DotMoms

Holiday sanity, Web style

By Charlene

I love shopping. I really do. When it's at a slow, casual pace and I'm not looking for anything in particular.

But shopping for Christmas presents is a different beast. The crowded malls, long lines, and general hectic pass make me a little "bah humbug."

When I was pregnant with Nolan, his due date was January 10, 2002. The mere thought of shopping for presents when I was, let's just say, rather large made me more tired than the extra 50 pounds I had packed on.

I decided I would avoid the malls altogether. I went online and the bah humbug was gone.

All my purchases were completed and delivered before Thanksgiving. Wrapped and ready to go weeks before Christmas. And it was a good thing too -- Nolan arrived early. In fact, we brought him home from the hospital on Christmas Day.

My shopping strategy hasn't changed. I make 95 percent of my holiday purchases online. We make one trip to Toys 'R Us to get gifts for Nolan, and now Quin. Oddly enough, I feel like the gifts for my boys are ones that I have to see, touch and anquish over in person.

We do make several trips to a beautiful outdoor mall in our town. But not to shop. We go at night after dinner and order warm Mexican hot chocolates from our favorite cafe. Then we walk, slowly. When the sky is clear and the stars are out. When we can smell the fresh air and taste the crisp chill of winter. When we can watch the strands of lights sparkle from the trees. When the hustle and bustle has died down, and we can enjoy the sights of Christmas.

Charlene lives in California's Bay Area with her husband and two children.

No boys allowed...

By Charlene

I dropped Nolan off at preschool a few days ago and sat with him at a table of girls playing with Play-Doh. They were slightly older, already four and five years old.

When a girl entered the classroom, all the girls at the table would yell her name.
“It’s Morgan!” they’d shriek, and would all get up and hug her, talk about her fashion selection for the day (“I like your dress! Those are funny shoes.”) After, they would sit back down and begin molding the Play-Doh. Nolan just watched.

Finally, another little girl entered the room. “It’s Hannah!” they all yelled and a few of the girls started to rise from their chairs.

“No! No!” yelled one girl, “You can’t say hi to her. She’s MY friend and I have to say hi first!!!” she ordered the girls. Even so, everyone at the table, sans Nolan, got up and surrounded little Hannah, pulling her to her cubbie and whispering in her ear.

Then they all left the table. Nolan jumped up and ran over to the girls. He wanted to continue playing with them.

“No!” They yelled at him. “We don’t like you. You’re a BOY!”

He walked over to me, with his soulful little brown eyes, and asked, “Mom, why don’t they like boys?” It stung him and me. It’s no fun watching anyone be mean to your little guy.

I’ve written before about Nolan’s first crush, and how his lady love told him she didn’t like boys. He asked me then, “Why doesn’t she like boys?” I’ve started to use a line from a Thomas the Tank Engine book when one of the trains describes why Cranky the Crane is so touchy. “Cranes are airy fairy sort of things,” Gordon the Engine says.

And so I tell Nolan, “Sometimes girls are airy fairy things, Nolan. They say silly things about not liking boys but they really don’t know what that means.” But he persists with his questioning, most often at night before he falls asleep. He’ll tell me stories about the day and how certain girls won’t play with him. We talk about how he should play with his friends, not the girls that hurt his feelings.

But I hadn’t realized the impression these girls were having on him until one day when his dad came in the room and Nolan said, “No Dad, you can’t play here. I don’t like boys.” We asked Nolan why he didn’t like boys, rattling off all the names of his best friends and family members that were boys.

”I don’t like boys because the girls at school don’t like boys. They won’t let me play with them because I’m a boy. ”

Ahhhhh.

I had my fair share of being hurt by girl friends when I was Nolan’s age. And I’d always assumed that having sons, I wouldn’t have to deal with the mean-spirited games that girls can inflict on each other. I assumed he’d avoid it, at least until puberty. Boy was I dreaming. He’s only three,  but he’s very perceptive and he looooooves girls.

Please don’t accuse me of insinuating that boys are innocent and not mean-spirited. Don’t tell me, as one commenter did a few posts ago, that I’ll be “eating my words” when Nolan displays this type of behavior one day.

I have two older brothers and I’ve always had more male friends then female -– I’m very fluent in “boy.” But it’s a known fact: girls are indeed more socially complicated, though I wouldn’t say more mature, than boys. And now, I just have to figure out how to help Nolan navigate through the waters.

Any tips? How do I begin to explain to my nearly 4-year-old son why girls can be so, er, complicated?

Charlene lives in California's Bay Area with her husband and two children.

Stealth snuggles

By Charlene

I'm a voracious snuggler. I love snuggling. In fact, when my husband and I were dating 16 years ago, I warned him one night, "I have to tell you, I'm very touchy feely... I'm all about snuggling." He, of course, was smiling from ear to ear. But I digress.

After Christine's admission that she's a sniffer (as am I), I feel comfortable sharing that I'm addicted to snuggling with my sons.

Quin, at four months old, has no choice but to snuggle with me. Truth be told, he's a wee snuggler too.

Nolan used to be a snuggler until about two months ago. He'd crawl like a cat into my arms when I'd be sitting on the couch and say, "Momma, hold me." But then I started to notice he didn't want to snuggle anymore. As if overnight, his already-energized self morphed into a further-adrenalized jumping, running, giggling, yelling, stinky-foot BOY. He's still very sweet, but trying to catch a snuggle with him is like trying to catch a flea.

When I was pregnant with Nolan, someone gave me the book "Love you Forever" by Robert Munsch. I have to admit in the most uneloquent terms, it creeped me out. The images of the mom driving with a ladder on top of her car so she can climb in his room and hold him... creepy, even to a snuggler. 

The early parts of the book, when the boy is a toddler, and she holds him after he's fallen asleep, now THAT I can handle, because I do it myself. Every so often after Nolan's conked out, I climb into his little loft bed, lie down next to him and hold him. I listen to him breathe, and I just watch him sleep. On occassion, I can see in him the tiny little baby face that I brought home from the hospital.

But I'm a voracious snuggler, and Nolan's growing up. Sometimes, stealth snuggles will just have to do. Note that I do draw the line at climbing up ladders.

Charlene lives in California's Bay Area with her husband and two children.

The accidental parent

By Charlene

I remember reading "The Baby Whisperer" by the late Tracey Hogg when I had Nolan. Hogg spoke of "accidental parenting," those things we  do to our newborns that lead to problems later on: rocking them to sleep, picking them up as soon as they cry, holding them all the time, not getting your baby on a routine and the biggest no-no, nursing on demand!

After Nolan was born, I actively tried to avoid accidental parenting. I spent countless hours trying to get him to fall asleep on his own. I tried to understand his schedule, keep track of his daily activities for a few weeks to see if there was a pattern. Just when I thought I had it down, something changed, and I'd start over.

Ah, the ignorance of a first-time mom!

Now with my second son, Quinlan, I am the definition of an accidental parent! My dear readers, I confess: not only do I nurse him to sleep, I rock him too! I quickly jump out of bed in the morning when he stirs -- not cries, just stirs -- to feed him back to sleep so he doesn't walk up his older brother. I couldn't get him on a bottle even if it were an exact replica of my breast. A pacifier? He smiles when I stick one in his mouth, then proceeds to spit it out and almost giggle. 

Is he happy? Absolutely.

But the better question is, am I sane? Indeed, I am more sane than when Nolan was a baby. At that time, I was consumed with thoughts of "doing things right." With Quinlan I simply want to enjoy him, and enjoy being a mom. To hell with the books. I'm going with my gut.

If that means I'm guilty of accidental parenting, so be it. At least I'll be smiling.

Charlene lives in California's Bay Area with her husband and two children.

Mystery boxes

By Charlene

My parents have been secretly leaving boxes of my old stuff in my garage. Boxes containing records, photo albums, high school yearbooks, Hello Kitty trinkets... all things that I left behind at their home when I moved out many moons ago. It's turned into a game. They love to see how long it will take before I discover a new box in our garage storage shelves. Mom and dad are getting really creative in hiding them. I don't actively look, mind you. These boxes always seem to appear when I least expect it. And I always react the same way, shouting "Damn you! Another box of crap for me to get rid of!" Which, I guess, is exactly what they want... it's probably the same thing they say when they find my stuff.

One of these boxes had a set of books -- Beverly Clearly's Ramona series: "Ramona the Brave," "Ramona and Her Mother," and so on. They were my favorite. I would read them repeatedly, never tiring of heroine Ramona Quimby and her wonderful antics. As the youngest in my family, I could relate to being thought of as a pest, like Ramona often was by her sister, Beezus.

One night as I was nursing Quin, I looked over at my bookshelf and noticed these Ramona books gathering dust. I grabbed one and started flipping through the pages. I then I found myself reading them during every nursing session. It was as if I had found an old friend.

Nolan happened to see one of the books, "Ramona and Beezus."

"Mom, what's this book about?" he said. I told him that when I was a little girl, I used to read a book about a little girl named Ramona. In this particular book Ramona was four years old and in preschool. He liked that, since he is nearly four and in preschool.

"Will you read this Mom?" he asked.

"Are you sure?" I asked. "There are not very many pictures. It's mostly words."

"Mommy, read it."

So I did. Nolan listened intently to chapter after chapter of pure storytelling. He laughed at the right spots and asked questions about why Ramona was being naughty, and why sister Beezus was cross with Ramona.

Throughout the book, Beezus struggles with her feelings about Ramona, feeling guilty because she sometimes just doesn't like her little sister. The book ends with Beezus realizing it's normal to have these feelings, and that sometimes Ramona doesn't like Beezus too.

Nolan's been going through some growing pains as he figures out his role as a big brother. Quin, now three months old, is a sweet baby and rarely cries. But when he does, or when Nolan has to wait for me because I am with Quin, Nolan shouts, "I don't like Quin." Thanks to my old Ramona books, he understands that it's okay to feel this way. I think it's made his world a little easier.

I'm anxious to find another box of old treasures in my garage, courtesy of my folks. It just may hold something from my childhood that not only taught me something about life, but can help my boys too.

Charlene lives in California's Bay Area with her husband and two children.

One simple freckle...

By Charlene

Nolan has a freckle. A tiny dot no larger then the head of a pin. It rests slightly above the right side of his cute lips. As he's gotten older, I've stared at his face and the freckle -– it reminded me of something, someone. One day last week, I remembered. It was my first grade-school boyfriend. His name was Scott Girish and he had a freckle above his lip just like Nolan.

I haven't seen Scott in more than 15 years so I did what anyone does these days when they want to find out about someone -- I Googled him. (I'll wait for you to take a peek!). And I smiled an enormous smile.

When we were in grade school, all the girls used to say Scott looked like Rob Lowe. He was the class babe. But he was my boyfriend. We'd talk on the phone every night when my dad wasn't home because I wasn't allowed to talk to boys on the telephone yet. Scott would walk me home from school every day and maybe, maybe hold my hand. He kissed me about two months after we were "going." It was in the school playground and was quicker than a sneeze. For us? Pure scandal! We kissed on school grounds! 

For Valentine's Day he gave me a heart-shaped candy box. Inside it were cotton balls padding a cute keychain bear that was holding a little heart. I wore it on the button hole of my aqua-blue uniform sweater. I gave him a heart-shaped pin, and he wore it on his shirt collar, every day. And not one single boy in class gave him grief about it. If they did, he was cool enough not to care.

One day Scott found out a high-school boy working at the local grocery store had talked to me. The next day Scott spray-painted "Charlene P. is mine" in the store parking lot elevator for "the competition" to see when he was gathering shopping carts. I was flattered but more mortified at the thought of neighbors seeing my name sprawled on the elevator. And God forbid my dad should have found out! Also being a young feminist, I was not to be thought of as someone's object. How dare he claim I was his -- as if he owned me!

So, I did what every girl in my class was hoping for, I broke up with him. Scott was back on the market. And he was crushed. So crushed, in fact, that he got his revenge the only way a school-boy could -- he made my arch-nemesis his girlfriend! He'd walk by my house holding her hand and smile at me. And I'd go in the house and cry!!!

One simple freckle on Nolan brought back such sweet, innocent memories. It also made me think of the future. When Nolan has his first case of puppy love. When he walks a girl home from school. His first kiss. When he has his heart broken for the first time.

I only hope that, whoever the object of his affection shall be, 20 years later, she will see a freckle and be reminded of Nolan.

And I can only hope that she will smile an enormous smile.

What reminds you of your first puppy love?

Charlene lives in California's Bay Area with her husband and two children.

My sister, my self

By Charlene

"Hola Hermanita," her e-mails always start, "Hi, little sister."

It's one of my favorite greetings. I adore that she still calls me little sister. And I always caller her "Hermana."

I'm eight years younger, and as children our age difference was problematic. When she was in high school I'd rat her out when she was talking on the phone with boys. She'd reluctantly take me out shopping with her girlfriends and pick out hideous clothes for me to try on. I remember once filling her bed with foot powder after watching a Brady Bunch episode where the Brady boys filled the Brady girls' sleeping bags with itching powder (or was it the other way around? I can't remember -- either way, someone got itchy!) And boy do I remember some serious slap fights.

Once I graduated from high school, our relationship changed dramatically. We became best friends. As we grew up, the gap was closed by similarities in personalities and tastes. There are times when I think about her and my phone rings and she's on the other end of the line. There's only one other woman in my life who has this same gift of knowing: our mom.

My sister and I had a falling out more than a year ago. While we'd sometimes snip at each other as only sisters can do, this fight was serious. We stopped speaking to each other for nearly six months and when we resumed, it was forced, difficult and uncomfortable.

I didn't admit this to anyone, not even myself, but I missed her. Terribly. When something wonderful, funny or insane happened in my life, I wouldn't call her. And it probably hurt me more than it hurt her. My husband would sometimes ask, "When are you guys going to make up?"

Last September, when I was seven weeks pregnant, I had a scare that put me on bedrest. I needed last minute babysitting when I had to race off for an ultrasound, and I realized I needed to ask for help from mi Hermana.

It was almost a relief to call her, to confide in her. She said that when she woke up that particular morning she knew that something was wrong with me and was almost going to call me. So, she did as only a sister would. She packed up her son and drove 45 minutes to my house, no questions asked.

For the first time since our argument, I recently visited her house so our boys could have a playdate. I think it was more of a playdate for us. She opened the door to her house and said "Hola Hermanita."

It felt like old times, only with a new respect for each other and for our friendship.

Charlene lives in California's Bay Area with her husband and two children.

Get back here!!!

By Charlene

My oldest son is keeping me up at night. Not literally -- he's three and a half and a great sleeper -- but his fearless daytime actions are invading my sleep.

You see, he has "perimeter issues."

Of late, Nolan is being a little too adventurous. He's exploring his boundaries. When he says "Mom, I want to get out of the stroller and walk," what he really means is "Mom, I'm going to get out of this stroller and bolt away as fast as I can." Let me tell you, we sometimes call him Forrest Gump because that little boy is as fast as a race car.

Before the arrival of our second baby, it was easy for me to keep up with Nolan. I was always close by. But now I have a newborn to watch along with his big brother. And when big brother decides he wants to meander a little too far from Mom, I start to get a wee bit stressed.

Nolan's received several lectures about sticking close by his parents. We want him to be able to explore, but within a safe distance. We've talked about strangers, yet we also don't want to scare the kid to death. But he's fearless. He takes off without looking back. One parent hustles to keep up with him while the other pushes the baby's stroller while tracking the big kid.

I've spoken to a few friends with sons the same age as Nolan and they seem to be experiencing the same thing. I wonder if they have had the same nightmare that I had last week, when I dreamt that I was out with my son and I lost him. It's a frightening dream that wakes me up in a panic.

And so I seek advice.

For those of you have already gone through this experience, what tips do you have to teach your children why it's important to stay near mom and dad?? How did you explain this to your kids?

Charlene lives in California's Bay Area with her husband and two children.

A second groove...

By Charlene

I recently gave birth to my second son, Quinlan. Everything about having a second baby -- the pregnancy, the delivery, the recovery -- has been so strikingly different than the first time for me. But what's most different? I never lost my groove.

I often recall a conversation I shared with two ladies at a baby shower last summer. We talked about the struggles of being a working mom. Somehow, the three of us came to discuss the book "The Girlfriends' Guide to Getting Your Groove Back" by Vicki Iovine. They said moms never get their groove back. I didn't say it, but I had a secret: my groove came back.

It took nearly two and half years, but it was back thanks to a group of four gals I call the "Strappy 'Ho Heels and Keds Girl Club."

My best friend from high school brought us together for her wedding, and it was one of those rare moments when strangers felt like they had known each other for a lifetime. We became instant, fast friends.

The Strappy Girls spent two days together: spa treatments, shopping, fun and deep chats about kids, husbands and just life in general. On the day of the wedding, we decided on our name -- four of us wore strappy high heels with our dresses while the bride wore Keds.

I will never forget a moment when we all were on the dance floor -- just the bride and bridesmaids, extremely tipsy, OK, drunk -- dancing and singing our hearts out. After the bride, groom and guests left the reception, we all stuck around dancing in our own private disco.

Nearly a year has passed since my groove returned. And even after giving birth to my second son and ongoing battles with crying boys, sleep deprivation, and not being able to fit in my pre-pregnancy clothes, this groove is sticking around.

Hanging around with the Strappy Girls did something for me. It made me feel a little more carefree, wild, and yes, sexy. And if anyone needs to hang on tight to those feelings, it's a mom.

Did you get your groove back? How? And how do you keep it?

Potty talk

By Charlene

One night at the dinner table, Nolan looked at me and -- almost with a hint of a John Wayne tone -- said, "Come on, you little poo-poo."

I desperately wanted to laugh because it was actually quite funny. He had a little naughty smile on his face, wondering how I'd react.

"Nolan," I said, with my best poker face. "We don't use potty talk at the dinner table. If you want to use potty talk, you need to be in the bathroom."

"Come on, you little poo-poo," he said, again with a smile.

"Nolan, should we walk to the bathroom?"

"No, momma, I don't need to go," he said, and went on to finish his dinner.

That's the end of that discussion, I thought to myself. But in the coming days, he tossed the words poop and poo-poo around for fun. Hubby and I continued to use our agreed line of questioning, asking Nolan if he needed to use the potty since he was using potty talk. And he continued to say, "No!"

And then one morning, Jeff and I were in the kitchen making breakfast. Nolan jumped from the table and ran to the bathroom. We heard the toilet seat go up and he went about his business.

But this time, at the top of his lungs he yelled over and over, "Come on, you little poo-poo!"

Jeff and I laughed as we went to see what Mr. Smarty-pants was doing. Jeff asked Nolan why he was using potty talk.

"Because I'm in the potty!" he said.

The fact that he had listened to what his folks had told him almost warranted a repeat performance.

We're just hoping he doesn't add any new words to his repertoire.

What do your kids do when your kids use potty talk?