DotMoms

Note to male relatives: My son is not a football

by Marcia

Isaac has spent most of his young life in Egypt--far, far away from the riot of uncles, aunts, cousins and grandparents. Mostly, it's a regrettable side effect of our life abroad. Mostly, I've wished he could spend more time with uncles, aunts, cousins and, especially, grandparents.

Then one afternoon, I pounded down a flight of stairs to find him crawling on a pool table, in a swirl of multicolored balls, and I wished I could click my heels three times and return to the safety of our Cairo apartment.

Okay, I'll be honest: most of our relatives accept that my husband and I have some authority over our son's health and safety. For instance, when my brother was tossing Isaac over his head and I said, "Um, no letting go, okay? No letting go please," he promptly caught Isaac and sat with the baby on his lap.

But other male relatives seem offended by my gentle suggestions that Isaac should not be used as a pool cue.

"You're overprotective," I hear, as well as, "You're spoiling him." And then the men scoff and sip their drinks and roll pool balls at my baby's head.

All right, I give. Maybe my husband and I are overprotective. Maybe we will, some day, spoil our baby boy. But so what? Isn't he ours to preserve or spoil? And, dammit, isn't he ours to protect?

That smell

By Martha

I'm changing to get ready for bed. As I go to take my T-shirt off, my nose ends up caught in the shoulder of my shirt, stuck there while I try to wrestle it off over my head. And then the smell catches me.

I had Simon up on my shoulder for maybe three minutes tonight. He's not normally an up-on-the-shoulder type of baby -- he likes to be held facing out, with adult hands laced together underneath his butt so that he’s in a sitting position. But tonight, for about three minutes, he was happy up on my shoulder.

The kid is a drooler. I swear, even though he’s only four months old, I think he’s teething. He is a veritable fountain of drool. It spews from his mouth like it's red hot lava flowing from Krakatoa. My life is a constant battle to wipe the ever-present drool from his chin. I've taken to putting him in a bib at all times to avoid having to change his shirt four times per day.

With my shirt stuck on my head, I catch a whiff of the smell that lingers there. The smell is quintessentially Simon: Formula mixed with drool. But not just any formula -- Enfamil Prosobee with LIPIL. And not just any drool -- the drool of my colicky four-month-old son.

This smell gives me a pang through my heart that feels deeper than a stab wound. It is a smell of love. It is a smell that means that I was holding him while he cried, that I fed him when he was hungry, and that I paced around with him in my arms until he fell asleep for the night.

I swear, often I think that this kid is trying to kill me. Sometimes in a bad way: I will cry and cry and cry and cry until I think you can't take it for another minute. Sometimes in a good way: I will smile at you and my eyes will light up so brightly and I will say in my unspoken little baby voice, "Mom, I totally think that you are The Shit." Tonight, that smell just about killed me in the good way.

The other America

By Marcia

The last time my husband and I lived in the States, we were big dinks.

Perhaps that, too, but what I really mean is we were "dual-income, no kids." We weren't wealthy by any means, but we had plenty of extra cash to see movies and plays, go to restaurants, buy high-quality imported food, hang out at the zoo and visit art museums. To me, that was America.

Two years later, I'm not sure we qualify for an acronym. Nioks? Zioks? Ttfwogotdoks? (Trying-to-find-work-or-get-on-the-dole, one kid.)

And wow, it's a different America. The restaurants, dessert bars and concerts that were a staple of our weekends now seem decadent, overpriced and loud.

The biggest shock, though, comes with health care. In the last few days, Isaac has developed what I think is viral conjunctivitis -- his left eye is running with clear goop, and it gets red and irritated-looking by evening. My gut says that this too, shall pass. Isaac did have a terrible bout of bacterial conjunctivitis (the kind that requires antibiotics) and, that time, horrible mustard-colored crud gushed out of his eyes and sealed them shut every hour or so.

Still, though, if we were in any other country, I would take Isaac to the doctor, just to be sure. Now I find myself hoping we don't have to take him into urgent care, dreading the hundred or more dollars we would drop on the visit.

Of course, we're still very fortunate. My parents are both well-off, and if we really need money, we can always beg. (Pride? What pride?)

But damn, this visit is an eye-opener.

Little sponges

By Amanda

They say imitation is the most sincere form of flattery. But when it's a 4-year-old imitating you, it's not quite the same thing ...

When my oldest daughter was a baby, friends with older children used to say, "Just wait, wait until she soaks in everything you say and do like a little sponge!" I didn't really understand what they meant until recently. Sure, she had repeated my words or actions here and there, but not with any real understanding -- that is, until she turned 4.

It was about 7 one morning last week when my daughter pranced down the stairs with her pink cotton Hanes girls' underwear tucked into the crack of her behind. Calmy I asked her why she was wearing her underwear that way. She said, "Mommy, I want to be like you. This is what your underwear looks like." (Note to self: Maybe thongs don't look that great after all?)

She has also taken to dancing like me, and it's not a pretty sight. My husband describes it as the "pogo-stick" move, a constant jumping up and down, with an occasional frenzied arm maneuver. My "mini-me" has it down to a science. It's like looking in a mirror at a funhouse.

And then there are the words. The other day she was trying to close a drawer in her room when something got stuck and she cried, "This friggin' drawer is making me so mad!" I guess it could be worse. At least she hasn't heard the curse words I mumble quietly when I drive. Although the other day she did yell from the backseat at a driver who cut us off. "Hey lady," she screamed, "what's your problem?"

These events give new meaning to the term "self-censorship." Not only do I have to watch what I say, but I have to watch what I do. I think ultimately it will make me a better person now that I have an audience. But at the same time it makes me nervous knowing that two big brown eyes and two little pink ears are taking in everything I do. The reality is that I'm human; I will make mistakes in front of her. I just hope she's asleep when it happens ...

Read it again, Mom -- Pleaseeeeee!

By Helene

For the past four weeks, it’s been the same night and night.

“Katie. Jess. Time to get out of the tub and pick your story.”

Katie’s quickly learned to take her time both in getting out of the bath and in making her selection so that I can begin reading Jessie’s pick from the big Disney book –- for it’s always the same.

These days it seems that very moment that I remove Jess from the tub, she make a bee ant line for her room to locate the book’s sea-foam-green cover. It may take a few minutes of page turning to thumb through the book’s 156 pages –- which often gives me enough time to get Katie out of the tub as well –- but eventually she comes dashing out the door, still naked, and proudly announcing her find.

“Momma, I found it, I found it! Bug’s Life.”

Ahh yes, we’re up to about book No. 9 in a short list of titles that have been repeatedly requested nightly for more than 50 days in a row. I don’t mind reading books again … and again … and again, for I know it’s all an important part of learning process. However, I will admit, A Bug’s Life (the Disney-ized story version) is wearing pretty thin by now. If only we could go back to those short board-book days … Oh, how I’d easily trade this current favorite for 13 readings (even in row!) of The Very Busy Spider or Goodnight Moon any day. :)

How about you? What bedtime story did/does your child continually ask for?

A specter of things to come

By Anne-Marie

When my kids’ eczema flares up, their dad says, “You get your yucky skin from your mama.” Unfortunately, it’s true. And since I had eczema, allergies and asthma as a child, my children are more likely to develop these conditions. So when I read about a medical study at National Jewish Medical and Research Center trying to determine if treating eczema in infancy prevents asthma, I enrolled my daughter, Lucie. I did it more out of curiosity than concern as I blamed Colorado’s dry climate for her skin condition. After all, she’s the spitting image of her father, so there was no way she was going to inherit any of my problems.

How wrong I was. Last week Lucie had a very strong reaction to baby sunscreen and broke out in severe hives over 80 percent of her body. The hives have gone away, but her eczema is now much worse. Could this mean she’ll develop her mama’s allergies and asthma? Only time will tell, but I really, really hope not.

In the ‘70s there were only drugs to treat -- not prevent -- asthma, so having allergies and asthma was about what I wasn’t able to have or do. I couldn’t have a dog, because I was very allergic to animals. I couldn’t participate in sports, because my asthma was exercise-induced. I couldn’t eat chocolate, because it triggered my asthma. I wasn’t able to participate in an exchange student program because of my asthma. I couldn’t spend the night at a friend’s, because I was allergic to the wool carpeting in their house. The list went on and on.

So what does this mean for Lucie? There have been great advances in preventative drugs. I often read stories of athletes with asthma playing professional sports or participating in the Olympics. Still I don’t want her to go through life having limits on what she can do, but there’s nothing to prevent it. As a former asthmatic, I know I’ll be the best support system she can have. We’ll deal with it together, if and when it comes.

Failure to communicate

By Robin

Today, while we were driving to the bank after school, I asked Lillianna about her day. "How was school today?" She answered with her standard reply, "Pretty good."

"What kind of papers did you do?"

"Math." I waited for more information. Nothing. I tried again.

"Who did you play with?"

"Bridgette."

I sighed deeply. I began asking her a million questions until she finally gave me some answers. I felt like it was an interrogation instead of a loving mother speaking to her child.

"Look, Lillianna, you have to learn to be a good communicator. We have at least 12 more years of this type of conversation. I am interested in what you do when you are away from home. You don't have to tell me every detail but you have to share something with me. For example, you can say, 'I had a fun day in school. We did a math paper in pairs so Bridgette and I worked together on it. The worst part of the day was when Mrs. T told another table that they were the most well behaved in the class. That made me feel bad. The best part of the day was when Bridgette picked me to help her with being the weather person.' That's it. That's all I want to know."

"But Mom, I liked it when you asked me a million questions to get the answers. I would prefer that you do that from now on. It was fun!"

It may have been fun for her, but it was a whole lot of work for me!

Lillianna is usually a very chatty child, but when it comes to the details of school she is as quiet as a clam.

How do you get your children to communicate?

Mom's hideout

By Jenn

Many houses have different rooms that are designated for a particular family member. For some men, their private hideaway is their garage. (My brother-in-law would be a great example of that. In fact, to see him in the house is almost shocking. He just spends that much time in the garage. Granted, he does have a sweet little set-up, so who could blame him?) My husband has our home office. We all can go in there (and do) to use our computers, but if he closes the door, it means stay out. We know this. We stay out and leave him alone. Short of there being a fire or other such emergency, it is as if he isn't even home. For my children, it is their own bedrooms. If they go into their rooms and close their doors, it means they want to be alone. We all have learned to respect that. (Okay, we have all learned what a closed door means, but we don't always respect it.) The point is there is a place for each of us to go when we want to be alone. Completely alone.

What? You say didn't see my private room listed? Well, it took me a long time to stake a claim to my hideaway room. You see, my bedroom wouldn't be a good choice. I share it with my husband and wouldn't feel right about kicking him out of it. Not to mention the fact that the kids will pretty much just stand there knocking or just shouting through the door for whatever it is they want, anyway. Unless I am sick and threaten to breathe on them, they can't (or won't) take a hint that I want to be alone if I go to my room. The kitchen is out. I mean, seriously, who wants to be in there anyway if they don't have to be? The family room is out merely by the very nature of the name of the room. The "family" room isn't a place to go to be alone. (Feel free to laugh if you have already figured out what room I was left with.)

Yes, my friends, this mom's hideout room (the mom sanctuary) is none other than the bathroom. I'd love to tell you that it is a huge bathroom with a gloriously large sunken whirlpool tub with music piped in to soothe and relax me. I would love to say that I have expensive aromatherapy candles that calm the nerves and relax the body. In fact, I would be thrilled to mention the plush rug and heated floors that keep my toes all cozy in the winter. The truth of the matter is that it is a tiny little room. There is no sunken tub. There is no tub at all, just a shower. The rug is actually carpet that has been worn down to next to nothing. And the wallpaper and cabinets? Let's just say they aren't my style. It isn't the atmosphere I seek. It is the solitude.

I have the basic necessities. Reading material to keep me busy for hours if need be. (It isn't like I have to worry about what I will do if I have to pee!) I have every bath and body lotion known to man. (Some they don't even make anymore.) I have hair care products that can take me from frumpy to sleek in just minutes. (At least they claim they can.) I can give myself a pedicure and manicure if I want to take the time. I can even redo it if I don't like the color when I am finished. In fact, I can give myself an entire makeover from head to toe. Granted the most glamorous wardrobe change would be into my very cozy, fleece robe from Old Navy, circa 1997.) I have all I need in there. I can stay locked in indefinitely.

Or until they find me. And they usually do. However, I do have my own hideaway where, for at least a few glorious moments, I am able to be by myself. Without an audience. Behind a locked door. Alone. You may not find it very glamorous or exciting, but trust me, my hideout is private, secluded and not somewhere that anyone else wants to be. However, if you come over to my home and the little people here drive you nuts, all you have to do is ask me, and I just may let you hide out there, too.

Do you have a hideout in your house? Tell me about it!

But they might get hurt

By Shelley

"What are you doing?" my mother asked on the other end of the telephone.

"A. is weed-whacking the yard, and I'm sitting on the porch waiting for her to cut her toe off," I answered.

I took it as a sign of maturity in my mothering journey that I was able to sit calmly, not hovering over the pre-teen as she wielded the weed-whacker around the edges of the flower beds. My usual modus operandi is to stand behind her, shouting helpful instructions over the whine of machine, instructions like "Be careful!" and "Watch your foot!"

My concern over my kids getting hurt borders on paranoia sometimes. When they were babies, I strapped them in tight whenever they were in their carriers, even if the thing was just sitting on the floor beside the couch. When they took their first steps, I hovered behind them, waiting to catch them when they fell. As they grew, my litany gained phrases like "Not so fast, you'll trip" and "No, you can't do that; you might fall."

I was surprised to see this side of my character come out. As a child, I ran and climbed trees and scaled fences. I would hang from the monkey bars or climb to the garage roof, just to jump off. I made it through childhood largely unscathed, but for a few stitches and a broken ankle.

But as a mother, I have nightmares about my children gaining bruises and bloody noses and scraped knees. I worry that whatever marks they acquire through the rough-and-tumble that is normal childhood play will reflect poorly on my ability to protect them. I'm the mother who, at the restaurant playland, lectures other children about not climbing backwards up the slide and cautions them not to push and shove.

On the ball diamond, I cringe at the tumbles and trips and baseballs that bounce off little shins. When my teenager starts making noise about getting a job at McDonalds, I envision horrific scenarios of her cutting her fingers off while slicing up salad ingredients. I can't stand the thought of her being anywhere near the vicinity of a deep fryer or hot grill, because, well, accidents happen.

But today, I found myself letting go a little. The world is a dangerous place, and eventually, they're going to have to go out in to it. I've been saying, "Be careful" for nearly 15 years now, and I have to hope that some of it stuck. It's time to take a little step back and stand by with the Band-Aids.

Which came in mighty handy when she cut her shin with the weed-whacker this afternoon.

The Un-Volunteer

By Angela

I used to be such a good little school volunteer, even room mom several times. The first child's kindergarten teacher counted on me a lot, for I was always the one she could turn to to bring in extra snacks, attend field trips, take all the pictures for the class photo album, and generally do whatever was needed. But at the end of the year, she barely gave me a nod for all that I had done. It was a small sting. At least I knew that if nothing else, I hadn't missed anything of my child's first year of school.

As years went on and that first child entered fourth grade, I found myself volunteering to be a room mom again. I didn't want to, really. Fourth graders scared me. But I jumped in and did it; the teacher had no other volunteers. Next thing I knew, I had homework every night. The teacher would send stacks and stacks of papers home for me to grade. Every. Single. Night. I couldn't help but wonder, if I was grading all her papers, what was she doing? Sure, she worked all day, but she got PAID.

The following year, I barely made eye contact with the new fifth grade teacher, and I made my son promise before we even met her that I would NOT, would NOT, would NOT be room mom or any kind of time-consuming volunteer. I did have a life, after all. But before we left, I had put my hand right in hers and told her anything she needed, she could just ask. And then I spent the year dodging her, forgetting to return notes, and avoiding phone calls.

At the same time, my second son entered kindergarten. I knew I had to stay away from offering too much. The teacher was enthusiastic, but she also had a helper. I got away by mumbling something about working during the day...at home. But I can't tell some teachers I work at home, because many assume that means I'm free anytime they need me.

Once the oldest went off to middle school, where basically room mothers are obsolete, and the second child entered first grade (and luckily was in the same class as the boy whose mother was room mom the year before), my daughter began pre-k. Admittedly, I had a harder time letting her go each day, as she was the baby. My intentions were to walk her to her class for the first week. I wound up on breakfast cafeteria duty all year, attended every field trip (except the one where I followed the wrong buses to the wrong field trip), and became the classroom photographer. And at the end of the year, I'd love to say the teacher thanked me, but she did not. I was left feeling burned again.

So for the past two years, I have been what I've called the Un-Volunteer. I have an ego, I admit, and it hurt to be snubbed when I had done so much for teachers. I wasn't able to find a nice balance, neither doing too much or nothing at all.

But now I'm ready to commit myself as a volunteer again. In the fall, the two youngest kids will be attending a new elementary school, due to rezoning, and I'm looking forward to it. I've already made a deal with myself to find that nice balance, giving of my time and energies as I can, without feeling guilty if I have to say "no" at any time. I can't wait to see if I can shed my Un-Volunteer status with fresh teachers. Let's just hope this hasn't already landed on my permanent record.