DotMoms

Guess what?

by andrea

One of the best, and worst, things about being pregnant is springing your news on the people around you.

It's been a while for me, 4 ½ and 6 ½ years since I was pregnant, but I've been noticing a sudden influx of pregnant women around me and it's something I've found myself fondly remembering.

I found it awkward to tell people at my office. It's not run-of-the mill water cooler conversation. I didn't quite know how to approach the subject with people I worked with but wasn't exactly close to.

There was one case in which my co-worker actually appeared to read my mind. Perhaps it was the expression on my face.

"How are you?" I asked.

"I'm fine," she replied. "How are you?"

"Great!"

"Great?"

"Yes. GREAT!"

"OH MY GOD CONGRATULATIONS!"

My husband and I had the most fun telling his parents.

The first time around it happened to be my mother-in-law's birthday. We gathered in their living room to watch her unwrap the gift we brought for her. From a gift bag she removed tissue paper and slowly revealed light purple coloured yarn.

She laughed. "Did you guys want me to knit you a sweater?"

I could tell she was wondering why the hell we bought her yarn for her birthday. The next thing she pulled out of the bag was a pattern for a baby sweater. I watched her looking at it and could practically see her mind working. It took her a few seconds to make the connection, but soon enough she was jumping up and hugging us: "OH MY GOD CONGRATULATIONS!"

The second time around we were also at their house. We had all just woken up and were milling around the kitchen about to make breakfast. My husband Mark and I secretly rummaged in their freezer and found a bun (it was a hamburger bun actually). We turned the oven on low and put the bun by itself on the middle rack.

Pretty soon the kitchen was filled with the smell of bread.

Gary, my father-in-law, said: "Did you put something in the oven, Mary?"

Mary, my mother-in-law, said: "No."

Gary: "Well, there's something in the oven."

At this point Mary started to panic a little. Confusion reigned. What's all this about the oven? Who's using the oven? Why would someone be using the oven?

Mary said, "I am using the toaster oven to reheat a bran muffin and I don't know what you're talking about, WHAT DO YOU MEAN THERE'S A BUN IN THE OVEN?"

Mark and I were trying our best not to laugh. By this time Gary had clued in and had started to chuckle. Mary was left still wondering why the oven was on, but within a few additional seconds she finally got the joke. Hugs all around. Indeed, there was a bun in the oven. But it was my own oven. Har har. Perhaps it was a little obscure, but our little joke has now become part of family lore.

I'd love to hear how you broke the news to your loved ones and the people around you. What's your "Hey, I'm pregnant" story?

Andrea is the mum of Emma (6) and Sarah (4) and lives in Ottawa, Canada.

The car vacation

By Sarah

Imagine with me, if you will, a small room, a teeny tiny room, say eight feet long by three feet wide, not bigger than 10 by 5 anyway. This teeny tiny room is filled with at least one loveseat and two biggish chairs and a third of the total space is a storage area full of boxes and bags and such. Now, take two grown adults and a 15-month-old and strap them all into the seats in this room (a room too small to even stand up in, by the way) and keep them locked in there for hours on end. In the hot, hot summertime.  Crowded, frustrating and uncomfortable, yes? Some may even say nightmarish. Now, hurl this tiny room, which thankfully has plenty of windows, down a highway at 75 miles per hour and we have gone from nightmare to reality: the great American long distance drive vacation. I am happy to say we have our first (and our last for a while) under our family belt.

We drove the first leg from our dusty desert home to the relatively lush Midwest, over 12 hours, in one long nighttime stretch. We ate dinner, played, snacked, bathed just like any old night and put Lilith to bed while we loaded up the car with the essentials for a week on the road and visiting relatives. We also packed favorite books and books she had never seen before and some new small toys for the car trip and the hotel rooms. After she had been asleep for about an hour we were ready to roll and I went and grabbed her to buckle her in to the waiting car. The idea was that she would sleep peacefully through the night and awake bright eyed and bushy tailed in Kansas City. 

As I carried her to the car, the sky opened up in an unexpected and uncharacteristic rain storm, complete with thunder and lightening. She woke up and was a bit less than wide awake as I settled her in the car seat. Fifteen minutes, we said, she'll be snoring in 15 minutes. Minutes rolled by, the storm grew worse. Hours rolled by and even in the darkness we could see the roadside scenery changing. And every time we looked back Lilith was wide-eyed (although they were wide and groggy eyes) looking at the semis roaring past and then at us like, "What the hell, adults? This makes no sense."

She did finally get about four hours sleep that night and the rest of the trip she slept restlessly, but enough to keep her happy all day playing with cousins and finding a new found appreciation of slides of all shapes and sizes.

I had heard horror stories about vacationing with toddlers; how they stop sleeping altogether, refuse all foods except Oreos and diet soda, how they suddenly want to nurse, even though they've been weaned for months, in inconvenient places like the line for the teacup ride at Disney. I had heard all the horror stories and I was prepared. 

Even though Lilith had JUST started sleeping through the night the two weeks prior to the trip, I did not celebrate this victory as I was sure it would crumble on our vacation (and honestly in the week since our return she has only slept through the night again once). But, that girl made me proud (prouder) and was well-behaved and slept… well…not too poorly. And, while she was fed some very sugary cookies and cereal, she ate broccoli and other healthy stuff, too.    

We didn't even attempt a night run on the way home and as long as she had constant attention while trapped in that little room zooming across the American landscape she was fine, just fine.

Still, she is quite suspicious now every time we get in the car and start driving.

Sarah Rachel Egelman is a community college instructor and free-lance book reviewer who lives in New Mexico with her husband and 15-month-old daughter.

The price of consistency

By Jennifer

We took the crew to the mall after church on Sunday to get some lunch, ride the carousel and go to the Disney store. All of that fun stuff us adults love to do. On the way there I was imagining how much fun the twins, who are almost two, were going to have on the carousel, and was mentally patting myself on the back for being such a cool parent and taking my kids to do fun things. 

Everything went well until we got to the Disney store. The twins had had enough, they were ready for a nap, and while they'd enjoyed the carousel with a mixture of sheer terror and giddiness, they were starting to get very cranky. That is the point when we always, no matter what we are doing, always wrap it up and go home.

Well, our oldest picked out her little toy and put it up on the counter. I told Kate, our 4-year-old, to hurry up and pick hers out, we needed to go. Chuck was already out in the mall with one twin, who was screaming, the other one was in the store with me, screaming. Kate browsed around some more. She picked up a stuffed animal, examined it, then put it back down. I told her I was going to count to five, which I did. No luck.  She was still meandering around leisurely looking at things, searching for the perfect toy. 

At that point both babies were really losing it and we were all getting stressed out -- all of us except Kate. She was not in the slightest hurry. Kate is hard-headed like her Mommy and tends to do things at her own pace. All things. Every day. It is a daily struggle to get her out the door; she stresses over the smallest decisions, which is fine when you're getting ready to go play outside, but when the other five family members are in the car ready to go and she's already had 30 minutes when she could have changed shoes, it gets frustrating. 

The check-out guy and I exchanged a glance and I told him, "This is going to be bad."  "Kate, I am PAYING now, if you want something you'd better put it up on the counter or you won't be able to get anything!" She walked off in the other direction. I couldn't believe she didn't come running over with a toy and sling it up there, but I realized at that moment that she wasn't taking me seriously. I suddenly felt like I had something to prove and swiped my debit card. I might as well have swiped my brain through the machine, because for the next four hours I would have it sucked out of my ears slowly while listening to the high-pitched screaming of an angry 4-year-old.

We stood strong. She tried to blame me, she tried to get us to go back. She kicked doors and screamed like I've never heard her scream. It was a lovely afternoon.

Really, the hardest thing about doing that, and following through, was the fact that the other kids had to experience it all as well. Mary couldn't really enjoy her toy because Kate was screaming in the car and having a tantrum. The twins were freaked out.  Chuck and I were completely frazzled and looking to fight with each other. It was hard.

I think it worked, though. I'm thinking it will be embedded in her psyche enough to be used as a deterrent against her dillydallying again, or not listening. She now knows that I'm serious and she'd better do what I say.  When you have four kids, it's not in your best interest to say one thing and do another -- consistency is a necessity in the parenting skills guidebook. It's not always the easiest choice, but hopefully it will be the right one long term.

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.

Playing board games

By Chris

When Anna Quindlen wrote in her Newsweek column that maybe she had three children in the first place so she wouldn't ever have to play board games, mothers everywhere stood up and cheered. At least I hope I wasn't the only one jumping up and down, happy to have found a kindred spirit who thinks board games are something to suffer through rather than enjoy.

The truth is I hate board games with a passion that I don't feel about many other things. I would rather do anything -- short of gouging my eyes out with a butter knife --than play board games. I will play them occasionally because my kids like them and they like me to play with them. Oh, and there is that ever looming presence called mommy guilt. I don't want my children growing up and complaining that I never played games with them. I figure they already have enough legitimate fodder for their future therapist's couch.

Recently I had one of those rare guilt occasions, and I played a game of Monopoly with my 9- and 10-year-old sons. They have been asking me for a while to play it with them, a long, long while truth be told, and I had run out of excuses.

However, I have a confession to make. I, Chris, mother, somewhat upstanding citizen, and role model for impressionable young children, am a cheater.

I always tell myself that this time will be different. This time I will play by the rules and not take advantage of my trusting children. This time I will try to enjoy the game no matter how long it drags on. No matter how many times I have to feign excitement or disappointment over a roll of the dice. No matter how many times I have to put the pieces back on the board after they are knocked off by the rolling dice, because my children seem to think that is part of the game. This time I will be excited to crawl under the furniture to read the dice after one of my children toss them off the table and insist that the dice must be read where they stop.

But every time at about the one-hour mark I feel my blood pressure rising. I feel trapped by the game that feels as though it will never come to a natural end, and so I inevitably begin to cheat. It starts off simple enough. "No, I don't think I want to buy Boardwalk," I'll say. "Oh look I have landed on your block again and I think I owe you all the money I have left!" I'll try next.  But they are smart, those kids of mine, and honest, quick to correct me.

When no one is looking I put some of money back into the "bank." I discreetly stuff some bills under the area rug. I have even considered eating some of the paper money in sheer desperation.

When the game finally ended, my sons walked away and I overheard one of them say, "Can you believe that we always beat Mom? We are so much better than her at Monopoly."

And the other one, who is currently being written out of my will, replied, "And she is so old too, we really must be good."

Well, what do you know, I am building positive self-esteem. At least now I have one less reason to feel guilty.

Chris is an artist, writer, and the mother to seven children. When she isn't hiding play money in her bra, she works on renovating her 100-year-old New England home.

An unlikely mother-daughter day

By Angela

I'd grown a little rusty in the "racing to the emergency room" department, so when Stacey (8) broke her arm this summer, I was simply not prepared. Not that anyone is ever ready to see an arm bent in an unnatural way, but we probably could have done without my jumping up and down.

I also wasn't used to being taken care of so quickly. Upon arrival, everyone available immediately jumped to action to help my precious child. All things considered, our ER trip could be chalked up to a quick in-and-out.

We weren't so lucky with the follow-up appointment.

The receptionist warned me by phone that there might be a bit of a wait, since they had to work us in. Those who had standing appointments would be seen first, and they all made their appointments 5 to 6 weeks in advance. Five to 6 weeks before, I hadn't planned for Stacey to break anything, but I understood. Besides, how long could "a bit of a wait" possibly be?

Armed with books, a notebook to write in, and water, Stacey and I set up camp in a corner of the large waiting room. However, we found we were much more interested in the myriad of different people filing in.

As the first couple of hours passed and the lunch hour approached, Stacey asked, "Are we going to be next?"

I shrugged and realized the room had cleared out at least twice, and yet, we still sat waiting our turn.

"Well, so many of these people are in a lot of pain," I said, "So it's good they get to go see the doctor first, right?"

"Yeah, because my arm doesn't hurt at all," she agreed.

I took out my notebook and we spent the next hour or so drawing funny pictures and working on cursive writing. We giggled over portraits we drew of each other, and concentrated on making a perfect S in cursive.

Our turn finally came and we spent a total of five minutes in the examination room. Just long enough for a quick X-ray and a blue wrap to give her cast some color. As we walked out into the sunny day, I glanced at my watch and realized we had been there over four hours. My first thought was a grumble – we'd spent all day sitting in a room, all for five minutes worth of attention? My second thought was how wonderful this day really turned out to be.

"That was fun," Stacey said. "I can't wait for next time."

What could have been my rant of the day -- having to wait so long for such a short exam -- turned into a wonderful day with my daughter. With no distractions of work, computer, phone, etc., we shared a day in the most unlikely of places. And I couldn't wait for the next time.

Angela lives with her husband and three children in Cartersville, Georgia.

The good listener

By Cooper

My husband was asked during a work-related "communications" retreat to name the best listener he knows.

"Hands down, my father-in-law," Rick said. Rick went on to describe to the group how much it meant to him that when, after we have family dinners at my parents' house, as the kids climb into their car seats and sleepily chat with my mom and me, my dad and Rick will stand in the driveway, just the two of them, and talk.

When Rick told me about that question and his answer, tears instantly welled up in my eyes, because, he was absolutely right.

I can still picture Dad looking at me, when I was a very little girl, and being fully, completely present, even when I went on about the alphabet, Barbie dolls or Lord knows what else. One of my earliest memories is me saying to my dad, "I like having conversations with you."

Here I am, 39 years old, and I still love to talk to him. 

It has been a stressful summer in our household. Nothing major, but lots of accumulated things like moving to a new house, selling this house, my thyroid situation, jobs, having 40 (well, four) kids... I know it is boring, but earlier this week I was pretty much done in by it all. I haven't been able to see a way out -- or the bright side -- anywhere.

So, I called my dad.   

I talked and talked, and Dad did not say much except the occasional "uh huh," but, I knew he was listening. When I described some of my more complex dilemmas, Dad would interject little asides like "Oh, that is too bad," or "I am sorry it has to be like that."

Then, when I finished, he started to work his real magic. He asked questions about just about every problem I described, gently and in a way that, eventually, led me to a solution. The conversation lasted 37 minutes and when we hung up I felt like a new person.

He's my dad, but, over the years, he's also become a best friend.

I wish I could adequately put into words how much his gift for listening has given me. I want him to know that by paying attention to what I had to say he gave me confidence, curiosity and an open mind. While he was listening, I was learning. Perhaps the best way to show him his impact is to be a good listener for my kids, too. And then, I hope, in time, our family tree will be loaded with people who pay attention, listen well and are filled with wisdom, just like my dad.

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

Girlfriends, girlfriends, girlfriends (and boyfriends too)

By Lauri Jon

At different stages in my life I had really close girlfriends to do things with on a daily or weekly basis. When I was in elementary school living in Manhattan, my close girlfriend was Cici Weiss. We'd have playdates and sleepovers. We'd listen to the Monkeys LPs and play with her Chrissy doll.

In junior high my sister Nikki and I shared a best friend, Patty. We'd all ride bikes in the hot Florida sun and dream about which boys were cute and cool. In high school my best friends changed to Linda Smalley and Kris Thomas since we were all on the dancero squad together. Oh the mischief we got into before Friday night football games!

I didn't have close girlfriends in college, or when I got married (the first time). But after my separation and divorce in '95, I once again met a wonderful gal -- Iris Price -- and although she now lives in Northern California, and we don't get to pal around weekly, we are still the best of friends.

I'm also fortunate to have a best male friend, Glen DePasse, who helped me move from Florida to New York City in '99. The first scene partner in my Florida acting class, Glen is passionate about life, acting, art, exercise -- and he's single, ladies!

My daughter Maricella, now nearly 22 months, is fortunate to have two close toddler 'boy' friends, Logan and Ryan. It's so cute to watch them play together. On a recent playdate they ran back and forth through the kitchen, gave each other toys to play with and gave each other hugs. And on an outing to Disney, Logan and Maricella fed each other Cheerios (too cute).

I don't know if it was something in the Southern California water supply, but most of the toddlers I've met that are Maricella's age are boys, not girls. And while this is not really a problem right now, for some reason, I feel like I need to find her a couple of toddler girlfriends to play with. Maybe I'm just being silly, but I've seen Maricella play with older girls and I can sense a difference in their interaction (even at this young age).

We recently met a neighborhood girl, Sarah, who is one month older than Maricella. They seemed to get along pretty well, although Maricella was a little possessive of me whenever Sarah wanted my attention. Hopefully, if they play together well, and have compatible temperaments, they just may become best girlfriends. Only time and playdates will tell.

Lauri Jon is a forty-something-else mother and wife who lives with her family in California.

Picking up the pieces

By Melita

"It looks like a chick bomb went off in here." In the German/Turkish film "Head On," a disheveled metalhead with a chaotic lifestyle makes this comment after his young female roommate treats his filthy apartment to a spit shine and some trendy new décor.

In my case, a baby bomb went off about three years ago, and it has taken that long to restore order at home. Let me back up -- it would be more accurate to say that our house was never very tidy, it got much worse after Maisie arrived, and it's only now that I am not mortified when someone stops by unexpectedly.

I am a pack rat, a proud daughter of pack rats, and a longtime defender of fellow pack rats. Almost a decade ago, I carted multiple boxes of magazines I will never read again from the east coast to the heartland, accompanied by my grade-school math tests and detritus from every trip I've ever taken. What can I say? It felt good at the time. Now that I'm settled, I have amassed enough yogurt containers to store all the leftovers this household could generate in a year, assuming that we'd want them stinking up the fridge.

Miraculously, in professional settings I kept my cubicles immaculate. (Granted, upon leaving, all those obsolete business cards and dead-letter files joined the treasure trove back at the ranch.) These days, I work at home. On my dining room table, to be precise. I am a copywriter. Let me tell you, being upbeat and creative is challenging when the first words that come to mind are expletives inspired by the toys you tripped on and papers you scattered on the way to fire up the laptop.

So, with the goal of improving my work life, I've been on a decluttering jag. Which has led inevitably to a cleaning jag. It's funny how clutter conveniently masks dust bunnies and grime. When we first moved into this house, it was spotless. The place had us fooled -- it seemed to clean itself for about a year. But it's been seven! And now we share it with a milk-spilling, Play-Doh-mashing, mirror-smearing machine. Until very recently, the phrase "spring cleaning" had a certain logic, but the true meaning of "housekeeping" was utterly lost on me. I'm learning that you have to keep at it. It's supposed to be a set of routine behaviors, not a frenzied, daylong decathlon before dinner guests arrive.

Yep, I am merrily clearing away the cobwebs -- mental and otherwise -- but a new problem has surfaced. For years, I have implicitly encouraged my naturally neat husband to embrace my messy, hoarding ways. I must say, he's gotten rather good at it. Too good. Let the re-programming begin!

Melita is putting down roots in Madison, Wisconsin, with her husband and daughter (nearly 3).

Brotherly love

By Elizabeth L-B

Driving back from a visit to my parents, disaster struck: our portable DVD player died, with another two hours of driving still to go. I steeled myself for a long and painful trip.  Instead, much to my amazement, Daniel and Nicholas entertained each other for most of the trip, playing a game where they each imitated the sound patterns the other made.  I was able to listen to music, and focus my attention on the traffic ahead of me.

Watching my sons learn to play together has been one of the true joys of parenthood this summer. I wasn't surprised that Nicholas idolizes his big brother, and will chase after him as fast as his short legs will allow. I didn't expect Daniel to be so interested in Nicholas, or to be willing to follow his lead in making up games. (One day they spent nearly an hour throwing rocks into a pond, something that Daniel had never shown any interest in before.) When a friendly stranger asks him if that's his baby brother, Daniel vehemently protests that Nicholas isn't a baby.

This isn't to say that they never fight. Of course they do. Whatever toy either of them picks up is immediately the most fascinating thing in the world to the other, even if he hadn't played with it in months. When Nicholas was little, Daniel could usually persuade him to "trade" for another shiny object, but now Nicholas has learned to stand his ground. They often sound like the seagulls in "Finding Nemo," shrieking "mine" at the top of their lungs.

When Nicholas was a baby, I read "Siblings without Rivalry," hoping for some advice that would smooth the way. The authors argue that there's no way to guarantee that your children will be friends -- that's mostly a matter of temperament and luck; all you can do is try to give them the tools they need to get along with others, whether or not they are friends. I don't know if my boys will be friends when they get older -- their personalities seem quite different, and that may send them in different directions. But in any case, I'll cherish the memories of them playing "Ahh -- beee -- pthfff!" for 60 miles of backed-up highway.

Elizabeth L-B lives with her husband, a SAHD, and two sons in Alexandria, Va., and works for the federal government.

Men, babies, and duct-taped diapers

By Michelle

There are many women who don't trust their husbands alone with the children. They're afraid that he'll forget to change the diaper, feed the child, or lose the baby somewhere. 

A friend of mine wailed about having to leave her baby at home with her husband recently while she attended a business conference. She was afraid he wouldn't feed their son correctly. Her husband might not fix the formula right, or he might not remember that Baby Joe doesn't like sweet potatoes. She explained that she had to call her spouse every hour to make sure he was handling things right, and she could never relax.

I am of a different opinion. I think men are perfectly capable of caring for the children. But it won't be your method. And that's OK.

Sometimes we see Movie Dads duct tape a diaper to hold it up. While mine never went that far, he did have his own adventures in Diaper Land. Once, I came home from choir practice to find my husband holding the baby in the bathtub, running warm water over our son's bare bottom. Apparently our son had experienced one of those gravity-defying, up the back dirty diapers, and short of hosing him off outside, this was the best my hubby could do.

Another time, I came home to find all the lights off in the house, and "Star Wars" on the television, blaring at full volume. My son was rocking in the baby swing full-speed, his little eyes wide open while light sabers dueled and laser beams shot across the screen. He was entranced. And even better, not screaming.

My husband has also been known to feed our children chocolate pudding and milk shakes instead of broccoli and whole milk. Is it any wonder my kids worship their father? I console myself with the fact that they normally don't reject the broccoli, so a sugar-induced high once in a while won't kill them.

Would I have ever considered these parenting methods? Probably not. Did they work?  Absolutely. Men do just fine with the kids when we trust them. Besides, if they forget something important like feeding the baby or changing it, usually our children have their own ways of reminding them, e.g. screaming at the top of their lungs.

What's the most bizarre thing your husband has ever done to the kids?

Michelle lives with her husband and children in southeastern Virginia, where she teaches sixth-graders and also write historical romances.