DotMoms

It runs in the family

By Amy Heesacker

I never considered myself athletic. If you asked me to list 100 adjectives that best describe me, "talkative" would be near the top, but any words having to do with movement, activity or exercise would not even make an appearance.

That is, until one recent morning at 5:30 a.m.

A month before, I joined a boot camp for women, a wonderfully inspiring group made up mostly of moms like me. It was a rather impulsive late-night decision based in part on having had to lie down to zip up my jeans that morning. When I started the program I didn't expect to make it to all the sessions. I had never been consistent with exercise, so I anticipated that this experience would be similar to all of my previous attempts; I'd start out strong and end with a pitiful half-hearted effort, probably finding an excuse (a sore knee, a runny nose, split ends) not to finish.

However, with the encouragement of my boot camp instructor and after seeing some early results, I managed to stickwith it to the end, never missing a single session. I surprised myself, and I began to see myself in a different light, as someone who might actually rise before the sun to do sit-ups on frosted grass, under a starry sky.

I recently discovered that my grandmother was a runner. And she was a fast one. After telling her about joining the boot camp, my grandmother shared with me that she used to win ribbons in high school track for her speed. My dad, her son, was an athlete too -– still is, as a matter of fact. Along with a weekly basketball schedule, he continues to do a pushup for every year of his life, every day.

Our final boot camp assessment was to be timed on a mile run to mark our improvement. I worried the night before that my time would be the same as or, pathetically, worse than when I started. When the timed mile began I started out strong, and then the familiar negative self-talk began, "You aren't going to make a better time, so you might as well slow down and save yourself the pain." "Maybe if you slip in the rain-drenched grass and feign an ankle injury you will garner some sympathy and not have to face your embarrassing time." "You don't really think you're a runner, do you?"

But then I had another thought, one that somehow managed to break free from the pack that I usually hang with and pulled ahead, taking me and my tired legs with it.

"My grandmother was a runner. And now so am I."

It was a thought that helped shave one whole minute off my mile and filled me with a sense of pride that I have rarely felt. My hope is that I can serve as a role model to my children and grandchildren one day, just as my grandmother did for me. But for now, I'm just enjoying thinking of myself as an athlete, a talkative, fast athlete.

Amy Heesacker is a thirty-something SAHM and part-time psychology professor living in the deep South with her husband and two children.

Top 10 things I'm thankful for this holiday season

By Amy Heesacker

Research has demonstrated that writing down the things you are grateful for on a daily basis can actually make your life happier. The first entry in my new gratitude journal consists of the top 10 things I'm especially thankful for this year.

10. My son losing his first tooth. Although most of his friends walked into the first day of school like shoddily carved jack-o-lanterns, Javi's Cheshire Cat smile looked as if it might remain intact until spring. I'm not in any hurry to see those bumpy, future-brace-wearing man-teeth replace his tiny little pearl strings, but my son couldn't feel more proud.

9. My daughter's successful transition to preschool. It seemed touch and go for a while but after a school change and the expulsion of a particularly hostile classmate, it appears that she is actually looking forward to school these days. She can't wait to show me how she makes her name on the chalkboard in the morning: I – S – A (I can't make my computer write the S backwards). She glows from the tips of her toes as she smiles and exclaims, "That's MY name." Yes, baby, it is.

8. My last child's successful completion of all that is baby -- breastfeeding and weaning, diapers and potty training -- with a minimum of problem and fuss.

7. My darling husband, for "taking care of things" so that we will never have to go through number 8 again! (Thank you, honey!)

6. The cinnamon sugar cappuccino –- my current reason for getting up every morning.

5. The woman at my 20th high school reunion who nominated me for "Most Improved" which I'm sure was meant as a compliment. Sorry, I don't remember your name.

4. The drought in our region, for providing the perfect excuse to wash fewer dishes, do less laundry, and shower with my husband.

3. Showtime, for airing the show "Weeds" -– and then for putting it out on DVD so that I could see it.

2. Dr. Doom-Minnow for outliving every other fish my son has owned.

And the number one thing that I'm thankful for this year...

...I am able to spend this holiday season with my three favorite people in the whole wide world, wiggling teeth, practicing S's, and conserving water.

What would make your top 10 list this year?

Amy Heesacker is a thirty-something SAHM and part-time psychology professor living in the deep South with her husband and two children.

Tricks or tarts?

By Amy Heesacker

As my family and I stood in front of the women's Halloween costume wall at Party City, I tried to imagine myself at our neighbor's kid-friendly Halloween party dressed as the "Sexy Rag Doll."

"No, the giant lollypop is not real," I'd say. "But the thigh high stockings with giant bow garters are!"

Good grief! Is this the costume section or did we accidentally enter the darkened backroom at the local video store? I tried to get my son interested in some of the gorier masks on the opposite wall as I sensed that he was experiencing an awakening akin to finding your dad's hidden box of magazines in the furnace room.

My husband quietly suggested that I consider buying the "Countess Carmella" costume for a private party later that night, but I declined.

My son was pushing for the "Devil Lady" in red fishnets, but only because he wanted to borrow my pitchfork. My daughter wasn't interested in helping me look for my own costume as she alternated between begging for a second costume for herself and crying about the scary hand that moves when you come near the candy bowl.

I really didn't expect to spend more than a few minutes choosing a Halloween costume, but as my eyes darted from one scantily clad "Cocktail Hunny" to another sexed up "Disco Dolly" I felt like this was going to become a time-consuming process of elimination based on modesty and decorum.

I am not a prude. I own a push-up bra, for goodness sake. But locating an appropriate women's Halloween costume to wear to a kid-friendly party has become as challenging as finding a pair of jeans that stay up when you sit down.

Ultimately, I walked out of the store without a costume. The "French Maid" felt too much like my daily life and "Hot Cha Cha" would have required too many sit-ups. So, for now I'm planning to wear the same old witch costume I've worn for the last three years, but I might go back during the clearance sale to pick up the "Pirate Wench" for my husband's birthday.

Amy Heesacker is a thirty-something SAHM and part-time psychology professor living in the deep South with her husband and two children.

Nursery rhymes for the new millennium

By Amy Heesacker

My son's first grade teacher has been using classic nursery rhymes this year as a way to introduce poetry concepts, and as a result he has had to learn the definitions of "Tuffet" and "Curds and Whey." Which got me thinking: aren't nursery rhymes overdue for an update or even an extreme makeover? What follows are some of my suggestions for making nursery rhymes more accessible and relevant to our hip and happening kids.

Little Jack Larpet sat on the carpet playing his PlayStation game.
He asked for a Wii, and his mom paid the FEE,
Now Jack stands while playing his game.

Little Miss Wooster sat in her booster, watching DVD's over her head.
When the movie got stuck, it was a stroke of good luck,
Now she looks out her window instead.

Humpty Dumpty skates up the wall,
Humpty Dumpty has a great fall,
But with all of his pads, and his helmet on tight,
Humpty's bones are intact and he's feeling just right.

Jake and Paul climbed up the rock wall, to see who could reach the top first.
Jake lost his grip and caused Paul to slip,
And of rock climbs -- this was the worst.

All around the preschool room, the boys are playing Batman,
The teacher says no more superhero play,
"Hey! What'll we play then?"

Young Emily Pearl was a very smart girl,
And a very smart girl was she.
She called for her Barbie's,
She called for her Dora's,
And she called for her Princesses three.

Myspace, Myspace, have you any friends?
Yes sir, Yes ma'am, I follow all the trends.
One friend's a rock group, one friend's my mom,
And my last friend's a really nice guy named Tom.

Little Mary Joan has lost her iPhone
And she loses it all of the time,
She better find it soon or her parents will swoon
And she'll be forced to use that ancient landline.

Hush-a-bye baby in your new swing
I could kiss the person who invented this thing
But with batteries dying and your eyes beaming bright,
You'll be swinging in my arms all through the night.

Hickory Dickory Pog
Those mommies they sure like to blog
We all can relate -– being a mommy is great,
But sometimes you wish you had just bought dog.

Now you give it a try. What's your nursery rhyme for the next generation?

Amy Heesacker is a thirty-something SAHM and part-time psychology professor living in the deep South with her husband and two children.

Back-to-school surprise

By Amy Heesacker

When my first child cried out for me on the first day of preschool, I lurked at the end of the hall, wiping my own tears and phoning a friend who helped me stay strong. After walking him in to his first day of Kindergarten, I sobbed in my van while imagining my little Nemo swimming unprotected toward an ocean of sharks and scuba diving dentists.

All of this I more or less expected of myself. I’m pretty emotional (my husband will laugh out loud at this gross understatement of my lability), and I felt that these were big milestones in both my son's and my own development. We were beginning the process of letting go, and I accurately anticipated our mutual apprehension, sadness and muted excitement.

Despite my previous experience "letting go," or perhaps because of it, I wholly miscalculated the reactions to my second child's initiation into the school system this year.

My daughter is nothing if not independent. In her toddler years she often preferred to spend library story hour sitting in the lap of a complete-stranger-mommy, often to the dismay of the complete-stranger-mommy's youngster! She is also happiest when playing with other children and never fails to make an easy friend in whatever line or waiting room we happen to be confined to that day.

So naturally, I predicted that the transition to preschool would be smooth and possibly even enjoyable for both of us. She would be in her element surrounded by new friends and new story-time laps. And I felt some guilt-tinged enthusiasm for those many childfree hours I'd have to fill.

In the unlikely event that my daughter did experience some anxiety I thought that I would handle it like a pro. After all I had done this before and lived to write about it.

So, what was my back to school surprise? My daughter cried, not just one day but the whole gut-wrenching week (...and still counting). After prying her fingers from my suddenly ambivalent body, I drove away in a trance, completely thrown off by my error in judgment.

This time I hadn't prepared for tears, hers or mine. When I was safely hidden in my awkwardly quiet home, I sat on my couch and bawled, astonished that I had foolishly believed that the process of letting go could ever be easy.

Amy Heesacker is a thirty-something SAHM and part-time psychology professor living in the deep South with her husband and two children.

Reuniting with my younger self

By Amy H.

Almost exactly 20 years ago I sat solemnly at a fake wood laminate table in my high school library with a copy of the Senior Time Capsule Packet before me, attempting to accurately predict what I would be doing five, 10 and then 20 years into the future. Wearing my dad's faded and peeling fraternity sweatshirt, black leggings and China flats, I felt confident that the next 10 years would find me still in school, working diligently towards my doctorate in psychology, my plan since the age of 13.

Then my pen came to an abrupt halt, hovering over the question about my 20-year forecast. Surely I would be done with school by then, so how would I be spending my time? Working full-time as a counselor, I jotted down with some degree of certainty. Would I have children, and if so, how many? One… or two, I wrote more tentatively. Which genders? Definitely girls. What ages? Hmm, they'll probably be 12 years old and 10 years old by then. And who was to be their father? I peered out cautiously from behind my asymmetrical hairdo at the faces of the other students in the library. Did I know my future husband already? Would I end up back here in my hometown after college, and would my child one day be sitting at this very table?

Today I'm preparing for the trip back to my 20th high school reunion, a five and a half hour flight and what seems like a lifetime away from the place that I've come to call home. I just finished teaching a class at the university where I'm employed as a part-time professor, an arrangement that still allows me to call myself a stay-at-home mom. I'm packing up swimsuits for my two children, a boy, age 6, and a girl, age 3, who have brought me more joy than my teenage mind could envision. I've been talking over rental car plans with my husband, whom I didn't meet until I moved far away from that laminate table, but who seems to know me better than anyone I have known since childhood.

Perhaps my Senior Time Capsule Packet will be waiting there for me at the reunion, filled with all the goals and fantasies that an 18-year-old could dream up, a self-contract in purple ink. On the surface, I followed my life plan, but like bad driving directions the general route was correct (go right for 2.3 miles then go left for 1.7 miles then go on and on and on for 60-plus years), but some enormously important details that significantly changed my journey were inaccurate or altogether missing.

Soon I'll find my way back for a tour of the new high school library, laminate replaced with oak, wide wondering eyes replaced with wiser contented ones.

How do your high school predictions compare to who you are today?

Amy Heesacker is a thirty-something SAHM and part-time psychology professor living in the deep South with her husband and two children.

A mother-daughter birthday gift

By Amy H.

My daughter turned three, and as the big day approached what she wanted for her birthday present changed faster than a photo-enforced traffic light.

Early in the decision-making process she wanted a Barbie. Then her brother found his old Spiderman mask and began wearing it regularly, and so she wanted one of those. Next it was whatever pink, plastic, princess-looking trinket was placed at 3-year-old eye level at the checkout stand. Argh.

So when Isa finally made a decision that persisted over several days, across situations and despite my tempting her with pink, princess paraphernalia, you would think I would have felt relieved. However, what she wanted more than anything for her birthday present was to cut off her beautiful, thick, wavy, shoulder-length brown hair.

All off.

I tried to visualize it. No more sticky mats of syrupy strands after breakfast. No more pleading with her to let me add a hair clip here or a ponytail there only to have them ripped out moments after they were carefully put into place. No more cries of feigned agony when I would make any attempt to brush those unruly locks.

But then there was also no more beautiful, thick, wavy, shoulder-length brown hair. I wanted to cry.

Isa made her decision and we made her wish come true.

She loves her hair and wants to touch it and show it off wherever we go. When we showed up at the swimming pool, my son's 6-year old school buddy uncharacteristically declared that he wanted to marry her. Isa's delighted self-admiration is contagious.

Although I am still surprised to see my little cherubic pixie every time she enters a room, I have to admit she made a good decision and her happiness with it is truly a gift to me.

Whenever I feel the urge to brush and style some beautiful, thick, wavy, shoulder-length brown hair, I always have the Barbie from Grandma.

Amy Heesacker is a thirty-something SAHM and part-time psychology professor living in the deep South with her husband and two children.

She made a 'B'

By Amy Heesacker

As I drove up to the side entrance of my daughter's preschool to take my usual place near the end of the pick-up line, I hesitated momentarily before closing the gap between my van and the next, briefly envisioning a quick escape out of the parking lot and back into my peaceful morning. Reluctantly, I corrected the steering wheel's slight rotation and resumed my slow crawl toward the noisy mob of 2-year-olds squirming to be free of their teacher's grasp.

Isa and I had quite a morning prior to preschool drop-off, beginning with her stomping into the living room, hair askew, and growling in my general direction. Breakfast revolved around demands for a cereal that we didn't have that became screams for the cereal that we did have and culminated in a fit of wails (for waffles that we didn't have) loud enough to be heard by intelligent beings tracking us from a distant galaxy.

Although breakfast had left me edgier than a Starbuck's triple mocha, I may require treatment for post-traumatic stress disorder following Isa's tirade at the foot of her dresser drawers. We would get some resolution on one item -– yes, she would wear a skirt -– only to have her rip off the skirt with furious abandon when it was discovered that the shirt she wanted to wear with it was temporarily unavailable.

As I pulled up to the preschool door I scanned Isa's face and then the teacher's for clues about how the rest of the morning had proceeded. Their weary looks hinted that Isa's mood had persisted into the classroom, and I cowardly avoided making eye contact with the teacher.

As I finished strapping Isa into her seat, her teacher called after me in a tone that was difficult to decipher, "Isa has a progress report in her backpack, and she made a 'B' today." I gave her a half smile and a wave as we drove away, and I breathed a sigh of relief that it wasn't an 'F' as in, "Frankly, we'd rather you not deliver her here again."

Later, as I was marveling at her progress report (Sharing: yes, Playing nicely: yes, Using her manners: yes!!??) and struggling with my confusion over its positive tone and conspicuous lack of any letter grade, Isa pulled her daily artwork from her backpack and shouted, "Look at my Bee! I made a black and yellow Bee, special just for you!" And with that she took a little sting out of our day.

Amy Heesacker is a thirty-something SAHM and part-time psychology professor living in the deep South with her husband and two children.

Team Mom

By Amy Heesacker

My son is playing T-ball for the first time this spring, and I volunteered to be "Team Mom" before I really knew what that entailed: repeatedly begging other parents to work the concessions stand and buy fundraiser tickets for BBQ pork.

Being Team Mom also means hanging out in the dugout with the kids, reminding them not to climb on the chain link fencing or dump their water on the dugout floor, encouraging them to root for their teammates.

Wearing the team jersey and cap, I can be found each Saturday morning screaming my heart out with the rest of The Jets, "That's okay, Andrew, it was a great swing. Good job!" as one of our players hits a mighty foul ball.

I realized the other day that none of us really know what we're getting into when we sign on to become part of the mom team. We don't really know what the job involves until we are well into the season. We organize as best we can for the opener and then just sort of play it by ear after that, trying to keep our players out of harm's way, cleaning up their messes and helping them learn how to be good teammates to all the other little players in their league.

Last weekend, my friend Carolyn and I took turns helping our kids work out their differences. During one skirmish in the wading pool I observed Carolyn working her magic. She got down at the kids' level, acknowledged that there was a problem, and in her calmest voice asked each child what they wanted and what they thought might be a fair compromise. And I thought to myself that I'm glad to have Carolyn on my mom team, working with me to help our kids grow into good people.

It's a relief that Team Moms don't have to go it alone. As I read through the headlines this week ("Global Warming," "More War Casualties," "A Rejected Shooter") I wondered if our nation might not benefit from having a Team Mom.

She'd be crazy to take the job, so I suspect we shouldn't tell her what's involved. Team Mom for the U.S. league would stay busy reminding her players to take care of their dugout so the next team won't have to sit with their mess. She'll be teaching them how to deal with unsportsmanlike conduct by another team -- breathe, think, and take the high road. But the majority of the time she'll be yelling out encouragement from the dugout so that her players will never lose hope. You interested?

Amy Heesacker is a thirty-something SAHM and part-time psychology professor living in the deep South with her husband and two children.

No fun at all

By Amy Heesacker

I recently caught my 2-year-old daughter redecorating our kitchen wall with a piece of bright, blue sidewalk chalk. While I might have complimented her boundless creativity or reinforced her newfound interest in washable art (compare this to her permanent blue Sharpie drawing on our dining room carpet), my exhausted, end-of-the-day reaction was to yell, "Isa, what are you doing? We do not write on walls!"

Isa's reaction stopped me short. She slumped against the latest masterpiece in her blue series, glared at me with all the contempt she could muster and shouted back, "Mom, you're no fun at all!" Aside from the fact that this sounded hilarious coming from someone much smaller than her teenaged words would suggest, Isa's accusation hit a sensitive nerve.

A few nights earlier, a close friend and I had been lamenting how "un-fun" mothering can feel at times. Despite a commitment to creating happy childhood memories, continually encouraging a positive self-image and attempts to turn life's little mistakes into learning opportunities, I have to say that mothering can sometimes seem a little lopsided in the work to play ratio.

After a full day of threatening to confiscate the coveted action figure d'jour if my kids couldn't cope with the five-minute turn-taking arrangement, negotiating the daily landmine of my daughter's determination to wear one particular outfit for 200 consecutive days, and persevering through the litany of requests to bend my unbelievably cruel rules of no popsicles for dinner, mandatory tooth brushing before bedtime and the requirement that my children be clothed before exiting the house, I feel deserving of the No Fun Mom award that Isa seems ready to bestow on me.

Still, I hold onto the hope that just as I remember many more fun-mom moments from my own childhood (e.g., sliding down our stairway in sleeping bags, the graham cracker and frosting sandwiches she made "just because") one day my children will fondly recall our rainy day picnics under the blanketed dining room table fort where we paused to admire the Sharpie artwork.

How do you keep mothering fun?

Amy Heesacker is a thirty-something SAHM and part-time psychology professor living in the deep South with her husband and two children.