DotMoms

Un-Thai-ing

By Lana

I wasn't planning to do it this year, but my family and homesickness have convinced me otherwise. I'm going home.

I've lived in Thailand for nearly six years and I love it here, but every so often I need to escape. For me, the early warning signs of Thai fatigue include being annoyed at some idiosyncrasy of the local culture, such as the tone of a woman's voice, as well as an increasing intolerance of the tropical island heat. When I find myself hiding out in my air-conditioned office, feeling too lazy to go out and communicate in a different language, I know it's time to go home.

Spending time back in Canada always leaves me feeling refreshed and more appreciative of my life here in Phuket. And, of course, I get the chance to catch up with family and friends in a way that telephones and e-mail just don't provide.

My heart's been tugged home particularly hard this year because since my visit last summer I've had some pretty major life upheavals. Late last year the tsunami hit the island. I didn't see it, but I saw the aftermath, and some people I know either perished in the wave or have suffered greatly since from loss of family, home and livelihood. Reconstruction has been carried out in earnest, yet a depressing pall still hangs over the island, especially since the tourists have not returned. The beach resort areas now resemble ghost towns.

Two weeks after the tsunami, I gave birth to a healthy baby boy, and have since experienced the extreme highs and lows that newfound parenthood entails. My husband and I have had a lot of issues to work out, and, to put it bluntly, it sucks that my sisters and mom are 10,000 kilometers away when all I want is a chat or some familial company.

So I've bought my plane ticket, and in two weeks' time I'll be back home and my baby boy will get to see what life in Canada is like. I'm really looking forward to having him meet his maternal grandpa, who's very excited to have a boy in the family, having had three daughters and one granddaughter.

The only thing I'm not looking forward to is the flight: total flying time of 18 hours, not including stopovers. With a six-month-old. And my husband's not coming with us. Clearly, I'm insane.

Lana is a 31-year-old freelance writer and new mom from Canada who sold all her stuff and ran off to Phuket, Thailand, five years ago.

Phone time=Crazy time

By Jennifer

Talking on the phone has become stressful for me as a mother (I know, I know, big surprise). Occasionally I'll have that rare phone conversation that doesn't end with me yelling, "I gotta go! Frances poured fingernail polish on the sofa!" But usually it's a four-way conversation involving me, the person I'm attempting to converse with, and any two of my four small children.

Sometimes it's a five- or six-way call. Sometimes I don't even get to talk, I just yell at the kids and then hang up.

This time was no different. As my kid-free best friend blithely chatted about her Priceline.com hotel dilemma and her upcoming 11-day vacation, I was trying to dress the big girls for day camp while watching (there was nothing else I could do) Frances drag a piggy bank swiftly across the house trailing pennies and nickels with more efficiency than should be possible for a toddler. It's as though the phone lines being engaged in our home cause the universe to open up and dump heaps of crazy time in my lap.

I took the phone outside so I could hear Lisa talk to me about her trip. Elizabeth followed me and burst into sad, sad toddler tears. Tears that were obviously triggered by the opening of the phone lines and the universal sign babies get that says, "Now! Cry now! The food lady is holding the silver thing!"

On the other end of the phone line Lisa paused and said, "Jen, I know I say this to you all the time, but I really don't know how you do it." "I just DO it," I said. Because if I stop and think about how hard it is I might lose consciousness.

It really is hard to explain how, even though they are making you insane, that one sweet smile from a warm, fuzzy-haired baby or smelling their heads, makes you melt, and all of the stress disappears.

The crazy phone game seems like a small price to pay.

Jennifer is a thirtysomething mother of four little girls, Mary (6), Kate (4), and twins Elizabeth and Frances. She lives with her husband and daughters in Louisiana.

Good stories have wings

By Robin R.

One of my favorite children's picture books is "On the Day You Were Born" by Debra Frasier. When my daughter Pearl was born, a friend gave us a version of that book. We added our own photographs and words to personalize the story for her. On the night Pearl was born, the redbuds and azaleas were blooming, and the moon was full. The book we made evokes the sensory overload of that momentous event in our lives.

I also like to tell Pearl the story of our family without the help of books. In our story, love conquers all. Once upon a time, there were two moms, a three-legged dog, and a diabetic cat. They were happy but there was still some extra love in their hearts. It was not until a certain baby girl arrived that the circle was complete. Almost.

These days when I tell the story I add in a new baby because we're expecting another child in November. Each time I tell the story, I embellish it a little more. By the time the two kids are old enough to understand it, I think it will be pretty good.

Stories are different from facts and dates. They resonate in our minds, and dig their way into our imaginations. We hold onto them and make them our own. According to a Romanian proverb, "Good stories have wings and like birds fly from mountaintop to mountaintop."

As my children grow older, I hope that the story will help them understand the love that brought them into the world. With any luck, when things get difficult, this understanding will lift them high above the fray.

Robin R. lives in Texas with her family and works as the Executive Director of Writers in the Schools (WITS).

Blankets and happy endings

By Ellen

One of my favorite memories of my son's childhood has to do with a blanket called Polka-dot. It came to us very simply: my mother hemmed several lengths of soft cotton flannel into receiving blankets for him and, as many babies do, he settled on one particular blanket to be his special source of comfort. It was white with brightly colored polka-dots, and it became his constant companion. Its appearance even became its name, as in "Where is Polka-dot?"

Every trip in the car featured Polka-dot as a passenger; every new experience was better if Polka-dot was there. But since Jonathan slept with Polka-dot tightly clutched in his arms, removing it for repairs or washing was problematic. I was prepared for many challenges of toddlerhood, but I had never before dealt with the heartrending sobs of a little boy waiting for his grimy blanket to be washed. "Polkaaaaaaaa-dotttttttttt," he would wail in agony, stretching himself around the machine as if he could suck the blanket into his arms from its watery prison.

Sometimes I worried that my son was a little too attached to Polka-dot. Then one summer day, as I was driving Jonathan and his best friend Michael to camp, I overheard them talking in the backseat. "Did you bring Boo?" "Yeah, it’s right here inside my pillowcase. You bring Polka-dot?" "Yeah." They sounded perfectly matter-of-fact about it all. And I stopped worrying, figuring there was safety in numbers.

The most amazing adventure of all, though, was when we accidentally left Polka-dot behind in a hotel room. My son was distraught but brave, his father and I were frantic.  The hotel promised to send Polka-dot along if it turned up, and -- figuring this would be a miracle ranking up there with the exploits of the tooth fairy and the Easter bunny -- we sadly returned home without our blanket buddy.

A week later, I went out on the front porch to retrieve the mail and there was a padded envelope from the hotel. I couldn't believe my eyes. Polka-dot had returned! But jubilation became despair once again when I looked at the envelope, which had been torn in half. Inside, there was nothing. No blanket. Nada.

I couldn't believe it. Polka-dot came so close to being home again! It was too tragic for words. Who would have opened the envelope? Did it get damaged in the mail?

And then, out in the street, alongside the curb, passed by car after car, I spotted a square of white cloth. Could it possibly be?! I sprinted toward the object, grabbed it literally out from under the tire of a passing car and clutched it to my bosom. Polka-dot had come home! And after a wash and dry, it was good as new.

The look on my son's face when I handed him Polka-dot was priceless. He grabbed it, rubbed his eyes and cheeks on it and positively quivered with delight. Then he looked up and said, very matter-of-factly, "Don't cry, Mommy. I always knew Polka-dot would come back." Even better than finding Polka-dot again, though, were the two lessons we both learned: that it's ok to need something like a blanket in your life, and that happy endings don't just happen in storybooks.

Ellen is a 50-year-old mother of two (ages 18 and 22) and stepmother of two (18 and 13 1/2). She lives in North Carolina with her husband of two years.

Paved with good intentions

By Cooper

We have these three neighbor boys -- they are good kids, for the most part and, the majority of the time, they are polite. But what I notice most about them is that they are here every day, all day.

"So what?" you might say. Or, perhaps you think, "It keeps your kids busy, right? Go with it!"

I tried that line of rationalization.

Lately, I have been telling myself: "My kids are creating memories. They are learning how to interact with peers. It is important to establish bonds in the neighborhood!"

But, when it comes down to it, dealing with seven little kids, by myself, all afternoon, is a pain in the ass.

Yep. I am griping. Sorry. But I am still recovering from the Armageddon of the other day.

Have you ever had a parenting moment in which you think, "This will be great!" and it turns into a huge disaster? Well, I do that regularly, but when I brought out the paints late Wednesday afternoon, I really should have known better.

I felt so good about it at first. I had a large, white sheet and paints in a rainbow of colors (the box said washable!). I spread out the sheet and said, "Kids, paint this with pictures or your names and we will turn it into a really cool picnic blanket!" 

"Wow!" the kids shouted. The neighbor boys said, "This is soooooo cool!"

So, off I trotted, the baby in my arms, smug in the notion that I was giving the kids a "creative" and "proactive" project to do.

About eight minutes later the first scream came. The kids were throwing jars of paint at each other and then, in a "Lord of the Flies"/"Apocalypse Now" re-enactment, covering themselves, and each other, head to toe, in every hue.

But it did not stop there. Outdoor furniture, flower beds, the kitchen door, the dog. Nothing was left untouched. Through this, I am (unsuccessfully) attempting, with all my motherly, stern-voiced power, to stop the out of control, vivid riot in my back yard while running interference so they did not step one foot inside.

"But Mom, I want to see myself in the mirror!" my 3-year-old son kept wailing.

(Please note, I am also holding a screaming one-year-old at the time.)

Then, for some reason (it was the dinner hour, after all, so perhaps the kids had worked up an appetite), they stopped their rampage and let me spray them off. The hose didn't take anything off their clothes but, maybe, a little bit off their feet, legs, arms and faces.

"Your mother is going to kill me," I told the neighbor boys.

The oldest one winked (yes, he winked) and said, "I'll cover for ya."

At that point I picked up the sheet and realized most of our lovely, brick patio looked like it was covered in the aftermath of a Grateful Dead concert. The hose, even at full speed, did nothing to wash away the spirit of tie dye. 

A couple glasses of wine and a bucket of paint thinner later, the patio and I were doing better. When my husband got home he asked why I had a purple streak in my hair and a green hand print on my rear end.

I told him about my brilliant art project idea.

"What were you thinking?" he laughed.

I just looked at him (I tried to smile, really) and said, "Haven't you ever heard the expression about the road to Hell?"

Cooper is the parent of two girls and two boys, ages eight to one. She lives in Pittsburgh, Pa., with her husband and children.

What do I want to be when my daughter grows up?

By Lauri Jon

I used to be sure about a lot of things -- what I wanted to be when I grew up (an actress), what I loved to do (design, fine art, dance, sing, write, take photographs and act), and that if I worked hard enough and didn't give up, I'd reach and exceed most of my goals and dreams.

I've had a very blessed, successful and fulfilling life, partly due to hard work and partly due to luck. I've also always had the innocent (or naive) belief that I could do anything I wanted to do. That was something I remember my father telling me over and over as I grew up, and silly me -- I believed him. And it was that belief that kept me going when people said no, and contributed to always making my own road even when there was no clear way ahead.

And then I became a mother.

Since giving birth in November of 2003, I've questioned everything I thought I knew and loved.

I've been mainly Mom, playing and taking care of Maricella during the day, and trying to squeeze any of my previous creative desires into the four hours I'm still conscious at night. I know I wouldn't want it any other way; I'd hate to have to work and be away from Maricella all day. But it doesn't make it any easier some days.

My friend Lily recently asked me if I was going to get back into art directing and design once Maricella was in school, and I didn't know if I wanted to. It was the first time that I didn't know what I wanted to be when (my daughter and) I grew up. And I have to admit, for a type-A, control freak like me it's a little more than unsettling.

I remember when I was seven years old, I asked myself that existential question, "Why are we here?" I just hope that all the love and attention I'm giving my daughter will contribute to her being confident, compassionate and self-aware enough to ask that same question, and many other life-altering questions.

I'm still searching for my answers.

Lauri Jon Caravella is a forty-something-else expatriate New Yorker living in Studio City, Calif., with daughter Maricella (born in Nov. 2003) and husband Bill Marsilii, a screenwriter.

Date night

By Juliette Perez-Calaf

Calling the God of Date Night! Thank You God of Date Night!

I have been married 3 years and 8 months. In that time, we've had two girls, and I started my own business while my husband started his. During the week I work, work, work.

When I'm not working I make time for The Little Gym or perhaps a quick stroller ride. When my husband comes home I try to dedicate as much time as I can to him and to some serious family bonding. Once the girls are in bed, I go back to work until I finally put the laptop away for the night. My husband is a developer so on Saturdays I take a real estate class from 8 a.m. to 4 p.m.; I want to help him with his venture as much as I can. 

Since both of us have crazy busy schedules, I have a lovely woman that helps me at home during the day. She is an Angel. While some may think this is extravagant, please keep in mind that I live in Puerto Rico. Having someone in your home is the norm and cheaper than day care for two. 

Also, my family lives in the U.S. They love the girls and love taking care of them. They practically beg me to send them over. My husband's family lives here, just down the street. Unfortunately, they are not so willing to babysit. They have other grandchildren who they seem more willing to babysit but that's another blog posting all together. 

My mother-in-law was gracious enough to remind me of "Date Night," though. This is a concept that's alive and well in her marriage. I knew my husband and I needed a date night, but it was hard to figure out how.

For us, date night includes our Angel, the lovely woman who helps me out during the week. But anybody will do, especially if the babysitter is willing to do this on a regular basis. Our night is Friday nights. We've had three date nights so far and they have been spectacular.

When was the last time you and your husband made time for each other?

Juliette lives in Puerto Rico with her husband and two daughters.

Enough

By Elizabeth L-B

In the craziness of the greater D.C. housing market, our little townhouse has appreciated beyond our wildest dreams, enough so that my husband and I could trade up to a bigger house if we were willing to take on a bigger mortgage. So we've been looking a bit, trying to see what we could get.

We looked at a lovely house last week, not a mansion, but well-designed, with a big fenced-in back yard and 50-year-old trees. It's in a great neighborhood, with good schools and private beaches and ice-cream socials on summer afternoons. It's easy to imagine the boys having an idyllic childhood there, playing in the yard, biking over to visit their friends.

But, after thinking it over, we're not going to make an offer. And we're not going to look at any more houses. Because what we have is enough. I have an easy commute to work. The boys don't mind sharing a room. In just a few years, they will outgrow their ride-on toys, and the living room won't look so much like a garage. 

We don't need a bigger better house to be happy. Just because a bank would lend us the money doesn't mean we have to do it. The fantasy house isn't worth the financial pressure that the huge mortgage payment would put on us.

In a world where there's always something new and improved coming on the market, where success is often defined as working more, earning more, and spending more, it seems almost revolutionary to say:

No thanks, we have enough. 

Elizabeth is mom to Daniel and Nicholas. She lives in Alexandria, Va., just across the river from Washington, D.C., and works for the federal government, mostly on welfare policy.

Farewell to four wheels

By andrea

This was a momentous day in our personal family history. Our girls (6 and 4 years old) learned to ride their two wheelers. It didn't happen overnight. We started the process awhile back because we knew that Emma, the older one, would approach the idea the same way she approached her first bike: with great trepidation.

Back in May, we bought Emma a shiny new two-wheeler for her birthday. Oh, what a beauty! It is deep purple with retro-stylings and red flames painted on the sides. I knew it was a child's dream come true. (OK, I admit, it was MY childhood dream come true. If it was a bit larger I would be riding it myself!)

This two-wheeler was too big for training wheels. Emma knew that if she wanted to take it for a spin she'd have to lose the training wheels and learn to ride her old bike first.

Eventually, she warmed to the idea. It helped that her younger sister insisted that we remove her training wheels as well. I could tell by the look on her face that Emma didn't want her sister riding on a two-wheeler before she did. There was no way she was ever going to let this happen.

My husband and I spent several backbreaking hours with them as they learned to maneuver around without those two little wheels holding them up. It was a lot harder than I thought it would be. For them, it meant they had to master balance, steering, breaking, and stay focused all at the same time. They had to pay special attention for potential dangers (potholes, sewers, pedestrians, cars) yet at the same time they were told not to focus on other things like cute puppy dogs, kids playing, birds chirping, etc.

NEVERMIND THE [KITTY CAT/TENNIS PLAYERS/PLASTIC DINOSAUR], I'd holler breathlessly. KEEP YOUR EYES ON THE ROAD.

How many times did I find myself repeating that?

And because their eyes are supposed to be on the road ahead of them, the scene around them had to be absorbed by their peripheral vision.  Do children even have peripheral vision? I am still fairly certain it kicks in only if I'm trying to sneak a cookie.

If you think it was hard for the kids, consider us, the ones who struggled to keep them upright. If you've done this already you know what I mean. Imagine running alongside a small bike, hunched over, one hand on the handle bar the other on the back of the bike. My thighs/back/everything were killing me the minutes I started. I felt almost as bad as the time I tried that "low impact" aerobic class.

The girls didn't pick the best days to practice either. Imagine doing the hunch-run-holler while weather people issue smog advisories and most normal folk shelter themselves in an air-conditioned environment. I shudder to think how much liquid I lost on those days.

But it's over. The girls finally got the hang of it. We helped them bike up the street to the park -- and whee -- we let them go on a grassy surface flattened by years of ice-rinks and soccer practices. And they got it. We hooted and hollered. They smiled and laughed. They fell and cried. It was great.

I'm so pleased this day has come. As a parent I've taught them lots of things: how to stick up for themselves, how to plant a seed, how to dunk a cookie in milk… countless others (and all very important things) but to me this just seems a little more concrete. Riding a bike is special. Once you learn how, you never forget.

Andrea is mum of Emma (6) and Sarah (4) and lives in Ottawa, Canada. She finds it all works best if she just takes it one day at a time.

Musings from the High Sierras

By Mindy

I am a mother.

I am a little girl.

I have great failings.

I have great strengths.

I make mistakes.

I notice when others fail in their responsibilities.

I keep track.

I keep promises.

I love my children.

I fear for their future.

I fear for my sanity.

I am grateful for my parents.

I am grateful for my boyfriend.

He loves me.

He meets every "You have no idea what you're getting into" with "Do you come with it?"

I don't want to be alone.

I don't want to take away from my children's childhood.

Who has the right to define childhood, anyway?

I would not have been opposed to a strong male influence growing up. One that didn't require a plane ticket to visit.

I get sad often.

I am just as often bubbly and strong and help lift others.

But when the sad begins, you may as well get out of the way.

The good news: my children are impervious to my melancholy and don't often adjust their behavior accordingly.

The bad news: my children are impervious to my melancholy and don't often adjust their behavior accordingly.

They have a fun dad.

They always want to go to him when I enforce rules.

I wish I didn't have to hide something gives me so much strength and support and love; and will someone please tell me when is the right time to introduce him to the kids?

Wish in one hand, spit in the other. One fills faster, but the other is more sanitary.

I keep on because no one else will do it for me; neither will they notice if I fade away. That is my only motivation. That, and making myself laugh. If it makes me laugh, it's pretty much a winner. And probably vulgar.

I have stopped wishing for acceptance and started doing my own thing and finding my own voice. And, goddammit, that has worked better than any other course of action.

Who knew that not caring would lead to more caring?

I need another glass of wine.

I need some peace and quiet.

I need just five minutes. (Mrs. Large was onto something.)

Mindy is a divorced mother who lives in the Bay Area with her three children.