It's not a job, it's a career

New parents are so funny.

I was one once, and I didn’t know at the time that I was funny. I think back to ALL of the time spent planning the nursery, scouring for the perfect crib set, stocking up on size 1 diapers and carefully piling them up into a narrow skyscraper of diapers in the diaper stacker. The little booties, baby socks and massive collection of bibs with clever sayings on them.

Now, of course, I realize that 90% of that stuff is completely unnecessary. At 4 am, when the baby wants to eat and needs to be changed for the fourth time that night, you don’t give a crap whether the crib sheet matches the quilt. Booties? They never get used. Socks? Same thing, unless you’re taking them OUT to a party or something and you feel that, somehow, that little stretchy sleeper is inappropriate attire for a baby. (I never understood those people, either. Taking a baby to a party? I became a recluse for the first few months of my son’s life. I think he was 4 months old before I became brave enough to venture out to Target with him in tow.)

The bibs? Well, I used those. My son was a massive drooler.

Anyway, you plan so furtively for the baby’s arrival with all of these organically soft, personally embroidered THINGS, that you don’t realize what you’re going to need the most aren’t things at all. Hell, if I knew how isolated and overwhelmed I was going to feel, I would have returned all of the things that I received and cashed them in for sessions with a therapist (and a reliable babysitter).

So, I know. I know what it’s like. I know what new parents are in for, in spite of all of their careful planning and registering, and for that, I offer up prayers (or chuckle evilly to myself, depending on my mood).

But one thing that has always mystified me: after a couple has their first child and you read their first e-mail or newsletter announcing the big event, 9 times out of 10 they’ll say, “We can’t remember what our lives were like before little Pooky came along!”

When I used to see this years ago, before marrying and becoming a parent myself, I thought, really? You can’t remember what your life was like pre-child?? I would think of my own life, in my own apartment, where I could come and go as I pleased and sleep as late as I wanted, and think to myself you know, I think I would remember this. I would remember my blissfully sleep-full nights when I’m up pacing the floor at 3 am with a crying baby. But what do I know… I’m not a parent yet.

And now, as a parent, having experienced the incredible joys of having children and the meaning that they give your life, I think to myself…

REALLY? You can’t remember what your life was like before you had kids?? Because I sure can. And it was wonderful.

So then that makes me wonder if I’m doing something wrong. Am I supposed to forget my life before I had children? Why can’t I?

I’ve always thought I was missing some kind of fundamental mommy chip. Shortly after I became a mother, I remember meeting a friend of my mom’s and she asked me, a big smile on her face and in a knowing voice as if she already knew the answer, “Do you love it?” I remember it taking some effort for me to swallow, smile politely, croak out a “Yes,” and wondering if I actually was ever really going to believe that.

As the years passed, I became better at the mothering thing, more comfortable and less concerned that I was going to drop someone, but those fond memories of my life ALONE seemed to become more and more bathed in this ethereal golden light every time I recalled them. Every so often I would briefly think about returning to work, but that terrible mommy guilt would besiege me before I could truly consider it. And so it went. Too many days, when I felt I should be attending mommy & me classes, going to storytime at the library or conducting Martha Stewart-esque craft classes in my family room, I found myself instead watching the clock and willing the time to go by until my husband came home.

Like I have so many other things, I imagined being a stay-at-home mom so different than it turned out to be. I mean, my feelings for my children have far surpassed what I thought they could be. On the other hand, our daily lives together are a far cry from what I’d envisioned so long ago – me puttering around a sun-bathed kitchen while my child ate breakfast in a high chair and watching Sesame Street. On a weekday morning. Imagine that! When you work, you just long to be home. And when you’re sick, or taking a mental health day, and you actually ARE home, you have this exhilarating sense of freedom and luxury. I’m home! On a WEEKDAY! What do I do with myself? Watch Regis and Kelly… or take a nap? Go out for breakfast? The possibilities are endless… decadent, even.

And yet, when you have a small person to care for, that decadent feeling is gone. You’re not working at a regular job, yet you have new responsibilities, bigger ones than you had before. It sounds like such a cliché, but it truly is the hardest job I’ve ever had. (Or maybe I’ve just had ridiculously easy jobs.) But when a job swallows you up so completely, it’s easy to lose sight of everything else, including yourself. Suddenly my peripheral vision disappeared and tunnel vision took its place, framing the face of my little angel. (But not any cooking, laundry or cleaning of any kind – they weren’t in the picture. Just my son.) Not living near any family and being thrust into this new job where you can’t ever clock out, my old tendency to withdraw suddenly reared its head again. Every day, all day, it was just me and him, as we both seemed inmates of this little prison I’d created for us, our cell dotted with stuffed animals and musical toys that flashed lights and played the alphabet song.

Looking back, more objectively, I wonder why I didn’t just scoop him up, throw him in the car and get out to visit a friend or family member even just once a week. I did, eventually, but not soon enough and not often enough. I do remember at the time being obsessed with his naps, which I steadfastly adhered to. I can appreciate keeping that routine, even now, but I do realize that I could have bent the rules a little more often than I did for the sake of my sanity.

Now, I haven’t exactly morphed into the mom I always imagined I’d be. A chilly day will often still give me permission to hole up in our warm family room instead of venturing out to the aquarium or going on a playdate. I begin watching the clock around dinnertime with frequent time checks until my husband calls to let me know he’s on his way home, and I still find it difficult to get down on the floor and enjoy another riveting game of that damn never-ending Chutes and Ladders. And, often, I recall with great fondness what my life was like before my two little angels came along. Still, I have come to accept these things about myself and I realize they have no effect on the all-encompassing, almost shocking love I’ve come to experience. I know that I’m doing the best that I can, that it’s ok not to be supermom, and that a bad day will eventually end. And as long as my bosses give me the feedback that they always do, I’ll know that I am, in fact, doing a good job.

Pick your battles, pick your eaters

I originally wrote about 90% of this over a year ago. Better late than never. ;)

“Mommy, I’m hungry.”
“Dinner isn’t ready yet. It will be soon.”
“I can’t wait. I think when dinner is ready, I’ll just… eat the whole thing and there will be no more food.”
So whined my 5-year-old son. Over and over for the better part of an hour. The kid eats and eats and eats, and when he’s not eating, he’s talking about food. He (and I) were waiting not-so-patiently for dinner to be done. As I am so innately creative on rainy Mondays in January, I had whipped up the “cheesy chicken casserole” printed on the back of a creamed soup can. I was pretty pleased with that, too. After a whole day of child rearing and shuttling my pre-kindergartner to and from school in a downpour, it’s lucky that I actually cooked anything at all. Many of our dinners lately are comprised of a can of chicken and stars soup or scrambled eggs. I find that by 6 pm, any creativity I may have had in the morning has long since disappeared and it certainly does not manifest itself in the form of a fabulous dinner.
So, dinner was finally done. This meant not just cooked, but spent sufficient time in the refrigerator cooling off so that I wouldn’t get complaints of it being too hot. My son sat down to his Thomas plate and started drinking his watered-down apple juice… for far too long.
“Honey, eat some of your food now, don’t drink all of your juice at once,” I told him between bites. This is something he’s guilty of quite often.
“I’m not eating this,” Alexander announced.
I stared at him. “Why NOT? It’s chicken, it’s cheese, it’s rice, carrots… all good stuff!” I said.
“I’m not hungry.”
This coming from the child who just 15 minutes earlier was nearly writhing in pain from his growling stomach. “Are you kidding me? You went on for an hour about how hungry you are!”

“Not for this,” he sniffed.
And I present to you my GOOD EATER.
My picky eater, on the other hand, started screaming the instant she caught sight of her plate as I was strapping her in to her booster seat. I knew she wouldn’t eat any of it, but with every dinner comes fresh hope that she might nibble something and surprise me... and herself. I thought, well… the chicken is really tender! And it has CHEESE on it, which is her main food group. And rice! I’ve seen her eat rice before. What month was that again? In any event, I know I’ve seen her eat it.
This is why, most nights, I choose not to cook. Why bother? My husband doesn’t get home until 8 pm, my daughter won’t eat 98% of what I put in front of her, and my son would be just as happy with a sandwich and soup as a home-cooked meal. But usually, he at least eats it, and will very generously makes lots of yum-yum noises, at my request, in an effort to get his sister to at least take one bite.
Still, I feel I must make the effort. I’m a stay-at-home mom, and isn’t this part of the job description? Wait, IS there a job description?! Because I never got my employee handbook, actually. And of course it goes without saying that there is no pay (and therefore no raise), and my bosses treat me like the lowly underling that I am. I’m at the bottom of the ladder and they are perched precariously on top (usually trying to reach cookies or something else they’re not supposed to have).
I do get bonuses, though. The random “I love you,” the bear hug that hits me (literally) out of the blue and nearly knocks me over, and even the odd compliment that I never would have guessed I’d hear. (A few days ago my son told me that I’m the best cook in the world. Granted, he doesn’t eat at many five-star restaurants, but he DID compare my culinary skills to my husband’s and I still won, which is saying something. He may be six, but I trust his judgment. If you knew him you’d understand what I mean.)
So, for now, it appears that my cooking adventures have been halted until a later date, until my picky young children turn into… picky teenagers? I’m not deluding myself here. Well, at least by then maybe I won’t care so much. ;)

Halloween: a time of mischief... and manipulation.

Halloween is so much fun when you have kids. There's a whole different dimension to it that wasn't there before. It's not just about you anymore... now you have little ones to dress up, to parade around and show off to the neighbors, and to steal candy from. It's great!

In years past, Alexander was always prey to whatever costume I decided would befit him best. His first Halloween, at nearly 11 months old, he was decked out in a big stuffed alligator getup in which his big blue eyes peeked out from under the snout. His second Halloween he wore a cheapie little pirate costume accentuated by a strip of gold sequined fabric around the waist that I snagged from a fabric store, and his chin sported a feeble little black triangle that I hastily drew on with eyeliner. Last year, he was Dracula, looking dapper with his hair slicked back with gel and another triangle of eyeliner - this time drawn on his head in the form of a widow's peak. Cute!

This year, I thought, I'm going to have to give him a choice as to what he wants to be. He's almost 4 years old, and with my luck I'd buy something and then he'd refuse to wear it. So for the last two months we've been discussing what he should be for Halloween. I couldn't wait to see what he came up with.

His first decision that he wanted to be a vampire like last year. No no no, I thought. That won't do at all! Each year you have to be something DIFFERENT, at least in these early years until the excitement of Halloween fades and you end up a sullen teenager wearing a hooded sweatshirt and carrying a pillowcase under the guise of being "a ghost."

Well, he held steadfast to his decision to once again be a vampire. I decided, then, to take him Halloween costume shopping to inspire him. We went to Target and browsed their costume aisles. We even made a trip over to Halloween Express and perused the vast array of costumes, oohing and ahhing over every sword, crown of jewels and elaborate mask that we passed. I waited for inspiration to strike and for him to cry out, "Mommy! Look at this! I want to be THIS!"

It never happened, and he instead insisted on his Dracula dreams. We've got plenty of time, I figured. I'll just keep asking every so often. I'd break out the Halloween catalogs that came in the mail. I'd tell him what his little friends were going to be. We'd find a way!

With Colette's costume as Tinkerbell secured, I decided that the obvious choice for Alexander's Halloween costume would most certainly have to be Peter Pan. The best way to do this, a friend advised, is to have him watch the movie! THEN he'd want to be Peter Pan. I was inspired. And then one morning while perusing a yard sale, I spotted it... a Peter Pan DVD. This was it! Finally, he was going to have his costume. I snatched it up and eagerly brought it home.

We watched the movie the next morning, and he loved it. I kept talking up the fact that Peter Pan could FLY and isn't that cool?! Still, he didn't seem terribly enamored of the idea of being the boy who didn't want to grow up. Undeterred, I decided to focus instead on Captain Hook. Now THIS was a good idea. Alexander loved hooks! He loved hooking things and stringing them together. The prospect of wearing a HOOK as a hand? It couldn't fail!

It did. No matter how I talked it up, he just wasn't biting. Apparently the idea wasn't as great of a "hook" as I'd hoped it would be. I was ready to give up and just let him wear the stupid Dracula costume from last year. Hey, there are worse things, right? So I'd save some cash and not have to buy a new costume. Maybe I could festoon him with some different accessories...

One night this past weekend while in Target, I somberly guided my cart down the costumes aisle once again. Why was I bothering? He wasn't even with me this time. And then... maybe it was out of desperation, but I finally had a stroke of genius. The costume was cheap, it was in his size, and it was mine. After double-checking with the cashier that the costume was indeed returnable if it was still before Halloween, I headed out with my purchase. It was just in case my idea didn't pan out, though I couldn't imagine that it wouldn't.

The next morning, Alexander happened upon the ninja costume that I'd so carefully laid out in plain view. "What's this?" he asked. Knowing that I needed to stay cool and as natural as possible, I glanced over, disinterested. "Oh, that?" I said nonchalantly. "That's just a costume from last year that I had but you weren't a big enough boy to fit into."

"But I'm a big boy NOW," he said.
"Oh? You are?" I asked.
"Yes! It would fit me NOW," he continued.
"Hm. I don't know," I said reluctantly. "Maybe."
"Can I try it, mommy? Please?" he pleaded.
"Well, ok, I guess so," I said, smiling at Zach who was shaking his head disapprovingly at me from across the room.
"Yay! Yay!" Alexander yelled, jumping up and down.

About five minutes later, he stood proudly decked out in head-to-toe black, hood over his head, red sashes tied around his arms and waist and a Chinese star dangling from one side. "See, mommy?" he said. "I told you!"
"Wow, you really are a big boy!" I said.

He didn't take it off for the rest of the day.

Will there be a fairy tail ending?

Alexander is potty training.

Alexander has been potty training for approximately a year and a half now. That's how long ago the first time was that he sat on the potty ring in our old house, did his business, and we all jumped around like idiots in celebration and called people on the phone.

We were so naive then.

Things are different now. He knows what he's supposed to do, he's just not doing it. We have tried it all: stickers, food rewards (cookies, m&ms), letting him choose his own potty to use, read books and watched DVDs about the potty, putting him in underwear in an ill-fated "potty training boot camp" attempt, etc. If there is a method out there that we haven't tried, I haven't found it.

I always laugh when I'm at the store, searching for the elusive size 7 diapers and looking at the pictures on the front of the diaper packages. Size 2 - baby lying down, size 3 - sitting up, size 4 - crawling, size 5 - walking, and so on. The numbers are getting higher as the diapers grow larger. I imagine the diapers growing ever bigger and the corresponding pictures that might be featured on the front. Size 13 - the happy parent snapping a photo of two kids dressed up for the prom. Size 14 - the parent looking lovingly from the passenger's seat as their child drives the family car for the first time. Size 15 - parents applauding proudly as they watch their child receive his diploma. You get the picture. It could go on and on.

One night, I was thinking about what had happened that evening. Alexander had gone on the potty and of course we were very pleased. But how to encourage him and continue the trend? Then suddenly, I had a revelation. The tooth fairy rewards us with a little gift during the night to celebrate a lost tooth. I'd heard tales of other parents, in a desperate attempt to rid their household of pacifiers that hung around too long, telling their child that the "pacifier fairy" was coming to take away all of the pacifiers and take them to other babies who needed them. What did they leave behind? A gift, of course.

Hmmm.

There seemed to be a fairy for every occasion. So why not, then, a Potty Fairy? Did someone already have this idea and not told me about it? This could be it. Go on the potty and a mystical fairy comes overnight and leaves a gift. It had to work!!

Inspired, I ran out to CVS just before they closed the doors and searched for a small prize that would reward Alexander for his, er, efforts that day. I snatched up a pinwheel with an American flag pattern on it along with a couple of other little trinkets for future occasions. Upon returning home, I laid the pinwheel on his play table and sprinkled glitter around for, you know, a fairy-like touch.

After he and I came downstairs the next morning, he started playing with some toys and I very casually said, "Hey, what's that?" His eyes widened as he spotted the pinwheel and the glitter sprinkled all around. "Look! Sparkles!" he said in amazement.

"Oh... you know what that must be?" I said in excitement. "The potty fairy! She comes at night and brings special things for boys and girls who go on the potty! You did such a great job on the potty last night and she was watching." He listened to this story, transfixed, as he happily spun his new pinwheel.

The next day, I stocked up on more Potty Fairy toys. I wanted to be prepared! The dollar store and Target's dollar spot became my friends. (Ok, so they already were.) In fact, one day Alexander and I were browsing around the dollar spot and he spotted some beads that were mysteriously like the ones left for him by the Potty Fairy, only in a different color. He pointed this out to me right away. "Hmm, I guess the Potty Fairy shops at Target," I mused. He agreed.

We talked up the Potty Fairy. Sometimes she left white glitter, sometimes blue. She is always watching, we cautioned Alexander. Soon the concept just became a part of everyday life for him. One day, at a nearby playground, I was getting some things out of the car, holding Colette, while Alexander took off running toward a little boy and his mom at the swings. As I approached, I saw the woman looking at him with a perplexed look on her face. "What's the Potty Fairy?" she asked him. "Do you mean the Tooth Fairy?"

Obviously the Potty Fairy has a long way to go when it comes to being a household name. Almost as long as it will take Alexander to become potty trained, apparently. I continue buying little musical instruments, nightlights and assorted other trinkets as I wonder to myself, will THIS be the toy that causes him to make the leap into underwear? I'm at the dollar store now, but I'm sure the toy selection will run thin. What then? Soon we move up to Wal-Mart and Shop-Rite until eventually I'm buying him Ipods and Wii systems. At least with the Tooth Fairy you have a finite amount of baby teeth.

By then I'll be broke and unable to afford diapers anymore (or anything else for that matter). Maybe that's what'll finally do it. Because something has to... right?

Maybe if I go to bed now, a magical fairy will come during the night and bring me the answer.

Snips & snails and puppy dog tails... and just about anything gross, really.

It has been 3 years and 9 months since I gave birth to my son, and I think I'm just now realizing that I'm not quite ready to be the mother to a boy.

Boys are weird. They're gross. They start out cute, all swaddled up in fluffy light blue blankets with puppies on them. They wear adorable onesies that say "Daddy's Little Helper" on them and have little pants that feature embroidered snails and bugs with smiley faces.

You know what? In real life, bugs don't have smiley faces. They're just disgusting.

Now that he has passed 3 and a half years old and is rapidly approaching 4, Alexander has apparently decided that it's time for him to embrace the bug world in all of its glory. Worms are cute, crickets are his pets and spiders are friendly. He has actually said all of these things. He does like butterflies, too, and tries catching them in his hand. That's nice, because butterflies are often pretty, but let's face it, they're still bugs and I don't want one landing on me. I'm just fine admiring them from afar. Same thing with lightning bugs. They light up, that's cool, but when it comes right down to it, they're beetles. Yuck.

Today we were out in the front yard and Alexander spotted an earthworm in the grass. He wanted to pick it up and "take it for a walk" in his wagon. I told him that, nah, the worm was really much happier in the grass. They burrow into the dirt, that's where they like to be, so probably should just leave him alone. I continued my weeding and figured that was it.

Obviously not.

So he comes walking past me dragging the wagon behind him, and I let out a very startled "AAA!" as I notice this GIANT earthworm squirming around in the wagon. It had to be about a foot long. So Alexander looked back and said, "What?" As if to say, "Is there something wrong with my worm?!" I said "Oh nothing, just... there he is! Wow!" I had to cover my disgust.

So after that, the poor worm was subjected from one activity to another. Different toys, locations, back into the wagon again. I was just inside the front door when I glanced out and saw Alexander standing behind the car in the driveway. Then I heard the back door slam.

"Alexander, what are you doing?"
"I'm doing nothing."
"Where is the worm?"
"He's sleeping."
"WHERE is he sleeping? Is he in the car?"
"Um... I'm not sure."

So at this point I come outside, and Alexander comes running over to me, all upset, "No! Don't go look! Noooo!"

So I tell him, "Alexander, the worm can't stay in the car. He won't like it in there. He likes being in the grass."
"But he's sleeping. His eyes are closed."

I bet they are, I think to myself. So we go over to the car and open the door, and sure enough, the worm appears to have entered the Big Sleep. He never stood a chance.

I finally convince him to take it out of the car and put it... elsewhere. Anywhere else but in the back of my SUV.

I know that this bug obsession isn't going to get any better over the next several years, so I'm going to have to resign myself to the fact that bugs and other assorted small creatures will be around, and often IN, my home thanks to my little boy. Maybe there's a bug support group I can join. Or better yet, a moms of boys support group. I think I'm going to need it.

Time In a Bottle... Anyone Got Any?

I remember the weekend.

The weekend is that 2-day span at the end of the work week that you have off, right? Yeah, I remember those. You’d slavishly chug away at your job all week long, ever looking toward the weekend, which shone like a beacon in the distance. Like the bright sun after a long, hard night. It’s ok, the weekend will be here soon. Time for happy hour, to go shopping, get together with friends, to sleep late.

Then I had kids.

Don’t get me wrong. I still look forward to the weekends… because then I get HELP. Help with the kids. A warm body to stay at home, doing work around the house, while I get to slip out for an hour or two to shop in peace without someone crying, pulling on me or asking for another toy.

But… they’re just not the same. The sun of the weekend doesn’t shine nearly as brightly as it used to. I used to think that I worked hard at my job and deserved the weekend off. What I didn’t know was that my hardest job still was yet to come… the day-to-day up to my elbows in diapers from two children, dirty dishes, toys, and laundry. Where the days run into one another… and the weekends are only mildly different from the week DAYS. No days off anymore! Blah, blah, blah… you’ve heard it all before.

I think about that commercial for… moisturizer, I think? Where the woman says, “I’ve found time in a bottle.” Time in a bottle. She’s only talking about her skin, of course. But what would I do with time in a bottle? I wouldn’t worry about my skin, that’s for sure. One of my fantasies is being able to freeze time. How AMAZING would that be! Exhausted at 4 am when the baby wakes up and she doesn’t want to go back to sleep? Freeze time! Take a nice long refreshing nap and then get back to the task at hand. The things I could do while time froze around me… go to the movies, play around on the computer, maybe even do some crafts that have long been abandoned by the wayside for “someday, when I have time.” Hell, I’d even CLEAN. Oh yeah, and maybe exercise too. Maybe. I guess then I couldn’t use “I don’t have the time” as an excuse.

But time in a bottle continues to elude me, unfortunately. Maybe I could take a look on eBay and see if someone out there is pawning it. And while I could sit here and continue to lament the premature passing of The Weekend… I suppose that would just be a waste of time. And God knows I can’t afford that.

Waste? I want not.

Our current bathroom renovation project of our downstairs powder room has prompted us to look for a new toilet. So Zach and I, being the thorough people that we are, decided to look at Consumer Reports to aid us in choosing a new toilet. More than just white or almond, there are so many potty-bilities nowadays when it comes to choosing a new toilet. Loud flush, medium, or quiet? How many gallons of water? Elongated bowl or round? It almost boggles the mind.

Add in to this already difficult decision the toilet’s overall appearance. You’ve got your basic white porcelain bowl if you’re more of the conservative or classic personality. Well, they also have these fancy toilets - like the tank has detailing and stuff, kind of like crown molding. For those who hold their bodily secretions to a higher standard. Well, they have these silly names for the aforementioned fancy toilets. One was "Portrait." For a TOILET. Because this toilet is pretty as a picture. Or, perhaps because the toilet is just a beautiful frame, showcasing what is inside. But my personal favorite was "Memoirs." Seriously - who thinks up these names? I imagine they just sit there around a conference table at the ad agency giggling, wondering if anyone is going to make the connection between a toilet and MEMOIRS. I don't know about you, but when I flush the toilet, I don't want any "memoirs" of my experience left behind. I consider myself to be a sentimental person, but even I think you have to draw the line somewhere – a line that is comprised, apparently, of toilet paper.