And so it begins ...

Sticky hands + cotton balls = this

When people spoke of the "Terrible Twos," I always thought of it as a phase. Like, a gradual descent into temper tantrumdom, with a gradual ascent into not-as-adorable, but still cute kidhood.

I was wrong.

The "Terrible Twos" came to our house yesterday like a package arriving in the mail. Just when I was feeling Brangelina in my baby-making desires - "But seven just seems too small!" - I was faced with the most evil, the most defiant Miss Dub I'd ever met - and she's not even two until October.

It began with a battle over wearing a diaper. Not knowing I was about to sink into the depths of motherhood, I took this to be a sign that potty training had arrived. (Not the best timing since I'm leaving for two weeks on Friday. Oops, didn't I tell you already?) I said, "Well, if you don't want to wear a diaper, you can sit on the potty and ..." (I'll spare those without children the cutesy phrases I use to refer to our excrement.)

That was when I got a diaper throw in my face, while Miss Dub shouted, "No potty! No diaper! Naaaaked!"

I'll spare you the nitty-gritty on the rest of the day, but there was a two-hour battle over wearing shorts, a battle over coming inside, a battle over taking a nap, a battle over leaving Target without purchasing a very large doll house, which she physically removed from the shelf herself.

And then, just when I thought she was ready to rest from her loud labors, she preceded to screech when I put her to bed. I did the typical mom debate - Is she hurt/sad/soiled v. Will she become spoiled/dependent/needy? - ultimately siding with my eardrums and the very real possibility that someone would call CPS on me. THREE times I tried to get her back into bed with various bribery techniques, including stuffed animals, books and "candy milk" - vanilla soy milk - all to no avail.

At 10 p.m., she finally fell asleep on Mr. Dub's lap while watching "The Office."

So now I'm thinking five kids might be just right.

What about you?

For my SAHMs

I've thought about this a lot, but what do you think is the greatest perk of being a stay-at-home mom, aside from the whole be-with-your-chittlins-all-day thing?

After some consideration, I've decided it's spending more time outdoors. OK, in the winter this isn't really a perk - it's a punishment - but I still get a chance to see the sky a lot more than I did when I worked full-time.

In the summer, our life is spent outdoors. Last week, I put on makeup twice because we spent a huge chunk of each day at the pool or a park or another outdoor arena. Miss Dub and I are already sporting wicked tan lines. (I'm not proud of this. I'm becoming part-iguana with my nasty leather hide.)

Some days I feel guilty. When Mr. Dub heads off to work for another busy day of reports and meetings, I say things like, "Yeah, our day is going to be busy, too. We're going to swim in the morning, then have lunch with friends, then head to a park." As if he should be grateful!

It's not totally fair, but there are entire days in the winter when I don't speak a word to an adult and change 5+ diapers full of reconstituted food ... so I guess it balances out.

Plus, when I start to feel guilty that my life is largely creating fun experiences for my child - I remember that I would never forgive myself if I stayed home and focused only on myself. I'm not staying home to swim; I'm staying home to teach Miss Dub to swim. To show her the beauty of a blue sky. To teach her water etiquette. To point out the letters and shapes and sounds we see on the way to the pool. It's all part of a greater educational experience - and I'm lucky enough to be her teacher.

But it's pretty cool that we get to do it outside.

Sundays with the Dubs

For those of you who don't have the pleasure of attending church with us every week, let me summarize Miss Dub's behavior in two words: loud and crazy. Yesterday, for example, she hung herself from the pew and swung her body, shouting, "Swiiiing, Mommy, swiiiing!" Sounds cute on paper, but it was actually pretty annoying, mostly to the people sitting in the pew in front of us.

And that's just a sampling of her bad behavior, which included roaring during the sacrament and playing peek-a-boo with the general audience. Eventually, Mr. Dub gave up and took her out. She just doesn't get the concept of whispering and nothing about her personality is demure. That's also why I love her. She will dance on command. She can speak in full, albeit hard to understand, sentences. She has a vivid imagination already. She gets many adult concepts. She says, "Cool man," "Cool dude," and "Cool beans" without prompting. But she is very loud, very stubborn and very energetic. (This is probably the part where my parents chuckle and say, "Pay back!")

It's funny how certain qualities are appreciated at different times in life. I have no doubt her enthusiasm and stubborness will make her a very successful career woman. I also think her outgoing personality will make her quite popular in school. But as a toddler, it's a lot to control. I find myself looking at more subdued, proper children and wishing Miss Dub could be a little more like that, but then I remind myself, "That kid is on the road to nerdom." And nerdom brings its own set of challenges, like bad fashion sense.

I really have no one but myself to blame. I'm loud and crazy myself. And I'm just not a discipliner. I don't tolerate really inappropriate behavior, like biting or kicking, but I can turn a blind eye to most other things - including pouring water all over the ground and pretending it's a pool. I don't have the energy to fight every battle, plus I just love to see her imagination and independence at work.

But on Sundays, it really comes back to bite me.

Mom moment

I had a total mom moment last month. As my husband headed off to be a good lil' church boy, I took Miss Dub to Target for some bonding time. OK, so our normal time and special time are one and the same. She didn't care, so why should you? Things got a little crazy when she demanded pizza in lieu of a pretzel. So we split a pan pizza, which is sort of like eating healthy food.

Miss Dub was feeling this pizza. "Peec-suh!" she would squeal between bites. Then, she'd take a swig of lemonade. Then, she threw it up all over the floor. (Hitting her clothes and my feet in the process.)

Now, when I witnessed such mom moments from an outside perspective, I thought the mom was thinking, "Great! This is so disgusting! Where are some Targeteers to clean up this filthy mess?"

Instead, I found myself thinking, "Poor, Missy. I hope she's not sick. I feel terrible about this mess. I hope I can clean it up before anyone sees it."

I wasn't grossed out. I wasn't mad. I wasn't even stressed. I was, however, a little weirded out when Miss Dub's only response was, "More pizza, please!"

I did tell a young worker about the mess since it needed some serious mopping after my initial chunk-removal. But he just went and got some fellow worker friends, all who seemed more concerned about what caused her vomit incident rather than cleaning it up.

Luckily, I ran into a church friend who helped me get some bags to put Miss Dub's dirty clothes into. I then put her into my cardigan and took her home.

I must say, she was pretty excited about wearing my cardigan. In fact, she didn't even notice that we never made it to our friend's house, where we were supposed to spend the evening. And I didn't even notice how gross it was to wipe off her clothes before tossing them in the laundry.

But that's being a mom, I guess - when your child's vomit and poop doesn't make you vomit or poop.

But what do you think? Fill in this sentence:
Being a mom means _________________________.


*For more on being an adult, read my review here.

Attention: Pay attention

The other day I was feel a little stressed out. It's not like I'm busy curing cancer or anything - oh, how I wish! - but I have my fair share of play dates, church meetings and household responsibilities to keep my days quite full. Sometimes I feel like I'm going at 100 mph.

At the same time, Miss Dub's behavior is becoming almost laughable, if it wasn't so cryable. She's been whining, hitting, biting, begging, you name it, but no, not that. She's just not happy unless I'm giving her constant attention, which sort of makes my fair share of stuff hard to accomplish.

As I pondered over the two issues, I thought of two things: First, I need to live in the moment. Perhaps Miss Dub demands my constant attention because she never gets my total attention. I've been known to cuddle and pay bills online at the same time. I've been known to read a book to her while thinking of my next household task. I've even perused a catalog out of the corner of my eye while playing dolls with her. And while multitasking might be fulfilling for me, I think it's leaving Miss Dub feeling half-empty.

Second, I need to stop over-scheduling myself, even when they are good things. Service is great, but when I'm serving others more than I'm serving my own family, it's not so hot. I need to remember that NOW is my time to be a mom; My time to wow everyone with surprise dinners and a willingness to drop everything in a moment's notice can come later. For now, an occasional casserole - (mental note: learn to make a casserole) - will have to do. Even a friend in need comes second to a daughter who needs me.

This is all easier said than done. Making it through the day without a temper tantrum doesn't sound quite as satisfying as refurbishing a side table. And helping someone out usually sounds more important than reading Goodnight Moon for the 20th time. Although, when it says, "Goodnight stars, goodnight air," I always get the chills.

So here's my pledge to be a better mom - one who "[treasures] the doing a little more and the getting it done a little less."*

(*Quote by Anna Quindlen as quoted here. I know I totally Ballard-ized this whole concept, but can you blame me? That talk was gooood!)



.... and a Happy B-'licious-day to Mrs. Jay, Darren Lees, Lisa Parker, Mark Lambert and Angie Earl. But mostly Mrs. Jay.

HTT - Emily Edition

When my SIL, Emily, offered to take over Hot Topic Tuesday for me, I couldn't refuse. First, we're not sleeping much at our house these days because apparently you can get roseola twice. Second, Emily is selling her house and whether or not you live in Rhode Island, you MUST BUY IT! Third, she is the witty author of Acte Gratuit, which is a French phrase that no one can pronounce. No one. So without further ado, let's turn up the heat:

Mrs. Dub was generous enough to let me borrow her blog today so I could do a little venting and maybe get some helpful advice. Two weeks ago, her hot topic dealt with “Mom mistakes” and it got me thinking about the problem in a different way. What if you are a witness of “Bad Mom behavior” or just any bad behavior in general. When do you intervene?

There are times when I see a mom yelling at her kid in the grocery store that I want to walk up, make a citizens arrest and take immediate custody of her child. (If you ever see me at the store and I’m the mom yelling, please take custody of my children! I could use the break!)

But for the most part I walk the other way and do nothing.

So I’m going to share three stories with you and then I want you to tell me what you would have done. Here goes:

#1 A mom is sitting in her car, in a parking lot, waiting for her baby to wake up so they can join the rest of the family at the beach. She has her windows down and watches and listens as a man and little girl start loading up in a nearby car. The little girl is probably 5 and has done something to seriously upset the man. He is yelling at her, berating her, threatening her, telling her that her mom isn’t worth “this aggravation” and he’s ready to “get the ____ out”. His verbal abuse is so bad, it leaves the eavesdropping mom to suspect much more serious abuse at home. The little girl's Mom makes it back to the car, listens to the mans vitriol, and sheepishly gets in the car with out a word in her daughter's or her own defense.

#2 Three days a week, a woman drives up to the local preschool to drop-off and pick-up her three-year-old. She leaves her other two children, a sleeping baby and a six-year-old, in the running car. The walk up to the school is a little long, and she cannot see the car once she’s inside the preschool.

#3 A neighbor notices something amiss with one of the families in the neighborhood. The four kids never seem to be in school and are always running around with bare feet. Not only that, the mom is pregnant again with number five!!!

Here’s what happened next:

#1. I was the mom in the car. I sat there listening to this big jerk feeling totally helpless. I wanted to get out and yell at him, but since I’m a total weakling, I had to consider my safety and the safety of my baby. I thought about calling the cops, but figured they wouldn’t be able to do anything. “Officer, that man was YELLING! Take him away!!!” I even thought about writing down his license plate so I could track him down and figure out a way to report him to CPS. But ultimately I did nothing and still feel horrible that I didn’t find a way to help that innocent little girl.

#2. Once again, I’m the mom in the car. Or at least, the mom that left her kids in the car. Here was my thinking: “Six is pretty old! Surely Max can keep an eye on Gabe who is safely buckled into his car seat and isn’t going anywhere. I’ll leave the car on so they don’t get too hot (or cold). There are so many moms around, nothing is going to happen to them! My mom used to leave me in the car to run into the store all the time. Max is old enough that if someone tried to get in, he could lay on the horn.”

Yes, that was almost a whole paragraph of self-justification and yes, when I type it out, it does sound lame even to me. Which is why I totally deserved what happened next.

A few weeks into the school year, I got an e-mail from a good friend who took her daughter to the same school. She said she’d been really upset by seeing me leave the kids in the car, that it was dangerous and illegal in some states. She gave me some examples of the horrible things that could happen, offered to sit with my kids if I really couldn’t manage by myself and begged me to forgive her for saying all this in e-mail form. Basically, she told me I was an idiot and needed to get a clue, just in much nicer terms. I immediately wrote her back thanking her for her concern and promised not to do it again. For all I know, she saved me from a very unfortunate encounter with the cops, or worse, a situation that would have put my boys in serious danger.

#3 The family with the 4 (now 5) kids are friends of mine. A neighbor reported them to Child Protective Services, who opened a file on them and came by for a surprise visit. When CPS showed up, they talked to my friend who home-schools her (very bright) children and thinks (like me) that it’s okay for little kids to run around barefoot. She mentioned that her husband is a Neuro-Psychologist who works for Harvard and that her kids are well-taken care of and well-loved. The case was closed.

So, now that you know the kind of hypocritical pansy I am, I want to know what you would have done.

What do you do when you see something happening to a child that worries you?

Do you jump right in and try to help, or hang back and mind your own business? (Or are you the snarky neighbor type who likes to stay anonymous?)

I’d love to hear what you all think! Just don’t tell me I’m an idiot, because I already know that!

Thanks for the soap-box Mrs. Dub!

HTT - Mom Edition

Have you read this article, "Confessions of a Modern Mom"? If you haven't, and for those who refuse to link - and may the jaws of the inferno swallow you whole for your laziness, or whatever - then let me sum it up for you: Moms are human. We all do things for our own darn convenience that the "perfect mom" would never do.

I, for one, am guilty as charged. As we speak, the TV is babysitting Miss Dub so I can write this post. To be honest, it would be on even if I wasn't using the computer. It's just an easy way to start our day.

I've also forgotten to brush her teeth on occasion. I feed her processed foods. I've even locked her in the car for a split second so I could drop off my rent check without unbuckling her.

Does that make me a bad mom? Well, maybe. But for every bad thing I do, I do something unnecessary, like worrying the whole time she's with a babysitter. Like letting her nap time rule my life. Like watching her around any vaguely elevated surface in case she takes a stumble. (And really, isn't the occasional stumble good?)

Here are some recent "bad moms" who made the news. You tell me if they deserve the criticism they're getting:

A. An Illinois mom who was arrested after leaving her napping toddler in a parked car (in eye sight) while donating change to the Salvation Army out front.

B. A New York mom who let her 9-year-old ride the subway home by himself - with specific directions, instructions and change for a phone call.

C. A Massachusetts couple who left their sleeping kids in a car strategically parked in front of a restaurant window so that they could grab some dinner and keep an eye on their children.

The first one just infuriates me - I mean, really? Thankfully, those charges have been dropped. I don't judge the mom in the second, I just doubt I'd have the guts to let my 9-year-old do that since I'm a bit paranoid. But seriously, why not? I remember being 9, and while there is always a risk in life, that risk is probably no less at 12, when most of us would consider it OK. And the last one - I have to admit I found it clever ... but I probably wouldn't do it. (And if I did, I wouldn't tell you!)

But the overriding thing for me is that we're too quick to judge ourselves and others. Short of abuse, we need to give each other a break. It's hard to be a parent. And if TV makes it a little easier sometimes, so be it!

But what do you think?

What makes you a modern mom?


* To see what my negligent mothering has done to Miss Dub, go here.

You're the baby-baby!

It has come to my attention that Miss Dub is no longer a baby.

Sometimes this awareness is more glaring, like when she proudly declares, "Toot-toot!" to a crowd of strangers after passing some noxious gas, or when she yells, "No, Mama!" when I ask her to do something simple, like not hold her breath and pretend to choke herself when she doesn't get what she wants.

Other times it's more subtle: When I ask her where we're going for the night, and she proudly declares, "Chicago!" (Granted, we weren't going there, but it is a three-syllable word.) Or when I go to check on her and she's tucking all her stuffed animals into bed. Or when I find her sketching out advanced mathematical equations on our family blackboard. You know, stuff like that.

Late last night as we were returning from a fun night with friends, I asked Miss Dub if she was my baby, just to settle the argument once and for all. She replied, "No, Mama! Baby Zuzu!" referring to Baby Zee. I agreed that Baby Zee is my baby, but that she could also be my baby forever, even when she got old and had her own babies.

"Silly, Mama," Miss Dub said.

And in that moment I realized that she wasn't going to stay young forever; that I'd already forgotten what it felt like to hold her in the nook of my arm or wake up with her five freakin' times a night. That while it seems like it now, my life will not always be consumed by sippy cups and dino nuggets. That one day Miss Dub will refuse to tell me about her crushes and will rant about how she needs a new outfit.

As I looked out at the snow-frosted trees, I couldn't help but wish to bottle the moment for safe-keeping. I ached to know that despite my best efforts (or any growth-stunting, processed foods I frequently feed her) I can't keep her from growing up.

But don't tell Miss Dub - she'll always be my baby.



p.s. Is it weird that I think Leap Day is a Canadian holiday? 'Cause I do.

Black Magic

Did you hear? Katie Holmes said that being a mom is "magical."

And it really is. In fact, if someone were to ask me what I think about motherhood, I would have to say it is the most rewarding, amazing, fulfilling and beautiful thing I've ever done in my twenty-odd years on this earth. It's truly magical.

But, c'mon Katie, enough about how Suri is a natural artist and a beautiful woman. Let's talk about the other magical qualities that children have - like the ability to make us crazy? Case in point: Miss Dub, who has had a raging fever for the last four days, which led to a febrile seizure and ear infection yesterday. It's not that I don't feel bad for her; I've been worried constantly and my heart has ached to see her in such agony. But my ears have also ached to hear her incessant whining, not to mention ridiculous songs from unhealthy amounts of children's television. And my belly is sore from rocking her to sleep as she woke up every two hours each night. That's magical, alright. And I'm anxious to find a spell to reverse it.

And what about the ability to make you lose your sense of style? Just the other day I looked down to realize that I had a crusty piece of mac and cheese on my shirt. And while I did try to remove the largest chunk, I didn't even consider changing my top. I mean, that would mean more laundry for me, and my baby has already magically increased my weekly washing load.

What Katie also isn't telling you is that sometimes babies interest us in witchcraft, too. Sometimes even the best moms think, "Is there any possible way I could wish my child away for one day so I could get some (sleep/things done/sanity)?" Sometimes moms think, "I wish that I could stop thinking, 'Shut up!' or 'Grow up!' or 'Learn to freakin' talk already!'

But unfortunately, that sort of magic is beyond even a baby's miraculous capabilities. That sort of magic is too advanced for moms, though many still seek after it. (And end up in a bad relationship with a warlock.)

Of course, the good magic far outweighs the bad. Like, how you can actually find yourself grateful for the opportunity to snuggle with a sick baby at 3 a.m. Like, how you can find yourself changing a rancid diaper without the slightest disdain for the pooper. Like, how you can find yourself totally missing your child after being away for only a few hours.

That is magic.

But next time mention the poop part a little, Katie. It would make you seem a little less robotic.

Also good for road rash

Before I had Miss Dub, I took a class on caring for newborns and while most of it was totally useless or common sense - "Be sure to change her diaper when it smells!" - there were two things that I still remember:

First, is that you should never wipe your baby when they only pee, do #1, make a yellow fountain or whatever you want to call it. Urine has no bacteria and when it's just going to air dry or be absorbed into a fresh diaper, all the wiping does is promote diaper rash.

Second, the number one cause of diaper rash is diaper rash ointment. Apparently, people are very zealous in applying things like diaper rash cream and baby powder (totally unnecessary, rash or not) even when their baby doesn't have a rash. And, in my experience, even when a baby has a rash, exposing it to air or leaving it alone helps more than the fanciest cream.

Or so I thought until we went to Utah and Miss Dub contracted a wicked diaper rash that may or may not have been a flesh-eating virus. (I'm not drawing any correlation between Utah and rashes, but ...) It clearly needed to be medicated, but Desitin did nothing. Then my genius sister-in-law introduced me to Resinol, a cream intended for burns. It was amazing! It has the color and consistency of silly putty, but it totally cleared up her rash in a few days.

Only bummer is it's hard to locate. Mr. Dub went to four stores to no avail before my brother-in-law located it elsewhere. Unfortunately, this will be earning Mr. Dub brownie points for several years, but it was worth it. And he's really racking them up these days, as you can imagine.

Now, I must go make some brownies.

Admit it: Wearing makeup can be fun!

Miss Dub is helping me love my gender.

It's not that I haven't always been proud to be a woman, it's just that I grew up in a generation where it wasn't cool to admit you liked being a girl. It had nothing to do with sexism or an inferiority complex - by the 80s, we were struttin' our equality with little opposition. But for some reason, at least among my various social circles, you had to hate "girlie girls" - otherwise known as "high maintenance chicks" or "oysters," as Mr. Dub inexplicably calls them. Whatever the term, you lived your life in fear of being considered one of them or having any of their characteristics. Which is why for years I lied about getting ready in 15 minutes when it actually took me 25 - all because I didn't want to lose my position as an easygoing gal.

Here was a common exchange among girls at my high school: "Girls are so ___________" (insert phrase from following: caddy, spineless, clueless, superficial, rude, ignorant, obnoxious).

Mrs. Jay and I were particularly fond of the phrase, "Girls would sell each other out for a 7-11 hot dog."

And, well, there is some truth to it. Sadly, a lot of girls would back stab each other for the slightest chance with the high school hottie. (And, yes, I do hate that word.) There is a lot of gossiping and superficiality, especially in those woeful teenage years. But boys aren't that much better at the same age. Yet, among most of my friends (pre-motherhood) it was the norm to insist that you wanted ALL boys. Which is fine if that's the genetic card you're dealt, but the theory was girls are nothing but a bundle of hormones and uncontrollable hair flipping, and that's just not true.

Girls are great. Girls are sensitive and sweet. Girls are smart and competent.

Boys are pretty awesome, too. Dare I say, equally so.

And while I hope Miss Dub doesn't pursue a shallow existence, I won't mock her if she sometimes squeals in girlie delight over a favorite movie star. And I won't tell her she's dumb if she insists on getting her hair just right before heading out. I won't tell her that her inherent feminine qualities are any less or more than her male counterparts.

I'll tell her I love her.

I'll tell her it's great to be a girl.



Feeling all girlie and gooey inside? Go here for more along these lines ...

My raisinette

Let's talk poop!

(Not in the mood for fecal conversation? Head over here, to my spankin' new product review blog where I discuss the spraylicious properties of the Kinesys sunscreen that the Parent Bloggers Network sent me.)

Back to poop.

And raisins. Which are Miss Dub's new favorite treat. The girl can consume them like a banshee, assuming banshees are babies who eat raisins in heaping handfuls.

I like them because they're cheap and contain one ingredient: grapes. Miss Dub likes them because ... well, who knows? She doesn't say much besides "Duck, duck, duck, bloozabur!" these days.

But after feeding her two good boxes worth of them the other day - partly because they did a really good job of keeping her quiet at Costco -I was in for a surprise. It came time to change her diaper, and while I should have been tipped off by the serious effort her contribution had taken, I was shocked to discover something inside when I opened it.

Raisins. Completely whole, untouched raisins. You'd think I'd dropped them in there, except for their less dehydrated appearance.

I wanted to say, "Dear goodness child, you have a stinky vineyard growing in your diaper!"

Instead I said something like, "What a good poopie you made!" because someone once told me that positive diaper talk helps encourage easy potty training, and I'm too scared to test the theory otherwise.

I'm slightly concerned for a few reasons - Is Miss Dub not chewing her food? How are these raisins in such completeness? (Although, only a third of them seem to make it to sunlight again.) Also, how bad does that hurt considering the size of raisins in proportion to her trap door is pretty close?

Finally, am I not supposed to feed her raisins? Must I head straight back to puff cereal and cheese cubes?

And while we're being disgusting - and doesn't it feel good sometimes? - what food makes for the worst diapers in your opinion? My BFF always says, "Wait until the McDonald's chicken nugget diapers!" And, to be honest, I'm happy to wait.

Thoughts? The grosser, the better. I'm just feeling naughty today.

HTT - TME Edition

Today’s Hot Topic comes from a reader who hoped to draw upon the amazing mom-power that turns out for this weekly spectacle to help resolve an issue that is causing some tension in her household. (I guess it’s not revealing to say that her husband is a little clueless about the whole thing as that may or may not apply to a large percentage of us.)

Her dilemma is simple: She loves being a mom, but sometimes she needs a break. No, this isn’t SAHM v. WOHM II. She doesn’t want a job. She doesn’t want a new life. She doesn’t even want a vacation – actually, she probably wants one because who doesn’t?

She just needs some TME (Time for Me).

This is where I wax poetic about the virtues of solitary time and healing properties of occasional pampering. Where I talk about how I’ve perfected the balance of motherhood and womanhood. Where I go on and on about how I know everything and --

I know nothing. I totally have this same problem. As you may be aware, I have a mom crush on Miss Dub, but I still get physically fatigued and mentally exhausted from being a mother – and sometimes I just get bored. I want a break, I crave a break, I dream of a break … but I don’t often give myself a break for umpteen reasons.

A lot of the time it’s sheer laziness – the hassle of getting a babysitter and then coming up with something worth the cash and effort. Other times I feel too guilty to ask Mr. Dub to watch our little one after a long day or week of work. But most of the time, I don’t go because even when I’m away, I’m not taking a break.

If we see a movie, I check my phone to see if the babysitter has called. I’m eager for dinner to be done so I can get back and make sure that she ate enough herself. I wonder if she’s getting the specific treatment she prefers. And I just plain miss her … until we get home and see she’s fine, at which point I want to run back to the restaurant and order dessert and a (non-alcoholic) nightcap.

This reader feels the same or worse, as she’s got two kids to worry about while away. But she wants, nay, NEEDS, a few hours to herself or as a couple every now and then.

So, oh wise ones, what say ye?

How do you like to escape and enjoy yourself?

Where do you go?

What do you do … or wish you could do?

And how do you truly enjoy yourselves?

Help!

HTT - SAHM Edition

I’m in the mood for some comment loOove so I’ve been mulling over some possible Hot Topics that will generate a little energy.

The first thing that came to mind was labor stories – the natural kind and the enjoyable kind - but I worried that people would consider it an unofficial announcement so I nixed that idea. Which only left the working mother debate because that’s as hot as it gets among Mormon moms, and because well I can’t think for more than six minutes consecutively without stopping for a snack. And I’m trying not to graze as much these days.

But here’s where I must preface my thoughts, and it applies to a lot of other Hot Topics, as well – I’m a gray person. Even though I belong to a church that is very black and white on most moral issues, I sympathize with the fuzz in between, especially when it applies to others.

That said, I think the LDS Church has been pretty clear about mothers working outside of the home. Basically, a mom should stay home with her kids except when it’s financially impossible and all other options have been exhausted, such as working from home or finding better employment for the father.

Working to save for luxuries is not a good reason to leave children with others, we’ve been told. Working to avoid the stress and chaos of motherhood is not a good solution. Working outside the home, in general, isn’t as healthy for children as having a mother at home, and can have harmful repercussions if childcare isn’t adequate.

BUT – and it’s almost as big as my butt – like everything in life, I think this counsel is meant for everyone but with the understanding there will be EXCEPTIONS. There are single mothers who have no choice but to work. There are families in dire financial straights that require both parents to work endless hours. There are women whose sanity is literally dependent on spending time away from their children each day. There are women who feel called to be mothers and doctors … or any number of honorable professions.

It’s all about your motives, I think. If you feel strongly like you need to work for unselfish reasons then no one can argue with your decision. And, ultimately, it’s YOUR decision to make. Passing judgment can be foolish because we rarely know all the factors and personal inspiration that led someone to work or not.

In my case, I had a mother who stayed home during our childhood and most of our formative years. Raising four kids was her full-time job. Her constant example, her open availability to talk, her overseeing eye and discipline were priceless to us. I never doubted her love, never wished for more time with her or felt free to misbehave without her finding out. (Though I sometimes tried!)

That’s why I’ve chosen to stay home with Miss Dub. Even though an extra income could help us buy a house sooner or pay for more trips, we never even discussed the possibility. Our decision was made when we got married because we both understood the value of having a mother in the home. And I’m so glad because I can’t imagine missing a moment of Miss Dub’s infancy.

That doesn’t mean, however, that raising my children will be my sole pursuit. I am still a writer and do freelance work during nap time. I am still a friend and make time to get out by myself with others. I am still a wife and need an occasional date with my Mr. And I’m busy with other church, family and home obligations.

Most importantly, I am fulfilled. Even though it can be tiring, tedious and monotonous, I LoOoVe my job.

But I’m ME. YOU my have entirely different opinion or situation that has led you down another path. But we can both be good moms.

(Unless, of course, you have multiple live-in nannies. I take issue with that. Also, I was wondering if you would lend me $1 million dollars?)

But what do you think?

Are you a stay at home mom or a proud working mama? How did you make your decision?

Do you see this as a black and white issue, or is it a little bit gray?

Be nice.

"Is he a girl?"

Miss Dub is a girl.

And while babies do have an asexual appearance, I don’t think it requires an unveiling of her diaper to determine her gender. Even when she wears blue.

When people ask me this question – about twelve times daily, but who’s counting? – I want to respond with my own questions.

Like, “Do you think her head-to-toe pink ensemble might be a clue?”

Or, “Do you think I would wrap my son’s head with a fat bow?”

Or, “How many freaking times do I have to use a feminine pronoun for you to stop referring to my dearest ‘she’ as a ‘he’?”

It’s not that I haven’t been in the same situation myself as most babies, especially newborns, bear no feminine or masculine qualities to announce their respective chromosome combinations.

And if the baby is sporting a unisex outfit, it’s that much harder. (And don’t even get me started about boys wearing dresses – I’m all for equality, but you’re really making these kinds of questions harder for the rest of us.)

I just make sure to listen, observe and then ask carefully before making gender assumptions. Or trick the mom into revealing it without expressing my ambiguity.

Maybe it’s my bad because I’m not into frilly duds that scream “girl!” to the innocent bystander. And I don’t really do bows that often because:
a. I can’t find cute ones
b. Mr. Dub hates them
c. Miss Dub hates them
d. They make her head all a’sweaty
e. All of the above

(The correct answer is E.)

But despite all my ranting, I really don’t mind giving someone a quick clarification on Miss Dub’s gender when asked. What’s really annoying is when someone defends themselves for calling her a boy.

Like, “Well, why is she wearing red pants?” (Um, I don’t know because I didn’t get the memo that said red is exclusive to boys. Not to mention I paired it with a frilly white sweater.)

Or, “Then why did you give her a boy’s name?” (Um, it’s not. You’re thinking of Aidan.)

Or, “Well she looks like a boy!” (Um, excuse me, I’m about to go Jackie Chan on you!)

So I just wanted you all to know she’s a girl as I’m clearly a little sensitive about the question.

But not as sensitive as I was about some other questions, like:

“Are you due any day now?” … when I was only 5 months along.

Or, “Did you really want a boy?” … when I told people I was expecting a girl.

Or, “Are you planning to breastfeed?” … when I was pregnant. (Because although I do breastfeed, I still find that question a bit too personal for chatting with strangers over Costco’s salmon selection.)

What are the most annoying questions people ask you, mothers or not?

And if you are a mom … don’t you wish you could have just handed them this ?

Meet that mom

Princess Dub dons her crown

As you know, I really thought I wasn’t going to be that mom.

You know, that mom who is so coddling and controlling that she can’t bear to leave baby with a babysitter until she’s 12. Or that mom who is so undisciplined that she resorts to throwing baby in the car seat to lull her to sleep. Or that mom who loses her patience, thinks negative thoughts about her own child and declares to her husband, “When do I get a day off?”

But it dawned on me this weekend that despite my best efforts, I am that mom … which is a sad realization of a personality I desperately don’t want to have, but mostly a better understanding of that mom’s sheer humanity.

For example, Saturday was the first time we’ve left Miss Dub with a babysitter EVER. And did I mention she’s EIGHT months old today?

I’ve got a ton of justifications: “There are no good movies to see!” Or, “She’s so easy to schlep along!” And some real reasons, like I’ve just been too lazy to find a babysitter. Like, I have to drive 20 minutes just to pick up the young woman from church who lives closest to us. And, like, the going rate for a babysitter is $8-$10 an hour, which seriously, seriously makes me wish I’d joined a babysitter’s union when I had the chance. (And I didn’t.)

But the real reason is I’m a softy. I hate the thought of a crying, lonely or confused Miss Dub. I hate the thought of a poor teenager trying to calm down a screaming infant who’s never been left with a babysitter because her mom is totally paranoid. Because I really hate the thought of Miss Dub getting hurt or neglected because some 13-year-old is too busy texting some guy who doesn’t even like her and still wets his bed.

However, I bit the bullet and got the babysitter – who didn’t even bring a cell phone or make any mention of an incontinent crush. And it was great. We saw a movie. We got some lunch. We enjoyed life sans sippy cups. And I only thought about Miss Dub every 10 minutes or so, which is pretty good considering I’m that mom.

Then yesterday, I decided to give up my endless struggle to convince Miss Dub to sleep during church and/or do anything besides making scary Darth Vader sounds at the top of her lungs. (Her new favorite trick.) So rather than spend all of church in the mother’s lounge, I took her for a drive during Sunday School. She slept soundly throughout the final hour, and I got some much-needed spiritual nourishment. But I felt a little guilty; like I had cheated. And at church nonetheless!

Miss D’s happy streak ended, however, when we got home and it was time for another nap. The struggle to get her to not crawl around her crib Nascar-style combined with her increased whininess and my general fatigue created monsoon Mom conditions, which took me from frustrated to ticked in a flash. Suddenly, visions of a stubborn 7-year-old pitching a fit for a toy in Target filled my mind. And I honestly wondered what I had gotten myself in to. I honestly wondered if I had it in me to rear one child, much less a few more.

And then I tried to make Italian meatloaf for dinner and rather than risk a series of ailments including salmonella, I had to toss it. And that happens way more than I or my inner Ina would really want.

This time, visions of all the meals I would have to prepare flooded me: All the shopping, all the chopping, all the mental strain to think of something to make when the cupboards get bare. And I thought to myself, “When do I get a day off?” "When do I get to sleep in?"

"When did I turn into that mom?"

Because, my friends, that mom is human. That mom gets tired. That mom gets frustrated. That mom wishes bladder control issues on her imaginary babysitter. And that mom just does her best to try and be anything but that mom.

But unfortunately there’s a little bit of that mom in all of us. I just got a heartier helping of it.

The real question for you to ponder, however, is how much do you pay your babysitters? Because I opted for around $8, and I need to know if that was cheap.

Now that is something to think about.

A mother's day

12:45 a.m. – Happy Mother’s Day. Miss Dub has something very important to show you, which requires her to cry at full volume just in case you were considering ignoring her. (You were.) When you arrive cribside, she shows you her latest trick – waving hello. A trick you’ve seen 631 times already. It’s kinda cute, but not 12:45 a.m. cute. “Motherhood,” you think to yourself. “It’s worth it, right?”

3:20 a.m. – Miss Dub is screeching again. This time she is half-asleep but sobbing about some unknown issue. You run down the possible culprits: wet diaper, too hot, too cold, scared, sick, teething, hungry. You settle for hungry although you’re not entirely convinced. Most of the time you file her problems under “unknown,” because you can never really be sure what’s bothering a baby unless yours come talking out of the womb. Miss Dub did not, although she certainly tries. Very loudly.

5 a.m. – Happy Mother’s Day. Miss Dub has decided to be awake for the day. She greets you with more waving. It’s cute, but not 5 a.m. cute.

7:10 a.m. – Despite insisting she is not tired, Miss Dub has been rubbing her eyes and yanking her ears for two straight hours – in between waves, of course. Each toy becomes annoying after 3.5 seconds. Food is nothing more than a medium for her highchair artwork. You realize that if there was a job opening for a mother, juggling would be a required skill. Also, lifting heavy objects, multitasking, singing silly songs and handling poo. Lots and lots of poo. All for $0 an hour. Sounds like a dream position, right? Don’t answer.

8 a.m. – After extensive attempts to convince Miss Dub her crib is not full of hot lava, you break down and nurse her to sleep. You try to forget the Baby Whisperer’s haunting words for such behavior: “accidental parenting.” Otherwise known as bad habits created in moments of mommy desperation. You then realize that you have a half hour to get ready for church, where you will spend all but 10 minutes of the three-hour event in the hall convincing Miss Dub that Sunday School is not full of hot lava. In another moment of mommy desperation, you decide to stay home. Happy Mother's Day.

8:50 a.m. – Miss Dub is up from her nap. She’s waving, again. It’s cute, but …

9 a.m. to 4 p.m. – Stuff happens. It’s a blur of typical daily activities – exersaucer, looking in the mirror, playing outside, crying, napping, not napping. It’s an exhausting routine most days. On four hours of sleep, it feels arduous. “Motherhood,” you think to yourself. “It’s worth it, right?”

4:30 p.m. – You and Mr. Dub get serious about kabobs for a small Mother’s Day shindig you’re hosting in a half hour. Chicken, mushroom, pepper, onion, chicken – wait, did you forget to put on some pineapple? Miss Dub patiently plays with her toys. For five minutes. You are then beckoned to her side, chicken marinade dripping off your hands. You manage to pick her up, wash your hands and finish dinner preparations without spreading salmonella. You try to remember what life was like with two hands. It hurts your brain to think that far back.

6 p.m. – Happy Mother's Day. You eat your kabob with Miss Dub strapped in the baby carrier. It’s a precarious situation, and Miss Dub may or may not have eaten some chicken. (It was a lovely marinade, by the way.)

7 p.m. – You try to put a cranky Miss Dub to bed amidst the shindigging. No luck.

7:20 p.m. – You and a guest restrain Miss Dub in order to apply some baby Orajel. This does not make Miss Dub happy. A personal visit from Baby Einstein himself would not make Miss Dub happy right now.

7:40 p.m. – After some finagling and other behavior that cannot be disclosed for fear of jinxing yourself, you manage to get Miss Dub to fall asleep. You return to your guests, who are now getting ready to leave. You didn’t get a chance to tell Ann how kind she is. You forgot to tell Rachel that you’re so glad you’re friends, even though you don’t see each other very often. You forgot to offer Ryan some leftovers. You forgot to give the moms handmade bookmarks with this quote: “A mother is a person who seeing there are only four pieces of pie for five people, promptly announces she never did care for pie.”

8 p.m. – You and Mr. Dub settle down for some quality time. He reads, you read and think and formulate next week’s menu in your head. You make plans to get Miss Dub unteethed and back on schedule. You wonder why you haven’t figured out this motherhood thing yet. You feel very unworthy of the generous gifts Mr. Dub gave you on a holiday celebrating your official momness.

10 p.m. – Happy Mother's Day. In the middle of a great conversation, Miss Dub interrupts you to announce she’d like to show you a new trick. She’s waving, again. It’s cute. It really is cute. You wonder how many 6-month-olds can wave and say, “Ha-iiii!” You take her out of her crib and rock her for a bit. You tell your inner Baby Whisperer to stick it. You smell her delicious babyness. You stroke her whispy hair. You feel her body relax and drift off to sleep in the nook of your neck. It feels like home.

“Motherhood,” you think to yourself. “It’s worth it.”

All about Moms

The real gifts are in the mail, but if money were no object – and in my blogdom it never is – here are the other presents I would present to the mothers in my life:

For my mom – A bottomless pile of home décor magazines, the perfect “nap” couch and an endless bag of chocolate chips and assorted cereals. Oh, and free airfare to Chicago and California to see her two grandkiddies (and three daughters) any time she wants.

For my glammom – Exclusive rights to all animal prints and an art supply store in her new house.

For my mom-in-law – A magical credit card to cover all purchases at Costco, Deseret Book and Ethan Allen. Oh, and some more of that free airfare to Chicago and California, along with some to Rhode Island to see the newest Dubbie ... again.

For my sister – A masseuse. And a magical portal in her backyard that transports her to Chicago for cousin (and sister) playdates. Wait - reverse that - I'd much rather come to her state. I'll meet you at your avocado tree at noon!

For my sisses-in-law – A weeklong trip to Monterrey – no kids, no husbands and lots and lots of (somehow good for you) desserts. And if they'll let me, I'll come, too.

For my friends – A ginormous reunion in Cabo where we can all sit, gab and stay up really, really late without worrying about how early we’ll be up with the kids the next day. There may also be some “truth or dare” involved. (I always chose “dare.” I’m just like that.)

For not-quite-yet moms – (As the case may be …) A super supply of patience, a burning desire to be a mom, a miracle here and there, and an amazing ability to enjoy where you’re at right now because one day you’ll miss it.

For me – A cure for teething, a good night’s rest and more and more children just like my own Miss Dub, who makes being a mother so very worth it.

Who are the moms in your life?

What would you give them?

SIX

Six month ago today, I pushed a baby out of an unmentionable place.

Which is a lot more notable than saying, “Six months ago I ate an entire pizza by myself”or, “Six months ago I discovered an aversion to black.”

I mean, six months ago I became a mother, which forever altered my life.

(Which is more than I can say about the pizza, though had I eaten one I might still be bloated. And I do have a lifelong love/hate relationship with black, but get your own post, you drab but slenderizing hue!)

There are so many things I’ve learned in the last six months that I didn’t know before I joined the mommy ranks.

Like, the fact that – warning: men may want to avert their eyes – there are multiple holes for milk distribution.

And that you have to use Tucks to take the edge off an episiotomy.

And that your own child’s poo is way less revolting than a stranger's poo, but still gross in its own way. (Especially, once she starts solids!)

I’ve figured out the right combination of milk and rice cereal – 65/35.

I’ve mastered an indestructible swaddle, complete with some duct tape. (Which I was surprised to find didn’t make me feel like an abusive mother, despite what you are all thinking right now. And, no, you can’t have my address.)

And I’ve discovered that I actually care more about Miss Dub’s wardrobe than my own. (Though having both up to date is a dream scenario.)

I’ve realized I don’t hate pink and can’t deny my daughter the chance to wear insane amounts of it.

I’ve given up my hope to only allow her minimalist toys in muted colors and bought things with “rainforest” and “aquarium” in the title.

And I’ve discovered that Baby Einstein is a mother’s salvation.

Miss Dub hasn’t done too bad for herself either. At six months, she now weighs a whoppin’ 17.9 pounds and measures 27 inches long. In six months, she’s learned to hold her head up, smile, coo, screech, squeal and laugh. She’s learned to roll over front to back and back to front. She’s learned to move objects from one hand to another. She’s learned to sit up. She’s learned to hold a bottle and a sippy cup all by herself. And that’s just a sampling of her many new skills.

So we’ve both learned a lot.

But probably the greatest epiphany of all is how much we love each other.

How my baby is also my best friend.

How my heart melts every day when I see her smiling face.

How I can’t stop saying, “She’s so cute,” or, “She’s so smart,” or, “She’s so perfect.”

How I still can’t believe it, even after six months, when I say, “She’s mine.”

Happy ½ -birthday, lil’ Miss.

Here’s to the next six!

p.s. What have you learned since becoming a mommy? Or, if you're not one yet, what do you hope to learn?

Compassionate disservice?

I just couldn’t bring myself to blog last Friday because I didn’t want anything to replace the great news about Lil’ Gee’s birth. (And if you haven’t caught on, I take the weekends off to do other things, like mod podge and make pies.)

I’ve been the proud aunt all weekend, checking every 20 minutes for new pictures via email and pictorials on our family blog. (Which is a closely-guarded secret that can be found at … wait, you tricked me!)

He is handsome. See for yourself:










(Sorry, Mrs. Gee. I couldn't resist!)

I’m so in love with this guy it’s a little weird, seeing as I’m already so in love with my own little girl. Who knew love could be found in such abundance? Heaven must have given me an extra dose of baby love to compensate for my lack of other features, such as night vision and quiet dignity.

Also found in overabundance: compassion.

No, I don’t mean that I’m naturally prone to whip up casseroles for ailing friends, visit the poor and down-trodden or even remember other people’s birthdays. I’m actually horrible at those things.

But when it comes to feeling bad for someone, I’m all over it.

Like, when I think about my sis enduring the hardships of new motherhood, it makes me almost sick to my stomach. The thought that she is likely losing sleep or figuring out baby cries or enduring sore … stuff makes me so upset. I don’t want her to have to do those things. I want to do them for her. I’d rather have my baby be horrible and spare her anything but the occasional night waking in return. (Actually, I’d rather we were both getting a good night’s rest but that’s another thing I’ve got: a trial complex. As in, I expect that I have to endure something horrible to get something good. Or if something good happens, obstacles are on the horizon.)

Like, I once saw this episode of “Different Strokes” where Arnold and his buddies pretend to befriend a mentally handicapped janitor as a joke. And when the janitor figures it out – OUCH – I can still make my heart ache thinking about it. I feel so bad for him. Yes, him – a character … played by an actor who got paid to mess with my heartstrings.

And that’s just the tip of the iceberg. Seeing someone trip. Watching a sports player make a bad play. Hearing lil’ Miss Dub cry. Anyone with a challenge, handicap, illness or hardship. All of these things keep me awake at night feeling bad.

I have this idea that somehow others can’t possibly endure hardships. I’ve been sick before. And by sick, I mean diagnosed with multiple odd diseases and ailments. I’ve also been sad, lonely, depressed, tired and cranky. And I’ve survived. Yet, I somehow think others won’t make it. That it will be too much for them. That their pain will be overwhelming and impossible.
And that thought is what hurts.

So I hurt for them. And I lose sleep for them. And I obsess over their predicaments (real or potential). And I listen to Mr. Dub tell me to relax. And I think about relaxing but instead get hung up on compassionating. (Wow, that’s actually a word. I thought I made it up until spell check pass it o’er.)

But in all my worrying, I rarely make a casserole.

But if I do, anyone have a good recipe?