DotMoms

Slacker Mom days

By Christine

Fridays are meant for letting your hair down and easing off the full-steam ahead attitude a lot of us carry throughout the week. It is a time for relaxed homework rules, pending weekend fun, and a whole list of accomplishments made Monday through Thursday. It's about resting on your laurels for one whole day –- such as the square meals you cooked for your kids on all the other days of the week. Clearly, Fridays are Slacker Mom days.

At week's end, I find some way to toss my hands high in the air and surrender to the whim of convenience.

Recently, it was drive-through burgers and fries after school. What? No forcing your picky eater to down a handful of greens? No washing dishes afterward to the tune of whining children unwilling to fulfill their commitment to do homework, then play? As the torrential rains poured down around our family-friendly vehicle, I promised a fast-food meal if they promised to behave. Angelic heads nodded in the backseat. They got a toy along with their meal, then we whisked our food back to the house five minutes away. Except french fries at room temperature are less than appetizing. And the kids barely ate them. So what's a Slacker Mom to do? I ate them instead.

My daughter willingly completed her homework in record time, then joined her brother for an after-school video. The sting of french fry grease lay heavily in the air. In keeping with my Friday attitude, I shrugged it off and opened a window. While my kids sat mesmerized in front of the tube, I whisked away any evidence of my culinary sin and tossed it in the garbage outdoors. I even had extra energy to iron while watching the film with the kids.

Slacker Mom days are simply the best. I learn a lot from my alternate persona on Fridays. She is much more relaxed, less rigid in her routine, and she laughs more. She even playacts, speaking in accents stemming from the South to Siberia while storytelling to keep the kids entertained and instructed about right and wrong.

I'm beginning to love this person who takes over my house at the end of the week. I might just invite her in more often for a round of Uno and some fries.

Christine is an American author and freelance writer living near Munich, Germany, with her husband and two children (Jackson, 5, and Sophia, 7).

Parenting in a Bell Jar

By Christine

Back in the heyday of my youth, I was a band geek with braces, glasses, and uneven pigtails. It was an unlucky combination, but somehow I managed to survive it.

At the time, I didn't appreciate the quiet, staid women who rode in the front of our field trip bus, secretly praying none of us would lob our brown bag lunch at their heads before the performance. It was a time of innocence, mediocre music-making and pizza drives to raise money for polyester-chic uniforms strapped piously to our adolescent hips. And these band mothers, uncomplaining and patriotic, saw us through it all.

What would possess a mom, whose enthusiasm far outweighed that of her tuba-playing son, to join us on countless band events from Richmond, Virginia, to the upper neck of New Jersey? Or the bus driver whose own children dropped out of the band, then school, at an early age? What makes me, today, shout "Great shot, Johanna!" to a child who is not even my own while I am on the sidelines of a near-rained out soccer game? What is it really that swells our hearts when the runt of the litter makes that winning goal?

We dream our dreams, first as children, then later as adults who realize the human spirit lives on in those little legs running with all their might. The sheer will and love of the game, music, dance, gymnastics and baton-twirling overcome us as we cheer them on. Watching and willing others to be the best they can be is unique to the human experience. It is what makes us wake up at the crack of dawn to drive a gaggle of giggling girls to dance and horse competitions. Those three minutes on the back of a Shetland as your little one dodges obstacles is what makes our parental heartlights shine so intensely.

Yes, some over-the-top parents bring Blackberries to PTA meetings and overschedule their children's oh-so-busy lives; some do indeed tout self-esteem over compassion, and are certainly raising narcissists. But, most involved parents are committed to making a difference, not an impression.

It gets confusing for parents who try to get it right while the outside world judges and tisk-tisks at seemingly every move they make. Ever tried parenting in a bell jar? It is impossible, at best.

So to all the chaperones at our proms, the room mothers and fathers, the volunteer Little League coaches, the parent teacher organization leaders, the career day moms and dads, and that band mom whose squished banana-laden hair will never be the same, I say thank you. You made a difference in my life, and I will carry that torch with honor into the next generation.

To my fellow Gen X'er parents, I say great shot, Mom and Dad. Don't listen to the naysayers who say you've gotten it all wrong. In my very humble opinion, you're doing just fine.

Christine is an American author and freelance writer living near Munich, Germany, with her husband and two children (Jackson, 5, and Sophia, 7).

Forgiveness Pants

By Christine

You know those mom moments no Hallmark card ad would ever reveal? The times you're dangling by a thread, yet another child has come down with that icky thing going around, and you've had to rearrange your plans? Again. The clock is ticking before you're out of town, the car needs repairing, paperwork for your son's subisdized tutoring is due, and you can't find a babysitter? The days you decide to commit the lesser evil and leave your ailing child home while you dash out for an hour, only to be "caught" by a neighbor and be called a neglectful mother?

I've had one of those days. And what you need most on days like these is a pair of forgiveness pants. I have several pairs, just in case one is in the wash. They're fleece, designed to block the chilly, early Spring winds caressing our front door, and they never ever clutch like a needy child does. They're stylish enough to be fashionable with just the right top. And no one except you knows you've decided today is the day to wear them when the going gets tough.

The choice was simple: Either I squeeze into my hot mama Levi's for an hour of errand-running, or I leave on my white polar fleece pants to do the same. I was fed up with trying to be hot when I'm definitely not (today), trying to leave an impression of "She's so got it together" (an attitude that quickly bleeds into envy and gossip as to why that should be so), and attempting to actually look good when all I felt was bad.

Perhaps it is that time of the month when my rose-colored glasses turn a shade paler than usual. The girth of my belt needs an extra notch to accommodate a bloated belly tired of standing at attention in public. Today I am a blowfish riding the wave of a perfect storm. So many hands reaching out who need me. So few hands reaching out to help.

When I was a kid, my mom would call her overwhelming feelings as a single mom of three daughters a phase in which "the world was too much with her." My forgiveness pants ward off the world the way a sentry would a thief.

They offer me comfort that the world will ease off soon. In the meantime, why not enjoy the soft touch of a little fleece until the storm, and all its detritus, float wiltingly away?

Christine is an American author and freelance writer living near Munich, Germany, with her husband and two children (Jackson, 5, and Sophia, 7).

When guns are good

By Christine

Hold it. This is not a propaganda piece for the National Rifle Association. Nor am I Bree Van de Kamp. But it is a woman's perogative to change her mind. And I have. I've revised my view on toy guns.

Several years ago I wrote a piece called "Guns and Proses," bemoaning my then three-year-old's preoccupation with a ridiculously innocuous piece of plastic. It was a pop gun with a blue ball that bounced lazily across the floor at the click of the trigger. Observing his love for the toy, I was up in arms (pun intended). And I wrote about it.

Despite massive negotiations with my child, he refused to let go of his toy. Any veteran parent knows that trying to reason with a three-year-old is like expecting your white carpeting to shine after inviting over the adorable 101 Dalmatians for tea. The two simply don't jive. In my view, at the time, neither did a gun and my baby boy.

I tried hiding his toy gun. No dice. His arsenal radar was already in full swing. At some point, I threw it out, then retrieved it. The crushed look in his eye spoke volumes. Calculating his future therapist's bill, I sheepishly washed off the breakfast remains from the gun and handed it back to him. To be honest with you, several weeks later, the item surreptitously found its way back to the garbage can. This time, it was the outdoors one. He promptly forgot about his beloved toy for months. In an exemplary application of superior parenting, I convinced him to use a stick as a gun. That strategy lasted for two years.

Until show-and-tell last Thursday.

"Alex showed off his toy gun yesterday," Jackson informed me. I continued wiping the breakfast table.

"...with handcuffs," he pressed on. I silently raised a brow.

"Where's my gun? Mama, I need a new one." My heart sank to my knees. Pushing air from my lungs, I knelt down to his level. "Lucky Luke has one," he remarked.

Ah yes. He watches 42 minutes of TV per day, and Lucky Luke has started running in his allotted time slot between dinner and bedtime.

"Oh."

I'm so lame, I thought. Think. Think. THINK!

Then something clicked. He was wearing his black cowboy hat and black T-shirt, looking smashing and not unlike the late Johnny Cash. I dried my hands, sat him on my lap at the table and typed www.JohnnyCash.com into the laptop's browser.

"See!" I exclaimed merrily. "Johnny is a singer/cowboy/songwriter!" I held out hopes that my muscially inclined progeny would suddenly replace his love of weaponry for the love of a six-string. Jackson pointed to the cowboy boots at the top of the screen.

"He's a cowboy, and I want his gun."

Not even Johnny could save me this time.

"We'll go this afternoon between Sophia's ballet and a few other errands," I promised. A sheath of glee transformed his face.

Six hours later, we stood in front of the toy gun display at the local toy store. Fearful that I might change my mind, Jackson decided quickly.

As we neared the cash register, a gun holster with bucking broncos caught my eye.

"Every cowboy needs a holster," I said, laying it on the checkout counter, too.

Jackson's eyes filled with love, spilling over to his cheeks and washing away the pain of his once three-year-old mug marked by my heinous gun-tossing crime.

The cost of the gun and holster? $12. His bow-legged, gun-toting gait as we approached the pet store afterwards? Priceless.

In the eyes of a little boy, a gun makes you a hero, not a criminal as we view it. We adults often think children see it our way. The fact is oftentimes they do not. That day, my son did not see me as a criminal who had cast away his favorite plaything. That day, he saw me as a hero, too.

Christine is an American author and freelance writer living near Munich, Germany, with her husband and two children (Jackson, 5, and Sophia, 7).

When 'No' means 'Yes'

By Christine

The paradox of parenting is that oftentimes the hardest and most unpleasant course of action is best. Homework is a great example of the paradox at work.

Our seven-year-old daughter would rather write short stories of her own accord than a school-assigned essay about her family. When she finally sat down to write it, she mentioned all of us, including the pets. What hurt the most was she described me as nice, but mean. We openly talked about why she felt that way.

"When I recently asked for my favorite tortellini and you said, 'No, we're having homemade pizza'!" she exclaimed. I covered my grinning face.

Wow. I guess I am mean.

Needless to say, I'm not having the easiest time helping my child navigate her early years in the German school system. But whether we like it or not, she has one hour of homework every day.

That's 60 minutes of enduring power struggles and brief fits of desperation on both sides. It's not that she doesn't understand the material. For several weeks now she has simply refused to accept my assistance. I don't mean helicopter-hovering-over-the-shoulder assistance. I mean checking her assignments after she has completed them.

Luckily, Cheli Cerra's book, "Homework Talk!" has been a huge assistance in giving me positive action items. They have a homework motivation chart that I'll be photocopying in the very near future. You give the child five points for every positive thing he or she does and subtract five points for every negative. It's a reward system, which I rather despise having to use, but it may well alleviate some of my grief.

Despite a parent-teacher conference (in which the teacher revealed she knew I must write books by the number of stories in my daughter's head!), our struggles over my involvement continue. We've eliminated all but one extracurricular activity and had numerous heart-to-heart talks about being respectful.

As I model respect, I am constantly reminded that it doesn't mean bending to my child's will. Saying 'No' to the cookie before lunch does not mean you're saying 'No' to loving your kid. In fact, saying 'No' very often shouts 'Yes' in the language of the heart.

And so the paradox comes full circle, for it is that very heart which breaks as it loves ever so intensely.

Christine is an American author and freelance writer living near Munich, Germany, with her husband and two children (Jackson, 5, and Sophia, 7).

The language of parenthood

By Christine

It is no secret that a parent's choice of language changes when a baby enters the house. Softer tones and fewer curse words cross our lips as we navigate early parenthood. We are mindful of what we say when our baby turns toddler/mirror of ourselves. We watch as they delve into mannerisms so close to our own that we wonder what else they have learned when we weren't looking. It would be neat to record our pre-kid voices and our post-kid ones. We might sound more hoarse now from admonishing, guiding, warning, and, yes, threatening our offspring into adulthood.

When my daughter was two, she had several words for thank you. "Ta ta," was the every day, thanks-for-changing-my-diaper-for-the-umpteenth-time-Mom version. Then she'd use "dat-dow" when she furtively got what she thought she might not: such as "Dat-dow"-for-the-ice-cream-before-dinner-Dad.

There are days when my husband still uses "Ta ta," although he mixes up the meaning and employs it when he's gotten away with murder. "Ta-ta"-for-letting-me-go-out-without-cleaning-up-the-mess-the-kids-and-I-left-behind-Sweetheart. Or better: "Ta-ta"-for-buying-my-mother-yet-another-birthday-gift-cuz-I-might-have-forgotten-Darling.

Having kids has not only affected how we speak, but also what we say. The guinea pigs we recently got are not called cavies, which is their correct name. They are now called "The Squeakies" because of their benevolent chirping at mealtime. My children have long been called :The Thnobbits" for their Hobbit-like approach to living –- barefoot and low to the ground and preferably in a cave (of blankets and dining room chairs). I've been called 'Mama' for eons, of course, but my all-time favorite nickname stems from my son's gentle ribbing.

"Watch out, you Pampers!" he squealed at me last weekend as he raced his 5-year-old self down the drive in rollerblades. I watched him whirl around the corner and keep going.

"Did he just call me a diaper brand?" I looked quizzically at my husband. He nodded.

"Ta ta, Thnobbit!" I called back, grinning as he skid to a halt and glared at me. He coughed for effect.

"My name is Jackson," he chided through his protective glove.

"Well," I replied, hand on hip, "I am not a disposable nappy!"

Conversations such as these are what make parenthood great. Semantically, they make no sense at all. But to us, they mean the world.

Christine is an American author and freelance writer living near Munich, Germany, with her husband and two children (Jackson, 4 and Sophia, 6).

My baby doesn't live here anymore

By Christine

The church clock struck five, making me press the pedal to the metal to get Sophia to her ballet lesson on time. Furrowed brow and white knuckles were all that was left of my posture. I was worried my daughter had taken on too much this week. First flute practice at school, then soccer practice, then a birthday party invitation and now ballet. Most of her day is filled with rushing from one thing to the next.

"How did this happen?" I scolded myself as we rounded the corner to the dance school parking lot. I’ve always preached a slower way of life. The kids aren’t allowed more than two extracurricular activites. As I sorted it out in my mind, my daughter’s feet hit the pavement. Before I could say good-bye, her blonde pigtail had escaped behind the school’s front door. Wide-mouthed and paralyzed, I sat in the car with my forearm bent perpendicular to my head.

My daughter didn’t need me anymore. She didn’t need guidance on how to put on her ballet shoes. She knew where her water bottle was. She had no hesitation about being in a new class with kids she didn’t know yet. She was no longer a baby. Truly.

I swallowed the lump and lowered my limb. Shifting into gear, I consoled myself. "At least I have my five-year-old son," I reasoned as I dawdled about the town for an hour. He was still at the birthday party and would be picked up by his father. Would he miss me?

We got home and the typical chaos ensued. Overtired, underfed children pleading for a video. Parents struggling to control voices to find reason in the midst of its lacking. By 9 p.m., my husband and I were ready to settle into bed with a good book and an early bedtime. Our son stood in the doorway, squinting into the halogen light.

“Do you want to snuggle?” I asked hopefully, pulling back the covers for him to get into bed. He slipped under the blanket and pressed his warm feet against me. He asked lots of questions about this and that, revealing how he didn’t like my calling him by his pet name anymore. He was a big boy soccer player with dreams.

“What should I call you, then?” I asked.

“My name.”

It was almost too much to take. Where did the time go? One minute I was complaining about extreme sleep deprivation. The next my kids were actively pursuing their own interests without me! My babies were indeed growing up.

As my son’s breathing became shallow and even, I knew no matter how independent they became, a part of them would always come back. And I’d be there at the ready with a snuggle and an ever hopeful, listening ear.

Christine is an American author and freelance writer living near Munich, Germany, with her husband and two children (Jackson, 4 and Sophia, 6).

Back to school, back to life

By Christine

Let's face it. Back to school is painful. It's like hitching a mountain to a bungee cord and giving it a tug. As if you're going to move mountains with a rubber rope.

No, back to school requires more than just your run-of-the-mill tactics. It involves reprogramming your entire system to operate at an earlier hour.

Take the alarm clock, as an example. It is a simple device that one sets in order to rise at an appointed time. An inch-thick layer of dust masked the only one we own. The children stared at it warily. I approached it myself with great caution.

"Do you think the batteries are dead?" I heard my daughter whisper to her 5-year-old brother. I could sense the delicious swell of hope rise in her bosom as the alarm croaked a near-soundless tune.

"Add it to the list," I barked a sudden command. The children jolted. It was time to go shopping.

We filled our cart with back-to-school essentials: notebooks, pencils, erasers, crayons, and new socks. We rounded the corner to the electronics section. Suddenly, my children scattered to the four winds in pursuit of the next toy they wanted.

I stood alone in the aisle, pining for the simpler days of summer, straining to hear the tumble of the ocean floor as it upheaved itself against the shore.

Nada.

Only the squeak of the shopping cart as I tumbled backward into a display of CDs. Bleary-eyed from our new routine, I pulled the children away from the toy section in time to remember the batteries. And a box of tissues for us all to mop up the disappointment of another summer ending too soon.

Christine is an American author and freelance writer living near Munich, Germany, with her husband and two children (Jackson, 4 and Sophia, 6).

Mama Kenya

By Christine

Some people know me as Christine Hohlbaum. Others call me Cri. But there are only two people in the world who call me Mama Kenya.

It was a subtle beginning as Ms. Kenya. First syllables, then words. Then a string of sentences chained together like construction paper rings in a third-grade classroom. Ruby lips framed sound. My husband and I melted at first. Later, we learned to cringe.

“Mama, kenya get my jacket from my room downstairs?”

“Mama, kenya buy me a lollipop, pa-leeeeeease?”

“Mama, kenya take me to my friend’s house?”

“Mama, kenya get me something to drink?”

My kids’ friends have noticed they actually get things when they try this strategy. Lately, my daughter’s best friend has started in on the act.

“Christine, kenya make me a sandwich, too?”

Children are the only people I know who use an African country as a surname. It has to do with the one-way street that parenting is for a good long while. But when I hear, “Mama, kenya give me a kiss?” I melt all over again, just like those first days when my children learned to elicit a reaction through words.

Those sophisticated little mites have me by the heart strings, by golly, and I know the constant giving won’t last forever. I live in the confidence that one day that one-way street will verge into two. Then, there might be moments when I can pass them an African moniker as well.

Christine is an American author and freelance writer living near Munich, Germany, with her husband and two children (Jackson, 4 and Sophia, 6).

(Dead) Mama Walking

By Christine

Running is for crazy people with a death wish. That’s what I told my friends who urged me to come along to the Munich City Run at the end of June. They wanted to try for the half-marathon. I’m lucky if my car is running, much less if I am.

"No thanks," I replied, grinning complacently at them.

"There’s a 5K race, too," said my girlfriend.

"You can walk it," her husband added.

Now walking is something I find great pleasure in doing, and I could sense the challenge they lobbed at me. I stab at the ground with my Nordic walking sticks at least once a week, and they knew it. The neat thing about the sport is it is great exercise and virtually pain-free. Settling my gaze on their eager faces, I pumped up my chest and inhaled.

"Alright. I’ll do it." I signed up for the 5K leg of the race then and there.

The day was overcast and cool. Clutching my sticks, I fought an overwhelming sense of nervousness. Why was I concerned? I walk 5K over hill and dale every week. This should be no different, except for the five hundred other people who were wearing the same orange shirt and tennis shoes. The course was flat, taking us through the English Garden and back. So I’d pass culturally significant monuments and thousands of onlookers, too. What was the big deal?

The 10K runners had taken off long ago and the thousands of half-marathon runners jogged steadily in their places before the starting gun fired. Watching the throngs of anxious contestants, I wondered why we do this to ourselves. Why do we challenge ourselves to physical exhaustion?

My reason was clear. I wanted to impress the heck out of my kids. I wanted them to root for me as I stumbled to the finish line, beaming more proudly than a light in a laser show. I wanted them to see me as an athletic goddess to whose prowess they would at once aspire.

I’ve never walked so fast in all my life. Maybe it was because I was at the end of the line, or because I really had to use the restroom that I woefully couldn’t find before the start of the race. For whatever reason, I boogied up and down the course in 40 minutes flat.

As I reached the finish line, I saw my kids looking bored. They had chocolate smudges on their faces, and my husband missed taking a snapshot because I surprised him with my speed. Undeterred, I pressed my grin against the equally cheerful faces on either side of the barricade.

When we got home, my husband and I napped for two hours. All this business of competition and impressing the kids can make a mama dead tired, indeed. There will be time for the children to understand the meaning of their mother’s aspirations. In fact, they have seven whole days to ingest the significance. I’m doing another race next week.

Christine is an American author and freelance writer living near Munich, Germany, with her husband and two children (Jackson, 4 and Sophia, 6).