DotMoms

Saying no to the neighbors

by Julie

We have been incredibly lucky with neighbors ... until now. A family just moved in downstairs and I know we aren't going to let Colter play with the little girl, mostly because her mother routinely tells her to shut up and has lots of nasty nicknames for her. While the part of me that wants to protect the world would like her to find a second (kinder) home with us, the part of me that wants to protect my son knows that he's likely to get in trouble by picking up some bad habits she's, no doubt, inherited from her mom. I think we can explain this to Colter. But how in the world are we going to explain to this kid why Colter can never play?

My breast, best friend

by Kelly

Inspired by Julie's post this morning I've been thinking about who I want to be and how that differs from who I show up as. Of course, my view of me is skewed by the lens of self-judgment, the self-critical eye I cast on every waking moment and on a few sleeping ones for good measure.

Who I could be if, you know, I wasn't human: Early rising, qi-gong doing, yoga stretching, bread baking, love making, house-cleaning, meaningful writing, outside working and walking, children enjoying, game playing, food shopping, coupon clipping, money saving, money making, keeping in touch, mountain climbing, sweater knitting, yarn spinning and dying, candle making, daily shower taking, letter writing, detoxing, sugar-free, cheerful, optimistic, experimental cooking, gardening, canning, teaching, organized, focused, structured, at-the-ready, on time, in due time, timeless, worry-free, trusting, capable, and just because I'm being honest here, this big, luscious nursing mama breasted forever.

Who I most humanly am: All of the above occasionally, but really not nearly often enough. I'm just mostly tired, harried, forgetting to exercise until there's no time or motivation, bread from a bag, libido lost and not yet found, house-oh dear God, the house, writing lists of what I should be doing and these silly little blog items, reading others' great work online or in print and hating the jealous wave that beats me down, outside to get the mail or to go to and from the car, taking care of the children without playing games, watching dust grow on all my creative pursuits, eating more sugar than should be humanly possible and my liver is shutting down, grouchy or manic-cheery (fake it 'til you make it), never quite ready, just a little bit late, in a constant state of fear, feeling useless and talentless and just WRONG. But my rack is stellar. Of course, that's sure to go when the nursing ends, and it'll be back to empty sacks hanging down to
my belly button.

As you can see, I'm my own worst enemy.

From daughter to mom

by Lori

Emma's day care provider said something this week that made me laugh out loud. "Did your mom do things like this?" she asked, while holding Emma's carefully crafted princess hat. It's a masterpiece of felt, tulle and ribbon. Two-year-old Emma's going to be a princess tonight for Halloween, and no crown or tiara would do. She insisted that she needed the tulle-flowing tower instead.

So, after searching (to no avail) every store in our town, I ventured into Hobby Lobby. I bought my first glue gun and about four times as many supplies as I needed -- convinced I would have to make at least one or two practice hats. But nope. The first one was perfect. Emma's excited, and I'm beside myself with pride.

Did my mom do things like this? To only say "no" isn't nearly strong enough. I learned how to braid on a Barbie when I was around 7 years old so I could teach Mom. She didn't come to school events, help me with my homework or know the names of my friends. She didn't bake cookies or even whip up Hamburger Helper or pick up McDonald's.

I'll give her some credit. She was a (mostly) single mom, with a parade of significant others. We were on the far side of the poverty line, and she alternated jobs in factories and as a waitress or barmaid to make sure there were groceries for me to feed my little brother.

But her free time wasn't spent nurturing her kids. We weren't the focus of her world. We moved from house to house -- and often couch to couch -- and school to school, following men and drugs. I was lucky enough to make it out of that lifestyle.

Emma is my world. And I'm self-aware enough to know that a lot of what I do for her, I do for the young me. We try every weekend to have a big family breakfast, where Emma helps me stir up waffle batter or bake monkey bread or assists Adam in scrambling eggs. Our nights are full of Gymboree classes and playdates, library trips and walks to the park. We read books for hours on end. Our craft box is filled with paint and beads, magazines and construction paper.

We chronicle Emma's life in myriad ways: She's had her own web site (Login: Friends, Password: Welcome) since before she was born, and we already have more than a dozen photo albums and hours and hours of videotape. We keep a journal and a collection of artwork.

There are about three existing pictures of me before college. I have no idea when I got my first tooth, took my first steps or learned to use the potty. Emma will be able to show her child all of these glimpses into her young life, and, I hope, remember some of our routines, rituals and traditions.

And when, after breaking out her glue gun, someone asks, "Did your mom do things like this?" she'll laugh and reply, "Did she ever."

Sad pumpkin

by Lori

Emma, who is two and a half, wanted a sad pumpkin for Halloween. We asked her repeatedly what we should carve -- happy, scary, etc., and she insisted on sad. So her daddy did her proud and carved a giant pumpkin with the saddest face imaginable, including a huge frown and two teardrops.

Now, though, she's really worried about Benjy. (She named her pumpkin after the book "Benjy's Dog House," because the dog is also very sad.) She's decided why he's sad: "He left all his friends at the pumpkin patch." We tried introducing him to the uncarved pumpkin on our porch, but it didn't cheer him up any. Three or four times a day, Emma has to go out and check on him. "Let's see if he's still *so, so* sad," she says.

Her latest idea is that after Halloween, we should take him back to the patch and reunite him with his friends. This could get interesting ...

She's an empathetic little girl.

Who Stole My Cheese?

by Barb

This one is for Marcia, who was warned she'd lose brainpower after giving birth. (Hm... Couldn't be the lack of sleep, could it?)

Experts at the University of Richmond say hormones released at birth make new moms mellower, smarter and more resourceful than their childless counterparts. More good news: "The effects appear to last for a lifetime."

OK, they're talking about rats -- but the scientists believe we can extrapolate their rodent findings to our humble race. That means you mothers will snatch the cheese while the rest of us are still sniffing around in a maze.

I always figured the amazing "mom calm" developed after years of temper tantrums, projectile vomiting and hair-raising emergencies. Does it actually happen at birth?

Dream a Little Dream With Me

by Kelly

I had a conversation with a close friend back in NY today about our adolescent sons. They're both 11 and have been the best of friends since infancy. I told L about the girlfriend dumping talk with Ty and we laughed about what a wise boy he is.

She then asked me if I've had THE TALK with him yet, the one about wet dreams. I said that I'd been thinking about that one for a few days and had it on my library list to check out the "What's Happening to my Body" book and was thinking about approaching it with his father back in NY ASAP. He's got the equivalent equipment and may be better suited to this task.

L already had the talk with her son D and felt like she mothered it to death. She said thank goodness her husband was running around getting things done and chiming in with his thoughts in a more casual way. Her approach was to sit him down and HAVE THE TALK. Her boy was uncomfortable and only wanted to hear so much and was more than happy when the talk ended. I know that it will be the same with Tyler.

He's such a private boy already, but is also starting to go through puberty. I knew a girl in jr. high who started her period in the middle of English and had no idea what it was, thought she was bleeding to death. That had to have scarred her. I know I would rather know what to expect than be surprised by it, so we'll be having a talk of some sort in the near future. I'll look for an opening though, and not just sit him down to tell him the facts.

L talked about it with her therapist as well, who suggested she tell D that wet dreams may be a milestone equivalent to menstruation for a girl, but that he needn't worry about the cramps and the bitchiness, that it would feel good.

It should feel good. I'll be borrowing that one even if I do think it's grossly unfair that boys get to feel good practically every night and girls get bleeding and cramps once a month for a week. But that's a whole other post. I knew to talk to Ty about periods -- Lord knows he's seen me go through some rough ones. I've heard him tell his friends, "Not today -- Mom's got her moon time and she's grouchy," more times than I care to admit.

Puberty snuck up on us this year when we weren't looking. I'm stunned by some of the changes taking wing in my baby boy. It seems like yesterday I convinced his daddy that we needed to leave his brand new little penis intact, and now he's on the cusp of having his life influenced by that second brain in his
shorts. They grow so fast.

What are your thoughts about or experiences of HAVING THE TALK with your child?

Screen time

by Julie

A Kaiser Family Foundation study released today says that kids 6 years old and younger spend about two hours a day in front of a TV or computer screen. One-third of these kids have a TV in their own rooms. I didn't have a TV in my bedroom until I was 16!

Now, I'm just as likely as the next parent to believe that computers and TV shows can be educational. And I've been known to leave my son in front of one or the other while I take care of other business. And now that I think about it, I guess our time limit when Colter turned 4 or 5 was two hours a day total of computer or TV. So, why do these numbers surprise me?

I guess in contrast to the amount of time spent doing other things, the statistics are striking. For example, for most of these kids reading is also a way of life. But a less time-consuming one. About 79 percent spent 49 minutes reading or being read to. The good news: on average, they spend about two hours a day outside.

Water baby

by Shelley

When she was two, she let out blood-curdling screams at the mention of the word "bath." When she was four, she refused to put her face in the water at swimming lessons. When she was six, she watched from the sidelines as all the other children played in the sprinkler. So why, at 11, is she the one who stands under the shower until the hot water tank is empty? (personal best: one hour, fifteen minutes, and she never did get around to shampooing her hair.)