DotMoms

Wednesday mourning

By Lori

The end of my Mommy Days is near. And I can't get rid of these tears in my eyes.

When I was five months pregnant with Emma, I negotiated a work-from-home day. I was being courted for a new job, and telecommuting was one of the things my boss offered to keep me. It worked.

I spent her first year stressed out, both at work and at home. Life with a newborn is hard, and going back to work after six weeks certainly doesn't make it any easier. And the at-home day was a blessing and a curse. It meant one less day of day care, a day I didn't have to feel guilty about leaving her behind. But it also meant crazy juggling. I brought home lots of work; the last thing I wanted was for anyone to feel like I was slacking. So I frantically returned calls when she napped, edited with her on my lap and vacuumed when I could get away with it.

Three and a half years later, it's my oasis. Emma calls it her Mommy Day. There are days, of course, when I've got a lot going on and can't spend as much time with her, but mostly, it's her day. We bake cookies and run errands, paint and go for walks, make frequent library trips and read many, many books. We spend hours engaged in pretend play. In short, we do whatever it is she wants. And that's the way I like it.

Next week, I start a new job. It's a great move for me, personally and professionally. It's a more visible role, more money, doing something I'll love. The office is flexible and the folks already know and love my daughter and husband. But I'll have a staff to manage, so I just can't work from home regularly. I'm not bitter about it; I know it's what the job requires. All of the reasons this is my dream job far outweigh giving up Wednesdays.

Emma will spend an extra day in the care of a young woman we've handpicked for her. Both of them are excited about the prospect. Adam keeps reassuring me it'll be all right. But my mind is overrun with clichés -- my heart is being torn out, I'm leaving a piece of me behind. But for all the overused ways I can say it, one thing is true. For the first time, I feel like I'm choosing work over my child.

I know it's right. I know she'll be fine. I know I'm lucky to have had all these years of alone time with her. I know the pain will pass.

I know it's just a day.

Just a day.

Just my last Mommy Day.

But allow me these tears anyway.

While the cat's away

By Lori

Adam went out with another woman last night.

Around midnight, hysteria set in.

Emma's, not mine.

She'd insisted on going to sleep with her pillow perched on her belly, like a blanket, and another smothering Little Bit, her stuffed cat. (She'd tried this out earlier in the day, during her nap. Stayed that way the whole time, apparently.) But when she woke in the dark, it somehow terrified her. I was sound asleep and heard her frantic screams. This wasn't just a potty call; I thought something had bitten her or she'd had a nightmare. Nope, just the pillow problem. "This isn't right! WHO DID THIS?" As soon as everything was rearranged, she quickly went back down. I, on the other hand, lay awake and alone, heart pounding over the crisis that could've been.

Somehow, Emma always has her worst freakouts when Adam is gone. The first time we flew with her is the perfect example. We were in Phoenix for the stone unveiling for Adam's grandparents. We'd spent half the day traveling, and I refused to go to whatever family event was that night. Emma hadn't napped, it was already nearing her bedtime, so she and I got dropped at Adam's mom's place. Em must've been 7 months or so, crawling like mad. I nursed and then pulled out the Pack-n-Play.

Now, under the best of circumstances, I was never good at setting up the PnP. I couldn't get the bars to extend or the center to pop. I've got Em surrounded by pillows so she can't crawl around the un-babyproofed house as I yank and pull. No luck. Within minutes, she's so exhausted she's screaming. There's nowhere I can put her down, because as soon as I lay with her on a bed or couch, she tries to crawl away. This is a kid who sleeps perfectly, but only under the right circumstances. All I needed to do was get her down in her own space. But I can't work the portable crib.

By the time Adam and his mom arrive, two hours later, Emma's cried so hard she threw up all over me. I never did get the PnP set up and I'm walking around the house, covered in baby puke and toting my inconsolable child, crying along with her.

Last night wasn't nearly that bad, of course. But there's a definite pattern, and it usually means me shouldering the worst of it alone. How's that fair?

Hysteria

By Lori

I just let my screaming, sobbing child be yanked from my arms. Peeled from my body, with one teacher unwrapping her legs from my waist while another extracted my blouse from her fists, one finger at a time.

While Emma begged me not to leave, I walked out under a black sky. The sun had been shining a mere 20 minutes before, as Emma and I entered her preschool. Weather's metaphor for my morning, no?

So, after three weeks, it seems she's having problems adjusting. Sort of. When I arrive to pick her up, she barrels into my arms, proclaiming, "I had a GREAT day at preschool!" She gets excited talking about it. Granted, she can only tell us the name of one other kid and no teachers. And it takes many skillful questions to find out, say, what she had for snack. But that's normal, right?

She's had a few mornings with tears. And each time I've called, they reassure me that she's fine, usually on the playground. I just found out she's swinging as I type, no tears. But somehow, that doesn't soothe my panicked, about-to-puke stomach.

This morning's episode was partly our fault, I'll admit. Emma hurt her knee last night after a fall on the sidewalk. We cleaned up the scrape, and she seemed fine. When she woke, though, she refused to put any weight on it, crying if we tried to force her. We spent an hour figuring out if she needed X-rays at the urgent-care clinic. Minutes after we'd decided to take her in -- and made the mistake of telling her -- I talked her into a game of hopscotch. She was careful with the leg, but jumped and ran. So no need for the doctor. No need to skip school.

No need to have given her the idea that she didn't have to go, which surely sparked today's insanity.

And the thing is, I volunteered for it. It was Adam's morning to drop her off, not mine. But I wanted the extra 10 minutes with her, the points with him for being gracious.

I'll keep my mouth shut next time.

Permanent press

By Lori

My life is an endless cycle of laundry.

There are only three of us. We shouldn't produce that many dirty clothes. But somehow, there's always a load in the dryer waiting to be (spun and) folded, one in the washer ready to be dried and at least one in the hamper needing to be washed.

Maybe it's just the luxury of having a washer and dryer. Even though we've owned our house four years, and our two apartments before that came equipment equipped, I still dread laundromats. Being the designated laundress (as well as chef, maid, nanny and more) growing up meant I spent many a day trapped in damp, linty rooms. I'd haul in giant trash sacks stuffed full of smelly clothes and begin the process. It took at least 10 washers to hold all the junk, as we couldn't afford to go often. And there weren't usually that many free washers at once. So I'd spend all day moving clothes from trash bag to washer, from washer to dryer, from dryer to rolling basket, from basket to folding table, from table back into the trash bags. If I was lucky, there was a spare quarter or three for a Coke and candy bar. Or no one was around to pick me up when I called, so I could read in peace, bags piled at my feet.

Emma's not old enough to care much about what she wears, much less ask, "Is my cat T-shirt clean?" But unless she's worn it in the last 24 to 48 hours, it usually is. And maybe it's that need to be a good mom, not like my own, that entices me to look for things to wash. A small load of whites or colors. Pool towels. Bathroom towels. Her sheets. Our sheets. All are on an endless rotation, clean for just a moment before the cycle needs to start again.

School's in for summer

By Lori

Judging by the ache in the pit of my stomach, you'd think today was Emma's first day of college instead of preschool. Surely by college, though, I'll be a little more used to the feeling.

It's not like I've never left her in someone else's care. I trudged back to work when she was six weeks old, furtively pumping behind my closed office door every couple of hours. I'd set up her picture and hold a onesie -- and my tears came more easily than my milk, at first. Today's separation isn't nearly that hard.

But preschool is a whole different ball game than in-home day care. She's used to being the center of attention, staying with at most two other kids while I'm at work. Today, I left my 3-year-old in a roomful of strangers, both kids I don't know and teachers I've spent one morning with. Granted, we vetted the school as if we were choosing a college, and I've no doubt it's a good fit for her. With day care, though, I intimately knew the women who watched over her (one for the first 18 months, the second until three weeks ago).

My fears are silly, I know. Emma's been potty-trained for more than a year ... but what if she poops at school? Will she call someone to help her wipe? Will the teachers forget that Emma doesn't eat pork, though I've told them again and again? Will Emma remember to say no to the ham sandwich or the hot dog? Will God smite her down if she doesn't? (That's a joke, folks.) Will she actively play with the other kids, or, as I've feared, will she be off in a corner, alone? Who will kiss her knee if she bumps it? Will they be impressed at all the words she can sight-read, or will they even notice when she points out, "That says zoo!" Will they -- can they -- love her, this child most of them are meeting for the first time?

Only four hours till I can pick her up and hear the details of her very first day. I wonder if the lump in my throat will be gone by then.

Grim reaper

By Lori

Emma's on a death kick. Every day, we're answering questions about dying and the end of the world. The end of the world. She's taken to asking, "What will happen will all the days end?" She's 3! And if that concept gets too abstract, she likes to bring it a little closer to home by chronicling the demise of everyone we know.

"Will Jack die?"
"Yes, honey. Some day, probably a long, long time from now, Jack will die."
"Will Cora die?"
"Yes."
"And Tiffany and Taylor?"
"Yes."
"Will Hayden and Alan and Jenny die?"
"Yes."
"And Uncle Bryan and Aunt Jenny and Grandma and PopPop? And you and me and Daddy?"
"Yes, Emma, someday everyone will die."
"What happens to the world when everyone dies? Are there no people left?"

So I explain that all those kids she listed will likely have kids of their own, and those kids will have kids, and so on and so forth, so that the world will be full of people. And then she'll start about all the days ending and what happens then?

I'm not sure where the topic came from, but I don't mind discussing it with her. At least, I didn't until the other day. She asked when a neighbor, a new stay-at-home mom after the birth of her second child, would be going back to work.

"She's not, honey. She's going to stay home and take care of the baby and his brother."
"But the baby's going to die."
"That will probably be years and years from now, Emma, when the baby is a grownup."
"No, the baby is going to die so she can go back to work." And she couldn't be dissuaded from it.

Here I was, worried that she would be jealous that her buddy had a stay-at-home mom. But apparently she thinks it's work or death.

Morbid kid.

They might be genius

By Lori

I'm proud to say I solved the horrible music problem, at least for now.

I bought Emma They Might Be Giants' kids' offering, No, on Friday, and she adores it. We haven't had anything else in her CD player since. If you haven't heard it, you should. It's not just for 3-year-olds. (It's billed as a family CD, but almost any song on it could be on an "adult" album. There is one that's a sort of weird choice for kids, and another mentions coffee and beer. We suspect those were leftovers used to round out the collection.) But it's hilarious to listen to her sing "No means no" and "I'm not your broom." We're all about Fibber Island and Robot Parade, too. Plus, it's plenty long for her to fall asleep before it's over (knock on wood), so she doesn't need to call us back at bedtime.

I'm not saying she's forgotten all about Tunes for Tots; I'm sure they'll be back in rotation at some point. But possibly not before a few can get lost ...

Tunes to toss

By Lori

I blame the sitter. She was the first one to let Emma go to bed with anything other than "quiet music" on. We started playing Baby Mozart CDs at bedtime when Emma was an infant, and she fell asleep to nothing but those right up 'til she was 3. If we were in a strange place, classical music on a clock radio would help her go down. It worked.

Until Emma told the teenager she wanted to listen to the Disney CD that was already in her player. And that worked, too. So we started letting her pick her own bedtime music.

I should share part of the blame, though, since I bought the dreaded Tunes for Tots CDs. But that was at least two years ago. I should've thrown them out when I realized they were priced so cheaply because the music was just that bad. They're just the usual kid-song suspects ... only with bad drum machines and oft-creepy little kids singing them.

Emma's rediscovered them lately, and one of the six (yes, I bought two box sets, unheard. They were $9, total. I'm a sucker for a "bargain") CDs is a must at bedtime. Except that she doesn't like about half the songs on it. There are only 12, and given that some are in The Itsy Bitsy Spider genre, that means about 15 minutes of music. So when Em demands to start on song 6, she'll be calling in about five minutes for a new disc or a repeat of the current one.

She's still young enough that we can dictate her tastes. We never allowed Barney or Teletubbies in the house, we don't eat mac-and-cheese at every meal and her favorite songs are also favorites of ours. We let her have her own stuff, too -- encouraging her to listen to World Playground or even the Wiggles, because we don't mind dancing around the house with her to them. They sound like real music.

I've never tried to render a CD unplayable before. I bet sandpaper would do it ...

Shh, don't tell

By Lori

A number of my friends have infants, newborn to about 6 months old. So many conversations -- on the phone, across the fence, in email and on AIM -- are about those hazy, crazy newborn days. I sympathize with sleepless nights, offer advice like a nursing pro and debate the merits of schedules.

Truth is, I'm a fraud. I should be an expert. I've got at least 365 nights of sporadic sleep under my belt -- and about 120 of those with a baby tucked between Adam and I in bed or dozing, barely, on my chest. I nursed Emma for 15 months, whipping out my boobs on airplanes and in parking lots, at the park and beach, and shoving them, four times a day, into suction cups, dripping liquid gold into bottles, office door closed while I read blogs that didn't require too much scrolling. And I've spent the last three years structuring my whole life around Emma's schedule -- when we grocery shop and watch TV, what plane tickets I'll buy and birthday parties we can attend. It's the defining force in our world.

So what's the problem?

Promise not to rat me out?

I don't remember much of that first year. I know there was a time when she didn't sleep. A long, long, long time. Weeks were one long blur of tears. I know she hasn't always eaten chicken tikka masala and pad thai. We mixed that precious breastmilk with rice cereal, steamed and pureed zucchini and mashed more bananas than I can count. And we worked damn hard to get that schedule intact. I went to day care every day at lunch to nurse her, and she had to be awake AND hungry while I was there. A schedule was a necessity.

But I don't remember how it all happened, specifically. I can't picture her younger than 2, able to pee in the potty, tell me what hurt, smother me with kisses and spell her name. So all the advice I'm giving? It's that crap everyone told me, all those facts I read in books long ago and the vague idea of how we might've done it. Because truthfully, I don't have a damn clue.

Running all around my brain

By Lori

We don't parent the exact same way our friends do. But rarely do I think someone is flat-out wrong.

Until now.

A coworker confided in me recently that his 16-year-old daughter has been using cocaine. It didn't come as a total shock -- she'd been caught drinking at 12, shoplifting at 13 and sneaking out at 14.

He and his wife found out because a friend of his daughter's had been caught. The mom forced her daughter to tell other parents. Our friend's kid put on a star performance, swearing she didn't know and she'd never used. And she kept up the pretense until her dad offered her a drug-test kit.

He later told me the consequences: She wasn't allowed to go on an out-of-town activity trip and they weren't going to buy her a car, which had been planned for spring. They'd revisit the idea in fall, if all went well. I assumed she was pretty much never allowed to leave the house.

So when he came in this week, beaming, I asked how things were going.

They bought her a car.

He gave me the details -- a sweet deal on an SUV that he said he couldn't pass up. I couldn't get my thoughts together fast enough to ask what had happened to her punishment as he told me how responsible and grownup she was with the car.

I'm not the parent of a teenager, and I don't claim to know how to be one. But I can say with some certainty I wouldn't reward Emma for hard-core drug use. I'm not sure I'd even let her ride in someone else's car, much less drive off on her own a week later.

And I don't know what happens behind closed doors at their house. But every time I see him, I'm a little afraid of the news he's going to have next time.