DotMoms

A holiday dispatch

By Andrea

We're on holiday right now. We spent five night camping earlier this month (self-link to family hijinks here), and are about to set for home from a visit with our in-laws, during which time my husband and I took a two-night getaway to historic and lovely Niagara-on-the-Lake.

This was the first time that the both of us have been away from both of our children. TWO NIGHTS! It may not sound like much, but it was a big thing for us to do. The goal: to reconnect as a married couple and enjoy some quality time away from our children.

Aside from the weather, which was cloudy and chilly, we had a great time. We slept in. We had long soaks in the jacuzzi. We read newspapers and newly-purchased books AND magazines without interruption. We ate copious amounts of rich food. Imagine: three-course breakfasts which included dessert! We ordered flights of wine with dinner (we were, after all, in the middle of wine country) not really caring about the risk of hangover. We consumed bowls of ice cream and gourmet jelly beans. I wore a new va-va-voom dress that was not going to encounter any sticky handprints on the way out the door. This was living!

After a leisurely sushi dinner the second night we started to feel a little lonely. In fact, the topic of How Much We Adore Our Daughters and How Much We Miss Them almost dominated the evening. So on the way out of the restaurant we asked one of the waitresses if she could direct us to a pay phone. I keep a phone card in my wallet in case of emergencies. This was definitely an emergency. WE HAD TO TALK TO OUR DAUGHTERS!

The waitress frowned. She wasn't sure if there was a pay phone nearby, and she waved us up the street. Perhaps we looked disappointed. We walked up the stairs of the restaurant and turned in the recommended direction.

"Hey! Wait!"

We turned to see a smiling young woman approaching us with cell phone in hand.

"Here, use my phone."

I didn't notice her from the restaurant, but she must have overheard our conversation with the waitress. We explained it was going to be a long distance call. She said it didn't matter.

So Mark dialed the number. The conversation was pretty short. Emma informed us that Nana was eating a Rice Krispie Square they had all made together, and assured us that they were having fun. But Sarah (who is three) came on the phone and asked us to come home. It nearly brought us to tears. In fact, if we hadn't arranged for that second night I'm sure Mark would have hopped in the car that very second and driven straight home.

We somberly returned the phone to the young woman, and thanked her profusely. Inwardly, I wondered: at what point did I become one of those women who can't travel without feeling guilty and getting all mushy about their children? I never thought I'd get this soft. :)

We explained who we called and why. She told us that she'd just found out she was expecting her first child. She was eight weeks along. Perhaps it was this happy news that prompted her to extend this kindness to strangers.

I hope she knows what a great thing she did for us.

Time to clean

By Robin P.

My mom is a cleaner. She isn't obsessive about it but every room is always neat and clean. When I was a child, my mom made my bed and cleaned my room every day while I was at school. I don't think I made my own bed until I was 14 years old. I didn't do laundry until I was 18 and off at college. It's not that mom didn't think I could do it, she just figured she could do it better.

I am not a cleaner. In fact, I hate cleaning more than I hate grocery shopping. Our home is filled with clutter that has nowhere to go in this two-bedroom apartment. I have often suggested that we should pick up as we go along, but we never do. Whenever we clean it's a big project.

Yesterday, I explained to Lillianna that we were going to straighten up the apartment. Instead of whining and arguing about this unpleasant chore, she said, "I would like to clean my room by myself today." I was stunned and almost speechless. I said, "Sure. Go right ahead. Call me if you need my help."

While I attempted to tidy up my bedroom, Lillianna turned on the CD player and began to clean. Instead of complaining that it was too hard to put her books in the bookcase she faced the task and put them in one at a time. She put all her dolls in their proper spot. She put all her clothes on hangers and she even dusted behind her toy bin. She cleaned for over an hour.

When I went in to check on her I couldn't believe my eyes. I hugged her and said, "I am so very proud of you. You did a great job. Everything is so clean." She smiled and said, "I was hoping you would say that." She looked around her room with pride.

At what age do you expect your child to clean his/her own room?

Lunch box memories

By Helene

There's an interesting exhibit at our library right now on the history of lunch boxes, and with Kathryn's entry into kindergarten this year, it brings back a lot of memories.

Do you remember your very first lunchbox? I do. Mine was a metal H.R. Pufnstuf one with Jimmy, Puff and Freddy the Flute on one side and Witchiepoo on the other.

As a kid just entering first grade, I loved this show, and, like most of my young peers, I was totally oblivious to the show's '70s psychedelic references. As fondly as I wish that I still had this lunch box today, I'm reminded that in just a few short weeks, my soon-to-be 5-year-old Kathryn will be getting her first exposure to toting a lunch to school each day.

Lunch boxes, sadly, are no longer metal these days, and in most cases they aren't even boxes anymore, they're more like bags. But does it really matter? No, not really ... for I bet that in the next few years, Kathryn (even though she won't be carrying H.R. Pufnstuf to school every day) will still somehow have many of the same lunch box bag experiences I had growing up -- such as swapping my PB & J with Mary Newman for her mint jelly sandwich or making googly eyes across the table at Paul Chicrus. (BTW: he had a Peanuts lunchbox :) )

As I think about it in the greater scheme things, perhaps the decline of metal lunch boxes for soft padded vinyl is a good thing after all -- for it eliminates the need as a parent to have to worry about Katie coming home with the class bully's Johnny Lightning lunchbox impression on her head.

Do you remember your first lunch box?

The day the baby jogger died

By Amanda

As the mother of two young children (ages one and four), the double baby jogger is my sanity. It allows me to get up and go -- for a walk, to the pool, shopping. Sure a four-year-old can walk, but not for long without whining. I will always remember Monday, July 5 as the day my freedom was taken by a Lincoln Navigator.

We were visiting my parents at the New Jersey shore. My husband and I had walked the kids in the jogger (about a mile) from our rental house to my parents' home for the morning. When it became time to go back to the house for the baby's nap, I started packing up while my husband went to the driveway to ready the kids' chariot. A minute later my four-year-old daughter returned and said: "Daddy needs to see you in the driveway."

I had a feeling in the pit of my stomach that whatever it was, it was not good, and I was right. I saw his face first, a combined look of anger and disappointment. Then I saw the jogger, the frame mangled, the wheel flattened like a pancake on the pavement. My husband turned to me slowly and said: "Where did you leave the jogger?" He said this with a knowing tone in his voice.

Obviously, I left the jogger behind my dad's car. I was crushed, deflated like the tire. It wasn't just the cost of the jogger, it's what it represents.

What I couldn't figure out was how my father flattened the jogger and kept on going without noticing. Surely he would have called had he realized what he had done.

My husband and baby daughter went back to the house to nap. My four-year-old accompanied me to the Five-and-Dime to buy a cheap collapsible stroller for the remainder of our vacation. This meant the end of long walks, but at least we wouldn't have to carry the baby everywhere.

As I was turning right to try and park in front of the store I noticed I was in the wrong lane, there was a turn lane to my right, and there was a car. To avoid an accident I swerved left cutting through an intersection and running a red light. I immediately pulled over to catch my breath and calm my rapidly beating heart.

That's when I saw the lights in my rearview mirror. Just when you think things can't get worse...

My daughter immediately began to cry and scream: "Don't take my mommy to jail." She continued her tirade, even pointing at the officer as he came to the driver's side window and peeked in. Unfortunately, not planning on a trip in the car, I had only grabbed my beach bag and not my wallet. In short, I had no driver's license.

The cop took my personal information and said he would "run me through the computer." Well, apparently the computer was on vacation too, because he could not find me listed as a licensed driver in North Carolina (where I have lived for 10 years). I started to think that maybe my daughter was right; maybe I was going to jail. She continued yelling at the officer each time he approached the car. This went on for about 30 minutes. He paid her no notice, acting as if this was normal behavior during a routine traffic stop.

He told me he would just give me a ticket for not having my license (my offer to go get it and present it to him at the station was repeatedly denied). I figured this was probably a good deal considering the red light thing, so I smiled politely, took the ticket and drove off. When I finally pulled into a parking space I looked closer at the ticket. The fine: $177!

I was shocked. My sunny day at the shore had turned into a $500 day. Depressed and dejected I bought the cheap stroller and bucked up enough to take my traumatized four-year-old to the beach to play with her friend.

Luckily, the next day things improved. We took the jogger to the bike store where the bike mechanic shook his head and palmed his chin in a look of "there's no hope." But somehow he fixed it, made it good as new (as far as I can tell) for just $26.50. We called the local Clerk of Court who agreed the fine I received was too high and said if I came down with my license I would only be charged $25.00 per the local judge's order.

So the $500 day turned into a $51.50 day (minus the cost of the cheap stroller).

And by the way, my dad did know he hit the jogger. In fact, he hit it out into two lanes of traffic and had to retrieve it. He finally told me as he shirked behind a rack of clothing in a local store while we were shopping. I asked him why he didn't tell me right away, after all I was the one who left it in the driveway, I was mad at myself, not at him. He said he didn't know why he didn't tell me.

I think he was scared. I think he must have known that the jogger is more than just something designed to carry children, it equals freedom.

A sign of the times

By Robin P.

When Lillianna was two years old I took 3 six-week sign language courses. I taught her everything I learned and we had fun signing little phrases back and forth. I don't want to mislead anyone. Lillianna and I understand each other , however if we were to encounter a deaf person we would be praying he/she was proficient in lip reading!

I wish I had learned sign language when she was an infant so that she could have signed before she could talk. In fact, Robin R. just asked about teaching her infant daughter, Pearl, sign language and I encouraged her to pursue that. I am now re-evaluating my advice after yesterday's experience.

I had an extremely busy day at work. I was an hour late picking Lillianna up at my mother's house. I was tired, hungry, cranky and completely frazzled when I turned down my mother's street. There in the driveway stood my daughter standing with her left hand on her hip, her right foot tapping out an impatient beat and furiously signing with her right hand L-A-T-E ! The harsh way she signed was the equivalent of yelling in sign language.

I got out of the car and said, "I don't like that tone you just used young lady. Say good-bye and thank you to Nana and Papa and get in the car." She replied with a quiet, "Yes, Mommy." My mom kept asking, "Why are you mad at the baby? What did she do?" When I explained it to her, she was impressed with Lillianna's signing ability and she thought it was funny. To tell the truth I was so proud she put the "e" at the end of late and spelled it correctly! I could have done without the attitude, though.

Have you taught your kids sign language?

Remembering the good old days

By Shelley

My oldest daughter is the age I was when I met my husband. Lately, it seems, my daughter has been asking questions of a family friend, the wife of K, who is my husband's best friend from high school, and someone with whom we've reconnected in the last few years.

It seems my daughter would like to know what dear old Dad and dear old Mom were like back in high school. And this terrifies me. It's not that I was awful in high school -- but there are certainly some stories I'm not quite ready to share with my children. Occasionally, K and my husband will wander off in reminiscences, and I'll find myself stopping them with a frown and a glance at the teen. Lost in nostalgia, it's easy for them to forget that some endings were not happy ones.

I want my daughter to know that I remember what it was like, that I understand her angst, and that there are some things that all teenagers go through. But I don't want her getting any ideas, see? There are some things I was doing at her age, and later, that I don't necessarily want her exploring on her own -- at least not yet.

I want her to learn from our mistakes, but shouldn't some of my past remain a mystery? At least for a little while longer?

How much do you tell your children, and when?

Lillianna's march on Lexington and Concord

By Robin P.

Today is the day Rich has been waiting for. After six years of training, Lillianna is ready for her first real wargame. Wargaming is when two or more people re-enact a battle scene using plastic or lead miniature figures. Rich games on a 18'x6' table on which trees, bridges, water (blue felt), churches, buildings and lots of 25mm soldiers are set up to begin the battle. A roll of the dice determines how far a gun or cannon can shoot or how far a battalion can move. Once a soldier is "killed," a small plastic ring is placed around his neck. A typical game lasts from 4-6 hours with a lunch break in the middle.

When Lillianna was 7 or 8 months old, Rich would lie on the floor next to her and set up plastic wargame figures. It was then that the training began. He explained the battles and his strategy to her. It didn't matter if she understood what he was saying but she enjoyed the game with Daddy.

As she grew older, Rich taught her how to play with lead figures. She learned how to handle them properly. Rich said she handled them with more care than his friends did! She began to understand how to really play the game. She loved it! Rich couldn't believe how good she was at playing his favorite hobby. This was his dream come true. When I was pregnant with her, Rich didn't care if the baby was a boy or girl. He was just hoping our child liked to wargame.

Lillianna and Rich are on the British side attacking Lexington and Concord. The great thing about a wargame is that although they re-enact a past battle, the outcome today can be totally different from the actual battle. It all depends on their strategy, the strategy of their opponents and the roll of the dice.

Dressed in the British colors of red, white and blue, Lillianna skipped out the front door carrying her lunch box which I packed with snacks and drinks. She trailed after Rich who was carrying large boxes of troops. This is a very special day for both of them. I can't wait to hear from them at the end of the day to hear the re-cap of their battle.

What special hobbies have you passed on to your child?

The guardian

By Emily

Do you have a will? One stating who gets custody of your children should something happen to you and your spouse? I must confess, Randy and I don't have one. It's something I have often thought about, and we have talked at great length about it.

The problem is ... we have no idea whom to name as guardian.

Every time we talk, we run through the list of potential people. My parents, while not old, are still not young enough to raise three more children. My sisters and brothers all have several children of their own, thus making it hard to add three more to the fray.

So, what do we do? I would feel better knowing where and with whom my children would be, but this still doesn't bring me any closer to an answer.

How did you decide on a guardian?

Related: Who will raise your kids if you can't?

The unthinkables

By Robin R.

I've been thinking about inheritances lately but not in the most traditional sense.

My mom is a cancer survivor; she's had the disease three times. After she recovered last year, she signed up for genetic testing so that she could find out if she had the genes known to cause cancer. That way her children would have all the available information and enter a high-risk cancer-prevention program. This struck me as a really generous act on her part. It turned out that she did not have any of the genes in question, however I really appreciate her effort to learn more about a potentially harmful part of our inheritance.

While my mom was in the middle of chemotherapy, she felt miserable and depressed. During one of our conversations, Mom asked me if I'd every heard about the Jewish practice of writing an ethical will. A friend of hers had been asking her about it.

We looked it up. In legal documents like living wills or last wills and testaments, you divide your material possessions. In an ethical will, you can leave the intangible -- but equally important things -- that you've learned and gathered along the way. You can explain your values and what really matters to you. Often people write an ethical will as a letter to their children, friends, and loved ones. Your children receive this document as part of their inheritance.

As a writer, the idea that your legacy could be a letter is exciting. Talk about having the last word!

When my mom and I had this conversation initially, I didn't have a child. Now that my daughter has arrived, this memory returns.

As the OTHER mother in a lesbian family, I will not be passing down anything in a strictly biological sense. And yet I have been involved in her creation, birth, and infancy each and every moment and day. The desire to LOVE her, GIVE her what she needs, to WARN her of danger, and PROTECT her from harm can be overwhelming. As a mom, you never want to imagine that your kids might have to grow up without you. So I have not written the letter. Not yet. But I'm thinking about what values I want to share with my child.

Have you written an ethical will? What would you want your kids to remember about you?

While the cat's away

By Lori

Adam went out with another woman last night.

Around midnight, hysteria set in.

Emma's, not mine.

She'd insisted on going to sleep with her pillow perched on her belly, like a blanket, and another smothering Little Bit, her stuffed cat. (She'd tried this out earlier in the day, during her nap. Stayed that way the whole time, apparently.) But when she woke in the dark, it somehow terrified her. I was sound asleep and heard her frantic screams. This wasn't just a potty call; I thought something had bitten her or she'd had a nightmare. Nope, just the pillow problem. "This isn't right! WHO DID THIS?" As soon as everything was rearranged, she quickly went back down. I, on the other hand, lay awake and alone, heart pounding over the crisis that could've been.

Somehow, Emma always has her worst freakouts when Adam is gone. The first time we flew with her is the perfect example. We were in Phoenix for the stone unveiling for Adam's grandparents. We'd spent half the day traveling, and I refused to go to whatever family event was that night. Emma hadn't napped, it was already nearing her bedtime, so she and I got dropped at Adam's mom's place. Em must've been 7 months or so, crawling like mad. I nursed and then pulled out the Pack-n-Play.

Now, under the best of circumstances, I was never good at setting up the PnP. I couldn't get the bars to extend or the center to pop. I've got Em surrounded by pillows so she can't crawl around the un-babyproofed house as I yank and pull. No luck. Within minutes, she's so exhausted she's screaming. There's nowhere I can put her down, because as soon as I lay with her on a bed or couch, she tries to crawl away. This is a kid who sleeps perfectly, but only under the right circumstances. All I needed to do was get her down in her own space. But I can't work the portable crib.

By the time Adam and his mom arrive, two hours later, Emma's cried so hard she threw up all over me. I never did get the PnP set up and I'm walking around the house, covered in baby puke and toting my inconsolable child, crying along with her.

Last night wasn't nearly that bad, of course. But there's a definite pattern, and it usually means me shouldering the worst of it alone. How's that fair?