DotMoms

What's in a name?

By Chris

When I got married 11 years ago I was faced with the dilemma of what to do about my name. Do I change it, keep it, or hyphenate it?

My last couple of years of college and grad school I worked as a nanny for a pair of psychiatrists. The mother had opted to keep her last name, while her children had the name of her husband. She said she had done it to prevent the crazy people from the mental hospital where she worked from tracking her down in her private life. (Actually, she was much more gracious in the way she worded it, but that was the essence of what she meant.) However, she said she regretted it somewhat, that it was annoying to have to explain herself all the time and explain to people that she was indeed the mother of her children.

Remembering  this, I opted for the hyphen. At that point in my life I was still planning on going to law school and figured I would use my maiden name in my professional life.

Well, I never did have that "professional" life.

I have found the hyphen to be cumbersome in everyday life. Usually I will just go by my husband's name. Does it matter if I tell the librarian at story time that my name is different from my children's? Do I need to tell the person who answers the phone where I order pizza that my name is anything different? Also the names don't flow well together, mine being a generic white bread sort of name and my husband's an Italian vowel-laden one. But it is still my name, lurking in the background, like a comfortable old shoe, a shred of my pre-mom identity.

Recently, my husband ordered checks. In our 11-year marriage I think I have ordered checks once. I did it from one of those bulk discount places and we had enough checks to last probably forever. But then we moved.

It didn't bother me to continue using the misaddressed checks since I never changed the address on my driver's license. See? Procrastination does pay off.

My husband decided to order checks with our new address. When they came in the mail, I realized my husband had used his last name for both of us. To say I was mad is probably an understatement.

He thought my reaction was a bit over the top and really didn't get it. Truth be told, neither do I. Does it matter? 

I have friends who have changed their names completely, some that kept their names, some whose entire family hyphenates, and one whose husband changed his name (although not many men are that highly evolved). In spite of all the choices, most of them have questioned the decision they made at some point.

Did you change your name? And are you happy with your decision?   

Chris is a writer, artist, wife of one, mother of seven, and coffee drinker extraordinaire. 

Baby fever

By Jennifer

My ovaries have begun dancing to the beat of baby fever again. Despite the never-ending stress and chaos that is my life with four children, including 2-year-old twins, I somehow am wanting more. I want a baby and I want one now. 

I'm not naive or just plain dumb enough to think that another baby would be a good idea, and I certainly have enough self-control to not GET pregnant, but gosh I want to be. 

The funny thing is that I'm a terrible pregnant person who throws up for months and is grumpy and generally not a "trooper." I complain -- a lot -- mostly because it's uncomfortable and being nauseated and vomiting for five months is beyond torturous.   

I think it's God's secret (or not-so-secret) little plan to make us ache for babies our entire lives. I know some women who have no interest in children or having babies, but the vast majority of my friends have struggled with wanting a child at some point. One of my closest friends is 30 and practically wearing onesies she wants a baby so much. This urge is completely biological and yet often impractical in this day and age. Babies are cheap, but kids are expensive and the logistics of having more than about four or five children gets really tricky. Forget eating out, much less trips to Disney world. 

I met a beautiful fun woman in her early thirties recently who is pregnant with her seventh child. She had her younger two girls with her and her older four (two girls and two boys) were at school. She'd stopped by a showing of art I was having and leisurely shopped and chatted while her 3- and 4-year-olds toddled behind. I asked if she was thinking of more kids and she said she didn't know. Sort of shrugged her shoulders. 

I have to admit that I'm a little jealous. She has easy pregnancies, and I think if I did, I would have one more. I'm envious that she's so laid back about it all and is just doing what she feels like doing. There is a definite stereotype in our society about people who have more than about four children (we get LOTS of comments with four). People want to know what is different about you that you can handle or even want that many. 

This woman just weathered the questions we were peppering her with and seemed amused by just about everything. SEVEN children. 

I think I can't do it, though. I know myself and my limits and I think I'm there. I do admire those of you out there who take that step and have as many kids as your heart desires. You're braver than most of us. While I'd love another trip to the hospital to welcome another little precious baby into the world, I don't think I can handle another 2-year-old (as cute as they are!) who likes to squeeze entire tubes of toothpaste onto my bed. I reserve the right to change my mind, but with my constant reminders of the destruction, it probably won't happen!

How many kids do you have and how many do you secretly want?

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 Baton Rouge, Louisiana.

Back away from the mac and cheese

By Melita

My favorite food is macaroni and cheese. A quarter of a century ago, I would have said the exact same thing. OK, I would have said the same thing with a hint of a lisp.

Back then, I craved Kraft. That marigold sauce was always the brightest of many bright spots in my Saturday nights. My brother and I kept a close eye on our babysitter as she divvied up the pot. We practically counted the noodles to make sure no one came out ahead.

Now that I am a parent instead of a put-upon big sister, you might expect me to be more comfortable about sharing. More mature. Saintly, even. You would be disappointed.

Picture this pathetic and all too familiar scene. At Maisie's request, I make a box of shells -- natural white, but powdery all the same. I doctor it up with a little yogurt and a little grated cheese. After I devour my bowl, I start eyeing Maisie's portion. Maisie eats a few bites, then claims she's done and wanders away from the table. The second she steps away, I start sneaking bites from her bowl. Next thing you know, I polish it off.

Maisie returns to the table for her second course, same as the first. "Hey, where's my mac and cheese!" she cries. Sheepishly, I tell my sweet daughter, "I ate it. I thought you were done." As if on cue, my husband appears. "What happened to putting it in the fridge for later? You know she'll eat it eventually." I know, I know. Believe me, I know!

Not only have I failed my family, I am also uncomfortably full.

Pouncing on Maisie's mac and cheese while it is still warm is a special case. But I do own up to a generally bad habit of eating her table scraps. My mother used to insist that I eat everything on my plate. In a delayed reaction to the house rules of my youth, I let Maisie decide for herself when she is full. But for my part, I can't shake that ingrained fear of wasting food, that nagging feeling that plates must be clean at the end of a meal. Surely there is a better way to deal with this than turning myself into a human garbage disposal!

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

Kindergarten girl

by andrea

Sarah has been having trouble in kindergarten. It's not serious trouble -- it’s not like she’s running with thugs, swiping crayons or intentionally spilling glue on the teacher’s chair -- she’s just been weepy about going to kindergarten.

In fact, she announced to my husband that she hates kindergarten. Hates kindergarten? How is that possible! It’s also quite a departure for the girl that is pictured here, and was so happy to be going in the first place.

Her eyes fill with tears when it’s time to drop her off. I’m not quite sure what to say, no, scratch that, I’ve run out of things to say. I stick around until it’s time for her to go in. It breaks my heart to see her so sad. For some reason it’s hard for her to leave me. This is surprising since she’s a preschool veteran. She’s been a hard-core nine-to-fiver for most of her young life. But I think her preschool experiences spoiled her. Little Sarah was a big favourite. She got lots of kisses and cuddles and love from everyone: teachers, administrators and fellow students. She was the resident darling, and she loved the attention she got. Who wouldn’t?

And now she’s facing the cold, hard reality of junior kindergarten. The teachers at our school have a no touch rule. Physical affection -– I think even a pat on the head -- is not allowed. I know where this comes from, I know why it must be like this, but it’s sad nonetheless ... don’t you think?

Sarah, for one, could use a little bit of extra attention to make the transition into the “big school” a little easier. I know she's only been going for a couple of weeks. But I wish it would hurry up and get better. If not for her sake than for mine!

andrea is a wahm to Sarah (4.5) and Emma (6.5) and is not ashamed to admit that she's glad it's September.

Clothes make the girl

By Sarah

My daughter is almost 17 months old and is just starting to get hair. She was born with hair -- wispy, wavy, reddish hair -- but, by four months old she was bald as a cue ball.

Now, it is hard enough for strangers to tell the sex of a new baby, but add baldness to the equation and you have, for all intents and purposes, a boy. Perhaps I didn't help matters. I didn't dress her in pink or frills. But, I don't like pink or frills, and most of the gifts we were given were gender neutral.

Lilith wore girl clothes, no doubt about that. But, they were not traditional girl clothes. She wore lots of bold colors and patterns; dark reds, bright blues and greens, stripes and hearts and stars. She didn't wear much that I, or probably anyone, would put on a little boy. But, wherever we went she was "such a cute little fellow."

At first it didn't bother me much. And, then it started to bother me. It didn't bother me a lot, but I must admit, I was bothered. OK, the remedy, I thought, must be pink, dreaded pink, and lots of it. Suddenly all she wore was pink, hot pink, baby pink, pink shirts with flowers and soft stripes and fuzzy little kittens.

She was girled up alright, but it didn't do a lick of good. This whole summer her clothes were pretty and sometimes delicate and above all feminine. But, she was still a boy to most people in public. My friends all say it's funny, they would never see her as a boy, but then again, they know her.

My husband and I find ourselves saying, "Yes, she is a girl, just a really bald one." But, I have had enough of pink clothes, and shirts with bunnies and kitties.

So, as I am finding fall and winter clothing for her, I am staying true to myself and my original criteria: clothes I like, clothes that fit her, clothes that are used/hand-me-downs/affordable.

These past few weeks she has worn much less pink and I like it that way. Last weekend we went to a party and she wore striped leggings (Blue and green and yellow but in no way masculine) and a T-shirt along with mary-janes and a huge pink hat. Someone called her an "it," apparently thrown off by the outfit and the baldness under the big hat.

So, the heck with it! That is, the heck with them! I am past dressing her according to outdated and pointless gender ideas. Yes, clothes make the girl. In our case they make the girl bright and stripey and unique and comfortable and that makes mama quite happy indeed.

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.

A reminder to enjoy it while you can

By Cooper

As I walked out of the grocery store with my 5-year-old daughter the other day, she opened a package of Wonka Donutz snacks with such force the snacks flew all over the pavement. Pushing a cart filled to the brim with grocery bags, I tried to balance the cart, which was coasting down a slight grade in the parking lot, while scooping up my daughter -- and the damn snacks -- from the path of an oncoming bus.   

It had already been one of those days -- a we-need-bread, the 3-year-old has-a-fever, the 8-year-old forgot-the-homework, husband out-of-town, baby-got-a-huge-goose-egg, dog-got-loose day. And, I was really not happy about the Wonka purchase in the first place. So, I did what any imperfect mother would do and snapped.

"Come on, now, we are supposed to open this type of stuff in the car. Why did you do that? Hurry, come on, there are cars. Arrrrrrgh," I huffed.

At the same time, a woman, probably in her 70s, grabbed my cart, which, at this point, was also making its own way into traffic.

"Thank you," I said to the lady. "I am so sorry."

The woman smiled, looked at us, and in a soft voice said, "I would give anything to be there again."

I took the cart, smiled back and, as we walked away, I felt tears fill my eyes.

At that instant I knew, without a doubt, there will come a time in my life when I will look back and miss these moments -- exasperating, wonderful and everything in between -- and wish to have them all back, if just for a day. 

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

Shout it out: 10 things I hate about laundry

By Kris

1. Every dirty sock, shirt and pair of pants lands in the hamper inside-out.
2. No matter how careful I am, I cannot bleach a load of whites without ruining some other article of clothing within 100 feet of the washing machine.
3. Yet, I need bleach.
4. Men's apparel advertised as "wrinkle-free" is not. It's marketing fraud, and I'm considering initiating a class-action lawsuit.
5. Laundry is the only chore that I ask my husband not to do, based on his alleged track record of overpacking the washer, mixing darks and whites, and mistreating my bras. Yet, strangely, it's the one chore he does whenever I'm not looking.
6. My washing machine drains into a large sink that sits beside it. If anything gets into that sink to clog the drain, my basement floods. I've flooded my basement three times, so far. I now have laundry-related OCD, causing me to go back and make sure the sink's empty at least 20 times a load.
7. With a leaky toilet and a sometimes leaky 3-year-old, I have to deal with at least a few urine-reeking loads every week, requiring nose plugs and vinegar in the rinse water.
8. I am incapable of remembering to add vinegar to the rinse water.
9. Our clothes have so many stains on them that I may as well dip them into a vat of Shout® before tossing them into the washer. Can I just wash them in Shout?
10. Every time I "finish" the laundry, there's more.

What do you hate about laundry?

I playing, I chase, I happy

By Lauri Jon

Language, it's a wonderful thing. And no doubt, without it we'd probably still be grunting in caves. I'm constantly in awe of my toddler's language development. And now that she's nearly 23 months her vocabulary is growing daily, although some days it seems it grows minute by minute.

Maricella's now at the stage when she can repeat a word after only hearing it once, although her pronunciation isn't always accurate. (Needless to say, Bill and I have to be extra careful not to shout out any expletives, even when we do things like stub a toe -- ouch!)

Sometimes, Cella runs around the back yard announcing, "I playing, I running," or "I chase" -- the latter, of course, is our clue to start running away from her. And she has a full grasp of possessiveness and what seems to be the possessive tense of language when she points out that the kitchen chair I usually sits in is "Mommy's," and the new black patent leather dancing-style shoes are "Tella's shoes."

The other day she put her fists up to her eyes and made a crying sound. My husband asked me what was wrong and I looked at her and realized she was only pretending to be sad.

Then, she took her ride-on hippo into her Dora play house and I asked her, "Maricella, what are you doing in there?" Her response was, "I playing." I really didn't expect to get such a direct answer. It made me laugh and floored me at the same time.

It's really great when she's having a fun day and she runs up, hugs me and says, "I happy." We're beginning the journey that will unlock her thoughts, feeling, needs and desires. The journey of language -- it's a wonderful thing.

(Oh, I almost forgot. She also told me recently, "pee-pee," and "poopie," so the potty training adventure isn't far away.)

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

My (missing) scrapbook

By Kimberly

I took Sabrina to the Western Fair for the first time ever recently. She had her first Elephant Ear, her first ride on a roller coaster, her frist trip through a funhouse, her first experience with carny barker... a lot of firsts. And I don't have a single photograph commemorating any of it. 

It's not like I don't have a camera. In fact, just last spring I shelled out quite a chunk of change for a digital camera that's probably better than I need, given how few pictures I take. I confess: I'm that mother who usually "forgets" her camera and begs duplicates off the other parents, when I remember.

I have a friend who is a committed scrapbooker. The paper, the scissors, the relentless photographic documentation, she's into it. And I can sort of see the appeal. I mean, I'm generally all about gluing stuff to other stuff as a form of relaxation. But I just can't get into this. Part of it is that my packrat brain just doesn't work that way and sparkle jelly shoes and stones from the first trip to the ocean don't really fit too well between the pages of a book. But mostly it's that I don't want to chronicle my children's lives; I want to participate in them.

So while the other parents trudged around the fairgrounds lugging professional grade photography equipment from ride to ride, I skipped through the crowd holding Brina's hand. And while they stood beside the ride, trying to coax their children into waving, I sat in the giant swing and allowed my daughter to coax me into opening my eyes. They tried frantically to capture a smile each time the Himilayan whipped past their chosen spot; I had Brina's laughter ringing in my ears as she sat pressed up beside me.

It's true, I don't have anything tangible to commemorate Brina's First Trip to the Fair -- unless the stain on my shirt from the sno-cone counts? There's no book to page through, and no pictures to point at. But we do have those intangibles -- the feel of the wind rushing through our hair, the sound of our laughter, and the taste of kisses sticky with cotton candy. All things a book can't hold. But a heart can.

Kimberly is a proudly lazy, solo mom by choice to Sabrina (6) and Regan (1). She lives with them in Ontario, Canada.

A year of DotMoms

By Elizabeth L-B

This is my anniversary post on DotMoms. My first post appeared on September 26, 2004. Since then I've written about photographs and birthday parties, the joys of sibling relationships and the challenges of just getting out the door in the morning. The post I've written that got the most comments was on our bad housekeeping.

In reading all of my posts from the past year, I'm struck by how often I write about the ways in which I feel deeply inadequate as a parent. I am not as patient with my children as I would like to be. They don't eat as healthily as I'd like them to, or keep their room as clean.

But I'm afraid that the overall picture I've painted is overly negative. And yet, overall, I'm having a blast. I love how the boys will run across the room to crash into me with great big hugs. I love how they both believe that mommy kisses cure all injuries. I love it when they demand that I read to them. I love how they're figuring out how the world works.

So why the focus on the negative? Some of it is a deep-seated belief that it's at best impolite and at worst downright dangerous to crow about your fortunes. I also worry about getting overly sappy. But fundamentally, I think I write about my failings as a parent because I can count on kind readers to tell me I'm not alone, that everyone feels that way. 

(At a birthday party we attended this weekend, another mother looked at the child throwing a tantrum on the floor, and leaned over to say to me "Isn't it nice to know that other people's children do that too?" Yes, it is.)   

And even if I am the only one who worries about something, at least people will read my posts and feel a bit more reassured about themselves.

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