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.