake but simply treat them as the treats they used to be decades ago before the dawn of fast food chains and big box snack companies) would be no small feat, particularly when it comes to the men in my house, who have been known to lunch on Club Crackers and pepperoni. But I was with him all the way until I got to Rule No. 64:

Try to Spend as Much Time Enjoying the Meal as it Took to Prepare It.

Indeed, Mr. Pollan. If you live in an empty nest, I'm sure it is lovely to savor every bite, appreciate the flavor, think about the time that golden baby beet spent blossoming in your garden. But just try enjoying a meal in a house where the adults are outnumbered and the combined age of the majority party is 11, and you, too, might find yourself shoving a stack of Trader Joe's pepperoni and Club Crackers down your gullet before racing from the table to the living room just in time to thwart a king-of-the-couch coup attempt by your toddler.

Somebody pass the Cheez-Its.

What's new, Pussycat?

It's November 28th, and my four-year old has already dictated four different Christmas lists to anyone who would oblige him a few minutes of time to take short-hand. My six-year old has been debating whether she should ask Grammy for an American Girl doll or an American Girl doll bed for the past two weeks because, as she was quick to point out to my husband, she only has a doll cradle, and American Girl dolls are not babies.
 
The irony is, in all the items on those four lists, I am hard-pressed to find something that we don't already own in some slightly modified form. Exhibit A: Power Blaster Buzz Lightyear comes equipped with a shield and space gun (that will disappear into the abyss under our couch before the end of the day on December 25), which none of the six Buzz Lightyears littering our living room floor has.

If my daughter opts for the doll, it will be her fourth of the American Girl variety (two she inherited from my niece and one was a birthday gift from Grammy, the bankroller), while the bed would be a novelty on a semantical technicality.

This phenomenon isn't unique to my kids . . . (what do I want for Christmas? Options I've entertained include a new purse, more office-appropriate pants and a salad spinner to replace the one that broke six months ago. After accidentally uttering that last item aloud to my husband I realized how lame it would be to get a salad spinner for Christmas, so I quickly and adamantly told him that I definitely did not want a salad spinner for Christmas.)

. . . or to things. Since I started (sporadically) writing this blog almost a year ago, several of the moms who read it have commented on how much they identify with what I'm saying, which is great. There's comfort in commiserating, satisfaction in standing shoulder-to-shoulder in the daily battles of raising kids, pursuing careers and sweeping three meals worth of crust and crud from underneath the dining room table at the end of each day.

On the flip side, however, those remarks bring into laser focus the undeniable fact that my adventures in parenting, marriage and life in general are ultimately no different than any other mid-30something wife and mom livin' the suburban dream. Funny how one day you just wake up and find that you have become a stereotype. A minivan-driving, carpooling stereotype who has "date nights", stocks her pantry with gummy vitamins and gummy snacks and scolds the teenagers who attend the high school down the street for speeding in her neighborhood.

On second thought, maybe I should just go ahead and ask for that salad spinner.

Lights, camera, action!

Our six-year old had a solo - a poem - in her kindergarten Thanksgiving chapel, which was two days before her brother's preschool Thanksgiving program. With both events scheduled for weekday mornings (are we the only parents who have to work to pay those tuition bills?), my husband, a teacher, had to make a difficult choice, and the Friday event, which included lunch, won out.

In my ongoing campaign for the title of Wife/Mother of the Year, I made a point of charging our video camera and actually remembering to take it with me to the chapel program so my husband could at least watch a replay of our daughter's 17 seconds of fame. Sliding into the gym minutes before the program started, I had forfeited all the good spots on the bleachers. Determined to find a good angle for filming, I parked myself on the end of a semicircle of first graders on the gym floor, trying not to wonder (or care) if any other parents thought I was a crazy pageant mom. 

As soon as the first notes wafted from the piano, I flipped on the camera and hoisted my right arm in a proud parent salute, my eyes darting back and forth between live action and camera screen. The kids belted out song after song about pilgrims, Indians (I know the term isn't PC, but if Florida State can get away with having some guy decked out in full Seminole face paint ride onto their football field every week and slam a spear into midfield, then I guess a bunch of five- and six-year olds should get a pass too), and eating turkey, until I was afraid our short-life battery and my tired arm would give out before the poem was recited.

I am proud to say that both the battery and my arm made it through the entire show. I am embarrassed to admit that I shot most of the program, poem included, with the camera on pause. I didn't even realize it until I got home and attempted to show my dad, who'd pulled house duty with our 15-month old so I could focus on the program (for all the good that did), her big moment that was, oddly, nowhere on the camera.

Needless to say, I let my husband man the camera during the preschool show, which lasted approximately seven minutes.

Hope your Thanksgiving was happy and that you enjoy this rendition of the holiday classic, "I'm a Little Indian."

The war on women

Watching one "15-minute" segment of the recent presidential debate before dozing off inspired me to make an attempt to return to the world of the socially and politically informed (Yes, I am one of those moms who completely checked out of the current events loop when my kids arrived on the scene. I will be the first to admit that I usually can't stay awake long enough after the kids go to bed to read in uninterrupted silence or watch the news, and on the rare occasions that I can I prefer vegging out with a mindless home decorating magazine to watching graphic images of the violence in the Middle East or following the latest reality TV show "celebrity" break-up news.)

So it was that I found myself trolling for post-debate commentary to see what I'd missed in the 60 minutes that I'd been snoring on the couch. 

I was not surprised to find polarized, passionate discourse replete with references to Big Bird and intolerant assertions from liberals who pride themselves on their tolerance (can I get an amen if you've ever disagreed with a lefty and been told you're wrong?) Nor was it news to me that there's a war on women. What was news to me was that Public Enemy No. 1 is the ultra-conservative, misogynistic GOP.

Women from sea to shining sea are claiming that Republicans won't sleep until every birth control pill has been flushed into the Atlantic and every woman returned to her rightful place at the helm of a well-kept home. Having been out of the loop for more than half a decade, I can't really say if these assertions are politically accurate, but what struck me in reading article after article about the persecution and injustice we as women face was: have we identified the real enemy?

A wealthy male presidential candidate whose wife chose a career in child rearing makes a convenient poster child for the war on women. But ladies, before we launch an overseas attack, let's take care of business on the homefront.

Let's stop spending billions of dollars each year on breast augmentations and Botox and start liking what we see in the mirror.

Let's stop blaming legislation for the fact that we can't achieve superwoman status and admit that we simply can't do and have it all. Let's make those difficult choices, accept the trade-offs that come with them and support our sisters who choose a different path.


Let's stop judging other women's marriages (or divorces) and parenting styles and start being more sympathetic and thoughtful when a friend opens up about family struggles.

Let's stop cutting ourselves down and start building stronger self-images, friendships and support systems.

Let's make like Nike and just do it, ladies. If not for our ourselves, then for our daughters.

Making the grade

We've been back to school for about a month in our house, so I figured now was as good a time as any to get back to the blog. (Thanks, by the way, to the two people who told me they've missed my posts.)

I'm happy to report that our daughter loves kindergarten. So much, in fact, that when I told her that she would get to ride home with me from her apple-picking field trip later this month rather than taking the bus back to school she balked. "But I just love school!" she cried. "Can't I ride the bus back and you pick me up at carpool?"

I'm thrilled she's thrilled to be there and even more thrilled that my son, who was very vocal over the past year about his intent to never go to school, admits to liking preschool. So, all is well on the emotional front. Not so much on the logistical front.

If I were to be graded on my back-to-school performance to date, I'd see letters that I never saw on real report cards in my entire career (ECON11 aside.)

Summer Reading Program: B-
In what was surely a precursor to the misery I will enjoy over the duration of my kids' elementary school days, the summer reading program was a hybrid of reading and artsy-craftsy activities, all based on a camping theme. I love reading. I do not love crafting. 

In summary, the kids had to complete a minimum number of activities to satisfy the basic requirement. Those who completed 50 activities would be rewarded with a special dessert in the library after school resumed. 

Momentarily forgetting that I a) do not enjoy making nature collages, b) work outside the home, c) have two other kids who require my attention and d) do not enjoy making nature collages, I told C we'd aim to earn that dessert.

Four days before the packet was due, I admitted defeat. It was logistically impossible for us to complete 24 activities in 96 hours. Fortunately, she has an optimistic streak. After a few seconds of disappointment she shrugged and said, "Maybe we can do it next year." Or not.

Back to School Night: D
With our toddler sick on back-to-school night, my husband flew solo to that event. Never again.

Four weeks into school, I still have not returned the milk break and cafeteria snack forms that I am allegedly required to return regardless of our participation in those programs. Nor have I signed up for the four requisite lunchroom and carpool volunteer shifts that we are asked to work over the course of the year.

My husband did sign us up for two Scientist of the Week slots, but my unit is on Fire Safety. (Seriously?) I'm hoping our local fire station offers free guest lectures.

When he returned with a legal envelope bursting with papers "that we're supposed to read. I figured you could look through them", I asked if he told the teacher why I wasn't there.

"No."

"Seriously?"

"What difference does it make?"

"Now I look like a deadbeat mom!"

"No you don't."

"Yes I do!"

"You're a teacher-pleaser."

"As a teacher, don't you appreciate that?"

Apparently not. I gave myself credit in this subject for sending in the summer reading packet and school supplies.

Supplies Procurement: C
I'm not sure if I should deduct points from the above for sending in the wrong school supplies, but that sure is what I did. Apparently the supply lists are unique to each campus in C's school, and I printed the wrong one. It became apparent to me only after my daughter skipped out of school the third day with a backpack full of Model Magic.

"We only use Playdoh," she advised when I asked why she was bringing home her supplies. Certain that Model Magic had been on the list, I walked over to her teacher to clarify.

"Oh, you must have printed off the ES supply list. I think they use Model Magic. It's fine, though. We have plenty of Playdoh. The only thing you'll need to send is a white pillow case."

Determined to prove that I wasn't a complete idiot, I went home, printed the RC list and stomped off to Target to buy an additional $75 worth of Crayola Twistable Crayons and No. 2 pencils.

Cafeteria Management: C
Because I missed Back-to-School night, I wasn't entirely plugged into the process for buying lunch in the cafeteria. 27 years ago, you forked over a dollar. These days you rattle off a PIN.

With plans to go out for a celebratory back-to-school lunch with my mom on her first Friday of school, I provided C with a light lunch and explanation why. Apparently one of the cafeteria workers was concerned by that and asked my daughter if she planned to buy a piece of pizza to eat with what she'd brought from home.

"No," C replied. "My mommy hasn't put money in my account yet."

No explanation as to why (the school says they e-mailed her PIN and account set-up instructions to my husband, he claims he didn't receive the e-mail) or that we were going out for lunch #2 in an hour and a half. Why is my family conspiring to make me look like a horrible mother?

Carpool: B
In a Murhpy's Law moment, I pulled into the carpool line on the first day that kindergarteners participated in it only to discover that I'd forgotten my number. Pinned in on all sides by parents who hadn't forgotten their numbers, I left my Stepford Wife minivan running and jogged over to the gym door, praying they would give me my child and the two neighbors I was also supposed to pick up that day.

They did, and I am giving myself points in this subject for being on time every morning that I have been responsible for dropping off the neighborhood carpool crew. Don't think that's noteworthy? Talk to my father.

And that's just my kindergarten report. My performance as a preschool mom is fodder for a whole other post. Here's hoping my eight-week progress report shows improvement.

I don't feel old until . . .

One would think that having three kids, a mortgage and a minivan would have grounded me in the reality that I am, well, old, a full-fledged grown-up who gets called "m'am" by teenaged cashiers and "Fill-in-the-blank's mom" by my kids' playmates. But the thing is, most of the time I don't feel old.

Looking out on the world (vs. at myself in the mirror), I still feel as if I'm looking through the 26-year old eyes that drank in the lapis skies of Kapalua while honeymooning in Maui. Then I look at pictures from that honeymoon and see my husband and I, almost a decade younger, looking . . . young. Well-rested. Young.

And then I get glossy photo collage thank-you cards from newly minted brides and grooms and think, "When did it become acceptable to send a blanket 'thanks for everything' photo card instead of a handwritten thank-you note?" Then I feel old.

The geezer in me thinks, 'Photo cards are for Christmas. Where's the monogrammed stationery? The personal note about how they'll think of us every time they whip up a batch of brownies with that hand mixer? The signature, for crying out loud?!?'

The thing is this bride is a lovely girl (old folks like me can call twenty-somethings "girls"), well-mannered, polite, sweet. I'm sure she's very appreciative of our gift (which, for those of you who were thinking you wouldn't have bothered with a handwritten thank-you for a hand mixer either, was cash for their nest egg. The hand mixer thing was for illustrative purposes only.) She has lovely parents who, I'm sure, taught her proper manners.

Which leads me to believe that the photo card must be a sign of our "convenience at all cost!" times. Well, it's a sign of the end times, if you ask me.

Crotchety old ladies like me prefer tradition over efficiency, the pen over the photo printer. A handwritten note indicates value - the writer values your investment in them enough to invest a few minutes of time in return. We also think all new brides should suffer like, I mean, share the same rite of passage that we did when we wrote 220+ thank-you notes back in 2003.

For a split second, as I stood there holding that card, I thought, 'Perhaps I'm overreacting. Perhaps I'm just out of touch. Perhaps this is the new standard for expressing gratitude.' So I did a litmus test with my husband.

"A 'thanks for everything' photo card?" I asked, checking his face for a reaction.

"Yeah, I know. That's what I thought too," he replied.

How I do look forward to growing even older with this man who appreciates the importance of a proper thank-you card.

An inconvenient truth

First, a confession: I like Taylor Swift songs. Not all of them, but a handful of them, which I gleefully crank up in my car as I did on my way into work Tuesday.

Given that the kid is barely old enough to order a cocktail, I expect wisdom from her songs. I just like the catchy tunes and the fact that she actually plays and writes her own music. So I was surprised to find myself getting philosophical (at 8:30 in the morning, no less) in response to this five-word phrase from the song Ours: life makes love look hard.

In my experience, love is hard. Loving someone else (a spouse, a child, a sibling) means you love yourself a little less, and human beings aren't hardwired to do that. Whether you believe it's a product of evolution or the Biblical fall from grace, people have an innate tendency to look out for No. 1.

The Wikipedia definition of love includes words like kindness, compassion, and "the unselfish loyal and benevolent concern for the good of another." Love is, by nature, unselfish, and people are, by nature, selfish.

Think I'm a pessimist? Think of all the times you've been angry at your spouse or significant other. Why were you upset? If you dig deep enough, I'd be willing to wager that it stemmed from the fact that your needs weren't met. You didn't get "your way."

Even loving your kids can be a challenge of epic proportions. No one on the planet is needier and greedier than young children. According to Parent Further, most kids are still self-centered at the age of nine. I would argue that most of us never completely outgrow that tendency toward self-absorption, we simply learn to keep it hidden from the outside world.

Yet it always rears its head in some fashion.

For instance, my husband and I struggle to accept the loss of freedom that comes with being a parent. We envy those people who can do what they want to do when they want to do it. We don't get to do what we want to do. No fair! So we lose our tempers (with the kids and each other), and then we realize that we're modeling the very behaviors that we're trying to teach out of our kids.

Love is not simply a feeling. It is a choice, a daily decision to prioritize the needs and well-being of another person ahead of your own.

The good news is, when you make the choice to love other people they're probably going to love you back (even when you're cranky and critical.) By virtue of the fact that we're all innately self-centered, we all have moments when we're a little bit difficult to love, and circumstances of life - slim budgets, sleep deprivation, stress at work - don't make it any easier.

So for the record, Ms. Swift, I say love is hard. But worth every difficult second. I hope my loved ones would agree.

Help Wanted

Salary.com has a fun Mom Wizard tool that helps moms - both stay-at-home and "working" - calculate their hypothetical average annual mom salary based on how many hours each week they devote to duties associated with traditional roles from janitor to psychologist. Based on what 6,000-plus stay-at-home moms reported in a 2012 survey, they're worth an average of $112,962 per year and earn most of that by clocking some serious overtime. Since I'm a "working" mom, my fictitious annual paycheck is slightly higher at $121,000 and change.

While you don't apply and interview to be a mom (consider the impact on population if that was, in fact, the process), I would envision the posting looking something like the following:

Position Title: R.E.M (Results Everywhere Mom)

Description: The R.E.M. serves as Subject Matter Expert on all topics and utility player for home and away teams.

Responsibilities: Space restrictions prevent posting here. See Addendum for details.

Required Skills: Must be able to multitask, think on your feet, sympathize (with children who've scraped their knees, husbands who've 'had a rough day', etc.) and operate on fewer than five hours of sleep. Mastery of these skills qualifies applicants to perform all tasks associated with said position as well as Executive Leader of Any Country in the World. Responsibilities may differ. See specific Executive Leader postings for details and application requirements.


Preferred Characteristics:

• Able to execute all tasks (see Addendum) with one hand. In addition to responsibilities associated with the role, this preference applies to conducting personal activities, including hygiene and electronic communication.
• Agreeable to time and temperature constrictions on mealtimes. Specifically, must be able to consume meals while standing, walking, driving or breastfeeding anywhere from 30 seconds to 30 minutes after the food has been served.
• Adept at teaching complex concepts (e.g. time, space, appropriateness, etc.) and answering questions from the routine (are we almost there?) to the uncomfortable (how did that baby get in your belly, and how is it going to get out?)
• Possessed of a superhuman immune system, ensuring that all job responsibilities, as outlined in Addendum, are executed 24 hours per day, seven days per week through viral, bacterial and previously unidentified family epidemics.

Benefits Package: Medical and 401(k) plans vary by location. Holidays and vacations are negotiable but not guaranteed. The R.E.M. is excluded from labor union opportunities.

Energy monsters

Just when I think I've made peace with the long list of areas in which I'm under-performing (have you seen my laundry room? Read my post about how my kids watch TV before bed?), I am reminded, this time by my local utilities company, that the list is, apparently, infinite and now includes "responsible energy consumption."

That's right. We're energy hogs, and as the self-appointed lights police of our household I took the news very personally.

According to our Smart Energy Profile, Louisville Gas & Electric Co.'s (LG&E's) latest initiative to shame, er, educate people on the topic of energy stewardship, we used 42% more energy than similar homes in the last two months. Our ranking last month? 89 out of 100.


Had it not looked like our monthly bill, I probably wouldn't have opened the envelope, as I have reached my saturation point with their pleas for us to enroll in demand conservation programs (relinquish control of my thermostat to the powers that be at LG&E? I don't think so.) And were I not hyper-competitive, I probably wouldn't be at all bothered by these statistics. But 89 out of 100? Seriously? We're doing that badly?

So I read the profile, which included a personalized action plan for beating some of our neighbors, I mean, operating a more energy efficient household. Our tips included closing the shades in the summer (wouldn't this necessitate turning on more lights? Or maybe we should invest in head lamps?) and testing and sealing any leaky ducts (our house is over 80 years old. Everything leaks! Ducts are probably the least of our concerns.)

Indignation quickly replaced my embarrassment over our abysmal ranking. While certainly a nice reminder that little changes can make a big difference, the profile didn't reflect the converse of that theory: little people can also have a gigantic impact on energy consumption.

Though our home was originally designed to accommodate a family of four, by today's standards we're packed in like sardines. I would be willing to bet that we are one of few five-person families living in a same-size house. So there, LG&E!

To compound the situation, our kids are always here. Daycare is in our living room, which is wonderful in so many ways but costly in terms of energy consumption. Unless we ask our parents to strap on one of those head lamps and bundle up in the winter, I'm afraid we'll have to keep hogging it up until our youngest enters kindergarten. In the fall of 2016.

Feeling compelled to justify our wastefulness, I went to LG&E's Web site to further customize our home profile with the number of adult and child occupants. While there, I also sifted through the company's full suite of recommendations for reducing energy use.

Wash clothes in cold water. (Mostly) already doing this, though primarily to preserve clothing quality rather than conserve energy, but since the site didn't require me to state my motive it counts.

Unplug appliances and electronics when not in use. No can do. Besides the fact that unplugging our TV and Dish receiver would reset the entire system each time, one of my OCD hang-ups is when the clock on a small appliance is flashing the incorrect time. Constantly resetting clocks on everything from coffee makers to iPod docking stations would drive me mad. It's not worth the $16 we'd save each year.

Host "fancy dinner" nights. Let your kids trick out the table with linen cloths, bedazzled centerpieces and candles, then turn out the lights. Okay, this wasn't an official recommendation, but we did it last night at the kids' request. Saving money while setting the stage for a semi-peaceful dinner scenario? Now that's what I call a smart tip.

Here comes the space ranger bride

To my future daughter-in-law (whoever you may be),

I'm writing today to let you know that you have snagged the rare breed of fiancée who has already taken the lead on wedding planning. For years, the debate has raged as to whether it's a good thing for men to have an opinion about the wedding details. While one side bemoans the fact that their soon-to-bes don't seem to care at all about the wedding (um, they don't, but that doesn't mean they don't want to marry you. They simply don't care about aisle swags and party favors.), the other wonders why you'd want their input. What if that opinion you say you want differs from your own? Then you have to figure out how to tell him no without coming across as a battle ax before you even say "I do."

At any rate, your beloved falls into the camp of having an opinion, and it surfaced after his first bite of "deee-licious" wedding cake this past Saturday, when he seemingly decided that the cake alone would be worth getting married for. Yours, by the way, will feature Buzz Lightyear.

Your parents will be thrilled that they're inheriting a thrifty son-in-law who will save them hundreds of dollars on the wedding venue by hosting the affair in his Grammy and Papaw's backyard. You may want to consider flats so you don't sink into the grass.

Eschewing the standard band or DJ entertainment options, he's decided it would be more interesting to feature a giant waterslide and inflatable bounce house. Okay, forget the flats. Buy a nice pair of flip-flops.

Again bucking tradition, he's decided the wedding party will be costumed in Toy Story apparel and has already assigned everyone in our family characters. His older sister will be outfitted as Jesse the Cowgirl, your future father-in-law as Rex the dinosaur, and yours truly will appear as Evil Dr. Porkchop. S will, of course, wear his Buzz Lightyear costume, which may be a bit short in the inseam unless you take the plunge within the next six months.

When I asked him what his wife would be wearing, he seemed puzzled as he replied, "My wife?" Don't worry. His sister and I explained that you come with the cake, and once we got that cleared up he agreed to let you wear a white dress. I simply advise you look for one that works with a space ranger helmet since you will be Mrs. Buzz Lightyear.

I'm sure it will be a lovely affair and hope you're just as eager to join our family as we are to have you in it. I'll save my letter on the topics of his enthusiasm for picking up toys and dirty clothes and, um, selective eating habits, for after the nuptials.

Brother B and the lady who lunches

According to our fridge, it's officially commencement season. Our eldest even got in on the action earlier this month and is now the proud owner of a preschool diploma. Open house invitation to follow.

Along with said diploma, her bright red two-pocket folder contained a progress report (seemingly the only skill she needs to master to officially be "kindergarten ready" is tying her shoes. Do kids really still wear shoes with laces?), a few worksheets her teacher must have thought we'd want for posterity and a long list of questions that you ask young kids for the sole purpose of prompting amusing responses.

For instance, C thinks a Happy Meal costs $25. She knows without question that I am 35 and my husband is 36, which is fortunate because she keeps me straight when I round up (most days I feel 135, so what's another few months?) or forget how old I am.

She wants to be a teacher and "maybe a mom" when she grows up, and it wouldn't surprise me if that's exactly how things played out. She definitely enjoys being in charge and seemingly loves the academic process.

If she had 100 legs she would walk with them (what else are you supposed to do with legs? Shave them?), and she claimed that she would "like it" if she had 100 sisters. I guess she's envisioning our house as a salon and spa, as she asked me last night when her baby sister would be old enough for them to give each other makeovers.

Except for the miscalculation on the Happy Meal, there was nothing exceedingly funny about any of C's responses. Until I got to page four and learned that my daughter fancies my husband a saint and me a socialite. Specifically:

"My dad likes to . . . help people."

"My mom likes to . . . go to dinner with her friends."

What?!? My jaw literally dropped when I read those phrases. Now, there's nothing inherently untrue about either statement. My husband, a teacher, coach and all around good guy, does like to help people (ahem, so do I.) And I do enjoy catching up with friends over dinner (double ahem, he also enjoys hanging out with grown-ups every now and then.) However, those words in isolation on the funny questions paper imply that he is selfless and I am selfish.

I tried not to read more into her response than was there. Just a few weeks before the preschool graduation packet was compiled, I went to Boulder for a few days with my best college girlfriends, two of whom I also meet for dinner, oh, once a quarter if we're lucky. The weekend trips occur every 730 days.

C was miffed that she didn't get to join me on my girls' trip, especially since she thought that, as a girl, she qualified for the outing. Perhaps reiterating how important it is for grown-ups to have play dates stuck with her and manifested itself on the funny questions paper.

Or maybe I'm doing something wrong. Maybe I'm not showing the kids how much I enjoy playing Octonauts and chasing them around the yard while toting their 17-pound sister in my arms. Perhaps I should temper my enthusiasm when I'm heading out for an adults-only evening (perhaps if they happened more frequently I wouldn't be so daggone ecstatic when they did) and pour more into the kids.

Nah. I just need to save that paper and bring it out of the vault when her daughter accuses her of being a lady who lunches.

Truth in advertising

I'm writing this from the front porch of The Beaumont Inn in Harrodsburg, KY. For my Mother's Day gift this year, my husband booked two overnight reservations: one for us at the inn and one for our three kids at his parents' house. I literally shrieked with joy when he told me.

I used to pass judgement on parents who celebrated their respective "days" by getting away from the people who made them parents in the first place. Then I became a mother.


Now I pass judgement on mothers who wax poetic about motherhood. Being a mom is tough, demanding, thankless and exhausting, and I firmly believe that women who say otherwise are either a) trying to fool you or b) trying to fool themselves.

There are moments of unparalleled joy, to be sure, but in the early years especially, when you're sleep-and shower-deprived and your little angels are 100% dependent and demanding, it's been my experience that the moments of tedium, frustration and exhaustion dominate.

I love my children and make daily sacrifices for them because that's what I want to do. However, I also enjoy leaving them with my in-laws for the occasional overnight getaway with my husband (our last, for the record, was in October) and don't mind candidly informing the sweet woman who works in our church office that, in fact, not every single second with our kids is "fun." (A flicker of surprise crossed her face before she thanked me for being honest and proceeded to confide about some serious challenges they're enduring with their college-aged son. Apparently honesty begets honesty, and I'm not the only mom who thinks that motherhood is more than blue skies and rainbows.)


If honesty begets honesty, then propaganda like the Johnson's Baby ad I stumbled upon while paging through the latest issue of Parents magazine on Monday evening begets false expectations of parenthood.

A half-sheet insert that makes holding your place (if "your place" happens to be anywhere other than the ad insertion point) impossible while trying to simultaneously fix an almond butter sandwich and apply lip liner to your five-year old who's getting costumed for an in-house production of "Princess C slays the fire-breathing dragon", the ad was nearly ripped out without a second glance. For some reason, though, I read it.

Apparently, Johnson's is sponsoring a "moments of joy" contest on Facebook, so the ad featured excerpts of "what moms are saying about their joyful before-bed moments."

According to this ad, every night (with Johnson's Baby bedtime bath, of course) is sweet, relaxing, cuddly and wonderful. Smiling babies drift off peacefully (by 8:30 at the latest, of course) while their moms marvel at the wonder of it all.

The one that made me guffaw out loud: "Right before bed I sing to Brody and he reaches up and touches my face before he smiles at me, and then drifts off to sleep."

Bedtime at our house goes down more like this: "After finally wrestling C into a clean diaper and pajamas, I take her to the glider for round two where she proceeds to wriggle, squirm and smack me in the face repeatedly while giving me a look that says, 'What? You gotta a problem with me slapping you in the face?' Exhausted, I finally deposit her, still wide awake, in the crib, from which she chucks all her pacifiers and sings to her lovey before finally giving it up 20 minutes later. At least she doesn't scream for 20 minutes (or longer) like her older sister used to at that age."

Maybe I need that bedtime bath stuff. No, wait. I've tried that. Our kids seem immune to the powers of its calming lavender scent.

I get that the goal is to sell baby wash. But I do wonder if ads and contests like this don't have the unintended affect of creating false expectations of what parenting will be like or, even worse, making parents (like me) wonder what it is they're doing wrong to have homes in which bedtime (or any time) more closely resembles a three-ring circus than a Norman Rockwell postcard.

If Johnson's wanted my money, they'd sponsor a Facebook contest challenging parents to keep it real. Wow, your son rubbed lotion in your hairbrush while pretending to be a dentist? So did mine! Your 10-month old thinks unlatching the fire screen every time you admonish her with a "no, no" is hilarious? Mine too! Honesty, in my book, is worth its weight in gold.

I "like" it

As anyone who knows me will attest, punctuality has never been my hallmark. So it should come as no surprise that I am quite tardy to the social media scene. To be honest, the only reason I'm showing up at all is because it's become increasingly clear that in order to perform well at my paycheck job it's unavoidable.

So it was that I signed up for a Twitter account a few weeks ago. I have yet to Tweet. Neither have I checked in on the entities that I'm "following." I have a Facebook page that contains my name and nothing else.

I'll admit I've been a hater. I don't do things just because everyone else is doing them. And I definitely don't do things just because everyone tells me I should. (No, I do not wonder why my kids are so hard headed.)


I also don't fancy my life that interesting that people would want to "follow" it via social media channels. And yet, they seemingly do.

Before I paint an inaccurate portrait of my popularity (or Klout, as it's known in the social media world), let me explain. I have two "followers" on my Twitter account. One is my job-share partner, and the other is another colleague. The majority of my "followers" (and they aren't many - maybe a dozen) are on our corporate social media tool, Chatter.

The first few times I got the e-mail notification that someone new was "following" me, I felt incredulous. They're following me? Then as more notifications rolled in I started to feel a little panicky. They're following me?

They must expect me to say something profound. Or entertaining. Or at least useful.

I started to feel performance anxiety. They're waiting for me to post something. I should post something. What should I post?

I started wracking my brain for useful, profound things to share with my colleagues, and I actually hit upon something that I thought qualified as the former. So I posted it. Which makes it sound like such a straightforward process, right?

Wrong.

The rules of the social media  road run counter to the natural tendencies of those of us who value things like tone, syntax and proper punctuation. They fly in the face of those of us who edit e-mails and capitalize proper nouns when texting.

It took me fifteen minutes to craft, edit and finally post a 48-word, um, post (what else do you call them? Does anyone but me care that I used the word "post" twice in the same sentence? Probably not.)

I'm clearly no expert, but I'm pretty sure that's a disproportionately long time for so few words.

So I posted and waited. Would anyone "like" what I'd said? Would anyone post a comment in reply? Minutes ticked by. An hour passed. Nothing happened. I knew it. Nobody likes me. And that post was clearly not at all useful.

In two days on the social media scene I suffered from performance anxiety and junior high-esque insecurity. Who needs it?

Then I logged in at work yesterday and was surprised and, I can't lie, delighted, to find that three people "liked" my post. One was my faithful job-share partner and the other my boss, which is somewhat akin to having your parent and sibling "like" your post, but whatever. At least my post didn't go completely ignored.

As the day wore on, a few more people liked my post. Someone commented that she'd downloaded the app I recommended. As of this morning (yes, I checked again) 10 people "liked" my post.

And you know what? I like being "liked", which is, I'm sure, the driving psychology behind the whole phenomenon. Who among us doesn't like to be "liked" and "followed"? As the mom of three children who literally follow my every move, I appreciate the virtually variety even more.

So while I have no delusions of building a gigantic flock of Twitter followers, I think I may actually enjoy posting useful, if not profound, information for my colleagues and receiving the same from them.

And if anyone reading this blog wanted to, you know, recommend it to a friend who might actually leave a comment on it, please feel free. My ego can only take so many months of stone silence in the comment field below . . .

Guilty as charged

In case you're not familiar with the term "mommy guilt", allow me to break it down for you. "Mommy guilt" is the phenomenon in which mothers, feeling personally and solely responsible for the health and well-being, both present and future, of their children, believe that their children's mental, physical and emotional welfare is compromised or, in some cases, flat out damaged, when they don't pour 100% of their time, energy and resources into those children.

Put more simply, "mommy guilt" is feeling like you're failing your kids on a daily basis.

I'm not sure if "mommy guilt" is a product of our two-income culture (does anyone remember June Cleaver feverishly packing for a business trip, fretting that Wally and The Beav would experience separation anxiety for the 72 hours that she was out of pocket?) or of our tell-all tendencies. Perhaps mothers throughout the ages have been wracked with guilt of this nature, but we only began hearing about it at the dawn of the technology age.

I work outside the home three days per week (and feel guilty sometimes for being gone, especially when one of the kids is under the weather or particularly clingy in the morning) and have begun to hear buzz from other women in my organization about managing the "mommy guilt" they feel for pursuing a career and allowing their spouses/partners/nannies to do the bulk of the child-rearing. Even women who have no desire to be stay-at-home moms struggle to squelch the nagging feeling that they should be home with their kids.

But "mommy guilt" does not discriminate. As a part-time paycheck earner, I have the distinct opportunity to experience, to some extent, what it's like on both sides of the fence. And I can tell you that I feel just as guilty, though for different reasons, on the days I'm home with the kids as I do on the days I'm at the office.

Mondays, Tuesdays and Thursdays, I beat myself up for skipping a visit to the lactation room. My baby will surely sprout horns and a permanent case of strep throat if we have to give her formula when I'm working, right?

Earlier this week, after getting a call from home that my youngest was running a fever (though otherwise symptom-free), I worried, fretted and convinced myself that I should definitely be at home (where I would have done precisely the same thing our parents did for her.) Then I felt guilty for ducking out of a staff meeting to check a voice mail update from my mother-in-law.

On Wednesdays and Fridays, I torture myself with a running tally of all the times throughout the day that I've lost my temper, failed to capitalize on a teachable moment and/or missed the opportunity to "catch" the kids being good. I also classify reading a magazine as a "guilty" pleasure. Unless those magazines contained illicit material (which they don't!), I don't think paging through something other than Chicka-Chicka Boom Boom constitutes a sin.

Did I mention what an utter failure I considered myself to be after serving frozen fish sticks for dinner one night? While they've now earned a semi-regular spot in our culinary repertoire, I still feel a twinge of guilt anytime I pull dinner - other than a homemade, frozen-for-a-busy-night casserole - from the freezer.

I don't hear much about "daddy guilt." Actually, I don't hear anything about "daddy guilt", and I attribute that to antiquated expectations that still linger in our social consciousness. Men are breadwinners, women caregivers. Though the trend over the last couple of generations has been toward uber-involved daddies (some even blog about it - Babble has a Top 50 of 2011 list if you're interested) I'd venture to say that social stereotypes still run deep in most places.

I'd love to say more on the topic, but I'm already well over the recommended 500 words that represent the sweet spot of blogging and my nine-month old is stirring. There's nothing like ignoring a baby while blogging to get your day off to a guilt-riddled start.

If you can't beat 'em . . .

I'm not sure if it's the age, the DNA, or a combination of the two, but my children delight in non-compliance. In their worst moments, this takes the shape of foot-stomping, red-faced defiance. In their better moments, it looks like two kids ignoring their parents' requests to get dressed/brush their teeth/get in their booster seats so we can get the heck out the door.

Never one to run ahead of schedule myself, having two kids suddenly go deaf in the 20 minutes before we need to be out the door in order to arrive at our destination only marginally late is maddening. I've tried plenty of tips and tricks from Parents magazine (though I draw the line at letting my daughter go to school in pajamas. The one time my son wore his bathrobe to church and brunch had nothing to do with the fact that we were running late.)

And I've done plenty of things (yelling, threatening, yelling some more) that the experts in Parents magazine say I should never do.

I hesitate to say it, because seemingly as soon as I hit on something that works the kids realize I've gotten the upper hand and stop responding to the thing that worked like a charm just days before, but I may have struck gold yesterday.

With a big project looming at work, I was trying my best to get some things done from home, which is always a comedy of errors when you have three kids and no childcare. At lunchtime, everyone except me was still sporting nighttime attire and breath, and my friend, God bless her, had generously offered to have the older two kids over to play in the afternoon so I could actually get some things done.

I foolishly thought that the promise of a play date would be enough to kick the kids into high gear, but it quickly became obvious that ignoring me was just as entertaining as romping with friends. My blood pressure was on the ascent when my daughter, in response to something I'd asked her to do, belted out a gleeful, "No way!" and then quickly announced that it was opposite day.

Since she'd caught me before I completely lost my temper, I played along.

"I definitely do not want anyone to brush their teeth before we go to L's house to play," I announced.

Four little feet scurried to the bathroom.

"Do not, under any circumstances, stand still while I brush your hair," I commanded.

One squirmy little rebel turned to stone before my eyes.

And on we went until we were buckled in the truck and on our merry way.

Like in The Perfect Storm, the circumstances were ripe for this game to play out in my favor.

First, it was their idea. Had I suggested that it was opposite day, I'm not so sure it would have gone over as well. But maybe it would have, because the game was also . . .

Silly. Kids like to be silly, and they love it when grown-ups are silly with them. My sense of humor is more dry to acerbic than silly, so I have a hard time getting into that mode. I like to think that it makes my silly moments even more special.

And finally, opposite day enabled them to indulge their penchant for defiance. They could do precisely what I told them not to do and get away with it - how splendid! 

Stay tuned for next week's update, when opposite day will have likely lost its luster, and I'll be back to playing Joan Crawford sans the wire hangers.

The Danger in Disclosure

I'm a proponent of talking to kids the same way you'd talk to adults. I don't "dumb down" my vocabulary or explanations, and I definitely don't do baby talk. As a result, my 5- and 4-year olds are relatively well-spoken and informed children. I have learned as of late, however, that when it comes to responding articulately to their endless string of "Whys?" there can be danger in full disclosure.

For instance, when you set a precedent of sharing details they come to expect that level of specificity on a regular basis, which made for an interesting situation when we were trying to explain why my husband was out-of-commission following his recent vasectomy. Everyone from our neighbors to my former boss enjoyed hearing stories about my husband's "hurt penis."

Also, by introducing complex concepts you open the door to loose interpretations and misapplications. Such was the case when I, at my wits end with my eldest daughter's constant need for entertainment and companionship, announced that it was high time she learn to play independently. Besides helping her develop self-reliance and faith in her own problem-solving and creative abilities, this critical life skill saves me from assuming the role of perma-playmate/cruise director.

After learning that "independently" meant "alone", my daughter decided she was adamantly opposed to independent play, despite my reassurance that it was not punishment.

Knowing this, I shouldn't have been surprised last Saturday when, horrified to learn that "the plan" for the day was for my husband to work on refinishing my parents' kitchen cabinets and for me to clean our blinds and windows, she announced, "You know it's no fun for me to play independently." So she didn't, opting instead to shadow my every move, which made the messy, tedious spring cleaning job even more enjoyable.

Mere days later, after she and her brother discovered the heap of plastic junk that my husband had "accidentally" tossed into the outside garbage can before mowing the  backyard, she wailed, "How are we supposed to play independently if you throw away all of our toys?!?" Stifling a laugh, I reminded her that there were still plenty of toys on our property with which they could play independently.

My son, a champion independent player, takes a less-accusatory approach, preferring instead to capitalize on my fondness for the concept when his sisters are encroaching on his territory (the younger) or tormenting him (the older.) Just yesterday, when his big sister invited herself into his game of whatever, he looked up at me with his giant blue-gray eyes and said, "Can I just play independently for a little while?" 

Yes, buddy. And as for me, I'm going to practice being vague.

Man's best friend

Those who think that a dog offers the ultimate in companionship have never met my son's imaginary friend, Tooby. Allow me to introduce you.

Tooby is a reformed hitter who just one short year ago was not apt to heed his parents' instruction. Upon first introduction, I feared that my son had fallen in with a bad crowd at the ripe old age of 2 1/2, as we only heard about Tooby when we were correcting one of our kids or sharing a "learn from my mistakes" story. Just like my husband, for example, Tooby once failed to heed his mother's warning not to stand up in his chair at the table and took a nasty tumble as a result of his disobedience.

Over the course of the past year, Tooby has celebrated birthdays ranging from his 10th to his "90-12th", though he has seemingly settled into being 19 "like Austin", my oldest nephew.

Tooby is a vagrant, having lived in houses mere blocks from our own all the way to an impressively large stucco number at the corner of 16th Street and Muhammad Ali Boulevard.

Tooby is an animal lover, having assembled a menagerie in one of those above-referenced backyards that included a hippopotamus named Sarah Bates. I appreciate the shout out, Tooby.

Tooby is an unobtrusive guest, so I don't mind when he arrives unannounced for dinner or a playdate. Last night he unexpectedly accompanied us to my husband's basketball game, and since he's 19 he enjoyed the privilege of riding in the front passenger's seat (after I moved my diaper bag to accommodate him, that is.)

My daughter once accused Tooby of being imaginary, which infuriated my son. So you can imagine my surprise when one day, during a discussion on creation (Did God make mountains? Did God make horses? Did God make ice cream?) my son pointed out that God made everything "except Tooby, because he's not real. I made him."

Tooby has been busy lately, or at least I assume he has because we've heard less about him in the past several months than we had in the previous year. I guess college and part-time jobs and all the other things that occupy a 19-year old's mind have made it tough to keep in touch with almost-four-year old friends who don't text.

I admit that I have enjoyed having Tooby around (once he got his act together and stopped hitting people, that is) and will be sad when he takes his final leave, as I guess most imaginary friends do. I suspect that time is drawing near, but before it happens I'm going to make every effort to meet my namesake hippo. Wouldn't you?

Cinderella gets schooled

My husband and I are going to a fundraising gala on Saturday, and since I haven't worn formal attire since our 2003 wedding I decided it was time for a dress and all the trimmings.

Having accompanied my husband to the high school "prom ball" that he chaperoned last spring, my five-year old is a veteran of such affairs and immediately volunteered to pick my dress. While I wasn't willing to commit to the possibility of wearing a hot pink sequined number, I did agree to take her along for the ride.

So off we set this past unseasonably beautiful Saturday morning, me with a vision of something long and chic and her with a backpack full of lunch and lipgloss. In the time it took her to eat her turkey sandwich, Sun Chips and pear, we hit four boutiques (two of them of the consignment variety, a new concept to my daughter, who blurted out incredulously  in one of them, "So all these things someone else has worn before?") and came up empty.

A bit dejected, I headed home to clean the bathroom. Cinderella, indeed.

Determined to find something (anything), I headed out for round two yesterday afternoon and quickly confirmed my hypothesis that there were no long gowns in the city of Louisville that were a) in my price range and b) not fit for a 17-year old "prom ball go-er" or a mother of the bride. Further dejected but growing a bit desperate, I grabbed a few cocktail dresses from a rack and headed to the dressing room, where one of them proved acceptable if not the long, chic vision I'd been entertaining since I first received the invitation to the event.

As difficult as it had been to find a dress, I had absolutely no problem finding lots of other things I loved, from red leather Frye boots to chunky beaded necklaces. Unfortunately, with private school and a new vehicle on our horizon, we have even less disposable income than usual, so I left all those things right where I found them. Yet I continued to think about them, long for them and pout about the fact that I couldn't  buy them.

I was acting, I realized, just like my three-year old, who begs for a new toy everywhere we go. He's so automatic, in fact, that my response - 'You don't need a new toy. You have don't even play with all the toys you have' - has become the same. Talk about not practicing what I preach.

I don't need anything. I have shoes and clothes and cookware and furniture, all the things that turn my head in magazines and on shopping binges like the one I went on this past weekend, in excess of what I actually need to exist comfortably. But, just as my son always finds a newer/bigger/better dinosaur or car that he "needs", I constantly see newer/better/more stylish things that I think I "need."

Ironically, our minister's sermon yesterday was on the topic of sin. In it, he reminded us that Jesus suggested it would be better to cut off your hand or gouge out your eye if either caused you to sin than to continue sinning. I'm not sure if Jesus really intended for people to start lopping off appendages or if he was going for dramatic effect to emphasize the danger of sin. Either way, I see the application in my life.

Lusting for material possessions is sinful. That may be uncomfortable for some people to read - it's uncomfortable for me to write, like I'm standing up in an AA meeting announcing an addiction - but that was another pivotal point of the sermon yesterday: People don't call a spade a spade when it comes to sin. Too uncomfortable. Too harsh.

My love of things distracts me from what's important and makes me dissatisfied with all the good things that I do have.

So while I have no plans to gouge out my eyes (I could barely stomach removing a splinter from my cuticle recently), I can take steps to starve the beast. Step one will be abstaining from multi-stop shopping marathons. Step two will be letting a few of my four magazine subscriptions lapse. And step three will be declining the Pinterest invitation that I finally received from Ben and his cronies.

Pardon the interruption

As a mom of three young kids, I have resigned myself to the fact that for the next, oh, 18 years or so, my time and money are not my own. Any parent can identify with that. But only nursing mothers, or those who've been down that road in the past, can fully appreciate the idea of your body not being your own for what can feel like the same period of time.

After spending the better part of the past five years with one of my children attached to my breast, my expertise in the area has ballooned in direct correlation to my rapidly disappearing sense of modesty. You simply can't be shy when there's a hungry baby demanding that you feed her. Cling to decorum, and you'll spend a lot of time in public restrooms and eat countless cold meals. 


Those of us who commit to the American Academy of Pediatrics-recommended one year understand that you make some sacrifices along the way. Of course, you also lay the groundwork for a healthy child and reap your own physical and emotional benefits, but perhaps more importantly you create "memories" that help sustain you when your dedication wanes.

For instance, I'll always remember the first time my husband walked into the room while I was pumping. Or, more scientifically, expressing breast milk. He's a dairy farmer's kid, so he quickly made a very graphic (and, I can't lie, accurate) observation about the similarities between milking a human and milking a cow. I've been to the milk parlor, and I think the only process deviation is that I don't dip my teats in iodine before I hook myself up to the machine.

I'll also always cherish the memory of the first time my almost-four year old son crashed the same kind of party. He stopped in his tracks, cocked his head to one side and asked, "What's that tooting sound?"

And then there's the time my eldest daughter paid me a visit in our upstairs bathroom, where, after settling the kids down with their bedtime snack and show, I'd slipped away to pump in private. Three minutes into the process, she bounded up the stairs and into the bathroom.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"I'm getting milk for your sister," I replied.

Her eyes narrowed slightly as she studied the pump. Then she crowded in for a closer look.

"Your boobies are going in and out of there! In and out. In and out," she chanted, keeping rhythm with the motor.

"Yes," I replied. "They sure are."

"Why are you up here," she asked.

"Well, I usually like to do this in private."

She gave me a blank look and then proceeded to pepper me with a dozen or so additional questions about who knows what. Maybe the life cycle of a possum.

Finally, and most recently, I was taking care of business in the lactation room at work yesterday when midway through a fire alarm started blaring. My initial thought was, 'I wonder if it's a false alarm?' Since I hadn't quite reached my quota, I considered waiting it out but then thought better of it. I may have surrendered all modesty, but I still don't want to end up a story on the 6 o'clock news: Woman found topless and unconscious from smoke inhalation. Firefighters puzzled by mechanical apparatus found next to the body.

So, I aborted my mission, stuffed my hardware into the fashionable black tote bag that male colleagues have confused for everything from a briefcase to a lunch box (seriously - I eat a lot, but I don't eat a tote  bag's worth of lunch) and hurried out the door, tucking my shirt in as I walked.

Four seconds after I exited the room, the alarm stopped blaring. Turns out it was, thankfully, a false alarm.

Just another memory-making day in the life of a mom.

The Proposal

With Valentine's Day right around the corner, media outlets galore are sure to be featuring proposal stories - from the most romantic to the most outrageous - from now until February 14. I'd like to submit the following, overheard during bathtime this evening, in the category of "Best Hypothetical":

Daughter to son: "Do you want to marry me? I don't have a husband."

Son to daughter: "Um, yeah. I'm a pizza maker."

Daughter to son: "Okay. You can make us pizza to eat."

Simple, straightforward and just edgy enough (how many women really do the asking, after all?) to make it a contender. Plus there's that whole livin' on love, or pizza, element that's sure to sway the voters in its favor. All in all, a solid proposal.

Good things come to those who wait

I just got waitlisted. By Pinterest. I didn't get waitlisted by Vanderbilt University when I was applying for colleges, but I sure did just get wait-listed by a virtual pinboard that everyone and their mother keeps talking about. The kicker is, a friend of mine sent me an invite at least two months ago. Reasoning that I already had plenty of distractions in my life, I never accepted it. And now I'm on the waitlist.

Whereas most waitlists serve the very practical function of making room for you (at a restaurant table, in the dorm at your coveted college), I suspect this particular waitlist is merely an ingenious marketing tool designed to whip the waitlistee into a clock-watching frenzy as she anxiously awaits her invitation to create her own personal board. Worked like a charm on me.

After recovering from the surprise of being notified by Ben and The Pinterest Team of my status, I went back to the homepage and started surfing through the featured pins. In mere seconds, I was hooked. I culled the selection down to just those pins focused on kids and was immediately transported to a page of pictures featuring everything from a cute DIY glitter headband that my daughter would love (but that I'm confident I couldn't DIMyself since I'm more than a little deficient when it comes to crafting) to gorgeously styled bento boxes featuring sandwiches tricked out like fluffy little sheep. (p.s. Those had to be done by a professional food stylist for some parenting magazine. Any real mom would know that if you have the time it takes to turn turkey and baby carrots into a barnyard tableau it would be much better spent on something with a richer ROI. Like showering.)

From there, it took two clicks for me to land on etsy and spend several minutes debating the purchase of a fabulously clever dress to commemorate my younger daughter's first birthday. Which is in July.

Since a quick tally of our budget board reflected a few, um, overages this month, I knew better than to fetch my AmEx. Stepping away from my laptop, I took a deep breath and assessed what had just happened in those 10 minutes (honestly, it happened that fast.)

First, I was right two months ago. I don't need any more diversions. In the time I wasted from my position on the waitlist, I could have folded the towels that are in the dryer, started a load of brights in the washer and scrubbed the plastic Hello Kitty sandwich box and thermos (oh, how I loathe non-dishwasher friendly items) that are still sitting in the sink from yesterday's lunch.

More importantly, have I already said that the budget board revealed that I hadn't exactly adhered to the budget this month? And have I ever mentioned that our tiny little bungalow is already stuffed to capacity with, well, stuff? Stuff falls into the category with distractions as something I definitely don't need more of. We can neither afford nor accommodate it within the four walls of our home.

We have stuff galore - clothing, toys, kitchen gadgets, DVDs, stuff, stuffity, stuff, stuff, stuff! We don't need one single thing in this world that money can buy. And Pinterest, for me, bears the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. It's a temptation to spend money we don't have on stuff we don't need.

So thank you Ben and The Pinterest Team for waitlisting me. My husband thanks you too.

Perception is reality

If you ever have the opportunity to eavesdrop on a child's game of pretend, I highly recommend you take advantage of it. The odds are spectacular that you'll hear the funniest or most insightful (sometimes both) phrase of your day.

For example, during one particular game of house my daughter, in one sentence, revealed to me that the division of labor in our home perpetuates the age-old gender stereotype of woman as caregiver:

My son: I want to hold the baby.

My daughter (fully embracing her role as me and employing appropriate spousal nickname): No, hon. I'm the mommy, and mommies take care of babies. Daddies are their assistants.

On a more recent occasion, during another game of house, my son let his interpretation of personal liberties slip when he rebuffed his sister's request to do something (probably hold that baby he'd wanted to hold three months ago) with a matter-of-fact, "No, I'm a grown-up, and grown-ups can do whatever they want."

If only.

Let me assure you that neither my husband nor I have ever told our kids that daddies are only assistants in the child rearing process (though my husband might actually be in favor of that approach) or that grown-ups can do whatever they please whenever the mood strikes them, which obviously means that's how they perceive the world operates.


But isn't perception reality for everyone, including we self-indulgent, autonomous grown-ups?

I've written a few articles from a parents' perspective for our church newsletter. Hoping to be a voice of encouragement for other moms, I was very honest about my short-comings and insecurities as a parent.

In complimenting me on one of the articles, our minister remarked, "I was surprised to read that you felt that way. You always look like you have it all together."

Unfortunately, his perception is not my reality, and if I were a gambling gal I'd wager the same is true for most women who appear to "have it all together." So for those, like me, who often feel a twinge of envy when you see one of those on-the-ball moms who seems to have time for everyone and everything in her life, take heart. She probably had to stop at Walmart on the way to school to buy clean underwear and juice boxes for her kids because she hadn't gotten around to washing their undies or thermoses the night before.

And for those rare moms who do actually have it all together, consider investing in a method to bottle that mojo. You could make a fortune.

Survivor: The Last Frontier

A friend of mine has 2-month old twin granddaughters who joined their 19-month old sister at home a little over a week ago. When I asked how everyone was doing, my friend advised that they were in "survival mode." If I had three kids under the age of 2, I might be in an inpatient therapy program, so in my opinion "survival mode" is worthy of applause.

Experts aplenty write about this phenomenon in pregnancy and parenting magazines in an effort to a) prepare new parents for the inevitable and b) reassure them that this phase won't last forever. While five years is by no means "forever", it's a heckuva long time to be in "survival mode." I know, because that's where my husband and I have spent the past five years of our lives. I'm not sure if that means that our learning curve is steeper than most or that our children are more high maintenance than most. Either way, if we were being graded on our ability to emerge from "survival mode", we wouldn't be at the top of our class.

For those who aren't parents, or for those parents whose children's medical school graduations have eased the sting of "survival mode", let me paint you a picture of what it's like to live there.

In "survival mode", sleep deprivation is Enemy Number One. Despite the fact that infants allegedly require a ridiculous amount of sleep, most seem to prefer to indulge that need on a first and second shift production schedule, spending the overnight hours regaling their bleary-eyed parents with endearing feats like pooping with such force that it necessitates a full linen change before you could even consider returning the kid to his or her bed.

We have friends whose babies slept like little logs from day one. We envied those friends. We resented those friends. Sometimes we considered making voodoo dolls of those friends. (Just kidding.)

I will admit that we compounded our sleep problems by having our second child just as our first was starting to get with the program. Our son woke up for a 4 a.m. snack every morning of his life until I finally employed "tough love" (another concept with which I was not previously acquainted until having children) a few short months before he turned one. I think my husband and I enjoyed approximately six months of decent sleep before No. 3 arrived this past summer. True to our DNA's form, she seems to despise sleep.

The second indicator that you're in "survival mode" is the state of affairs in your kitchen and laundry room. If you have to eat dinner off of a bread plate and dry your body with a hand towel, then you're either living in a fraternity house or "survival mode."  I consider myself a success if our clothes are clean. I award myself bonus points if they're folded and tucked into laundry baskets. On the rare occasion that they actually make the leap from laundry basket to dresser drawer, I treat myself to a day at the spa. Or, I would if I could find the time and money to do so.

Which brings me to a third key feature of "survival mode": neither the clock nor your bank account are on your side. If you have the fiscal means, you'll pay for help - a nanny to diaper, bathe and feed the tot; a cleaning service to dust, polish and disinfect the house; a personal chef to shop, chop and serve the meals. If you have any one of these, you can't be in "survival mode." Parents like me who have none of those won't allow you to stake a claim to our pain.

But while money may buy you help, and thus free you up to indulge in luxuries like exercise, sleep and bowel movements sans an audience, it won't buy you more time. And when you're in "survival mode", time is a scarce commodity. People who don't have kids but would like to someday should heed the inherent warning in the words of any parent they hear lament, "I used to waste so much time before I had kids!"

That ain't no joke. So figure out your favorite way to waste time, and waste away! Savor every moment of your reality TV show. Rejoice every time you run a quick errand, because "quick errand" becomes an oxymoron once you add a kid or two (or three) to the trip. And, hey, if you don't have anything else to do, consider volunteering a couple of hours to a good cause. Like babysitting for your mother-of-three friend who is in desperate need of a nap/shower/latte.

Better than fiction

I saw a possum playing possum last night. Literally. Peering out the storm door of my in-laws' kitchen, my five-year was the first to spot the oversize rat lying motionless in the side yard mere feet from my in-laws' two border collies. With the puppy's penchant for "bringing things into the yard", everyone assumed the possum was another trophy.

I seriously considered exiting through a basement door to avoid having any proximity to the thing, as, dead or alive, possums (and wildlife in general) aren't my thing. Being laden with bags and children, though, I stifled a shudder and followed my husband out the kitchen door, jokingly wondering aloud if the possum might be playing possum.

As I eased our truck out the gravel driveway, I glanced over at the side yard where the possum was, by that time, squared off against one of the dogs. In disbelief, I called my husband to share that, sure enough, that possum had been playing possum! The kids and I watched the collie made a halfhearted offensive pounce before I put the truck in gear and rolled on. After receiving a firsthand crime report on a rash of recent burglaries in our neighborhood and watching the 6 o'clock news with my father-in-law, my daughter had been traumatized enough for one day without witnessing a bloody to-the-death animal battle.

What ensued in the next 15 minutes of our 20-minute car ride was more amusing than any Seinfeld script could have aspired to be. We weren't even to the end of the driveway before my daughter launched into a rapid-fire Q&A on all things possum.

Do possums have fur? A lot of fur or a little fur? How big are possums ears? Do they have big eyes, medium eyes or little eyes? (My response necessitated a definition of the words "beady" and "sinister.") Can possums climb? Is a possum's tail like a raccoon's tails?

For sport, she converted our truck into a game show set, casting herself as the host who politely invited me to "tell the audience [my] name and age" before she continued grilling me on the finer points of possum.

When it was her brother's turn to spin the wheel, she lobbed, "What do possums eat?" his way.

"Um," he pondered. "Plants."

"I'm sorry, that is incorrect. You have two more chances."

"Um, meat."

"Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding! That's right!"

"How do you know that?" he asked.

"Two reasons: One, I'm a smart girl (Note to self: Double-down on efforts to instill humility.) And two, I'm older than you."

Not entirely satisfied with this response, he probed further. "How do you really know?"

Heaving an exasperated sigh, she replied, "Because Mommy told me." (I did? I was going to guess that possums ate garbage since the two I'd seen before last night were both lurking around our trash cans.)

"Mommy told me that they have sharp teeth, and sharp teeth are good for eating meat. Plant eaters have flat teeth, right Mommy?"

I'm pretty sure I learned something along those lines during a 3rd grade science unit on the Mesozoic Era, so I affirmed her logic.

"Or they could be omnivores," she added.

Silence reined for a full minute before the game host, her thirst for knowledge on the possum seemingly quenched, switched gears and started peppering me with questions on the topic of "The Time My Car Broke Down and I Had to Call AAA."

I'm not sure which will entertain her preschool teacher and classmates more today - her recounting of the possum playing possum or of my beige, 1983 Ford Escort station wagon breaking down at a gas station and me calling a tow truck.

You don't get your name in the paper for passing

If you read last Wednesday's post, you know that my 5-year old started bitty basketball two weeks ago. To date, she has learned how to breakdown into a semi-proper defensive stance and that little boys aren't apt to pass the ball to female teammates unless a coach is standing right behind them saying (repeatedly), "Pass the ball to Brianna." Even then, there are no guarantees.

What I have learned is that I am competitive to a fault. Actually, I already knew that, so bitty ball just brings the knowledge into painfully sharp focus.

While most parents reserve sideline encouragement for positive, team-building missives like, "Pass the ball to your teammates, sweetie!" I found myself, early in the first quarter, shouting, "Go get the ball!" and "Shoot it!" after she finally did get the ball.

I have become one of those parents that I used to observed with a mixture of disdain and bewilderment at my niece and nephews' little league sporting events. One of those poor, frustrated, reliving (or perhaps living for the first time) glory days parents who shouts at their kids during bitty basketball games. Nice.

I'm not living or reliving any former glory because I never played basketball, save for a few summers of overnight ball camp that I attended with my basketball coach dad so I could enjoy a week of junk food in the college cafeteria and swimming in the Olympic-sized pool. The year I accidentally won the cut throat competition for my age division was the last time I attended. As I explained to my mom, I was afraid my dad thought I might actually want to play basketball.

No, my embarrassing behavior is simply an illustration of the uber competitiveness that I typically do a decent job of concealing to most of the world. But bitty ball brings out the worst in me.

Since I want to win, or at least be good, at everything, I expect my kids to follow suit. And while my daughter displays flashes of competitiveness (like when she expressed concern prior to me signing her up for bitty ball that she might not be able to win every time), it's clear that when she's on the court the furthest thing from her mind is competing.

While I want her to perform well, or at least pay attention to what's happening, she seems quite content to skip (literally) around the court and gleefully cheer for her teammates on the rare occasion that one scores.

I hit rock bottom this past Saturday when I blurted out, "Pay attention!" after my daughter trailed off to the sideline to check on a player from the opposing team who'd left the game after taking a tumble onto the hardwood. Instead of beaming that my child was showing compassion and concern for her fellow man, I was ranting like a crazy person for her to get back in the game. Shameful.

What bitty ball unleashes in me is an inexplicable force that makes it impossible, or at least inadvisable, for me to compete against my husband in any sort of contest and compels me to strive and worry and fret about getting credit and "gaining exposure" in a career that I have finally admitted just isn't for me. I hate to lose, and if I'm not good at whatever it is I happen to be doing, then I don't want to "play."

To preserve whatever shred of dignity I may still have after Saturday's display and to avert the potential for a sideline cardiac episode, I have officially deemed my husband household AD. Henceforth, I will handle ballet and swimming lessons, and he can steer the competitive sports ship. At least when I was watching her arabesque and pirouette around the dance studio this past summer, I had the good sense to know that she wouldn't hear my embarrassing admonishments to point her toes and pay attention through the glass window anyway.

As good as it gets

I have really great kids.

I often lose sight of that because my vision is obstructed by the weeds in which I constantly find myself. If you have children, you may understand. When you're entrenched in the campaign of teaching manners, kindness, empathy, generosity and general public decency (no, son, it's actually not okay for you to drop trow and water the pear tree in the front yard), you tend to overlook what outsiders can easily see.

Friends, acquaintances, babysitters and strangers have all told me at various points in time and in various ways that I have good kids. And I know that, in general, they're right. Sure they have their moments, but don't we all? Some of my finer ones can be seen in the twice-re-glued kitchen drawer that I have a tendency to slam ferociously when my crab cakes turn to crab fricassee or a bottle of nail polish shatters all over the bathroom floor creating a circa-1982 feather duster paint effect on the walls.

My reality check comes when I read and hear about kids who have four alarm meltdowns over crust on their bread or who repeatedly lay hands on classmates. With both sides of my brain having been fully operational for more then a decade, I forget that the same can't be said of my kids. At least they can play the developmental appropriateness card when they indulge their tempers. Wish I could say the same when I indulge my drawer-slamming addiction.

So thanks, kids, for making your mommy proud and making her job as a parent comparatively easy. 98% of the time.

A tisket, a tasket, a nylon-netted basket

My five-year old started bitty ball (that's basketball for the eight and under crowd for those who, like me, weren't already in the know) this past Saturday. In case you missed the highlights on Sports Center, I've summarized them below.

Pregame
Like most little girls her age, my daughter shuns pants, especially jeans, expect when it's absolutely necessary to wear them. Bitty ball qualifies as one of those occasions. In an effort to redeem the situation, she informed me that she was going to pack the new Hello Kitty lipgloss and glittery silver nail polish that she'd scored in a birthday party goody bag the previous afternoon.

"I can apply these during breaks," she reasoned, stuffing them into a tiny red purse.

After convincing her that timeouts would not actually afford enough time for a mid-court mani, I proceeded to deliver another blow: we'd have to omit the ubiqutous headband from her ensemble. Though I haven't personally reviewed the bitty ball rules book, I do know from my high school basketball coach hubby that headbands are a no-no. I figure if the KHSAA rules are good enough for every teenage athlete in the state, they're good enough for my daughter.


Countdown to Tip-Off
Surprisingly, my daughter, who until recently had a track record of being more than a little reticent in new situations, bounded right over to Coach John's huddle without so much as a backwards glance at me. Relieved to realize that I was more nervous than she was, I found an empty spot on the bleachers and fished the video camera from the depths of the diaper bag.

As I'd anticipated, roughly 75% of the players were boys. As they headed to their first practice station, I silently prayed that she wouldn't be the least coordinated one on the floor. Beyond the obvious reasons for not wanting my kid to be the klutz, like it or not, little girls who play co-ed sports shoulder the unfair burden of representing their entire gender, and I wanted her to do her sisters proud. I know I'm biased, but I think she held her own at each station before clasping hands with the other little girl on her team and skipping to the next.



Game Time
While her fundamentals are relatively solid, I can't say the same of her court awareness. At one point during the game, she and a little girl from the opposing team were parked at the half-court line chatting. Or maybe comparing lipgloss.

Shortly before their pow-wow, the same little girl had found herself in possession of the ball after a hasty pass from a panicked teammate. After taking a moment to process what had just happened, and hearing coaches and parents alike urging her to "pass the ball", she turned to my daughter and, smiling, handed her the ball. Part of me expected my littler baller to hand it right back with an explanation that you aren't supposed to give the ball to someone on the other team, but to my surprise (and, I have to admit, delight) my daughter simply took the ball and headed toward her team's basket.

Post-Game
When all was said and done, the Black Team (whose mascot is still TBD - candidates, supplied by the players, include The Panthers and The Black Olives) got trounced. Since bitty ball is all about fostering sound fundamentals, a love of the game and all that stuff that really matters not to kids (and some parents), there was no official score keeping, but everyone who watched knew that the Orange Team had scored at least a dozen baskets to the Black Team's maybe three.

As she skipped to the bathroom for one last potty break (our third in two hours) before we headed home, my daughter asked me if they'd won. When I replied that I didn't think they had, she was crushed. For about three seconds. Then she was asking about the snack that I'd promised to pack and why that little girl on the Orange Team had passed her the ball.

A time for every purpose

I have a confession: My kids watch TV right before they go to bed. Despite all the admonishments, for adults and kids alike, to 86 screen time right before hitting the sheets, I let my kids wrap up their day with Dora and Diego. According to all "the experts", who I am convinced don't have young children of their own, I should be reading them bedtime stories or encouraging quiet imaginative play at that point in the day.

Whatever. By the time 8:00 p.m. rolls around, I'm so utterly exhausted that I'm just as excited to see those smiling animated Hispanic explorers as the kids are. I assuage my guilt by reminding myself it could be worse. At least they don't have a TV in their bedroom.

A few nights ago, however, the kids rebelled against the typical evening offerings on Nick Jr., for which we pay an upgrade charge just to have, so up the channel menu I went to find a suitable alternative. As it turned out, the Looney Tunes were on a cartoon channel that comes with that overpriced, I mean, upgraded TV package.

Turning to my husband, I asked if he thought the Looney Tunes were age-appropriate for our 5- and 3-year old. I'm not sure if it was the phrase "age-appropriate", which to them is synonymous with "must be more awesome than we can imagine", or if it was the palpable hesitation in my voice, but the kids pounced.

"Yes! Yes! Looney Tunes!"

So I conceded. I was exhausted, remember? And then I headed to the other room to luxuriate in the ensuing 30 minutes of peace.

Most nights, the kids pop in and out of the living room, keeping one eye on the show and the other on my every move. I run downstairs to the basement to grab clean pajamas that go from dryer to body with nary a stop in a dresser drawer in our house, and I literally trip over at least one child on my ascent back upstairs. But that night, they were riveted. And giggling hilariously. So was my husband.

For a full 30 minutes, they were enthralled by the wacky antics of Wily, Elmer and Daffy, the same goofball characters that had entertained me on many a Saturday morning. Though they've been given 21st century makeovers, the cast is still the same, and so are the jokes which, I decided that night, aren't so much "age-appropriate" as "ageless."

So what if Bugs Bunny wasn't teaching my kids to speak Spanish or Chinese? He was making them laugh, and sometimes that's all you need.

In the end, the kids did get a quick lesson on the finer points of discerning between cartoon behavior and human behavior after my son demonstrated Daffy Duck's back slap on my left cheek. A teachable moment, or my cosmic come-uppance for rotting my kids'  brains with cartoons? I'll let you be the judge.