Celebrity Moms

I was just leafing through the latest issue of my favorite guilty pleasure, People magazine.  In it are pictures of all of the celebrity new moms.  While I am very happy for the featured celebrities and their new ridiculously named offspring, I can’t help but hate them a little.  Here they are, just leaving the hospital with their new bundle of joy while wearing their prepregnancy size 00 jeans.  Ugh.  I had my first child four and a half years ago and I have yet to pull my pre-baby jeans over my knee caps.  I continue to hang on to them although I no longer pretend that I will ever wear them again, I keep them only to remind me of what once was.  Like privacy or free time, they are a thing of the past.

Santa Is Watching….

For all of the rush and hassle that has become of the commercialism of the Holidays, I must say that Christmas is one of the best parts of having young children.  There is nothing like the shine in their eyes throughout December, or the magic that happens once you light the tree for the first time of the year.   The house is filled with the smells of holiday baking and every one is a little extra nice.  Well, maybe not that last part.  But that is where the real magic of the season lies.  Santa.  Santa is the greatest motivator of all time.  Tony Robbins has got nothing on Saint Nick.  The mere mention of the big guy (not Tony Robbins, though I hear he’s quite tall) can get my kids to do just about anything.  Not only does Santa motivate, he also disciplines.  If my kids are fighting, (hey when aren’t they) I just have to mention that Santa is watching.  But that’s when my four year old had to point out that he didn’t see Santa, so how could Santa see him.  That’s when I had to inform him that while he was at school, elves came to our house and installed hidden cameras that broadcast his actions at the North Pole.  These cameras are not only at our house, but also at restaurants, shopping centers and most other public locals.  Often, if rotten activity is detected, an elf calls our house (via the ringer button on the telephone) and points out this ill behavior and reminds us of the consequences.  True, this won’t work the other eleven months out of the year, but, for now, Big Brother Santa is watching.

You can Lead a Kid to Water

My daughter doesn’t drink milk, juice, soda… never did. Drank breast milk and since she quit that, been on water and seltzer water. Never had a problem. Ya, you never have a problem until you do, right moms? All of a sudden, my daughter is on a water strike. Despite concentrated urine (she thinks that it is prettier such a dark orange) and painful poop (which I’ve explained is related to her hydration fast), she has to be coaxed, nay, bribed to ingest a few sips of water. Oh I can hear you now: try giving her something that tastes good, beverage facscist! Well I’ve offered. I thought that perhaps a bit of forbidden fruit juice would be just the ticket. But no. Clearly if I want her to drink it, my daughter wants nothing to do with it. I’ve also offered different cups and darling little containers of things. And I feel fairly certain she won’t actually refuse to drink, uh, until she collapses or anything. At 3.5, she’s still very biologically driven. But I do marvel at the control issues a child of this age comes up with. I’ve heard about kids who go through “only white food” phases, for example. What’s next?

Going Back to Work

This is going to be a little heavier than the drivel I usually write, but I think that for the benefit of other mothers that may be considering going back to work, I will discuss what going back to work meant to me.  After spending four years at home waiting on my family hand and foot, I was feeling alienated and depressed.  I adore my family, but somehow, I couldn’t take anymore.  My patience was wearing thin and my sanity was all but gone.  I spent six months feeling miserable, but not knowing what I needed to do to make myself happier.  I toyed with the idea of going back to college, getting a dog, moving to a new house, going on vacation, joining a gym…. the list went on, but nothing seemed like it would fill in the emptiness.  One day a job offer showed up from a place I always thought I might like to work.  I didn’t think I would really get the job, or take it, but after a great interview I decided to give it a try.  What did I have to lose? 

I thought my kids wouldn’t be able to handle the transition.  How would they manage with out me?  What kind of mother lets someone else raise their kids?  I threw the idea out to the kids, “What would you guys think about going to school so mommy could go back to work a few days a week?”  My oldest was already in preschool and was hardly affected by my decision.  My youngest was my big concern, but he replied with an excited, “Can I have a lunch box?!?” 

So, with out any excuse not to, I went back to work.  The kids were fine.  Dare I say they were actually happy.  They found scads of new friends to play with and made crafts they were so excited to show me.  When I picked them up after work they were happy to see me.  Me.  The mommy no one gave a rat’s ass about last week.  I was happy to see them too.  Their little voices no longer resembled fingernails on a chalk board, they were music to my ears.  The few hours a week I spent away from them was enough of a respite for me to be the mommy I wanted to be.   The kids were learning to be more independent too.   I wasn’t letting someone else raise my kids, I was giving my kids a chance to grow up a little.  In fact, now I wonder if I really was depressed, I think I was just really bored. 

In any case, going back to work gave me a little independence from being mommy, and gave me a little glimpse of the person I used to be.  Quite frankly, I was really starting to miss her.  I admit, the transition hasn’t always been easy, I have to drag my kids out of bed in the morning and I occasionally have to deal with a kid who is crying because he wants to stay at home.  I also have to wrestle with my own neurotic guilt, but to be honest, I would have to wrestle that no matter what, all mothers do.  But, at least I don’t have to wrestle with my own self worth.

Decision Difficulty

I assume that the world has been spinning for the last four years.  I can only assume this, as I have not actually witnessed it for myself.  You see, I have spent the last four years at home with only two toddlers to keep me company.  While I love them dearly, spending every moment with them has left me feeling, for lack of a better word, alienated.  So, when last week a woman called me up and offered me an ideal job, at a place I had often thought I would like to work, I took it. 

Accepting the job left me emotionally conflicted, somehow, getting what I wanted made me more stressed than ever.  I was thrilled with the job offer, but suddenly I had to make a big decision.  Going back to work might make me happy, but what would it mean for my family.  My children’s happiness meant so much more to me than my own, how could I consider compromising it for a little personal fulfillment? 

Then, even more questions arose.  While they may be happy at home with me, was I giving them enough stimulation?  Was I giving them everything they needed to grow up?  Was I being selfish in thinking they needed me?  Did I need them?  Why couldn’t I quit talking in questions? 

After some soul searching, and opinions from everyone I ever met and some I didn’t,  (everyone wants to weigh in on this one) I decided that maybe it would be good for the kids to have a little time to grow up independent of me and each other.   Besides, opportunity doesn’t knock too often, best to take the job and try it, rather than burn the bridge.  In nine months my oldest will be in kindergarten and my youngest will be in preschool, then what will I do (I mean after I dance the jig and do naked cartwheels up and down the street (just kidding, I can’t do cartwheels)). 

Once this was settled, a new drama was unfolding… daycare.  I had no experience with daycare.  I had no idea how hard finding adequate day care was.  Actually finding inadequate day care is kind of tricky if you want to know the truth.  There are only limited numbers of slots for kids of each age group.  It is actually easier to create weapons of mass destruction than it is to obtain one of these slots.  It seems women sign for these slots years before conception, and in most states, must give at least one vital organ as a deposit.  When I called around town looking for a day care, there were audible snickers coming from the other end of the line when I told them that I needed to start in two weeks.  It was only by the grace of God that I happened to call a school the same day that another child’s family gave notice that they were moving out of state.  This final hurdle passed, I was able to start my new job.  Many adjustments have taken place and I know many more will come, but right now, I’m happy with my decision. 

More Kids? Think Twice.

As a mother, I can find a way to feel guilty about everything. One random bout of guilt this week was inspired by Amanda’s two beautiful boys: Why, oh why was I so selfish and did not give my daughter a friend for life, a sibling? She is so caring and nurturing of Amanda’s littler one and all of her friends’ new baby brothers (no one around seems to be producing girls right now; though everyone seems to be having a second child, of course).  I was driving home from work, feeling incredibly selfish about my choice (yet again, of course) and actually started to cry when I pictured my daughter lovingly playing with a little sister.

Yet like most guilt, this whole line of thinking was based on an idyllic image of these two brothers’ best moments. I know from all of my friends that the reality of wee siblings includes a lot of jealousy, fighting, competition (and, of course, fierce love). I also used to have this incredibly naive idea that it would get easier with the second one; that you’d learn a few things with that mysterious first child that you could apply to subsequent ones. HA!

Like all cases of reality, the truth is mixed: Sure, you learn some strategies for getting them to, say,  learn to blow their noses (be a dragon, really blow!), but the little buggers are as different as stray socks in the dryer. Your first one might have been the best sleeper, but a picky eater while the second will be a night owl and eat everything not nailed down (until he gets a hold of hammer when you are distracted by the first one and pries it up).

Oh motherhood! No right choices, only the best choices you can come up with in the (usually desperate) moment.

Mommy Fat

Baby fat is cute. Mommy fat is not. With a three year old, I no longer have the cute baby as an excuse for my jiggly bits. Unless you count eating all of her food scraps as an excuse. Okay, I admit it: I’m a bit touchy about my weight. I took 10 pounds off at the start of the summer and have managed to keep it off, which I do feel good about. But I have almost accepted this other exra 10 may be here to stay.

So imagine what it was like when I was loading the dishwasher the other day and my daughter said, “Mommy, you are fat.” While my first instinct was to head for the bathroom and purge (kidding! It was really to say I know, and collapse into a puddle of tears), I held back and with faux calm replied, “uh, what makes you think mommy is fat, dear?” To which she responded by poking me in the (36D) boobs and saying, “right here, mom, see, you are fat.” I stifled a pathetically relieved laugh and said she was right, my breasts are mostly made of fat, but that it wasn’t the kind of fat most people minded…

Potty Mouth

My daughter has officially entered the “Adam Sandler Phase” of toddler humor in which all comedic roads lead to poop. My daughter has inherited my love of getting a laugh and neither us fears the low-brow joke in the search for a giggle. However, fecal humor has been where I draw the line. Wait, correct that: neither vomit nor gagging sounds are funny to me either. But I digress.

So while I am surprised at the sheer glee the word poo (or any of its variations: poopy, poop, et. al.) elicits from my girl. Much like the facility I have with the f word, my girl can use poo has all parts of speech. And like my own (sorry) potty mouth, it is charming. If, for example, I am having a bad day, there’s nothing quite like being told dinner is poopy. And what could be more fun than hearing that my daughter learned “poop” today at school?

Yet the hardest parts of this funny fecal phase for me has been 1) not laughing (her gigles are contagious!) (no, that doesn’t mean I actually do find poo humor funny!) and 2) not going for the poo jokes myself because I’d do almost anything to get her to laugh.

OO-OO-OOO-OOPS

I am truly a nasty ogre mommy.  My son has recently developed a stuttering problem.  I have been trying to help him by encouraging him to slow down, take a deep breath and repeat what he is trying to say correctly.  After doing a little research via medical books and the Internet, I have discovered that by doing this, I am making the problem worse.  It turns out that young children, most often boys go through a period of development where stuttering can occur.  The stutter will 98% of the time correct itself with NO intervention.  In-fact attempting to intervene will cause more damage in speech development and in the fragile psyche of a child.  The best thing a parent, or care giver can do is to patiently and quietly listen offering NO correction.  I am an ass.  I have to go now so that I can start a savings account for the therapy that he will undoubtedly need just because of me. 

You Make Me Want to Shout

Despite my protests, my husband has managed to turn my children into idiot fans.  You know, those people who shout encouragement and criticism to athletes on television.  The people on t.v. can’t hear you.  Furthermore, even if they could, I’m quite certain that they know more about the sport than you do, as they do it professionally and they probably don’t need your advice.  What I wouldn’t give to see Tom Brady yell for my husband to perform mathematical calculations faster, or to write a paper differently, “You call those margins?!”  As you can probably tell, I hate idiotic fandom. 

Since the beginning of our marriage I have tried to curtail my husbands idiocity (on many levels, not just the t.v. thing), but I really tried to stop it once we had kids.  It was bad enough that I was married to one of those guys who yells at the t.v., I surely didn’t want to raise one.  I realized that all of my hen pecking fell on deaf ears when my husband nearly threw our infant son on the floor while performing some sort of baseball victory dance in our living room.  My fears were further realized when my cherubic baby shouted his first “yea” at a pitcher throwing strikes. 

Now I have two sons and a husband who perform a veritable cacophony of shouts while watching major sporting events in picture in picture high definition.  I’m pretty sure the youngest doesn’t even know what he’s shouting at, but, being a good sport, he’s happy to join in.  I did my best to fight it, but maybe it’s just the natural order of things.  But, I think that next time I have control of the remote I’m going to turn on the Lifetime channel and shout out to the actors in some made for t.v. drama about bulimia, “Binge! Binge Meredith Baxter Birney!”