DotMoms

Looking back and dreaming ahead

By Lauri Jon

The past two years have been a whirlwind of change and adjustment for me. In February 2003, my mother died of lung cancer. Two days later, I found out I was pregnant with our first child. I went through the highs and lows of pregnancy wishing I could share those joys and sorrows with my mother, consoling myself with the belief that she was observing from on high, while taking comfort from other family and friends.

In November 2003, our daughter was born, and as ecstatic as I was basking in the glow of new motherhood, I also had a great adjustment to make, transitioning from a highly paid NYC graphic designer to a sleep-deprived, happy one moment, crying the next, hormonally out of control new mom, just trying to figure out how to shower every other day.

Then midyear 2004, my husband sold a screenplay he'd co-written with another writer, and by the end of 2004 we were saying good-bye to our 650 sq. ft. apartment in NYC's West Village and heading to the sprawling Mecca of Los Angeles.

In 2005, Los Angeles "welcomed" us with 40 days and nights of rain, making it nearly impossible for me to connect with other toddler moms on a regular basis, adding to my feelings of isolation. But as the rain stopped, and I became familiar with the lay-of-the-land (literally and figuratively), Maricella and I made it to parks and classes, and began our L.A. mom/toddler socializing.

Then, when all seemed like it would be only sunshine and roses, in April my father fell ill and was hospitalized. Bill, Maricella and I dropped everything (including the closing on our soon to be new home) and flew to New Mexico to be at his side. And while he made a fairly rapid recovery and was released within a week, none of us guessed that he'd lose his battle with pancreatic cancer in June, only two short months later. And although he won't get to see Maricella grow up (at least not from here on earth) I'm filled with joy that before his death he got to meet her, laugh with her, talk with her, and give me a thumbs-up on how we'd raised her so far.

July, August, and September flew by with only the minor inconvenience of a 100-year-old tree falling down in our backyard mid-August. Luckily it fell away from our new house and only took out a block wall and the electricity to our Koi pond. October and November were filled with fabulously fun activities -- the three of us dressing up as the Scarecrow (Bill), Glinda (me), and Dorothy (Maricella) for the L.A. Zoo's Halloween Boo at the Zoo, and then dressing up as fairies (Maricella & me) and a brave knight (Bill) for Maricella's Enchanted Forest 2nd Birthday Party.

So with too many boxes still unpacked from our move (and some from my father's place as well), I gave myself permission to ignore them for the time being and spent the rest of this year sharing every moment possible with extended family, friends, my husband, and our darling 2-year-old daughter, Maricella.

After so many ups and downs these past two years, I'm declaring 2006 to be the year of magic and miracles. I'll be doing my part by allowing myself to dream and then letting my dreams take me on this wonderful journey called life.

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

My new age

By Elizabeth L-B

I had a birthday recently, not a big deal one, not one that turned me an age ending with a 0 or even a 5. I had the day off from work, so I spent the morning doing some long-overdue shopping, the afternoon at the playground with the boys. My family gave me some presents, and we had an ice cream cake after dinner. It was very pleasant, in a low-key way. Getting a year older doesn't seem to matter that much these days, but it's still nice to have a cake.

I recently read that Forbes and Yahoo have designed a system to let you send an e-mail to your future self. You can choose to have it delivered as soon as in one year, or as long as in 20 years. As soon as I saw it, I started doing the mental math:

• In one year, Daniel will be almost 6 and Nicholas will be 3. Daniel will be in kindergarten. Nicholas will be in preschool.
• In five years, Daniel will be almost 10 and Nicholas will be 7. They'll both be in elementary school.
• In 10 years, Daniel will be almost 15 and Nicholas will be 12. They'll probably both be taller than me.
• In 20 years, Daniel will be almost 25 and Nicholas will be 22. They might both be done with college. I could even be a grandmother.

Right now, the best description of my age is "the parent of a 2-year-old and a 5-year-old."  I have more in common with other parents of kids their age, whether they are 24 or 44, than I do with my childless peers. I don't think 39 will feel much different than 34 does, but I'm sure my life will be very different as the parent of school-age kids. I'll be done with diapers and car seats, dealing with homework, soccer, and fights with friends. It will be a new age.

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

The monster at the end of the hall

By Kelly

Somebody new moved into our house, an invisible and unwelcome somebody. Thirteen-year-old Tyler brought him to the door and introduced him to his toddler sister, Lila, who now spends 75 percent of her time looking for and talking about this somebody: The Monster. Or, as she says with wide eyes, her eyebrows raised right up into her hairline, "Mooonshteeeeerrr… er… er… er."

Our new guest has brought to light our family's need to work on our potty mouths. For the last seven nights, Lila has hopped down from her chair after dinner, stood at the end of the long, dark hallway that leads to the bedrooms, and said in her most pensive, can-you-believe-this voice, "Ho-dy sh*t. Monshteerrr." We try not to laugh, really we do. We deliver many kicks to shins under the table, and attempt to arrange our faces in expressions of questioning acknowledgement.

"Shall we go look down the hall to show you that there are no monsters, Lila?"

"Monster. In my bedroom. Monster in the dark hallway. Under my bed, too. Big Monster."

We make many nightly trips down the hall to look into every closet, drawer, and potential monster-holding crevice, showing her the usual occupants: puffs of unswept cat hair, rogue socks and shoes, teddy bears she hid weeks ago. Then we try to distract her by building towers out of blocks for her to knock down, or sit on the couch in a warm cuddle to read stories, stretching that endless hour until bedtime with calm play. If she hasn't had a chance to play outside, we put on some music and spend that time doing lots of hopping and dancing to get the ya-ya's out. Either way, every few moments she interjects, "Ho-dy sh*t! Monster in the hall!"

Upon rising each morning she sits up in our bed and talks about the man in the closet with his head on Daddy's shirts, and the monster in the sock drawer. She sleeps so soundly at night now, I have no idea if she dreams about these beings I have come to think of as intruders. Lila has such an obsessive interest in them, I wonder if she even experiences them as intruders. Her attention to them seems so gleeful and welcoming. Like they're good friends. Friends who scare the bejeebus out of her whenever she walks by a darkened doorway, but friends just the same. I get the feeling that if we ever prove to her the non-existence of these monsters, she will be devastated.

So we'll continue our endless loops around the house in search of monsters, while shedding light into dark corners to reveal as much of the unknown as we can. We'll continue to beg her brother to stop finding new, creative ways to frighten this little person who still stands between the worlds of reality and imagination, uncertain how to qualify anything. Perhaps more importantly, we'll keep working on helping her to express her joy and wonder at the possibility of monsters living amongst us with more socially acceptable language.

So far she's taken my, "Holy Macaroni, Monsters!" and used it to embellish her favorite phrase, so today we hear her high, husky voice ringing out in the hallway, "Ho-dy sh*t! Macaroni Monshhteeerrrs!"

I don't suppose I should bother making macaroni and cheese for lunch.

Kelly Ferry lives in Northeast Ohio with her husband, teen son, and toddler daughter. She writes when she can, thinks about writing when she can't, and knows more will be revealed.

And then there was one

By Amanda

My husband is getting ready to have back surgery. You would think we were preparing for him to be leaving the country for an extended period of time. We've been to B.J.'s three times in the last few weeks. We have enough canned goods to get us to 2007.  Because he will require two weeks of complete downtime and then months of light duty, we are trying to think of everything that needs to be completed in our lives prior to the big day.

This is not as easy as it sounds. It took the regular holiday-season-frenzy to new heights. On the one hand, we are more prepared than ever for Christmas. Gifts were bought and wrapped, the house was decorated, the cards were sent, even some items from Santa Claus were assembled and stowed away early. But on the other hand, there are all the little details to plan when going from a team to handle the chaos of daily life versus to having one person do it all.

When I first thought about it I couldn't imagine it would be that hard. After all he's in charge of taking out the trash, feeding the dogs and lifting heavy things. These are all things I can manage or get help from neighbors if I need it.  But what I didn't think about was the extra pair of hands.

I think about this especially at bedtime when I have two wet girls coming out of the bathtub who need their hair combed, teeth brushed, pajamas and bedtime stories. I think about the fact that my 2-year-old (who weighs more than 30 pounds) still likes to be carried, something Daddy won't be able to do for a long time. I think about the fact that Daddy won't be able to pick the kids up from daycare when Mommy works late because he is not permitted to drive for several weeks.

In addition to taking care of the kids. I will also be taking care of him. This is something I'm not used to as we are very independent. Historically he's never been a very needy person, but we are facing the unknown. Recovery from any medical procedure depends upon many factors, factors we can't control.  

It's a sobering reminder that in most cases the life of a family revolves around two parents balancing the chaos together. I know there are many single parents out there who do it all and I commend them because I can't imagine how they get through every day with their sanity intact. It will take good planning, organization, patience and lots of energy on my part. Still, I'm a little nervous and looking forward to having my partner-in-chaos back.

Amanda lives in North Carolina with her husband and two daughters.  

The gift of gab

By Susana

We were all still seated at the dinner table, enjoying our last glass of wine or coffee, when the littlest member of the family was busy playing with a big basket of dominos in the hallway. I can't remember even now what she said "Danke" for, but it was so priceless as she, still two months shy of 2 waited for a response, and not receiving it, said in a mildly irritated voice of correction, "Bitte" to everyone with wide-eyed wonder and anticipation.

Other than the wonderful pomp and circumstance of Christmas, I hardly think Stella understood all of the festivities, but she certainly does seem to grasp the basics of courtesy and manners. She was all riled up at her grandparents, Mita and Opa's house, rushing around the tree as any little elf, rascal, or other fiendish imp might. She uttered, "Nut am baum!" after Mita told her again and again not to knock the candles or bulbs off the tree, as the light of which seemed to still twinkle in her eye.

For the first time she also exclaimed, "Schön!" many times throughout the day when she saw something she deemed worthy of the description for beauty.

Susana Gardner is a poet, writer and U.S. citizen who is now an expat mama living in Switzerland with her daughter Stella (1.5), Swiss partner Harry, and Alaskan furbaby, Jasper.

Sweet nothings

By Christine

The letter was folded into quarters and taped to the back of a hand-drawn picture of Robbie Williams (a popular British pop singer in Europe). It was signed "Love, Maxi." My daughter laughed.

Sophia, age 6 ½, loves boys. She likes to chase them around the schoolyard, teases them to chase her back, and openly embraces them without reservation. In return, the boys love her. In fact, when it comes to calling her friends for a playdate, she lists a handful of boys' names first. This makes me nervous, but it is also a fact of life.

The deal-clincher for Sophia's interest in boys came one day when she fell down at school. A fourth-grader named Beni came to her rescue. He escorted her to the teacher's office and offered moral support and a loving hand. Beni became a revered personality in our home.

"If I ever meet his mother, I will thank her for a great job she has done in raising her son," I promised Sophia.

We live in a small town, and a few weeks later, I was invited to a birthday party. The hostess, as it turns out, was the very mother I sought! We laughed about the coincidence and the fact that her son was so kind to Sophia.

Since she is just learning to read, Sophia gave me Maxi's love note to read aloud to her to be certain she didn't miss a word of it. As she kicked back her head with delight and a giggle, I flashed back to when she was one year old. She had just received a birthday gift from her aunt –- a fuzzy rabbit she named "Hase." She laughed in the very same way. At the time I thought she might have found her soulmate in Hase. It was as if she had known him all along.

Watching her laugh this way again, I began to wonder if Maxi was a soulmate, too. She seemed less excited than I was at the attention she was given. She acted as if it were nothing, sweet, but really nothing. Two days later she wrote a letter back professing her love to Maxi, too. At that point, my excitement over Maxi's sweetness had subsided. I had moved on to a feeling of pride that Sophia could write so well!

Life is funny, you know. Beni's kindness fostered Sophia's confidence that the world of boys can be a loving place. It must run in the family. It just so happens that Maxi is Beni's twin brother!

Christine is an American author and freelance writer living near Munich, Germany, with her husband and two children (Jackson, 4 and Sophia, 6).

On the egg

By Mindy

Nine times out of 10 you don't really feel like letting your kids crack the eggs. They crush the shells, break the yolks, and leave deadly trails of Salmonella Slime. I try to hide the fact that I'm cracking eggs until they're all done. But then I don't get to pass on all the teachings a cracked egg can offer.

There is a physics lesson in cracking eggs. You tap it on a surface and cracks form according to the pressure and angle. You can direct the pattern to some extent: you can tap lightly enough to crackle the surface without breaking the membrane or you can give it one decisive smash and rush to catch all of the drippings in the bowl. You have to move fast. My kids are fond of tapping, looking, tapping, looking, tapping again and then peeling the shell apart once the white begins to drip. This is a step up from wanting to crush the egg in both fists, shell and all, and feel the insides oozing over their knuckles.

There is a chaos theory lesson in freeing the egg from its shell. You never can tell which way or how fast the web of cracks will spread, or which half will spill the yolk into the white with a plop. You can shake the white off your fingers but can't tell which finger the greater glob of yolk will spring to or how long the drip will stretch before it breaks and falls to the bowl.

If you watch closely, you can learn a bit about reflection and refraction. The shell is softly pocked and throws minute mogul shadows on the surface that change as you turn it in the light.

Of course, there is a lesson on hygiene at the end: soap and water will keep bacteria from spreading to food surfaces or to your skin; it's always a game to see how few surfaces you contaminate before you wash and rinse.

Then again, if you're going to have little helpers, you might want to pad your schedule or you'll want to crack heads as well.

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

Yeah, he's quirky

By Amy M.

Every child -- every person, for that matter -- has quirks, right? Sometimes I think Alex got more than his share (hmm, like his mother, perhaps?). Writing for DotMoms has allowed me to share many funny, frustrating and momentous occasions in Alex’s life, quirks and all. This post, however, will be devoted solely to what I consider the mother of all his quirks: his bath and post-bath routine.

The quirkiness begins as soon as Alex gets in the bath. At age 3, he still insists on using an infant bath seat. I know, I know, we should have just made the seat "disappear" years ago, but we didn't. He still fits in it (yes, he's on the small side) and it keeps him happy. The seat must be positioned in approximately the middle of the tub, and Alex must be facing the spigot (as opposed to the back of the tub -- considering he's THREE and still in that seat, there's no way he could be facing the side of the tub without being twisted up like a pretzel!).

I should mention here that Brian usually gives Alex his bath. A creature of habit himself, I guess he has imposed a certain order of activities during bath time. I'm not complaining -- being freed of this responsibility gives me a little time to do something fun, like laundry.

Interestingly, the washing of Alex's body is quirk-free. The washing of his hair is another story. No matter what else I might be doing (sitting on the toilet, taking a shower, whatever), my presence is required when Brian rinses Alex's hair. We have tried everything, from those goofy visors that are supposed to keep the water off the kid's face to different pouring methods to different pouring containers, but rinsing the hair remains a traumatic experience. And a scream-inducing one if he can't hold my hand.

When Alex gets out of the bath, he must be wrapped in his towel just so; he likes to have it wrapped around his entire body, but not so tight that he can't walk into his room. Fortunately now he allows us to keep his pajamas in his dresser. Until recently, he liked us to keep his PJs stacked in the laundry room, and going over to pick them out was part of the routine (admittedly, in the beginning we had to go to the laundry room to get them because I had never gotten around to putting them back in his drawer).

Once his jammies are on, he must throw his towel into his bed. He can't really throw it that far, so he throws it as far as he can, Brian catches it, and tries to get it into the bed in a seamless movement that makes it seem like Alex threw it the entire way himself (he realizes he didn't throw it the entire way himself, but it's part of the routine).

We used to have a bedtime routine that involved cuddles, numerous requests for water and much restlessness until he finally settled down, but now he's going through a phase where he likes to sleep in Mommy and Daddy's bed. I won't even go there. (I know I'm opening myself up to "constructive" criticism.)

Yes, we realize we're "enablers" when it comes to many of Alex's habits. But he's happy, we're happy, and life would be boring without quirks, right?

Amy M. lives in Pennsylvania with her son and her husband. She works full time as a writer/editor for a large university.

Fashion statement

By Donna

Is anyone else out there as tired of low-rise jeans as I am?

I’m not saying this out of prudishness –- really I'm not. I actually think they're cute on teenagers (except when they show a little bit too much derriere. OK, maybe I am a little bit of a prude). I've even worn them myself… back in the 1970s... the first time they were in style... when I was a teenager.

My objection to the style is that there doesn't seem to be any other option, even for those of us who are over 21 -– times two.

I used to think it was painful to shop for a swimsuit, until I reached my 40s and tried to find a pair of jeans that not only fit, but also looked appropriate. When I walk into a store, I am faced with the choice of dressing like my daughter or like her grandmother. There is nothing in between!

I remember the day in the '70s when I realized that "hip huggers" were no longer hip. A friend had come to school with pants that came all the way up to her waist. They looked fresh and very cool. I went shopping that week to get a pair just like it and could not believe how liberating it felt not to have to worry about everything showing when I bent over or sat down.

I know that fashion is a cyclical thing and that it's just a matter of time before Paris Hilton or Gwen Stefani is photographed in jeans that hit just below the waist, and the low-rise craze will be yet another "what was I thinking?" fashion nightmare. Anyone care to send them a pair?

Donna is a San Fernando Valley wife and mother.

Twelve is the new two

By Michelle

My daytime job is teaching 12-year-olds American History, while my nighttime job is teaching toddlers how to be civilized humans. To be honest, there isn't much difference.

We read parenting articles all the time about the terrible twos. But what about the terrible twelves? The pre-adolescents who roll their eyes and screech, "You don't know anything, Mom!" are not that different from toddlers. Just as 2-year-olds are caught in that world of not-quite-baby, not-quite-child, so too are 'tweens caught between childhood and adolescence. The transitions are harder than people realize. We blame hormones, but in reality, we are asking a lot from a 12-year-old when we expect them to "instantly" become responsible teenagers.

I am struck by many parent conferences and the ever-persistent claim that, "My son/daughter is so disorganized! He/she can't find anything!" Or they say, "My child is old enough that I don't need to monitor homework. If they fail, that's their problem." In a way, it's like saying to a 2-year-old, "He ought to be able to dress himself by now. If he can't, then he'll just go naked." Skills like organization and good work habits aren't inherent traits. They have to be taught and reinforced. It's not an overnight process, and you can't give up. When parents consistently train their 12-year-olds to be organized and complete their assignments, they are setting them up for future success. 

The best part is, 12-year-olds crave their independence, just as 2-year-olds do. They are eager for responsibility, even though they are frightened of it. Show them your trust, teach them the skills they need with patience and love, and you'll be amazed at the wonderful child you have. 

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