DotMoms

How motherhood is like a military operation

By Marcia

"There are known knowns, there are known unknowns and there are unknown unknowns," Donald Rumsfeld once so ineloquently said.

When we were planning for Isaac, motherhood seemed like a small, straightforward country full of "known knowns" and a few "known unknowns," like breastfeeding and potty training. It seemed like a place I had good maps to -- goodness, look at all the parenting books I'd read! -- a place that I could tidy up in a jiff.

Then, on the day Isaac was airlifted out of my belly and settled down by my side, motherhood suddenly became a place of almost entirely unknown unknowns -- a vast, blurry landscape that I could barely imagine.

Now, eight months post-invasion, I'm finally learning my way around. I'm plotting little Xs on my map where I've learned, "Must get Isaac to nap by 10 a.m. or he won't sleep in the morning" and, "Beware holding him too near a tree -- he'll have the leaves in his mouth before I can blink."

And, eight months in, I find it oddly wonderful that motherhood is a country we each have to map on our own. That, no matter how many books and guides are written, it's something so individual that we each have to figure it out for ourselves, afresh.

Some of the stranger places on my map include:

• Getting Isaac to pee in a cup. (We had to spray cold water on his penis.) Now, that wasn't in any book.
• Finding out that he thinks the word "ow" is hilarious. (I realized this after he bit down on my breast for the first time.)
• Realizing that Isaac can't reach items placed on top of his head. (This makes for endless fun.)

What about you? What are the strange places on your map?

And, of course, how motherhood is not like a military operation

It's true that Isaac didn't ask to be born. But, damn it all, no one has ever wanted me so much.

My favorite child

By Jenn

When I was a little girl, I remember asking my mom if I was her favorite. I was convinced that she would either agree that, yes, I was indeed her favorite, thus providing me with excellent fuel for fights with my brother and sister or she would say no, which of course would devastate me. I knew Mom would never devastate me. However, she had an answer all ready for me.

"I have no 'favorite child.' I love all of you equally, but in very different ways," she said.

What? Even as a child I knew that was a crock. Surely, one of us stood out among the group. Yet, Mom never gave me any other answer than that. (My brother and sister later confirmed that they, too, had heard that same answer when they tried to ask her that question.)

I promised myself I would come up with something better for my kids. Better yet, I would love each of them so much and with such passion, they would never think to ask the question. (Naivety is cute, isn't it?)

Fast-forward my life about 25 years. My son and I are snuggling, and he leans over and whispers in my ear, "Mom? Am I your favorite?"

I freeze and play deaf.

"Mom? Who is your favorite kid?" he says a bit more forcefully.

I run through my possible answers. I hear my mother's answer blaring in my head. No! I won't say that! I have had 25 years to come up with an answer. You'd think I would know what to say. So I look into my darling firstborn son's eyes and reply...

"Well, you know that Conner kid from down the street? He rocks! Honestly, I think he is my favorite kid."

Silence. And a stare that says he doesn't appreciate the humor.

Quick. Think. Think. What do I really feel? Well, I think to myself, I love each of my children so much more than I could ever put into words. Each one of them holds a special place in my heart that belongs to them alone. I don't love one of them more than the other. I love them all equally. Only, it is different with each one of them.

Then I hear myself say, "Sweetie, I have no 'favorite child. 'I love all of you equally, but in very different ways."

I guess Mom knew what she was talking about after all. (Just don't tell her I said that!)

48 Step program

By Susan

A letter came home a couple of months ago from Teddy's teacher announcing that he is officially off of the 48 Step Sticker Program. He was admitted into the program due to unseemly, nay, down right bad, behavior at school. His behavior had improved so much that he no longer needed the sticker chart sent home every day. The funny thing is -- he misses it.

He wants his sticker chart back. Every once in a while he will ask to have it back. I think he became addicted to the "Great Job!" and "Yay, Teddy!" comments that resulted from a week of stars and hearts and bunnies and teddy bears and smiley faces.

I was not surprised when my son had behavior problems at school after starting Pre-K. We went through the same thing when my daughter started kindergarten (having not gone to Pre-K). I wish that her school (different from their current school) would have implemented a sticker program, or any method of communicating her bad behavior.

They did not tell me a single thing about her bad behavior until it grew so bad that they called me in to meet the principal. This had been going on for THREE MONTHS before anything was said to me. At first I felt bad about her behavior. She was disrupting class, disobeying her teachers, fighting with other children and anything and everything else she could think of to make life miserable for her teachers and fellow students.

As the teacher proceeded to read me a 3-page laundry list of her misdeeds I grew more and more angry. I was not, however, angry at my daughter. Oh, I admit to a little bit of anger at her but most of my anger soon became directed at the school.

The principal finished reading her list. I'm sure she was surprised that my reaction was not, "Oh, I'm so sorry my daughter is acting this way. I will do everything to make it better for you." Instead I responded with, "Wait a minute. You mean to tell me that this has been going on for 3 MONTHS and this is the first time you are telling me? How do you expect me to correct the behavior if you don't tell me about it?"

She was literally shocked and actually stuttered. I was so furious that there was absolutely no effort on their part to get me involved earlier. They allowed her to continue to behave this way whilst I thought things were wonderful. She was getting great grades (100% on pretty much everything). She was participating in school activities and had a few close, nice friends.

Erin did get a punishment at home for her most recent incidents. I felt it was unfair to punish her for everything that had happened over the past three months. She also got her first bona fide LECTURE. I think this, more than the punishment, is what set her straight.

Within two weeks of my getting involved her behavior greatly improved. I met with the principal a month later and there had been only one minor behavior incident. I also met with three of her teachers, all of whom said they were amazed at her transformation and she was now a pleasure to have in class.

To this day I am still baffled by the way the school handled this. The great thing about the kids' current school is that they have a "Communication Folder" that is sent home every day where teachers and parents can communicate about issues big and small.

How does your child's school handle behavior issues?

It finally happened

By Robin

After six and a half years, Lillianna has thrown up for the first time. At 1 a.m. Rich woke me up, "ROBIN!"

I was in Lillianna's room in two seconds. There she was, kneeling on her bed surrounded by vomit. She was scared and shaking.

My initial thought was, "Damn! She just had a bath seven hours ago! Now she will need a shower to wash the vomit out of her hair." I scooped her into the shower and washed her. While she stood there shaking she asked me, "Am I normal? Is it OK that I threw up?" I assured her she was perfectly normal and very lucky that she hadn't been vomiting for years like most kids her age.

While I dried her hair and put her into fresh jammies, Rich stripped her bed and did the best he could in her bedroom. I got her a bucket and the two of us settled down in the living room. By 3:30 a.m. I was begging her to please close her eyes and go to sleep for a little while. She was so chatty and very afraid to go to sleep in case she got sick again.

"Tell me more about when YOU threw up as a kid, Mom." Ah... memories.

Flashback to when I was 6 years old and I slept over at my friend Robin M's house. We were watching "The Poseidon Adventure" on TV and I started to feel strange. Having never thrown up other than when I was a baby, I had no idea what this feeling was.

I fell asleep on the couch and Robin's dad carried me in to her room and tucked me in bed. A short time later Robin peeked in the room and I waved for her to come in. "Can you lay down with me for a little bit?" I asked her. "Sure," she replied. Seconds later I threw up in her hair!

Somehow that story made Lillianna feel better. She asked me to please write about last night for DotMoms and ask all of you this question: What is the story behind the very first time you threw up?

Everyone thank Shai

Thank you, Shai, for this great feature on Blogging Mamas at Weblogs.About.Com. It's wonderful to see DotMoms featured so prominently and to learn more about why other moms read and write online.

A raising question

By Helene

It occurred to me the other day that the goal of being a parent should not be to "raise a child."

Please allow me to disgress for a moment here and see if you can follow my thinking ...

• When you "raise a barn," you set your goals for the finished product, not just the walls and stud boards.
• When you "raise the roof," you add the crowning component to a well-crafted building, not pour the foundation.
• When you "raise the stakes," you set the goals higher, not lower.

Therefore, doesn't it follow that the goal of parenting really should be to "raise an ADULT" (not a child)?

Perhaps this is the reason why so many parents still have their children living under their roof and sponging off of them at ages 26, 34, 42 ... forever!

Just a thought...

Shh, don't tell

By Lori

A number of my friends have infants, newborn to about 6 months old. So many conversations -- on the phone, across the fence, in email and on AIM -- are about those hazy, crazy newborn days. I sympathize with sleepless nights, offer advice like a nursing pro and debate the merits of schedules.

Truth is, I'm a fraud. I should be an expert. I've got at least 365 nights of sporadic sleep under my belt -- and about 120 of those with a baby tucked between Adam and I in bed or dozing, barely, on my chest. I nursed Emma for 15 months, whipping out my boobs on airplanes and in parking lots, at the park and beach, and shoving them, four times a day, into suction cups, dripping liquid gold into bottles, office door closed while I read blogs that didn't require too much scrolling. And I've spent the last three years structuring my whole life around Emma's schedule -- when we grocery shop and watch TV, what plane tickets I'll buy and birthday parties we can attend. It's the defining force in our world.

So what's the problem?

Promise not to rat me out?

I don't remember much of that first year. I know there was a time when she didn't sleep. A long, long, long time. Weeks were one long blur of tears. I know she hasn't always eaten chicken tikka masala and pad thai. We mixed that precious breastmilk with rice cereal, steamed and pureed zucchini and mashed more bananas than I can count. And we worked damn hard to get that schedule intact. I went to day care every day at lunch to nurse her, and she had to be awake AND hungry while I was there. A schedule was a necessity.

But I don't remember how it all happened, specifically. I can't picture her younger than 2, able to pee in the potty, tell me what hurt, smother me with kisses and spell her name. So all the advice I'm giving? It's that crap everyone told me, all those facts I read in books long ago and the vague idea of how we might've done it. Because truthfully, I don't have a damn clue.

A harbinger of good news

By Marcia

When I woke up this morning, I knew something was wrong.

Not terribly wrong -- Isaac was asleep beside me; his skin was cool and his breathing regular. But something seemed slightly off, like the tingly sensation you get when you're at a restaurant and you remember you may have forgotten to switch off the oven.

I looked around. My husband wasn't in bed with us. It was already light out, and he hadn't yet come to bed.

After a few minutes of wondering what the hell was going on, I heard the gate rattle, and then the front door opened and closed. Dan came into the bedroom and I sat up.

"Zoser's gone," he said.

I stared at him. "How long have you been looking for him?"

"About two hours." He paused. "Do you want breakfast?"

"No," I said. "I want my dog."

Dan nodded. He could feel that I was near the tipping point. He went back out and drove off.

I don't know where you live. If a dog gets out of his yard in White Bear Lake, Minn., it's not the end of the world. Probably old Bailey or Rover will wander around for a while, sniff someone's bushes, then find his way home. But in Cairo, people are terrified of dogs. Sometimes, the police put out poisoned meat in an effort to cull the strays. People drive like maniacs. And there are lots and lots of feral dogs.

Until this morning, Zoser had never been missing for more than a few minutes. Now, I'm not going to tell you anything half-cocked, like my dog is my baby, my other son. He's not. I love him about as much as you should love a two-year-old boxer-bulldog mutt. But in this emotionally fragile time, I just couldn't take any more bad news.

Isaac woke up, and I got dressed and put on my glasses. At least, I thought, Isaac and I can scour the neighborhood. And so we did -- walking around the park, trudging up to the antique furniture store, tiptoeing past the sleeping stray dogs. We circled for 20 minutes or so, then came back to our apartment building and sat down on the curb.

I don't know how long Isaac and I sat. But suddenly the bawwab slouching against a car across the street started to yell, "Aho! Aho!"

I stood up, and there was Zoser, running down the street toward us, waggling his little tail.

The backstory:

• April 22: The seizure
• April 23: Spaceship CAT scan
• April 24: When do you lie to your kids?
• April 25: God damn the Internet, God bless the Internet
• April 26: The showdown: Doctor vs. denial

Three-year-old injustice

By Melissa

My son is three and appears to be struggling with something resembling either schizophrenia or PMS. We call him the Tiny Tyrant because we never know what will spark his wrath. Will it be ketchup on the wrong side of the plate? Will it be a blue popsicle when he specifically said, in his mind, he wanted RED? Will it be failed peace talks in Palestine? We just never know.

I've been told several times, during several tantrums by several people, how they admire the way I endure a tantrum. How I look like I don't really notice what's happening. How I don't look flustered at all by the events unfolding in front of me, as if I don't hear my child screaming at the top of his lungs. I remain calm and stoic throughout the event.

The truth is, I don't notice. Just as the tantrum starts I sneak off and smoke a little Crack just to take the edge off. From there, I'm cool.

Okay, not really!

I do leave my body and find my happy place during the worst tantrums. I've actually found the labor breathing techniques, which didn't help me at all during labor, are quite useful while waiting for a tantrum to pass.

"He he hoooo. He he hoooo"

Sometimes we have better luck with this process than others.

Last week, we had what I call a Grand Mal Tantrum on the sidewalk in our neighborhood. We made it down the street with all the screaming and all the flailing and by the time we walked in the door to our home, I really did want some Crack. Okay, not really!

Really I wanted to sit down on the floor with Max and scream and cry and kick and I wanted to shake my fist at a world which would allow a boy to suffer the injustice of leaving the park when his mother said so and then I really just wanted a nap.

Instead I put Max in his room and I went to my room and took a time-out. I came back, gave him a cuddle and read a book with him and it was naptime for both of us.

How do you deal with tantrums?

Everyone welcome Melissa, a new DotMom (you can read her bio here).

The Mommy guilt

By Martha

I am convinced that Mommy Guilt is the third stage of childbirth that no one tells you about. First, you deliver the baby. Then, you deliver the placenta. Then, the Mommy Guilt is delivered upon you, and it forever shall follow you no matter where you may go.

I never considered myself a particularly guilt-ridden person before I had children. Now, that guilt finds me at every corner.

Whether the source of worry be that one of my children is behind (even marginally) in some developmental milestone, that my toddler refuses to eat anything but raisins and grilled cheese sandwiches for three weeks straight, or that my son isn't as verbally advanced as my best friend's daughter; whether the source of worry is something that was within our outside of my control, my inner guilt speaks to me in the same way:

Is it because I didn't play him classical music and read him books while he was still in utero? My God, I'm a horrible parent! I meant to do those things. Really, I did. Good lord, I was messing this kid up before he was even born!

Is it because I caved in and had sushi that one time while I was pregnant? I tried so hard for eight full months to resist the siren song of the Unagi and the spicy yellowtail roll, but in a moment of weakness I gave in. Bad Martha! Bad mother!

Is it because I didn't give him enough tummy time as an infant? How in the world could I have let two whole days pass without remembering to put him on his tummy? Surely, his neck muscles will be underdeveloped because of that, far far into his adulthood. I hope he doesn't end up needing neck muscle enhancement surgery or something because I forgot tummy time. Note to self: must start neck muscle enhancement surgery fund so that I can pay for it when the need inevitably arises.

Is it because I didn't breastfeed him? And not only that, he was formula fed before they even had that DHA/ARA formula! How on God's green earth is any baby supposed to survive, much less thrive, without LIPIL?

Is it because I let him eat French fries sometimes? Potatoes are vegetables, right? Oh, the guilt!

Oh good lord, is it because I let him watch Thomas the Tank Engine videos more than I probably should? Because I curse myself every single time I put on one of those videos, but how am I supposed to resist "Percy? Thomas? James? Pleeeeeeeeeeease?"

Rationally, I know that these things aren't really my fault. But since when does reason play a part in parenting?

Because, one thing that I have learned is that the Mommy Guilt can overcome all. It is a powerful force to be reckoned with.