DotMoms

Those moments that matter most

By Amanda

Lately my work life has become so hectic that I find I don't really fully separate from it and concentrate on my children unless we get out of town. So on Thanksgiving we did just that. As a journalist it was my first Thanksgiving off in many years and I decided that cooking was definitely not on the agenda.

The fantasy of spending a weekend with my children in the mountains was too good to resist. Of course, I never considered the reality: the fighting in the car (before we had even left our street), the complaining about why Mommy's Volvo station wagon doesn't have a built in DVD player, and don't even get me started on sharing a hotel room with two kids.

But despite the frustrating moments (my 4-year-old's temper tantrum in the hotel lobby when she hid beneath the Christmas tree almost sending it teetering over), I was able to disconnect and re-connect with being a mother again. 

My main method was to put down the Blackberry, turn off my computer, and let nothing else distract me, like laundry or dirty dishes. When I do make these rare moments to be just a mother, they remind me that there's no place I'd rather be than in those moments.

Dancing with my 4-year-old to goofy big band music in front of hundreds of strangers in the hotel lobby was one of those moments. Cuddling in bed with both of my girls, their faces still soft with sleep, their legs wrapped around me like octopus tentacles, was another one of those moments. Watching them delicately hold baby chicks and squeal with delight at a nearby farm was yet another one of those moments.

At the end of the day, life is made up of moments. Some are more precious than others. I need to find a way to have more of "those moments" and less of the ones that don't really count. That's my resolution for 2008.

Amanda Lamb lives in North Carolina with her husband and two daughters. Her new book, "Smotherhood," was just released.

Magic Mommy

By Amanda

"If you're magic then turn me into a horse," my four-year-old said to me with a dead-serious look on her face. It was one of those late-summer moments, sitting in the edge of the surf under a perfect blue sky as the warm ocean lapped at our feet. Her wet blond hair was tousled from being churned around in the water and patches of wet sand clung to her little round face. She closed her eyes and waited for me to perform my magic.

I knew exactly where this was coming from. When she has a scrape or some other kind of minor injury I kiss it and tell her that mommies have "magic kisses" that can cure almost any ill. It was a harmless enough statement, but she took it to believe that I was really magic and could do just about anything she could imagine.

"I'm still a little girl," she said looking down at her bright pink life jacket with disappointed eyes. "It didn't work. How about you try to read my mind?" She said hopefully. "What am I thinking?"

After a few failed guesses she finally told me she was thinking about how old she would have to be to apply sun block by herself. I wasn't even close. It was time to fess up and tell her that Mommy wasn't really magic after all.

"It's OK, Mommy if you can't turn me into a horse or read my mind. I still think your kisses are magic," she said with a big smile, as a wave cascaded over her little legs sending her into a giggling fit.

"I think yours are magic too, Baby," I said. And they are.

Amanda Lamb lives in North Carolina with her husband and two daughters. Her new book, "Smotherhood," was just released.

Silence is golden

By Amanda Lamb

My 7-year-old is very theatrical. I attribute this in large part to the fact that she participated in an acting class at the local community theatre this year. She has also seen many plays in her young life and is now developing a budding love of theatre that I intend to nourish.

My goals in exposing her to theatre were simple -- encourage creativity and inspire confidence, but quite to my surprise she had taken away a very different lesson.

She and her cousin and her little sister decided to put on a mini-play for me recently while we were waiting outside a restaurant for a table. My daughter was the author and director of the play. I could hear her pleading with her 5-year-old cousin and 4-year-old sister to remember their lines and enunciate. She also gave them stage directions in a commanding voice, reprimanding them when they didn't follow her instructions perfectly. They listened humbly and tried to fulfill her wishes. And then, it was showtime.

My daughter took the stage and introduced herself as the architect of the show the audience of one was about to see. 

"Ladies and gentlemen," she boomed, "please silence your cell phones, Blackberries, or any other electronic devices you might have on you." She looked at me pointedly. Instinctively, I reached for my Blackberry on the waistband of my shorts and turned it off. "The actors have worked very hard to bring you this show and we don't want anything to ruin your enjoyment of what you are about to see.  Thank you for your cooperation and enjoy the program." She stepped to the side, making a sweeping motion towards her sister and cousin, who were waiting behind a bush to appear.

The rest of the play, which involved about four lines of dialogue, was shorter than the introduction.  Clearly, this golden rule of silence had an impact on my daughter far greater than anything she had seen on the stage.

So I asked her why she felt like that was such an important part of her show. "Mommy, cell phones interrupt everything, not just plays. They take parents' attention away from their kids too," she said in the authoritative voice of someone who knows.

Silencing the ringer is hard for a lot of us; it's even harder to ignore a ringing phone. But maybe she's onto something. Maybe I'll try it. Maybe. 

Amanda Lamb lives in North Carolina with her husband and two daughters. Her new book, "Smotherhood," was just released.

Siblings at war

By Amanda

I had always hoped my daughters would be friends, despite their three-and-a-half year age difference. I knew it would be a long time before the years between them would dissipate and allow them to share common interests, but I longed for them to at least play together. About a year ago, when they were 3 years old and 6 years old, it finally happened.

My older daughter loves to be in control, and my little one simply wants attention. This seemed like a perfect match, and it was, until sibling rivalry reared its ugly head. Not having grown up with a sister I never experienced the phenomenon of sibling rivalry firsthand until I became a parent. But now I am viewing it in almost textbook form. 

My older daughter, who is very serious and precise, gets frustrated with her free-spirited, adorable little sister, who refuses to adhere to her very specific instructions. She is brilliant and beautiful, but tortured by the jealousy that comes with having a cute blue-eyed, blonde shadow whose smile inspires hugs and kisses from everyone around her. 

This lethal combination inevitably deteriorates into name-calling. The big sister has a litany of words that we have banned as a result of her inability to tolerate her little sister. They include: ugly, stupid, "meaner wiener" (don't ask), and phrases like "I don't love you" and "I'm going to rip your head off." The little one has a very small arsenal of her own and usually comes crying to me about her big sister's tirade. I handle this not very deftly by comforting her and, in turn, scolding her older sister for the hundredth time about using words that hurt feelings.

The irony is that ultimately, no matter what cruel things my oldest daughter says, my little one still wants to play with her. Unlike most adults, she forgives and forgets quickly, ready to embrace her older sister again even before her tears have dried. She is also the first one to come to her big sister's defense when I scold her and threaten to punish her for her transgressions. Often she'll run to her and hug her much taller sister around the waist and cry,  "She didn't mean it Momma, really she didn't.  Don't be mad at her."

The truth is that my youngest daughter has a soft heart; a heart that I know will make her journey in life much gentler. My older daughter on the other hand is full of drive and ambition -- traits that will make her successful, but will also lead to frustration and disappointment at times. My hope is that with the support and encouragement of her younger sister, she will be able to achieve her goals. In turn, I hope that with her older sister's direction, my youngest daughter will learn about being responsible, working hard and following her dreams. 

My dream is that they navigate life together into adulthood with the understanding that unconditional love is a gift to be cherished.

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

Baby soup, sun scream and other sand treasures

By Amanda

The beach is where I find myself most at home in motherhood.

Maybe it's the lack of distractions -- no television, no cell phones, no computers, just the sand, the ocean, the crystal blue sky, and my children's bright faces, which I can see clearly without interference. 

Maybe this is why I feel the undeniable pull to the coast every summer, because I know that it's a place where I can truly focus on the things that mean the most to me, the things that seem to get lost in the frenetic paces of our daily lives.

"Mommy, make sure after you put on your baby soup that you also put on your sun scream," my 4-year-old, who is already the color of toast, says, surveying me while I dress in the bedroom. The waves are beckoning. 

She is in an oversized T-shirt to protect her back, which is the color of a Maine lobster. Her wide-brimmed hat is stained with salt spray and curls up to reveal her deep blue eyes and wispy blond hair.

One of the first things we do is build a drip castle. Due to control issues I'm not able to build something more perfect because sand simply doesn't always do exactly what you want it to do. But a drip castle is abstract, and by definition imperfect.

She talks the entire time, while we drop big, goopy dollops of wet sand on top of the mound. She tells me at first the castle is for a peacock, and then she decides it's far too small for such a big bird. She says it will be a house for a mouse. Finally, she settles on a den for a caterpillar couple named Sarah and Timmy. She creates a mailbox, only to crush it later saying that caterpillars don't have hands and so they can't open the mail, and therefore don't need a mailbox. But apparently they do need an elaborate driveway for their cars, go figure.

Later that night I take a walk on the beach with my 7-year-old. In the distance, she sees a pier twinkling beneath the setting sun. She decides we must walk to the pier. We hold hands and chat freely about nothing. She tells me this is her first "alone-time" with me all day. When did 7-year-olds learn about alone-time? 

The walk is further than I expect, at least two miles one way. I get a blister where my flip-flop cuts between my big toe and the rest of my toes. But I am happy, filled with giddy joy that only alone-time with your child can bring.

So we will return to the beach again, and again, and again this summer. Chances are I will get a tan and collect many shells, but more importantly I will get to look at my kids and really listen to them, something that will last long after the tan lines fade and the shells disintegrate.

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

Fantasy vacations

By Amanda

I had this fantasy. It involved taking my 7-year-old daughter on a vacation during her spring break at school. The idea was that we would share a mother-daughter bonding experience, and at the same time, I would educate her about historic spots in Washington, D.C., and New York. Like most fantasies it didn't play out exactly as I had imagined it.

Prior to the trip we looked at books, scoured the Internet, and talked excitedly about the things she wanted to see. The first leg of our journey involved a jaunt to D.C. with my mother, who also shared my fantasy about mother-daughter and mother-granddaughter bonding. Immediately, we realized that we might have made a terrible mistake. 

Each morning when we would leave to see an historic site -- the Washington Monument, the White House, the Capitol -- she would ask us almost right away when we could return to the hotel and go swimming in the indoor pool. By lunch time her pleas had become so desperate and annoying that we usually gave in and headed back to the hotel.

We arrived in New York during an unusual cold spell which I had neither planned for, nor packed for. I ended up buying hats, gloves, and sweatshirts from a vendor on the corner for both of us. It was a good look. 

On this trip we were joined by my father -- again another fantasy, this one spun around a grandfather showing his little princess the Big Apple. On our first trip to the Empire State Building we were greeted by a line that snaked around the corner and down the block; "Four hours," said the man at the end of the line. We returned the next day and were able to go up, but the freezing weather prompted us to avoid a ferry ride to Ellis Island. Instead, my daughter had to be satisfied with seeing the Statue of Liberty through her grandfather's binoculars. 

Walking the frigid city streets (especially in flats with no socks) was not the lovely springtime journey I had planned, so cab rides, and one very chilly carriage ride in Central Park, were the extent of our travels. Ultimately, my daughter's favorite part of New York was getting room service. 

Like a queen on her throne she presided over her $27.00 chicken tenders and fries laid out artistically on a linen cloth, complete with a mini-ketchup bottle.

Last week, I was going through her book bag and discovered an essay she had written about spring break. She described our "wonderful" hotel room in Washington (down to the room number, 302), and talked about how much she loved going to the pool. She went into detail about showering in the locker room after swimming and getting "free fruit" from a bowl in the ladies' lounge. She also described going to the top of the Empire State Building and seeing the Statue of Liberty (albeit a speck the size of an eraser on the end of your pencil.) 

I thought, "Well, maybe it wasn't my fantasy, but maybe it was hers." After all, isn't that what it's all about anyway?

Then, we were looking at a book that contained a picture of the Statue of Liberty. "Mommy, I heard you can really go up in it, seriously," she said earnestly.

"Really?" I said, realizing the jig was up.

"For real. The next time we go we'll have to go there, won't we?"

"Absolutely," I said. And I meant it.   

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

Learning to roll with the changes

By Amanda

Almost exactly two years ago I first taught my older daughter to roller skate; I wrote about the experience on DotMoms because it brought back vivid childhood memories of when I first learned to skate. My oldest daughter is now 7 years old and while she hasn't yet completely mastered the skill, she is much more confident about gliding around the rink without my help.

Recently, I had the joy of taking my almost 4-year-old for her first spin around the rink. I assumed the experience would be similar to my first experience with my other daughter. I imagined several painful hours of me skating backwards, hunched over, holding her unsteady hands as we made our way tediously around. But remarkably, just as all children's personalities are different, so too are their abilities and their tendencies to fear, or embrace, something new.

After just one time around holding hands my little one stated, "Enough Mommy, I'm ready to do it myself." For the next several hours she shuffled by my side with a cheshire cat grin on her face. She even worked up enough speed at one point to send a little breeze through her wispy, blond bob. Several times we passed my 7-year-old, who was cautiously staying close to the side, albeit without holding on.

Clearly, my baby was going to fall, it was her first time. I dreaded the thought of it. She did fall, but miraculously when it happened she got right back up without help from me and kept going. There was no crying. Her sister, on the other hand, never falls because she never goes fast enough or does any fancy footwork that would trip her up.

I marveled at their differences that day as I pictured their personalities taking shape with every turn around the rink -- the cautious one and the risk-taker. The truth is that I love them equally, but enjoy both of them in different ways. I identify with the cautious one who works hard and colors in between the lines, and I envy the risk taker who isn't afraid to fall.    

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

Boys will be boys and moms will be flustered

By Amanda

I have a confession to make: I'm a girl mom. Completely, 100 percent, not a shred of boy-mom in me. If I were to have a boy, I'm not sure I would know what to do with him since he probably wouldn't be interested in a getting a pedicure with me. 

I am jarred into the reality of my single-sex parenting skills whenever we have a boy at our house for a playdate. They do things that I would never have anticipated, like climbing things, sliding down the stairs on garbage bags, jumping from one piece of furniture to another. It's like I'm visiting a foreign country where I don't speak the language. I'm never sure how to handle these situations, especially when my girls fall right into line behind them. 

I have no boy toys; instead we have lots of girl stuff -- dress-up clothing, art supplies, Barbies, no trucks, no video games, no guns. But the thing about boys is that they can make anything into a gun or sword -- a stick, their fingers, anything. 

I really have to hand it to boy-moms. The stamina, energy and patience you exhibit every day is amazing to me. One playdate exhausts me enough to realize that you are truly special people. I clearly don't have what it takes. God must have been paying attention when he decided to give me girls.

"No way, not a boy for Amanda. She can't handle it. She doesn't have the right stuff. Let's give her girls, hopefully she can handle the whining," God must have said.

I really learned more about the other gender when I read a friend's new book about raising boys.  "House of Testosterone: One Man's Survival in a Household of Males" by Sharon O'Donnell (Jefferson Press, 2007) provides great insight into what the parenting journey is like when you are a lone female in a house full of men, albeit some of them little men. From smelly shoes to toilet lids left up to a calendar filled with sporting events, it's another world when you're a boy-mom.

I can paint tiny nails bright pink like it's nobody's business. I am great at throwing a princess costume together for a party at the last minute, but I don't know how to play soccer, and I'm not really sure what a Power Ranger is. I guess all mothers have our strengths and weaknesses.

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

Awards versus rewards

By Amanda

Sometimes when we're hoping to get accolades for our efforts in the world, we discover that our greatest rewards are right in front of us, at home. 

Recently, a very unusual event occurred in our family. My husband and I had to be out of town at the same time. This has never happened before. One of us is always with the children. On the very rare occasion when we go away together for a weekend, a grandmother or aunt stays with them. 

My husband had planned a weeklong trip with his childhood friends months prior. Then I found out that I had been nominated for an award and my company would pay for me to attend the out-of-town event. I almost immediately declined, realizing it was the same weekend he was scheduled to be away. But then I realized our nanny was more than capable and willing to keep my two girls for the night.

I shoved my cell phone in my small evening bag (foregoing things like a brush and lipstick). My colleague asked why I needed to take my phone.

"I'm a mother, that's why," I quipped.

He pointed out that I would not be able to keep the ringer on during the event, and therefore, would not know if anyone called since it would be in my purse and not on my waist vibrating. I told him I was fully aware of that fact, and that I would simply be checking my phone for messages periodically.

We were just finishing dessert and the lights were flashing to indicate that the televised award show was about to begin when I pulled my phone out of my purse. There it was, in bold black letters: "One missed call-HOME."

I panicked. A million thoughts went through my mind about what might have happened that would prompt the nanny to call in the middle of the event. I immediately slipped out of the ballroom and into a hallway. I didn't even listen to the message; I simply hit the number and pushed SEND.

"Mommy," my 7-year-old said, with tears in her voice as she answered the phone.

"What is it? What's wrong, sweetie?" I asked, as I felt my heart beating through the thin material of my formal dress.

"I want you to come home right now!" She screamed into the phone.

"Why? Is everything OK?" I said, still not clear on whether or not there was an emergency situation at my house.

"Because I miss you," she said, her voice lowering. I could imagine her lips in full pout mode and her cheeks red and sticky with tears.

"Sweetie, I'm in another state. I took an airplane to get here. I can't just come home. But I'll be home tomorrow, after lunch, will that be OK?" I said, as I heard the host of the show announcing the first award.

"I guess," she said with resignation.

"I love you and miss you too. I can't wait to see you tomorrow," I said.

"I love you too," she said with a little more cheer in her voice. "I hope you win, Mommy."

"I already did sweetie, I already did," I said and I meant it.

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

New beginnings

By Amanda

Every year I take off the week between Christmas and New Year's to spend it with my children. The truth is, school is closed and daycare is barely open, so it just makes sense. In years past we have used the week to travel to Philadelphia and visit my family, but for the past two years we have decided to stay put.

More than once this week I've found myself looking at the calendar and counting the days until I go back to work. It's not that I don't enjoy time off with my kids, I do, but unstructured time is something I'm not used to. To be honest, neither are my kids. 

I wake up every morning to two little faces asking me what we're going to do today. In my head I go through the list: laundry, grocery shopping, drycleaner, return Christmas gifts. But I know that's not what they want to hear. Their list is a lot more fun: ice skating, movies, making smores. So I struggle out of my Type-A persona and try to make the day a combination of unloading the dishwasher and sharing a large tub of popcorn at the movies.

Ironically, I seem to have a lot less energy and a lot more trouble fitting too many activities into my not-busy day. Yet, when I'm working I manage to do it all, fitting in the errands in the nooks and crannies between getting the kids on the bus, working and bath time. 

I think, ultimately, it comes down to routines. Adults, like children, crave routine and function better when we are consistently in the swing of things. Routine also makes downtime more fun.  When you work hard all week long, a Saturday morning in bed watching cartoons with your kids feels like you're getting away with something. But 10 days of this just feels like too much. I want to scream, "Enough of the Berenstain Bears already!" (I find myself humming the theme song in the shower.)

Yesterday as I pried my eyes open I heard my nearly-seven-year-old say to her three-and-a-half-year-old sister, "We go back to school Tuesday," with excitement in her voice. "It's a new year," she said, "So let's try to start being really good this year!" I chuckled to myself listening to her youthful pearls of wisdom. Amen sister, Amen.

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