DotMoms

Relearning friendship

By Amber

A couple of years ago, a friend invited me to join her playgroup at Bellview Park. It was a glorious sunny day, the kind you relish as you watch your 1-year-old test out her wobbly legs like a baby bird taking flight.

As the mothers talked freely, the children played. They splashed in the stream, giggled on the train, squealed at the animals in the petting zoo and rolled in the grass. It was one of those times when everything just seemed right.

Until I met Daniel. Actually, it was my sweet daughter Hadley who instigated the introduction. She had wobbled over to a corner of the park about 30 feet away from our perch and had innocently plopped down beside this little boy. He was tow-headed, bespectacled and I will never forget his bottomless smiles. I will also never forget his accompanying oxygen tank.

I struck up a conversation with his mother. Daniel was just a couple months older than Hadley but half her size and severely handicapped. But this child emanated a light like I have never seen as he guilelessly watched the children play around him.

In those brief moments that we spoke, I had such a strong connection with this woman as she longingly looked over at our circle of friends. A voice screamed inside me, "INVITE THEM OVER! She is in desperate need of companionship!"

But I did not.

I had my reasons, albeit superficial ones. After all, I did not know this woman, she did not know me. And besides, it was not even my playgroup; I was already crashing it. How would it appear if I invited a complete stranger over?

That woman has probably long forgotten that day.

I have not.

And I have vowed to keep remembering with each new encounter.

Amber is a former adventure-travel writer turned adventurous unraveling mother to two-year-old Hadley and baby Bode.

Farewell, dear nap, I miss you already

By Amber

Hurricane Hadley is finished with naps. At least she thinks she is. I, however, have a dissenting opinion.

For three long years of riding the roller-coaster of colic, tantrums and general insubordination, naptime has been my only reprieve. Sometimes I passed out and took a nap, too. Sometimes I blogged. Other times I cooked and cleaned. And not to be forgotten is when I just stared at the wall and blubbered away incomprehensibly. Those were the particularly tough days.

Shortly after her third birthday, Hadley's internal clock informed her she was done. I admit I did not greet the clock's assertions with happiness. I resisted, and we clashed over and over again. My reasoning is if this is a veritable clock, then why doesn't it tell her to use the potty? That is what I would say if I were a timepiece.

Of course, my resistance is selfish and maybe I should be the kind of mother who thinks, "Oh goody! Another two hours with my daughter!" But I am not. I am perfectly content with the 12 hours we already spend together.

My resistance is a matter of survival. Those two hours were my only opportunity to recharge, rejuvenate and reflect upon what a blessing it is to be at home watching my children blossom.

My husband and I want to have another baby next year and I am apprehensive about having The Hurricane bounce off the walls all day long during that exhausting and sickly first trimester. Oh yeah, and the third trimester won't be a walk in the park, either. Because when this whale is blubbered and beached, I will need a break.

I know this is just one of "Life's Passages" that I need to accept. But please tell me you've been here, you've felt this and know my pain.

And to all those well-intentioned women who have advised me that I can just implement "Quiet Time" What in heaven's name is that?

Amber is a former adventure-travel writer turned adventurous unraveling mother to two-year-old Hadley and baby Bode.

A sneak peek at our revolutionary, best-selling parenting book

By Amber

I never fancied myself a ballerina, which is particularly ironic since I'm walking on my tiptoes a lot these days. And also on eggshells.

My daughter Hurricane Hadley has become a tyrant. When I offer suggestions for a snack, I brace myself for the unleashing of how dare I even suggest something so unthinkable as apples. When I pretend to turn her into a princess with my magic wand, I am sent to the dungeons because I held the wand at the wrong angle. Anything sets her off, which makes me wonder if she has some kind of chemical imbalance.

Or if it's the fact that she's turning three years old this month.

I've heard from some that the 3s are worse than the 2s. Doubting Thomas that I am, I didn't buy in. And now here I am: sold out.

We recently had a good day with what I would consider to be a reasonable amount of T.O.N. (Tantrums Over Nothing). We were sitting on our leather sofa watching out the window for my husband Jamie to come home. I looked down at how precious she was being and decided she needed some positive reinforcement.

"You know, Mommy is so happy with how sweet you've been today. Thank you for being so nice to your brother Bode and me."

Within seconds, seconds people, she started acting up and it did not stop the rest of the night.

As we were eating dinner, she miraculously downed most of the curry chicken phyllos I made and I decided again: positive reinforcement.

"Haddie, what a great eater you're being tonight!"

Within milliseconds, milliseconds people, she choked out her food and spewed it all over the floor. Jamie looked at me dubiously.

"Hey Amber. Here's a new parenting strategy for you. How about ditch this positive reinforcement crap and STOP WITH THE COMPLIMENTS."

We'll begin our book tour next month.

Amber is a former adventure-travel writer turned adventurous unraveling mother to two-year-old Hurricane Hadley and baby Bode.

Translating "Guy Speak"

By Amber

We recently headed up to the mountains with some of our favorite neighbors: Andy, Meredith and baby Maddie. This trip has been a long time and coming. Well, only technically two-months-and-coming because we had to cancel our originally-scheduled date back in January due to The Plague. You know. That two-month sickness I may have mentioned once or twice.

We made this same trip last year and it was one of our best family vacations ever. We hoped to have a repeat performance but were not ignorant enough to believe the planets could align twice in one lifetime for us. Well, maybe Pluto could perform but we all know what happened to that poor planet.

Against all odds, the weekend started off great. Meredith had been lamenting that we were going to miss The Baby Sale of the Century on Saturday. You see, Denver has these cool events a few times a year that are like a gazillion garage sales pooled into one. Women stand in line for hours like vultures waiting to attack. As a non-shopper, I was one of their prey my first time around and am still waiting for the footprints to fade off my back.

Meredith, on the other hand, is of the assailant variety and successfully begged the sale organizer to let us in for the Sneak-a-Peek on Friday at 7 p.m., well after we were supposed to leave for our trip. And so she called me with a proposal, which I then relayed to my husband Jamie.

Now, let me preface this by saying Jamie had a hellacious week at work. The ulcer-inducing kind. And so I approached him with some trepidation.

"Hey, Meredith called and she said we're able to do the preview."

Grunt.

"And, and, and Andy had the brilliant idea that Meredith and I should stay for the sale and drive up afterwards. Then you and Andy could carpool right after work with the kids. You know: a Guy's Night Out!"

(You know. Crammed in a car with three irascible and screaming kids for a couple of hours. Party on!)

Blank stare.

"So, what do you think? Doesn't that sound like fun?"

"I've just officially hit rock bottom."

"So, I'll take that as a yes?...."

Amber is a former adventure-travel writer turned adventurous unraveling mother to two-year-old Hurricane Hadley and baby Bode.

The sad realization that I am not above bribing a mouse

By Amber

After a failed jump-start with potty training last fall, Hurricane Hadley has demonstrated she is perfectly content to sit in her polluted diaper for extended periods of time. While we've been careful not to pressure her, there are assuredly animals who are more interested in improving their bathroom habits. I know. I watch cartoons.

My husband Jamie decided we needed to up the motivation ante so he pulled in the big guns: a visit with Mr. Chuck E. Cheese himself if she went on the potty. Hadley looooooves Chuck E. more than a mere mortal, which is kind of funny because he isn't even human. Err... or is he? (See below.)

Out of the blue last Tuesday, Hadley decided she was going to use the potty three times in a row. To reward her, we took her to see The Big Mouse that very night. But imagine our disappointment when we arrived and he was hiding in his mouse hole (this is according to Hadley; a very big Chuck E.-sized mouse hole at that).

I queried a high-school-age employee. She confirmed that Chuck E. does not make regular mid-week appearances unless it's for a big bash.

"You don't understand. This is a party. A Potty Party. And Chuck E. is the only one in this world who can motivate my daughter to continue to potty train," I said.

"Maybe we can arrange something."

"Fantastic. Hey, can he talk?"

"No, he's a mouse."

"I know he's a mouse. But there's a real person inside those overstuffed ears. A real person who can comment on her bathroom habits, which would encourage her along the path."

After all, what is Chuck E., if not a master motivator?

"He doesn't talk."

"Fine. Just bring out your mute mouse, OK?"

I then pondered the possibility of slipping Chuck E. $10 but scrapped the idea. If he really is a mouse as she professed, what use would my money be to him?

Eventually, Chuck E. did make his triumphal entry, which, according to Hadley, was no less thrilling than when Jesus arrived in Jerusalem on a donkey. She squealed, danced, hugged and reveled in her own rendition of Chuck E. Idol.

I was thrilled with the outcome of the evening until I tucked her into bed that night.

"Mommy?"

"Yes, Haddie?"

"I was so excited to see Chuck E. tonight that I peed my pants."

She hasn't touched the potty since.

Irony, anyone?

Amber is a former adventure-travel writer turned adventurous unraveling mother to two-year-old Hurricane Hadley and baby Bode.

The Den of Sickquity

By Amber

My family is at week seven of The Plague. For the math geniuses out there, this means we have been ill for the duration of 2007. Happy New Year, indeed.

A friend recently made the astute comment that we are frequently sick at our house. Gee, y'think?! I once had someone criticize me for all the activities I do with my kids and how I surely expose them to all kind of germs on a daily basis. Because sitting on our bored-to-tears rears (and believe me, you don't want to visualize a liquidized butt) at home and keeping them healthy is surely the better option?

Here's the flaw in that argument: I'm the one who gets sick first. And then I graciously infect my young because that's just the kind of loving mother I am. The reason for my frequent illnesses is I have what is called a low white blood cell count. For those who don't know, white blood cells fight infection. So even though I eat right, exercise daily, and live a healthy lifestyle, the smallest trigger (like, umm, say, extreme fatigue) sets me off.

Two weeks into our most recent plague, I broke down and took my kids to the doctor. This was a big deal for me because I have an extreme aversion to anything medical. I was raised in an unjust world where I could never fake sick because my mother dragged me into the doctor over any little sniffle. I was denied the basic right of any kid to skip school once in a while because I just didn't want to go. I still blame Canadian socialized medicine.

The latest problem is that we have infected Grandma, the same woman who recently took the sick-and-afflicted for a few hours. The same woman who was supposed to babysit this week while my husband and I attend an NHL hockey game between the our favorite rivals. Oh, and did I mention we have a suite and we were also invited to dine at the private restaurant?

That sealed the deal; Emergency Get Grandma Well Intervention was in order. We busted in on her, stuffing her full of homemade chicken soup and vitamins. The jury is still out as to whether we'll be able to go so just let this be a lesson to you:

DON'T INFECT THE HAND THAT BABYSITS YOU.

Amber is a former adventure-travel writer turned adventurous unraveling mother to two-year-old Hurricane Hadley and baby Bode.

The true portrait of a family

By Amber

My 2 1/2-year-old daughter, Hurricane Hadley, is the worst picture taker ever. This is not an exaggeration. The only reason I occasionally have quasi-cute pictures of her is because 1) I have a digital camera and take a oodles shots in hopes I can get just one keeper and 2) I bribe, threaten and beg her to "Please, just smile once for Mommy or I will personally remove Dora the Explorer from this earth." Gotta strike 'em where it hurts.

My husband Jamie has always been completely against getting professional pictures taken. So my act of rebellion during his recent business trip was to drag the kids into Kiddie Kandids and submit myself to a nervous breakdown.

We went early, before the store opened, and there was already a line. As I waited, my five-month-old, Bode, chose that small window of eternity to do his irregular poop. You know: the one that has been backed up for a week and is like Mount St. Helen's every time he erupts. Good thing the pictures were full-frontals; there's something kinda unappealing about a lovely brown stain all the way up his back.

The actual photo session was frustrating because we couldn't get the kids positioned correctly and our inept photographer wanted The Hurricane to hold Bode. Because she obviously doesn't value his life as much as I do.

"You mean to tell me out of your gazillion studios across the country that you don't have anything to prop him up?" I asked.

"Not for the ones who can't sit up yet," she said accusingly.

Because it's obviously lazy Bode's fault he's still a baby and can't do sit on his own yet.

It went downhill from there as Hadley defied our efforts to lure anything but scowls, escape attempts and canned smiles. Bode, on the other hand, did marvelously. As we reviewed the photos at the end, I weighed my options.

"Can we just crop her out?"
"You want to cut your daughter out of the picture?"
"Don't you think she deserves it? He was at least making an effort to smile."

The photographer analyzed me, trying to figure out if I was just kidding. I mostly wasn't.

In the end, we ended up choosing the only halfway decent one of Hadley, but unfortunately one of the few where Bode wasn't smiling. I later regretted this decision and wish I had chosen one of his many cute ones with her canned smile.

Just to truly memorialize the occasion, of course.

Amber is a former adventure-travel writer turned adventurous unraveling mother to two-year-old Hurricane Hadley and baby Bode.

When there's a wean, there's a way

By Amber

Prior to having my son Bode, my goal was to nurse him for six months. This was lofty given my negative experience feeding my daughter who, after three months of resisting, finally went on strike and I dried up forever. I was happy. She was much happier. And I dreaded ever having to do it again.

But this time around was much different with my "boob man" Bode. For some reason, I am reluctant to admit that I have enjoyed nursing him. Though I won't miss being constantly attached at the hip (or rather, boob), there is a part of me that will miss the way he grins like he's in nursing nooky nirvana every time he dives in.

We're taking a cruise without the kids at the end of January, but that still seems so far away and I wasn't planning to start weaning until after New Year's. My husband Jamie has been pressuring me lately to start now. I honestly thought it would be a breeze because Bode eagerly takes one bottle a day from Jamie prior to bedtime.

I was wrong.

My plan last week was to replace one feeding session with a bottle. Unfortunately, I discovered that though Bode is delighted to take a bottle from Daddy, accepting one from me is a completely different story.

I settled in on the couch and he geared up for his flashing session. But then came Bottle. He took it, grinning, as if to say, "You're messing with me, right?" After a few minutes, he realized, "Holy crap... this is some sick joke, and where is mama's manna?"

Then he wailed and wailed -- a revolt dedicated unto every kid who's ever had his mom's breast unceremoniously taken from him.

I finally gave in and nursed him. The waterworks immediately turned off, his devious smile returned, and he gazed at them lovingly as if to say, "Don't ever leave me again."

In a word: it is not going well. OK, so that's five but who's counting?

I informed Jamie about my failure and he started giving me tips on weaning.

"Jamie, how do you know all this?" I asked.

"I've been reading up on it lately," he said.

It was somewhat disconcerting to think my husband knows more about this than I do. And it doesn't make sense that he is pressuring me to stop doing something that could potentially save him loads of money every month in the cost of formula.

But then I discovered his memo:

     Dear Bode,

     I want my boobs back.

     Sincerely,
     Your Father

Suddenly, it's all making sense...

Amber is a former adventure-travel writer turned adventurous unraveling mother to two-year-old Hurricane Hadley and baby Bode.

Viva la North Pole!

By Amber

My 2 1/2-year-old daughter Hadley is finally grasping the whole concept of Santa and has embraced him whole-heartedly. And why wouldn't she? All she has to do is make a list of desired toys and this big guy in red will deliver -- Brilliant!

It makes me miss those magical days of youth. Of course, I'm still hoping Santa receives my list and will clean my house, send my Christmas cards and do all my holiday shopping (though visions of cleaning supplies aren't nearly as enchanting as sugarplums, whatever the heck those are).

I was always kind of a skeptic when it came to Santa. My parents could never provide me with a convincing answer as to why he magically appeared at every mall during the season (and always at the same time) or why he couldn't remember what he brought me the year prior.

Yes, I tested him. And he always flunked.

I couldn't really hold it against him though, because he always overlooked those years when I ranked as more naughty than nice.

To make believers out of our family, we recently visited the North Pole of the lower 48 in Cascade, Colorado. There we found a child's wonderland: a Christmas-themed amusement park, complete with The Man in Red, whimsical toy shops, festive rides, entertaining shows and yummy food.

I extensively prepped Hadley prior to her Santa encounter because I didn't want her to have some wretched freak-out over the man who could secure her future happiness. I had no reason to worry. Like a kid on a gluttonous mission, she plopped herself down on his lap, recited her list as if her life depended on it, posed obligingly for a photo and jumped down.

She meant business when it came to the rides as well. That plucky little thing not only hit the candy cane slide and the Christmas tree ride, she also went on all the adult rides with me and mocked her father for being a "scaredy kitty." There's nothing like a grammatically-challenged bully.

We have long suspected Haddie is a tomboy due to her obsession with sports, trains and the fact that she uses her dolls as speed bumps with her stroller. She has a few girly interests, such as make-up and clothes, but we figured the test would be when we entered the girl's and boy's toy shops.

Sure enough, she grew quickly bored in the former but as soon as we entered the latter, she screeched "COOOOL!" and raced over to a huge Thomas the Train track. I won't go into our sordid history with this evil train, but just know our last encounter with him at Toys 'R Us resulted in drawing her father's blood as he attempted to drag her away kicking and screaming. Oh, and then she had to be accompanied out of the store with a balloon by the manager. I wonder if this means she's been banned?

When it came time to leave the toy shop, I stealthily made my way towards the door leaving my husband in charge. This time was no different. Again, she screamed, kicked and went for his jugular. He eventually dragged her out of there, leaving us incredulous because we've never seen her react that way over any toy.

Rest assured, this very train track was at the top of her Christmas list. And when we asked if Santa would approve of her naughty behavior, she assured us he would: "Santa makes Thomas. Santa knows Haddie has The Loooove and must have. It's Santa's fault, not Haddie's."

At least now I know who to blame.

Amber is a former adventure-travel writer turned adventurous unraveling mother to two-year-old Hurricane Hadley and baby Bode.

Double the pleasure, become more undone

By Amber

I know women have been giving birth to multiple children for a long time. Well, for at least 34 years when I made my unabashed entrance into this world as child No. 2. How my dear mother survived it all and even chose to have a third is often beyond me.

My transition from one to two children has been a bit rocky, though I am happy to report that 2-year-old Hurricane Hadley's tantrums have abated.

Of course, life had to hit rock bottom before it got better and everything recently bottomed out. Hadley was throwing tantrums over everything we did, said or even thought. Yes, the kid is even a mind reader.

After she spent the majority of her day recently in timeout, my husband and I decided we needed an intervention. Obviously, discipline wasn't working so we tried an approach you'll find only in "Amber's Guide to Toddler Tantrums": we made a rare appearance at McDonald's and stuffed her with sugar, trans fats and Playland. Don't judge me until you try it because she returned to her delightful self after that hedonistic evening.

As for her brother Bode, he's easygoing and even-tempered; my testament to just how colicky and difficult Haddie really was as a baby. I can finally see why people enjoy newborns.

I still remember when my friends Dave and Rebecca came to stay with us last summer. Their daughter, Sienna, was only a few months old and I could have sworn she was the Baby Jesus Incarnate. She behaved perfectly: she slept like a dream, never cried and would entertain herself for long periods of time. Because there was nothing more fascinating than gazing at the air in front of her. They would also fight over her:

"No, Dave, it's my turn to hold Sienna."
"Becca, you've had her for too long. It's my turn."

Don't get me wrong. We loved the Hurricane and even fought over her. But our arguments were more along the lines of:

"No, Jamie. I've had her all day. Take the child NOW."
"No way. I've filled my quota for the rest of my life."

Bottom line, Jamie and I looked at our friends like they were some disgusting, lovesick couple guilty of unadulterated PDAs. Oh wait. That used to be us before we had The Hurricane. Coincidentally, it was Dave who christened her with that nickname. I'm hoping they give birth to a tornado the next time around. It's only fair, right?

Jamie and I tried to comfort ourselves by believing Sienna was a boring little slug. I mean, she just laid there and never made a peep; at least Hadley had some spunk, right?

However since having my own slug, I have deemed it a beautiful thing. And if I could be assured I'd give birth to a miniature mollusk and not another natural disaster, maybe -- just maybe -- I'd go for No. 3.

Amber is a former adventure-travel writer turned adventurous unraveling mother to two-year-old Hurricane Hadley and baby Bode.