DotMoms

He's a believer

By Amy M.

The story of Santa was alive and well in our interfaith household this year. Alex believed strongly in jolly old Saint Nick and was thrilled to discover the plate with cookie crumbs and half-eaten carrots on Christmas morning. I think he considered that better proof of Santa's existence than the presents under the tree.

Keeping up the ruse was more challenging than I anticipated, especially because Santa was not a fixture in my Jewish upbringing. I found myself asking Alex questions to see if he accepted the Santa story at face value, or if he had thought it out.

"So how does Santa get to everyone's house in one night?" I asked. "He flies, and that's faster than driving," Alex replied.

"We don't have a chimney, so how does Santa get in our house?" I asked. "He comes in through the front door," Alex said. "But why don't we hear him?" I pressed. "Because he tiptoes!" Alex exclaimed.

That's when I realized I had a true believer on my hands. And it was really a lot of fun to see Alex's excitement on Christmas morning. We always have family Hanukkah celebrations that include lots of gift-giving (and opening), but I guess there's something special about coming downstairs on Christmas and discovering presents under the tree.

Like babies who enjoy the packaging more than the gift inside, Alex was most excited about an inexpensive item he found in his stocking—marshmallow Peeps in snowman and Christmas tree form. In his excitement, he started calling them "Bo Peeps." Eventually we corrected him, but hearing his glee as he discussed his "Bo Peeps" made for a funny holiday memory.

It will be interesting to see whether Alex believes in the Easter Bunny this year. We don't really celebrate the holiday, but around Easter usually give him a "springtime basket" with a small toy and some candy. And what will he find in that basket? His beloved "Bo Peeps."

Amy M. lives in Pennsylvania with her family and works full time as a writer/editor for a large university.

Living a comic life

By Amy M.

I'm really starting to feel like my life is a "Family Circus" comic.

Let's start with my six-week post-partum check-up, one of my earlier ventures out as a mom of two. Fortunately my mother was willing to stay with the kids in the waiting room. As the nurse called me back, Lauren started to cry. The nurse said to go ahead and feed her. I thought I fed her long enough to at least last through my appointment. But when I emerged about 45 minutes later, I discovered my mom with a hysterical baby and hyper son in the nursing room, where they retreated when Lauren started to scream her head off. My mom made the choice not to further scare the first-time expectant mothers in the waiting room, who had already been staring with fear at my offspring.

At Target -- a store I visit so frequently that the woman who works in the snack bar knows my order (just a soda) -- one afternoon I had just finished nursing Lauren, so I pulled off my nursing cover, sat my baby up to burp her, and she promptly projectile vomited all over me, to the horror of the 10-year-old girl sitting nearby at the snack bar. The look on the girl's face was priceless. All I could do was laugh, and then suggest to her she wait 15 or 20 years to have a child.

The projectile vomit was a little unusual for Lauren, but spitting up is not. She wears a bib all the time because she's always erupting like an active volcano. However, the bib does not catch all the spit-up. Unfortunately she has christened quite a few store aisles with her eruptions. Because she's a "happy spitter," sometimes I only know from the "splat" I hear as the spit-up hits the floor. Don't worry, I clean it up. Just be careful if you're in a Target in central Pennsylvania, especially in the baby section.

Lauren's frequent spit-up incidents in stores have led my son Alex to declare "Spill, aisle 4" anytime she spits up, whether we're at a store or not. Like most kids his age, quite a few funny comments come out of his mouth. When Lauren cries, he says she sounds like a chainsaw (pretty accurate description, unfortunately). And he recently said Lauren and her daddy have similar hair because they don't have any on their foreheads. I don't think my husband appreciated the comparison.

Fortunately, Alex is very sweet toward his sister, sometimes too sweet. He can't pass her without touching her peach-fuzz-covered head. And he loves to show her off to his friends. His teachers told me he talks about sisters a lot at school. He claims to have 900 of them. He also says he knows the word for sister in French, but that word changes every day.

I never thought the medical aspects of Lauren's birth had much effect on Alex, because he never talked about them. But I guess he was paying more attention in the hospital than I realized, because a teacher informed me he recently pretended to deliver a little girl's baby on the playground. Oy vey.

When I'm changing the thirtieth diaper blowout of the day and Alex is complaining about a scratchy tag in his shirt as if he were covered in poison ivy, I remind myself that all things considered, life with two kids is good. Very good. I'm a lucky gal.

Amy M. lives in Pennsylvania with her family and works full time as a writer/editor for a large university.

The joys of parenting a newborn

By Amy M.

As most people who read DotMoms know, parenting a newborn is, well, an experience. My daughter, Lauren, was born May 10. She joins her brother, Alex, who will be 5 in September. In the few minutes I can catch while the princess is content in her bouncer, I want to share some of the highlights (in the loosest sense of the word) of our first few weeks home with our adorable daughter and equally adorable but sometimes-jealous son.

The first night home from the hospital, the sleeping arrangements featured Lauren in the co-sleeper beside our bed, and the rest of us (mom, dad, Alex AND dog) in our king-size bed. The second night, Lauren joined us there (we have a special co-sleeping positioner to make sure she stays safe in our bed). Around the third or fourth night, after my parents brought over a blow-up mattress, I ended up spending part of the night on that ridiculous thing with Alex while Brian and the dog slept in the big bed and Lauren slept in the co-sleeper beside the bed.

I have written many times about Alex sharing a bed with us. Now he's just sharing a room -- I guess that's a start.

During the night I slept (or tried to sleep) on the blow-up mattress, I almost burst into tears but instead realized the whole situation was sort of humorous. The important thing was that I was actually managing to get some sleep with a newborn in the house!

I have also had some humorous breastfeeding experiences. For better or for worse, Lauren eats like a champ. She was actually above her birth weight by her weight check appointment, just four days after she was born. When she's awake, she wants to eat every hour. So when Alex, my mom and I decided to go get some ice cream, I knew there was a chance I would need to feed her while we were out, even though she had a full tummy and was due for a long nap. However, I forgot my nursing cover, or "Hooter Hider" (yes, that's what the company calls them). I also momentarily forgot that Alex picks up on just about anything I say, so when I said I forgot my Hooter Hider, he was instantly intrigued. I'm just waiting for his teachers to tell me Alex has been talking about hooters at school.

Later that afternoon, after I was able to steal a whopping 10 minutes in the grocery store before Lauren needed (or wanted) to eat (she was in the car with my mom and Alex), I came out and offered Alex a special ice cream bar that was supposed to be patterned like a cow. My mom jokingly said to Lauren, "This is what a cow looks like, and your mommy is a cow." Alex, of course, thought that was hilarious and began repeating, "My mommy is a cow." I think I may have to tell his teachers where he picked up these things.

Not a bad first few weeks home with a newborn. I even got to write this post in one sitting -- thank goodness for the bouncy seat!

Amy M. lives in Pennsylvania with her son and her husband. She works full time as a writer/editor for a large university.

The kissing bandit

By Amy M.

My son recently experienced his first kiss. He's 4. No, not 14. FOUR.

Just like a surly teenager, he did not tell me about the kiss himself. I learned about the display of affection from one of his preschool teachers. Apparently the teacher caught him kissing a little girl ON THE MOUTH.

True to the Montessori philosophy, she did not tell them what they did was bad, but that they were sharing bacteria and they don't do that in school. I couldn't help but bring it up with Alex. Apparently he had tried to kiss Annie (name changed for privacy) before, but he claims she turned her head. Heh, guess she wasn't fast enough this time.

They really are good friends, though. He talks about her all the time, and I have observed how much fun they have together. Annie's mother informed me that Annie now wants to marry Alex instead of her daddy.

The marriage thing is another issue. A couple months ago, Alex announced out of the blue that he had asked Annie to marry him and she said "Yes." But he claims to have another girlfriend, whom I'll call Ellie. Ellie and Annie do not know about each other. They were both at Alex's birthday party back in September, but that was when Ellie was his one and only. He sees Annie more often, so perhaps that is why "love" has blossomed between them. As long as Annie and Ellie don’t meet up on the playground, I think we're safe.

When I started to write about this, I planned to jokingly discuss my fears that I would need to give Alex condoms by his bar mitzvah. But after giving it a lot of thought, I realized that Alex's open displays of affection are really a good thing. Not that I'm going to encourage him to kiss any girl who lets him, but I'm happy he feels secure enough to be so free with his emotions.

He has always been that way -- laughing, loving and yelling with equal fervor. Of course it can be frustrating to his parents, but it's also refreshing -- at least when Alex is in a laughing or loving mood -- to be around someone who just feels. It doesn't matter to a 4-year-old what other people think. But to 32-year-olds like myself, it often matters too much.

I have seen Alex hug both his male and female friends. It's just what he does when he's happy to be with someone. And I'm glad he's comfortable doing it. Not many grown men would randomly envelop their pals in a bear hug. And a lot of women would feel awkward doing it, too.

For better or for worse, as kids get older, they too internalize the societal standards that restrict or minimize such open displays of affection.

That's why I'm really not concerned about "the kiss." Of course I don't want him to be disobeying school rules, but I think I have plenty of time before I have to worry about him getting frisky with the girls. I may feel differently once I have a daughter on the receiving end of an illicit peck. But at least she'll have her big brother to protect her.

Amy M. lives in Pennsylvania with her son and her husband. She works full time as a writer/editor for a large university.

The 10 best things about pregnancy

By Amy M.

I'm one of the (lucky?) few who actually like being pregnant. So as I work my way through my third trimester, here it is -- my list of the top 10 reasons I don't mind looking like I have a basketball in my belly (the "final product" is a given).

10. I HAVE to shop for new clothes. I was pregnant with my son during the summer, so I don't have any weather-appropriate maternity wear.

9. I HAVE to shop for baby clothes, because I'm having a girl this time.

8. I have an excuse for not sucking in my stomach or tucking in my shirt.

7. Fuller, longer hair on my head, but shorter, thinner hair on my legs.

6. I can use pregnancy hormones as an excuse for my irreverent comments, general grumpiness, circles under the eyes, etc.

5. I must eat 300 extra calories a day for the health of the baby. As someone who usually counts calories, it feels like I won the jackpot!

4. I always get to choose where we go out to eat, because no one wants to upset the stomach (or delicate hormonal balance) of a pregnant woman.

3. I finally have an excuse for falling asleep at 8 p.m. every night (unfortunately, that often happens when I'm not pregnant).

2. People tend to be nicer when they notice you are pregnant. I definitely do not like people to fawn over me, but it's nice to know they care.

And the number 1 reason I like being pregnant...

1. Going from an A-cup to an almost-C. Nice to meet you, Cleavage!

Amy M. lives in Pennsylvania with her son and her husband. She works full time as a writer/editor for a large university.

Liquor or beer, never fear

By Amy M.

OK, let's have a virtual show of hands. Who has been at an event with their children and had an alcoholic drink? Oh, I see lots of hands in the air. I'm guessing you were at something like a holiday party or a neighborhood barbecue. Maybe a tailgate before a football game. Alright, you can lower your hands now. Now raise them if you felt guilty -- or like an "irresponsible parent" -- for having that bottle of beer or glass of wine. Hmm ... not so many hands in the air that time.

I think you can see the point I'm trying to make. I debated whether I should write about this topic --drinking alcohol at events with your children -- in light of all the controversy recently (see this New York Times article and this "Today" show segment), but decided the controversy is exactly why I SHOULD write about it.

Before I continue, I'll tell you that I am barely even a social drinker. I just never developed a taste for beer or liquor. But if someone is going to try and tell me that it's wrong to have a glass of wine or some beer when I'm with my kids? I will respectfully disagree.

This topic has been covered on numerous blogs, especially since Friday, January 26 when the "Today" show aired its segment on "cocktail playdates." Of course everyone is entitled to his or her opinion. Mine just happens to be that adults are just that -- adults -- and if they feel comfortable having a drink at an event with their kids, that's fine by me. I am assuming these adults know their limits and would never drink so much as to hinder their ability to parent. Perhaps that's naïve on my part, but that's how I feel. Remember, we're ADULTS, not 16-year-olds confronted with mass amounts of alcohol for the first time.

What's interesting -- and infuriating -- is most of the controversy has surrounded mothers who have alcoholic drinks at playdates. All of the mothers interviewed have stressed they have one cocktail or one glass of wine, but some of the recent media coverage has made it seem like they're swilling from a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon with one hand while pushing a swing with the other. And mixed-gender events -- like those neighborhood barbecues -- have not been criticized at all.

As in any situation with alcohol, there's a chance of going too far. Of having one drink too many. I certainly do not condone drinking in excess when you're with your kids (or at any time, for that matter). Some people will argue that we're sending our kids the wrong message if we drink alcohol in their presence. But I would counter by asking what message are we sending if we make alcohol seem taboo? If you grew up in a home where your parents often had a glass of wine or beer with dinner, was drinking alcohol such a big deal by the time you went to college? For many people, I'm guessing the answer would be no.

Opponents to drinking alcohol while around our kids say we need to find another way to relax -- read a magazine, take a yoga class, go for a walk, etc. But can't you enjoy a lone drink during a playdate AND take a yoga class? They are two completely different situations that help you "relax" in different ways. My view is that women who are able to organize social activities for themselves and their children are more likely to be organized in general and better able to juggle multiple responsibilities and activities, like that "cocktail playdate" AND yoga class.

I'm sure there are many parents who will disagree with me, and that's fine. I recognize this is a gray issue. I would never say it's ALWAYS appropriate to drink alcohol when you're with your kids. I may have strong opinions, but I realize few issues are"“cut and dried." I just wish we as mothers could stop fueling the "mommy wars" and work together -- through our actions, through our blogs, through our conversations with friends -- to elevate our status in society instead of spending so much time judging one another.

And if you want to enjoy a glass of wine while mulling this over -- even if your kids are playing in the next room -- that's OK with me.

Amy M. lives in Pennsylvania with her son and her husband. She works full time as a writer/editor for a large university.

Adult pleasures

By Amy M.

C'mon, get your minds out of the gutter, I don't mean THAT kind of adult pleasure. I'm here to discuss some of the other domestic pleasures I have recently begun to enjoy, making me feel like -- gulp -- an ADULT.

I suppose by most accounts I've been an adult for some time. I've been married for more than 10 years and have a 4-year-old son and another baby on the way. I have a mortgage, a roomy family sedan and a 401K. I pay the bills instead of shoving them in a shoebox or giving them to my daddy.

But until recently, I scoffed at the idea of domesticity, namely cooking. The size of our kitchen demonstrates how little I cared about it when we built our house four years ago, considering it can barely hold two adults at one time. If we ever move to another house, first on my wish list is a bigger kitchen.

My friends and former co-workers who knew me at the height of my "un-domestic" days would laugh if they heard that. I was the one who had proudly tried virtually every Lean Cuisine or Weight Watchers frozen entrée. But now sentences like, "I love my crock pot" or "I can't wait to try that recipe" frequently exit my mouth. I even have recipe Web sites bookmarked on my computer. And I was so thrilled when I bought a new crock pot recently that I told anyone who would listen about its timer feature and "warm" setting.

Don't think I limit myself to crock pot meals. I've become friends with my skillet, and the oven and I get along pretty well, too, because I also bake! I hosted a holiday cookie exchange and was so excited about it that I experimented with four or five different kinds of cookies before deciding what I was going to make for the exchange. I used my oven more that month than in the previous six months combined.

So what is it about these domestic chores that make me feel like an adult? Is it because I associate them with stereotypical mothers and grandmothers? Is it because I now have to worry about providing proper nutrition for someone other than myself?

The reasons don't matter. I'll admit that a few years ago, I was uncomfortable with the idea of seeming :domestic," probably because of the feminist tendencies I had been nurturing since I was a kid. But then I had a baby, and I realized caring for my family is what's important. Not only important, but incredibly gratifying.

I'm mature and self-confident enough to know that enjoying something like cooking doesn't change who I am or what I believe, at least not in a bad way. The little girl who once marched around her block chanting, "Whatever boys can do, girls can do better" is still there. And now she can bake a mean cookie.

Amy M. lives in Pennsylvania with her son and her husband. She works full time as a writer/editor for a large university.

Happy accident

By Amy M.

Before Alex was born, I thought I wanted to have two kids. Throughout my relatively easy pregnancy, I still felt that way. And then Alex was born. I won't go into detail about what a difficult infant he was -- suffice it to say that when he was just a few weeks old, everyone in my family was already assuring me if I had another child, it would definitely be easier. I guess they saw the look of sheer terror in my eyes when they even mentioned the prospect of another baby.

The look of terror waned, but Brian and I remained adamant about NOT having another child. We loved Alex to pieces, of course, but parenting, as you all know, is HARD. Brian admitted he dreaded coming home from work at night in the early months because he knew he would be "on duty." Which meant trying to console an inconsolable infant, who would not even entertain the thought of sleeping between the hours of midnight and 6 a.m.

Things got easier, of course. But we still didn't want another one. We would go through "honeymoon" periods when we thought MAYBE we could handle another child, but then Alex would be particularly trying and we would push the thought of another baby far from our minds.

We continued that way for more than three years. We rarely talked about having another child. I was probably more open to the idea than Brian, but I wasn't desperate for another baby. Seeing a newborn -- even smelling its downy head -- did not make me long for one.

But seeing toddlers did. I was reminded of what a newborn -- no matter how challenging -- would become. And I could see Brian softening in the presence of bumbling, babbling toddlers, too. For example, when our niece started to walk and talk and, in his eyes, become a little person rather than an infant "blob," I noticed a change in his demeanor toward her. And that's when I knew that, deep down, he wanted another.

Still, we didn't really talk about it. But we also didn't take the necessary measures to prevent a pregnancy. It was sort of an unspoken agreement; we knew pregnancy was a possibility, but did not consider it a likelihood because Alex was sort of a miracle baby (my doctor had told us it would be near-impossible to conceive naturally).

Which brings us to the positive pregnancy test I took at the end of August. Yes, a "happy accident," as one of my friends called it. A very happy accident. Because we really did want to round out our family with another child, and give Alex a sibling. Sure, we often have "Oh my gosh, what did we do?" moments, but I think we're finally ready for this.

I just hope I feel the same way when the baby arrives around May 1.

Amy M. lives in Pennsylvania with her son and her husband. She works full time as a writer/editor for a large university.

"Super Mom Syndrome" strikes again

By Amy M.

"Ahoy Mateys!" began the invitations to Alex's fourth birthday party. The rest of the text was peppered with pirate lingo and invited his friends -- er, mateys -- to a party and treasure hunt with "grub, goodies and games." Parents were asked to RSVP to Alex's "First Mate Mom." I printed the invitations on special “scroll” paper using the "Backladder" font, which was recommended online by other pirate party planners (yes, there are a lot of them).

When the kids arrived, they could choose from a selection of pirate clothing and paraphernalia, including kerchiefs, sashes, hats and eye patches. They played games such as "hook for pretzels" (using a pirate hook they wore over their hand) and "pin the eye patch on the pirate." The climax, of course, was the treasure hunt, during which the kids raced from spot to spot in our backyard (each spot had a picture that told them where to go next) and finally discovered a treasure chest filled with "loot": trinkets, pads and pencils, gold foil-covered chocolate coins, and more.

I'm not trying to brag about the lengths I went to for my son's birthday party (OK, maybe a little). Rather, this post is a confession: I did all that work for ME.

Alex could not have cared less. Sure, he wanted the treasure hunt, but he didn't ask for the "under the sea" blue Jell-o filled with gummy fish and sharks. Or the table decorated with fish net and seashells. Or the personalized bags for the kids' loot.

I guess I wanted to be perceived as a "super mom." I wanted people to "ooh" and "ahh" over the decorations and the food and the games and wonder how I planned everything while juggling a full-time job and all my other responsibilities. (Hint, I had some downtime at the office.) It was the overachiever in me, combined with my perfectionist and obsessive-compulsive tendencies, that made me work so hard to make the party perfect -- for Alex, but mainly for me.

And I got the response I wanted -- rave reviews and words of praise for my party-planning skills. As a bonus, all the kids seemed to have fun and were relatively well-behaved!

Once an over-achiever, always an over-achiever, I suppose. And is that such a bad thing? Does it really matter that my perfectionist tendencies -- not Alex -- drove me to spend hours online and visiting different stores just to find the perfect invitation (not to mention the menu planning, decoration buying, food preparation, etc.)? In the end, both of us were happy.

I hope I'm not alone here. So 'fess up. Have you personally decorated 100 cookies to impress your fellow playgroup moms? Applied make-up before dropping your kid off at preschool so you look put together for the teachers and other parents? Who else has fallen prey to the "super mom syndrome"?

Amy M. lives in Pennsylvania with her son and her husband. She works full time as a writer/editor for a large university.

He’ll always amaze me—even when it comes to teeth

By Amy M.

I recently took Alex on his first “successful” trip to the dentist, where he got a cleaning, x-rays and a lesson in how to brush his teeth. When the hygienist called his name, he went willingly without even a look back at his Mommy, who had to hold back tears.

Tears of relief more than any other emotion. You see, this was Alex’s third trip to the dentist. After two failed attempts at my own dentist’s office, we resorted to the pediatric dentist—where the hygienists sweep the children away to some dental oasis and leave the parents stranded in the waiting room.

I first tried to take Alex to the dentist when he was 3 ½ (he's 4 now). He wouldn’t even sit in the “fun” reclining chair by himself, let alone allow the hygienist to count his teeth. For once in his life, he was silent—talking meant someone might see his teeth, and he didn’t want to admit he had any. The next time, a few months later, he sat in the chair and let the hygienist count his teeth, but clamped his little jaw shut as soon as she came near him with a toothbrush.

So it was time for drastic action. I was going to have to put him in the hands of those used to dealing with hysterical young dental patients and let them work their magic.

Although I called in June to schedule an appointment, I couldn’t get one until September. So I didn’t mention it to Alex until a week beforehand. Not surprisingly, he whined and protested and insisted he already knew how to brush his teeth. In reality, what he knows how to do is suck all the toothpaste off his brush. Does he think I don’t notice he barely moves the brush around?

I explained to him how important it is to see the dentist and that it’s not scary, emphasizing that we have to go to make sure our teeth our healthy. He continued to protest no matter what I said, so I bluntly told him he didn’t have a choice—everyone needs to go to the dentist, including him. Surprisingly he let it drop, although he mentioned a couple days later that he still didn’t want to go.

The day of the appointment arrived. I couldn’t tell if he had forgotten, or just accepted the fact that he had to go (the kid has a memory like a steel trap, so I doubted that he forgot—but maybe he suddenly had “selective” memory). He didn’t complain when I told him had to brush his teeth really well so he would be ready for the dentist, and didn’t protest one bit when we got in the car.

Once we were on the road, my sweet little boy explained to ME what it’s like to go to the dentist. He said he knew there wouldn’t be any big, scary machines because those would scare the kids. He knew he was just going so they could count his teeth and clean them with a special brush. He knew there was nothing to be afraid of.

All I could do was agree with him. The tears that threatened to fall then were tears of pride, and a few tears of sadness, because he was acting—and sounding—so grown-up. After his appointment, he acted like it was no big deal. I just hope he takes the dentist’s advice to heart—and uses his toothbrush to actually brush!

Amy M. lives in Pennsylvania with her son and her husband. She works full time as a writer/editor for a large university.