February 8, 2010

No Day But Today

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I have a distinct memory of a conversation I had with my parents when I was around 15 years old.  I was going through the usual teenage angst – probably some blendered version of boy, school, hair and friend drama (or more likely something less significant), and my parents were trying to talk to me about how I was feeling (or was it my attitude. . . I can’t remember).  Through tears and sufficient melodrama, I said to my parents, “I just want to be where you are!  Your life is set!  You don’t have to worry about school, or what you want to do for your career, or meeting someone to marry, or any of that!  You’re done!”  And with that, my father took a fit of laughter that lasted a solid five minutes.  As I reflect on this conversation (which my father is only too happy to remind me of whenever the mood strikes), I am thinking that my parents were only a couple of years older than I am now when I came out with this gem two decades ago.  I cringe thinking about it – at the naivete of the entire sentiment – to be dumb enough to think that life gets easier instead of more complicated, or that anyone’s life is static and not in constant flux and evolution.  It is laughable, and I had it coming.

Why is it impossible to be in the moment and enjoy the stage you’re in while you’re in it?  Why must nostalgia always play a role in memories?  Why not soak it all in as you’re going through it?  Maybe most of you do this, and I’m just a person who needs some space from a phase before really appreciating it.  That, I don’t know.

I have a friend who’s an artist and much of her amazing work is like fuzzy snapshots in time in a way that romanticizes every scene she paints.  You don’t see the struggle behind the eyes of the subjects – no, you see a beautiful scene – not what it took to get there or what happened a moment after.  When I look backward in time in my own life, I see all good things that I experienced – everything I love and miss (I guess it is nice not to have regrets). When I look ahead, I see good times and years I’m looking forward to. When I look at today, I see a routine that I need to get through – diapers and bottles and tantrums and bathtime, and lots of laughs too, but in the midst of all that.  That is not fair. It’s not fair to my husband and children, and it’s not fair to me.  I’m cheating everyone. The time has come for me to be in the moment and appreciate how lucky I am and how great THIS DAY is. Time to remember that there are many people who would trade anything for two healthy children. Time to recognize that I will one day very soon say, “Just yesterday they were babies!”  Bravo to all of you who have this life lesson down pat. What good is getting where you want to be if you don’t enjoy the journey along the way?

Ok, I’m off to go snuggle with my girls and my husband on the couch. I spent a lot of time today making Superbowl snacks for all of us to enjoy on this quiet Sunday night – just the four of us. I hope they can taste that they were made with love. Their baths can wait a while. Tonight I’m going to live this memory.

 

February 5, 2010

Fast, Fast Forward

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There’s just not enough time. I say it every day, usually about work, or chores, or personal projects that I can’t even seem to write as a list to eventually check off. It drives me batty. I feel unfinished, at best, most days.

Every Thursday morning, around the time I awaken The Dervish, our trash and recycling is picked up. Which is an odd way to mark the passage of time, I know, but in contrast to the peace of sunrise and sleeping Dervish, the sound of those cans hitting the pavement reminds me that it was just last Thursday.

Out of nowhere, a memory of The Dervish, tiny, asleep on me, pushing off to stretch into an ‘S’, lips pouting, eyes still shut. Her proverbial ’snooze’ button just minutes before she’d awaken in those days, about 180 Thursdays ago.

Atticus was fond of a similar contortion, so for me, this means ‘baby under 4 months’.

Obviously, neither one of them do this anymore.A's foot

That shouldn’t be upsetting to me, because I’m not typically the kind of person who gushes at newborns. I get the innocence, and the beauty of a new person, and the squishiness and all that, but I found myself, with both kids, wishing that time away in favor of eye contact and strong neck muscles, then laughter and motion. And conversation.

So today I find myself amid 3 1/2 – an age where kids believe Little Bear really can fly up to the moon and are apt to tell you what happens when he lands – stories that last for days and days and diagram the chugging gears of preschool imagination. Also, 9 months – where purees give way to (surprisingly large) solid meals and every cognitive victory is an obvious celebration mirrored in bright, unaffected eyes.

I wanted this. I waited for this. I’m here.

But when I see The Dervish’s wrists and ankles popping out from cuffs, I already miss who she is today. Atticus rocks on his hands and knees, already bored with sitting. Too soon, he’ll move on to his next interest, and the next. Until he moves out of the house.

For a minute, I just want my babies back.

Tonight, I’m leaving the dinner dishes in the sink. There is no time to wash them, plain and simple.

 

February 3, 2010

After Work, Stupid.

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I still don’t get the competition that women put themselves in once they have a child.  You know what I mean…it starts with the “Are you nursing?” question, moves on ahead to “Are you making your own baby food?” and, for working moms, progresses to the question, “When do you see your kid(s)?”

I was asked that third question a little while ago, by a woman I don’t know very well.  A mutual friend asked how work was, I replied that it was busy, and mentioned that I – gasp! – go into the city every now and again for a full day.  She replied with a, “Wow, I could never miss out on my kids like that.” I had some benign response like, “I only go in once or twice a week, so it’s not too bad!”, but I was livid when I got home and wished I had said something a little sharper, a little more protective…something that would have let her know that she was a jerk for asking.

Millions of moms work full time.  In my community, many don’t, and it sometimes sets up a strange dichotomy between us.  Why, I ask?  Why do we, as women, set ourselves up for guilt?  Why do some thrive on their ability to make others feel less than because of their circumstances, even if they were chosen and not imposed?  I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again – we women should support each other, not tear each other down.  I have many friends who couldn’t be more supportive, and would gladly help me out if I was in a work-related bind.  I also know a few people who would relish the chance to talk about my close-to-late-pickup at the next neighborhood playdate.  Why?

I doubt that anyone has a truly perfect life, whether they are balancing work and home or juggling the demands that come with staying at home full time.  I doubt that any of us could live in a glass house, and could afford to throw stones at an acquaintance.  So, the next time you’re even tempted to ask someone when she sees her kids after she explains that she works outside of the home, resist the urge to be a complete pain in the ass and instead ask her what new and interesting things are going on in her industry.  I assure you, it will lead to a much more meaningful conversation (and a possible friendship).

 

February 1, 2010

That’s Momgenius: The Eye of The Beholder

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If your situation is anything like mine, your cabinets and drawers are overrun with art work by your toddler.  Aside from her at-home creations, each day, Lovey brings home finger paintings, crayon drawings, and other masterpieces from school.  I’ll be honest with you.  With some of what I see, not a whole lot of effort goes into this so-called “art” (yes, I’m critiquing a three-year-old’s artwork, what of it?).  But more often than not, there is real beauty in her work.  We have framed some of Lovey’s best stuff for our playroom, but some of the other stuff – the first time she drew our family, the first picture she signed by actually writing her name, or beautiful swirls that just make me happy to look at – that we display in our kitchen.  There we have hanging My Art Show by Alex (my FAVORITE source for arts and crafts supplies for Lovey).  We have a rotating art show that Lovey curates, it saves our fridge from looking like a disaster, and it fosters her creativity.  Win-win-win.

 

January 29, 2010

You don’t say…

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Posted by Duff

You think if you don’t curse, and you speak kindly to others in front of your children, you’re doing okay.

And in my case, that’s not enough. There is an entire category of sub-swears, and you may not even realize you’re using them until they’ve been catalogued and cross-referenced for (in)appropriate context.

For example: This past weekend, our family of four spent a decent amount of time driving to and from a family party. On trips of this length, I often ask The Dervish what Atticus is up to in his carseat.

Typical answers: He’s playing around. He’s sleeping with his mouth open. He’s looking at his hands.

But yesterday? I could tell from the sound of her voice that she didn’t bother looking at him before she dismissed me with:

He’s breaking my stones.

I may or may not have been responsible for adding that gem to her vocabulary. The jury’s still out.

But for the record, Atticus has been known to break stones.

 

January 27, 2010

Road Rage: Parent Style

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I get stressed out a lot – too much, really.  It can be over work, over the pile of laundry I have to do, over big decisions…like I said, too much, really.  You’d think that, based on this self-assessment, I’d have experienced stress to the nth degree, but I hadn’t.  Who knew?

Picture this: last week, I’m driving home from a client site going north on I95 in Fairfield County at 4:45.    I’m happy, because I’m going home earlier than planned to meet Beanie and my dear husband at home.  I give him a call to tell him I’m on my way, and as soon as he picked up I knew something was wrong.  “Fitz,” he said.  “I’m stuck on the Merritt Parkway in Norwalk.  I don’t think I’m going to make it to daycare on time for pickup!”

The terror in his voice made it clear that it was up to me to get our Bean before she was the last one left, in a dark school, with annoyed teachers who were going to charge us extra.  The problem?  I was also in Norwalk, as I mentioned, and traffic on 95 is a given.  We were on two parallel highways trying to get to the same place, with the same literal and figurative roadblocks in front of us.  Who would get there first?  Would it be on time?  Was our Bean distressed because we weren’t there yet?

This, my friends, was stress.  With a capital S. 

Let me tell you, I’ve never driven so aggressively (or with such road rage).  I weaved, I wove, I beeped, and I cursed, but manners didn’t matter in my quest to make it to school before pickup.  The 10 miles – and 40 minutes – that it took me to get there were some of the longest in my life.  It seems ridiculous to say that, but hell hath no anxiety like a mom and dad who are both going to be late for pickup and can’t do a frigging thing about it.  Our hearts were pounding.

I ended up getting to the school two minutes late.  She wasn’t the last one there, luckily, but she had been waiting for me.  “Mommy, what took you so long?” she said before she gave me a big hug around the neck.  That’s why, on occasion, I still harbor a bit of guilt for working.  It’s why I can’t stop wondering if my career and motherhood are not a good fit.  It’s when I remember, with a shot through the heart, that my top priority is three feet tall and sassy. 

Being late to daycare one time is certainly not the end all and be all for my career, obviously, but it felt like it on that particular day.   So when you’re driving home from work and see a man or woman driving like a crazy person with a manic glint in their eyes, just let them pass.  They probably have a cutie pie that needs picking up.

photo credit: http://blogs.cars.com/photos/mother_proof_december/roadrage500.jpg

 

January 26, 2010

Big Britax Sale at Albeebaby.com!

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Britax Boulevard Convertible Car Seat 2009 Meghan

 

Thought you might like to know that Albeebaby.com, one of our favorite baby and toddler gear sites, is having a big Britax car seat sale!  Marathons of all colors and styles are marked down to about $220, and Boulevards are even less – you can get up to 40% off, which is a great deal.   Save an extra 15% by entering “15OFF” at checkout, too!

Enjoy, and let us know if you get anything!

 

January 25, 2010

Checkmate

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I know the three of us moms who blog here at My Mom Genes have had numerous recent posts about the trials and tribulations of potty training.  Here’s another one for you.  I hope the fact that we’re all going through it means that you all can relate too, and it’s a common source of anxiety for most of us moms.  And for those of you who had the easy potty training experience with your child, I hate you (Just – sort of – kidding).

Lovey has been potty trained for months to pee on the potty.  She wears panties during the day, she (close to) never has accidents.  For all other functions, she waits until I put a pull-up on her after the bath to go.  I have tried all the tricks we all try.  Bribery, promises of the best toys and far away lands to visit. . .if. . .only. . .you will just poop where you’re supposed to poop.  Nothing.  On Monday, in a bizarre turn of events – it happened!  I brought out the big brass band to celebrate!  We called Daddy, we called Mema (her grandmother), we phoned the newspapers.  Everyone was excited.  And so, clearly, I thought we turned a corner.  I thought we were done.  Nope.  She held it for the next 5 days.  Saturday evening is a night of which I am neither proud, nor do I ever want to relive.  I am sufficiently traumatized to the point that I will not be asking her about wanting to use the potty for those purposes again until she’s 20 years old.  She wins.  Checkmate.

New Year’s Resolution Update: As of this morning, three weeks in, I am officially down a total of 13.5 pounds!  Thanks for keeping me honest, people!

 

January 22, 2010

Didn’t think he had it in him.

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Having known The Dervish these three+ years, and hearing from so many parents of more than one that every child is inherently different, I formed some expectations of Atticus.

That’s probably not fair, and who am I to typecast a brand new human being, and all that crap. But after he finished his 9 weeks of infant boot camp and stopped hollering long enough to smile (and thankfully, digest some food and sleep some sleep), he revealed himself to be quite what I’d expected. In a word: content.

Little irritated him. Diaper changes? Awesome. Shirts going over his head? Marvelous. Being passed around from stranger to stranger? Bring it on. Whatever you’ve got.

One afternoon, I picked up The Dervish and Atticus from daycare, and we waited the standard 8 minutes to make a left turn out of the parking lot during rush hour. The Dervish had a few grievances: the sun was in her eyes, for one, and her jacket was making a bump under her carseat buckle. She was also thirsty. I handed her a sippy cup, and as she took a gulp, Atticus, who up until this point had been silent, interjected a single–dare I say irritated– “Mehhhhp.”

It wasn’t until we got home, ten minutes later, that I realized that his hat had come down over his eyes, and he’d ridden home in waking darkness. And silence. This once happened to The Dervish around his age, and she screamed as if being poked by pins until I could pull over to see what was causing such distress.

“What do you mean, he just took it?” said my husband.

“Do you think there’s something wrong with him?” I asked. “I mean, it’s like nothing bothers him.”

Until this week. My husband sits on the floor next to Atticus, eating a bowl of instant apple oatmeal. Atticus eyes the bowl. Reaches for it. When his father moves it from range, Atticus scowls, raises a brow, and bestows his very first Hairy Eyeball. Rakes at his offender’s leg. Mehhhp!

At his next meal, Atticus rips the spoon from my hand to feed himself. Will only eat if I hand him the loaded spoon. Grabs the bowl when I’m not looking and dives in face first.  I know, it sounds like he’s hungry. But he really doesn’t want the food. He just wants the option.

Atticus went Margaritaville on the whole rolling over thing. As in, at eight months, he doesn’t do it. He can, says the doctor, he just doesn’t. Same with crawling. He gets his knees under him, rocks, scales the length of his crib five times over in a night, completely asleep, but faced with open space during the day, he is a resting tortoise. What he does do is sit, sweetly, playing with anything he can gum or make into a percussion instrument.

Instead, he has learned how to have an opinion. Which, as much as it foreshadows the end of babyhood and the beginning of person with independent thoughts – the chocolate-covered cranberry of parenting –it reassures me that he’s not as Paulie Bleeker as I’ve made him out to be.

Good news, because according to his father, a redhead can use a little attitude on the playground.

 

January 20, 2010

Potty Training, Take One

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Posted by Fitz

We were pretty sure she was ready.  She showed all of the signs listed on the handy, free Pampers potty training kit that I sent away for, except for the one about waking up dry from her naps.  She loves to sit on her potty, and she tries to wipe ME whenever she gets a chance.  She loves her potty book, and talks about going pee pee all the time.  All this put together signaled a kid ready to wave bye bye to her diapers, and we went with it.

Mistake.

The Bean loves her underwear – printed training pants, Dora and Boots, and of course, a Princess pair for every day of the week.  Heck, she even loved the Easy Ups I bought just in case.  She loved running around the house yelling, “I wearing underweahs!” and loved showing them to whomever darkened our doorstep (a special sorry goes out to my brother).  What didn’t she love?  Well, I guess it just comes down to the regularly scheduled trips to the potty.  She loved to run into the bathroom and sit on it of her own volition (mostly with pants on, but we worked on pulling them down), and she could sit for up to a half hour on there reading books, telling us stories, and singing made up songs.  Then, she’d declare that she wasn’t going to go, pulled her pants up, and scrambled out of the bathroom as fast as her little legs would take her.

Only to pee (or worse) in her pants as soon as she got to the next room.

Sigh.

We never made a big deal about the accidents (9 in all on Saturday – to count any more would have been depressing) – in fact, we were downright nonchalant.  The shocker for us?  The Bean didn’t care if she was wearing wet pants and undies.  It didn’t phase her in the slightest, and she only asked to be changed when she had done…more than tinkle, let’s leave it at that.  We were left wondering if we were jumping the gun, simultaneously afraid of pushing her too hard, too fast and confusing her by slapping a diaper back on her little bum.

We diapered.  She doesn’t seem phased by any of it.

The next time she asks for her undies, we’ll gladly put them on.  If she’s about to enter elementary school, we’ll force the issue.  Till then, though, I think we’re going to ride it out and wait for more clues.  Is this the right thing?  I have no idea…and would welcome any advice.  I just don’t want to terrorize a 27-month old before her time, or create a situation that does more harm than good.

Photo credit: http://blog.seattlepi.com/adventuresinparenting/library/iStock_000001854269XSmall.jpg

 

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