happy birthday, tali!

:

I just got back from Tali's birthday celebration at school, which was incredibly sweet. The parents bring a photo from each year of the child's life and they talk about their birthday kid during each year of their life, and then afterwards, the child walks around the "sun" (a candle) with a globe in her hands to symbolize a year. It's really sweet and I know that Tali loved having her parents there to show off her gorgeous baby pics and bring in yummy yogurt and fruit salad.

But I walked away feeling like I totally fumbled in talking about my girl. How could I possibly sum up in a short way the most important parts of each year of Tali's life? Granted, my audience was tricky--it's hard to hold the attention of 3 and 4 year olds, and it'd probably be weird for me to let loose and be all gushy in front of them. So... Here's what I'd really like to say about my girl:

• I love that the fast and powerful way she entered this world completely represents the way she maneuvers herself through life. I'm so proud of Talia's confidence and drive--she absolutely believes in herself.


• I love that Talia's favorite way to sleep when she was a baby and toddler was on top of me, Snoopy on doghouse-style. She's still incredibly cuddly and when she runs to hug you, you know you're loved.


• I love that Talia didn't learn to even crawl until 11 months because she was able to get what she wanted by pointing and asking for things, since she started talking at seven months. She just didn't feel the need for walking, but when she started, she never stopped!


• I love that Talia never wonders about whether or not she can do things--she just does them. She plays along with her brother at his sports practices, does her own "homework" along side Samuel, and is teaching herself to read. She never thinks she's too young to play with older kids.


• I love that Talia is passionate about art and can spend hours drawing and cutting and pasting and creating, and that her favorite (and my favorite, too) picture of hers is a study of abstract kitchen drawers. :)


• I love that though she can be a little bossy at times, she is genuinely very, very sweet and tries very hard to be a good friend.


• I love that she loves to dance and only wants to listen to the classical music station in the car because it "reminds her of ballet."


• I love that genuinely has a sunny and positive outlook on life and believes this world to be a good and happy place.

Happy Birthday to my girlie... I have never been able to get over how blessed I feel to be her mother and to have her in my life.

birthdays without pressure

Talia turns four next week and I can't believe it. I mean, not only can I not believe that my baby girl is a confident and sassy four year old, but I also can't believe how truly pleasant this birthday is coming along.

For one thing, we're exiting the terrible threes, which are truly terrible in our house--much more terrifying than the fairly benign twos, and were even more horrifying with Talia, who is both very adventurous and also quite outspoken. Thankfully, she's also quite sweet.

But also, after 6 and a half years of parenting, I have mastered the birthday party!

Tali has been talking about her birthday for about six months now. At first she wanted a party at the bouncy place that you rent out and bring in your own cake and treats to the tune of at least $300. We have friends who have done this for two of their kids at once because their birthdays are close together, and that sounds fairly reasonable and worth it. But for a kid who's not even sure what she wants, it seems like a bit much. And when you also add to the argument that we've never really made it through a huge birthday party without a meltdown, spending that much money starts not making sense for us.

After the bouncy place, Tali got stuck on having her party at Club Libby Lu, where little girls go get their hair and make-up done (little girls wear make-up???), dress up in swanky, tiny clothes and learn to walk the catwalk. Granted, most of the girls doing this were at least eight, but the baby sluttiness of this appealed to my girl. It didn't appeal to us.

Of course it's a lot to ask a four year old, or a not-quite-four year old to plan or want a reasonably priced and age appropriate party, but the thing is, she has been to these parties that she's talking about. The rule at her preschool is that you need to invite all the kids in her class or none at all. So the result is a social calendar of Sundays filled with elaborate and expensive parties because not many people want to host 20-25 preschoolers at their homes, especially in the winter. And this isn't even counting their parents (because really, do you want the parents to drop off their 25 preschoolers at your house?).

So in frustration and because neither of Tali's options were reasonable, I googled "out of control birthday" and found my way to http://www.birthdayswithoutpressure.org/. Basically, it's a whole site dedicated to fighting back against birthday party pressure and hyper consumerism. They advocate against huge, planned birthday parties and give some hysterical examples of birthdays gone bad. Their plan seems to revolve around avoiding themes, presents, goody bags, and extravagance in favor of community service and simple activities like group walks and art projects. And while maybe I think some of their party ideas sound a tiny bit boring, and I know that my kids would never see a birthday walk as a great way to celebrate their birthday (unless you make it into an exciting themed scavenger extravaganza, which I'm afraid would miss the point), I do really like the idea of setting lower expectations (I mean, where could you possibly go after Club Libby Lu???). There had to be a way to make it fun and simple. So I decided to try a variation on Tali, whose newest idea involved inviting ten three and four year old girls for a slumber party (the horror, the horror!).

"How about you invite one friend over for a birthday playdate," I said, expecting an immediate rejection, but not getting one, so I continued. "You guys can get in your jammies, have a pizza dinner and birthday cake, and maybe we can make bracelets and play with your dolls. And then when it's time for bed, your friend's parents can come pick her up." No mention of goody bags, themes, or presents, and I held my breath...

Tali looked at me thoughtfully for a second and then said, "That's a great idea, Mommy. I can't wait," and then went back to playing.

When I recovered from the shock of how easy it was to get out of having a huge party, I was thrilled. This year, there wouldn't be any racing around to get invitations out, or putting together goody bags that were exciting, yet inexpensive, or finding just the right theme or decorations. And it's not that I don't love a good party, or don't secretly want to give my kid anything her sassy little heart desires, or even that I don't really enjoy going to those parties sometimes. But at this point in my life, and my four year old's life, I'm overjoyed that I actually get to spend her birthday with her, not running around crazy trying to make a party work, trying to make sure we don't lose any of her friends or breaking up a fight over who has the better goody bag.

Instead, I get to hang out with my lovely girl and enjoy her special day with her. And I'll especially enjoy the fact that we were able to stave off Club Libby Lu for another year...

the cool kids

Last Sunday we were sitting around the living room, listening to music and reading the NY Times and just generally having a very pleasant time.

"Hey, I really like this music," I say to B. "Who is it?"

"Jack Johnson," B says, not looking up from the paper. Samuel was singing along and Talia was strumming the guitar, pretending to play along. I was thinking to myself that our kids were really cool, and how great was it that they were sophisticated enough to enjoy our music. I mean, these kids listen to Citizen Cope to fall asleep.

"This sounds so familiar," I say, after a few songs. "But I really like it. Why do I know this?"

"Soundtrack to Curious George," B. says smiling, still reading his paper.

At least the kids are cool...

we've youtubed...

Naomi wants to share her thoughts about how yummy it is to be seven months old...

much to be thankful for...

on good manners...

Tonight at dinner, I had to ask Samuel three times to use good manners and eat with his fork--not his fingers. Finally, he looked at me and asked, "Why do we need to act all royal and have such good manners? Is it Veteran's Day or something?"

a night out for the old lady...

I broke out on my own tonight after telling B that I couldn't make it one more night without some time that didn't involve babies that won't go to anyone else, children who won't go to bed, evening prep to get Samuel ready for school tomorrow (so that he can be the best, smartest first grader in the history of first graders), or that behemoth pile of laundry at the bottom of the basement stairs.

Since I couldn't find anyone else to go out with me (things are much different these days, I guess. All my friends are so incredibly responsible...), I decided I'd go to the bookstore and just browse and then take myself out for sushi, which is what I always want when I go out to eat.

So, I'm at B&N, browsing and checking out what my favorite writers have come out with lately (since it's been an eternity since I've actually browsed through a bookstore--and no, I'm not counting the kid section), and then I check to see if any of my old professors, friends, and colleagues have published anything (or anything new). And then I see this book written by an old co-worker about a failed relationship with another old co-worker and I can pretty much recognize all of the major characters. I should feel happy for her that she turned this bad breakup into a novel, thus launching her literary career, but I don't because I'm insanely jealous. I find myself thinking, 'What have I been doing with my life? Why haven't I been writing?' I'm just as good a writer as this girl, but I did not write a novel. I don't even write much these days, and I've been putting together different variations of the same short story for about two years. Okay, five years. The only piece I've actually finished recently was a poem I wrote in Italy last year that I thought was pretty good, but then I lost it. Seriously. It was in a journal and I lost it. The one piece.

Granted, I have been a bit busy lately with this whole growing a family thing and sleep deprivation has left me partially brain dead. So to make myself feel better, I buy this year's Best American Short Stories of 2006. I take myself to the sushi place, get a beer and some spicy tuna rolls, and start reading the anthology. The first three stories I thumb to are about children. Not about adults raising children, but from the perspective of kids. It's the quintessential growing up story from the perspective of every writer ever. The first two were good pieces--I liked them. But, I feel like I've been reading these over and over. I want to read about adults. I desperately want to read something that's inspiring or enlightening. Maybe it's just the timing since I have so many things going on in my life right now, or maybe it's because I'm still feeling bitter about the bad relationship book, or maybe it's frustration that I just did not find a good book on my one night out, but I'm crabby. Where are all the good books about people with families going about their boring, but meaningful lives?

I finish my beer and my sushi and go home. It's 10 o'clock, but Tali is still up and I hear her little footsteps into the hall as close as she can get without me seeing her, so I go up to say goodnight. She's got the huge volume of The Complete Curious George under her arm and tells me, "Oh Mama, I'm so glad you're here because I want to show you my favorite something about George." And after an evening away, I feel no frustration at all that she's still awake and out of bed, or even that instead of staying in her room, she's been sitting in my bed and "keeping it warm." And it occurs to me that maybe the reason there isn't a best selling novel, or even a memoir about kids staying up too late and their parents not minding after a night out is because maybe it is a bit boring. But then, maybe boring isn't so bad.

And there's still time to write that novel... What a difference a few hours can make.

lemon

Our new car broke down.
I've been meaning to post for awhile about what happened to Crybaby Sally, our Volvo wagon, and since one of our friends threatened (as nicely as possible) to out us, I figured I should post that we did end up buying a lovely minty silver SUV of the Volvo kind and we all love it. The kids sit relatively peacefully in it, everyone has their own space, and it's a dream drive.

Until today, that is, when it broke down on the freeway and left me stranded at the Volvo service shop with an ear-piercing screaming infant and a three year old who wouldn't stop touching every single hockey chotchke on the front desk of the sales guy who finally said he'd help me despite the fact their schedule was backed up for the next four days. They were out of loaner cars, he said, but he'd help me find a rental.

And so now, despite every effort to avoid it, there's a minivan (albeit, a rental minivan) in my driveway. (And I sort of like it, too).

hanging out with a friend...

Hanging out on the porch with a quiet friend...

the fine art of thumbsucking

In order to avoid becoming the human pacifier that I really already am, we have spent a good part of Naomi's life (eleven of her thirteen weeks) trying to get our girl to take a pacifier (because she really, really needs one). B and I have tried practically every single pacifier sold on the market (yes, I am obsessive and stubborn when faced with a challenge of this size) and our little baby has refused every single one of them. Latex or silicon, it doesn't matter. Nothing works. And now that pediatricians are saying that it's good for babies to sleep with pacifiers because the sucking helps prevent SIDS, we've been feeling even more pressure to get our girl sucking. Ironically, when Samuel was a baby, he LOVED his passy and we spent most of his first three years trying to get him off of it. And then becuase it was so hard to wean Samuel from his rubber love, we kept Talia from them, though whenever she happened upon one at daycare or at a friend's house, she'd immediately pop the contraband passy in her mouth.

So now we're spending this hot summer trying to get Naomi to take the same thing we've had so much trouble getting the other kids to give up. And each time she refuses, Talia comes around and snaps up the rejected loveys. "I can have this one?" she asks, and then scurries off with the tiny passy in her mouth.

So since Naomi is absolutely repulsed by the mere thought of a pacifier, we've been working on getting her to suck her thumb. The girl really needs some self-soothing methods. Last week, my niece Maya helped the kids spend some time showing Naomi how to suck her thumb. She was pretty agreeable to it, since once she discovered she had one, she's been fairly fascinated with it.

I think the session went well, though note that Naomi is the only one without a thumb in her mouth.

what's black and blue and red all over?

Tomorrow Talia is going to preschool with two black eyes and a bruised cheek with scratches on it. She looks like the loser of a pretty bad brawl (you know, only the kind a three year old could get in). But really, these are only the results of a normal weekend.

This morning she accidentally got in the way of a speeding basketball passed to her by her brother (black eye #1).

This afternoon, she accidentally stepped in the way of a speeding dress-up pump passed to her by her friend (high heels should never speed, but this is black eye #2).

Facial scratches and bruises are just the results of good, hard playground and backyard play. Her knees and legs look the same way.

Last week she knocked her front top tooth loose while riding on a tricycle at school and while the dentist assured us that this was very common among preschoolers, he also warned us there was a good chance it would turn grey and he'd have to pull it. Now I obsessively check it every morning to see if it's getting more discolored and I've got the poor kid carefully chewing her food with her back teeth. And while I know if she loses this tooth, it won't be the worst thing to ever happen to her. It's a baby tooth and her permanent teeth are undamaged. But I'd be sad to miss what's left of her baby smile as she quickly gets bigger and more independent every day.

So at the same time she's having a good time and being an active three year old, I'm becoming a paranoid mess. I don't want her to be scared of playgrounds or running or jumping or being the strong, independent, and active kid she is. But at the same time, I know that everytime she goes out to play, she comes back with some sort of injury or in some sort of predicament (remember bad hair week?). Mostly, I try not to watch, which is a problem in itself.

Or maybe I'm scared because if she can get into this kind of trouble now, what will year four bring? Though, when I asked her this, she said confidently, "Don't worry, Mommy. At least it wasn't Vaseline."

eeek.

big head, little head

Look at how big a human head can grow in six years...

bye bye crybaby sally...

What do you drive when you have three kids?
The answer is turning out to be very complicated when you have a five seater car, five people in your family, and three very bulky carseats/booster seats. Figuring out the right seating plan is comparable to tackling a Rubik's cube in the dark. Well, sorta... At least when you consider the following:

1. Infant seat is safest in middle seat
2. Infant in infant seat is safest furthest away from three year old
3. Infant in infant seat is most likely to stay asleep when not sitting next to six year old
4. Three year old and six year old will fight loudly if seated next to each other.
5. Someday very soon (and even sooner if six year old continues to grow as fast as he has been lately) the six year old will outgrow the very, very narrow middle spot once used as an armrest.

The answer is that if you have five people in your family, you cannot drive the beloved Volvo wagon named Crybaby Sally. Waaah...

So we have been car shopping.
And when you arrive on a car lot lugging a ten hundred pound infant carrier and dragging a six year old boy behind you, salespeople tend to promptly steer you towards the minivans without even asking you what you're looking for.

And let me tell you, I DON'T WANT A MINIVAN!

I know they're easy. I was almost swayed by that little remote on the Mazda MPV that opens the doors automatically on both sides of the cars to let your kids spill in or out of the car on their own. And Mazda Frank, the Mazda salesguy, tried to get me to believe that if you have leather in your minivan, a cool stereo, and a moonroof, you're practically driving a sportscar.

I almost believed him because for once the kids did not fight in the backseat when I came back with the whole family for another test drive.

"I love that minivan," Samuel confided in me after the ride. "Not one sister can touch me. And I don't care that you won't buy the DVD player."

I still don't want the minivan. But my only other choice is an SUV and that seems wrong somehow, too, to buy a huge tanker of a vehicle that will cost the price of decent dinner out to fill up at the tank.

B and I tried to talk ourselves into thinking that if we got a minivan, we could make it cool. That rejecting the SUV would be cool. And our dear Scion-driving friends assured us it'd be cooler to drive the minivan.

So I drove by the dealership again to take another stealth look at the family van ("Do you think Frank is going to notice us if we keep driving by here?" Samuel asked as we drove by again and again.) And the van we were looking at was gone. Sold. To another family in the same position as us, but more confident with their choice. Maybe cool enough to not worry about losing their cool. A family at one with the fact that it's hard to be hip with three kids.

But I was very, very glad that family was not us.

our new pink mouth--naomi rose

I'm a month late, since Naomi is a month old tomorrow, but she's finally here and she's a total miracle. She was born quickly and easily (relatively) on June 2nd and weighed 8 pounds, 7.7 ounces--two pounds more than the doctors predicted! Life with three kids is a whirlwind to be sure and I'm just hoping that I'll be able to hold onto these days for as long as possible (at least the good parts--I'll be happy to forget the fussy cocktail period everynight where all three kids are whiny and miserable). Who knew that chaos could be so lovely and enjoyable?

Here are a few photos from our first few days...

let's potty!!!

This morning B and I woke up (at 5:30 am, mind you) to the kids singing and playing in S's room. S was singing at top of his lungs, "I want to pahty! Let's pahty! I want to pahty!" (something from the movie Madagascar, I think?) T was trying to sing along, but not as loudly, and then she stopped.

"Wait!" she said. "Why do we want to potty in your room? Shouldn't we go to the bathroom for that?"

We could hear Samuel groan in his room. "No, silly! Not potty... It's pahty! That's the way you say it when you're having a really good time!"

pg forever...

My due date has come and gone (okay, only yesterday, but yesterday was a very, very, very long day for us)... I know that my yoga instructor insists that we don't refer to due dates, but "due months" since determining these days is not an accurate science, and I know that at my second ultrasound my doctor said that maybe we should consider the due date to be somewhere in between 5/28 and 6/3. And, I know that both of my previous pregnancies went past the due dates (S was two days late and T was two weeks). I know all this...

But I want some contractions!!!

beauty over easy

On seeing a truly gorgeous sunset on the way home last night, S, who'd rather eat eggs than any sort of cookie, points to the sky and sighs.
"Look at how pretty the sky looks! It looks just like runny yolk!"

game 1: maccabees vs. tigers

S had his very first t-ball game today. He'd been looking forward to this "winning" game for weeks, even though at his age level, they don't officially keep score. It didn't matter, though, because at five, he and his teammates know enough about games to understand that someone usually wins and though the parents all tried to be politically correct about it, we all knew that if the rest of the season is as good as this game was, the Maccabees are going to have quite a year.

This game symbolized a lot of firsts for us:

1. S's first official entry into the world of competitive sports. (Okay, I'm ignoring the fact that since they aren't really keeping score, it can't really be all that competitive, but EVERYONE knew that the score was 11-2 by the time the Tigers dropped out of the game at the end of the second inning.)

2. B and I have officially become sports parents. We've never thought of ourselves this way, and to be honest, I've never even had the slightest interest in baseball until S started playing. But now I'm an avid fan. I'm practically a soccer mom. The next thing you know, I'll be driving a minivan.

3. I know this is only a game, but getting out there and playing this game was one of the most challenging things S has ever done. The kid has the most amazing imagination, and he's a terrific reader and does math problems in his head while he lies in bed. But until now, he's been bored by sports. And by t-ball. But today, S was a shining star. As the game went on, I saw him become totally composed and sure of himself. He played first base and was ruthless at tagging runners out--three in one inning (you're really going to have to ignore the fact that I don't know baseball lingo any better than I speak Swahili). He concentrated on the game in a way that I've never seen him concentrate on anything before. And he was really, really good at it. He was so proud of himself and at the end of the game, the coach gave him the MVP ball. I had to look away so I wouldn't cry. My boy...

I'm overwhelmingly proud. My kid is the MVP of the first game of the Maccabee season. His first game ever. And the other team parents seemed equally giddy cheering for their kids, though we all kept trying to remind them that we're not keeping score, and that everyone was a winner. But that felt a bit ridiculous, too. It is a game, and I do want him to play because it's fun and not always with the goal of being the best or the first. But sometimes... Sometimes it really is so fun to be the winner.

It's a good thing the coaches seem very mature about the whole thing. At the end of the game, our team shouted their good sport cheer--"8-6-4-2... We really liked playing you!" while the parents collectively groaned... It seems we're going to have a lot to learn here, too.

my sperm is faster than yours...

Understandably, there has been a lot of talk at our house about how the baby got into my belly and how the baby will get out. So, in need of a little support, I went to the bookstore and bought two seemingly benign books that talk about how the baby grows in the mother's womb and what it'll be like once the baby is born. B and I were relieved to find two pretty scientific sources that did not talk about sex, because we're much too chicken to deal with that yet. But there is so much talk about how the egg and sperm meet up and it's basically a matter of time before S puts two and two together and asks how that happens. Luckily for us, his competitive edge is apparently helping to stall that question because he's become obsessed with gender determination, about whether or not the boy or girl sperms are faster, and who will win this particular race.

This is what B overheard S saying at the playground when he was playing with J, a little girl on his t-ball team. They were both sitting at the top of a double slide and getting reading to race down.

"Let's pretend we're both sperm and we're racing to the egg. We can see which is faster, the boy sperm or the girl sperm!"

I wonder what J's mom will say to us when her five year old daughter comes home from t-ball practice and says she played sperm on the playground with S...

night terrors

Last night, only a few hours after he'd gone to bed, S woke up screaming. I ran upstairs, pretty alarmed because he is usually the best sleeper in the house, and found him sitting up in bed.

"What's the matter?" I asked, sitting down on the edge of his bed.
"I had a horrible nightmare," he said. "I dreamt that I grew up and didn't become famous!" And with that, he started crying.

Yes, my fears have been confirmed. My son has inherited the dreaded prodigy wannabe gene.

"Oh baby," I said, trying to sound soothing, "it's okay if you're not famous. What's most important is that you're a good person." He stopped crying and looked at me as if I were insane (something that I'm starting to get very used to).

"No, it's not," he said. "If I'm not famous, how will I get written into history? And then how will people remember me when I die?"

I didn't have an answer for him because I'm still trying to recover from the fact that I most likely missed the path to fame and fortune. And though I do know that being a good person, a good mother, and a good friend is really what counts at the end, it would be nice to also have a satisfied ego. Isn't it possible to have both?

But as a parent who is trying to be responsible, what do I do here? I'm afraid I didn't do the right thing. I told him he was so young that we didn't even know exactly what his talents were, but that if being famous was his goal, he most certainly could do it if he were driven enough. Which is true, I'm sure... But is it good to teach my five year old that ego feeding is a good thing, especially since this kind of ego drive is all about being important? Or this just some sort of age-appropriate growth development stage where he's simply trying to discover his role in this world?

I hoped that what he'd come away from the talk was just the fact that he did seem to feel comforted by the fact that he had a lot of time to do the work he wanted to, as opposed to me. ("Wow, Mommy... Does it make you sad that you're too old to be famous?") Either way, I figured he wouldn't even remember the dream the next morning.

I was wrong about him remembering, though. This morning as he ate his breakfast (peanut butter and honey on a frozen waffle is his current fave), he said, "Oh, Mom, that was a terrible dream last night. It was almost as bad as when I dreamed that George Bush ruled the world."

Sigh...

one more little pink mouth...

So now that I'm about to enter my eighth month of pregnancy, it's probably time to come clean and announce that yes, we're adding another little pink mouth to our family. And no, much to S's dismay, it is not a little white poodle with a skin disease.

We are thrilled to be having another baby, though we're pretty sure this one is our last. However, telling people that we're pregnant with our third child has been a really bizarre experience--much different than telling them with our first and second. Comments range from "You've got to be kidding!" to "Wow, that's um, great. Was it planned?" And even, "You can't do that!" from a friend who strongly believes that you should not procreate more than just replacing yourselves (and who, funny enough, we haven't seen since). And then, of course, there is always the "So, are you through after this one?"

And actually, it has been so bizarre that we've sort of subconsciously forgotten to tell people (or maybe it's because we're running after our first two?). Which is really weird when, after not seeing certain friends for a few months, we get together and they see my belly and then have to say something like, "um, whatcha got going in there?"

The comments used to bother me. But I've got to say that now that we're at the last leg of this pregnancy, I'm thrilled. Feeling this baby grow inside of me has been as awesome and amazing as the first pregnancy and I can't wait to see who this baby is. But really, it is a good thing this whole process takes 40 weeks (or 42 in the case of T), because I think that's what it really takes.

all things pink and sparkly

As we head towards T's third birthday, our life has accumulated a lot of pink in it. She has always been fairly girly. At 13 months old T had a very strong opinion about what she would and would not wear and by 18 months, when shopping with me, she'd point out clothes in the stores she liked and say "How cute!" But I can't help but wonder if I'm doing her a favor or a disservice by encouraging her love for all things girly. Because now she is pinker and sparklier than anything we could ever imagine.

I suppose everyone is entitled to their own personal style, and when checking out the other 2-3 year olds, I see that pink tends to be one of the more popular color trends for girls her age. Though now, pink alone isn't good enough anymore. It needs to be dress (preferably pink). With tights. And buckle shoes. And ever since her cousin J, who cuts her hair, introduced T to the wonders of hair sparkles, she thinks that no day truly begins until she's covered with gold sparklies.

But it's not just the clothes. T loves fairies, jewelry (especially "tiraras"), loves to pretend she's a ballerina, and she adores, adores Barbies. Since she's got an older brother, she does undestand the importance of running super fast and having superhero powers, but she does not, in any way, share the satisfaction he gets for throwing a ball toward a hoop or pretending to be a race car driver or astronaut. She is all girl and she's happy about it.

And this is where I feel uncomfortable. I mean, I'm so glad she loves who she is. She's beautiful and strong and confident, and I hope she stays that way forever. But I feel guilty that I don't do more to make her environment more gender neutral. Part of me feels like she should never have to be ashamed of her pleasures ("It's fine you love Barbie, honey, but remember that she's plastic and her body dimensions aren't physcially even possible and you could never, ever look like her without a lot of disfiguring cosemtic surgery."). But by letting her indulge herself in things that are so specifically girly, am I limiting her potential for being an amazing ballplayer? Or will this encourage her to believe that her looks are more important than her brains? And mostly, do I feel guilty because I fully enjoy the same things she does (though, I tend not to wear tutus or hula skirts to work).

Or, is it enough to give her the support to love the things she loves, yet still expose her to other less superficial things? Who's to say a superhero can't wear a tutu?

bad hair week

It's been a bad hair week for T and her friend, G.
On Sunday night, they played hairdresser and managed to emerge from the closet "salon" with about half a jar of Vaseline smeared into their hair.

Where were these children's parents? Well, let's just say that three of them were having what they thought was a quiet, relaxing, grown-up dinner, and the other was romping around Italy, single-guy style. That'll teach them. Because getting Vaseline out of hair, especially fine children's hair is seriously tricky business. So tricky, in fact, that when you search on "how to get vaseline out of hair" on msn, you get 74,158 results.

And frankly, most of them are bad.

The first site we looked at said that most any shampoo will get Vaseline out of hair. We were doubtful, but put the two littlest girls (and worst victims), T and G, into the tub and started scrubbing with baby shampoo (we were so naive then). Of course, it did nothing. We tried dish detergent for something a bit stronger, since you know, if it could cut chicken fat, it should be able to cut though Vaseline.

Nope. In fact, we learned from the next site that by putting water on the Vaseline, we'd made the removal process even more difficult.

Another site swore that patting cornstarch onto every affected area of the hair (in our case, the whole head) would be 99% effective (or at least 97%) because the Vaseline would bind to the cornstarch and then remove easily when washed out. This was extremely messy, but the messiness seemed encouraging, as if something so hard just could not fail.

It helped, but was definitely not 99% effective, or even 97%. Maybe 30%.

I took my exhausted, overwashed, yet still very greasy girl home. She fell asleep in the car so I just put her in bed and when she woke up, her pillow was stained with Vaseline grease. Ick.

The next day, recharged with a mission, I got online again. I learned some more interesting facts about Vaseline and hair. First of all, Vaseline is apparently an effective method of ridding oneself of lice and I could feel good that my child would surely be nit free. However, the next posting on this topic stated a serious warning in ALL CAPS. It said something like:

DID YOU KNOW THAT VASELINE IS A PETROLEUM PRODUCT AND BY PUTTING IT ON YOUR CHILD'S HEAD, YOU ARE ESSENTIALLY MAKING IT VERY FLAMABLE?

All day I fought off the urge to call daycare and warn them to keep T away from flames.

That evening, F (G's mom) called me with the cure. Cornstarch on a dry head and then add Neutrogena Anti-Residue shampoo, leave on for 30 minutes and voila!

It was close. I did it twice and at least T's head didn't leave stains anymore after brushing against things. I'd give it a good 85% effective.

So four days later we're still greasy enough to be able to mold her braids Pippi Longstocking-style, but getting closer. T has endured about 8 hours of hair washing so far this week (not the most fave activity of this particular two-year old) and I can pretty much feel very comfortable that the next time she sees an open jar of Vaseline, she'll stay very far away.

And luckily, it wasn't scissors.

michelangelo or mr. incredible?

We went all-American today.

It was really out of sheer desperation. I was all set to spend our afternoon at the Sistine Chapel and to go check out Michelangelo’s ceiling, but the kids wouldn’t bite. We’d already spent an hour with S, practicing his letters, and T had practiced writing Os, and I felt desperate to get out and see a bit more before going home next week. I tried everything.

“You get to see what this artist thought G-d looked like. How many people get to see that?” I asked.

But S said, “Mommy, nobody knows what G-d looks like. You know that.” He looked disgusted with me.

Strike one.

“Okay,” I said, “But you get to see pretty pictures of angels,” I said. “Who doesn’t like angels?”

“Ugh, no more angels! I can’t stand anymore angels!”

He had a point. We’d seen so many statues and paintings of angels during our visit so far that they were really becoming a dime a dozen. But I wasn't ready to give up.

“They look like cute babies,” I appealed to T. “You love babies.”

“Ugh,” she said, copying S.

Strike two.

“Come on, you guys! It’s the Sistine Chapel! When you’re in Rome, you have to see the Sistine Chapel! It’s Michelangelo!”

They looked at me like I was crazy. Obviously, strike three.

“I know,” said S. “Let’s go to the Disney Store. We saw it from the bus the other day.”

“We can’t go to the Disney Store in Rome,” I said. “You can do that anytime at home. Besides, it’s a super long walk.”

“I’ll walk,” S said.

So in the end, I gave in. T fell asleep immediately in the stroller and S and I walked the forty minutes to the Disney store and then forty minutes back. We passed Piazza Venezia and the presidential building. We talked about the captured obelisks and the war columns and spoils. We talked about how little Italian cars are compared to American cars. We passed by the Museum of Art and talked about painting and different artists, like Miro (who is on exhibit at the MOA) and Michelangelo, and how S got to present his watercolor at the graduate drawing review that morning along with the rest of the class when he visited the studio with his dad. S told me about how proud he felt when the professor told him he liked his broad strokes and abstract design, pinned up his painting on the wall, and then asked him which of the students’ work he liked best. S walked the whole way, there and back, without a single complaint.

“Maybe we could go see more art,” S conceded, carrying the package with the over-priced, plastic Mr. Incredible that he’d purchased with his allowance.

“Hey, maybe we could go to the museum tomorrow,” I said.

“Okay,” S said. “But I’m still not going to look at any more angels.” He paused. “And can we go to McDonald’s and get shakes, too?”

“Don’t push it.”

He shrugged. “Okay, as long as we stay away from angels, I’m good.”

ozzie

After the last post, I received some email requesting a photo of Ozzie, so here he is in all his glory. Note his pink neck. This is not because he's a poodle, despite the fact that T does not believe Ozzie is a "poodoo" because he is not pink.

S has pretty much been pleading nonstop for me to call his doctor to have him tested for "ploodoes" (okay, it's one thing to not correct the two-year old, but it is cruel not to correct a five-year-old, isn't it? Even if his version is so much cuter?) the second we get back.

"Really?" I asked. "You actually want the doctor to give you a scratch test?" S shares a healthy fear of needles, as do most of his five and under friends.

But he said earnestly, "I'd do anything for a dog. I promise I'll walk him and feed him and take care of him. I can do it."

I have a serious fear that I'll fall down the same path as many other parents and believe S (even though as a rational person and parent, I know that it's just not possible for a five year old to do that much), and that based on the results of this scratch test, I may have another small pink mouth to feed in the next year.

gelato holiday

The kids and I are in Rome for six weeks while B teaches architecture in a program with the University. Italy is amazing and we are having an amazing time, but traveling with two small children is so much different than I’d ever expected. Perhaps it’s because I haven’t traveled internationally since having kids, or perhaps it’s because I was just so overwhelmingly ecstatic about the potentials of Italian shopping (think shoes, shoes, shoes, plus a nice leather bag here or there), or perhaps I’d just imagined my kids to be these wordly little people, ready to take on anything. I imagined the three of us waking up everyday to take on Rome. We’d picnic in the Forum, study Italian for a few hours, lunch on panini, perhaps a bit of a nap before a gelato, and then immerse ourselves in Italian culture, dining late at night (with kids—they do that here) and strolling the streets.

Here’s my parenting lesson for the year. Wake up.

Three weeks into our trip, after bus trips through Tuscany and Southern Italy, after countless piazzas, palazzos, and duomos, after ferries, islands, beaches, and fountains, when asked what his favorite part of Italy is so far, my five year old son says, “I like the way the ice cream tastes.”

This is not a random answer. You can ask him this question any time of day and he’ll say, “Is it time for gelato yet?” Since we’re doing some home schooling on this trip, we’ve decided to incorporate gelato into his lessons (spelling/reading gelato flavors, fractions (how much of one flavor do you have if you get three flavors instead of two), and math. S is keeping a journal of his trip, but his crowning achievement is the last page of his journal where he’s keeping an inventory of how many gelatos he’s had and which flavors he’s had most. Luckily he’s a skinny kid, but I hope his teachers don’t turn us in to CPS for nutritional deprivation.

S’s other great Italian love is Ozzie, the dog of the directors’ of the Rome Program. Somehow, miraculously, S, who is so allergic to dogs, is not allergic to Ozzie, and perhaps because of this, and perhaps because Ozzie is fourteen years old and extremely patient, S is madly and obsessively in love. He even overlooks the fact that Ozzie has some sort of rare skin disease and is missing patches of fur all over his body.

“When we get a dog,” S says the other day, “let’s get one just like Ozzie.”

“A poodle?” I asked.

“No, one with those patches of fur like Ozzie has.”

I guess I could promise him that because we’re not getting a dog. I feel successful each night the kids are fed and bathed and in bed. I can’t do that for a dog.

Though, to be fair, and I’m truly not a dog person, but Ozzie’s face is so cute, he looks like a muppet.

Not that we aren’t having a fabulous time, but somehow my children inherently know they’re not Italian (imagine that!). They get crabby in the evenings, can’t wait until 8pm to eat dinner with the rest of the bambinos, and somehow, they can’t keep their clothes neat and clean like the Italian kids here who all seem impeccably dressed at all times. I’m okay with all that, but it did take some getting used to that life in Italy with children is very much like life in the U.S. with children, just Italian style. Instead of the Pacific Science Center, we see the Coliseum or the Pantheon (“Wow, big building. Can we get gelato now?”), but we have to see them just as quickly as anything else. It doesn’t matter if it’s spectacular.

Though, S did have a definite moment at the ancient Greek temples in Paestum, where, after running around and chasing lizards for almost an hour while we all sat and had a picnic and gazed at the ruins, he was actually stopped for a second by the sight of one of the temples.

“Hey, did you guys see that building? It’s cool.”

He actually sat down with the rest of the architecture students and sketched and then painted an amazing picture of the temple at sunset. And then announced that he’d become an architect, too, someday.

Maybe he’ll design a gelato store.

freaky sunday

Last night I had one of those moments when you realize that, despite all your best efforts, you are turning into your parents.

I told S that he should be happy to be a kid. "You don't know how good you've got it," I told him.

I uttered those exact words.

And you know who uttered them before me? Of course you do. My parents to me, my grandparents to my parents, I'm sure my great-grandparents to my grandparents (though in Russian and I don't know how to translate the phrase, but if I did, I would) and so on and so on.

I've joined the ranks of grown-ups who just don't understand anything.

We were celebrating my step-dad's birthday and during pie and ice cream, S declared that he didn't want to go to school because it was just too boring. So B told him he'd gladly trade places with him and he could show up at the architecture firm and B would go to preschool. Their conversation was priceless and couldn't have been better if planned. I wished I'd had a tape recorder, but I may try to get them redo it (though I know it could never be as good). Anyway, S was telling us what his day looked like...

First you have free playtime, then you have to go to circle time where you have to sit still and listen, but then you can sing songs sometimes, but you can't talk whenever you want to or you have to leave the circle. Then you get snack and some outside playtime, which is the best, but you can't take the balls away from the girls or you have to go see the principal (I didn't know the preschool actually had a principal, but I'm thinking that this part was made up after reading the Junie B. Jones books).

Then you come in and have lunch, "and you can't say anything bad about it no matter how gross it is," said S, "because Marianne worked really hard to make it." (I've tried telling him the same thing about the dinners we have at home, but S always gives me an incredulous look like what I've just placed before him just could not have taken that much work.)

Then you have naptime, and you have to hold really still and pretend you're sleeping, but because you're five, you're just too big to nap. And then you wake up and have art, more playtime, more outside time and then you finally, finally get to go home.

Sounds rough. Especially that nap part. So then I said those words. S looked at me like I was crazy (especially since he's pretty sure that I spend my day at work eating tater tots and Cheetos and drinking chocolate milk while playing computer games, which is how he spent the day when he came to work with me last month). B looked shocked, as if he'd seen that I'd gone beyond a certain unsaveable grown-up point. And my mother smirked. I'd joined the ranks.

The next thing you know, I'll be drinking pink wine with ice cubes in it.

(To J, this is what you've got coming to you!)

what success looks like...

Yesterday S dunked his head in the water 7 times! This is big. This is huge and monumental.
Because S hates getting water in his eyes.
In the shower or bath, washing his hair is a chore that includes regular towel dabs to his eyes in order to get through rinses. And not only does he need those dabs, they're accompanies by piercing shrieks and screams.
"I've got water in my eyes! You did it to me again, Mommy!"
or just simply...
"Water in eyes, water in eyes!!!!"
And T has started doing it, too, even though she doesn't mind the water that much, but because her little sister status necessitates that she do whatever S does.

Needless to say, learning to swim has been very, very difficult because it really is quite a challenge to swim without getting your face wet.

I've tried a lot of different approaches to get him to swim. I've spent countless hours in the pool coaching, "paddle, paddle, paddle, kick, kick, kick." I've told him how much I love to swim and let him ride on my back in the pool. I've told him that he needed to swim in order to be safe, in order to go to kindergarten (okay, that's not exactly true, but I'm going to use peer pressure to my advantage for as long as possible), and I even tried to tell him that if he didn't start swimming soon, T was going to learn before him. That gave him a shiver, but he got over it.
"That's okay," he said. "I don't like getting my face wet."

So then I had no other choice. I committed the cardinal sin of parenting.

Warning: Those of you perfect parents out there may want to stop reading at this point.

I bribed my young son. With toys. Trashy ones. B was appalled.

"Listen," I told S. "You have to learn how to swim. If you learn to swim across the pool, I'll buy you anything you want." B gasped. But I felt confident in S's love for small, inexpensive, plastic toys. I could bribe him with the world at that price. And really, when you think about it, what is really wrong with offering a little extra incentive? I mean, I wouldn't continue to show up at work everyday if I weren't offered a monetary incentive, no matter how intellectually stimulating it is sometimes or how many free sodas I'm offered.

"I could get a Dash?" He asked. For those of you who aren't in the know, Dash is Dashiell Robert Parr, Incredible and Boy Super. "I really want Dash, but that's too hard," S said.

I took a breath. "Okay," I told him, "if you can dunk your head in the water as many times to feel comfortable, you can have a Dash. And when you can swim across the pool, you can have the rest of The Incredibles." B groaned.

So we headed out to the pool and though S didn't seem sure about this whole plan, he first watched B dunk himself and then he took a deep breath and dunked his own self under the water with his dad. And when he came up, he sputtered and wiped his eyes and smiled. And then he did it again and again. And there was no mention the whole time of Dash or any of his plastic family members, just a lot of shrieking, "Hey! Watch this!" as S when under again and again. S suddenly felt too big to play in the wading pool with T and wanted to practice his kicking. And then he even jumped off the side of the pool into our arms, making huge splashes that got into everyone's eyes. He was amazed by himself and of what he could do. First a dunk, and then who knows what would be next? He was proud of himself and I felt triumphant.

Later that night, after tucking both S and Dash into bed, we told him again how proud we were of him. He smiled, pleased with himself. And then, as we turned out the light and said goodnight, S sat up and said, "Mommy, I know that if I swim across the pool, I get the rest of the Incredibles, but I bet I could really get a lot if I swam across and back!"

3-DPO

At about 3pm yesterday, I called B up at work and asked him about the 3pm Dinner Preparation Obsession (hereby called 3-DPO) and his response was...

"I never think about it. You do."

So I said, "You never think about it because I do? Well, what if I didn't?"

"Well, if you didn't, I would. Do you want me to?"

"Yeah, I totally want you to. What's for dinner tonight?"

"Um," he said. "I'm actually not going to be home. I've got a meeting until 7pm and won't be home until 7:30. But I can bring something home afterwards. Should I do that?"

"But the kids will be in bed already by the time you get home," I said. "Will we have to wake them up to give them dinner? Do you think they could last that long?"

"Yeah, we'd have to wake them up for dinner. They might not be too happy about going to bed unfed. Maybe you should figure something out for them."

"So I guess I'm figuring out dinner tonight."

"I guess so. What are you going to make?"

mango me

The UPS guy, a young college guy, knocked on the door in the middle of the kids' dinner of mango and frozen matzah pizza and he kept looking at my chest. I gave him a dirty look... I mean, I had two kids hanging on me and he'd totally disrupted dinner, which was a fragile set-up, anway. The pizza had turned out to be the biggest let down after I'd hugely built it up ("Hey you guys! We get to have pizza on Passover! How great is that???) , and the kids were too tired and crabby to eat much, anyway. But I have to admit, I was the tiniest bit flattered, too. So I signed for my package, got the kids back to dinner and went on with my evening. It wasn't until I'd put the kids to bed that I noticed a huge, gooey gob of orange mango sticking out of my shirt. Who knows how it even managed to get there.

I turned 34 yesterday and I feel it.

down home coffee and research

I'm back at work. Full-time. And my life is crazy all over again, but instead of just being incredibly hard, it's actually pretty interesting, and exciting, too. Oh yeah... And it's really, really hard.

I'm back at the same place as before, same type of web publishing role, but a different job that I am really enjoying. A good part-time job never panned out and as our savings started dwindling, this opportunity came up and it felt great to take a job I really wanted instead of one I simply just really needed. Sometimes throughout the day I realize that I'm feeling very energized, and yes, it could be the gallons of coffee that I'm back to consuming, but it also could be that I feel happy and driven and good.

I'm committed to not feeling guilty about being back full-time and not being home wth the kids. But being committed doesn't necessarily mean I've hit success yet. I think I shouldn't have to feel guilty because it's glorious to have good health benefits and to not have to buy groceries on a credit card. I think it's amazing to not fight with B about why he paid the bills before they were absolutely due or not feel guilty about buying the name brand Gardenburgers for the kids (they're really so much better) instead of the gnarly generic ones. And I shouldn't feel guilty for enjoying my time at work instead of being miserable because I have to be there.

But guilt is really slimy and I do feel it.
The kids are still adjusting to being back at daycare full-time and they come home sad, whiny, and clingy. And I come home tired. I've been really careful to not bring home work unless I absolutely have to, and I try to come back ready to totally invest in my evenings with them. But they're so hungry by the time they get home and the thought of giving them a nice, home-cooked meal seems impossible. And I must really be turning into a full-fledged mother (instead of the poser "See me mother!" feeling I've carried around for the past four years) because everyday at about 3pm, I start obsessing about what I'm going to make for dinner. Not that actually cooking dinner is an option. It's more like preparing dinner. Or providing dinner. And sometimes dinner is just downright weird, like the time I totally burnt the halibut and once I realized how awful it was, I had to pull the plates away from the kids ("It's not THAT bad, Mommy," S had said sweetly) and replace them with bowls of cereal.

I wonder why B never obsesses about what he'll provide for dinner... I'll have to ask him about that.

There must be a way to figure this out. Maybe I'll have to start cooking on the weekends and freezing meal portions. Or maybe research a great take-out delivery place. I'm good at research.

All in all, I really think I'm doing the right thing for now. Just got to keep up coffee and research.

in the ring...

Now that I'm seriously in limbo between being a stay at home mom and a work outside the home mom, I have one big question...

Why is there so much division between both groups? I just read a poll in a parenting magazine where one reader said that she couldn't see the point in having children if you were just going to hand them over to daycare to raise them.

Hand them over?!

I went back to work full-time when S was four months old because I had no choice. B was in graduate school and we needed at least one income. I knew before getting pregnant that I would have to work once my baby was born and it was worth it to me to be able to start my family, even though I would have to continue working. And to be honest, since I was living in a new city without many friends, no family, and because his graduate program was so intense, even B was spending nights in his studio at school, I absolutely appreciated having the support of S's teachers at daycare to help me figure out the basics of parenting. I mean, of course I read a lot and followed my instincts, but in the infant room, I had a built in community that otherwise would've been absent in my life. I missed my baby terribly while I was at work, but I was careful to separate work from home life and I was lucky to be able to leave the office everyday by 4pm. And I truly believe that children can benefit from a well-chosen, loving daycare environment that fits their needs and personalities.

When T was born, I also went back to work when she was four months old. B was new to his field and we couldn't afford to live off his income and stay in the city we lived in. Also, since by this time both my brother's family and my parents had moved up here, moving to another city wasn't a real option. I loved the idea of giving my children a supportive extended family environment and didn't want to move. However, this time it was much harder to go back because I knew I was missing a lot of T's babyhood and those delicious milestones, and it wasn't as easy to push the idea of staying at home out of my mind. I found myself mourning for my children and feeling resentful of my job because it was taking me away from them, even though on a day to day basis, professionally, I was doing something I really enjoyed. But coming home to divide the last three hours of my children's day between dinner, baths, bedtime rituals, and then try to give each of them a tiny bit of individual attention was beginning to feel impossible. And this didn't even include trying to buy groceries, put together a meal from those groceries, and pick up the house a little. And then once I put the kids to bed, I often had to get back online and do more work to keep up with my colleagues.

The whole thing was tearing me apart. Missing my kids was tearing me up, but also loved the satisfaction I got from my job. I felt guilty about pretty much everything.

I admit, I did underestimate how difficult it is to stay home full-time. And I am officially apologizing to all those SAHMs for either secretly or not-so-secretly believing that their lives were easier than mine. I know now that they're not easier. It's really hard to keep up at the parenting ideals I'd always strived for when I'm with my children all day. While adhering to the "No TV During the Week" rule was easy while I was working full-time and the TV wasn't a temptation, it is infinitely more difficult now that I crave just five minutes to myself during the day, especially now that S has given up his nap (Okay, okay, he is four and a half and truly ready to give up that nap, but I miss it!). My kids drink more juice and eat more sugar than they used to and there have been days when we're still in our pajamas at noon. But it's been wonderful, too. The kids seem calmer and less clingy. They've always been happy kids, but I know they're happy to be at home more.

But what is easier about staying at home is that I actually feel more like myself, even if I'm doing less that is about me. This is intensely freeing. When I was putting in long hours at work, I would rarely make plans in the evenings or on the weekends because I didn't want to miss a minute I could be spending with my family. I hoarded that time, but I'm not sure it was all that healthy of a thing to do. Our relationships with our friends suffered and I suffered. I could never enjoy an evening out because I missed the kids too much. I felt like it was unfair of me to leave them unless they were asleep. And because I never had time to myself, I was cranky and overtired, and I am absolutely sure it affected the way I parented. Now that I've got time with the kids, I love my time away from them as well. I feel calmer and I parent more calmly. At least sometimes.

All this is well and good. But it still doesn't work. And this is where I feel torn and in limbo. I cannot afford to stay home full-time unless we move to the suburbs, and B and I aren't willing to do that. We don't want to take our kids away from their family, from the theatre and cultural events we don't take them to often enough, and from the general hubbub of the city we love. B is an architect and his job is here. The work he wants is here. And so we're back to trying to figure out how to make this work. Right now, we're living as cheaply as possible, but we're still not making it. And I'm telling you, we are not the kind of people who live large. We've never owned a new car, we shop at consignment stores, we still have the $30 couch we bought in graduate school (at a consignment store) and we rarely eat out. We have savings, but they won't last forever (or for long) and I've just got to go back to work. Ideally, I'll find something flexible and/or part-time. I want to be able to keep S from having to go to after school care and I'd love for T to only have to go to daycare part time. But I've been looking for this perfect situation for a long time now and I haven't found it.

I read all the time in magazines, articles, blogs, and I even hear it from some of my friends, that being a working parent is a selfish and pointless thing to do. But I find that whole crusade pointless, too. There are people that have to work in this world. Healthcare and insurance are prohibitively expensive and if I'm having trouble mustering up the funds for these, I can't even imagine how low income families are managing it. And what about life and dental insurance? What about college? Or what about even extra-curricular activities? Am I having trouble financially because my expectations are too high? Should I give up city living and move to the suburbs? And really, how can it be pointless to have a working mom when the children are very much wanted, in a loving home where they're well-cared for, adored, and wholly appreciated as the blessings they are? Where is the pointlessness in that? And where is the pointlessness in showing my children that mothers can be both a nurturing provider and a powerful presence in the business world?

And you know what? I miss working outside the home. I really do. I miss the thrill of coming up with new solutions or ideas for projects at work, I miss the satisfaction of seeing one of my pieces go live, and I miss the intellectual comradery. I admit it, and I feel guilty. But I do know that a good balance between work and parenting would make me a better parent.

Going back to work feels a tiny bit easier now that my kids are getting closer to grade school, but I'll be back to where I started if we decide to go ahead and have a third child. This tug of war is endless and I'm exhausted by it, but the fact that some parents feel the need to pit one side against another is painful to me. Since I've been home, I've made it a point to support my working parent friends by taking their kids every once in a while or calling them up on the way to the store to see if they needed anything. I feel grateful that I've got a tiny bit more leeway in my schedule (shockingly, though, it really is only a tiny bit.) And I hope that when I go back to work, I can support my friends who stay home in some way, too, maybe by giving them a break on the weekend, or doing an errand for them at the same time I'm doing one for myself. Or just getting out together in the evenings. Something. The point is that parenting is difficult either way you choose to spend your day and we all need some help.

I think the choice to either stay at home or work outside the home is an intensely personal choice, and it's one that should be respected without judgement. Parenting is a glorious, yet exhausting profession, and I don't know a parent who couldn't use a break at one point or another. It's a hard job that is often thankless, but it's one to feel grateful for. And the only thing more shameful than passing judgement on another family, is teaching children that passing judgement on others who are trying to do their best is an acceptable thing to do.

(stepping off my soap-box. phew!)

happy happy birthday

T turned two today and though I fear the terribles with her in a way I cannot even begin to explain, I mostly feel so emotional. Before I had kids, I never imagined that my children's birthdays would be such a contemplative and introspective day for me, but they have been since S's first when I was so grateful to have gotten through the first year of motherhood with sanity still apparently intact--at least from the outside.

All day long I found myself keeping tabs with my day two years ago.

8:20am: At this time two years ago, I was having contractions in the doctor's office and at 42 weeks, she thrilled me with the news that I'd be having my baby soon. (Oh, those ripe full-termers are so naive. Of course I'd be having a baby soon. I was two weeks late and my gestation was beginning to compete with that of an elephant.)

9:30am:Suddenly in active labor at the doctor's office. Dr. whispers to B to get to the hospital pronto, but try not to do anything illegal.

9:50am:Looking for parking at the hospital. Am trying not to vomit on floor of the new family-sized car. After dumping out the ice on the street at a red light, B hands me an empty cup, just in case.

9:55am:Still looking for parking.

10:00am:Finally get B to concede to valet parking. The thought of expelling either vomit or baby is too much to deal with in new car.

10:10am:Must groan and scream while crouching down on floor of elevator on the way to labor and delivery in order to get through a contraction. Am aware enough to see that the older man in elevator is not comfortable with my grunts.

10:13am:B tells receptionist and L&D that I need an epidural now. "That's what they all say when they get here," she tells him.

10:15am:Am taken to the wrong room. Must try again. Can barely walk.

10:17am:Have taken off clothes, put on hospital gown, and am begging for an epidural.

10:20am:While nurse fumbles with IV, contrax are so strong, I can't even hold still to let her get the needle in. I tell her I need to push and she tells me to hold on.

10:25am:I tell the nurse again that I need to push and she checks me, tells B that there will be no epidural (hey, why didn't she tell that to me?!), and rings a bell that fills the room with what seems to be a million people in scrubs.

10:30am:We still have not been officially admitted to the hospital yet. However, with two pushes, T slides into the world. She's short and sassy, with a lovely chubby tummy and thighs. She takes one long look around her, and while I wonder whether or not she's going to let out a wail, she lets out a bloodcurdling scream that takes everyone's breath away. And then she stops just as quickly as she started. She's rosy and perfect and lovely.

When I was pregnant with T, I hoped and prayed she'd be a girl. I felt so guilty about wanting her to not be a boy, but I wanted a daughter so badly. I wanted that relationship, and though I realize that all mother-daughter relationships aren't perfect by any means, I wanted another female in our family. I wanted more than a co-conspirator, or someone to shop with and do girly things with. I suppose I wanted a chance to help raise a strong woman and put a powerful voice into this world.

I know that's a lot of pressure for my two-year old. But if anyone is up to the challenge, it's T for sure. Each day, I'm more and more delighted and in love with this sassy and spirited girl. She is terribly cute and flirty, but she's also one of the most powerful people I know. She's reasonable and sweet, but she makes herself heard and understood, even if she's still mostly pre-verbal, and she does this without screaming or having a fit (most of the time). She holds her own with her older brother and cousin, and we often get reports back from daycare with stories of her defending them from bullies of the toddler and preschool sort. If someone steps in her way, she'll either shrug them off and laugh or she'll stand her ground, and I just pray that she'll be able to hold on to this skill through her adult years. She loves to be around other people and is a truly affectionate child, with the strongest hugs for a tiny girl.

I'm not sure any of the wonderful aspects of motherhood aren't corny and I know this post is verging on painful. While singing Happy Birthday to her this evening, I had to stop in the middle because I got so choked up. The truth is, I've always cried during Happy Birthday, even when I was a kid at my friends' parties, but holding T and watching her sing to herself and then pucker up her lips in practiced anticipation, I just couldn't get over how lucky I am to have her in my life.

Happy Birthday, Miss Bee... You truly are the icing.

what fits in her nose?

Today T stuck a huge piece of bread up her nose.

"Eeewwww, it's a huge boogie!" S cackled, and thrilled with his response, T tried to stick it further in. Then she tried to stick a piece up her other nostril. This is all within the confines of her carseat, where I couldn't get to her while driving. I am sure she mistook my shrieks from the front seat for encouragement.

I've heard stories about kids sticking things up their noses, but I've never actually seen it happen. I actually never really believed it could happen. It sounds so uncomfortable that even a toddler shouldn't want it. In fact, I seem to remember said toddler vehemently refusing nasal drops or aspirators in her nose just months ago. Perhaps it's one of those things that's better done yourself?

T is into absolutely everything. She'll climb on anything, try anything, attempt to steal a toy from anyone, is hardly ever scared when she should be, and apparently, she'll stick things up her nose. I'm already terrified for her teenage years.

not even one original thought...

I've been officially unemployed now for five weeks, which is exactly three weeks longer than my over-confident self expected to be jobless. And since I allowed my morale to be boosted by my mother and B, who both pretty much said they expected me to have a good job within a few days, maybe I was delusional. Anyway, I'm embracing joblessness and have made a long list of things I could do if nobody ever calls me back for a second interview. Here are a few of them:

1. Learn SQL and build a SQL server database for B's new business plan (there is always a new business plan). Plus, if business doesn't take off and reward us with billions of dollars, I could always add the SQL skills to my resume.



2. Open an eBay store and sell off all of our junk, as well as all of my friends' junk. Since Entrepreneur magazine said this is one 13 Hot Businesses of 2005, maybe I could pay for daycare.



3. Start blogging about the trials and tribulations of deciding whether or not to be a stay at home mom or to go back to work. Maybe try to sell some of the articles.

And idea #3 is what made me realize, officially, that I'm behind the tide once again.

My friend, Ally, and I always laugh about how our ideas constantly come too late. In college, while finishing up our degrees and dreaming about what our future families would look like, we talked about how we thought it'd be okay and not demeaning to stay at home with our kids, despite what our feminist mothers taught us. We thought that guys who opened doors for us were charming, not condescending, and we liked when they paid for the date.

"We're so okay with feminism, we're past it. We're post-feminists," we told ourselves. And then of course, we found out shortly afterwards that the term had already been coined many, many years earlier. Sigh...

While trying to come up with babynames during our pregnancies, we were looking for hip, original names that wouldn't require our children to tack on the initials of their last names to their nametags at schools. Everything we loved was later found in Pottery Barn catalogs and both of our sons ended up with names that made it onto the top ten lists.

And today when I woke up, B handed me my favorite section of the NY Times and I saw the article, Mommy (and Me). Now I knew there were a lot of people blogging about parenting, and I read a lot of blogs about parenting, too, including Heather B. Armstrong's blog, Dooce.com, which is great (and you can nominate it for a the Bloggies if you think it's a good as I do). And maybe this is naive of me, but I just didn't realize that everyone was blogging about their parenting experiences--that there are perhaps more parents blogging about this than not blogging about it. And maybe most of the parent bloggers are the readers for other parent blogs. I know writing about parenting isn't a new thing at all. I'm not sure it's a bad thing that we're all writing about it, either, but it sure makes it harder to stand out.

And that's the thing that struck me most about the article... It talks negatively about the parent blogger's need to stand out and validate his or her existence. Maybe it's true, but who doesn't need some validation? Especially when it comes to parenting in this totally child-centered world where taking your tantrum prone two-year old is stressful, not just because they might throw a fit, but because as a mother, your method of dealing with the tantrum will most likely be judged by the other parents on the playground. (I always picture them holding up score placards after the scene, the way they do with gymnastics performances.) And especially right now, while I'm not working outside the home (Like my SAHM-speak? I'm trying it out...). My kids are delicious, but they have never said, "Hey Mommy, good job on discplining me after I hit my brother for the umpteenth time. You're going to really help me to become a great person someday." And as loving as B is, I bet he'll never come home and say, "Wow, those kids are really looking nurtured and well-bred today!" I could use an outlet and perhaps, yes, some validation from time to time.

Ayelet Waldman is quoted in the article and she says it best. She says that "[a] blog like this is narcissism in its most obscene flowering. But it's necessary. As a parent your days are consumed by other people's needs. This is payback for driving back and forth to gymnastics all week long."

Yes, a little payback goes a long way.

And can I just say, I was psyched to see that she has a blog, too. Bad Mother is a good read.

I'm not sure I care who and how many people read these entries, but for the short time that I spend writing them, I get to concentrate on me. And since most of my day is absolutely not about meeting my needs, blogging seems even more important. Knowing that I need some time to myself to be a better parent, writing about parenthood even seems like a responsible thing to do.

I haven't been a prolific blogger, but I think that may be about to change. And I suppose I'm okay with being one of the crowd again.

what was i saying about balance?

Okay, last month it was balance. This month, we're calling that kind of work/life balance unemployment. Yes, you've got it. I am officially unemployed this Friday as soon as I turn in my final grades for the semester.

I was only offered two classes this semester and though that's just enough to get benefits, it's not really enough to pay the mortgage and childcare. I guess it's against college policy to offer adjunct faculty three classes for consecutive quarters because they don't want those freeway flyers to feel like they belong, but it would've been nice if they'd told me that ahead of time. I was under the impression that I'd be able to swing three clases most quarters. To their benefit, they did try to work with me and my schedule, but in order to pay for half time daycare, which is all I can attempt to afford on an adjunct salary position, I need all my classes in a row and around the same time.

That said, it wasn't a perfect situation, anyway. Teachers get the shaft in this country, and I'm thinking that community college instructors have it the worst. First of all, teaching is one of the most time consuming, hardest jobs I've ever had. If you're prepared, the actual teaching is the easiest part. It's fun, exciting, and there's a cool high you get from having twenty-four pairs of eyes on you. Maybe they call that a power trip? But that's only if you're prepared.

I spent at least 3-4 hours a night pumping out lesson plans that I'd hoped would be interesting, involving, and creative. Most of the time they were, but I've never seen that clock tick more slowly on the days the lessons didn't work.

And papers... Let's talk about them for one second. Being a writing instructor is like shooting yourself in the foot. First of all, each student turns in at least four papers over the quarter and to get anything said at all, they have to be about 3-5 pages long. Then, when they start feeling confident about themselves and get excited about a topic, they write longer papers. And then there are in-class essays and final in-class essay exams. There are enough papers in one class to keep an instructor busy all quarter. But then muliply that by three (if you're lucky enough (ha ha) to get three classes) and you're going to be a really busy teacher.

And did I mention broke? Teachers get paid a pittance of what most other professions get paid (except for architects, the career choice of B). A software developer gets paid a salary three times higher than a teacher's, and though I don't doubt the importance of or the money to be made off of a software developer and her skills, but who taught that SD to read? How would she be able to even read code if Mr. or Mrs. So and So didn't teach her?

Nobody cares, though. Teachers have been paid meager salaries for as long as they've existed and nothing has changed. Is it because they like to be martyrs? Is it because they love what they do so much that they don't care about the money? Ever?

Oh, and did I mention that teaching is so incredibly lonely? It is. Really. Especially as an adjunct faculty, because say you have a really great class or even a really, exceptionally bad class one day that makes you want to just cry in self-pity. Well, too bad for you, because you know what? Nobody on the faculty will give you the time of day for stuff like that. You had just better be very grateful that you had the opportunity to wallow in self-pity because you got a class and well, that's more than you should be able to hope for. There was one brilliantly lovely and cheerful full-time faculty member who was so helpful and sweet. Maybe it was because she wasn't tenured yet? And the Department Chair was also quite a lovely man, but the rest of the instructors would seriously walk out of the room if the only person they saw in it was an adjunct faculty member. Ewwww...

And my last whine is about the office space. About twenty of us shared a tiny, closet hole of an office. This was a hole with three desks and three chairs. That leaves at least 6, but mostly 7 of us to each share a chair. Comfy. Early on, a few of the instructors tapped (this was seriously the term that was used) each of the three desks and then raced to pin up photos of their kids and their calendars on the bulletin boards. Then they placed their fancy tissue boxes and staplers on the desks, taped their hours to the door and called the office theirs. I think they did this all in the first three minutes of the semester. I should have been faster, because when I tried to claim office hours, I found they were already taken. And when I ended up making my office hours at 7:30am (there were benefits to this... I always had extra prep time), I even found that if I were sitting at the desk closest to the door, which happened to be the nicest desk because I didn't have to have my back to the door, and it did have that fancy tissue box, they would inevitably come in and interrupt whatever I was doing.

"Um, are you sitting there?" She'd ask. (The three desk tappers were all women.)

"Um, yes," I'd reply. "I am. Is that okay?"

"Well, actually, that's my desk. See, my fancy tissue box is on it."

Sigh... I'd eventually get up because I didn't want to start a fight (okay, I actually did want to start a fight, but I thought it'd make a bad impression on the full-time faculty), but the whole situation was ludicrous. I hope they all get one class next quarter.

So I'm back on the job hunt and I seem to be heading right back where I came from, but with a new perspective. I miss it. I miss the challenges and the collegial, intellectual, stimulating environment. Maybe I was brain-washed at an early age. I miss technology. I miss the benefits.

And then once I go back full-time, which is what I'll have to do since B's salary just doesn't cover me only getting a part-time salary, I will miss my kids.

I miss them already.

balance

I've finally done it.
I've achieved the ultimate. I've finally found work/life balance. But I had to quit my job to do it.

Last month after six years of 50-60 hour high stress weeks publishing content for software developers, I quit my job to teach at a local community college. I gave up my good salary, my stock options and awards, and my museum and zoo passes to teach three classes each morning and be finished with my day by 11am--just in time to have lunch with S and T and put them down for naps. And when they wake up, we play. It's glorious. We cook and color and dance around the kitchen and chase each other around the house. We scream and sing at the top of our lungs and make forts and feed T's dolls huge, ridiculous feasts.

Sometimes we're bored and that's heavenly, too, because it's a new emotion in our house. S and T have been in daycare for at least 50 hours a week since they were each four months old and boredom is not something they've ever experienced at home. Most of their toys are in practically brand new condition because they've never had time to play them after daycare (dinner, bath, obligatory story, and then bed so that Mommy can get back online and get some work done!) and the weekends were always incredibly hectic (cleaning, groceries, errands) and mostly spent in their carseats.

Ironically, since I am pulling a full load of classes, I do have a lot of papers to grade and lessons to plan at night. But just spending the time at home in the afternoons changes everything. I have so much more patience with the kids and they seem to have a lot more with me, too. There's a lot less whining in our house these days (from both parents and the short ones) and though the house is messy all the time (ah, so that's what happens when you're actually in your house), I am starting to develop this calm happiness that I haven't had since my maternity leave with T. I'm really enjoying my life. It sounds corny and cliche, but it truly is a new feeling. Why should we have to race around all the time, everyone trying to prove to their co-workers (and managers) that they're racing and getting more done than anyone else? I wasn't even enjoying my comfortable salary since I didn't have time to, anyway, and I mostly spent it on services that I didn't have time to do myself (housecleaning, online shopping, gardner, oh, and daycare, too. Mostly daycare.).

The other day, S started whining. It was a high-pitched, pathetic, repetitive moaning of the word 'bored.' "Bored, bored, bored, bored, bored..." I was surprised to hear him going on like that, but I was in the kitchen, stuffing all of the dishes into the washer and could only see the back of his head as he looked out the window. Every once in awhile, he'd put his face up to the window to see what kind of marks he could make on it. I got out a rag for him to clean off the glass when he was through, but since I make it a rule not to respond to whines, I ignored him for awhile. After a few minutes, I could see that he wasn't really trying very hard to get my attention so I peeked over to see what he was doing. He was smiling as he moaned and when he saw me, he stopped the whines.

"Hey Mommy, I'm pretending to be Conrad from The Cat in the Hat. I'm so bored and am looking for some fun that is funny. Wanna try it?"

So I sat down and started whining and moaning and groaning, too.

We like being bored.

arts and craps

I drove to work today feeling like the lamest mom. Here's why. It's Spirit Week at S and T's preschool and here it's already Wednesday and I haven't been able to remember or get it together enough to send the kids in their spirit gear.  Quite frankly, my first reaction to Spirit Week was not kind. Don't toddlers and preschoolers have a lot of spirit as it is? Are they going to learn the "We've got spirit, yes we do!" cheer and do I really want my kids shouting this around the house? What does it even mean? But maybe I'm just trying to justify my negligent parenting.

Monday Silly Hat Day and Tuesday Hawaiian Day pass by without me even noticing. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I didn't even get home from work until 11pm on Monday night so B did both drop-off and pick-up that day. S said it was okay because he just made a hat with his hands on Monday (okay, heart squeeze) and when I pick the kids up on Tuesday, S said "Hey look! I'm wearing the shirt that Aunt K and Uncle D brought me from Hawaii!" Pure accident, but B said that if nobody was upset, why feel guity about it. I was determined to make Wednesday Halloween Day spirited.

So I ask S what he wants to be for Halloween Day.

"How about an egg?" he asks. Would it be possible to make a stellar egg costume in the 20 spare minutes I'd have between pre-dinner Tuesday night and Wednesday morning? No.

"How about a super hero costume?" I suggest. "I could cut out a big red letter 'S' for your t-shirt and make you a cape."

"No, Mom...  I would really feel spirited in an egg costume. I just want to be an egg."

It doesn't matter, anyway. By the time I finish dishes, the laundry, and the report I needed to do for work, it was already 11:30 pm and I hadn't a stitch of creativity in me to get a costume together. Besides, T wakes up at about 4:45am and I panic at the thought of getting through my day without at least five hours of sleep.

The next morning, I pull out a tiny grass hula skirt that T got as a baby gift and then try to put it on over her little skort (which is, by the way, an item of clothing that as a semi-hip college co-ed, I once swore would never, ever, ever be something I owned. Does it matter if my daughter wears one? Apparently, skorts are a must-have in toddler wardrobes.). She wanted nothing to do with it. If I were a sane person, I would understand that no 1-year old would want to wear this silly skirt that would prevent her from running or crawling. So S puts it on his head like a crown and we desperately try to figure out a costume using it, but to no avail. Besides, the little plastic grasses keep poking him in the eyes. It was 7:15 and we had to be out the door in fifteen minutes. Time was a'ticking...

"Hey, what about this!" I pull out a bag of polar fleece that I'd bought years ago with the intention of making hats for friends for the holidays. Of course it never happened. "I'm going to make you a shark fin!"

"But I don't want to be a shark," S whines. "I'll scare myself."

"No, you'll love it. You'll be a nice shark."

So I quickly cut out a fin with the back of a coloring book (I had to tear the book apart, but it was mostly all colored, anyway.) and use it as a template to cut out two pieces of fleece to cover it. Then I super glue them all together. Bad, bad, bad. Not only does it not work, but it emits toxic fumes all over the place. I picture S all sleepy and snuggling up to his smelly, fleecy fin at naptime, innocently inhaling his super glue. Fuck.

So I throw it all away and start over. This time I sew the fabric around the cardboard with big sloppy stitches. And then I pin it to S's shirt just in time for him to jump in the car. It's actually not that bad, I think. Sort of cute. And I congratulate myself for getting it together.

"Where are my hand fins and sharp teeth?" S asks.

"Um, you just have a fin today, " I tell him. "But it's a mighty fine one and you'll swim so fast wtih it." He seems okay with the answer and practices making some shark faces. However, the fin sort of keeps flopping over so I have to add another safety pin.

"Are those okay," B asks hesitantly. Should preschoolers be wearing safety pins to school?

"They're called SAFETY pins," I say. They're supposed to be safe, right?"

"Sure," B says slowly, and then mutters "Super glue sniffing mama..." before kissing me goodbye.

S walks behind him with this fin still flopping with each step. He suddenly looks so little and I wonder if the fin will be okay and what the other kids are wearing. What if they have real costumes? What if they're all dressed up, or g-d forbid, there's someone dressed up as an egg? Then what will S think about his little fin?

B calls me later on in the morning from work. "S was so excited about his costume. He was showing everyone his fin."

"Really," I ask. "He really liked it? It didn't look too floppy and lame?"

"No, he really liked it. And now he and his friends all want to be sharks for Halloween."

I am ecstatic. He likes his fin. I didn't fail him. He will be well-adjusted afterall. He will not feel neglected and he isn't embarrassed by his mother (yet). And now I have to figure out how to make hand fins and sharp teeth, but thank goodness, I have until the end of October.

 

 

death and diving

S has been obsessed with death for the past month or so. I think it started with Finding Nemo, when Nemo's mother dies. There's no mourning as far as Nemo goes, since he's just a bitty piece of caviar at the point when his mom is presumably eaten by the barricuda, but after watching the DVD a few times, S turned to me and asked the inevitable.

"Where's Nemo's mommy?"

I knew that S had a pretty good idea, but given that we really do have to fast forward past the scary parts, and this includes the barricuda attack, I asked him what he thought happened to Nemo's mom.

"She got eaten by the barricuda so I guess she dived."

B and I looked at each other and grinned, but we didn't have the heart to correct him. I mean, why should he, just four years old, have to deal with the realities of death just yet if he didn't have to?

Then about a week later, S got stung by a bee at the park and the darn thing just died in his palm. He and his friend, Claire, had been playing in the bushes, and I guess they discovered a bee hive because within seconds, they were both shrieking. We couldn't figure out what happened at first because they were just standing there howling, but not fighting. S screamed bloody murder because it hurt, but later he also said he was trying to wake up the bee. I tried to explain that sometimes bees die when they sting you, thus launching us into the talk about death.

"So when will the bee wake up?"
"Does everyone die?"
"Will you die?"
and then...
"Will I die?"

Death creeps me out, too, but I assumed the all-knowing, all-calming mother voice, which apparently I have not perfected. The drive home consisted of our little boy crying pathetically from his carseat, "I don't want to die, I don't want to die..." while nothing we said could console him.