DotMoms

Thanks for the mammaries

By Lana

Hooray! As I enter week four of motherhood, my breasts have now become useful and fully functioning appliances in my nursing efforts. They certainly weren't that way at first. In those first few days after delivery, they resisted my child's attempts to use them as feeding organs, becoming painful, lumpy and, it must be said, exceedingly unattractive -- but huge, too!

They took on a life of their own, a little like the machines in the "Terminator" movies, and there was little I could do to control them. They hurt like hell, but my boy was hungry, so all I could do was to keep on feeding him and wincing as he and my boobs struggled to find a happy balance with each other.

As the days passed, they, and my son, settled down and I'm happy to say that the breast revolution has now been quelled. And not a moment too soon. At about day 5, I was seriously considering a mastectomy, anything to rid my body of these tender, milk-shooting appendages.

Other mothers kept telling me that one day I would enjoy the act of nursing, and I didn't believe them at first. But now I see that they were right -- looking down at my little boy's face as he vigorously searches for and grasps my breast never fails to melt my heart. His happy cooing noises and bright, alert eyes as he suckles are expressions of pure bliss.

Since the early days of my pregnancy I've been fascinated by the changes in my breasts, and never more so than now that they have become the key to my baby's survival. I love how simple it all is: when he's looking fretful, I just whip out a breast and all is well again.

If only other human relationships could be mastered so easily.

Boobs for world peace? Maybe we ought to give it a try.

Not so Super Mom

By Jenn

The hardest part of becoming a mother was giving myself permission to make mistakes. 

With my firstborn son, I thought I had to do it all. I had to be the Super Mom that I envisioned all other moms to be. In fact, I allowed other moms to actually fuel the "I'm not good enough" fires that many new moms have flickering just below the surface.  "You're unable to breastfeed?  What a shame!" was translated in my mind to "You horrible, horrible mother! How could you be such a failure so early on?!" 

Every other mom seemed to have it all together. I would go to playgroup and return home in tears. Their houses were always so perfect. I was lucky if I was able to get my dishes washed before we ran out. They always looked so put together. I was lucky if I could take a shower every OTHER day. No one ever talked about the fact that sometimes this job known as motherhood is hard!

With the birth of my second son, I started cutting myself some slack. I realized that my baby wouldn't end up in therapy if I breastfed him in the bathroom while potty training my 2-year-old. Admittedly, I thought I was terrible for doing that, but I didn't think he would suffer long-term psychological damage. If I was so exhausted that I forgot to have my 2-year-old brush his teeth before bed, he wouldn't end up in dentures by the time he was 12. (Although, we'll see. He's only 11 now.)

I was still hard on myself, though. Too hard. I turned to "aids" that were not only enemies, but were in fact counter-productive to being a good mother. I came so close to losing everything I loved that I vowed that no matter what, no matter how hard it seemed and no matter how much I questioned myself, I would no longer try to be Super Mom. I would never achieve it. Never.

Shortly after I pulled my life together and was given back everything I held dear, I found out I was pregnant with my daughter. I saw her as a chance to enjoy motherhood without the fear of not being good enough. I promised her while she was still in utero that I would relax enough to enjoy being her mother.

She is four years old now. I have yet to break that promise to her. Sure, I lose it now and then and get frustrated. I am not Super Mom. I mess up. I make mistakes. She probably doesn't eat enough vegetables. I know she has gone to bed -- and to school for that matter -- without brushing her teeth. Moreoever, I know that I am way too sarcastic when talking to her sometimes. Nevertheless, I really have relaxed enough to really enjoy her for who she is and who I am as her mother.

I suppose when it comes down it, I have yet to find a Super Mom. Not a real one. Once I've peeled away the layers of superficial masks and fear of being found out for who we really are, I've discovered that I am not alone in wanting to be the best mom I can be and feeling like sometimes I fall just short of that. If you've ever felt that way too, welcome to my club. We're not Super Moms and we make mistakes, but we are real. 

And we will admit it.

Am I a wicked Stepmother?

By Ellen

Remember all the fairy tales about the wicked stepmother? Well, better to read about one than to be one. But that's the role that I, all too often, seem to be playing these days. 

I have two children of my own, 17 and 21, and two stepdaughters by acquisition (I married their father a year and a half ago). The elder stepdaughter lives a mile away from us with her mom; the younger one, 13, lives full-time with us except for two weekends a month when she is "in residence" at her mother’s place.

From the beginning I yearned for the best, and occasionally it happens. This child can be funny, sweet and energetic company, especially when we're cooking together, or working puzzles, or shopping. But more often than not, she is a grouchy, stubborn, defiant young teenager, beset by peer conflicts at school and fighting to grab her mother's attention (which seems to be first lavished upon her, then withdrawn without warning).

She alternates between clinging to her daddy and pushing him violently away; she either follows me around, chattering a mile or minute, or stalks by me in the hall as if I don't exist. Around her I become all the things I most despise: judgmental, impatient, picky and repressive. But I can't seem to help it.

I think I remember my own son and daughter having their "terrible teenager" phases. We all survived and can now laugh about it, even. But there was a history with them that I don't have with this child, nor do I understand all the dynamics between her and her own parents.

I know their divorce hurt her; I know she struggles to love both of them without feeling that she is taking sides -- a daunting task for any child of a breakup. She desperately needs a woman around to consult on "girl stuff,"  but as quickly as she and I seem to connect, she withdraws again. Therapy has helped a little, when we make it there, but I fear she regards me more often than not as an intrusion, a competitor for her dad's attention and yes, a wicked stepmother.

For me -- someone who considered herself an experienced and successful mother, who read all the books on stepmothering, and who went into this marriage knowing that a child (or two) was part of the bargain, this is sometimes a dark and depressing kingdom in which to live. The road from 13 to maturity looks fraught with peril for the young princess, and this stepmother needs some magic to change from wicked to wise.

Does anyone have some perspective on this, as either a stepmother yourself or a stepdaughter? I'd love to hear it!

"Home!"

By Amy S.

Thanks to a mid-winter mystery virus, this morning was the first morning I set foot outside the house in three days. Olivia's fever started and a few days later I fell victim to the congestion. At one point I had not been out of my pajamas in 48 hours. Outside it was a miserable mix of snow, rain, freezing rain and to add insult to injury -- an icy cold wind. It felt rather nice to isolate ourselves indoors for the duration of said weather. We kept the gas logs going, took our respective cold medicine and wrestled the blankets away from the cats.

As I drove out of the neighborhood this morning, it dawned on me that I was driving away not just from our house, but from our home. A weekend tucked inside in our relatively new house gave me a chance to appreciate the warmth and love a home provides.

When we moved into our first house -- pre-baby -- it felt like I was driving to someone else's home for at least six months. I cried occasionally because it felt big and lonely compared to our two-bedroom apartment. That first house didn't become a home until we'd done quite a bit of work on it to make it truly ours.

We've only been in our new home since October, but almost immediately we felt at home. Maybe it was moving in just in time for the holidays and all of the family and warmth associated with the holidays. I was driven to get boxes unpacked and rooms arranged, in part because I wanted Olivia to be comfortable in her new home.

Perhaps making a home is just the by-product of having a toddler. It didn't take long for toddler socks to start appearing in the oddest places (my purse!) and puzzles pieces and tea set pieces to begin appearing all over the house. Already there's a collection of toddler art on the fridge and a bin full of bath toys perched next to the garden tub in the master bathroom. (The garden tub was supposed to be my oasis, but Olivia adores it. too!)

Olivia always yells "Home!" when we pull into the driveway at the end of the day. It only took a couple of days for her to begin yelling it again when we drove up to our new house. I take it as a good sign.

What makes your house feel like home?

If you followed a link from The New York Times website...

You've already read David Hochman's story about parenting blogs. To get acquainted with the DotMoms, you can read the DotMomafesto and bios of the DotMoms. While you're here, check out the entries below (and the archives) and some of the other mom and dad blogs linked up in the left column and tell us what you think. Thanks for visiting.
-- Julie

Better than you found it

By Cooper

Above my desk hangs an antique, needlepoint sampler that I found in a thrift shop. It reads:

Leave Everything A Little Better Than You Found It

I love this philosophy, and try my best to live by it, although I have to admit there are moments when I take the mantra, you know, too seriously.

Kind of like Martha Stewart announcing that she has some helpful hints for remaking the country's prison system. 

For some reason, ideas about how to make things, well, better (at least according to me) just come flying into my brain, often uninvited. My husband has a word for it: compulsive.

I like to think I can make positive contributions, but I admit there are times I should mind my own damn business.

Take, for instance, a recent family wedding.

As my husband and I walked into the church for the ceremony I was immediately bothered by the large, crisp, white bows on each pew. They looked kind of... wrong. When we sat down I realized the bows were not stuck to the pews with the usual, unassuming florist adhesive or hook device -- they were wrapped, around and around, with extremely wide, dirty and frayed black duct tape.

I was seated on the aisle and therefore had an alarming, up close and personal view of the unfortunate decor. Glancing about to make sure no one was watching, I started to pick at the tape and rearrange the ribbon over it.

Then I noticed someone in the row behind me doing the same thing.

It was my mother.

"It must be genetic," I whispered.

She looked at my neatly arranged pew bow, and then at hers, and then at the peculiar, duct tape covered bows adorning the other pews and she giggled. My mom has a contagious laugh, so I began to giggle, too.

Extended family members started to send hairy eyeballs and make hrumph noises in our direction. It wasn't until the bride began to walk down the aisle that we were able to control ourselves.

But, wouldn't you know, I could not stop fiddling with that duct tape. 

When toddlers hit, bite and pull hair

By Lauri Jon

Okay, I can tell already that this is going to be one of my first real parenting challenges. Our 14-month-old daughter, Maricella, has begun to hit, bite and pull hair when she's frustrated with me.

It's happened twice -- the biting and the pulling my hair that is (and she only hit once). The first time she pulled my hair was a few days ago when we were in the park. We were getting ready to leave the park and she was walking back and forth up and down a sidewalk ramp when I picked her up to go. She immediately grabbed onto my hair with both her hands and began pulling. And when she did it, I raised my voice and said, "Maricella, no -- we don't pull mommy's hair when we're frustrated." She must have felt bad because she let go of my hair and hugged me. When she did it again yesterday for basically the same reason, I said, "Maricella, no -- we don't pull mommy's hair when we're frustrated. But you can hug mommy instead."

The first time she bit me, we were in a car dealership buying cars. I picked her up, preventing her from walking where she wanted to and she bit my shoulder. I yelled, "Maricella, no -- we don't bite."

I asked my mother-in-law if she had to face the same situation, and what she did. She said that when her kids bit her she bit them back to teach them that it hurt. She did the same thing with the hair pulling and said that it stopped the biting and hair pulling.

Logically, part of me feels that her tactic would work, but the thought of me having to -- I can't even write it -- the thought of me having to physically hurt my own child to make a point is -- unfathomable. Does that make me a mommy wimp?

I probably should have seen this coming. We haven't been able to stop her from pulling the cat's tail and legs. I know I'm going to have to nip these behaviors in the bud, but right now I'm clueless as to how to proceed. (I wish my mom was alive so I could throw this one at her.) I know I can do the tough-love thing if I need to, and I probably will need to.

Maricella's also standing on her little-big girl chair. She'd do it over and over and we took her chair away for a while. That worked, for the most part. Occasionally she stands, but if I don't make a fuss and just say, "Maricella, please sit down in your chair," and look away, she'll sit. On another note, she's also begun to put her finger in her nose, and she'll repeat it if I make a fuss about it. But if I just say, "Big girls don't put their fingers in their noses," and ignore her, she'll stop doing it.

I know all these behaviors are experimenting and boundary testing, but she's my first child and I want her to know that hitting, biting and pulling hair are unacceptable behaviors.

I'd love to hear how you handled and corrected these bad behaviors. And I'd love to know if it happened around 14 months.

I'm no Florence Nightingale

By Elizabeth L-B

Thursday, my day began as it often does, with Nicholas crying to be picked up from his crib. I grabbed my robe, stumbled down to the boys' room, picked him up, said good morning to Daniel, and brought them both downstairs to feed them breakfast. I got Nicholas milk, Daniel crackers, and was feeding Nicholas yogurt when he threw up all over himself. It wasn't until I had gotten him dressed in clean clothes and the high chair cushion and his pyjamas into the wash that I went into their bedroom and realized that he had in fact thrown up in his crib as well, but I hadn't noticed when I picked him up. Bad mommy.

By Friday, Daniel was burning up as well, and we were in full sick house mode. For us that mostly means hanging out in our pyjamas, and allowing unlimited TV. Nicholas was the only one with any appetite, and we were limiting him to crackers and Pedialyte to be safe.

On Saturday, the snow was absolutely perfect here -- 4 inches of powder -- but the boys were in no shape to play in it.

I don't think I'm a particularly bad mother when my kids are sick, but I always feel like one, because my expectations for myself are so high. I think that I should be able to be a cross between Florence Nightingale and Mary Poppins, making the illness go away, when in reality all I can do is clean up the puke, wipe up the snot, and offer a lap to sit on. 

It doesn't help at all that Daniel, when sick, goes into full Daddy-preference mode and looks on me as a clearly inferior substitute. Intellectually, I know it's only fair -- T. is the full-time parent, caring for the boys every day. But emotionally, it's still hard to wake up in the middle of the night and hear Daniel's plaintive cry "Daddy? Daddy? Daaa-deeee!" (And yes, I get up if I'm the first one to hear him, even if he's calling for Daddy.)

Oh, remember that party I was so worried about in my last post? We had to cancel it.  As the Yiddish saying goes, man (or woman) plans, and God laughs. Der Mensch tracht, und Gott lacht. Daniel was a remarkably good sport about it, especially once we promised there'd still be a cake for him on Wednesday. 

Happy Birthday, kiddo. Get well soon.

The party's over

By Kris

This weekend, at the end of my son John's third birthday party, an in-law of mine told us that she and my male relative have separated. He moved out a few weeks ago. "I love him," she said, the tears streaming down all of our faces. "I want him to come home."

She told us we would always be her family, and we told her the same. She couldn't bring herself to write a letter to us all announcing the breakup, as he'd been after her to do. She took a moment when he went out to load the car to tell us in person.

The sympathy I have for her overwhelms me. I looked at the sadness in her face and saw a widow. The husband she knew just a month ago has vanished, died. In his place is a man who "fell out of love" with her and "has fallen for" someone else, as if love is an accident that happens when you don't watch your footing. In his place is a man who expected her to come to a family birthday party and pretend nothing had changed, as if acting their parts could masquerade her painful reality.

They have two young children. Now she faces raising them as a single mom, heart aching with loss and brain addled with worries about financial support.

"I don't want you to hate him," she said. We don't. But we are shocked, and he hasn't spoken to anyone in our family about this, so we are concerned about him.

She's the one who consumes my thoughts, though. I know that in time, surviving this will make her stronger. Their lives will go on, everyone will make it through. Maybe they’ll even get back together. But for now, it hurts.

Surfing in freedom (or so he thinks)

By Kelly

The mother of one of Tyler's friends told me yesterday that her son M has been visiting porn sites on the Internet. She found a list he had made of his favorite sites, and they corresponded exactly to the family computer's five-day history. She wanted me to be aware that this had happened, and that she'd asked M if Tyler was involved in any way.

He said that he'd found out about it in the lunch cafeteria at school. A group of about 10 boys sit together every day, and invited him to sit with them so they could tell him all about the naked women and sex they've been gawking at whenever their parents left them home alone. He swore he hadn't told Tyler anything about it.

I checked the history on our computer, and it's all the normal sites we visit every week. I can only feel relieved that Tyler's not sitting at that lunch table any more. He's right on the cusp of being interested in sex, but also being repulsed by the very idea of it.

I've noticed that he responds to the ridiculously large-breasted women on television by leaning a little closer and mouth-breathing, where just a few months ago he would throw his hand out and turn his head, or hide his face inside his shirt. Yet he still gets embarrassed if Chris and I share a kiss when he's in the room.

Tyler often stays up later than we do, but I don't allow him to be on the computer once we've gone to bed. So far I haven't felt any need to put parental controls on his surfing, because he constantly shows us what he looks at, and bookmarks everything. He isn't aware that the computer tracks every website visited for as many days as I want to program it, so I keep daily tabs on where he goes.

I can only hope that when it comes to the influence of his peers, that the consistent, open dialog we have will help him to at least tell us that someone told him to google hot babes with big boobs before he goes to his favorite search engine, AskJeeves.com and tries to get his advice.

For the time being, it seems fruitless to tell him that the Internet is full of sex for the looking, just so I can warn him away from it. We'll just continue showing him a healthy, growing relationship with love as the object, and keep the lines of communication open.

Oh, and check that history every day.