DotMoms

He’ll always amaze me—even when it comes to teeth

By Amy M.

I recently took Alex on his first “successful” trip to the dentist, where he got a cleaning, x-rays and a lesson in how to brush his teeth. When the hygienist called his name, he went willingly without even a look back at his Mommy, who had to hold back tears.

Tears of relief more than any other emotion. You see, this was Alex’s third trip to the dentist. After two failed attempts at my own dentist’s office, we resorted to the pediatric dentist—where the hygienists sweep the children away to some dental oasis and leave the parents stranded in the waiting room.

I first tried to take Alex to the dentist when he was 3 ½ (he's 4 now). He wouldn’t even sit in the “fun” reclining chair by himself, let alone allow the hygienist to count his teeth. For once in his life, he was silent—talking meant someone might see his teeth, and he didn’t want to admit he had any. The next time, a few months later, he sat in the chair and let the hygienist count his teeth, but clamped his little jaw shut as soon as she came near him with a toothbrush.

So it was time for drastic action. I was going to have to put him in the hands of those used to dealing with hysterical young dental patients and let them work their magic.

Although I called in June to schedule an appointment, I couldn’t get one until September. So I didn’t mention it to Alex until a week beforehand. Not surprisingly, he whined and protested and insisted he already knew how to brush his teeth. In reality, what he knows how to do is suck all the toothpaste off his brush. Does he think I don’t notice he barely moves the brush around?

I explained to him how important it is to see the dentist and that it’s not scary, emphasizing that we have to go to make sure our teeth our healthy. He continued to protest no matter what I said, so I bluntly told him he didn’t have a choice—everyone needs to go to the dentist, including him. Surprisingly he let it drop, although he mentioned a couple days later that he still didn’t want to go.

The day of the appointment arrived. I couldn’t tell if he had forgotten, or just accepted the fact that he had to go (the kid has a memory like a steel trap, so I doubted that he forgot—but maybe he suddenly had “selective” memory). He didn’t complain when I told him had to brush his teeth really well so he would be ready for the dentist, and didn’t protest one bit when we got in the car.

Once we were on the road, my sweet little boy explained to ME what it’s like to go to the dentist. He said he knew there wouldn’t be any big, scary machines because those would scare the kids. He knew he was just going so they could count his teeth and clean them with a special brush. He knew there was nothing to be afraid of.

All I could do was agree with him. The tears that threatened to fall then were tears of pride, and a few tears of sadness, because he was acting—and sounding—so grown-up. After his appointment, he acted like it was no big deal. I just hope he takes the dentist’s advice to heart—and uses his toothbrush to actually brush!

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

One of those days...

By Maeve

The last 24 hours have been Harry's naughtiest yet on record. He is only 2-years-old. Today, I feel about 50.

Yesterday - before nine o'clock in the morning, he got a chair, climbed up to the cupboard, found the bottle of Calpol and drank it, (luckily there was hardly any left), sprinkled it on the armchair and all down his clean clothes. He then removed his clothes for another day of being naked, and promptly peed on the new rug.

Later he stood on the arm of the sofa and removed all the books from three high shelves, hurling them onto the floor and posting them down the back of the sofa. These aren't just any old books - it was my special antique collection, (was - being the operative word.)

After that he unplugged the video machine and TV and removed all the wires from the back and hid them around the house. He then threw the TV onto the floor, closely followed by the video machine. Now the TV has a big hole in it and makes a terrible vibrate-y noise all through my favorite soap!

A bit later he sneaked into the kitchen and stole the new box of rice cereal and took it into the sitting room and liberally sprinkled everything with hundreds of those stupid little crispies. Then he climbed onto the arm of a chair and pulled the huge mirror off the mantelpiece and onto his head.

Finally, after a busy day trying to keep up with him and cleaning up after him, I left him and his brother watching children's TV while I went into the kitchen to feed the baby his supper. Peace at last. But when it goes so quiet I get suspicious and yes - I was right to be. They had found the pot of nappy cream and COVERED the sofa, both armchairs, the coffee table, one of the new rugs (the one he hadn't peed on), the TV and each other. From head to toe they were white - it was even in their hair. I tucked them into bed at 6:30 p.m. - because it seemed the only safe thing to do...

This morning, before 9 a.m., Harry got a chair and unlocked the kitchen door and unlocked my study and found the iron. He took it into the sitting room, put it face down on the carpet, plugged it in and then left it.... It's going to be another of those days!

Maeve is a freelance writer and mother to four boys.

 

If my family were a CSS stylesheet

by Mindy

roberts.css

 

body { color: white;
     size: 4;
     family: Mindy, Logan, Dylan, Daphne;
     background-image: checkered;
     background-repeat: repeat-y, repeat-x;
     margin: slim to none;
     style: inimitable; }

house{ color: #770D-4 clay pebble;
     size: 1450 sq. ft.;
     padding: fiberglass insulation, shake roof;
     family-friendly: mais oui;}

expenses { position: Silicon Valley;
     range: ridiculous;
     display: if you have to ask…;
     padding: for you, special deal today; }

preconceptions { color: #tranpsarent;
weltanschauung: tolerant, principled, slapstick;
     philosophical bent: Thomasian;
     tenderness: consistent;
     grace: 85% }   

blockquote { accuracy: 100%;
     precision: not so much;
     source: here, there, wherever; }

a      { color: #transparent;
     decoration: some exaggeration; }

a:hover
     { decoration: well, a little, I try not to be overbearing; }

a img{ border: line }

h1_mindy { color: blond, natural;
     size: aspiring to 8, will settle for 10;
     weight: see driver's licence;
     margin:  slim to none;
     padding: slight adipose;
     height: 5'9";
     decoration: cursive; }

h2_Logan { color: blond;
     age: born May 1998;
     weight at birth: 7 lb, 2 oz;
     margin: two weeks early;
     padding: moderate adipose;
     height: 19.5 inches;
     decoration: strawberry, right eyelid; }

h2_Dylan { color: blond;
     age: born August 2000;
     weight at birth: 6 lb, 15 oz;
     margin:  one week early;
     padding: slight adipose;
     height: 19.25 inches;
     decoration: impish disposition;
     heart failure: imminent;
     myocarditis: viral;
     recovery: complete }

h3_Daphne { color: strawberry;
     age: born February 2002;
     weight at birth: 7 lb, 7 oz;
     margin:  one week late;
     padding: little or no adipose;
     height: 20 inches;
     decoration: flaming orange hair;
     ears: elfin;
     domination: complete; }

#menu{ dessert:absolutely;
     top: cherry;
     bottom: vanilla;
     right: now;
     left: none; }

Mindy is a little too geeky for her own good and apologizes for this post to those who don't speak html. She is also a divorced mother who lives in the Bay Area with her three children.

DotMoms Daily: September 21, 2006

Here are some recent parenting headlines:

• Moms mean business
• Half fertility clinics allow parents to pick gender
• Expert: School lunches failing kids
• Music training boosts the brain
• New Year, New Dumpling

The theory of relativity

By Anjali

I used to be quite embarrassed, particularly as a teenager, when at functions with other Indian families, my parents would ask me to address all elders as “Auntie” or “Uncle.” Having not grown up in India myself, I did not understand the purpose of such familial salutations. It made perfect sense for me to call dear, old friends of the family with familiar terms, but even new acquaintances? Even strangers who just so happened to share the same heritage? Why compel such an interconnectedness among people simply because of a common national origin? As a cynical youth, I couldn’t understand the point of such blatant trustworthiness. I found it naïve. Incestual, even.

As it turns out, I had it all wrong. Because now that I am a mother and I have children of my own, what I have learned is that it’s not just a family that creates the terms of endearment, but the terms of endearment that create a family. Our usage of affectionate names to address other adults and elders embraces them, with open arms, into our lives. It forges a community where there wasn’t one before.

We hear the phrase, all the time it seems, “it takes a village to raise a child.” But few cultures in today’s society really practice this. We lead lives, for the most part, filled with suspicion and distrust and separateness. Survival means taking care of one’s own kind, not the old lady next door or the disabled man across the street. Exclusion is the construct of social order. True community is a concept foreign to many young children.

In Indian culture, though there are wars between religions, and cultures, and castes, there are names that bond near strangers together. And in time, such names kindle respect, and responsibility, and in some cases, lifelong relationships.

A few months ago, a young Indian family with children the same age as my own moved next door. At the end of our first play date together, as they were headed back to their own house, Mira said her goodbyes, addressing the mother with her surname.

I was very happy when she was quickly corrected.

“Oh, Mira, just call me Auntie,” our new neighbor gently responded. “That way, we can always be friends.”

Anjali lives in suburban Philadelphia with her husband and two girls.

I feel bad for Jennifer Garner

By Meredith

The former kick-butt TV spy accompanied her actor hubby to a movie premiere recently, and a single image from the event sparked an online discussion of whether she was pregnant or just fleshy.

Online rumblings about whether Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes actually had a child -- and whether the whole pregnancy was a fake -- degraded into a dissection of photos of Holmes and a debate about whether the belly glimpse in one of the paparazzi shots showed actual skin or a prosthetic pregnancy bump.

Hapless Britney Spears is mercilessly tracked wherever she goes, her every gesture made when carrying her baby -- even stumbling and nearly dropping her child -- is recorded.

Putting aside the fact that these folks are celebrities who need a certain amount of exposure in order to sell their products (themselves, their movies, TV shows, CDs, etc.), they are parents. They are real flesh and blood people. With feelings.

Now I'm just as interested in entertainment news as the next person, but what I despise is the deconstruction, the piece-by-piece demolition and examination of those who dare to earn their living via the entertainment arts.

I cannot imagine what it's like to be pregnant, to go through all the different stages of pregnancy while the entire world watches and scrutinizes. You venture out of the house, lift your arm and *gasp* inadvertently reveal that you have stretch marks. The entertainment media complex them starts musing over when you'll have surgery to repair your professional career.

You bring your child out of the house and stumble a bit while maneuvering the child out of her stroller. The whole world then discusses what a bumbling parent you are.

You start losing your pregnancy weight, and major magazines judge your progress.

When I was pregnant, there were plenty of "bad" fashion days and plenty of accidental public exhibitions of my stretch marks. When my children were babies, I was plenty awkward with them on occasion as I tried to move them from car seat to stroller and back. But I was lucky. No one was around to mock me for every mistake. No one was musing over whether I'd eaten a bit too much take-out, or whether I was pregnant again (not that I ever heard about anyway).

So why can't we just give these fellow parents some space? Sure, critique their professional work products -- their shows, music, interviews, etc. -- but let them and their families live in peace. Can't we?

Meredith O'Brien is a journalist who lives with her family in the Boston area.

Maternal Profiling

By Cooper

As moms, we need to make some noise about something very important. At the BlogHer '06 conference in July, I saw the documentary film, The Motherhood Manifesto (from the co-founders of www.MomsRising.org,). I learned that in Pennsylvania, where I live, it is legal to ask someone in a job interview if they are married or have children. As you can guess, this discrimination (yes, discrimination!) hurts mostly moms and single moms.

But - This is not just in Pennsylvania! Pennsylvania is just one of 28 states in this predicament. These states aren't covered by the federal regs either. Here is a list of states where discrimination is covered, and not covered, in employment laws (see the marital/familial status column.)

Are you mad yet? Since BlogHer, I have been working with Joan Blades (co-founder of MoveOn.org) and others at MomsRising.org, as well as women in Pennsylvania to help get legislation passed that would make this practice illegal. It has been stalled in the state house and senate - for six years.

I wrote an article about this, titled Maternal Profiling, and it ran yesterday in the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette. Please read it if you get a chance. If Pennsylvania can make a difference here, it would mean so much to moms and families everywhere, and could create momentum for many critical issues involving moms and families, not just on this type of discrimination. Pennsylvania could start a chain reaction, and, like I said, we need to drum up some noise.

Momsrising.org has create a web page for this issue, and I have been blogging over there too: www.momsrising.org/pa. Visit the site for more information, links to PA legislators' phone and emails, and a petition. You don't have to be from PA to send a message that this is important. It is especially important to get signatures on the petition, fast. So many times I talk about this people say, "I had no idea!" and that seems to be the biggest problem, the lawmakers think since no one is talking, nobody cares. From what I know about the DotMoms, we can change that pretty quick.

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

Typical is highly underrated

By Kristen C.

It doesn't take much for mothers to believe their child is a genius. It starts innocently enough. "My son can sing Twinkle Twinkle in English and Spanish," or "My daughter can stack her blocks in a Frank Lloyd Wright type structure" and suddenly, you are surrounded by future MENSA members.

And instead of just going on your merry way while your child beats the heck out of the drum with a maraca in what could quite possibly be an "anti-rhythm," you try to convince yourself that your not-yet-walking 14.7-month-old who says nothing but "dada" and can throw her smashed peas, avocado, and sweet potatoes so they hit you directly on your forehead in what you swear looks like a Jackson Pollack circa 1942 is smarter than them all. 

After enduring long days and long nights where my child was attached to my breast stopping only to breathe and poop, I was excited when she started interacting and responding. But instead of talking in full sentences, she just said "dada" and "more." And instead of dancing circles around me with perfect turnout and pointed toes, she toddled around later than most of the other kids. And while I was far from disappointed, I do admit to being a little surprised.

Now at 26 months, she's far from what I would consider typical. She can draw balloons and faces, complete with ears, hair, and beards, and she reads along to her own bedtime stories, tells the lady at the bank that she'd "like a pink lollipop puh-lease," and reminds me at least 14 times a day that she would like to watch Curious George.

And while I'm fiercely proud of the lovely brilliant person she is becoming, there's a part of me who can't help but enjoy the typical toddler stuff she does that makes her just plain two. Maybe it's because I was taking ballet and 2 1/2 and playing the violin at 3. And while those opportunities have served me well in my life, there's something simply marvelous about watching your child achieve those milestones that make them a "regular old kid." Like when my daughter threw her first "knock 'em down, drag 'em across three rooms and a kitchen floor" 15 minute tantrum, pooped in the tub, and drew faces all over our living room wall. Who cares if she can speak four languages when she can color in the Tiggers on her bed sheets with a permanent marker? Now THAT is worth bragging about.

So, imagine my surprise and utter joy when my daughter waddled into my office the other day with a colored pencil stuck up her nose, hands waving back in forth in a silly joyful dance of achievement. It took all I had not to laugh hysterically while reprimanding her. And later that week, I actually caught her engaging in full-fledged nose picking. NOSE PICKING? HOORAY! It took all I had to not pick up the phone and call my own mother to let her know "the good news."

Perhaps nose picking is far from brag-able, but with all the pressures to involve our kids in tons of activities and classes before they can even talk in full sentences, I've found comfort in what might be considered typical. And as a first time parent, I can't help but feel proud that my child is just being a kid.

And while I think it's awesome when kids can do "downward facing dog" and recite Tennyson for memory, I'm just as pleased to hear about how they ate a bug and did a scary (but harmless) somersault off their toddler bed.

Because for me, all the other stuff, like my daughter's ability to do 30 piece puzzles, sing almost totally in tune, and recite the Gettysburg address while tightrope walking, is just icing on the cake.

Kristen is a former college music professor turned stay-at-home-mother/rock star to her 20-month-old daughter, Quinlan.

DotMoms Daily: September 16, 2006

Here are some recent parenting headlines:

• Joely Fisher and Motherhood on a TV set
• The Man Behind the Muppet
• LEGOs and...'Star Wars?'
• Judge to Mom Who Forced Kids to Eat Vomit: 'You Should Have Never Been a Mother'
• Pre-Marriage 'Divorce Prevention'

The big month

By Melissa

This is it. It’s time, so says our carefully laid out plan. It’s time to make a baby. And I’m suddenly terrified.

For years, I wanted to have a third child but someone never wanted it. That’s right. I wanted a baby but my husband most certainly did not. His reasons were always good, too good. We had two kids already, we were both in college, kids are hellions on wheels, we both worked outside the home, the marriage needed help, we then started new careers, the laundry was never done, the cats looked jealous already, the living room paint wasn’t dry…

Whatever, I’d say. Let’s do this thing. Logical Schmogical. And yet we waited, because no way no how was I going to have another child without his expressed joy and enthusiasm. I’ve been down that road and it blew. Mightily.

Yet one glorious day, he looked at me and said it. “Let’s have another baby.”

I, naturally, collapsed in puddle of laughter before looking up, tears in my eyes, “Are you kidding me, because that’s not funny.”

He meant it. The plans were ironed out, the vague notion of when it’s “right” began to form. And lo, here we are. I’m useless, frozen, terrified.

Kids are hard. Babies are hard. Pregnancy is hard. Childbirth is HARD. I really don’t like to do things that are difficult. Easy does it for me, darling.

I want my body to get healthier every time I eat a cookie. I want the car to wash itself. Likewise, I want our next baby to magically appear on a fluffy white cloud, bathed, fed, and slumbering peacefully so I can simply bury my nose in his fine baby hair for a few hours.

I have a feeling it’s not going to work out that way. Scary.

Melissa is a thirty-year-old art historian and mama to two boys (11 and 10) living in Missouri. She and her husband are threatening to have another baby.