DotMoms

Charity begins at birth

By Kris

Want to help your children understand charity this holiday season? Here are some ways to spark a "spirit of giving" that will last a lifetime.

Decide together. Charitable causes abound. Give your children choices, and let their interests lead you.

Sample the options. They include:

• Soup kitchens. Kids can tag along or pitch in. Even toddlers can help select and deliver food.
• Animal shelters. Help feed dogs or clean cages; donate food or supplies.
• The sick or elderly. Kids can wrap presents, cook or do yard work. Younger ones can share books, sing songs or give hugs.
• Bake sales. Cook together for events at school, your community center or place of worship.
• "Angel trees." Help your child pick out gifts for a girl her own age. Or encourage him to sacrifice something from his wish list.
• A family charity jar. Parents can skip lunches out, kids can give part of their allowance.
• Toy donations. Buy new ones for Toys for Tots, or pass used ones on to Goodwill.

Talk about it. How did giving make them feel? For what are they grateful? Young children can draw pictures, older kids can write in a journal. And everyone can contribute to thank you notes.

Make it a habit. Whether once a week or once a season, make giving back part of the family routine.

How are you teaching charity?

Kris is a thirtysomething stay-at-home mom who lives north of Boston with her family.

Private counsel

By Kris

“My brain is broken.”

“Your brain?”

“Yes, it shattered into a billion pieces, like crystal hitting concrete.”

“I know that feeling.”

“I can’t even complete a thought without getting interrupted. I always have at least three people vying for my attention. Between the baby and the boys, this house and its never-ending projects and clutter ...”

“I know.”

“Especially now, with this catnapping baby who wants to be held all the time ...”

“She’s still little. It’ll get better.”

“I know, it will. It’s just, day after day I accomplish nothing, and my to-do list grows. None of my old tricks work. I’ll get the baby to sleep, turn on "The Magic School Bus" for the boys. Perfect, right? Twenty minutes to do something! But, no. It lasts five minutes, max. Then they want a snack, or John starts screaming about something, the baby wakes up. Even if I do get 20 minutes, I can't concentrate to accomplish anything. I feel like a failure.”

“You’re not a failure.”

“It’s just so ... pathetic. ‘Poor me, I had kids and now I can’t function!’ Blah, blah, blah. I can’t stand myself.”

“Will you stop?”

“I know, I’m sorry. Seriously, though, other moms have more than three kids. They have four, five, seven kids. They homeschool!”

“These other mothers do?”

“Yes. They make Halloween costumes. They bake. They write brilliant blogs or books, even. Other mothers thrive in at least a few important ways, and I can’t even vacuum the damned rug.”

“It’ll get done ...”

“We eat sandwiches for dinner half the time. I look around and see the toilet growing scales, exploded Spaghettios fossilizing on my microwave, the cat struggling to unstick herself from the kitchen floor. We had an apple juice incident this morning.”

“Have you talked about it with Brian?”

“Brian? Oh, God, I called him at work this morning. What did I even say? Something like, ‘I can’t do this,’ and I think I promised him sex if he gets home before dinner.”

“Will he?”

“He said he’d try, which means no. That’s OK, I was bluffing about the sex anyway.”

“You’re not a failure.”

“I know.”

“You’re an amazing mom.”

“Stellar.”

“You’re having a bad week.”

“Next week, my brain will heal.”

“Maybe not next week.”

“What? What’s wrong, honey? Ugh, I have to run. John clocked Ben on the ear, and I hear the baby. Oh, look, Play-Doh all over the dining room ...”

“I feel like we should end this on a positive note.”

“How about you tell me I’m amazing again?”

“You’re amazing.”

“I know it. But thanks for reminding me.”

Kris is a thirtysomething stay-at-home mom who lives north of Boston with her family.

Fearing SIDS

By Kris

Ava turned four months old last week, landing smack in the middle of the age bracket -- two to six months -- when Sudden Infant Death Syndrome (SIDS) is most common. Every day, I think about it. When I check on her while she sleeps, I get this pit in my stomach: What if she’s dead? When she wakes at night, I don’t let myself get annoyed. At least she’s alive!

I know it sounds melodramatic. Although SIDS remains the No. 1 cause of death in infants in the United States, it is rare. So I try to squelch the fear, I don’t wallow in it. But, like mommy guilt, it’s just there.

When I had Ben five years ago, the “back to sleep” campaign was well under way. I would have thrown myself in front of a speeding bus before putting him to sleep on his tummy. In the evenings, Brian or I would run upstairs every 15 minutes to check him. We bought an Angel Care Monitor, which has a sensor pad that goes under the mattress and sounds an alarm if the baby stops breathing. Even though I know it’s a marketing gimmick and could never prevent SIDS, I still use it today.

My second son, John, has acid reflux, or GERD. For the first few months of his life, he’d sleep two hours at most then cry for an hour or more, all night long. We were desperate, and exhausted, by the time his pediatric GI advised us to sleep him on his stomach. So desperate that we did it.

John began sleeping eight hours at a stretch, but I cried so much you’d think he was diagnosed with a terminal illness. I swear I aged 10 years in four months.

Ava sleeps well on her back, so well that my fear began centering around arousability, another SIDS factor. Still, I let her sleep in her own room pretty much from the start. The boys slept in a crib in my bedroom for their first year, but as a veteran mom, I wouldn't let the fear rule me. SIDS can happen at any moment, even while holding a baby. Plus, I like reading in bed with the light on after 8 p.m.!

Then I saw it: The American Academy of Pediatrics (AAP) issued a new policy statement on SIDS.

A few things surprised me in the report. The AAP now recommends pacifier use to reduce SIDS risk. Research no longer links breastfeeding with a reduced risk of SIDS, which makes me happy for all formula-fed babies and their parents. And many day-care providers still put infants on their tummies to sleep, a major problem since these babies probably don't sleep on their tummies at home, making their risk of SIDS from tummy sleeping even higher.

But the most shocking to me, personally? “The risk of SIDS has been shown to be reduced when the infant sleeps in the same room as the mother.” I blinked, rubbed my eyes and read it again. They give little explanation, but it didn’t matter. Brian set the crib up at the foot of our bed the next night.

Yeah, I'm a veteran mom. But I'm also a sucker for statistics.

Kris is a thirtysomething stay-at-home mom who lives north of Boston with her family.

A million little pieces

By Kris

Last week, my three-month-old baby chatted and kicked on her Noah's Ark mat while my boys, ages 5 and almost 4, played with their Imaginext castle on the other side of the room. I sat at my desk, balancing my checkbook. After a while, Ava started to fuss, and I went to pick her up. That's when I saw it.

Beside her head sat a small circular foam disk, one of 50 scattered throughout the house by the boys' two air shooters. Panic seized me as I saw the disk in a new light: a Heimlich-resistant, death-causing choking hazard.

Now, I'm not a rookie. I know there are many Mysteries of the Parenting Universe. I've even even solved a few. For example, to put a baby down without waking her, I use my Slow-Hand-Removal-While-Shushing Maneuver. To stop a temper tantrum during an important phone call, I pull out my stash of Happy Meal toys. To get a break with two or more non-napping children, I put Tivo and PBS Kids to good use.

But this latest mystery has me stymied.

I picked up the disk and scanned the area around Ava's mat. Within 10-square-feet I saw: a candy wrapper, various tiny scraps of cardboard, an Imaginext knight's helmet, a marble and a dried leaf. The only thing missing was a deflated latex balloon.

I know my floor management skills need improvement. But I don't know how to keep the boys' million little toys out of Ava's reach. The cars, the K'NEX, the Imaginext castle and pirate ship, the marble tower, every single thing in Ben's "collection drawer," plus any contraband they pull off my desk or kitchen counter -- it all seems like too much to manage. Yet if I can't manage, my baby could choke and die.

How do I let the boys play with their favorite toys while keeping my baby’s mouth choking-hazard free?

Kris is a thirtysomething stay-at-home mom who lives north of Boston with her family.

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?

What I remember from your first day at kindergarten

By Kris

The way you smiled when your new teacher asked you to pose for a picture.

The way you worked the alphabet puzzle, then admired it before moving on.

The way you knew just what to draw for your teacher: flowers.

The way you looked for the next boy to introduce yourself to.

The way you walked up to each one and said, "Hi," in this gentle, hopeful voice that I replay in my mind, lest I forget it.

The way you waved good-bye to one boy who was too shy to speak, then declared, "He's my best friend."

The way you yelled, "John!" as you bounded through the house, forgetting for a moment that he'd gone to school, too.

The way you hugged me a lot that day, as if you knew I needed it.

Kris is a thirtysomething stay-at-home mom who lives north of Boston with her family.

Guilt? What guilt?

By Kris

I first experienced mom guilt before I even got pregnant. Throughout the eight months it took to conceive my first son, Ben, a voice whispered in my ear:

"If only you hadn't drank/eaten that (fill in the blank), you'd be pregnant by now." Or, "Get to bed! How can you expect to conceive when you don't sleep enough?"

Over lunch one day with my pregnant cousin Paula, she confided how guilty she felt because she was too tired to play with her 1-year-old when she got home from work.

"Oh, c'mon!" I said, a little too fervently. "Don't feel guilty. You have plenty of time to play with him. You're pregnant!"

Her eyes widened, then shifted to her tuna sandwich. Only now do I know what she was thinking: "Wait till she has kids of her own. Until then, she's got no clue."

And she was right. During Ben's first year, mom guilt and I got acquainted. I'd bake, puree and freeze pounds of organic sweet potatoes and sweat over the dirty cloth-diaper pail. Then I'd hear, "Are babies supposed to eat so much sweet potatoes? Are those diapers really clean?" Concerned, I'd add butternut squash to the grocery list and wash the diapers a second time.

With my second pregnancy, like Paula, my energy dwindled. My "Super Baby Food" book gathered dust on the shelf; the cloth diapers retired to the storage room, behind the NordicTrack.

Ben was just 19 months old when I had John. I couldn't even look at Ben without bursting into tears because, "How could I have ruined his life by bringing home a needy infant? The baby books say to wait two to three years before having another baby!"

Now, five years into motherhood, I realize mom guilt and I must coexist. I do my best to ignore her, but sometimes I have to put her in her place.

When she says, "Shouldn't the boys practice their letters every day?" I brush her off, remembering that this is their summer break.

But when she wonders, "Shouldn’t the boys have more outside time?" I say, "Shut up! I just had a baby and it's freaking 100 degrees outside!”

Then I call my friend with a pool to schedule a play date.

Kris is a thirtysomething stay-at-home mom who lives north of Boston with her family.

My ulterior motives

By Kris

Three weeks ago, the problems I had breastfeeding my newborn seemed insurmountable. At about one week of age, she responded to my breast with purple screams or blank stares (she drank from bottles).

With the help of a lactation consultant (LC) and nipple shields, I got Ava on the breast. But the nipple shields required cumulative hours at the breast pump, so I went back to the LC for help weaning from them.

"Another mother would not have persevered through these problems," she said, pausing to stare into my eyes for emphasis. She continued to sing my praises throughout the appointment. "You really are amazing," she beamed.

"Ava had to nurse," I said finally, half-teasing. "How else would I lose my pregnancy weight?"

"Oh, that's the least of our concerns," she snapped, as if to say, That's not why we breastfeed!

Well, I have to confess. When I chose breastfeeding for my first baby, his brain cells and general health were my main concerns. But with three years of breastfeeding experience, my fears surrounding Ava's nursing problems focused elsewhere.

For instance:

Weight loss. The LC can chide me all she wants, and I know it sounds stupid and vain. But nursing sucks the fat right of me, resulting in effortless weight loss.

Boobs. When not nursing, I don't have any. When nursing, I do. I get to have boobs and lower my chances of getting breast cancer, while getting implants would make cancer harder to detect. Perhaps I could just keep pumping and donate the milk!

Convenience. When Ava fussed to eat as I read the Sunday paper this week, I scooped her up and brought her to my breast, rather than standing, going to the kitchen and preparing a bottle. Anything that forces me to sit rather than get up is alright by me.

Finances. Breast milk is free. How many things in life are free?

Prolactin. A hormone released during breastfeeding, prolactin creates a sense of well-being in the mother. Its effects seem mild to me, but why find out how I'd feel without it?

Snuggles. The nursing relationship is an intimacy unlike any other. It fostered a deep connection between me and my other babies. The chance that I could lose that relationship with my last baby is what left me crying in the bathroom so often during her first 10 days of life.

Boobs. Oh, did I say that already?

As you see, it's all about me. But without these narcissistic fears, I doubt I would have persevered through:

The ridiculous amount of time I spent at the breast pump. I have 38 five-ounce servings of breastmilk in my freezer! (And believe me, there is no way to "Pump in Style.")

The engorgement requiring ice packs, ibuprofen and fending off a horny husband.

The oversupply and ensuing clogged ducts, which cause pain with nursing akin to thrusting needles into my nipples.

The latest challenge, giving up dairy to quell Ava's colicky behavior. Did you know everything yummy contains dairy?

Had I not breastfed two other babies, I wouldn't have known how much easier nursing gets after the first six weeks, or how much I stood to lose if our nursing efforts failed. I feel lucky that after four weeks, Ava can nurse without problems. But don't think I'm an amazing martyr. I'm just a self-interested mom.

Kris is a thirtysomething stay-at-home mom who lives north of Boston with her family.

Growing pains

By Kris

Ben graduated from nursery school last week. I thought I'd be the hormonal, pregnant woman, bawling from behind my camcorder. But he had this huge smile through the whole ceremony and, for the first time, he kind of sang along with his class. So instead of crying, I smiled too.

The tears came later, as I packed up John's closet in what will be the new baby's nursery. In the end, I had four trash bags full of size 2 boys' clothes for my friend, and the overwhelming urge to instead keep them stashed in my basement forever and ever.

With a baby on the way, we've moved our two boys along toward "big boyhood" as best we can. John finally potty trained, and both he and Ben can now sleep through the night wearing underwear. We moved John into a booster car seat with a shoulder-strap seat belt. I packed away the bibs, the plastic dinnerware and the sippy cups, so now the boys use regular plates and glasses.

All these changes happened in the last month, and I guess I'm overwhelmed. I realized soon after Ben's birth that, as a parent, I wouldn't have to let my kids go only on their first days of school or at their high school graduations.

Parenting is a continual process of letting go.

With small children, in particular, life is a series of fleeting moments, where every turn of phrase or cute habit is just a passing stage that ends as abruptly as it began.

Each outgrown outfit that I toss into a trash bag forces me to face this reality. My boys will never again wear that turtleneck with the wrenches and hammers on it. And they will never be the 28-pounders who I could scoop up into my arms and lift above my head, blowing raspberries on their bellies.

This fall, Ben goes to kindergarten and John starts nursery school. Even as I celebrate these new stages, I can't help mourning what we leave behind. I can't help attaching meaning to soft, green corduroy overalls and goofy striped Gap pajamas.

I can't help wanting to hold on to these things forever, as if by doing so, I can somehow hold on to my babies forever, too.

Bring on the muumuu

By Kris

Last fall, after pulling out my collection of hideous maternity clothes -- mostly work clothes purchased in one ill-fated shopping spree at Dan Howard Maternity -- I decided to go shopping. I spent an evening online, and realized any single cute item would cost me $20 to $80. Then I realized I needed lots of pieces, this being my first summer baby. Then I remembered, I'm broke.

So I went to eBay and, after a week of due dilligence, made my move on one lot of clothes. It had 11 short-sleeve and sleeveless shirts, five pairs of shorts, plus stylish jeans, capris and yoga pants. I got it for under $100 and figured I'd be all set.

But here I am, 34 weeks pregnant at the end of May, and local temperatures continue to hover between 45 and 60 degrees. I love this, but it prevents me from wearing my new summer clothes.

Meanwhile, maternity pants have become my nemesis. My stretch jeans, which have an elastic band across my lower abdomen, are tight enough to cut off circulation to my legs (since I refuse to stop eating for one single second). Also, they keep falling down. Not in the "these pants are so loose they keep falling down" sense. No, in the "too much sausage squeezed into the casing" sense.

My other jeans have a regular zipper and button with a partial stretch waist. This worked OK early in my second trimester. But now, wearing them feels like I have a metal bar across my stomach that will sever my placenta if left in place one moment longer. They also fall down and, as of this weekend, no longer fit around my belly.

In April, I tried the capri pants. They were so comfortable! Playing with my kids in the back yard, I envisioned myself wearing them every day for the rest of my pregnancy. But after an hour-long honeymoon, they fell down too. Not in the "inching down until they force you to stop what you're doing and pull them up" sense. No, they fell down in the "around my knees with my white doughy butt hanging out for all to behold" sense. Thank God I was on my back deck when it happened.

Any hopes I had of being a stylish pregnant woman, with fitted tops hugging my basketball belly and trendy pants suggesting still-slim legs, have vanished. Instead, I'm fighting my pants while having nightmares about wearing shorts and sleeveless tops in public. I just want to walk without yanking my pants back up every three steps. I don't want hunks of cellulite hanging out.

I want to be comfortable. Do I want to look cute? I'll answer that with a question: Do you know where I can find some low-priced muu-muus?