Diary of a New Mom

The Best of Diary of a New Mom: Now in an Ebook!

2012-01-03T11:19:00.015-05:00

Hi, and welcome! You might have found me by Googling “new mom” or “new mom blog.” If so, I’m afraid I have bad news and good news. The bad news is that this blog is no longer active. In May 2011, after 5 years of writing here at Diary of a New Mom, I launched a new blog, Abby Off The Record. But WAIT! The good news is that I have just published an ebook based on this blog. It’s called Mama Insider: Laughing (And Sometimes Crying) All the Way Through Pregnancy, Birth, and the First 3 Months. It’s a collection of 20+ of my best posts, plus some new material, all in one pretty little e-package. For just $4.99, you can download the PDF version here or get the e-reader version here.

Mama Insider will give you the real scoop on pregnancy, birth, and new motherhood – the good, the bad, and the funny – from one (formerly) new mom to another. For the past 5+ years, I’ve been chronicling the joy and the craziness on my blog, and have heard from tons of other new moms about what’s on their sleep-deprived minds. I’m here to reassure you that you are not alone. You are not crazy. And you are going to do just fine as a mom. The proof that other people have been through it and survived is in this ebook.

You’ll find out:

Why you shouldn’t be concerned by the size of your unborn baby’s nose
What happens when you’re 10 days overdue and your doula goes on vacation
New moms’ Frequently Asked Questions on such topics as cankles and clueless husbands
The differences between Nervous Moms and Mellow Moms
What “me time” looks like once you’re a mom
How real moms lose the baby weight (hint: it’s not salad and Pilates)

Each of the 23 chapters in this 50-page ebook is short and easy to read while you’re feeding the baby, waiting for the pediatrician, or reheating your cup of coffee for the third time because you’re running on 3 hours sleep and are constantly being interrupted to pump, change diapers, start a load of laundry, or search under the couch for missing pacifiers.

Thanks for stopping by, and please come visit me on my new blog!

The End of an Era

2011-05-09T07:00:00.008-05:00

I’ve been living a lie, people. It’s been bugging me for a while now, especially whenever I meet a mom-to-be, or when a new person finds my blog.

Because the fact is, I’m not a new mom anymore. Not by a longshot. My “baby” – the one depicted in the cartoon lady’s belly up there in my header – is starting KINDERGARTEN next fall, if you can believe that. And I’ve got another baby now, too. Heck, that one’s not even a baby anymore – he’s a full-on toddler!

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t have this motherhood stuff all figured out now. I don’t pretend to be any kind of expert on pregnancy, childbirth, breastfeeding, sleep, or ANYTHING baby-related, really. Although I have become an unwilling expert on diaper rash, unfortunately. E-mail me for the nitty-gritty on that one.

And the truth is, new motherhood is sort of like wedding planning, in a way. When you’re in the midst of it you’re literally OBSESSED. No detail is too small to warrant hours on message boards and endless polling of everyone you know. For a few delusional days as a bride-to-be, I was actually concerned with tussy-mussies, if you can believe that! And don’t get me started on centerpieces.

As a new mom, I filled notebooks with charts of my newborn’s sleep patterns and bowel movements. I pestered his pediatrician with endless questions about how many ounces to feed him and whether a stray encounter with a peanut was the end of life as we knew it. If anyone dared ask me, after enduring a half hour of baby photos and a soliloquy about nap schedules, “So, what else is going on with you?” I looked at them blankly. What ELSE? I’m a NEW MOM, you moron! There is no “what else”!!

But after I became a wife, not a bride, and a regular old mom, not a new mom, I wanted nothing more to do with my former obsessions. Nada. You couldn’t pay me to shop for veils now, nor could I muster up any enthusiasm whatsoever on the subject of diaper pails. I’m over it.

So the time has come to say bye-bye to Diary of a New Mom. BUT WAIT! Don’t cry, freak out, or rend your garments in distress. Because nursing tops aren’t cheap. And besides, I’ve got a NEW blog! I do! It’s right here. It will be the same hilarious, heartfelt musings about life and kids and writing and all the other stuff you’ve come to expect from me. Only this time I’m using my real name! My real identity! And my REAL FACE, even!! (Insert gasp here.) So come on over and join me at Abby Off the Record, won’t you?

P.S. Don’t worry, new moms who just found this blog and think it’s the answer to your prayers. ;) Diary of a New Mom isn’t going anywhere. So sit back and browse the archives to your heart’s content. You know, in all your free time when you’re not feeding, pumping, burping, washing, changing, or otherwise taking care of your new baby.

Raising 'Em Right

2011-05-04T12:47:00.005-05:00

Pre-kids, I was the type of person who wouldn’t do anything if somebody cut in front of me in line. It would certainly irk me, but I’d tell myself that person must have somewhere really important to be and wasn’t just a big jerk. What good could come from confrontation, anyway?

But now it’s not so simple. That’s because I often have 2 little sponges with me who are observing and learning from every moment. (And also, commenting. “That lady has a mean face, Mommy.” *Blush!*)

It feels wrong to work so hard at teaching my kids to share and take turns and say please and thank you and then do nothing when someone flagrantly ignores the basic rules of human decency. Like, who spits out GUM on a SIDEWALK? Were you raised in a circus?! (Speaking of which, go see “Water for Elephants.” It’s good. And Reese Witherspoon looks so glamorous.)

Of course, most times these badly behaved people are adults, not kids. And I’m not THEIR mom. But still. It bugs me to see people -- especially fully grown people who should know better -- setting a bad example.

For instance: We share a driveway with 2 of our neighbors, which is common in our area. Over the many years we’ve lived here, one neighbor has claimed the driveway as her own, parking at the end so no one else could get in or out. For the most part, we don’t care. We park in front of our house, and it simply wasn’t something that affected us much. Until...

We were having some work done on our roof, and the contractor needed access to the driveway. A non-issue, right? We’d simply ask our neighbor nicely to park elsewhere for a few days, right? Any normal person would be happy to comply, right? Especially one we’ve been cordial with for years and allowed to use our shared driveway as she pleases.

Instead, we found our requests ignored. First, she “forgot.” Then she left town for 2 days, leaving her car blocking the driveway. Phone calls, knocks on the door, notes on the car – ignored. One morning I was so irate I called the police. They got her to move her car, but the next day it was back. Because the driveway is private property, the police said, there was nothing we could do. It wasn’t nice, but it wasn’t illegal.

It’s hard to overstate how much this incident has upset me. I prepared long speeches in my head, ranging from friendly concern to vicious threats. It’s not fair. It’s not right. Who DOES that?! Wasn’t this woman raised to be considerate of others? To know right from wrong? Were we supposed to ignore her from now on? Tell the kids not to talk to her?

Somehow, this relatively minor issue became for me a metaphor for the monumental importance of parenting. What I teach my boys, through words, actions -- and inaction -- will shape who they become as adults. And God forbid they grow up to be the kind of people who would block a neighbor’s driveway! (On the scale of parenting failures, that’s below serial killer and puppy-kicking but above spitting and not recycling.)

I don’t know, fellow parents. Am I overreacting? Should I go back to worrying about grass stains and who’s eating their vegetables and other things I can control? What would you do?

PIC O' THE WEEK: He finally learned to put the bubble wand in FRONT of his mouth instead of IN his mouth.

The Kindness of Strangers

2011-05-01T20:43:00.006-05:00

You know those times you worry about something and then it turns out much better than you expected and you wonder why you ever worried in the first place? This was not one of those times.

My friend was having a surprise birthday party. It turns out C. would be out of town on a business trip that night, and I couldn’t get a babysitter. The party was being held in the early evening at a bar/restaurant with an outdoor deck, live music, and a playground. “Just bring the kids,” said the host.

Right. Cut to me juggling a cocktail and a diaper bag, trying to chat over my shoulder with my friends while I chased the kids around trying to keep them from throwing sand as a Jimmy Buffet-wannabe sings “Margaritaville.”

At least that was how I envisioned the evening going. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe some of my other friends would bring their kids for my boys to play with. Not so much. “Hell, no!” was, I believe, how one friend replied when I asked. As would any sane parent with the option of leaving the kids at home.

But because I am such a good friend -- or because I was in desperate need of happy hour after 3 days of solo parenting -- I went to the party with my children in tow. Sure enough, we weren't even there 5 min. before they’d had enough of chit-chatting with the grownups and wanted to go play. Off we went. So there I was, standing alone on a playground, without a cocktail even, while all my child-free friends enjoyed themselves up on the deck. The only party I was having was a pity party.

I continued to feel sorry for myself as the party moved inside. Now the kids were climbing up barstools and knocking over people’s drinks. I had barely had the chance to say “Happy Birthday” to my friend, let alone have an actual conversation with anyone. Enough!! I wanted to scream. Don’t I EVER get a night off? Don’t I EVER get to be a regular person again instead of always a mom?

Then I noticed a woman next to me smiling. “Are those your boys?” she asked. As much as I didn’t want to admit it, since at the moment they were diving into a stranger’s nachos, I said that they were.

“I have 2 boys, too,” she said. One was in the military and one was off at college. "I miss them." She pulled out her phone to show me pictures of herself flanked by 2 tan, muscled, shirtless men. She didn't look nearly old enough to have sons that age. “I miss them,” she said again with a smile. She told me how she remembered them when they were small, like my boys. She told me how she works 2 jobs to keep herself busy so she won’t notice how empty the house feels without them.

The whole time she was telling me this, she was interacting with my boys. She asked my 4yo about his Cars shirt and did he know the new movie was coming out. She put my 2yo’s shoe back on, and helped him up onto a chair. She found a plate and served them some food. She kept them from knocking over their lemonade. “I’ll babysit any time you want,” she said, only half-jokingly.

I thought of this woman as I left my friends and drove home, a mere hour after we’d arrived. I thought of her as I wrestled the boys into PJs and brushed their teeth, mopped up the spilled water and broke up fights over which bedtime story to read. I thought of her as I collapsed into bed, exhausted, dreading the thought that I’d have to get up in a few hours and do it all again.

I thought of how nice she’d been to me, a stranger. How she didn’t lecture me about enjoying every minute or warn me these precious days wouldn’t last forever. She didn't say, "You certainly have your hands full" and then turn away. She simply said, “I miss my boys,” and helped with mine. And while she may not realize it, she helped me more than she knows.

Look, Kids, a Backhoe!

2011-04-28T08:40:00.004-05:00

“So we need to run to Target to get a birthday present, and don’t let me forget to – look, guys, an excavator! Ooh, and a big crane, you see it?”

It’s like I have a strange form of Tourette’s. I’ll be in the middle of a conversation and I’ll randomly shout out things like “Police car!” “Ambulance!” “Big red dump truck!”

As the mother of 2 boys, these sightings have become par for the course. Reflexively, I point out things of interest to them wherever we go, and they do the same.

“LOOK, MOM! A cement mixer!”

“Gah-bage tuck!”

I have to admit, I was almost excited as they were the time we passed a trailer on the highway that was carrying 2 tractors with wheels the size of a VW bug. You don’t see that every day. And while I find the endless readings of books about construction vehicles and farm equipment mind-numbingly boring, it IS sort of interesting to see them in action in real life.

What’s embarrassing is when my kids are not around and I lapse into truck-spotting-lady in front of other adults. My friends look at me like I’m crazy if we’re, say, having coffee on the patio at Starbucks and I go nuts pointing and waving when a helicopter flies overhead. Unless they have small boys, too, in which case they probably don’t even notice my weird tic.

Usually my random shout-outs are limited to large vehicles, but sometimes I like to point out wildlife, too. I was beside myself yesterday when I looked over at a stop sign and there was a family of little brown rabbits munching grass right next to me. And no one was in the car to share it with!!

Really, anything is worth pointing out to small kids, especially if they’re stuck in the car on a long trip or a round of boring errands. Look, kids! Balloons at the car dealership! A giant American flag on the roof of the bank! An electronic billboard advertising Hooter’s! Well, that’s just inappropriate...

So if you ever happen to be having a conversation with me and I cut you off to point out a dog wearing a sweater or one of those SmartCars that look like something Lowly Worm might drive, just ignore me. I’ll grow out of it eventually.

The Secret to a Long, Happy Marriage?

2011-04-24T20:56:00.004-05:00

My parents just celebrated their 41st anniversary. Think about that for a second: 41 YEARS of being married! To the same person!! (Embarrassing side note: last year on my blog I congratulated them on their 30th anniversary. Soon after my mom asked me, “How old is your brother?” Um, 39? Why is she asking ME? Ohhhh… I get it. Sorry, I inadvertently shaved a decade off their marriage. Math was never my strong suit.)

Anyway, I think we can all agree that being married for several decades is a major feat. There are some days I marvel at staying married to MY husband for 7 years. Like on days he calls me at 4:30pm and the kids are screaming and fighting and starving and I’m counting down the minutes till their dad gets home and then he says, “Oh, by the way…” and mentions a work happy hour he’s supposed to go to that night.

I remember on our honeymoon, there were several other newlywed couples at our resort and we all ended up at the same restaurant with some older married folks one night. Someone asked one of the older couples what their secret was for a long and happy marriage and the wife said it was about letting the little stuff go.

I should have asked her to define “little stuff.” Does that mean not flying into a rage when -– for the millionth time -- he leaves his muddy, sedan-sized sneakers in the entryway for you to trip over? Or does it mean overlooking his ineptitude at dishwasher-loading? (Very funny post on that subject here.)

So obviously, I’m still working on the “letting stuff go” thing. But I will note that the husband of that long-married couple said the secret to a happy marriage was that his wife was always right. I would say MY husband is still working on THAT one.

Just today he coerced our boys into agreeing with him that it was totally my fault we missed the exit for my brother’s house on the way to Easter brunch. It’s not enough that we drove 20 minutes out of our way? He had to get our 4yo to chime in, “Yeah! It’s all Mama’s fault!” Obviously, C. didn’t get the “Yes, dear” memo. Good thing he’s cute and makes cute kids.

I like to imagine that 34 years from now, MY sons will be asking me what the secret is to our long and happy marriage. I’ll tell them, “It’s that I am always right.”

QUESTION O’ THE WEEK: Speaking of marriage, who’s looking forward to the royal wedding this weekend? I don’t think I need to wake up that early to see it live, but I’ll certainly DVR it.

‘Good Enough is the New Perfect’

2011-04-20T12:47:00.005-05:00

I first started following Hollee Schwartz Temple (the one on the left) on Twitter mainly because she’s an author and I loved the title of her book: Good Enough Is the New Perfect: Finding Happiness and Success in Modern Motherhood

Then I heard her speak at a conference on a panel about work-life balance. Hollee began by asking the audience, “How many of you were raised to believe you could do anything and be anything?” Most hands went up. “And how many of you took that to mean you should DO EVERYTHING and BE EVERYTHING?” Everyone laughed -- and raised their hands.

Her talk really hit home for me, so I was thrilled when she sent me a copy of her book. (Can you tell by the picture I found a thing or 2 of interest?)

FINALLY, someone has addressed the real issues that plague me and most of my mom friends these days. Why, when we have so many choices, are most of us still struggling? When the real world isn’t as clear-cut as working or staying home with your kids, where are all the role models who are successfully navigating the in-between? And why do so many of us feel like we’re going it alone?

While Hollee and her co-author, journalist Becky Beaupre Gillespie, surveyed over 900 women and conducted in-depth interviews with 100 of them, it’s the authors’ personal stories that resonated deeply with me. When Hollee describes counting down the minutes until bedtime when her boys were small, then feeling guilty for not appreciating them, I thought, That is me. And when Becky describes how she didn’t want anyone to think she was “just a mom,” so when someone asked her what she did, she described what she’d done BEFORE becoming a mom? Yeah, that’s me, too.

I’ll be honest: at first, several of the high-achieving women interviewed in the book sparked envy in me. Prominent lawyers, a VP for Christie’s, successful entrepreneurs. But then I read on, and discovered all their worries and frustrations sounded eerily similar to mine. Also? The women who weren’t happy were longing not for more prestige or bigger paychecks, but for more time with their families, more fulfilling work, more connection with friends and neighbors – all stuff I have in spades. Hmmm, so if you look at “success” in THAT light...maybe it’s not just the moms with the impressive business cards who can claim it.

If there’s one common theme I’ve noticed among all the moms I’ve met over the last 5 years since I became one myself, it’s that nearly every one of them -- stay-at-home, working, or somewhere in between -- is WAY too hard on herself. I’ve heard moms apologize for letting their kids eat an occasional donut, for their child not being potty trained yet, for not enrolling their second or third child in enough enriching activities. I’ve heard moms beat themselves up for working too much, earning too little, and needing more help. It’s madness, people. MADNESS.

Not only that, but it’s a terrible example for our kids. You’re not successful unless you’re awesome at everything? Gwyneth Paltrow notwithstanding, that’s an impossible goal for most of us mere mortals. (BTW, even Gwyn admits she’s bad at math. Possibly the only thing we have in common.) Personally, I’d like my kids to have a broader definition of success -- and to learn that it’s OK to define it for themselves.

Buy the book. It’s $9.41 on Amazon. You probably spend that much at Starbucks on a latte and overpriced baked goods. I guarantee you will come away with a new perspective on success, motherhood, and what “having it all” really means to you.

QUOTE O’ THE WEEK: “We do not need to be perfect to be successful moms, professionals or women.” - Becky Beaupre Gillespie and Hollee Schwartz Temple

A Working Mom's Wakeup Call

2011-04-18T13:19:00.005-05:00

Back when I was single and childless, I got into a heated discussion with my future brother-in-law (also single and childless) in a cab on the way home from a bar one night. I don’t remember how we got into it, but we were discussing whether mothers should work or stay home to raise their children.

With the self-righteous conviction that only clueless 20-somethings can have, we were both convinced that we were completely right. My BIL was firmly in the SAHM camp; I was staunchly in favor of working moms.

Boy, was it a cruel wakeup call when I found out the issue wasn’t that black-and-white. I suppose I could’ve looked around the global media company where I was working then and noticed not a single person I knew was a mother of young kids.

There was a pregnant woman (what ever happened to her?) and there was one with school-age kids who lasted less than a year. But that’s it. In fact, the 3 most senior women in my department were all childless.

Marriage and kids weren’t even on my radar at that point, so I didn’t give it much thought. Though I do remember thinking that the on-site daycare they bragged about in those “best places to work” articles was kind of a joke. I’d heard ours was pricey and had a year-long waiting list.

That job was a bad fit for me for many reasons, not least of which was that while I ostensibly was hired for my editorial experience, I wrote almost nothing. Just a lot of e-mails and memos. I was essentially a highly-paid meeting attendee.

So when I got married and had a baby, I wasn’t all gung-ho to be that corporate working mom I’d argued so strenuously for in my 20’s. I’d found a nice little niche as a freelance writer and I got to spend time with my baby. And then I encountered another round of wakeup calls. Like how hard it was to work around a baby’s schedule and drum up assignments I could do from home. Also hard? Finding part-time affordable childcare.

Even now, years later, when I’ve finally found some semblance of balance, I am shocked at:

a) how many people think I don’t “really” work because I’m self-employed, don’t go to an office, and have irregular hours;

b) ask when I plan to get a “real job” (as if I could just waltz out and command a lucrative, flexible staff position in my field whenever I felt like it);

c) how many people still think staying home with your children full-time or working outside the home full-time are the only 2 options for moms.

This is all a long wind-up to telling you about an amazing new book, Good Enough Is the New Perfect: Finding Happiness and Success in Modern Motherhood It delves into all these issues and more, backed up by new research and extensive interviews with all sorts of working moms -- doctors, lawyers, pretzel entrepreneurs, mom bloggers, web-TV hosts.

I devoured my advance copy in 3 days. In another post, I’ll tell you more about the book. But for now, I’m happy just to report that it assured me I’m not crazy, I’m not alone, and I don’t have to choose between 2 oversimplified options that don’t fit my life.

QUOTE O’ THE WEEK: “I don't believe the world owes me a living, although for the amount I make, an apology would be nice.” -- Unknown

Family Meals Made Easy

2011-04-15T13:49:00.004-05:00

In theory, meal plans sound like a great idea for busy families. Plan out your meals for the week in advance, buy all the ingredients in one trip to the grocery store, and it’s smooth sailing, right? Only I’ve never quite been able to get the hang of it. Inevitably, I end up staring into the pantry at 5pm, night after night, a few ingredients shy of whatever dish I’m trying to make. Add in 2 picky, impatient kids, 1 vegetarian, 1 low-carbotarian, and it’s a recipe for failure.

So when a woman I met at Blissdom contacted me about trying out E-Mealz, a site that lets you customize a meal plan for your family, including vegetarian, low-carb, and meals based on sales at your local grocery store, I said “Heck, yeah, sign me up!”

Here’s how it works: you pay $1.25 a week for the service, or $15 for 3 mos. (No, seriously. That’s really how little it costs. I waste 5 times that much each week buying random ingredients I never end up using. Like mushrooms. And weird cheeses.) You can choose plans for 2 or 4-6 people, for a specific store (Walmart or Kroger, for example) or any store. I did the vegetarian 7-day family meal plan for any store.

So you log on to the site and pull up the weekly menu. (See sample menus here.) You also have access to the previous week’s menu if you want. Then you print out the recipes, along with a grocery list, which lists the ingredients you need, listed by aisle. The grocery list ALONE was worth it for me. No more losing scraps of paper on which I’d scribbled “2 bell peppers, froz. spinach, eggs.”

The pros of E-Mealz: how easy it was, how you only buy what you need, and how there are so many options. The cons: how much food the plan produced. I soon realized I couldn’t keep up – with the cooking or the leftovers. On a good week, I manage to cook dinner maybe 4 to 5 times, tops. Then I peter out and it’s takeout and Trader Joe’s frozen entrees. But it’s also because we don’t eat that much food. I soon began off-loading the leftovers to my neighbor. (She didn’t complain.)

The meal plan also highlighted how picky my family is. Unfortunately, there were lots of recipes I had to rule out right off the bat because I knew they’d never fly in my house. Like Walnut Cheddar Loaf. Not happening. But I did try a few new things like Quinoa- and Vegetable-Stuffed Peppers (good, but lots of chopping) and Greek Eggplant (easy and tasty!)

The bottom line: I think E-Mealz is a great idea and the price makes it a no-brainer. It could actually save you money if you’re prone to wasting food like us. For a family that eats pretty much the same thing every night, I say give it a try. For us? Until the kids get a little less picky, I’m better off cobbling together our own meal plan based on the limited recipes my whole family likes. But I sure will miss those print-out grocery lists.

DEAL O’ THE WEEK: E-Mealz is offering 15% off for new subscribers. Sign up here and use the code BLISS at checkout. (Note: this is an affiliate link.)

RECIPE O’ THE WEEK: Believe it or not, this Linguine with Shrimp Scampi was a crowd-pleaser in our house. I left out the hot pepper flakes for the kids.

A Place for (Almost) Everything

2011-04-13T13:57:00.002-05:00

I don’t know if it’s the spring-cleaning articles in all the magazines or what, but getting organized has been on my mind a lot lately. A recent post on a friend’s blog reminded me that I, too, feel peaceful and happy when everything’s in order. May explain my feng shui phase in my 20’s. (Tip: Always close the toilet lid. Something to do with containing bad energy or allowing good chi to flow, I forget. And also, if you have flush-happy toddlers around, it just makes sense.)

Too bad my family could care less about being organized. I mean, what’s the point of having a coat rack, a shoe cubby, key hooks, and a change jar if everything gets dumped in a big pile the second everyone walks in the door? Work with me, people!!!

I’ve also realized that one person’s organized is another person’s OCD. For instance, did anyone see that article on Jamie Lee Curtis in Good Housekeeping a while back? The woman wears dust-rags on her feet, repackages everything in her house from cereal to CDs, and has only has 3 colors of clothes in her wardrobe. Um, OK, Jamie Lee. She does admit, though, that her husband and kids don’t maintain her organizational vision, so she sees it as her job to keep things in order.

I don’t need my environment to be THAT orderly. I’m fine with having a pile of mail on the counter, a pile of books on the table, and a pile of dirty clothes in the corner. Hey, Jamie Lee has her Tupperware, I have my piles, OK? And I do love those fabric bins. At one point I tried to keep my kids’ stuffed animals in one bin, toy cars in another, and blocks in another, but now I don’t care if everything’s all jumbled up together as long as it’s off the floor and out of sight.

The important thing is being able to find something when you need it, right? I may not be the neatest person in the world, I may not have clear systems for everything, but I can usually tell you where something is. The extension cords? They’re in the bottom kitchen drawer next to the disposable placemats and flavored drink mix that no one likes. (No matter what, we end up with bunches of random stuff that don’t fit neatly into a clear category.)

And yet, I alphabetize my spices. For some reason, this is a source of great hilarity among my family and friends. Why?! Are spices not arranged alphabetically in the grocery store? What’s so crazy or OCD about that? If you want to spend 15 minutes rooting around for the cumin, be my guest. I have better things to do with my time. Like put everybody else’s stuff back where it belongs.

PICK O’ THE WEEK: Miles talked me into buying these dust-mop slippers. At first I thought they were ridiculous but now I think they’re awesome. Especially because the kids will put them on and slide around the kitchen. Anything to get them to help clean!

A Weekend Away...With Kids

2011-04-11T13:41:00.004-05:00

A big part of being a happy parent is learning to adjust your expectations. If you expect life after you give birth to be the same, just with an extra little person and lot more laundry, you’ll be sorely disappointed.

I say this, and yet here I am almost 5 years in and I still get bummed out when the weekend comes and there’s no happy hour, sleeping in till noon, or late-night dinners and dancing. Huh?! You mean I still have to change diapers and cut up grapes on Saturday AND Sunday? No more HGTV or E! marathons, flopped on the couch all day? No more leisurely brunches at restaurants without high chairs? Whose idea WAS this having-kids thing?! (See “Weekends: Then & Now” for more on this theme.)

Because I’m home all week with my boys, I sure as heck don’t want to spend my weekends the same way as my weekdays (mainly, breaking up fights over who had Doc Hudson first and cleaning up spilled milk and crushed Goldfish). Especially if Dad’s not around. So when C. had a weekend conference an hour away, we decided to join him at his hotel for the night. It would be fun! Or at least different. Let’s keep our expectations in check here.

So the boys and I piled into the car with the Pack ‘n’ Play, blankies, CDs, and enough snacks to fuel an Olympic rowing team. C. had showed me how to use the GPS on my smartphone. Good thing, because driving in DC/Northern Virginia is as confusing as trying to understand why Kanye West is invited to the royal wedding. (Seriously, WHY?)

We get most of the way there just fine, but disembodied GPS lady kept calling roads by their route numbers instead of the names I knew them by. So before I knew it, I had exited the Rock Creek Parkway and we were lost in downtown DC. (“Look kids, cherry blossoms!”) GPS lady kept spewing out nonsensical directions. (I said aloud, “What is she SAYING?!” and Miles chimed in, “Yeah! We don’t understand robot!”)

I kept my cool, though, even as we drove around in what seemed like circles. (“Look kids, a monument! Named after some president I can’t think of right now.”) Finally, I got my bearings. (“Look kids, Arlington National Cemetery!” Miles: “What’s a cemetery?” Me: “Uh, look! More cherry blossoms!”)

At last, we find the hotel, a pretty swanky place in Old Town Alexandria. As we pull up to the valet, C. is waiting for us. The kids tumble out of the family truckster in a shower of Goldfish crumbs, sippy cups, and coloring books shouting, “Daddy! Daddy!” Not 2 ft. away is a sleek black limousine, awaiting a bride in her flowing white gown and purple-silk-clad bridesmaids. Romper Room meets Modern Bride. Boy, I sure hope the photographer can crop us out of those shots.

When we get to our room, Miles – who loves to travel – immediately spreads out his blanket and plops on the bed, making himself at home. Riley, on the other hand, bursts into tears and starts wailing, “Ready a go! I ready a go!” Translation: get me the hell outta here, I wanna go home. We decided to hightail it out to dinner.

Even though the area was loaded with cute shops, there was no time for that. We had kids to feed, bathe, and put to bed. Dinner was spent gulping down our food while trying to keep Riley from knocking over drinks and peeking over the booth at the diners next to us. By 8:30 pm, all the boys were sound asleep back at the hotel – including my husband. Nope, weekends sure aren’t what they used to be. When will I finally learn not to expect anything different?

RECC O’ THE WEEK: I'm a big fan of Kimpton hotels, a chain of pet- and child-friendly boutique hotels in about 20 cities throughout the U.S. The décor is really cool and funky, and the staff at ours was super nice. They even had a wagon for the boys to ride in. The bride can have her limo!

Backseat Parenting

2011-04-06T09:11:00.002-05:00

4yo: “Riley, if you go pee on the potty, you can have a special treat.”

2yo: “ ’Pecial teat!”

Me: “Miles! You are not his parent; *I* am. He just brushed his teeth and no one’s getting any more treats tonight, got it?”

You might see him as an encouraging big-brother. But I see a preschooler on a power trip. I have to remind my 4yo DAILY that he is not the one who makes the rules and calls the shots – especially for his little brother.

Every time I turn my back Miles is promising Riley treats and snacks, "helping" him open presents, and trying to bribe him into trading his best toys. He’ll even threaten, “Riley, stop bothering me or you’re going to bed early!” Wishful thinking.

I’ve heard other moms complain that their kids try to parent their siblings, too. Even funnier is when the LITTLE ones do it to the BIG ones. A friend’s 2yo was sternly lecturing her older brother, “No cookies! Mama said no.” Just what he needs, another mom.

Of course, I have to admit having a Mommy’s Little Helper DOES occasionally pay off. Like when I was getting ready the other morning and I heard Big Bro say to Little Bro: “Don’t throw your toys on the floor, Riley. Gram and Grandpa are coming today and we want to keep the house clean.” Wonder where he heard THAT?

And if I’m being honest, an extra little parent is quite helpful when it comes to that most odious of parenting tasks – potty training. Bribery with treats notwithstanding, my 4yo is quite an effective bathroom coach to his little brother. Not only do they have the same anatomy, but it was not so long ago that the older one was learning the drill himself.

However, Miles is what you might call an experimental educator. Some of his questionable toilet-training “techniques” include tickling his little brother on the potty. You know, to make him laugh so hard he’ll …? You get the idea. I can’t say it’s actually worked yet, but I give my eldest son props for trying. Funny, though. He has no interest in being the parent when it comes time to change his little brother’s diaper. Believe me, I’ve tried.

Writer’s Block and Silly Kid Pics

2011-04-04T09:55:00.003-05:00

I’ve taught writing for a while now, and there’s one question that consistently crops up from my students: what do you do if you’re not feeling particularly inspired? What if you can’t figure out what to write about? What if you are faced with that dreaded scourge that’s crippled many a wordsmith -- writer’s block?

Answer: you sit down and start writing. Or, to put it another way, you just show up. As Woody Allen once said, “80% of success in life is just showing up.” (Note: I had to Google this to find out who said it. And there’s disagreement over whether it’s 80% or 90%. So I spent another 10 min. or so Googling some more. Then I popped onto Twitter for a bit. This is what happens when *I* have writer’s block.)

I used to not believe in writer’s block, BTW. I thought it was an excuse lazy writers cooked up to explain why they hadn’t finished their Great American Novel yet. But you have only to read a few dozen “Sorry I haven’t posted lately...” blogs to realize writer’s block can strike anyone. Even me.

When it happens, I just sit down and start typing. (After I’ve exhausted all my procrastination techniques, that is. E-mail, Twitter, cleaning, another cup or 3 of coffee.) Sometimes what comes out is boring, repetitive drivel, but usually something halfway decent emerges eventually.

And remember: we’re our own worst critics. I will never forget the time I forced myself to finish a paper in grad school even though I had just broken up with my boyfriend who I totally thought was The One and I could barely see straight, my eyes were so blurred by the bitter tears of disillusionment and shattered dreams. (How’s THAT for drivel?) Because even in the midst of soul-crushing heartbreak I was a perfectionistic teacher’s pet who could never miss a deadline.

Well, guess what? I got an A on that paper! It certainly wasn’t the best thing I’d ever written, but so what? Sometimes it’s enough to just show up.

It’s the same with parenting, I’ve realized. I’m not going to be the most happy, energetic, creative, super-present mother every day. (Or even MOST days, if I’m being honest.) But sometimes the kids and I end up having a pretty darn good day even when I’m not bringing my A-game. Or even my B+ game.

My final advice on writer’s block? Bloggers are lucky. Because if we ever get really stumped in the writing department, we can just post pics like this:

What? Doesn't EVERYONE eat pizza shirtless with goggles on?

My mommy makes me wear a helmet at all times and they STILL know me by name at the ER!

Baby Advice & Book Giveaway

2011-03-31T21:06:00.006-05:00

If there’s anything I love as much as books and dispensing advice about motherhood, it’s a social media success story. So I was thrilled to discover someone who has combined all 3: meet Jennifer L. Cowart, author of “Baby Notes.”

A freelance writer and photographer and mother of 3 girls, Jen sat down to write up her best motherhood advice when her brother and his wife were expecting their first baby in 2009. She packaged it all up into a cute little homemade book and gave it to them for their baby shower.

As more of Jen’s friends began to have babies, she decided to share her list of advice on Facebook. “The response was overwhelming,” writes Jen. “Many of my friends wrote to me, asking if they could share my list with their daughters, granddaughters and nieces. The list had made them laugh and cry. They were happy to hear that other mothers felt the way they did, that they weren’t alone in the newness of motherhood.”

That list became “Baby Notes,” a pocket-sized book of tips, advice, and funny baby photos. (Many of which are Jen’s own family.) It’s like one of those Hallmark gift books people give you for Mother’s Day, only more realistic and not as sappy. A few of my favorite pieces of advice:

- Don’t be afraid to let Daddy be the favorite. That way, when they are crying in the middle of the night, they cry for Daddy, and Mommy can stay in bed.

- If you accidentally wake a sleeping baby, never make eye contact! [Seriously, people. It’s more dangerous than looking directly at the sun.]

- If something’s going to happen, it’ll always be on a night, a weekend, a major holiday, during a vacation or a natural disaster.

Throughout this blog, you can find hundreds of MY tips and observations, but I’ll list a few here:

- Don’t rush to change the baby’s diaper the minute it’s wet. He may not be “done” yet, and you’ll only waste a diaper.

- It’s a fact that if choosing between the newest award-winning educational toy and a random household object, the baby will always pick the measuring spoons or the toilet-paper tube.

- Most people who say their baby slept through the night from an early age are either flat-out lying or they’ve forgotten because it was so long ago.

So, moms, got any of your own advice to add? Leave a comment here by 5pm EST 4/3 for a chance to win a copy of “Baby Notes” signed by the author. (I’ll pick a winner at random.) If you want your advice to be considered for possible publication in the next book, you can submit your own baby note on Jen’s web site.

Happy Friday, everyone! Here’s hoping disaster doesn’t strike your house this weekend. ;)

Doing My Time: In the Pre-K Library

2011-03-30T10:34:00.003-05:00

I’m as guilt-prone as the next mom, but there are some things I simply refuse to feel guilty about. Like hiring a pro to clean my house now and then and not volunteering at my son’s school. Look: I’ve got a 2yo, writing deadlines, and a mountain of laundry the size of Everest. So, sorry – I’m not using up my precious 2 hours and 45 min. a day that my older son’s in preschool to photocopy worksheets while I pay a babysitter to watch my toddler. If you do? Yay for you. You win.

The thing is, on Mondays the kids have library and almost ALL the parents have volunteered to read to the class. I know this because I’m cc’ed on e-mails listing the library schedule full of parents and caregivers more selfless than I. Although I tell myself if they’re on salary or have family to watch their other kids, what’s the big sacrifice?

ANYWAY... I could tell it would mean a lot to Miles if I volunteered to read. So on a day C. was off work to watch Riley, I did. My first mistake was getting all gussied up. I realized I needn’t have spent 20 min. flat-ironing my hair and choosing accessories when the other mom volunteer strolled in wearing workout gear. My second mistake was listening to my 4yo when he told me I didn’t have to bring in a book, because his class got to choose one for me to read.

So there I was, scrambling amidst the haphazardly organized books to find one I recognized. (Where is the Dewey decimal system when you need it?!) Aha! “Arthur Writes a Story.” Perfect, since, you know, I’m a writer. Just to be safe I picked a backup, some book about a hibernating bear. Lame.

The kids pile into the library, all bedhead and mismatched patterns. (So it’s not just MY kid. Whew!) Miles gives me a little smile, then slinks to the back, too cool for school. The girls start clamoring to show me their nail polish and sparkly shoes. I DO like a cute pair of Mary Janes...

I introduce myself as Mrs. So-and-So (even though the other parent said, “I usually just say ‘I’m Billy’s mom’”). Then I announce, all enthusiastically, “So, kids! I thought we could read this book about Arthur writing a story, because I’M actually a writer. Or, this book about a b—“

“The bear! The bear! Read that one! We have that book at home!”

Those kids could give a flying pig with a pancake that I’m a writer. Any ideas I had about impressing this crowd with my literary credentials went right out the flower-decaled window. Humph.

So I read the book about the dumb hibernating bear and they were enthralled. I did all the sound effects – I snored, I roared, I stomped my feet. I even threw in a fake burp. If I was giving up my morning to volunteer, I was damn sure gonna do it RIGHT.

And you know what? It was fun. I could tell the kids enjoyed it, even Miles. And it was a nice break from the laundry and my keyboard. In fact, I liked it so much...that I volunteered my husband to go in and read next week.

Tiny Tyrants

2011-03-28T10:07:00.006-05:00

There’s a hilarious anecdote in Amy Wilson’s memoir –- “momoir,” if you prefer -- When Did I Get Like This?: The Screamer, the Worrier, the Dinosaur-Chicken-Nugget-Buyer, and Other Mothers I Swore I'd Never Be She’s describing how she figured out the one thing that calmed her colicky infant was bouncing on an exercise ball. So she did – 24/7. When her husband got home from work they’d trade off, not even stopping to eat: “I would shovel forkfuls of kung pao chicken into David’s mouth while he kept bouncing.”

Then there were 2 comments I read online on the same theme: one new mom said her 1yo doesn’t “allow” her to sit on the sofa. “She lets me know in no uncertain terms that she wants her mommy on the floor with her!” Another mom said her 2yo made her get up and sit on the other side of the room – and she did! (As would any mom not willing to risk a tantrum from an irrational toddler.)

Do you realize what this means, people? It means we are allowing ourselves to be ruled by the sticky iron fists of miniature dictators!! They’re despots in diapers! Bullies in bibs! Oppressors in overalls! (I could go all day; I have a thesaurus and I’m not afraid to use it.)

The sick part is, we willingly go along with this treatment to keep them happy. It’s like those mean girls in junior high you were desperate to have like you because they were popular. They’d be super-nice to your face but you were always afraid they’d go postal on you in the middle of the night at some slumber party.

Pissing off the people who determine whether you sleep through the night is NOT WORTH IT. Most parents will do anything to fend off that dinnertime tantrum, the meltdown in the candy aisle, the piercing air-raid siren that is their newborn’s wail. Even if it means risking indigestion, bad knees, or one’s own choice of seating.

Sometimes I’m ashamed that I, an intelligent, reasonably confident adult, allow myself to be bossed around by the shortest people in the house. Shouldn’t the person calling the shots at least be able to SAY “shots” without lisping?

However, what my children lack in articulation and height, they make up for in volume and stubbornness. I’m just not willing to launch World War III by taking a stand against the small stuff. So that means more often than not, when my kids say jump, I say, “Like a kangaroo or a bunny?”

Flashback Friday: I Hate the Playground

2011-03-25T12:31:00.003-05:00

It's that time of year again. It's staying light outside longer, the weather's getting warmer, the playground is calling... Too bad I hate it. Here's why.

I Hate the Playground
(originally posted 5/08)

When we bought our house just before we got married, the postage stamp-sized yard was actually a plus. It was just big enough that we could enjoy a bit of the outdoors without being bogged down with yard work every weekend. ( I got my fill of that growing up -- thanks, Dad!) However, I have given birth to an outdoorsy type. Therein lies the problem.

Now that it’s nice out and gets dark later, Miles wants to be outside 24/7. The minute he wakes up he’s clamoring to go out: “Wanna go to da park, mama. Go to da playground.” I have decided that I hate the playground. Let me count the reasons:

1. It’s dirty. “Well, duh,” you might be saying. Listen, I’m not some neat-freak who irons her toddler’s play clothes and can’t stand for him to get dirty. But Miles takes it to a new level. He BATHES himself in the dirt, digging it under his fingernails and caking it on his cheeks. He gets wood chips in his hair and every crevice of his clothing. And don’t get me started on the sandbox, which I have on good authority serves as a gigantic litter box for every cat in the neighborhood. Grossed out yet?

2. It’s confusing. We live near a large community playground where there are tons of communal toys left there for anyone to play with. Which is great, except that then Miles doesn’t understand why he can’t hop on every tricycle or toy car he comes across in somebody’s yard.

3. It’s embarrassing. Every time we go to the playground, there’s always at least one super-enthusiastic parent. You know, the one who’s whizzing down the slide with her kid, whooping it up, yelling, “Wow, honey! Great job! Isn’t this FUN?!!” As opposed to me, who’s sitting on a bench looking at her watch.

Miles will home in on this über-parent and follow them around incessantly, even inserting himself between the parent and their child, desperate to get in on the fun, as if he’s some poor, attention-starved orphan. One time he was actually shouting, “Look at me! Look at me!” to this poor dad who was trying to have some quality time with his daughter. Miles, chill! Desperation is not an attractive quality. Honestly, you’d think we ignored him all day.

4. It’s stressful. Another problem with the playground is that you have to constantly break up kid scuffles. “No, sweetie, that’s his truck. You can play with that one.” (Cut to me prying the truck out of Miles’ ridiculously strong grip.)

And if the other kid’s parent isn’t watching? Then you’re left in the awkward position of trying to discipline a stranger. “Um, you there -- please don’t spit on the slide. We’d like to take a turn now, if that’s OK.” You never know how a situation like that’s going to play out. Will the kid flip out on you? Will his mom?

5. It’s so hard to say good-bye. Miles has never done well with transitions. That “we’re leaving in 5 minutes” spiel has zero effect. It always ends with me dragging him away kicking and screaming. Except for that one time he allowed himself to be bribed with a cereal bar.

So, there you have it -- 5 reasons why I try to keep my son confined to our tiny yard. Leave it to me to take the fun out of a wholesome childhood pastime, right? Next week: Why I Hate the Circus and Disney World, Too.

Lowest Mom on the Totem Pole

2011-03-23T10:26:00.007-05:00

Let’s say you saw a very pregnant woman struggling to carry a bunch of heavy grocery bags. Over her shoulder she grunts, “I’m fine, I just wanted to save myself an extra trip.” Then she vacuums her entire house, skips lunch and her prenatal appointments because she doesn’t “have time,” wouldn’t dream of taking a nap even if she’s tired, and downs a double espresso so she can stay up late filling goody bags for her preschooler’s birthday party.

Be honest: you would judge this woman, wouldn’t you? I know I would. She’s putting the health of her poor, defenseless, unborn baby at risk because she can’t be bothered to take care of herself.

Only here’s the thing: except for the part about being pregnant, this (hypothetical) woman is me. And probably some of you. How many of us have powered through our days with barely enough nutrition to sustain a gnat, telling ourselves we don’t have time to eat a real meal? Or fueled our bodies primarily with junk food and caffeine because we “need it to get through the day”?

But this is not a rant about poor eating habits. It’s about – cliché alert – moms’ habit of making themselves the lowest person on the totem pole. Putting everyone else’s needs first. Putting ourselves last. Not even realizing we’re doing it.

You know how sometimes you hear the same advice over and over and one day for some reason it suddenly sinks in? That happened to me while reading “The Naked Mom.” Author Brooke Burke asks: “What if you applied even a fraction of the attention you pay to your child’s health and well-being to yourself?”

Being a fairly health-conscious person (Mini Egg and Starbucks binges notwithstanding), it’s shocking for me to consider this. I bend over backwards to make sure both my boys have some form of protein, a fruit or vegetable, and not too much sugar at every meal. Even if that means going to the grocery store for the third time that week to buy kiwi. (Which the baby calls “fiwi.” Adorable.)

I worry about them getting enough sleep, exercise, and fresh air, to the point where I will sit in a parked car to ensure they finish their nap, and force myself to kick a soccer ball in the mud when I would rather be sitting inside where it’s warm and dry.

But do I extend the same care and concern to my own health? No, I do not. I regularly skip breakfast (because I’m too busy being a short-order cook), miss spinning class (because I decide to throw in just one more load of laundry before I head to the gym), and forget to schedule my own doctors’ appointments. (Who has TIME for another appointment?!)

Burke writes, “Becoming a mother gave me a whole new respect for my body… it felt good to nurture myself in order to nurture that tiny life growing inside me. …Once you’ve left the delivery room, it’s a shame to discard the self-awareness that pregnancy provides.”

It’s true. I grew A PERSON inside my body. Two, in fact! I did prenatal yoga, forced myself to take vitamins the size of hub caps, and got plenty of rest. Don’t I deserve to treat myself better than a pack mule? (I bet even pack mules take regular water and snack breaks.)

Tell me: what do you do to take care of yourself? And when? For God’s sake, WHEN?!

Too Much Togetherness

2011-03-20T19:45:00.004-05:00

I have a request: can everyone just please stop touching me? Stop poking me when I’m sleeping, stop head-butting me in the back of the knees when I’m making your toast, stop climbing up my leg when I’m trying to drink my coffee.

Look, I’m all for affection and togetherness. I love hugs, kisses, and snuggles. Lord knows I smooch my kids a million times a day. But enough’s enough! Sometimes I just want to sit on the couch and read a magazine without someone dive-bombing me, pinching me, or sitting pressed up so close to me that when he sneezes, we both need a tissue.

And honestly? Sometimes I don’t know if it’s storytime or a rugby scrum. Can’t we sit NEXT to each other and read a book? Does everyone really need to be on top of each other like a litter of newborn puppies? Because you guys are wiggly. And elbowy. We rarely get through an entire story without someone getting kneed in the face or another tender area.

There are some days when I feel like I’ve been probed by aliens from head to toe. From someone inspecting my nostrils when he’s squirming next to me in bed in footie PJs, to someone poking every freckle and spot while I’m getting dressed, to someone pulling on my arm to come turn on the TV, find the Spongebob toothpaste, or poke the straw into a juicebox. Today Riley was grabbing my toes to inspect my new pedicure. (It DOES look nice, but does he have to touch it?)

BTW, funny how both boys will jump on my back for a piggyback ride and fight over who gets to sit in my lap, but when it comes time to hold hands to cross the street, no one wants to come near me.

And if anyone’s tempted to leave me a comment about how someday I’ll be desperate to get eye contact from my kids, let alone a hug? Don’t. NOT THE TIME.

Right now I just want to be left alone. Keep your hands to yourself and walk away from Mommy. I love you just as much at arm’s length. Maybe more.

Stuff My Kids Say

2011-03-16T10:15:00.004-05:00

He’s an Internet legend: the guy who started a Twitter page called “@#$& My Dad Says” to chronicle his curmudgeonly father’s salty sayings and promptly got a book deal and a sitcom starring William Shatner. Well, I think my kids could give him a run for his money. IMO, they’re funnier, more family-friendly, and way cuter, to boot.

One of the perks of having kids that I didn’t anticipate is how they provide constant entertainment. I thought it would be all peek-a-boo and knock-knock jokes, but no. My boys - who are barely as old as my newest pair of jeans - are laugh-out-loud funny on a daily basis. Good thing I have my Twitter page to keep track of their antics. Here’s a small sampling from the last 2 weeks:

Mar. 15: 4yo picks out random assortment of clothing. Me: "You're going to wear ALL that?" M: "You'll see how it all works out, Mom.” [How it worked out was lots and lots of layers. It was an eye-popping mishmash of Batman and Super Mario and Crocs, oh my!]

Mar. 14: Was getting Playdoh out of the jam-packed closet & the iron fell out. M: "That really hurts on Tom & Jerry."

Mar. 11: 2yo requested Glee Xmas album in the car. And by requested, I mean he yelled until I put it on.

Mar. 10: 4yo won't eat the bread on his sandwich because it's "undelicious."

Mar. 3: M. was trying to hitchhike on our street. He says he saw it on the Pink Panther. Had to explain it's a no-no in the non-cartoon world.

Mar. 3: I swear, my 2yo gets stuck in the kitchen chair about 4x a day - a leg, an arm, his HEAD. [Note: He’s totally doing it on purpose. I’ve tried ignoring him and letting him untangle himself, but then his big brother gets involved and things take a turn for the worse.]

It’s no surprise to anyone that kids say and do quirky things, of course, but somehow it’s even funnier when they’re your own. We were all lying in bed the other morning trying to get an extra few minutes sleep while my 2yo wandered around our room slamming closet doors and rummaging through drawers.

Riley picked up C.’s cellphone and announced, “Daddy want phone EVERY DAY.” We all busted out laughing. The kid’s barely 2 and he’s already picked up on his dad’s smartphone addiction! Now if he could only figure out how to get himself unstuck from the kitchen chairs...

The Naked Mom

2011-03-13T20:18:00.005-05:00

That savvy Brooke Burke. How could a book by a gorgeous celebrity and former bikini model with “naked” in the title NOT be a hit? Sorry to disappoint, fellas, but here naked refers to being your authentic, true self as a woman and mother. Although Brooke does appear sans clothes on the cover.

It would be easy to write off Brooke Burke as just another perky, brunette celebrity. You might know her as the glamorous co-host of “Dancing with the Stars” (and Season 7 winner). She first got on my radar when she hosted “Rock Star: INXS,” a show about finding a new lead singer for one of C.’s and my favorite ‘80s bands. (RIP, Michael Hutchence.)

I didn’t give Brooke much thought, though, until she launched ModernMom.com and her own blog on the site. I read a few posts and darned if BB wasn’t just like the rest of us (except WAY better-looking, obviously). She’s sleep-deprived, pulled in a million different directions, wanting what’s best for her kids, struggling to find some me-time. Plus, she’s down-to-earth and pretty funny. For “Wordless Wednesday” one time she posted a pic of herself covered with baby spit-up. She's my people!

Her book is equally relatable and enjoyable. I found myself LOL’ing in recognition when she described the dinnertime craziness at her house, getting kung-fu kicked by squirmy little ones who’ve taken over your bed, and getting locked in a stairwell with a baby and a bloody foot. (Flip-flops and metal doors are a bad combo; I can attest to that.)

The book is best when it’s describing her day-to-day life as a working mom of 4 kids. She freely admits that her days are messy, chaotic, and far from perfect. She forgets her shoes, forgets her baby in the car, and falls on her butt during DWTS rehearsal. (BTW, she practiced the quickstep with her newborn son strapped to her chest.) My favorite quote is when she’s talking about how she’s always asked how she “balances it all.” Her answer: She doesn’t. “Balance is bullshit. End of story.”

Less successful are Brooke’s attempts to give advice on such topics as beauty and nutrition. I guess it’s interesting in a voyeuristic way to read about how she fits into those tiny costumes, but personally I flipped past her recipe for “Cleansing Veggie Soup” while plowing my way through a bag of Cadbury Mini Eggs. In fact, those chapters made me thank my lucky stars I don’t live in Hollywood, where implants rule, carbs drool, and there’s paparazzi on every corner waiting to snap a pic of “stars without makeup.” Nightmare!

I finished the book wishing that a) Brooke Burke was my real-life mommy friend (even though I’d never be able to borrow her clothes), and barring that, b) she’ll hire me to write for her website. (It's on my bucket list!) ‘Cause I’ve got some things to say about motherhood, chaos, me-time, and even being naked. Call me, Brooke!

LINK O' THE WEEK: You can buy her book here: The Naked Mom: A Modern Mom's Fearless Revelations, Savvy Advice, and Soulful Reflections If you do, I get like 2 cents or something. Woo hoo!

Post-Toddler Stress Disorder

2011-03-11T14:22:00.005-05:00

Don’t you just love toddlers? Those adorable first words. That hilarious drunken-sailor gait. Their newfound independence. The endless tantrums...

I was telling somebody about how my second-born is so much more difficult than my first-born when it occurred to me that I am absolutely wrong. I blame Post-Toddler Stress Disorder for blocking it out, but Miles was just as much of a hellion as Riley is at age 2, if not more. The proof is in my archives.

First, there was the infamous “Carseat Kerfuffle,” also known as “The Subaru Showdown,” when my son and I were locked in combat in the backseat of our car and I had to call his dad to come intervene before I left him by the side of the road. Ah, memories...

And you know when toddlers contradict themselves and tell you what they want and then have a tantrum when you give it to them? Good times. Hope you enjoy this little gem from my archives:

Yes I Do, No I Don’t

Miles: “Peanut butter! Peanut butter!”
Me: “You want a peanut butter sandwich?”
Miles: “OK.”
Me (after making sandwich): “Here you go, sweetie.”
Miles: “No peanut butter! Yogurt! YO-GURRRT!!”

Good thing there was an article in this month’s Parenting magazine about why toddlers contradict themselves, or I would’ve thought Miles was just being a huge pain in the butt. Well, he is, but at least it’s developmental.

These days, EVERYTHING is a battle with him. He’ll say he wants to go for a walk in the stroller. Then he has a fit when I try to strap him in. Then when I let him out, he goes sprinting for the street. When I say, “You can either get in the stroller or hold my hand” he sits down on the sidewalk and cries. Can you see why we haven’t been leaving the house much?

Even at home, though, the struggles continue. Some days he won’t sit in his highchair or let me put his socks on, or he insists on having two spoons at mealtime. Some things, I let go. Fine. Go nuts with the plastic cutlery! But in other cases it’s not so easy.

Take his dairy addiction, for example. Miles loves nothing more than cheese, yogurt, and above all, milk. He starts asking for milk the moment he wakes up. If I dare, say, go to the bathroom before heading downstairs to get his milk, he pitches a fit. If I forget his milk at meals, he wails, “Milk! Miiiilk!” like someone who’s being torn from their lover’s arms.

And too much milk is not a good thing. First, it fills him up so he doesn’t eat any actual food. Second, it causes him, um, “gastrointestinal distress,” which leads to nasty diapers for Mom and nasty diaper rash for him. I have explained all this to him calmly and rationally. And yet he persists in demanding dairy products around the clock.

I once let him whine and cry for 30 straight minutes before I gave in. I’m not made of stone, people!! (His dad, on the other hand, has no problems tuning out his son. And what do you know, Miles stops whining around him. Why doesn’t that approach work for moms?!)

Miles isn’t the only walking contradiction around here lately, though. I also go back and forth daily, even hourly. On the one hand, I’m having a harder time than ever with my beloved offspring. (Not helped by the fact that C. is gone most of the week now. 7 a.m. to 7:30 p.m. is too damn long a day for one parent!) On the other hand, when he’s not having milk meltdowns, Miles is cuter and more fun than ever.

I try to remind myself of the cute stuff he does, such as: calling oatmeal “eat-meal”; saying “I love Mama, I love Dada, I love baths”; hugging the dog; pretending his pasta is a rocket ship; and laughing hysterically when someone jumps out from behind a door and startles him.

Yes, he’s a funny kid. No, he’s not easy. Yes, I love him dearly. No, I do not miss him when his dad takes him out on weekends. I just hope they’re not going to Dairy Queen.

LAUGH O’ THE WEEK: My SIL sent me a funny e-mail about a 15-step program to see if you’re ready to have kids. An excerpt: “Dressing small children is not as easy as it seems. 1) Buy an octopus and a small bag made out of loose mesh. 2) Attempt to put the octopus into the bag so that none of the arms hang out. Repeat all morning.”

The House of Calamity and Chaos

2011-03-08T19:40:00.003-05:00

This is the phrase that popped into my head today. Can you picture it on a nice little plaque above our door? People would chuckle and assume it’s a joke -- until 5 min. into their visit, when they’d flee the premises in terror.

I frequently wonder if there are families out there who go about their days in relative calm and peace. Sure, maybe someone spills their milk or misplaces their favorite shirt now and then, but basically their daily routine is free from injury, strife, flooded basements, and raccoons. Just to use some “hypothetical” examples I plucked out of the air. (Riiiight.)

As if the carpet conundrum wasn’t enough for one week, we’ve encountered still more homeowner headaches. First, we had a torrential rainstorm that caused water to leak into our newly waterproofed basement. No, “leak” is the wrong word. That implies a slow trickle. When actually, I was stemming the tide inside with buckets and bath towels while C. got soaked attempting to divert the stream outside. Meanwhile, the kids were splashing in the puddles on the floor.

When I finally collapsed into bed, exhausted, I heard an all-too-familiar scratching and scuffling in the attic above me. Raccoons. Did I tell you we had an entire family of raccoons evicted from our attic last year? No? Well, then, it’s because I tried to block out that traumatic episode. (Either that, or I simply forgot to mention it since Every! Frigging! Week! brings some traumatic episode or another around here.)

The whole thing was a giant ordeal involving ladders, cages, interrupted naptimes, and confrontations with well-meaning but misguided animal-loving neighbors. (Look: I love animals as much as anyone, but NOT when they probably have rabies and are peeing through my son’s ceiling!!) The raccoon guy assured us when he was done that the furry varmints would never get back in.

Except they did. So the guy came back out with his ladders and cages and nap-interrupting. His exact words when he left: “I closed off every possible opening six ways from Sunday. If they bust through dat, I’d pack up and move.” Super. And guess what? I heard the raccoon again last night.

No time to worry about that, though, because the waterproofing guys came over today. It’s almost futile to have any contractor come over when my husband’s not home. Because when it’s just me and the kids? It goes like this:

- Contractor tries to show me something about the sump pump while the kids play nearby with a loud electronic toy. I take away the toy so I can hear the guy, and the baby throws himself on the floor and has a tantrum.

- Contractor takes me outside to show me something about the window wells. The kids run out the door behind me with no shoes on. I go back in, get them shoes, try to resume conversation with contractor. Toddler goes sprinting down the street while preschooler climbs on top of a parked car. Someone falls down and skins their knee. Contractor is alternately laughing, annoyed, and pitying me.

In between all this chaos, all I heard was: everything’s wrong, everything needs to be fixed, and good luck if you try to do it yourself. I jokingly said, “So basically, you’re telling us to move.” He didn’t laugh...or contradict me.

I’m afraid to go to bed tonight. Not because of the raccoon, but because I’m afraid of what tomorrow will bring. Just another day at the House of Calamity and Chaos...

It All Started with the Carpet

2011-03-06T21:34:00.003-05:00

We have light-colored Berber carpet in our family room. It wasn’t in great shape when we moved in 7 years ago. We always meant to replace it, but then we got a dog who wasn’t housebroken. Then we had a baby, and carpet was the least of our worries. We also weathered several storms that caused the skylights to leak onto the rug.

Then, we had a second baby. This baby spit up all day, every day, all over every surface in the house. We spot-cleaned, steam-cleaned, and covered the carpet with area rugs. Clearly, there was no point replacing it until the barrage of bodily fluids ceased.

So here it is, 2 years later, and we finally decided to do something about the carpet. But first we have to remove the old, unused woodstove that sits on a raised brick platform in the middle of the family room. We used it once shortly after we moved in, before we had kids. The entire room filled with smoke, forcing us to open all the doors in the house, thereby reversing any warmth that the stove generated. That was the end of that.

Basically, this big black stove is a danger magnet. Kids are drawn to it. They climb on it, bang on it, draw on it with chalk. And the brick platform it sits on -- square, with raised, sharp corners -- is just high enough to trip over. And believe me, kids trip over it constantly. We covered the edges with foam, which my younger son promptly took big bites out of.

So this weekend we had a contractor come over to give us an estimate on removing the stove and bricks. This is how that went:

Contractor: “Sure, that’s no problem. Since we have to patch the ceiling where the chimney was, would you like us to go ahead and patch the drywall around the skylights where you have water damage?”

Us: “Yeah, that makes sense. Sure.”

Contractor: “How old are those skylights, anyway? At least 20 years old? They don’t even make those anymore. You’re losing a lot of heat out those windows, you know. I could put in some new ones for you.”

Us: “Um, well, if they’re THAT old… And they DO leak… Maybe just price them for us?”

Contractor: “The thing is, they make 'em smaller now. I’d have to build out new frames, and add some new shingles around the windows on the roof. They won’t match, though. But if the roof is also 20 years old, you might want to think about reshingling the whole thing. It’d be cheaper for me to do it now.”

Us: “Oh, boy, I don’t know…”

Contractor: “’Cause it could actually end up COSTING you money down the road if you don’t take care of it now. I’m just letting you know. It’s your decision.”

Us: “Sure. Yeah. Um, price that out for us too, OK?”

Contractor: “I notice you don’t have a vent in this bathroom over here. That’s probably why you’ve got some mold up there on the ceiling. I could put in a vent real easy for you, while I’m doing the roof.”

Us: “Vent? Huh?”

Contractor: “So what do you think about adding another skylight? Wouldn’t be that hard, since I’m already up there, you know.”

Us: “Uh, we’ve got this thing to go to soon, so we should probably let you go now… Yeah, just send us the estimate. We’ll call you! Thanks!” We closed the door behind him, dejected.

The carpet’s not THAT bad, I guess. I mean, with all the toys scattered around and unless it’s really bright sunlight, you can hardly see the spit-ups stains at all. Right? RIGHT?!

Even Charlie Sheen Knows Gross Does Not Equal Funny

2011-03-02T14:29:00.006-05:00

So as I was watching Piers Morgan interview Charlie Sheen on CNN the other night with a mixture of horror and awe, I thought the beleaguered actor made a good point. Wait!! Bear with me, OK?

Morgan kept trying to insist that “Two and a Half Men” was a family show, and that Sheen was some kind of role model. Sheen replied (paraphrasing here) that the show’s writing was juvenile and crass (I believe he used the word “gross”), and besides, it’s about a womanizing boozer, so how is that a family show? Out of the mouths of Sheens… Since when is a sitcom that relies on hooker jokes and bathroom humor in the same category as “The Middle”?

But this is not a beef about the values being promoted on primetime television. (Though as the mother of 2 little boys, that is a concern.) MY problem is with what’s being fed to us as funny these days.

It’s no secret that I like to laugh, and that I enjoy watching, reading, and writing humor. Certainly, humor is subjective. I’d say I’m more aware of that than most. I can tell you from teaching many sessions of my essay-writing classes that there are tons of David Sedaris and Tina Fey fans out there, and that most of my students aspire to be funnier writers. (While there’s no formula, I have offered some advice about how to write humor in the past.)

It’s discouraging to me that so much of what claims to be humor nowadays just isn’t funny. I can vaguely remember when, in its early days, “Two and a Half Men” was actually clever and well-written, not formulaic and cringe-worthy. But I guess Hollywood sticks with what works. At the gym this morning, I read a funny article in the Feb. 25 issue of Entertainment Weekly about the formula for Adam Sandler movies. It went something like: equal parts middle-school humor, boobs, and immature man-boys who dress like college kids.

Look, I get it. I’m not the target audience for “Two and a Half Men” or Adam Sandler movies. But can we all agree it takes a little more brains and creativity to be truly funny? On TV, I’m currently enjoying the upbeat Amy Poehler and her quirky cast on “Parks and Recreation” and the way “Modern Family” captures the frustrations, sweetness, and yes, humor of family life. (See: the episode where Cameron cries, “It’s like Twilight around here!” when toddler Lily goes through a biting phase.)

In print, I laughed out loud at Colson Whitehead’s “I Scream,” an essay about one man’s hatred of ice cream that I recently read in the anthology Eat, Memory. And on a less cerebral level, I enjoyed Sophie Kinsella’s Mini Shopaholic. (Again: funny stuff about wild toddlers.)

So tell me, what do YOU find funny? And what are your thoughts on Charlie Sheen? (Kidding… although this post on the subject by a dad and ex-addict is worth a read.)

LAUGHS O’ THE WEEK: The other day my 4yo dropped something and shouted, “Oh, pickle juice!” Ha!

While watching the Academy Awards last Sunday, C. made a Freudian slip when he referred to the Oscars as “The Awkwards.”

NEWS O' THE WEEK: Next session of "Personal Essays that Get Published" starts next week! Prices go up next time, so don't miss out. Students from every single class are getting published and paid for their writing,even if they never have before. I'm so proud!

Happy Birthday to My Baby!

2011-02-27T20:37:00.007-05:00

Dear Riley,

Today you are 2! Happy birthday, buddy! You’ve gotten to be such a big boy in the past few months, I can hardly believe it. You finally grew enough hair to get your first real haircut, and you sat in that barber chair like an old pro. Of course, the lollipop helped.

You talk ALL the time now, and we can even understand most of what you say. You must have excellent hearing, because you ask me about 10 times a day, “What noise, Mama?” It could be a leaf-blower, the blender, the smoke alarm, or someone crumpling a bag of chips a block away.

Which reminds me: you also have an uncanny sense for detecting food or drink. Even if you’re in the other room playing with your trains or trucks, you can hear me opening the fridge and pouring myself a glass of orange juice, or trying to sneak a cookie from the cabinet, and you will come running in demanding a bite or a sip.

This morning you were up at your usual 5:30 am, when you yell from your crib for Mommy or Daddy. Sometimes you switch off if one of us doesn’t respond fast enough. You’re not ready to get up then -– who IS at that hour?! -– you just want company. Or, you prefer the coziness of a queen-size down comforter. If we’re lucky, we can all get another hour of sleep. If we’re not, you pinch and kick us until we wake up and take you downstairs.

Daddy made you blueberry “pampakes” this morning, your favorite. Then you and Miles watched “Mee Mouse.” You know all the words to the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse theme song and love to “shake a booty” to the Hot Dog Dance.

Everyone who meets you says you’re Mr. Personality. You can be shy at first, but it doesn’t take you long to warm up and start running around like you own the place, wherever we are. Your babysitter calls you “energetic,” and you certainly are. Although I might use a different word to describe your spirited antics, which include climbing up on the toilet to reach the bathroom sink so you can turn on the faucet full blast and brush your teeth, which really means “flood the bathroom.”

Speaking of the bathroom, you have already gone pee in the potty twice! I refuse to get my hopes up too much, though, lest you follow in your brother’s very, VERY sluggish footsteps when it comes to potty training.

Your brother is your favorite person in the world, besides Mommy and Daddy. The minute you wake up from your nap you ask where Miles is. You love to wrestle with each other, tease the dog, and make each other laugh with silly knock-knock jokes or by blowing bubbles in your milk. Of course, sometimes you scream and hit and are mean to each other, too. Yesterday, you both left teeth marks on each other’s back. Ouch!

But mostly, you are a sweet, lovable, smart, funny little guy. We’ve only known you for 24 mos, but we can’t imagine our family or our lives without you.

Love, Mommy

PIC O’ THE WEEK: The Thomas cake was a family affair. I baked and decorated it, C. was the design consultant and custom-icing-color creator, and Miles presided over everything, offering his 2 cents and asking to lick the spoon.

On Solo Socks & Enjoying Every Moment

2011-02-23T15:24:00.004-05:00

See this? This is my collection of 37+ single kids’ socks. With each load of laundry, the number of mate-less socks grows. I ask you: how is that even POSSIBLE?!

I once read somewhere that you should keep solo socks only until the next time you do laundry, then toss any remaining singles. But where’s the fun in that? From time to time I actually DO find the mate, and then it’s like Christmas. (I lead a sad, sad life, don’t I?)

I’ve also heard people say you should buy only one kind of sock – say, white tube socks. What are we, barbarians?! Dressing boys is dreary enough without limiting myself to plain white socks. Sometimes finding a cute pair with fire engines on them on sale at Gymboree is the most fun I have at the mall! (I know… sad, sad life.)

You know those people with grown kids who love to tell us moms of wee ones how it all goes so fast? And to enjoy every minute? And to blah, blah, blah until you want to stab them with a plastic Elmo fork? (If any of them are reading this, I meant “I appreciate your words of wisdom.” Now I have to go keep my toddler from stabbing someone with a fork.)

I’d like to turn the tables for a minute. I’d like to speak to all those single people and empty-nesters and even parents of children who are primarily responsible for their own clothing and bodily fluids. I’ll start with laundry.

Remember the days when you used to do maybe 2 loads a week of darks and whites? In my world, those days are OVER. In a typical week I might do a load each of bath towels, kids’ sheets, adults’ sheets, kids’ whites, kids’ darks, kids’ mediums, kids’ pajamas, my own whites and darks, and another load of kids’ bedding.

Because multiple changes of clothes are required daily, thanks to diaper blowouts and mud puddles, and those changes of clothes might occur anywhere, we have approximately 5 dirty clothes hampers throughout the house. And my washer and dryer are conveniently located in the most remote and child-unfriendly corner of the basement. Sitting in a Laundromat reading a book in my single days seems SO much more appealing now.

Next, enjoy the silence. I know everyone says they love the pitter-patter of little feet, and I’ll be the first to admit that a toddler talking to himself while he plays with his trucks is adorable. But do you really miss the escalating shrieks of “Mo’ milk!” and “I had it first!” Do you miss someone screeching “MAAAAMAAAA!!” at 4:30am? Do you miss small children with no concept of “indoor voice” bellowing at you for fruit snacks and Goldfish crackers? I didn’t think so.

Even though I’m dying to, I won’t say anything about getting to go to the bathroom by yourself or shower daily or eat sitting down because that’s such well-trodden territory. (Especially on this blog!) But I WILL say, be grateful for those small moments of alone time you never noticed or appreciated.

For instance, before I had small children I never recognized what a treat it was to be able to answer the phone – even FIND the phone – when it rang. Or to conduct a 4-minute conversation about my electric bill without anyone interrupting me to whine that his brother ran over his toe with a tricycle.

Sometimes I’ll be talking (I mean TRYING to talk) on the phone to my mom, who’s a retired empty-nester now, and she’ll have to go so she can dash off to her third yoga class of the week or her book club or a dinner party or out to a midweek movie with my dad. And I’ll think, “Wow! She doesn’t even have to pack a diaper bag or call a sitter or anything. She can just go! Can you IMAGINE?!” I bet she even ends up with the same number of socks when she does her 2 loads of laundry each week.

NEWS O’ THE WEEK: Register by March 1 for fun, practical, 6-week online nonfiction writing classes with me and/or Writer Mama Christina Katz! I haven’t taught one yet in which at least 1 person didn’t publish an essay they wrote in class. Find out more and sign up here. The price is going up next session so if you’re interested, don’t wait!

Scary Stuff

2011-02-20T20:26:00.005-05:00

One day last week I took Riley to the grocery store. I try to avoid ever going with my kids -- even shopping at 9pm is preferably to dealing with candy-aisle double meltdowns. But Miles was at school and we were out of milk and bananas.

Things actually went quite well… until we passed the seafood counter. See, they have a lobster tank. A dozen or more unlucky crustaceans with thick rubber bands around their claws scuttle around until someone decides they’re dinner. Riley has seen the lobsters before. In fact, I thought they might be a fun attraction on the way to the frozen peas.

Wrong. As soon as our cart approached the tank, Riley began to freak out. And by freak out, I mean he reacted like someone having boiling oil poured down their pants. “NOOO!!! NO LOBSTAH, MAMA!!! NOOOOOO!!” he screamed while trying to scramble out of the shopping cart.

Is it wrong that my first reaction was to laugh? I’m sorry, but his response was so out-of-the-blue and over-the-top that it was comical. But I stifled my laughter and attempted to soothe my traumatized toddler. He continued talking about the lobsters for days, adding “no like” and “scawy.” Scary, indeed.

The ironic thing is, this kid has absolutely no fear of things he SHOULD be afraid of. For example: a few days after the lobster incident I took both kids to the gym with me. On the way back to the car, I was carrying Riley in one arm while I held Miles’ hand with the other arm, which also had 2 bags slung over it. I should mention that my arms were already sore from working out and that my toddler weighs approximately as much as a minivan.

I had to put Riley down for a second to open the door for Miles. In that split second, he sprinted away from the car -- into the depths of the parking garage without a single glance at his surroundings. Maybe 2 ½ seconds elapsed before I chased him down and grabbed his collar. And blessedly, no cars were driving past at the time. But the really scary part was that he showed absolutely no fear or remorse. Not at the stricken look on my face, not when I firmly shoved him into his car seat, not when I stuck my finger in his face and shouted, “No! You don’t EVER run away from Mommy!” In fact, he laughed.

For some reason -– perhaps because I was exhausted after 3 days of solo parenting while my husband was away on a business trip -– this episode triggered a mini breakdown. After I put the kids down for their naps/quiet time I started to freak out about what could have happened. What if there was a giant SUV hurtling around the corner, as there often is? What if the driver didn’t see Riley? What if I hadn’t been able to grab him in time?

Scary.

HEAD INJURY O’ THE ~~WEEK~~ DAY: Yesterday Riley got a bad gash on his forehead when a decorative birdfeeder fell on his head. I’m not even kidding. It will be a freaking MIRACLE if we both survive his childhood.

Parenting Advice that Actually Works

2011-02-16T14:40:00.003-05:00

I’ve had the idea for this post for a long time. But I only have 2 tips, and as I know from my background in magazines, you need at least 3 examples to make a trend.

Also, people are more likely to read an odd-numbered list. It’s true! Statistics show that most people will read “5 Ways to Drop the Weight” over “10 Tips for Slimming Down by Summer.” Don’t say I never taught you anything. :)

Speaking of magazines, are there certain ones that feel like homework to you? I hate to admit it, since some of my friends write for them, but there are certain parenting magazines that, even though I subscribe, I don’t enjoy actually READING because they’re full of expert advice about what I should be doing, could be doing, and definitely should NOT be doing with my kids. By the time I close the magazine I feel exhausted, guilty, and a failure as a mom and a human being. (Read “7 Ways to Celebrate Earth Day” and tell me you don’t feel the same!!)

But darned if those magazines aren’t right sometimes. I used to openly sneer at the articles about making your kids smiley-face sandwiches and cutesy snacks in the shape of animals. Those are for annoyingly perfect stay-at-home moms with too much time on their hands! I’d ~~think~~ sneer. I can’t be bothered to cut toast into hearts and stars. I’ve got laundry to do! Essays to critique! Paint to watch dry!

Then I had my second child, a kid so averse to vegetables that he would hunt down and pick out a stray carrot shred that I’d tried to sneak into his applesauce. While his big brother would gobble down an entire bowl of steamed broccoli, this baby would squeal like a stuck pig when you tried to fork anything green towards his face.

Then one night Miles was playing with his food. He said, “I’m a dinosaur and I’m going to eat these tiny trees!” Then he’d chomp a piece of broccoli. Riley saw this and immediately began yelling, “Tees too! Tees toos!” So we gave him some broccoli “trees” and to my astonishment, HE ATE THEM. It wasn’t a fluke, either. He’s eaten broccoli several times since. So there you have it, parenting tip #1: Let kids play with their food. Or, Presentation counts.

Tip #2 is far easier: To get kids to listen, talk about them to someone else. Here’s an example: In the mornings, I often ask my 4yo to go upstairs after breakfast and get himself dressed. “Miles, go on up and grab some clothes.” “Miles, it’s time to get dressed now.” “Miles! I asked you to please go get dressed for school!” “MILES!! If you don’t go GET DRESSED RIGHT NOW we will be LATE and you will NOT get to play with your friends at school EVER AGAIN!!”

As an experiment, I decided to see if these parenting mags knew what they were talking about. So I said to my other son, “Riley, I guess Miles doesn’t want to go to school today. I asked him to get dressed 3 times now and he’s not, so I guess he won’t get to play with his friends. And too bad he’ll miss snack time.” Guess what happened? Miles sprang into action. He immediately sprinted upstairs, threw on his clothes and was waiting at the door with his backpack within minutes. Well, how about that?

So there you have it, 2 tried-and-true, expert-approved parenting tips that actually work. Just don’t try to convince me that I should be composting with my toddler, OK?

I'm Mad at Mitch Albom

2011-02-14T11:37:00.004-05:00

I liked Tuesdays with Morrie as much as the next person, but I can’t abide his essay in the Feb. 13 Parade magazine, “Making the Skies a Bit Friendlier.” He begins by saying as someone who flies a lot, he has a few suggestions: be careful with your carry-ons, watch out for fellow passengers’ kneecaps when reclining your seat, don’t take off your shoes or eat stinky food. OK.

But then he starts complaining about kids: don’t let them kick the seat, don’t let your baby cry. But the part that REALLY pisses me off is this:

Once your kids stop crying, the plane should not hear from them again until they are old enough to be—and actually are—the pilots. I recently had a little boy behind me who all flight long kept singing, at the top of his lungs, “Go-Go-Go…the cat in the hat!” I don’t know this song, or if it even is a song, but I do know his mom did nothing except occasionally whisper, “Jacob, keep it down,” which had the same effect as pressing the Volume-Up button.

I thought Albom had kids, but according to Wikipedia he does not. This explains a lot. Like why he has no grasp of the concept of parental control. I love when people say you shouldn’t “let” kids do this or that. You may be able to stop them from playing with matches, but crying? Short of shoving a breast in their mouth, I don’t know any surefire way to “make” a baby stop crying. Do you, moms? And speaking of breastfeeding, how about attempting to do it discreetly just inches away from your fellow airline passengers? A tiny bit more unsettling than a stranger’s shoeless feet, I dare say.

As for the singing little boy? Come ON. I agree that kids can be annoying -- is that a shocker to anyone who’s ever MET a child? -- but in the grand scheme of things, is a repetitive little ditty about the Cat in the Hat really so odious? And what else was that mom SUPPOSED to do -- smack him? Threaten him? Take away his DVD player? I can assure you if she had, the kid would start wailing. And then he’s gone and annoyed Albom again.

Besides, complaining about kids on airplanes is a cheap joke. It’s like saying, “People who talk loudly on cell phones in public are obnoxious. Who’s with me?” Oh, wait. Albom DOES say that, in the very next paragraph.

I am happy to report that in my fairly extensive experience of flying with my children -- even BY MYSELF, and yes, I would like a medal for that -- I have rarely encountered curmudgeons like Albom. Or at least they have the courtesy to keep it to themselves. I’ve had strangers on planes distract my fussy baby by playing peek-a-boo with him, let my antsy toddler play with their cell phone, and even hold my infant when I got airsick. Now THAT’S making the skies a little friendlier.

(Side note: Miles once shouted, “Look, Mom, BOOTIES!” as we were landing over a marina dotted with boats and buoys. The whole plane cracked up.)

If you really want to complain about air travel, here’s a list for you:

How about the people in the security line who huff impatiently or cut in front of you while you attempt to fold up your stroller, place 3 pairs of shoes on the conveyor belt and keep 2 kids from running off into the crowd while holding your boarding passes in your teeth?

How about the airlines that have done away with pre-boarding for families? It’s in NO ONE’S best interest to make me squeeze past everyone with a ginormous diaper bag and wiggly baby after all the “rewards customers” have already boarded, I can assure you.

How about male passengers who commandeer the armrest and sit with their legs as far apart as possible? We get it, you’re a big manly guy. Now squeeze yourself back into your postage-stamp sized seat like the rest of us. Even those of us with babies on our laps are taking up less space than you.

If I were Albom, I would just sit back, put on my earphones, and enjoy my peanuts. And be grateful for the fact that he doesn’t have to try to change a poopy diaper in an airplane bathroom at 30,000 feet.

LINK O’ THE WEEK: For a much more balanced and helpful POV, read Corinne McDermott’s “5 Things Flying with Kids Has Taught Me.”

I’d Like to Thank the Academy, and My Mom & Dad

2011-02-10T20:40:00.004-05:00

“Modern Family” fans: remember when Eric Stonestreet, aka Cameron, won an Emmy for Best Supporting Actor last year? In his acceptance speech he said, “I am the product of supportive parents… Thank you, Mom and Dad.” You don’t hear that every day, especially from someone who aspired to be a circus clown when he grew up.

Parents often get a bad rap. Augusten Burroughs, Drew Barrymore, Oprah Winfrey, and countless others would not have the careers they have today if they hadn’t had dysfunctional parents. One could *almost* be jealous... There’s this funny New Yorker cartoon that depicts a young woman writing to her parents from college: “Dear Mom and Dad: Thanks for the happy childhood. You've destroyed any chance I had of becoming a writer.”

Happily, that’s not the case for me. I mean the part about becoming a writer! My parents have always been supportive of just about anything I wanted to do. (Including cutting my hair into an asymmetrical, bleached bob in the ’80s. What’s THAT about?!)

My mom saves all my articles and constantly sends me essays she thinks I might like. Actual paper clippings from the NYT and stuff! And they say print journalism’s dead… My dad encouraged me to keep going with my blog when my spirits were flagging after 5 years and no semblance of Dooce-like fame and fortune. (Scoff all you want. Name me a blogger who doesn’t have delusions of grandeur… or at least page views in the triple digits.) For Christmas and birthdays, they even help send me to conferences. Because that’s TOTALLY equivalent to the flannel nightgown and sweatshirt I got them from TJ Maxx. ;)

But listen: it wasn’t all a big love-fest growing up. We’re a normal family. As I’ve said, my parents NEVER tire of talking about how horrible my teenage years were. I would apologize, but in my defense my dad DID wear Birkenstocks with socks and my mom made horrible bean soups that she would force us to eat. (Take THAT, Augusten Burroughs!) And did I ever tell you about the time my mom sent me to swimming lessons topless and my dad forgot to pick me up at gymnastics?

Wait, wait. I’ve gotten off track. What I MEANT to say was, my parents are awesome. I have several friends who are jealous that I have such fun, interesting parents who like to take us out for expensive dinners when they’re in town. I’ve learned to appreciate them more the older I get and, of course, since I’ve become a parent myself. I guess that’s the best a mom or dad can hope for, right?

I read an interesting article in Reader’s Digest by Clayton M. Christensen recently, called “The Bottom Line on Happiness,” in which he discusses the importance of prioritizing family over career:

“Our careers provide the most concrete evidence that we’re moving forward. You ship a product, finish a design, close a sale... In contrast, investing time and energy in your relationships with your spouse and children typically doesn’t offer that same immediate sense of achievement. Kids misbehave every day. It’s really not until 20 years down the road that you can say, ‘I raised a good son or daughter.’”

Or, I would add, for that son or daughter to say, “I was raised by good parents.” So thanks, Mom and Dad! I am what I am today because of you. Bet you’d be a little more impressed if this was an Emmy acceptance speech, huh?

Healthy Eating? Oprah’s Got Nothing on Us

2011-02-08T10:28:00.005-05:00

Remember my plan to cook more creative, healthy meals this year? And what a flop the tofu nuggets were? Well, I didn’t let that faze me, people. I’m forging ahead. OK, so I’ve slacked off a little. What mere mortal mom could keep that up 7 days a week? (Or even 5.) But we’ve had some culinary hits in our house.

The zucchini bread, for instance: huge hit. As was the coconut banana bread. Even when I sneaked in wheat germ and flaxseed. But baked goods aren’t much of a challenge, are they? A far more satisfactory success was getting my 4yo to eat tilapia. I’m not kidding; he loved it. Scarfed it down. Asked for more. And last night my veggie-phobic toddler devoured some vegetable lasagna. I was so proud.

But this -- THIS made my heart swell: Miles’ friend C. came over one afternoon and asked if he could stay for dinner. Now, this kid’s poor mom has been known to make 3 separate entrees for her 3 children. So I said, “Sure! We’re having chickpea coconut curry over rice. If you’ll eat that, you can stay for dinner.”

C. looked skeptical. “What does it look like?” he asked warily.

I dished up a tiny serving and showed it to him. “That looks pretty good,” he said.

“Oh, it IS,” I assured him, hoping I wasn’t overselling it.

So I sat the kids down at the table and C. took a bite. “Mmm, I like this,” he said, sounding as surprised as I felt. “Will you tell my mom I tried something new?”

“I sure will. What a good eater you are, C!”

Not to be outdone, Miles chimed in, “I think it looks good, too, Mom.” Now, I can assure you that if it was just us, he would have a MUCH different reaction to his dinner. For once, peer pressure was working in my favor.

Meanwhile in his highchair, Riley was shouting, “CHICK-pea! CHICK-pea!” and popping them into his mouth one by one. I didn’t even care that he was picking around the tomatoes and scattering the rice all over the floor.

So what if dinner lasted only 7 minutes? So what if half an hour later the kids were begging for snacks? So what if they reject this exact same meal next week? At least it’s a start, right?

LINK O’ THE WEEK: Oprah did a show about her staff’s one-week vegan challenge. Did you see it? It was eye-opening in so many ways. There was a fast-food-addicted woman who said before this, she only pooped once a WEEK!!

Of course, the employee cafeteria was cooking up all sorts of delicious vegan meals for the staff, so that’s not much of a challenge. Come over and cook for me and I’ll eat as healthy as you want!

My favorite part was when the vegan expert took a lady shopping at Whole Foods and loaded her up with all this fancy health food -– never once mentioning that the contents of her shopping cart cost a FORTUNE! People call it “Whole Paycheck” for a reason, you know.

She Said What?!

2011-02-04T16:26:00.003-05:00

OK, so I promised I would fill you in on some of the fascinating conversations I had with people at my conference. One was with a young woman who was getting her nails done next to me one afternoon. (“Hospitality suites” and freebies are part of the perks of blog conferences.)

She told me she was newly engaged and that she was anxious about the issue of having children. Because every woman knows the next question after “When are you getting married?” is “When are you having a baby?” To which I always want to say, “Just slow the heck DOWN, people! One thing at a time!”

This woman asked me if I had any advice for her. First, I said, “How much time do you have?” Then I proceeded to talk her ear off about everything I wish I’d known before I had kids, how having a baby changes your life and your relationship, and what no one ever tells you.

Before she could flee in terror, I wrapped up my lecture with some comments about how motherhood is different for everybody and it’s the best thing I ever did and how I’ve never met anyone who regretted it. (Which is true. Nobody who admitted it, anyway.) I really hope I didn’t ruin her life.

Then there was the woman I chatted with in line who had an adorable 5-mo-old baby, her third child. She told me that she’d attended the conference last year -- when she only had 2 kids, whom she left at home with their dad. Upon her return, her husband exclaimed that he didn’t know what he’d ever do if she died. He took out a life insurance policy on her that day. LOL! How’s that for recognizing and valuing a mom’s contribution?

I also met a woman who had a fascinating answer to why she ended up living where she lives. It involved career burn-out, romance, cross-country moves, and a plane crash. How’s THAT for interesting conversation?

These days, most of my conversations with people start like this: “So, how old is your baby?” and then move along to “Is he sleeping through the night?” and “Where’s your son in preschool?” Snooze…. Fest. It sure was nice to mix things up for a while.

What’s the most interesting conversation you’ve had lately?

Don't Tell Me, It's Another Snow Day

2011-02-02T16:08:00.003-05:00

The snow days. They’re killing me. I know from the news I’m not alone. After last year’s Snowmageddon, I thought maybe we were in for an easier winter this year. Not so much.

The funny thing is my 4yo is in morning preschool and the baby’s not even IN school yet. So it’s not like I’m used to having entire days to myself. But I have gotten used to the rhythm of our regular schedule. Some days all it takes to retain my sanity is an hour at the gym or a pleasant afternoon playdate. Then it snows and it’s all shot to hell.

At first, snow days are a novelty. A fun little freebie in the middle of a workweek. Snowmen and hot chocolate. Sledding and watching movies. But then, after the next one and the next and the next? They get old fast.

I don’t know about you, but I struggle to get through the days when we’re all stuck at home. It’s too cold/icy/dangerous to go outside, playdates and activities are cancelled, and you’ve given up any hope of trying to get anything done with the kids around.

Those are the days I let the kids watch one more show on Nick Jr., I drink one more cup of coffee, and I beg my husband to come home from work early. Those days I look at the clock and think, “Really?! It’s only 10:30a.m? What NOW?”

We might do a craft project that takes up 22 whole minutes and ends in tears when I wrestle the markers away from my 23mo and take away my 4yo’s scissor privileges when he brandishes them at his brother. We read story after story until I can’t take the elbows to the gut anymore as they jockey for position on my lap. We go from one boy’s room to the other, from the family room to the basement, just for a change of scenery. Everyone gets on each other’s nerves.

There’s no sense bundling everyone up and risking the icy roads just for the sake of going somewhere, so even our usual standbys like going to Target or the gym or the library are out.

The only things I’ve found that help pass the time and maintain mental health on days like this are:

- Cooking or baking, which lends itself to little helpers and yields an edible result.

- Music, which can spur an impromptu dance party or karaoke session, and takes my mind off the clock.

- Magazines, which I can flip through while being constantly distracted, and I don’t get upset when someone tears out a picture of a dog or a toy. (FYI, Riley calls the models in magazines “pretty dollies.” I find this both adorable and slightly disturbing at the same time.)

So, dear readers, please share: how do you keep YOUR sanity during long, cold, school-less winter days at home?

Dreaming My Dreams: Blissdom

2011-01-30T16:31:00.004-05:00

Hi, people! I’m back from my conference, the first time EVER I’ve left my boys for 3 whole days and nights. You’ll be happy to know that things improved greatly after my rocky start. For me; not necessarily for hubs back home.

It turns out school was cancelled the ENTIRE TIME I was gone, due to the snow. So he had to figure out alternate childcare arrangements, lunches, snowsuits, drop-offs and pick-ups, not to mention shoveling the walk every morning. The man’s a SAINT, I tell you. My gift to him is putting that in writing for all the world to read.

OK, so: back to the Blissdom conference. I could write at least 7 posts about it, but I will spare you since most of you reading this will probably never attend a blog conference. Although if you’re a blogger, I highly recommend it. They give you tons of free stuff and you’re surrounded by people who “get” you and make jokes about captcha and how much time they spend on Twitter.

For me, the conference was chock full o’ inspiration and self-revelations. After maybe a half-day of feeling like the uncool kid back in high school, I realized I am 36, not 16, and I no longer care about who’s cool and what they’re wearing and what I’m wearing and where I should sit. Everywhere you looked, there were friendly faces and people sitting alone and every type of fashion imaginable (including tiaras, sequins, jeans, pajamas, and Converse sneakers).

I realized that I am MUCH more comfortable striking up a conversation with someone in line or sitting next to me in a session than walking up to people at cocktail parties and thrusting a business card in their hand. I realized that I was allowed to walk out of sessions that didn’t interest me and go get a manicure instead. (Which I did, along with 2 shoulder massages. For free! That alone was worth the price of admission.)

For me, the best parts of the CONFERENCE were the speakers and the conversations. More on those later. The best part of the EXPERIENCE was having the space and time to think.

Think about that for a second – oh, wait, you probably can’t because you have people crying and asking you for snacks and where are their keys and can you put Spiderman’s head back on and when’s dinner. Until I was in my nice, clean, quiet hotel room, I didn’t fully realize that I rarely have time to THINK anymore. My head is so constantly spinning with grocery lists and to-do lists and schedules and chores and obligations that I almost never have time to simply think my own thoughts.

Check out this billboard I saw on my tour of downtown Nashville. Isn’t it great?

I went into the conference expecting to learn things – how-to’s, tips, resources. And while I did learn some, I got more out of the speakers and panel discussions about issues like work-life balance, authenticity, courage, and how to define success for yourself.

I had never heard of the opening keynote speaker, Brené Brown, but she blew me away with her funny, honest, and uncannily relevant presentation. (You can watch one of her popular talks here.) I am already halfway through her book, “The Gifts of Imperfection.” Another panelist whose book I’m looking forward to is Hollee Schwartz Temple's, “Good Enough is the New Perfect: Finding Happiness and Success in Modern Motherhood.”

I’m going to have to write a whole separate post about the interesting conversations I had with people. (Don’t worry, fellow conference attendees -– anonymity ensured!) It made me realize, again, that there is a whole wide world out there filled with fascinating people and ideas and opportunities. What a thrill to step outside my house-preschool-grocery store orbit for a few days and interact with it.

PIC O’ THE WEEK: I couldn’t wait to tell Miles that Nashville is home to “The Batman Building,” aka, AT&T Tower.

Why Did I Think This Was a Good Idea?

2011-01-27T07:57:00.007-05:00

6:45am, Weds.: Miles bounds into our bedroom, exclaiming, “It’s snowing out of my window! A LOT!”
I think: Crap! I’m flying to Nashville today.

7:00am: School is canceled. Super. I’ve got stuff to pack, stuff to do for my writing class, and now, stuff to figure out with the kids and my trip. I hop in the shower, check my e-mail, then head downstairs so C. can get ready for work.

8:00am: The kids are bouncing around in their PJs and C.’s shoveling the walk. I call the sitter, the school, and 2 potential playdates and reschedule. In between, I remember things I need to pack and run up and downstairs finding them. I haven’t had my coffee yet.

9:00am: C. leaves for work, I turn the TV off and force the kids to come eat breakfast. The usual mayhem ensues.

10:00am: My flight is canceled. I begin to panic. The kids are running amok, still in their PJs. I debate throwing in the towel on this whole conference, but I don’t think I can get my money back. C. urges me to get on the phone with US Airways and rebook my flight.

10:30am: While I am on hold, Riley hits Miles in the head with a Matchbox car and Miles wails. “WAAAAAHHHH!!! HE HIT ME!!” At that exact moment, the ticket agent picks up. “Miles, PLEASE. Go to your room for a second, I’ll be right there,” I stage-whisper. “Another flight leaving at 3:30? Sure, great.”

Then Riley comes into the room, his hand covered with a goopy white substance. “Cweem?” He got into the diaper rash cream. He smears it on the couch. Awesome. “Connecting in Charlotte? OK, I’ll take it.”

11:00am: We all bundle up and go outside to build a snowman.

Noon: Lunch and hot chocolate.

1:30pm: I drop the kids off at a neighbor’s until C. can pick them up after work. With school canceled and an earlier flight, I have no choice. I feel guilty about it. I pray the baby will nap.

2:15pm: The airport shuttle driver is named Kesha. I wonder if this is a bad sign.

3:30pm: I board the plane and discover I am in the very last row. Super.

4:30pm: Bumpiest flight EVER. Did I mention I get sick on planes? Lucky for my seatmates I’m in the last row, right next to the bathroom.

5:25pm: I have to sprint through the enormous Charlotte airport to catch my connecting flight. No time for a drink or gum. Sorry, seatmates.

6:55pm: As the plane’s landing, I find out a couple people near me are also going to Blissdom. One has a cute baby with her. We chit-chat briefly, then go our separate ways.

7:30pm: I find the hotel shuttle, but have no ticket or cash. The driver takes pity on me. I get on the bus and sit by myself. I call home and cry. I am sick, tired, hungry, and miserable. I want to go home.

8:00pm: I get to the hotel. It’s like Atlantic City, Disneyworld, a mall, and a giant greenhouse rolled into one. The desk clerk tells me how to get to my room and I joke that I feel like Dora the Explorer: go over the stone bridge, through the rainforest, and down the magnolia hallway. I’m only kind of joking. The place is GINORMOUS. I wish I had Boots the monkey to keep me company.

8:45pm: I’m about to pass out from hunger. There’s a welcome party for the conference going on somewhere, but I look and feel like crap. It’s the last thing I want to do. I call my husband, who urges me to go. I put on some makeup and a fresh shirt, plaster on a fake smile, and head out.

9:00pm: Big shock, I’m lost. A supernice hotel employee walks me to the party, which it turns out is in a separate WING, past the rainforest, around the lake and through the village. I’m not joking.

9:15pm: I get a glass of wine and some cheese and stand around like an idiot. Then I recognize this guy (the keynote speaker, as it happens) and introduce myself. He is very nice, and introduces me to 2 bloggers whose names I recognize. They politely talk to me. I excuse myself to look for more food. I introduce myself to the only other person I see standing around by herself. She’s very nice, and for the first time all day I feel like myself.

9:30pm: Exhaustion and hunger overtake me. I go buy a slice of pizza and take it back to my room. I briefly wonder why I decided to fly 700 miles from home to attend a conference with a bunch of strangers when I could have gone to a spa with my friends. (Well, not that that was an option, but STILL.) Oh, yeah. Because I want to learn stuff. Right.

This self-improvement stuff is HARD. It’s awkward, stressful, and exhausting. Then again, so’s giving birth and I did that twice, right? Maybe the fun part will start tomorrow.

SHOUT-OUT O’ THE WEEK: I am so, so grateful to all the people who stepped up to offer help and support with the kids, this trip, etc. Good friends and acquaintances alike. And not least, my wonderfully supportive hubs and parents. I love you!

PIC O' THE DAY: This is the hotel. For real.

Off the Clock

2011-01-23T22:00:00.005-05:00

You know what I realized? Except for one overnight trip for our anniversary and jury duty, I have never been away from both my children for more than a few consecutive hours.

So what that means is, as soon as I leave them at school, with a sitter, or with their dad, it’s like a stopwatch starts running. Gym, grocery store, check e-mail – bzzzz! Time’s up! Sorry, no shower today. Or: proofread and submit article, write blog post, make phone call – bzzzz! Time’s up! No lunch or laundry this afternoon. Or: clean kitchen and bathroom – bzzzz! Time’s up! Might as well face it, I will never have time to dust again until they’re in college.

Things are a little more lax on weekends when C. is home, but even then I keep a close eye on the clock when I’m out. A yoga class or a brief shopping trip is fine, but he’d balk at a day-long outing. I can’t say I blame him – 8 hours of breaking up fights over who had the Spiderman car first is exhausting. And 8 hours means at least 2 meals and 5 snacks, 3 or 4 diapers, and possibly even a bath. Not exactly Dad's idea of a relaxing Saturday at home.

This constant clock-watching gets to a person. A feeling of panic rises in my chest when I hit unexpected traffic or get behind a particularly slow person in line. Don’t you know I only have 27 minutes left?! I feel like screaming. (I should note here that almost every time we’re in the car now, Riley shouts, “Go, people, go!!” Wonder where he learned THAT?)

It’s to the point where I don’t know what to do with myself when I’m faced with extra time. When I was called for jury duty AGAIN recently (which my husband AGAIN suggested was some kind of break, as if I were spending the day at a spa instead of a bleak government building), I was at loose ends.

For the first couple hours, it was kind of nice to sit there and read a book. (Me! Reading! 20 whole pages in a row!) And I’m not gonna lie, going out to lunch by myself was awesome. They give you 90 minutes for lunch – 90 minutes!! At home I’m lucky if I get 90 uninterrupted SECONDS to choke down a sandwich. But after that, it got old fast. I couldn’t concentrate on a book. I couldn’t sit still in the chair. (Sitting? During the DAY? When you’re not in the car? How weird!!)

I couldn’t even write. Apparently, if I don’t have the deadline of preschool pickup looming over me, I’m utterly unproductive. I need the buzz of the dryer or the beep of the coffee maker to keep me on track. Efficient? You betcha. Productive? Usually. Sane? Not so much.

Tell me: how much time do you have to yourself during a typical week? And how do you spend it?

Flashback Friday: 8 Reasons I Love Blogs

2011-01-21T14:17:00.003-05:00

In honor of my upcoming trip to Blissdom, I'm re-running this post I wrote last year. Enjoy!

8 Reasons I Love Mom Blogs

1. They’re entertaining. Where else will you find a picture of a kid who gave himself a Desitin facial? Or a baby’s reaction to peeing in his own face? Or a podcast by a preschooler trying lobster for the first time? Or an account of a work-at-home mom locking herself in the closet to conduct a conference call? On blogs, that’s where.

2. They’re interesting. I do love my magazines, but lots of them are cutting my favorite parts -- the personal essays, the humor pieces, the stuff about non-celebrities. When I get sick of “10 Ways to Lose the Baby Weight” I go online and read funny or introspective stuff by real people.

3. They’re helpful. Yes, there are a bazillion books and articles that tell me how to potty-train my kid. If you’ve read any of my past posts, you’ll know NONE OF THEM helped me. What did? Reading other moms’ accounts of their toilet trials and tribulations. And if you think that means I get all my medical info from sketchy, disreputable sources, you’re dumber than you think I am.

4. They’re informative. For non-mom stuff, too. I’m a writer, so I read blogs that tell me how to be a more prosperous one and answer questions about writing and publishing. I’m a blogger, so I read blogs that tell me how to blog better and make money at it. I’m a wife, so I read blogs about how to have a happier marriage. And I’m a HUMAN, so I read blogs about celebrity fashion disasters to learn from others’ poor sartorial choices. (OK, that’s a lie. Mostly I just laugh at the pictures.)

5. They’re timely. Let me regale you again with the tale of the time I wrote an essay about my firstborn that was published in a national magazine 3 YEARS LATER -- after the birth of my second child. It’s embarrassing enough that by the time a celebrity appears on the cover of a wedding magazine, they’re usually divorced. If I want to find out what’s going on NOW, I’ll check Twitter and blogs, thankyouverymuch.

6. They’re diverse. I read blogs written by people who live in exotic locales like Georgia, Utah, Idaho, Florida, Canada, the UK, and Japan. I read blogs by authors, actresses, chefs, lawyers, librarians, doctoral students, GUYS even. Turns out not everyone is a 30-something SAHM in NY or LA. Who knew??

7. They’re interactive. You want to know why I blog instead of writing all this stuff in my own private journal? Because I actually like to interact with other people! I know this may come as a shock from someone who blogs semi-anonymously and only ~~reluctantly~~ recently joined Facebook, but it’s true. I read what other people write and respond and vice versa. Sometimes we--GASP!!--meet in real life. You know, at conferences where we talk about tutus and stuff. ;)

8. Because I just do, OK?! Look, I don’t disparage people who like to collect Hummel figurines or breed Chinese crested hairless dogs or make their own socks. (At least not to their faces.) And I doubt those people feel the need to defend their interests or professionalism. (Although what do I know? There could be some huge uproar going on right now in the hairless-dog-breeding community. Heck, THIS POST could incite one!)

So I’ll stop listing the reasons why I like what I like and write what I write and read what I read and do what I do and just get on with it. Sound good?

On Breakups and Being Yourself

2011-01-19T14:08:00.005-05:00

I’m going to a conference next week and I’m a little nervous. One, because it’s the first time I’ll be away from my boys (all 3 of ’em) for 3 days. And two, because I won’t know anyone else at the conference. Not one person. Now, I’ve flown solo at conferences before and ended up making friends, like the divine @themadmom, for one. But I’m still nervous.

“Be yourself,” is the most common advice. At conferences and in life, it seems. (Just click through this Wisdom from Mom Bloggers and you’ll start to sense a theme.) So on that note, let me tell you a little story – 2, actually -- about being yourself.

In my teens I went out on a couple of dates with a boy who was a lifeguard at the beach I went to. Let’s call him “Isaac.” One time, we were strolling along the boardwalk eating ice cream, and I noticed he was wearing a necklace. “What does that mean?” I asked him, pointing to the little gold symbol around his neck.

Looking puzzled, he said, “You don’t know? But you’re Jewish!”

“Um, no, I’m not. I go to Catholic school,” I replied, equally puzzled.

“But you sit on the Jewish part of the beach!” he blurted.

This was news to me, since I didn’t even know there WAS a Jewish part of the beach. But that was it for Isaac and me. The next time I saw him, he was with another redheaded girl who was wearing a star of David around her neck.

Fast-forward to one summer during college. “Jin” and I were both counselors at a sleep-away camp. We took a liking to each other, and our romance progressed to the point where, after we returned to our respective colleges several states apart, he came to visit me for a long weekend. In the middle of that weekend, he abruptly broke up with me. He realized, he said, that we had no long-term potential because he came from a traditional Chinese family and was going to marry a Chinese girl – which I’m not.

Now, this breakup struck me as cruel and unfair. First of all, he’d known all along that I was not Chinese. It’s not like I tried to put one over on him and then suddenly morphed into a WASP. And second, there was nothing I could do to change the fact that I was not Chinese. Or Jewish. (At 16, converting was not on my radar.)

Looking back on these breakups now, I’m actually glad they happened the way they did. Had these guys said they wanted a girl who dressed differently, read Russian novels, or had dark hair, for instance, I might have tried to change myself. But Jewish and Chinese? Sorry, I’m out.

Not to mention that if I’d settled down with either of these guys, I would never have met my husband, a guy who loves me for being myself. (Although he might argue that I am sometimes TOO MUCH myself.) Besides, the college guy would probably have been on board with the whole Chinese mother thing, which would be a total dealbreaker.

So what can you learn from these stories, besides that I don’t have a type when it comes to guys? It’s not “Be yourself and everyone will love you.” It’s not “Be yourself and you’ll have everything you ever wanted.” I guess the lesson is, be yourself because it’s impossible – not to mention exhausting – to be anything but. At age 36, with 2 kids, a great husband, and a lot more confidence than I had in my teens and 20’s, I’ll be taking that lesson with me to my conference. Wish me luck!

"No Singing, Mama!"

2011-01-17T14:56:00.004-05:00

We were sitting on the couch, flipping through the boys’ “Puff the Magic Dragon” picture book. I was singing along when Riley turned to me, held up his palm, and said, “Stop!” Fine. Point taken.

“I don’t like when you sing it either, Mama,” Miles chimes in. “Just read it.”

“What? You don’t like my singing voice?” I asked indignantly. I’m no Mariah Carey, but I can carry a tune.

“I DO like your voice, I just don’t like it singing that SONG,” Miles clarified. Humph. I wasn’t convinced. In fact, both kids have stopped me in the middle of lullabies and shushed me when I try to sing along with the “Little Einsteins” theme song. It’s enough to hurt a person’s feelings. Except that then I’m free to go read a magazine, so I’m not complaining.

There are SO many things I find myself doing now that I’m a mom of 2 that I never would have dreamed I’d do. Especially in public.

When I first had a baby, I was so self-conscious about every little thing. God forbid someone overhear me in the grocery store talking babytalk to my infant, or later, disciplining my toddler. How EMBARRASSING to sing nursery rhymes in public at Stroller Strides! Or to ask my son if he needed to use the potty during church.

Yeah, well, I got over it. I don’t know if it was through sheer repetition, or that I got more confident, or that the horror of my son having an accident right there on the pew overshadowed any awkwardness about using the word “potty” in front of other adults.

Lesson #57 that my kids have taught me: how to care less what other people think of you. (Don’t expect a post on the other 56 lessons anytime soon; I picked that number arbitrarily.)

They’re good for something, these kids. Just not so much for boosting their mom’s ego. I’ll try not to take it personally next time they cut me off in the middle of singing the “ABC’s.”

READ O’ THE WEEK: Sticking with books that don’t require singing along, my 4yo loves the “Adventures of Riley” series. Partly because they’re about a redheaded boy with the same name as his brother, and partly because they’re about exotic adventures and animals all over the world.

Culinary Goddess...for a Week

2011-01-13T20:04:00.006-05:00

The tofu nuggets were a mistake. I see that now. Even when C. dubbed them “tuggets” in an attempt to jazz them up, the kids weren’t buying it. They remained unmoved by the breaded, gelatinous cubes of soybean curd on their plates. Oh, well. Can’t blame a mom for trying, right?

As a New Year’s resolution of sorts, I have decided to step up my game in the kitchen this year. Our meals had gotten so pathetic they barely qualified as meals. Plain pasta and peas. Mac & cheese with broccoli. Slices of turkey, cheese, and apple, naked on a plate, not even combined into a sandwich. I told myself it was because the kids were so picky and my husband was rarely home for dinner, so it didn’t matter. But the truth is, this food wasn’t appetizing to anybody.

So I decided to get more creative, a little healthier and more well-rounded, and actually – gasp! – PLAN some meals in advance. I don’t know why, but meal planning has always seemed like such a chore. Of course, the alternative is that I consistently end up 1 or 2 ingredients shy of a recipe I want to try and resort back to pasta.

Here’s the thing, though: in my house, meal-planning is extra tricky. That’s because a) I’m a vegetarian, b) my husband is currently on a meat-heavy, anti-carb diet, and c) I have 2 extremely finicky children. I’d like to point out that even as a vegetarian, I’m usually the least picky one in the group. It’s true. I’ll eat whatever’s on the menu, just hold the cow.

I’m not gonna lie; cooking has been a challenge so far. And there have been some surprises along the way. For instance, the first meal I made was chipotle shrimp tacos. (I do eat seafood now and then.) To my surprise, both my 4yo and my 22mo gobbled them up. So, let me get this straight. My preschooler will not eat cucumber, but he WILL eat shellfish? And my toddler will turn up his nose at avocado, but finds CHIPOTLES pleasing to his palate? And both of them will eat olives, but not baby carrots. Go figure.

The next meal was a vegetable lo mein. It took some ~~threatening~~ coaxing, but the boys did eat a few bites. C. and I thought it was pretty tasty, although he did balk at the carbs in the noodles. The next night I made the ill-fated “tuggets.” Even I had to admit they were less than delicious. It feels like blasphemy for a vegetarian to admit she doesn’t like tofu, but there you have it. C.’s side dish of garlic-sauteed broccoli was much better received.

Another winner was my veggie Crockpot chili, which the kids scarfed down when heaped liberally with cheese and tortilla chips on top. Personally, I thought the linguini with tapenade, artichokes, tomato, and feta was fabulous. But apparently, even though both my boys will eat whole olives, they will NOT eat them when they’re chopped up. (UGHH!! These kids are killing me!)

Tuna & rice casserole: flop. Anchormommy’s crustless spinach and tomato quiche: hit. (And the ONLY way I can get Riley to eat spinach.) Zucchini bread (while technically not a meal): hit.

Miles and I also whipped up some homemade playdough, which – while not edible – still qualifies me as a culinary goddess. Shut up. IT DOES. I also made Jello, which my mother-in-law introduced to the boys over Christmas. What are you gonna do? Sometimes you have to play to the crowd.

I don’t know about you, but I’m pretty impressed with myself. I’ll be honest: getting my family to eat a healthy homemade meal is almost as thrilling as seeing my byline in a national magazine. Of course, I realize it’s only been a week or so. I better pace myself.

So tell me: have you found any crowd-pleasing meals in your house?

What Do Working Out & Writing Have in Common?

2011-01-11T09:54:00.008-05:00

As I circled the parking lot at the gym yesterday and then waited in line for a treadmill, this piece I wrote for the Writer Mama e-zine a while back came to mind:

I have been a regular exerciser for years. Don’t hate me; it’s my parents’ fault. As a kid, I passed out water along race routes to my dad and his fellow runners, and did leg lifts alongside my mom and her leg warmer-clad compatriots in aerobics class. Exercise is just something I do, like brushing my teeth. OK, more like flossing—I don’t do it every day, but I aim for three or four times a week.

As a longtime gym member, I’ve started to recognize a pattern: each January, the place is packed. Parking spaces are scarce, and there are long waits for the treadmills. People in shiny, brand-new workout wear are everywhere. Then just as suddenly, around March, the gym empties out again and it’s just us regulars.

I’m not disparaging these would-be workout buffs for falling off the fitness wagon. I’m just noticing that if you approach exercise as “just something you do,” rather than an all-or-nothing oath, you’re more likely to find time for it regularly and stick with it.

Listen: there are plenty of days when it takes all the energy I can muster to drag myself to the gym. Especially if I’ve just spent 10 straight hours with a stubborn toddler who refused to nap so I could finish this column. Those days, I’ll set the recumbent bike to Level 2 and flip through People magazine as I pedal. A challenging workout? Hardly. But I give myself points for showing up. That’s what keeps me coming back to the gym in March, June, September, and even in January, when I can’t find a parking spot.

It’s the same with writing.

I’ve been a writer all my life, too. Writing is just something I do. I don’t broadcast it on bumper stickers or T-shirts. I don’t apologize for the time I spend writing. I don’t need to justify spending money on writing books or classes, or on a babysitter so I can write.

Now, I have been writing for publication for years. Sometimes I even get paid! I realize that if you’re just starting out and not earning much, if any, money for your work, it may be more difficult to convince yourself and others that writing is a worthwhile use of your time.

But it is. Like regular exercisers, writers who stick with it know that the rewards are great. Approach your writing as you would any other important undertaking in your life. Find time for it. Make time for it. Give yourself credit for showing up.

On the days when I write little more than a couple of e-mails and a blog entry, I don’t beat myself up. I’m still flexing my writing muscles, right? And I know that tomorrow I’ll sit down at my desk again and tackle that new assignment or tough revision. That’s because I’m a writer. And so are you. It’s just something we do.

LAST CALL O' THE WEEK: Still a few spots left in my 6-week online writing class, "Personal Essays that Get Published," which starts tomorrow. By the end of the class, you’ll have 2 ready-to-submit essays and a list of potential PAYING markets to send them to. Look at it this way: the class costs $250; I sold my last essay for $200 -- and that’s on the low end of the pay scale.

Former students have published their essays in the New York Times, Southern Living, Chicken Soup for the Soul, A Cup of Comfort, regional parenting mags, websites, and more. Registration closes tomorrow (1/12), so don’t wait!

Oh, Yeah, I Forgot. I'm a Grownup

2011-01-09T17:13:00.005-05:00

Something weird is going on, people. Somehow, I ended up having a weekend that did not revolve primarily around my children. A weekend where I did actual grownup things. I know!! Shocking, right? I mean, I never set out to be that person whose life revolves around feeding and nap schedules, playdates, and kids’ activities. (Does anyone?) But it happened.

Somewhere along the line it became perfectly acceptable to be in flannel PJs at 8pm on a Saturday night and in bed at 9:30. Instead of movies and restaurants, weekend outings became a trip to Costco and a 2-year-old’s birthday party. Dining out usually means going to Red Robin. Fun ... if you're 4.

But like I said, this weekend was different. First of all, we got a babysitter. Contrary to the talk shows and magazines that insist couples have weekly date nights, for us it only happens about once every 2-3 mos. So C. and I got dressed up and had dinner at a trendy new restaurant. That’s right – TRENDY and NEW! I can’t take credit for having the scoop on this place, though. A much hipper (and not coincidentally, childless) friend of mine recommended it.

So, anyway, there we were out and about after dark on a Friday night. Like real adults!! We had drinks, we had dinners that weren’t in the shape of Disney characters, we had some conversation about stuff other than kids and bills. (I said SOME. Of course, those topics cropped up. I mean, what else are we going to talk about?)

I also went out and saw a real movie. In a theatre and everything. As strange as it felt to be sitting upright and wearing shoes while watching a movie – as opposed to lying on the couch in sweats – I quite enjoyed it. I saw “Black Swan” with Natalie Portman. It was weird, in a good way, and the kind of movie you keep thinking about and analyzing for days after. I guess that’s what people without kids talk about. (Like the guys behind me who were discussing metaphors and symbolism in the film. Meanwhile, I was thinking about how Natalie Portman is pregnant now. Hey, I’m still a mom…)

But wait, it gets better – next, I went to a museum. A MUSEUM, can you believe it? I walked around and looked at art. Without pushing a stroller or shushing anybody in a Baby Bjorn. It was incredible. And also, quiet. Now, I have to confess, this was actually during a kids’ birthday party. The kids did art projects in a separate room while the parents could wander around and look at the exhibits. Great idea, right? Another mom kept giddily pointing out how she felt like a real adult again.

It’s hard to believe that all these activities were standard weekend fare not that long ago. Commonplace, dull even. I’m sure we were like, “Another movie? We just saw one last night.” Or, “What if we stayed IN for dinner tonight for a change?”

Boy, has life changed, huh? It’s OK, though. All that adult stuff kind of tired me out. I need a week of Thomas the Tank Engine and chicken nuggets to recover.

Good Thing He's Cute

2011-01-05T11:35:00.004-05:00

“Uh-oh, Mama! UH-OH! Dwop-dit! Yook, Mama, YOOK!!”

Clearly, Riley is trying to tell me something. The urgency in his tiny voice tells me I better come quick and “yook” to see what’s wrong.

Oh. He dropped a blueberry on the floor. Cancel the ambulance.

I think he’s just showing off his new language skills every opportunity he gets. In the past month or so as he approaches age 2, he has unleashed a torrent of new vocabulary.* “Uh-oh”—his first word—is still in heavy rotation, which makes sense in our house, as is “Miles did it” and “No yike it.” The latter phrase is employed whenever he’s been persuaded to try a new food, and is usually accompanied by a disgusted pursing of his cherubic lips. Then, he spits out the item he doesn’t “yike” into my hand. Charming.

Still, he’s at an unbearably cute age. He sings “mewwily, mewwily” when he’s rowing his laundry basket boat down the ~~stream~~ hallway, and his “bitsy pie-duh” is often crawling up the water spout. (Funny, since he hates spiders.) He says “I. Wuv. Yew!” complete with hand gestures, and he’s big into hugging and kissing. Also, hitting and hair-pulling, but that’s a little less cute.

My mother always said about kids in general and hers in particular, “It’s a good thing they’re cute.” So true, so true. Just when you’re ready to take them on a one-way trip to Grandma’s for, oh, I don’t know, DRAWING ON THE COUCH WITH NONWASHABLE BLACK MARKER, they blink at you with those big brown eyes and you melt. Or at least become momentarily less homicidal.

Riley’s latest trick is boycotting his nap. Before Christmas, he was taking 3-hour naps. Not only did he not put up a fight, but he would go running for the stairs when I said, “Time to go up for your nap.” I thought like me, my baby loves his sleep.

Well. Then he figured out how to climb out of his crib. (Right on schedule, according to this blog entry about my firstborn at the same age. What would I do without my archives?!)

Unlike his big brother, however, Riley did not climb out once or twice and then resume his regular naps once the novelty wore off. Oh, no. For 2 days straight now he’s thrown a FIT about staying not only in his crib but his room during naptime. I let him cry and kick the door for an hour yesterday. (OK, probably 20 min. But it FELT like an hour.)

Here’s some “surveillance footage” of the escape artist in action.

So now we’re researching toddler beds and crib tents and plotting our next move. Just when we thought things had gotten back to normal after the holidays...

*I am aware that the topic of milestones, particularly those reached early, can induce anxiety and envy among fellow parents, so let me assure you that neither of my kids slept through the night till they were almost 1, and potty training my eldest was an extended form of torture. Feel better?

LINK O' THE WEEK: Last chance to sign up for the next session of my fun, practical, 6-week online writing class, "Personal Essays that Get Published." It pays off -- just ask my former students who've been published in the New York Times, Southern Living, Chicken Soup for the Soul, regional parenting mags, websites, and more.

New Year’s Resolutions for Other People

2011-01-02T10:38:00.004-05:00

Happy New Year, people! I’m feeling pressure to write something thoughtful and profound. About the inner wisdom I’ve gained over the past year and my meaningful goals for 2011. But I’ve got nothing. Oh, sure, I’ve got the usual “worry less, read more, eat better” resolutions, but that’s about it. (Last year I was more creative.)

Maybe it’s because I spent the last 4 days at my in-laws’, otherwise known as The Land Where the Kitchen Never Closes and the TV’s Always On. All those home-cooked meals and football games don’t lend themselves to quiet introspection. Not to mention the fact that I spent the entire trip wrestling fragile Christmas decorations out of my toddler’s grip and trying to keep my 4-year-old from strewing his belongings from one end of the house to the other. (Even so, we lost 3 socks, 1 pair of gloves, a couple of action figures, and several pieces of a brand-new Uno game.)

The funny thing is, I can think of plenty of New Year’s resolutions for OTHER people. For instance, my husband might resolve to plan in advance for things. Say, choosing a recipe and making a grocery list before it’s his turn to cook dinner, instead of gazing into the pantry and searching FoodNetwork.com at 5:30pm and hoping the ingredients for a delicious meal magically materialize in the next 20 min.

And my 4 y.o. might resolve to approach the toilet as a specific target instead of a general guideline. My 22 m.o. could resolve to let, say, 4 seconds elapse after demanding his milk before having a tantrum because I didn’t respond fast enough. My whole family could resolve to put things back where they belong so that an hour of every day isn’t spent tearing the house apart to look for someone’s keys or red Crocs.

OK, fine. I guess I have room for improvement, too. I resolve to get less annoyed by the above behaviors, as well as others including asking for a certain type of food and then refusing that same food once it’s prepared. Or announcing on Thursday night that you had no idea the next day was the school picnic, even though it’s been on the calendar for months.

Oops, this is turning back to them, isn’t it? And I was supposed to be discussing how I could improve MYSELF. Hmmm… Well, let me think on that and get back to you. In the meantime, anyone else make any interesting resolutions this year?

LINK O’ THE WEEK: In case you missed it, registration is open NOW for fun, practical, 6-week online non-fiction writing classes with me and/or Writer Mama Christina Katz starting Jan. 12. Find out more and sign up here. Jan. classes usually fill up, so register ASAP so you don’t miss out!

My Favorite Holiday Photos

2010-12-26T20:16:00.005-05:00

Did everybody have a good Christmas? I hope so. Ours was very nice, despite the baby coming down with a monster cold and both kids waking us up WAY too early on Christmas morning. (To my surprise, the toddler was the one chomping at the bit to get downstairs, not the 4 y.o.)

But there's no denying that kids make the holidays a lot more fun. We're heading to the in-laws' tomorrow for a few days -- where they're predicting 20 in. of snow tomorrow!! -- so I'll leave you with a few of my favorite shots from Christmas day:

Aw, they DO love each other.

Finally I can do something about that 5 o'clock shadow.

Thomas the Tank Engine was a big hit with Riley, while Miles treated us
to his musical stylings on his new keyboard.

I love how this picture captures my life perfectly: an adult beverage
sitting on a book about underpants.

NEWS O' THE WEEK: Want to get published and paid for writing about your life? Want a fun, practical class that you can take at home on your laptop? Register by Jan. 4 for the next session of my 6-week e-mail class, Personal Essays that Get Published.

Past students have sold their essays to all sorts of web sites, magazines, newspapers and books, including Chicken Soup for the Soul, A Cup of Comfort, and the New York Times. For more info, testimonials, and to sign up, go here. Class size is limited, so register ASAP before it fills up!

A Crafty Christmas

2010-12-22T21:02:00.002-05:00

It’s been well-documented here that I am no Martha Stewart. I have my moments, but you will never find me self-embossing gift tags with stamps, glitter, and some sort of mini blow torch. (For real -- I watched her Christmas special the other night.)

But the holidays bring out my crafty side. Or maybe it’s all that SUPER-CUTE, SUPER-CHEAP stuff in all the craft stores this time of year. Or maybe it’s the fact that I have to entertain a 4-y.o. who’s out of school for a ridiculously long Christmas break.

The first project we attempted was making paper snowflakes. It bombed. Turns out safety scissors don’t cut through layers of folded paper very well. Plus, Miles soon lost sight of our “white Christmas” theme and began decorating the snowflakes with Batman colors. Because what says winter wonderland better than a bunch of yellow and black snowflakes, right?

Next, we attempted graham cracker gingerbread houses with the neighbor kids. The oldest ones got the hang of it pretty well, but the younger ones lost patience with having to hold the walls together until the icing hardened. Miles’ house soon became a teepee.

And the green sprinkles? Were a bad idea. “A little goes a long way” means squat to kids. Meanwhile, the babies screamed for M&Ms and everyone spit out the (partially chewed) gumdrops because they tasted “gross.”

I wised up by the next time, and bought a couple of foam gingerbread house kits from Michael’s (see photo). The interlocking foam pieces fit together easy enough and then the kids decorated them with the enclosed stickers. Easy-peasy. And the only clean-up was collecting the sticker backings. No sprinkle tsunamis. AND no sugar-shock.

Our final creative masterpiece was a snowman cake. When my MIL gave me the pan last year I remember thinking, “When the heck does she think I’m going to have time to make THIS?!” But then the baby started sleeping through the night and taking 2.5-hour naps and all of a sudden the possibilities were endless. Or at least baking a cake no longer seemed on par with writing a novel in Russian.

I’m proud to say I even let Miles help this year. I didn’t get all control-freakish and take all the fun out of it for him like last year. Even if he did put the snowman’s buttons a tad too close together and one of his eyes is on his forehead. HAHAHAHA, just kidding!! It didn’t bother me! Much.

I guess there’s a little Martha in me after all.

CRAFT O' THE WEEK: Keep it simple, and non-holiday-specific, with Anchormommy's Winter Mitten Garland.

VIDEO O’ THE WEEK: Check out Jen Singer’s “The 12 Days of Christmas Break” video on Mommasaid.net. Funny AND true.

Random Thoughts: Holiday Edition

2010-12-19T21:53:00.004-05:00

Would people look at me funny if I swabbed down the entire holiday train garden with Purell before I let my kids near it?

Would those parents over there get offended if I handed their kid a tissue?

It’s pretty amazing how coughing and sneezing into your elbow has become common practice. Kind of like sitting “crisscross-applesauce” or “like a pretzel” have almost universally replaced “Indian-style.”

Why do some kids love mall Santas and my kids won’t go near them? I think they’d actually prefer going to the dentist.

Will my toddler's obsession with the Christmas tree ever wear off? Or will he not rest until he’s pulled every single ornament off the tree? (We’ve already lost at least 3 to his death grip. RIP, Rudolph.)

When did sending out Christmas cards with professional photos on 100-lb. cardstock become the norm? Some of the ones we’ve gotten are nicer than our wedding invitations.

Does every married couple give each other boring gifts for Christmas, like a new Dirt Devil or a wireless earpiece for their cell phone, or is it just us?

Why would anyone beyond my immediate family ever try to give me clothes? I don’t even let my husband buy me clothes unless it’s a specific item I’ve already picked out.

Why is my 4-year-old son so damn picky about his clothes? Would it kill him to wear a sweater vest and shoes that aren’t Crocs? Is he worried the wrong outfit will ruin his image at preschool?

Will the gifts my boys get when they’re young shape their future identities? My toddler’s getting a play kitchen and a toy stroller. Will he grow up to be a chef? A stay-at-home dad? Or just a regular guy who makes pancakes on Saturdays and takes his kids to the playground?

Is my 4yo old enough this year to notice or care how many presents he and his brother each get, and how big they are? I hope not. Because the toys seem to get smaller the older they get.

How far should we go to prove that Santa is real? Is eating the cookies enough? Or do we need to disguise the handwriting on the gift tags, too? (This is how I discovered my mom was Santa, BTW.)

Will I be able to get over my fear of germs, Christmas card envy, gift angst, and other assorted seasonal stresses and enjoy the holidays this year? I think so.

LINK O’ THE WEEK: Check out this slideshow of ugly Christmas sweaters. And you thought your mother-in-law’s was bad?

Life's a [Fill in the Blank]

2010-12-15T14:38:00.006-05:00

I’m having an internal battle with my positive-thinking side and my life-is-hard-and-then-you-die side.

I’ve always envied natural optimists. (My 4-y.o. is one.) People whose default setting is happy, and who shake off setbacks and disappointments easier than the rest of us. People who embody the phrase “Don’t sweat the small stuff -- and it’s all small stuff.”

But try as I might -- and I do try – certain experiences just knock me off my shiny happy track. And then I veer over to the dark side. The “nobody said life was fair” and “life is full of disappointments” side. I don’t like it over there. Even though there’s lots of company.

I almost think that I’m succeeding at developing a sunny outlook because when they do come, disappointments are so much more disappointing these days. I guess if I was truly beaten down I’d just shrug and sigh, “Of course it didn’t work out. Again.”

I recently had a major work-related setback. A golden opportunity came floating down from heaven on angel’s wings. The stars aligned and pointed me toward my destiny at the exact moment I needed it most. Opportunity came knocking when I was showered, dressed, and my house was clean. Choose your own mixed metaphor.

And then, after loads of effort and phone calls and late nights and “finally my ship has come in” thoughts, it all fell through. Boom. Just like that, my ship sailed off into the star-crossed night and the angels lost their wings. (Sorry, I don’t know what’s going on with me today. Too many Christmas stories?)

I was devastated. I cried, I felt sorry for myself, I drank a lot of wine, and nothing anybody said made any difference. Interestingly, this is the same way my son reacted when a playdate he was really looking forward to was cancelled at the last minute because the other kid got sick. (Only substitute juice boxes for wine.)

It was awful to see my baby like that. He sobbed big, fat tears. He wailed and bemoaned the unfairness of it all. He was powerless to change things. His day was ruined. And there was nothing I could do or say to change it. Even though I knew that it wasn’t the end of the world, that we could reschedule the playdate, that we could find something else fun to distract him, I could see that for my son, it really did feel like the end of the world.

I know you’re probably thinking I’m going to end with a lesson here. Some sage advice about how I learned to take life’s hits in stride because of my son. But I’m not. I’m just going to say that, yes, sometimes life sucks. You don’t always get what you want. You can’t smile and force the world to smile with you at all times. A window doesn’t always open when a door closes. (Or whatever the heck’s the metaphor I’m mangling.)

So I’ll just say that it’s a lot easier to get past life’s disappointments when you have someone to hug and snuggle up with on the couch. So that’s what we did, my babies and me. And I thought maybe there’s someplace in between “life is a cabaret” and “life sucks.” Or maybe I should just leave the sayings alone. :)

READ O’ THE WEEK: Oh, jeez. Maybe it’s the time of year? I looked back in my archives and found this post I wrote almost a year ago to the day: “In All Honesty…” (On the upside, our tree didn’t fall down this year… yet.)

Modern Love Notes by Married People

2010-12-12T20:27:00.005-05:00

I was going through the messages on my phone the other day when I noticed that these were the last 3 texts I sent my husband:

- I need u 2 come home. I just threw up. Sorry.

- I’m bleeding. When will u b home?

- Still no power. Supposed 2 b back on by now.

And they say romance is dead! Forget sexting and flirty e-mails when you’re married with kids. It’s all about what’s wrong, what to get at the store, and when will you be home. At least in my world. Aren’t you jealous you’re not married to me? ;)

The first text was sent on a Friday night when, unfortunately for all of us, I got hit suddenly with the stomach bug at the exact same time my husband was at a work happy hour and the boys needed to be bathed and put to bed.

The second text was sent while C. was on his way home from work and Riley had just dive-bombed me on the couch, cracking his rock-hard skull into my face and giving me a bloody nose. That was it for me that day. Done. Your turn, Daddy.

The third text was sent while Miles and I huddled inside the idling car in front of our house and Riley napped inside, so I could charge my cell phone during a freak 6-hour power outage on an 28-degree day.

I’m telling you, people, nobody prepares you for this stuff. When I pictured myself all grown up and married with kids, I certainly didn’t factor in these unsavory scenarios. I thought it was going to be all “Love you, sweetie!” and “Hi, honey, how was your day?” and “Let’s grab sushi on the way to the foreign film fest.” (OK, I just made that up. I don’t think we ever did that even in our single days.)

I certainly didn’t imagine that I would be away from my spouse 10+ hours a day, communicating about bodily fluids and grocery lists via text message. (Pls don’t forget 2 buy COFFEE!!) It would be nice if we could send each other sweet little love notes throughout the day, but come on. Who’s got the time? (I DO frequently send C. cute pics of the boys from my phone, however. I figure it makes him feel like he’s not missing out on everything that goes on while he’s at work. Like the bloody noses.)

And anyway, it’s not just me. Check out the latest text I got from my husband, who took Riley to the doctor the other morning:

- Double ear inf. On our way home.

One day we’ll collect these missives and bind them into a book with flower petals pressed between the pages, titled “Love Notes.” Or not.

LINK O' THE WEEK: If you haven't seen DamnYouAutoCorrect.com, what are you waiting for? Hilarious iPhone fails and auto-correct horror stories.

Dora, Glee, and a CD Giveaway

2010-12-10T14:48:00.008-05:00

You know what gets my kids and me through the long, dark, dreary days of winter? Music! (You thought I was going to say TV and wine, didn’t you? Those help, too.) So when a lovely lady at Sony Music offered to send me review copies of some CDs, I said you betcha.

My 4-year-old and I opened the package together. The first CD he spied was Dora's Christmas He hasn’t let it out of his sight since. We listen to it at home and in the car. Here’s my review in a nutshell: it’s not as annoying as you’d think.

If, like me, you find Dora’s voice about as appealing as colic, rest assured that her upbeat chirping actually lends itself quite well to Christmas carols like “Holly Jolly Christmas,” “Here Comes Santa Claus,” and of course, “Feliz Navidad.” My 22-month-old chimed right in with the fa-la-las and ho-ho-hos. And he went NUTS for a track called “Wiggle Wiggle.”

As for me, I was FAR more excited about Glee: The Music, The Christmas Album
Woot! I can’t explain why I am such a Glee fan, since I was never a drama geek, hate American Idol, and have no desire to relive high school. Something about the music just makes me happy. If loving Glee is wrong, I don’t want to be right. My favorite track is Kurt and Blaine’s rendition of “Baby, It’s Cold Outside.” And Rachel covering Wham’s “Last Christmas” is fun, too.

The CD also includes “You’re a Mean One, Mr. Grinch,” which you may be disappointed to know is not sung by the evilly awesome Sue Sylvester. I guess she’s not much of a singer. Personally, I prefer the original version of that song, which is apparently sung by an artist named Thurl Ravenscroft. (Thank you, Google.)

The CD I’ll be listening to long past Dec. 25 is Glee: The Music, Volume 4
It includes “Empire State of Mind,” “Stronger” and “Toxic” from the Britney episode, “Teenage Dream,” and “Forget You” featuring Gwyneth Paltrow. (Is it just me, or is Gwynnie everywhere all of a sudden? Guess she has one heck of a nanny.)

Sorry, people, but these are mine -– hands off. Since it’s the season of giving, however, I am doing a giveaway for all you fans of The King. (As in Elvis, not the blue character from the animated movie, Cars.) So if you want to get your hands on a shiny, brand-new copy of Viva ELVIS- The Album leave a comment telling me Elvis’ middle name. The first person to guess AND SPELL it correctly, wins.

For the rest of you, check out this funny yet slightly disturbing video of one of the tracks, “Bossa Nova Baby.”

Clean House? Not So Much

2010-12-07T15:39:00.004-05:00

I may have mentioned a time or 20 how I try to squeeze as much freelance work into as little kid-free time as possible, which necessitates arrangements so complex that pulling off a triple axel on dull ice skates seems easy in comparison.

So it was nothing short of a miracle when the mom of my son’s classmate offered to give him a ride home once a week. This meant Miles could stay an extra couple hours for the after-school program instead of being forced to come home and be quiet while his baby brother naps and I work. Plus, I wouldn’t have to cut the baby’s nap short to pick him up. Win-win, right?

The first time this other mom brought Miles home, however, her son needed to come in to use the bathroom. Terror shot through me.

You see, people, our bathroom is not what you’d call “guest ready.” Not only do we not have decorative hand towels and French-milled soaps, but you’re lucky if there’s toilet paper and no puddle on the floor. You might find a half-eaten banana in the bathtub, a sippy cup of milk in the sink, and a toothpaste self-portrait finger-painted on the mirror.

It’s disgusting. I know. But when you have 2 small, exceedingly messy boys and no time (or cleaning lady), that’s what you get. Certainly if we’re expecting guests I’ll run a Clorox wipe over the counters and toilet and chuck the mess behind the shower curtain. But if it’s just us, what’s the point? A clean bathroom lasts only until the first potty break.

So, disguising the panic in my voice, I said to this other mom, “Sure! Of course! Let me just run in there real quick and make sure we have hand soap.” (As if. That was used up long ago when the boys decided to give their action figures a bubble bath in the sink.)

The next week, I was prepared. The bathroom was passably clean. But this time she asked to fill up her kid’s water bottle in the kitchen. Where she encountered a sink full of dirty dishes from breakfast… and lunch. I was humiliated. I’m not striving to be Martha Stewart, but there are low standards and then there are frat-boy standards. We were probably violating several health codes in the kitchen and bathroom alone.

So the following week, my house was CLEAN. Really clean. (I mean, not under-the-couch clean, but come ON. Let’s be realistic here.) And you know what happened? The other mom was running late and drove off without stepping foot in our immaculate abode.

I took some small, sick comfort in the fact that when my son came home from a playdate at their house, he said the kid’s room was really messy.

READ O' THE WEEK: In case you missed it, here's my article on "The Truth About Kids and TV." You'd think I could clean while my kids are watching a show, but no.

Christmas Card Outtakes

2010-12-05T14:17:00.009-05:00

Here are 3 reasons why you may not get a Christmas card from us this year:

Now, look. I’m not one of those people who has to have the perfect fairy-tale family photo on their Christmas card. (Though that does describe about 90% of the cards we receive, I'll point out. Not that I'm jealous or anything.)

But if I’m going to spend the time and money to print and mail dozens of these puppies -- which will adorn mantels and refrigerators all over the country -- I’m just not willing to go the ironic route, OK? My blog is FULL of those kinds of photos.

Is it too much to ask that one measly time a year I capture an image of my children in which they are both looking at the camera? In which no one is crying, pouting, or sitting on his brother? In which no one has a black eye, a visible booger, or marker on their face? In which both kids look cute and like they weren't raised by wolves?

Yeah, I thought so.

Guess we'll just have to work with what we've got.

LINK O' THE WEEK: For cards that may induce jealousy, make you laugh, or give you ideas, check out McMommy's annual McHoliday Card Spectacular. My fave's the one of the 3 kids in the leaves.

Being a WAHM Is All Fun & Games

2010-12-02T20:42:00.005-05:00

Is your life lacking excitement? Dull, predictable, each day like the one before? Have I got a solution for you -- become a work-at-home mom! Your days will be FILLED with challenges and games, like:

Phone tag. Need to reach an important person ASAP? Call him first thing in the morning before your husband leaves for work; get his voicemail. Then HE calls YOU back while you’re in the preschool drop-off line; gets your voicemail. Then YOU call HIM back as soon as you get home, but he’s tied up until 12 – the exact worst time for you, doing the pick-up/lunchtime/naptime hustle. This game can go on for DAYS!

Extreme juggling. You’ve got a packed day filled with meetings, phone calls, and deadlines. Just as you’re leaving the house, the phone rings. It’s the school – surprise! School’s cancelled due to a power outage. OR, it’s the sitter calling in sick. Time to juggle!

Phone backup sitter; find out she can only take the baby. Phone classmate to line up playdate for your older kid; find out that mom can do it, but only for 2 hours. Beg your husband to go into work late; find out he has an important appointment he can’t reschedule. Don’t worry, you’ll figure it out. You always do! Isn’t this EXCITING?!?!

Pajama parties. OK, maybe working into the wee hours in your PJs isn’t exactly a party, but you always said you wanted to experience the thrill of those late nights again, didn’t you? Only now the excitement isn’t who will you meet or what new club will you get into, but will your computer crash before you back up that important file and will your printer run out of ink before you print out that crucial contract?

7 Minutes in Heaven. No, not the kissing game in the closet. Those 7 minutes of silence you may or may not get to make a phone call during that brief period when the baby’s nap overlaps with the preschooler’s TV show. Those precious few minutes when no one is wailing from their crib, pulling on your arm for a snack, or calling loudly from the bathroom for you to come wipe them.

The thing is, you never know if you’re going to get those 7 silent minutes or not. And that’s the fun of it!!

Musical childcare. Drop off son at school, drop off baby at sitter’s. Work. Pick up son at school, take him to friend’s house for a playdate. Pick up baby from sitter’s, take him home for a nap. Work. Ask neighbor to come over and sit with baby while you run to pick up son from playdate. Ask husband to come home early so you can finish up your work. If any piece of this puzzle falls through for any reason, see “Extreme juggling” above.

I’m telling you, it's nothing but nonstop fun and games around here. Also, coffee. Lots and LOTS of coffee. So what are you waiting for? Become a work-at-home mom today and join the party! But watch out -– all the excitement might kill you.

Mama Don’t Know Jack

2010-11-30T14:27:00.003-05:00

Things are a little busy here this week (deadlines, playdates, and preschool obligations) so I’m re-running a post that I wrote when my first son was a toddler. Since my second is now approaching the Terrible 2’s, it seemed appropriate...

I know toddlerhood is all about kids asserting their independence and testing limits and all that, but my WORD, what a pain in the butt it can be! Some days Miles has to argue with me about EVERYTHING. Now it’s even infiltrated our previously pleasant reading time.

Here’s an example. I was reading him a counting book. It starts with “One ostrich playing the organ” and goes up to “10 tiny turtles playing trumpets.” Except my son adamantly began arguing with me from page one: “No. No, Mommy, dat’s NOT a organ. Dat’s a pee-no.”

“You’re right, it does look sort of like a piano, but it’s actually called an organ.”

“No, dat’s not a organ.”

Whatever. Moving on... Except he kept this up throughout the WHOLE BOOK!! Those 6 bees were not playing bongos, they were playing drums, he insisted. The 7 eagles were most certainly NOT playing electric bass, they were playing guitars. Duh, Mommy! And don’t even get me started on the newts -- excuse me, “lizards” -- playing flutes!! Finally I just threw down the book in frustration.

But that tricky little toddler of mine, sometimes he purposely baits me. “What’s dat, Mommy?” he’ll ask innocently, pointing at a guy on a ride-on lawn mower across the street.

“That’s a lawn mower,” I tell him.

“No! Not a lawn mower, dat’s a TRACTOR,” he crows, pleased with himself for outsmarting his dim-bulb mom.

My friend S. grew so irritated with her older son’s superiority complex that one day she blurted: “I am 34 years old! I have a college degree. You are 7. Do you really think you’re smarter than me??” His prompt reply: “Yes.”

But back to the toddlers. Have I mentioned the temper on this kid?? God forbid I walk up the stairs ahead of him when HE wanted to go first. Or if I dare take too long refilling his sippy cup.

The funniest thing I’ve read all week is from “Naptime is the New Happy Hour,” by Stefanie Wilder-Taylor. She’s describing her toddler daughter’s temper tantrum one morning:

"...because I committed the cardinal sin of starting the coffeemaker without giving her ample opportunity to push the button. Actually, as per our tradition, I’d asked her if she would like to push the button, but it seemed she and Elmo were having a private moment and I was intruding with my rude question …

But a minute later, when her bionic hearing picked up the sound of coffee brewing, she went completely mental. ‘You pushed the button! I wanted to push it! MAMA! PLEASE! I need to push the button!’ she screamed as if I wasn’t in the same room with her or even the same country."

Oh, I’ve been there, sister. You better believe I will never again choose what floor I want on an elevator as long as my toddler is around.

Guest Post: '9 Mos. and Counting'

2010-11-27T10:03:00.004-05:00

Hi! I'm Lynn, longtime friend of Mom2Miles, wife and mom to a busy 3-year-old girl who's expecting a baby brother or sister very soon.

I am in the last month of my second (and last) pregnancy and boy, is it different from the first time around. My first pregnancy was focused on ME. If I was tired I would sit down and rest. If I felt sick in the morning I’d hit the snooze button and get to work 30 minutes late.

Now, I have a 3-year-old daughter who thinks the world revolves around her (and honestly, it does) and Mama’s aches and pains are secondary. Tired after a long day at work? Read me a book, Mama! Sick in the morning? Wake up, Mama, wake up! There is no snooze button on a 3-year-old.

I didn’t exactly make this last month easy on myself either. My husband and I embarked on a kitchen remodeling project this summer that resulted in our kitchen being rendered completely useless from weeks 33 to 36 of my pregnancy. Yes, I went three weeks without a kitchen at 8 months pregnant.

I don’t have much interest in dinner these days (most of what I eat after 6 pm comes back up in the wee hours of the morning anyway) but dealing with the inconvenience and clutter was more than my fragile mental state could handle. After dinner every night I’d immediately go upstairs in an attempt to avoid a nervous breakdown caused by the mess on the main living level.

My daughter and husband didn’t seem to mind that much. She thought it was an “adventure” to have frozen dinners and Chick-Fil-A most nights and my husband is just a very adaptable guy.

Our cats, however, got increasingly freaked out about having workmen in the house all day, their food moved to the basement, and dusty boxes in their favorite lounging places. They’d come upstairs with me after dinner and beg for attention by meowing loudly, licking my fingers while I was typing on the computer, or lying on my belly and looking up at me pathetically. So, I get a little ME time and it’s not even all about ME, it’s all about the cats!

With less than three weeks to go I’m in the homestretch now, and while each day becomes more and more uncomfortable the baby has a good heartbeat, is practicing breathing, and kicking the heck out of me. Every mom is grateful for a healthy baby, and I can’t wait to meet our little one, but this is my last pregnancy. Did I say that already?

Babies Around the World

2010-11-23T11:37:00.003-05:00

Ever since I saw the movie “Babies” a little while ago, I can’t stop thinking about it. It’s a short, wordless documentary about 4 babies growing up in different parts of the world, from birth to age 1. It’s visually stunning, and of course the babies are cute, but that’s not what struck me most.

Rather, it’s how differently babies are raised in other cultures. There’s Ponijao in Namibia, who rolls around in the dirt naked and has to put up with livestock drinking his bathwater. Then there’s Bayar, a little moon-faced boy in Mongolia whose mother births him with little fanfare and then hops on the back of a motorbike for the bumpy ride back to their yurt. The life of Mari in Tokyo isn’t drastically different from her counterpart Hattie’s in San Francisco, with their diapers and strollers and baby music classes.

But the scene that had the most impact for me was one with Hattie and her mother. The baby has become a toddler, with all the behaviors that go along with that—namely, fussing and swatting at her mother. So the mom—obviously an educated, upper-middle class woman in her 30’s, I’d say—does what many moms I know would do. She turns and takes a book off the shelf, titled “No Hitting.”

Isn’t that so AMERICAN? We can fix any parenting problem with the right book! Let’s consult 6 experts and then mirror correct behaviors for our offspring! Better yet, let’s take our baby to a child psychologist so we can understand the emotional causes of her hitting! Perhaps it’s because our peaceful, lute-accompanied water birth went awry and we needed a C-section?

OK, I’m mocking. But you have to admit it’s a little funny, especially in comparison to the mother in Africa who, when her children are fighting, distracts them with a wild dog or her own hair. The Mongolian baby is left alone constantly, either swaddled up to his eyeballs in yards of fabric or tied to a bed post. (Yes! He was literally tied to a bed post by his waist while his mother was outside tending the sheep or something. And he seemed perfectly happy.)

We American moms pour so much time and energy and angst into parenting. We debate the pros and cons of disposable vs. cloth diapers and when and how to potty train, while in the rest of the world babies are crawling around bare-bummed. The African mom, when her newborn poops, WIPES HIS BUTT ON HER KNEE and then scrapes it off with an old corn cob! No organic wipes, no wipe warmer, no Diaper Genie, no antibacterial soap. Can you imagine??

Now, I’m not going to chuck all our educational toys and books and diapers and let my baby crawl shoeless all over a rusty metal drum in the middle of a field of horned cattle. (Not that that makes the Mongolian woman a bad mom; let’s not be judgy.) But it is a good reminder that maybe we don’t need all the stuff we think we do to raise a child. Little Ponijao in Africa seemed pretty darn happy to me.

So, tell me, readers in America and around the world, what parenting differences do you notice where you live?

Being a Grown-Up Is Overrated

2010-11-19T15:33:00.004-05:00

Remember when you were a kid and you couldn’t wait to be a grown-up? You’d stay up late, watch TV 24/7, eat all the candy and junk food you wanted, and never brush your teeth. Yeah!

Newsflash: the grass isn’t exactly greener over here on the other side of 18. (Oh, who am I kidding? On the other side of 30!)

First of all, you have to mow the grass yourself. And maybe even hire a guy to fix those random brown patches all over the lawn. And don’t even get me started on raking the leaves, shoveling snow off the walk, and hiring another guy to get the raccoons out of your attic.

To be honest, all that stuff is usually my husband’s job because I’m too busy doing 17 loads of laundry, making nutritionally balanced meals that no one eats, and scrubbing the remains of those nutritionally balanced meals off the floor, walls, and highchair.

I DO eat all the candy I want, though. That’s because sugar and coffee are the main things that keep me going through my days, which are packed with completely not-fun grown-up activities. For instance, this week’s to-do list included:

-Write a letter to the city department of public works contesting our water bill, which was 5 times higher than usual. But not before calling the office, sitting on hold for ages, and pleading my case to a surly government employee, only to be told I had to put it in writing.

-Reschedule jury duty. Like the above item, this required more phone calls, more time on hold, and more discussions with government employees. I’m all for doing my civic duty (well, actually I’m not, but it’s a law. Bleh!).

But when you’re a stay-at-home mom and have to PAY someone so you can wait around all day in a dreary public building on the off chance you might be called for a worker’s comp trial, well, there are about 983 things I’d rather be doing. Including laundry.

-Call AAA. During our usual mad dash to get out of the house this morning and get to school on time, I discovered the car wouldn’t start. The culprit? A dead battery from the interior lights being left on overnight. Hmmm, I wonder which small people who love to push buttons (both literally and figuratively) could be responsible for THAT?!

-Cleaning. I am so anti-cleaning it takes me a year to go through a bottle of Windex. My idea of dusting is to run a sock over the TV screen when the layer of dust gets thick enough to write your name in. I only vacuum when the baby starts pointing at the balls of dog hair on the floor and crying because he thinks they’re spiders.

My 4 y.o. son said, “Looks like it’s foggy out today” when really, it was just that the kitchen windows were dirty. But even I can’t ignore the public bathroom smell that becomes noticeable after a few days. So clean I must.

This grown-up thing is overrated. Now, the idea of bathing regularly and going to bed early sounds like heaven. If it weren’t for the candy and TV, there would barely be any perks at all. Oh, wait. I forgot about wine.

TIP O' THE WEEK: Something only a grown-up would know -- you can often use manufacturers' coupons for a certain brand even if you're not buying the exact item on the coupon. Example: I have used coupons for Huggies wipes on diapers, and coupons for premium formula on the regular kind.

Police Report: “The Sink Incident”

2010-11-17T15:06:00.003-05:00

Case Number: 06/08/2006/1234

Incident: Flooded Bathroom

Reporting Officer: Constable Lowman N. Totempole

At about 1830 hours on 15th November 2010, the DiaryofaNewMom family was having dinner in their home. After finishing his meal and hurling comestible projectiles from his highchair, the youngest child was excused from the table. His mother resumed her meal, aside from repeated interruptions from the elder child requesting alternate menu options and additional beverages.

Ms. Mom2Miles maintains that at that point the baby required a diaper change, the contents of which necessitated immediate bathing of the child. (The explicit details of said diaper are deemed inappropriate for description in this official document.) The mother wishes to state for the record that “this happens every single damn time I try to sit down to eat” and added, “It’s no wonder I subsist mainly on coffee and leftover Halloween candy.”

Ms. Mom2Miles began to bathe the youngest child. She urged the elder child to accompany his brother in the bath, as was customary. He refused. He then proceeded to remove his clothing anyway and play in the sink.

Ms. Mom2Miles reported that she heard a “gushing” noise and turned around to find her elder child sitting naked in the sink -- described as “smaller than a soup bowl” -- with a large quantity of water spilling out over the counter and onto the floor.

I conducted a survey of the crime scene and found several items of evidence, including approximately 1/4 inch of water on the bathroom floor; several wet towels; and an assortment of multicolored plastic playthings designed to squirt water.

I obtained a sworn statement from Ms. Mom2Miles and provided her with the case number and Information Leaflet 99/03 ("What to do when your preschooler infuriates you"). I attempted to help clean up the area and calm the minors but was unable to stand the noise and general level of chaos in the home and quickly vacated the premises.

The following police sketch illustrates the incident described in this report.

A – The suspect, the elder child known as “Miles,” standing at the sink.

B – The mother, aka Ms. Mom2Miles. The letters “ON” appearing to her left are thought to mean “Nooo!” which is what she yelled when she saw the waterfall cascading from the sink.

C – a fire truck, “because I like fire trucks,” said the suspect. (Who, it should be noted, is also the artist who rendered this sketch.)

A Baby Walks into a Bar...

2010-11-15T14:34:00.004-05:00

Riley told his first joke yesterday. It went like this:

Riley: “Knock-knock!”

Us: “Who’s there?”

Riley: “Neena.” (His word for banana.)

Us: “Neena who?”

Riley: “Peena!”

Isn’t that hysterical? What? You don’t get it? Well, it’s sophisticated humor. It’ll come to you later.

It thrills me no end that my son is funny even at the tender age of 20 mos. (And before that, he was cracking us up without words. He was like a tiny, talented, not-scary mime.)

Do you know it’s a sad fact that millions of people are born each year without a sense of humor? I know, I’ve met some of them. It’s particularly unfortunate if you happen to be on a date with one of these people or are being interviewed by one.

Humor is hugely important to me. I don’t know if you can tell, but I like to laugh. Mostly at myself and my children. (I can’t help it; we provide an endless stream of material.) I don’t know where this came from, exactly, since it’s not like my family sat around the dinner table trading quips when I was growing up.

Though my grandmother was a master of dry humor. She would pronounce a dull Scrabble game or my grandfather’s golf scores “gripping” and have us all snorting with laughter with a single look. She once said to my grandfather when they were dating, “Excuse me, but I believe you’ve mistaken my knee for the gearshift.” LOL!

If anything, my sons’ humor comes from their dad’s side of the family. My husband famously once snuck up on his sister wearing a gorilla mask while she was writing in her diary. Hilarity ensued. He still cracks up just talking about it.

It’s a well-known fact that one of the most endearing sounds in the world is a baby’s laughter. There’s a reason baby-themed entries frequently win “America’s Funniest Home Videos.” (Followed closely by pets, old people, and rednecks getting kicked in the crotch.)

We do have a lot of laughter in our house. And thank god for that. Because when they’re not cracking me up, my kids can -- and do -- drive me “neenas.”

VIDEO O’ THE WEEK: Who knew a raccoon puppet in a trash can could be so funny?

Learning to Love It

2010-11-12T11:41:00.007-05:00

I first went out on my own as a full-time freelance writer over 8 years ago. I was pushed to the brink by a soul-sucking corporate job and wanted nothing more than to be my own boss, be in charge of my own time. But the funny thing is, I would still show up to my office (which I rented with a few other self-employed people) every day at 8:30 or 9 a.m. and stay till 5 or 5:30. Regardless of whether I had 8 hours of work to do or not.

Sure, you could say I had a good work ethic, and certainly my time and effort in the beginning did pay off. But why was I still keeping the hours and the confining schedule I’d resisted so much as an employee?

Another freelancer acquaintance wondered why I didn’t take off on sunny days to go to the park or have lunch with a friend, or leave work early on Fridays just because I could. “I hope you eventually learn to enjoy the perks of self-employment,” she told me.

But I was afraid. Afraid of being labeled a slacker. Afraid of becoming a failure. Afraid of what other people would think. Afraid I’d slide down a slippery slope and find myself sitting on the couch eating Ben & Jerry’s in my bathrobe and watching reruns of “The Golden Girls” every day.

The same could be said of my transition to full-time stay-at-home mom/part-time work-at-home mom when my first child was born. (How I define myself depends on the week and my workload.) When I was a brand-new mom, I rarely allowed myself to lounge around in my PJs, watch daytime TV, or even go shopping or to the gym during the day. Everyone else was at work, I thought. And MY work was now taking care of this tiny person. I’m damn sure not going to treat this as an extended personal day. People will think I’m a slacker!

As if ANYONE would use the term “slacker” to define someone who devoted her time, energy, and breasts to her baby 24 hours a day. Nursing him around the clock, changing diapers, doing laundry, taking him to countless doctor’s appointments, CHARTING HIS BOWEL MOVEMENTS, for pete’s sake! I was working harder than I ever had in corporate America, that’s for sure. And with no lunch breaks or sick days!

It took me awhile -- 2 kids and 4 years, to be exact -- but I’ve loosened up. Some days I stay in my pajamas (or yoga pants) all day. Some days we have pancakes for lunch. I usually work while my (second) baby is napping, but if it’s been a rough day I may take a nap myself or zone out on the couch watching “Oprah.” I’ll take the kids to the mall on a Friday morning, spend my older son’s preschool time reading blogs, or have a picnic on a Tuesday simply because it’s nice out.

I’ve learned to enjoy the perks of the life I’ve chosen. I don’t worry so much about whether other people will think I’m a slacker. I wish I had TIME to be a slacker! What was the biggest adjustment to motherhood for you?

RILEYISMS:
"kidney" - the leftover loot from Halloween; apparently out of sight ISN'T out of mind

"ah-pane" - those things that fly overhead several times day; and every single plane has to be noticed and commented on

"fie" - what he calls his pacifier. Get it? Paci-FIE-r.

Daylight Savings Sucks

2010-11-10T11:07:00.003-05:00

Warning: I’m in a bad mood. This is probably going to be a grumpy, whiny rant so if you’re looking for rainbows and sunshine, click away. I blame daylight savings time. I remember when I first discovered what a joke the supposed “extra hour” of sleep is for people with babies.

And when people say they wish there were more hours in the day, I’m guessing they do not mean the cold, pre-dawn, pre-coffee hours or the long, cold, now-dark hours between 4 and 7 p.m. At least not when you have to share those hours with 2 loud, whiny, and often damp children age 4 and under. (Some of whom like to eat crayons.)

My 20 m.o. is back to his newborn ways. He’s waking up at 4:30 a.m. wailing and thrashing. Only now he can talk, so his wailing sounds like this: “Mommeeeee! Daddeeeee! Mommeeeee! Daddeeeee!” and on and on until you go get him. And we do, if only so our 4 y.o. doesn’t wake up and come bounding out of his room to get in on the action.

Sometimes, Daddy can get the baby back to sleep in the rocking chair, and sometimes against my better judgment, I let him get into our bed. But usually he’s wet and frequently stinky. (What the HELL?! Huggies Overnite diapers worked like a charm with my firstborn.) And if you change his diaper, then he’s wide awake and up for a game of “Let’s turn Mommy’s nostrils inside out” or “Pinch the skin on Daddy’s neck really, really hard.”

Some nights it’s like musical beds. C. may fall asleep in Miles’ bed or in Riley’s chair. If Miles comes into our room because he had a bad dream, I might move to his room because C. is snoring and Miles tends to kick me in the ribs. You never know where you’re going to wake up, or with whom. It’s like college only everything smells like pee instead of beer.

(True story: in college my freshman roommate was on the soccer team. One night after a raging soccer party her teammate next door got up to go to the bathroom and mistook our room for hers when she came back. So I woke up to find a drunk girl trying to climb into bed with me. Of course my roommate, who was also drunk, found this hysterical.)

And the getting-dark-early part of daylight savings? Is a TERRIBLE thing. This means that after Riley wakes up from his nap and Miles has been forced to play quietly by himself while I work, we can’t go outside and play, but have to remain cooped up in the house. Or else brave the rush-hour traffic to kill time at Target or the mall or other germ-infested places where you’ll end up spending money for no reason. I hate this time of year.

Aren’t you glad you stopped by? ;)

LINK O’ THE WEEK: Speaking of drunk bed-hoppers, Stefanie Wilder-Taylor's "Open Letter to Charlie Sheen" is hilarious. I really do feel sorry for his 1-y.o. twins, though. Hopefully their extended family has a clue.

Top 5 Toys for Boys

2010-11-07T20:19:00.009-05:00

Well, it’s that time of year again. The catalogs are arriving by the dozens, the relatives are asking for gift ideas, and my 4 y.o. son is adding items to his Christmas list daily. (The latest additions: a bathrobe and a lava lamp. Who is he, Hugh Hefner?!)

I don’t generally do gift guides or product reviews mainly because I think they’re completely subjective. Just because MY baby loves his toy toolbox and ignores Sophie the Giraffe doesn’t mean YOUR baby will.

And I can honestly say that just about every “award-winning” book and toy given to my kids has gone straight into the Bin of Neglect—that out-of-the-way toy box containing the stuff your kids don’t really play with but that you can’t bear to get rid of. Because it’s AWARD-WINNING!!

But I can tell you what my kids like. And isn’t word-of-mouth from other moms the best way to get the real scoop on anything? So behold: I present to you 5 toys that are winners in our house. These are toys that my boys and their friends go back to again and again. Toys that I’ve even replaced the batteries in, rather than claiming the toy was “broken.”

Please note that I bought exactly NONE of these, proving that complete strangers have better luck giving my kids gifts than their own mother. Enjoy! Only 48 more shopping days till Christmas...

Cool Tools Activity Set
Age: 18 mos. +
Amazon* Price: $18.99
Part shape-sorter, part toolbox, part catchy-tune player, this toy is a compact kit o’ fun. I love that it has just a handful of parts that click into place and can be closed up inside the box. Years later, we haven’t lost a single piece.

(*Because that's where I usually buy stuff.)

Nesting & Stacking Blocks
Age: 24 mos. – 6 years
Amazon Price: $9.99
These are great because they don’t take up a lot of space and they appeal to kids of almost any age. They can stack them, put things in them, and of course, knock them down. One caveat: they’re cardboard, so they’re not indestructible. But for $10, you can’t complain. We’re on our second set.

Interstar Rings
Age: 2+
Amazon Price: $16.77
Babies can use them as teethers, older kids can build things out of these star-shaped plastic thingies. The shape makes them easy to hold and connect together. We've made towers, spaceships, even silly hats and glasses out of them.

Winnie The Pooh Ride-On Car
Age: 12 mos. – 3 years
Toys R Us Price: $25.89
We have a slightly different one, with a keyboard and some other random stuff on it, but I think just about any ride-on toy would be as appealing. Toddlers can use it as a walker and bigger kids can push it with their feet. And every age likes pushing all the little buttons. Warning: ours plays especially annoying tunes and doesn’t have an off button. Though you could always “lose” the batteries and the car would still work.

Fisher-Price Imaginext DC Super Friends Batcave
Age: 3-7 years
Amazon Price: $37.99
Santa brought this for Miles last Christmas, and he’s been playing with it ever since. I think of it as the boy’s version of a dollhouse. (Though I’ve seen plenty of girls playing with it when they come over, too.) It comes with a whole bunch of little characters and plastic pieces, the smallest of which I confiscated so the baby wouldn’t eat them.

If you’re wondering why there aren’t any wooden toys on this list, it’s because the only wooden toys we own have broken. I can’t recommend any, because they simply don’t hold up in our house. Now off you go. Happy shopping!

And since I have such a terrible track record with my own offspring, please tell me: what toys do YOUR kids like best?

Crazy Baby Lady

2010-11-04T09:17:00.006-05:00

I have become that crazy lady who grins like a maniac at pregnant strangers. I make faces at babies in the grocery store and squat down to talk to cute toddlers. I literally cannot pass a child without smiling at them and making big googly eyes. In short, I have become my mother.

I have distinct memories of being in the checkout line with my mom when there was a baby in front of us. Every time, she’d make these exaggerated, animated faces like she was Jim Carrey or something. Sometimes she’d throw in some high-pitched “peek-a-boo” for good measure.

As a surly teen who wanted nothing more than to disappear into the linoleum floor, I was mortified. What was WRONG with this woman?!

Fast-forward a couple decades and I’m thinking, “How psyched were the moms of those babies?” They were probably at the end of their rope after a long day of colic and spit-up, and were only at the grocery store in the first place because they were down to their last diaper. They must have been THRILLED that a kind stranger was entertaining their child so they could juggle their wallet and coupons and keys and then get the heck out of there. I know I would be.

In line to vote yesterday, I was behind a woman with a small baby in a sling. This mom was bouncing and swaying and jiggling so much I’m surprised she could even work the voting machine. Every time she’d stop, a tiny cry of protest would echo throughout the room. It was all I could do not to offer to hold the baby for her. But she might have been alarmed to see a complete stranger sniffing her baby’s head.

I can’t help it! You’d think I’d have my fill of babies, having spent nearly every waking hour (and much of the sleeping ones) with my own 2. But I’m drawn to tiny, sparsely-coiffed people in footy pajamas like the cast of “Jersey Shore” to a flashbulb.

I’ve been peed on, pooped on, puked on by other people’s babies. And I don’t care. I’ve spent far too much of my few years of motherhood worrying about what atrocities my babies might inflict on other people. I’m giving those moms a break. Don’t worry about it—I’ve lived through all this and worse. Your little angel can do no wrong in my eyes. And yes, I WILL look at all 207 pictures of her you have on your iPhone.

In fact, I am personally affronted whenever I see someone walk by a baby without a glance. Come ON, people! It’s a BABY! The freaking MIRACLE OF LIFE. At least be polite and feign some interest for 2 seconds, OK?

Unless you’re a teenager with your mom at the grocery store. Then, by all means, ignore the baby. But mark my words—in a couple decades, you’ll change your tune.

LINK O' THE WEEK: Speaking of crazy, apparently there's a new celeb parenting trend that "eschews the conventions of American infancy from baby strollers, high chairs and battery-operated toys to excessive praise, forced sharing, and even lullabies." Thoughts??

PIC O' THE WEEK: The most ill-conceived play area ever -- behold, the Playground of Death.

The Sugar Situation

2010-11-01T18:40:00.004-05:00

Will you look at this loot? This (slightly blurry) photo shows the massive pile of candy my son collected trick-or-treating. And that doesn’t even include the haul his baby brother brought in, or the candy we had left over. (We don’t get many trick-or-treaters at our house.)

Oh, how times have changed. It seems like just yesterday he was having his first taste of sugar at his first birthday party. And I was still watering down his juice and mixing plain yogurt with strawberry jam because I thought store-bought yogurt had too much sugar. When we took him trick-or-treating his first Halloween, he didn’t even know what he was collecting because he’d never had candy before, aside from a Dum-Dum or two.

Fast-forward to my second child. One of his first words was “cookie.” He screams for ice cream, hoots for juice, and spits out fruit if it’s not sweet enough. He instantly understood the point of trick-or-treating right out of the gate.

He would toddle adorably up to each door in his Tigger costume, hold out his plastic pumpkin, then turn around and demand that we unwrap each piece of candy immediately. I had no choice but to feed him M&M’s one by one as we made our way through the neighborhood or risk screams that would frighten the pants off even the scariest Halloween ghouls and goblins.

So now we have 10 lbs. of candy in the house and because I’m such a good mom and am concerned about my children’s oral hygiene and nutrition, I will do the only conscionable thing: eat it all myself.

With the kids, it’s pretty much out of sight, out of mind. (Though I need to do a better job of “out of sight.” They spotted the candy on top of the fridge first thing this morning and started screeching for it.)

Not so for the adults in the house. My husband has stronger will power than I do. As for me, I hear those mini Butterfingers calling me from two floors away. The Starbursts tempting me with their tangy goodness. The Junior Mints with their creamy, refreshingly minty center. The crunchy Whoppers and the chewy Laffy Taffy. And Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, you’re the worst of all. I am powerless against your seductive sweetness.

BTW, my son just totally busted me as I was writing this. I thought he’d gone upstairs to bed, but he came sneaking up behind me and caught me red-handed in the plastic pumpkin. I was forced to buy his silence with a Milk Dud.

For the sake of my teeth and waistline, maybe I’d better send the candy into work with my husband. At least the kinds I like. Then again, my preschooler’s pretty smart. Even he would know if he looked at his stash and found only a half-dozen boxes of Dots and Almond Joys that something didn’t add up.

READ O’ THE WEEK: According to this article, “The average trick or treater brings home a haul of 3,500 to 7,000 calories in their bag.” Yowza! Can you guess the best and worst kinds of candy, calorie-wise?

Boo on the Halloween PJs

2010-10-29T10:28:00.004-05:00

Sometimes as a parent, you make mistakes. You let your kid drink Gatorade and he bounces off the walls for 2 hours. You let him have one last cup of milk at night and he wets the bed. Or you buy him spider pajamas for Halloween and then discover he’s deathly afraid of arachnids. And you make him wear the PJs anyway.

I can’t get a handle on the random fears my kids have. When Miles was a baby, he was terrified of:
- Old people wearing Santa hats
- Mean ladies in cartoons
- The vacuum cleaner and the blender
- Monsters

Then he got older and became afraid of:
- The dark
- The poster of tropical fish on his wall (He says it looks like it’s moving)
- Different foods touching (I really thought we’d dodged this bullet and I’d never have to buy one of those divided plates. WRONG!)

My second-born, Riley, is terrified of:
- The vacuum cleaner and the blender
- Bugs

(Not including the first 12 mos. of his life when he was afraid of keeping food down, sleeping through the night, and just about everyone but his mom. Especially old people.)

The bug thing started when he spotted a giant, hairy spider one of our neighbors had hung on their porch for Halloween. I admit, an enormous black, 8-legged, red-eyed spider waving in the breeze is enough to scare anyone. But Riley would begin whining and shaking whenever he was within a few YARDS of this thing.

Then at home, he would point to every speck on the floor (and in our house, there are lots) and say, “Bug!” Even if it was a leaf, an old raisin or a clump of dog hair. (Actually, a bug might be LESS gross.)

Too bad for him I’d already bought his Halloween PJs at Old Navy. Luckily, he doesn’t seem to mind those spiders too much. Miles got skeleton PJs that glow in the dark. How cool is that? And he thought so, too, at least until 4 a.m. the first night he wore them and he woke up glowing and ran into our room. “I’m scared of my jammies,” he said. And they’ve been stuffed in the back of the drawer ever since. Sigh.

Looks like I’m 0-for-0 on the Halloween PJs. So what random things are YOUR kids afraid of?

Celebrity Nanny Tells All! So?

2010-10-27T09:21:00.004-05:00

I have a guilty pleasure: I like to read trashy celebrity tabloids. I won’t deign to actually SUBSCRIBE to them, however, so I get my gossip fix at the gym. There’s no better feeling than walking up to the magazine rack and finding the brand-new People or Us Weekly or InTouch, its candy-colored headlines and boob-job photos crying out for my attention.

The other day the headline was: “Brad and Angie’s Nanny Tells All!” Who could pass THAT up? So I hopped on the treadmill, flipped to the page, and started to read. (You can get the highlights here.) Among the nanny’s SHOCKING allegations were -- are you ready?

- The kids (6 of them under age 9) fight and squabble.

- The older kids have potty mouths.

- The house is often chaotic and messy.

- Shiloh, the 4 y.o. tomboy, gets lots of bruises and scrapes.

- Knox, the 2 y.o. boy, has to be watched 24/7 or he’ll wander off and get into trouble.

- The parents are powerless to enforce “the simplest things, like making the kids sleep in their own beds.”

- Angelina once called Brad in tears, begging him to come home and help with the kids.

These astounding revelations left me with a single question: have the hard-hitting journalists who wrote this story ever actually MET a child before?

Even the more “insidious” claims, like that the kids drink wine, eat only junk food, and watch R-rated movies are questionable. Apparently Angelina let her 7 y.o. taste some wine. Shocker!! They live in Europe, people. And I’ve let my kids taste coffee and beer. (Well, “let” is the wrong word. I stood by as they grabbed my cup and took a swig. They learned their lesson, though.)

As for the junk food, well, people who live in cardboard Chick-fil-A houses shouldn’t cast stones, as they say. Really, the only thing that I found objectionable was the part about the R-rated movies. As I know from our “Toy Story 3” debacle with my 4 y.o., you never know what will traumatize a kid. Better stick to cartoons.

This story got me thinking. If I was a celebrity and one of our disgruntled household staffers wanted to tell all, what would they say?

- She lets her 4 y.o. wear only sweat pants and shorts. She’s unable to control his temper tantrums over collared shirts and corduroys.

- The kids regularly go to school with their underwear on backwards and oatmeal crusted on their face.

- She never, ever brushes her kids’ hair.

- The baby eats food off the floor.

- The parents are always fighting over whose turn it is to empty the dishwasher.

Are you shocked? Scandalized? Well, that’s not even the half of it, people. Good thing I’m not a celebrity, huh?

Babies and Beer Bottles Don’t Mix

2010-10-24T18:22:00.005-05:00

If you’re squeamish about blood, stop reading now. But if you’re a mom, you’ve probably encountered more blood than Freddy Krueger. And if you haven’t yet, you will.

I hate to break it to you, but kids get hurt. If they’re anything like my boys, they get hurt A LOT.

The other day we were playing in our yard enjoying the beautiful fall weather. Riley, 20 mos., aka “Dr. Destructo,” went up on the porch to grab his toy lawnmower. Only he got distracted – by a broken beer bottle in the recycling bin which he promptly put in his mouth and took a swig from. Blood, hysterics, and panic ensued.

In case you’re thinking, “What kind of a dumb-a** leaves broken bottles around?” let me just say we had recently moved the recycling bin outside thinking it was safer there than in the kitchen. The porch isn’t a place where the boys play. Or so I thought.

And anyway, my sons have injured themselves on steps, doors, bookcases, bathtubs, and plenty of other nonthreatening household objects. So unless I want to outfit them with bubble-wrap coveralls and football helmets for the rest of their childhoods, they’re gonna get hurt.

ALL kids get hurt. It’s a fact of life. You can babyproof your house up to the rafters and your child will probably still manage to injure himself. (Remind me to tell you about the time Miles got his head stuck in a kitchen chair.) You can’t protect kids from every possible danger. (But you should totally try. Maybe if you start early enough, babies get used to wearing helmets and bubble-wrap.)

Believe it or not, I used to be so uncomfortable with blood, needles, and all things ER-related that I would pass out at the mere thought of it. I’m not kidding. I actually wrote an article about my condition, which is called “vasovagal syncope” and is more common than you’d think.

Needless to say, post-kids I’ve gotten used to the sight of blood. When your child’s bleeding from the mouth, you don’t have the luxury of fainting. You spring into action with washcloths, Popsicles, and calls to the pediatrician.

The first time my older son cut himself (on a doorframe), I rushed him to the ER, called my husband to leave work, and endured hours of X-rays and doctors. He was fine. Now that I’m on Kid #2, I’m no longer so quick to panic.

I know now, for example, that mouth injuries often look worse than they are because the blood mixes with saliva. I know that a split lip doesn’t necessarily need stitches unless the cut crosses the lip line or doesn’t stop bleeding after 30 min. I know that you have 5 hours to decide whether to get stitches or not. (After that, it’s too late.) And I know that Popsicles are a godsend for kids who scream at the sight of an icepack. (Although when blood mixes with a green Incredible Hulk Popsicle, it’s not pretty.)

It’s awful, it’s heartbreaking, it’s upsetting when your baby hurts himself. You feel like the worst mother ever. But it’ll be OK. Like they say, kids are resilient. And what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. And anything else people say in these situations that sounds wise.

All I know is, I should buy stock in Batman band-aids and Flavor-Ice. And at least I don’t have to worry about fainting at the doctor's anymore.

FLICK O' THE WEEK: I finally saw "Babies," the documentary about the first year of life for 4 babies around the world. Adorable and awe-inspiring. And I guess I can't get too worked about a beer bottle if moms in Africa are shaving their infants' heads with giant buck knives.

‘Don’t Leave Us with the Babies!’

2010-10-20T12:25:00.005-05:00

Remember this AirTran commercial? Hilarious! I thought of it when C. and I went away recently to celebrate our 7th anniversary. This is the first time I’ve left my second-born overnight, and the first time we’ve gone away by ourselves since the last time, over 2.5 years ago when we only had one kid. (Can that be right?!)

Let me reiterate what I said then: IT IS SO WORTH IT. Do it! Go! Now!! Beg your friends, family, neighbors, really, anyone who passes a background check to babysit so you can go away with your sweetie for at least 24 consecutive hours.

You will need at least that long to progress through The 7 Stages of an Adults-Only Getaway:

Stage 1: Reluctance. I don’t know... Do you think your parents really want to watch the kids or are they just being polite? Can they really handle it? They haven’t been around a toddler in a while… We probably shouldn’t spend the money. I’m too tired to stay out late, anyway.

Stage 2: Acceptance. So THAT’S the hotel you booked? Wow! It looks amazing. And you got us a reservation at that new restaurant? I’ve been wanting to try that place. I’m sure your parents will be fine. The kids are really excited about them coming.

Stage 3: Preparation. I’ll just throw a couple things in a bag for myself. Now, I need to get out the diapers, the wipes, the diaper cream, the overnight diapers, the other diaper cream, his blanket and teddy bear, 2 sets of pajamas, a couple of outfits, a jacket, a hat, the diaper bag, sippy cups – and, oh, the stuff for bathtime… Then for the OTHER one, there’s his medicine and inhaler, his soccer stuff, his helmet in case he wants to ride his bike… and, oh yeah, what about meals?

Stage 4: Execution. OK, here we go. Bye, kids! Be good! I can’t believe we’re doing this. I’m sure I forgot something crucial. Did I show them where the pacifiers are? What about the toddler toothpaste? The neighbors’ number in case of emergency? I know, I know, I need to relax. They’ll be fine. It’s just for one night.

Stage 5: Adjustment. Oh, wow! Look at this room! Look at that BED! There must be 10 pillows on there. I can’t believe we get to sleep in tomorrow! No kids climbing into bed with us at 5 a.m. whining for breakfast. And did you see the bathroom?! I am SO taking a nice, long, hot shower – with the door closed and no rubber duckies underfoot. You brought wine? Well, OK, sure. I guess I’ll have a glass. Even if it is only 4 p.m.

Stage 6: Enjoyment. Oh, my god. This is SO relaxing. I can’t believe we can just lie here for as long as we want, drinking wine and listening to music. No diapers to change, no laundry to do. Is this what we used to do before we had kids? Man, this is the life. And when we get ready to go out I can take my time for once. No one rummaging through my make-up bag or scorching themselves on the flat-iron. Heaven!

Stage 7: Reacclimation. I don’t know what I liked best – the sleeping in, having someone else make the bed and clean the room, or being able to have a complete conversation without being interrupted to yell at someone or wipe their butt or cut up their food. Can you believe we’re actually sitting here calmly having breakfast and reading the paper?! I KNOW! I guess we should get back, though, huh? OK, after this next cup of coffee. Pass me the Style section, would you?

LINK O’ THE WEEK: We stayed at the Hotel Brexton in Baltimore, which is a newly renovated historic hotel that was once home to Duchess of Windsor Wallis Simpson. The rooms are really unique and beautifully decorated in hip, modern décor. My one quibble: some robes would have been nice to really amp up the relaxation quotient.

An Attitude of Gratitude

2010-10-17T14:22:00.004-05:00

Gratitude is a big buzzword these days, isn’t it? Everyone from Oprah to the cashier at the grocery store constantly reminds us to count our blessings. (Usually when your child is having a full-on nuclear meltdown in the checkout line.)

Personally, I think telling people to be grateful works about as well as telling a kid to eat his vegetables.

The way I see it, gratitude is a process. The more you live and the more you experience, the more it dawns on you that you have it pretty good. Often, I realize how lucky I am only by comparing myself to other people. (GASP!! As big a no-no as being ungrateful, some would have you believe. But honestly, who DOESN’T compare themselves to others? How else would you know you look better in those jeans than your coworker?)

Let me give you some examples:

You might not feel lucky to gain 40 lbs., get stretch marks, and have nausea and heartburn for 9 mos. until you meet someone who can’t get pregnant.

You might not feel grateful for suffering through 2 days of labor, a botched epidural, and an episiotomy until you meet someone whose baby was stillborn.

You might not feel lucky to have a newborn who screams all day and all night until you know someone whose infant died of SIDS.

You might not feel grateful when your toddler starts climbing out of his crib and running into coffee tables until you meet someone whose child is developmentally delayed.

You might not feel grateful for your meddling parents and in-laws (not me!) until you meet someone who doesn’t have any parents.

You might not feel too grateful for your tiny, yard-less apartment until you meet someone who’s being eaten alive by their mortgage.

You might not feel grateful for your stressful, thankless job until you meet a mom who can’t afford to work. (That’s right, I said “can’t afford TO work” not “can’t afford NOT to work.” These people do exist, you know.)

Too often, I think gratitude goes hand-in-hand with guilt. We beat ourselves up because we should feel grateful for our healthy kids, our loving spouse, a roof over our heads, etc. And it becomes just another thing to feel bad about, another way we’re not measuring up.

But I find that if you let it, gratitude will sneak up on you when you least expect it. When your children are not fighting for once, say, and are sitting together watching TV. Or when your husband comes home early. Or when it’s a beautiful, sunny fall day and you’re sitting in the preschool pick-up line with the windows open and a good song comes on the radio.

Those are the moments when I think to myself, “This. For this, I am grateful.” No reminders from Oprah necessary.

LINK O’ THE WEEK: “The Prosperous Writer” Christina Katz recently invited writers to share their thoughts about gratitude. Read their responses here.

NEWS O’ THE WEEK: Speaking of Christina Katz, she and I are launching a new session of online writing classes starting Nov. 3! Six lessons in 6 weeks, all via e-mail so you can participate anywhere, anytime. The focus is on getting published, and boy, are our students getting published! In national and regional magazines, alumni publications, web sites, and more.

The deadline to register is Oct. 26, so act now if you want a spot. Class sizes are limited so students can get individual attention and critiques of their writing. Christina’s “Writing & Publishing the Short Stuff” is designed specifically for moms with busy lives.

My first-ever advanced class, “Personal Essays that Get Published: Level 2” is designed for my previous students who want to delve in deeper to this ever-popular genre. Join me! The class is a blast, trust me. :) Go here for more info and to register.

Is That the Baby's Nose?!

2010-10-13T10:41:00.002-05:00

Come on, admit it. When you saw your unborn child's sonogram picture did you think he/she looked a teensy bit funny? OK, maybe not at the first sonogram when you're just so thrilled to see an actual baby in there, but in the later pictures when the baby's really squished up? Our sonogram technician actually laughed out loud. She had a point, but still.

If Tori Spelling and I can cop to it, so can you. Read more about sonogram shallowness at TheBump.com:

Marriage & Butter

2010-10-10T20:03:00.004-05:00

This week my husband and I celebrate 7 years of marriage. If I’ve learned anything, it’s that “for better” is so much better than I could have imagined, and that no one gets a pass on “for worse.” But 7 years is nothing compared to 30 years, which is how long my parents have been married. So I thought I’d share a story my mom shared with me before my wedding.

“A Cautionary Tale”

Family Circle magazine would have newlyweds believe that the first year of marriage is a minefield set to explode with arguments over money, sex, and in-laws. But I’m here to prove them wrong. The bomb that first went off in our marriage was caused by butter.

It was the summer of 1970—no one had even thought to worry about cholesterol and fat in the diet. Your father and I had just arrived in [our new hometown]—new to living together, new to his job at X College and mine at Y High, and new to our borrowed row-house.

This Saturday morning we had just unpacked the large skillet, and your father, in enthusiastic homage to your Grandpa’s family tradition, had made us pancakes. The aroma of Aunt Jemima’s batter wafted pleasantly from the kitchen; we felt finally “settled” as Mr. and Mrs.

Four hot pancakes sat invitingly on my plate. First, I sliced three pats of butter and inserted them neatly between the layers. Then I put a fourth pat on the side of the plate—so I wouldn’t have to chirp “pass the butter, please” later in the meal.

Just as I lifted the first bite to my mouth, your father looked up and gasped, “You’re going to eat all that butter? How disgusting!”

I was stunned. I loved butter. My mother loved butter (it was she who had taught me to freeze it by the pound). My whole family loved butter. And here was my new husband—attacking me for a lifetime habit, this deep link with my past!

I leapt up angrily and ran out of the house. How dare he pass judgment! What business of his was it what I ate? Who did he think he was! By the time I hit the end of the street and started down the hill to walk by the river, I’d decided I’d made a terrible mistake: I should never have gotten married at all.

An hour later I returned to the house. By that time I was worn out and sad. Mostly I just felt deeply alone. When I entered, there stood your father—cold pancakes and syrup dried to both plates beside him.

“I’m sorry!” he said. “I shouldn’t have said that. If you want to eat butter, go right ahead. You can eat all you want to!”

The incident didn’t blow over quite so easily, for I was skittish about eating butter around your father for years. But we both learned a lesson about marriage that day. Even a trifle like butter can have deep feelings attached to it. So partners must learn to judge each other with care.

-- By Grandma2Miles (& Riley)

Baby No. 2 is No. 1 for a Day

2010-10-07T12:23:00.005-05:00

My second-born child, Riley, does not get a lot of one-on-one time. Whether we’re reading books before bed or cuddling on the couch, his big brother, Miles, is usually right in the middle of the action. Even when I was nursing (ESPECIALLY when I was nursing), Miles would manage to insert himself into things. Poor Riley doesn’t even get to bathe by himself.

Honestly, this hasn’t concerned me much. After all, Riley doesn’t know any different. That’s the way it’s been since the day he was born. And he doesn’t seem to mind. His big brother is one of his 3 favorite people in the world. (The other 2 change depending on whose plate he’s trying to mooch off of.)

I’ve been much more concerned about my first-born feeling displaced or left out since the baby arrived, so I’ve gone overboard trying to make sure Miles has plenty of Mom-and-me time. Like the day I took him out for a special birthday breakfast. Except he pouted, refused to eat his pancakes, and said, “I wish Riley was here. It would be more funner.” So much for that.

But last week Riley and I went on our own little adventure, just the 2 of us. A friend from college was throwing a birthday party for her 1-year-old daughter, whom I’d never met. The chance to see my friend, meet her baby, AND buy some cute girl clothes? Done!

The only catch was that C. and Miles couldn't go and the party was a 1.5-hour drive away. The thought of spending 3+ hours alone in the car with Riley was daunting. And by "daunting" I mean that a combination root canal and bikini wax was more appealing. This child can scream loud enough to be heard in the next Zip code, and I would be contained inside a small metal box with him?!

I started preparing days in advance. I packed his CDs, books, snacks, drinks, and a special bag full of “car toys.” (Ones that didn’t make obnoxious noises or require parental assistance.) I mapped out our route, and an alternate route. I got a good night’s sleep and fueled up with a nutritious breakfast. Like I was preparing to go off to war. And then, we were off.

A few minutes into the trip, I glanced in the rearview mirror. Riley was sitting quietly in his carseat, gazing out the window. Occasionally he’d point out a truck (“cuck!”) or a bus. This continued for miles. I braced myself for the screaming and whining, but they never came. Even when we hit traffic and barely moved for 5 miles. And when we got to the party, he let me hold him and introduce him to strangers. He played, he ate cake, he let me change his diaper on a picnic table -- with no drama, no struggles, no meltdowns.

Who WAS this child?! If you know anything about Riley from this blog, you know that he is not a calm, quiet, easy-going baby. He’s the complete OPPOSITE. He can shatter glass with a single scream. Goes from zero to tantrum in 2 seconds. Destroys household items with his bare hands.

Except on this day. This remarkable, unprecedented day when he was on his own. No big brother to antagonize him. No dad to divide his attention. No one to fight with for toys or food. Only Riley and Mommy, together. Just the 2 of us.

READ O’ THE WEEK: For you writers out there, “A working mother's guide to writing a novel.” So it CAN be done…

Man Hungry. Must Eat Now.

2010-10-04T19:07:00.003-05:00

There’s just no way to approach this topic without making someone mad, so I’m just going to come right out and say it: what is UP with guys and their food?

Picture it: dinnertime, and the kids are going crazy. The baby is screaming and pulling on Mom’s leg as she wills the pasta to cook faster, FASTER, dammit!! The preschooler has collapsed in tears from low blood sugar, yet refuses any healthy snack offered to him to tide him over the approximately 7 minutes until dinner’s ready.

Into this scene walks Dad. Greeting his family briefly, Dad strides into the kitchen, fixes himself a plate, sits down, and eats his food. Oblivious to the World War III scenario going on around him. Unmoved by his children's cries. Unaware that his wife is frantically juggling chicken nuggets and sippy cups in an attempt to feed the animals before they attack. I ask you again, what is UP with this?!

Now, lest you think this is a thinly-veiled reproach of my own husband, I assure you I have conducted extensive field research on this issue. (And by that I mean I have bitched about it to all my closest mom friends.) This behavior is rampant, people. There’s a particularly high instance in households with small, needy, excessively screamy children.

My first theory is, it’s a survival instinct. Cavemen undoubtedly learned to feed themselves first, so that if a wooly mammoth attacked while they were feeding the cavebaby his strained peas (or whatever cavebabies ate), the caveman would have enough strength to protect his family. Makes sense, right?

Somehow, the 21st century suburban Dad held on to this survival instinct, and so his first thought upon entering his ~~cave~~ home at night is not, “How can I be most helpful to my wife?” or “Let me assist in expediting the feeding of my offspring in the hopes of quelling their discomfort.” Instead, it’s, “Me hungry. Must eat now.”

Believe it or not, I see this instinct as enviable, not (entirely) selfish. I WISH I could tune out the screaming and whining and “I want JUICE, not milk, Mama!” It would glorious if I could actually sit down and eat when I was hungry. Can you imagine?

Not choking down a handful of animal crackers or sneaking a spoonful of Nutella while I race to cool the peas and throw them onto the highchair tray. Not imitating a Jack-in-the-Box as I jump up and down to respond to every single request for another drink, an extra napkin, the Elmo fork, help cutting their food, etc., etc., while my own food congeals into a cold blob on my plate, untouched.

I wish I could put my own needs first and teach my children to wait patiently while I prepare their food. But I don’t think that’s happening anytime soon.

In the meantime, as one similarly-plagued friend put it, “Why don’t guys just eat a snack on their way home from work?” Now THERE’S an idea. Might I suggest something more fortifying than animal crackers?

RECIPE O’ THE WEEK: This is a tasty vegetarian dish that comes together fairly quickly and even my 19 m.o. will eat: “Orzo with Tomato and Fried Tofu.” Pan-fried tofu is mixed with orzo, fresh diced tomatoes, lemon and basil, then sprinkled with feta cheese.

The Naked Truth

2010-10-01T12:28:00.004-05:00

I have a problem with public nudity. There, I said it. At my gym there are 4 “privacy stalls,” I guess you could call them, in the women’s locker room -- curtained-off areas where you can change without exposing yourself to a room full of strangers. You better believe I make use of them.

But each time I do, I feel a little bit silly about it. I mean, what’s my problem? We’re all women. I don’t have anything they haven’t seen before. Plus, I have 2 small kids, so I’m used to having an audience at all times, even in the bathroom.

I certainly wasn’t raised to be ultra-modest. We lived in Europe for a while when I was little and public nudity was the norm there. This did cause a traumatic episode at swim lessons when I returned to the States, however. I went parading out to the pool with no top on. What?! I was 6, people!

Still, it naturally caused a huge commotion and I was humiliated and forced to wear a smelly, too-big one-piece from the lost & found and still blame my mother to this day. Hmmm, maybe we’re getting somewhere on this nudity issue…

Part of the problem is that I go to the same gym as some of my son’s classmates’ moms. I don’t want to be standing around in my birthday suit talking to a naked acquaintance about who’s bringing what to the PTA picnic. It’s just awkward.

Since my kids are 4 and 1, it’s not like they have any problem walking around naked. In fact, they prefer it. That’s all well and good at home. (Although it does lead to some interesting rules I never thought I’d have to spell out, such as, “You’re only allowed to touch your own pee-pee.”)

But what about when we’re in the locker room at swimming lessons? More than once I’ve had to clamp a towel around my 4-y.o. to keep him from doing naked gymnastics 2 ft. away from the seniors getting changed for water aerobics. Not cute.

As for those brazen women who have no qualms about strutting around buck-naked even when there are kids around? Fine, but don’t act surprised when a short person in a swim diaper gets up close and personal. He’s just curious. This is doubly true if you have any cartoon characters tattooed in unusual places.

I swear the baby was pointing and laughing at some old lady’s bosom the other day. What am I supposed to say? “Sorry, he’s never seen boobs that look like that before. Carry on!”

Let’s all do ourselves a favor and cover up, OK? Think of the children.

PIC O’ THE WEEK: I have tons, but even I know better than to put naked pictures of my kids online. Your loss, Internet!!

Is Being a WAHM Bad for Business?

2010-09-28T09:29:00.004-05:00

OK, so I promised I would discuss That Chapter of the book I wrote about in a recent post. (Although, surprisingly, @UnMarketing has so far been UnResponsive to my review of his book. Hmm...)

Anyway, the chapter is titled “Why Being a Work-at-Home Mom Is Bad for Business.” In it, the author says “claiming that you work from home, especially if you have children, can give people the perception that they may not be your priority as clients.” He later adds, “If you mention you have three kids under six years old and you’re homeschooling them, then I question when the work for me, the work I need done and am paying you to do, is going to get done.”

The thing is: he’s not wrong. I do think it’s unprofessional to conduct business while your children run amok and shriek in the background. Hello? That’s what babysitters (and TV) are for.

That said, there are a lot of different work-at-home scenarios. For instance, you could be:

- A fulltime, salaried employee who works in an office except when your kid’s sick or you have a childcare crisis and are forced to work from home.*

- A salaried employee who works full- or part-time at home while your children are at school or being cared for by someone else.

- A freelancer or other self-employed person who works at home while your children are at school, asleep, or being cared for by someone else.

- A freelancer or other self-employed person who works at home but doesn’t see the need--or doesn’t want to pay for--childcare.

This last group seems to be the one the author is describing. And these people? Are delusional. (I'm talking about people in my situation who have toddlers, not teenagers.)

Look, I can understand the motivation. If you’re a freelancer, you essentially work on commission. Or, to put it another way, you only eat what you kill. It makes budgeting tough. So the strategy of trying to squeeze in as much work as you can with as little paid childcare as possible is understandable. But it’s hard. Trust me, I know.

If you work in a laid-back field or with other at-home parents, it might not be a big deal. You might even be blessed with understanding clients who don’t care if “Spongebob” blares in the background. I had one such client who said he didn’t mind. But *I* minded. I knew I wouldn’t be able to concentrate fully and give him the attention his project deserved. So I scheduled our call for another time.

I’ve had to make some serious sacrifices to be a WAHM. I gave up my office space, which I rented with a couple other self-employed folks. I work very limited hours right now, and feel the pinch in my paycheck. I have all but given up projects that require phone interviews, for the above reasons.

Also, when you work from home there’s always the chance that a snow day or a nap boycott will derail your day. If you’re on deadline, you’re up a creek. Remember the blizzard of 2010? I worked my BUTT off to make sure I met my deadlines and delivered what I’d promised my clients. It was hell. But I did it.

If you read the entire chapter in “UnMarketing” (all 2 pages of it), it’s clear the author is really saying, don’t lead with the fact that you’re a WAHM in your marketing materials. I agree. I said as much to fellow writer and WAHM Angie Mizzell in her latest article for Hybrid Mom: I don’t advertise the fact that I'm a WAHM, but if it comes up I'll mention it.

And it turns out it's not such a big deal if you meet your deadlines and do good work. Meetings with one of my favorite clients usually start with a discussion about our kids. It’s a great way to connect before we get down to business. And after all, as a wise man once said, people do business with people they know, trust, and like. ;)

*BTW, this group has provided some of my favorite blog posts ever. Check out Not Mommy of the Year’s “A Taste of Work at Home” and PineappleBabble’s “SAHM.” LOL!

Portrait By a Young Artist

2010-09-24T12:13:00.003-05:00

Can we talk about this picture for a minute? My 4 y.o. came home from preschool with it the other day and it’s been adorning our kitchen wall ever since.

The boy is getting to be quite the artist, I’ll give him that. It wasn’t so long ago he was bringing home deformed blobs of Play-Doh dotted with buttons and macaroni and pronouncing it “birthday cake.”

What gets me is the level of detail in his family portrait. He’s colored himself green (his favorite shade), aptly depicted his baby brother with red hair, and even included his dad’s Adam’s apple. And yet he couldn’t even give HIS OWN MOM hair or a nose?!

Now, I do like how he drew me with blue feet. Perhaps that’s a nod to my stylish footwear. But what’s with the crazy, bendy pose at the top of the page? Is this symbolic of how I bend over backwards for my family? How I tie myself in knots to cater to my kids? Or did he (more likely) simply run out of room after drawing the rest of the family? Thanks, kid. Thanks a lot.

It’s like the time he gave me a Mother’s Day card with what I thought was a lovingly rendered portrait of his mom. Nope. He set me straight: “It’s a candy machine.”

Of course, his Father’s Day card WAS adorned with a picture of his dad … and his dad’s smelly sneakers, complete with wavy lines to illustrate how the stench was wafting out of the shoes. Very life-like.

Miles’ favorite things to draw, however, seem to be animals. There was his koala period, when every marsupial was, oddly, drawn with a belly button. Dogs and cats are popular subjects. Then he moved on to his licensed-character phase: Mickey Mouse, Kung Fu Panda, and the Pink Panther. (Or, when he can’t find a pink marker, the Purple Panther.)

At age 4, my boy is certainly a prolific artist. Now the only question is, what do I do with all this artwork? I’m running out of room on the fridge. Maybe if he’d draw a decent picture of ME sometime, I’d even get it framed.

LINK O’ THE WEEK: Minky Moo’s portrait of another young artist, aka The Boss.

Babies and Business Books

2010-09-22T09:20:00.006-05:00

If you don’t know who Scott Stratten is, he’s like the Justin Bieber of social media. Except he’s an adult and his haircut doesn’t make me want to punch someone.

He’s what business-types call an “influencer,” which means he has a lot of followers on Twitter (@unmarketing). And you know how I love my Twitter. I forget how he got on my radar but I really started paying attention when he launched this video for one of his clients: www.ReflectionsofMotherhood.com

Stratten has a new book out called “UnMarketing.” I bought it for myself and my husband because we often sit up late at night discussing the Internet and how to be successful while remaining authentic to our true selves. And also, whose turn it is to empty the diaper pail.

You may be surprised that I read business books. After all, I spend much of my time chronicling my baby’s (ill-timed) bowel movements and making dance videos of my preschooler. What can I say? I’m a multifaceted person.

In addition to being a mom, I am self-employed as a freelance writer, editor, and writing instructor. My first boss -- who, incidentally, was also named Scott -- always told me I was destined to be an entrepreneur. Maybe it was because of my inappropriate office-wear (Doc Martens and mini kilts) rather than my passion and business savvy, but whatever.

In a way, he was right. Sure, he may have imagined me running a publishing empire like him rather than writing about baby poo in my pajamas. But to each her own, right?

Anyway, in between diapers, I read up on engaging with the marketplace and building my platform. I know how to throw around terms like “out of pocket” and “paradigm shift.” (Even though I really hate people who do.)

And part of what I like about Stratten’s book is that he DOESN’T bombard you with business jargon. (Except for the “pull and stay,” which sounds like a dog-training technique if you ask me.) He writes like (I imagine) he speaks, and it’s easy for regular people like me to understand. Also, he’s funny. Even his FOOTNOTES are funny. And I can tell you from years of copyediting, that’s a feat.

The book spends a lot of time discussing social media and why you should care about it. It also includes many eye-opening examples of what businesses like Walmart and Zappos.com are doing right… and wrong.

My one criticism is that it’s not clear exactly who the book’s intended audience is. As someone who considers herself more a creative type than a business person, I could’ve skipped the chapters on trade shows and teleseminars. But let’s face it: I’m as much a capitalist as the next gal. Baby needs a new pair of Crocs, people! And titanium strollers don’t grow on trees.

Stratten does use some examples that ARE relevant to me, like the Motrin mom ad campaign debacle, and how and why viral videos work. (Because I genuinely did wonder how a video could sell nursing bras.)

But my biggest take-away was from his chapter on experts. “When you position yourself as an expert with useful information for people,” writes Stratten, “your marketplace will always have a need for that information.” Notice he says AN expert, not THE expert.

I can get behind that. After all, I am something of an expert on this mom stuff. For instance:

I know that orange juice needs to be served in a straw-top cup, not a sippy cup, because the pulp will block the holes.

I know that there’s a big difference between creamy Desitin and original Desitin. (You want original, which is the thick, white paste.)

I know that skipping a kid’s nap is ALWAYS a bad idea.

And after 14+ years as a freelance writer, yeah, I’d say I’m an expert on that, too. I know that I am a skilled wordsmith with something valuable to offer clients, even if I make PB&J’s between business calls.

So thanks, Scott(s), for the encouragement and insights. For a couple of business-types, you’re all right.

FIGHTIN’ WORDS O’ THE WEEK: Oh, we WILL talk about Stratten’s chapter, “Why Being a Work-at-Home-Mom Is Bad for Business,” mark my words. That’s a whole separate post...

You Brought a Baby Where?!

2010-09-19T17:33:00.007-05:00

Sometimes I see people with a brand-new baby in a wildly inappropriate place -- like, say, a baseball game or a bar -- and I wonder whether those parents were so desperate to regain some semblance of their former life that they thought, "Intense sun exposure and second-hand smoke be damned, we're bringing the baby!"

Now, I'm not one to talk. My son's very first outing was to an Irish pub to celebrate my birthday. We sat on the patio and propped him up next to a pint of Guinness for a photo opp. But at some point I realized that nursing in the car and changing diapers in ridiculously inconvenient changing stations in dirty public bathrooms was not how I wanted to spend my time.

Besides, while newborns are quite portable and often quiet, babies that are a little older are not. When Miles was about 5 mos. old we took him to a museum, where he screeched and bellowed the whole time because he liked the way it echoed throughout the silent, marble-floored galleries. Shockingly, no one asked us if we were interested in a museum membership that day.

If you feel you MUST get off the couch and out of your sweatpants for an outing with a small baby, here are some suggestions:

A street fair. If it’s not too hot or too crowded, an afternoon of al-fresco people-watching is a new-parent friendly activity. Especially if you carry your baby in a sling or carrier so you don’t have to worry about running into people’s ankles with a stroller. Of course, you must accept the inherent risks of eating street food and using a Porta-potty. Tip: bring lots of hand sanitizer.

An outdoor concert. And I don’t mean a Metallica cover band in a liquor-store parking lot. I’m thinking more along the lines of smooth jazz under the stars or Mozart in the park. Around here, there’s a popular Friday-night concert series with family-friendly reggae and Jimmy Buffet-type bands. Although, again: Porta-potties.

The zoo. If your baby’s old enough to see more than a foot in front of his face, he may enjoy looking at wildlife, especially animals like elephants and giraffes that are large enough for him to actually see. Or, he may be terrified of the chimpanzees. You won’t know till you try.

The mall. So it’s not exotic or educational. At least they have refreshments and indoor bathrooms. Plus, if there’s a Nordstrom’s or another upscale department store, you may find a clean, comfortable “mother’s room” where you can feed and change your baby without gagging.

Avoid places that are quiet and frequented by lots of old people. That may be the day your precious little one gets colic. And note that some places (like the aquarium in our city) ban strollers, so you may have to haul your hefty tot around in your arms all day.

If you really want my opinion, I say stay home. There will come a time soon enough when you’ll have to take your child to such insidious places as Chuck-E-Cheese and Gymboree. Why rush things?

LINK O' THE WEEK: For club-kids who grew up and had their own kids, Baby Loves Disco is like a nightclub for tots. Only during the day. And with snacks. I like the idea, but when it came to my area it was $60+ for a family of 4. Too steep, IMO. But check out the tour dates -- in some places it's free.

You're a Good Mom. And You and You, Too

2010-09-15T14:12:00.005-05:00

Among the moms I know, it’s common practice to make fun of yourself for being a bad mom. “That’s me -- Mom of the Year!” we might joke after sending our kid to school with their shirt on inside out. Baby has a diaper blowout and you forgot to pack a spare outfit? Bad Mommy!

I get it. It’s self-deprecating. It’s funny. Lord knows I’m guilty of it. (PROUD of it, even!) But do we really believe deep down that we’re not good mothers? I sometimes wonder.

So I’ve decided to highlight a few good moms I know. And there’s not a woman among them whose kids are always perfectly dressed and eat all their vegetables.

One mom I know is great about taking time for herself. A busy working mom with the same time and budget constraints as the rest of us, she’s not immune to guilt or blessed with live-in help. She simply recognizes that she’s a better mom when she takes time for herself and so she makes it happen, whether it’s a manicure or a weekend away with girlfriends.

Another mom I know is great about letting her kids get dirty. Even if she’s just bathed them, even if they’re wearing nice clothes, she will let them jump in puddles, dig in the mud, and eat cherry Popsicles. She lets her kids be kids. As someone whose heart clenches each time my child uncaps a marker (even if it’s washable), I really admire that.

Then there’s the woman who has rejected the notion of mom as cruise director. She engages with her kids, but she does not make herself responsible for their happiness. If she wants to read a book or do some gardening, she does. It’s up to her kids to find something to do on their own. And if they complain they’re bored, she lets them be bored. But you know what? They rarely are.

Lastly, props to the mom who gave me the idea for this post, E.M. She’s a devoted stay-at-home mom to 3 who knows exactly how hard this gig is. So she makes a point of telling her friends they’re good moms. (And dads, too. She’s an equal opportunity praise-giver.) If you explain the lengths you went to to put together the perfect Halloween costume or birthday party, she says, “You’re such a good mom.” If you notice your child has a boogie and wipe it away before he snurfs it back in, she says, “You’re a good mom.”

It’s nice to hear, but I don’t always need someone to tell me. I KNOW I’m a good mom. Even though I forget to sign up my kid for soccer and count sweet potato chips as a vegetable. I love my kids to death and they know it. And I’ll bet yours do, too.

READ O’ THE WEEK: My perennial fave, Alisa Bowman of Project Happily Ever After, on “9 Ways I’m a Normal Mom and Wife.”

Wardrobe Malfunction

2010-09-12T20:40:00.004-05:00

Good-bye, shrunken T-shirts. Farewell, faded cargo pants. Good riddance, bleach-stained warmup jacket. Yes, people, this weekend I decided to—wait for it—OVERHAUL MY WARDROBE.

If you can use the word “wardrobe” to describe my pathetic collection of mismatched clearance-rack finds, are-they-or-aren’t-they maternity shirts, and rarely-worn formal wear.

I don’t have an event to go to or an ex-boyfriend to impress. It’s just that I reached the tipping point, probably when I realized I was wearing a holey T-shirt my husband brought home from a business trip to Las Vegas...5 years ago.

So I set out for the outlet mall, blissfully solo. The last time I spent an entire day shopping for myself was 2008. I came home with tons of stuff for my son, but barely a single outfit for me. Other ill-fated shopping trips include the time I went in search of skinny jeans. I consider just buying a couple of accessories at Target a big deal.

First of all, shopping takes time. The walking around, the trying stuff on, the bathroom breaks, the refueling at the food court… But funny thing -- if you’re not weighed down with a stroller, diaper bag, a couple of kids, and a bazillion snacks, you can actually zip in and out of stores rather quickly.

Have you noticed that a lot of outlets are not really outlets? They either sell the same stuff as the regular store (at the same slightly discounted prices) or they sell lower quality stuff made specifically for the outlet store. (Yes, you, J. Crew.) But there are still a few true bargains out there and I scored some big ones. I’m talking 70% off, under $10, big-name brands, too.

My best haul was from Eddie Bauer. I know!! You’re thinking frumpy, outdoorsy, flannel and plaid, right? Wrong. They’ve made themselves over, like Banana Republic and J. Crew. I found embellished T-shirts, dark-wash denim trousers, and cute cords. The biggest compliment was when I tried on my purchases for my hubs at home and he said, “Nice. That looks like Anthropologie.” (Yeah, he’s got a little metro in him.)

And you can’t go wrong at the Loft (which, strangely, seems to have dropped the “Ann Taylor” from its name). Love their basic tees and accessories.

OK, OK, I couldn’t resist the Gymboree outlet. But I only bought one shirt for each kid, I swear!

When I got home, I tried on all my new clothes with stuff I already had. I “shopped my closet” as the fashion experts on the makeover shows say. And what do you know? Once I weeded out all the ill-fitting Old Navy crap, I actually have some cute things! Who knew a couple “statement necklaces,” colorful scarves, and fitted jackets could transform this frumpy soccer mom into a suburban fashionista?

But I’m hanging onto the Las Vegas T-shirt. I mean, let’s not go too crazy. I still spend half my life at the playground, you know.

For the Real New Moms

2010-09-08T09:47:00.006-05:00

I’d like to apologize. I’ve gotten a bunch of new readers lately and judging by their profiles, a number of them are, you guessed it, new moms or about to be. Probably lured in by my blog name or Twitter handle, @DiaryofaNewMom. And then they come here and find posts about preschool and writing classes and an 18 m.o.’s shenanigans. No breastfeeding tips or sleep-deprivation horror stories. No picks for the best stroller or baby food recipes.

I’m sorry about that. Really, I am. See, when I started this blog I was pregnant with my first child –- eons ago, it seems -– and I never DREAMED I would still be writing it all these years later. And yet, I’m too lazy to start over. And I’ve built up a nice little following. And I’ve got some really good stuff in my archives, I swear!

But I owe it to those real new moms among you to at least TRY to get back in touch with my roots. So here we go...

To be honest, my blog was pretty boring in the beginning. I only posted once a week and I didn’t know how to upload pictures. You can get the Cliff’s Notes version of my first 9 mos. in this Pregnancy Recap. (Bonus: includes photo of my 41-weeks-pregnant belly!) Link-hop to your heart’s content.

Then there is Birth Story #1 (aka, “When Hypnobirthing Goes Wrong”) and Birth Story #2 (aka, “When Epidurals Don’t Work, Part 2”).

You might be interested in my Top 5 Baby Buys. And also, Firsts for New Moms. And I’m not talking about first smile, first tooth, or first steps.

Also for your reading pleasure, there’s Confessions of a New Mom (I’ve since added several that are SO much worse than these), A Week in the Life of a New Mom, and It Gets Easier. (Except, of course, when it gets harder.)

And if you’re feeling like a bad mom and need a boost, there’s Baby’s First Chipped Tooth and Baby’s First Trip to the ER. But remember, that “perfect” mom with the “perfect” life? May not be what she seems. I promise you, someone out there is jealous of YOU.

Oh, OK. If you’re looking for sleep-deprivation horror stories, I’m happy to oblige -- Baby: 165, Mom: 0. Believe it or not, you really will sleep again. Someday.

Don’t forget to check out the Popular Posts tab for the inside scoop on pregnancy butt, milestones, losing the baby weight, and the ever-popular Saga of the Skinny Jeans. You know you wanna.

PRODUCTS O’ THE WEEK: I don’t do paid product reviews but I have no problem recommending stuff I like. IMO, Johnson’s makes the best nursing pads and Medela Quick Clean microwave steam-cleaning bags are a godsend for sterilizing pump parts, bottles, and pacifiers.

Oh, I almost forgot -- savvy reader B.R. tipped me off to the launch of Forever 21 Maternity. Let's set aside for a moment whether this is going to encourage a new generation of Bristol Palins and just enjoy the cheap, stylish maternity wear, shall we? I like H&M and Target for maternity clothes, too.