DotMoms

My new age

By Elizabeth L-B

I had a birthday recently, not a big deal one, not one that turned me an age ending with a 0 or even a 5. I had the day off from work, so I spent the morning doing some long-overdue shopping, the afternoon at the playground with the boys. My family gave me some presents, and we had an ice cream cake after dinner. It was very pleasant, in a low-key way. Getting a year older doesn't seem to matter that much these days, but it's still nice to have a cake.

I recently read that Forbes and Yahoo have designed a system to let you send an e-mail to your future self. You can choose to have it delivered as soon as in one year, or as long as in 20 years. As soon as I saw it, I started doing the mental math:

• In one year, Daniel will be almost 6 and Nicholas will be 3. Daniel will be in kindergarten. Nicholas will be in preschool.
• In five years, Daniel will be almost 10 and Nicholas will be 7. They'll both be in elementary school.
• In 10 years, Daniel will be almost 15 and Nicholas will be 12. They'll probably both be taller than me.
• In 20 years, Daniel will be almost 25 and Nicholas will be 22. They might both be done with college. I could even be a grandmother.

Right now, the best description of my age is "the parent of a 2-year-old and a 5-year-old."  I have more in common with other parents of kids their age, whether they are 24 or 44, than I do with my childless peers. I don't think 39 will feel much different than 34 does, but I'm sure my life will be very different as the parent of school-age kids. I'll be done with diapers and car seats, dealing with homework, soccer, and fights with friends. It will be a new age.

Elizabeth L-B lives with her husband, a SAHD, and two sons in Alexandria, Va., and works for the federal government.

Mine!

By Elizabeth L-B

The nice thing about having two boys less than three years apart is that they share many of the same interests and enjoy playing with the same toys. The bad thing about having two boys less than three years apart is also that they share many of the same interests and enjoy playing with the same toys. We spend a lot of time sorting out disputes over who gets to play with what.

When Nicholas was a baby, we taught Daniel that if he wanted to take one of his toys away from Nicholas, he had to give Nicholas something else to play with. That worked well with a distractable 12-month-old, but doesn't help much now that Nicholas is a 2-year-old, able to remember exactly what he was playing with.

Part of the problem is that most of the toys were bought for Daniel and thus are -- by at least one standard -- his. And I can guarantee that even if Daniel hasn't touched a toy for a year and a half, it will suddenly become the most fascinating object in the house as soon as Nicholas starts to play with it.

The general rules in our house are:

• Some items -- the tracks for the trains, all the ride-on toys -- have been officially socialized. No one gets to claim them as exclusive property, because we're not buying duplicates.
• Each boy has a stuffed doggie that he's never expected to share.
• Things that are received as gifts by each boy are his. Sharing is encouraged, but not required. After about six months, things drift into common property.
• Anything that results in fighting gets put away, or the boy who wants to play with it has to take it to another room. 

What are your house rules? How do you deal with the cries of "mine!"?

Elizabeth L-B lives with her husband, a SAHD, and two sons in Alexandria, Va., and works for the federal government.

Shouts of anger, shouts of love

By Elizabeth L-B

Last month, I noted that my DotMoms posts are often about my inadequacies as a parent. Most of the time, I feel like I'm doing the best that I can. Last week, however, I blew it.

When I got home from work one evening, my husband, Tony, and I decided to walk to the grocery store with the boys. On the way home, Daniel announced that he was exercising. We had no problem with him running down the sidewalk -- if anything, I was happy that he was finally getting a move on. But then he stopped in the middle of the crosswalk and started to do jumping jacks. We shouted, and pulled at him, and got him out of the street and stood on the corner, looking at each other. "Daniel!" I shouted one more time, and his face crumpled and he started to cry.

As we walked the rest of the way home, Daniel insisted that we should apologize for yelling at him. Tony explained that while we were sorry that we scared him, we reserved the right to shout when he was doing something dangerous. As important as it is that he not be scared, it's even more important that we keep him safe. In the darkening evening, a driver could easily have not seen Daniel, and assumed it was safe to resume driving after the adults had crossed.

But that last yell of mine wasn't to move Daniel out of the street. He was already safe on the sidewalk when I shouted. It was a verbal slap. I wasn't sure he had registered the seriousness of the situation, wanted to make him pay attention. And I was angry and already frustrated at his dawdling. I have to admit Daniel's bursting into tears was exactly what a part of me -- a part of me that I'm not proud of -- wanted. 

I apologized for yelling, and we tried to explain why we were so upset. With any luck, we both learned a lesson. He learned (I hope) not to stop in the middle of the street. I learned (I hope) that it's precisely when I'm scared and full of adrenaline that I need to think twice about my tone of voice and what I'm trying to achieve. End of story, I thought.

But then this weekend I was driving Daniel home from a playdate, and he said, "Look at me." I looked, and he was pulling at the door handle next to his seat. "Don't do that!" I said sharply (but not shouting). "You know better. Never try to open a car door while it's moving." 

"But it won't do anything" he protested. "You have the child lock on." (Which was true.) 

"But I might have turned the child lock off. And you did that to get a reaction, or you wouldn't have told me to look. Don't do that."

"Please don't tell daddy," he asked, almost whispering. "I don't want him to be angry at me."

I don't think we've permanently traumatized the kid, but it clearly left an impact. He's testing us, trying to figure out what makes us that angry, whether we still love him.  And it's not easy on any of us. 

Any suggestions for how to talk about this with him? Good books for a 4-year-old that show that angry parents still love their kids?

Elizabeth L-B lives with her husband, a SAHD, and two sons in Alexandria, Va., and works for the federal government.

Noticing babies

By Elizabeth L-B

When Tony and I decided to try and have our second child, we both agreed that this was it. He didn't want to have to handle more kids than he has hands, or be in a family where the kids outnumbered the parents. While I had uneventful pregnancies, I was physically uncomfortable much of the time, and didn't want to go through it again. We both have long lists of things we hope to do in our lives, and liked the idea of being done with the active parenting stage while we were still relatively young. And so, when Nicholas was about 6 months old, Tony went to the doctor and took care of things.

I'm writing all this as background, so you understand that I'm not really considering having another child. Even if we hadn't elected for a permanent form of birth control, I don't think I'd be second guessing the decision. None of our reasons have changed.

But Nicholas is now the age that Daniel was when Nicholas was conceived, and I've noticed that I've started to pay attention to babies again. In the supermarket, walking down the street, crying in a crowded restaurant. I notice their little feet, their funny looking bald heads, the way that they cuddle into their parents' arms. A year ago I ignored them, but now I find myself turning toward them.

I don't want another baby, but I'm missing the babies that I used to have. Daniel is all angles and says "Mo-om!" in that particular exasperated tone that I thought didn't show up until the teenage years. Nicholas is rounder, but full of opinions and determined to have his own way. He hates his stroller, and only grudgingly is willing to hold my hand. I look at their baby photos and can barely imagine them that small, their whole bodies fitting into the crook of my arm.

So, when I peak into slings and infant car seats, I'm remembering when my boys were that small, how exhausted I was, but also how wonderful it was to be the center of their world. I'm remembering what it was like to be able to plop the baby down on a blanket and be confident that it wasn't going anywhere, but also what it was like to walk in endless circles, unable to stop the crying. When coworkers bring their babies into the office, I'm interested in holding them. But I'm also happy to hand them back.

Elizabeth L-B lives with her husband, a SAHD, and two sons in Alexandria, Va., and works for the federal government.

A year of DotMoms

By Elizabeth L-B

This is my anniversary post on DotMoms. My first post appeared on September 26, 2004. Since then I've written about photographs and birthday parties, the joys of sibling relationships and the challenges of just getting out the door in the morning. The post I've written that got the most comments was on our bad housekeeping.

In reading all of my posts from the past year, I'm struck by how often I write about the ways in which I feel deeply inadequate as a parent. I am not as patient with my children as I would like to be. They don't eat as healthily as I'd like them to, or keep their room as clean.

But I'm afraid that the overall picture I've painted is overly negative. And yet, overall, I'm having a blast. I love how the boys will run across the room to crash into me with great big hugs. I love how they both believe that mommy kisses cure all injuries. I love it when they demand that I read to them. I love how they're figuring out how the world works.

So why the focus on the negative? Some of it is a deep-seated belief that it's at best impolite and at worst downright dangerous to crow about your fortunes. I also worry about getting overly sappy. But fundamentally, I think I write about my failings as a parent because I can count on kind readers to tell me I'm not alone, that everyone feels that way. 

(At a birthday party we attended this weekend, another mother looked at the child throwing a tantrum on the floor, and leaned over to say to me "Isn't it nice to know that other people's children do that too?" Yes, it is.)   

And even if I am the only one who worries about something, at least people will read my posts and feel a bit more reassured about themselves.

Elizabeth L-B lives with her husband, a SAHD, and two sons in Alexandria, Va., and works for the federal government.

Mommies always come back

By Elizabeth L-B

"I will see you tonight," I promise my sons as I leave them to go to work. "Mommies always come back."

But for the past four years, I've been reminded that not all parents get to keep that promise. Some parents go to work on a morning of brilliant blue skies and never return.  Even without terrorist attacks or natural disasters, parents have heart attacks or are killed in car crashes.

Daniel was just 7 months old on September 11, 2001.  I think he kept me sane that day, because otherwise I would have sat and watched the images on television over and over again, unable to look away. But I had a cheerfully ignorant infant, who didn't know that anything horrible had happened, who needed to be fed and burped and have his diaper changed, and who wanted to play and go for walks and be the center of his parents' attention. I turned off the television and grounded myself in his daily routine.

Four years later, the television has mostly stayed off. I read the newspaper and magazines, obsessively check the headlines on the Internet, but almost never watch the news on television. It's too violent, too frightening, full of images that I don't think my children are old enough to absorb.

But I can't raise my children in a bubble. Next year Daniel will be in elementary school, around older kids who aren't so sheltered. Soon he'll be able to read the headlines himself. Moreover, I don't want my children to live in isolation. I want them to care about things happening in the world outside them, to understand how incredibly fortunate they are, eventually to help make the world a better place. I just don't want to terrify them. And I don't know what the right balance is.

So last Sunday, I let a tiny bit of the scary world into my children's lives. I took a deep breath, and showed them the bag of clothes that I had collected to give to families displaced by Katrina. I told them that many people's houses had been flooded, and that they had lost all their things, and so we were going to give them some clothes that we weren't using. I reminded Daniel of a story we've read, "A Chair for My Mother," by Vera Williams, which is about a family that has lost all their belongings to a fire. I didn't try to convey the scale of the disaster, or the number of people who had died, or the failures of all levels of government. I hugged them, and then we had pancakes.

Some mornings when I leave, Daniel refuses to give me a kiss. I think he believes that I won't leave without the kiss, and so by withholding it, he can stop me from leaving. But I tell him "I love you" and "I'll see you tonight" and I leave anyway. And I pray for a day when all mommies, everywhere, really will come back.

Elizabeth L-B lives with her husband, a SAHD, and two sons in Alexandria, Va., and works for the federal government.

Brotherly love

By Elizabeth L-B

Driving back from a visit to my parents, disaster struck: our portable DVD player died, with another two hours of driving still to go. I steeled myself for a long and painful trip.  Instead, much to my amazement, Daniel and Nicholas entertained each other for most of the trip, playing a game where they each imitated the sound patterns the other made.  I was able to listen to music, and focus my attention on the traffic ahead of me.

Watching my sons learn to play together has been one of the true joys of parenthood this summer. I wasn't surprised that Nicholas idolizes his big brother, and will chase after him as fast as his short legs will allow. I didn't expect Daniel to be so interested in Nicholas, or to be willing to follow his lead in making up games. (One day they spent nearly an hour throwing rocks into a pond, something that Daniel had never shown any interest in before.) When a friendly stranger asks him if that's his baby brother, Daniel vehemently protests that Nicholas isn't a baby.

This isn't to say that they never fight. Of course they do. Whatever toy either of them picks up is immediately the most fascinating thing in the world to the other, even if he hadn't played with it in months. When Nicholas was little, Daniel could usually persuade him to "trade" for another shiny object, but now Nicholas has learned to stand his ground. They often sound like the seagulls in "Finding Nemo," shrieking "mine" at the top of their lungs.

When Nicholas was a baby, I read "Siblings without Rivalry," hoping for some advice that would smooth the way. The authors argue that there's no way to guarantee that your children will be friends -- that's mostly a matter of temperament and luck; all you can do is try to give them the tools they need to get along with others, whether or not they are friends. I don't know if my boys will be friends when they get older -- their personalities seem quite different, and that may send them in different directions. But in any case, I'll cherish the memories of them playing "Ahh -- beee -- pthfff!" for 60 miles of backed-up highway.

Elizabeth L-B lives with her husband, a SAHD, and two sons in Alexandria, Va., and works for the federal government.

Food for thought

By Elizabeth L-B

I love to watch Nicholas eat. He adores blueberries, tomatoes, bananas and cheese, but will eat almost anything. He's at the stage when he insists on feeding himself -- with forks and spoons -- and most of the food even makes it into his mouth. He's interested in trying whatever we're eating, and isn't fazed by spicy foods. If he decides he doesn't like something after trying it, he'll just reach in and pull it out, and then scrape it off of his tongue.

I love Nicholas' enthusiam for food both because it's fun, and because it reassures me that his brother's picky eating isn't our fault. There's not a single vegetable that Daniel will eat unless I hide it in a muffin, and the only fruits he likes are raisins and craisins.    After much persuasion, he tried blueberries, and says he likes them, but is still only interested in them about once a week. His staples are graham crackers with peanut butter, chicken nuggets, and gallons of milk. His first question at dinner time is, "Can I have something you're not having?" If the answer is no, he'll often just skip the meal.

Daniel also has a serious sweet tooth. If given the chance, he'll consistently skip meals and live on cookies and packaged "fruit" bars. Would the responsible thing be to ban them from the house? I'm reluctant to do so, as these are perfectly fine things to eat, as part of a diet that includes other things. And the rest of us eat them in moderation.

The new complication is that I'm on a diet. Nothing too stringent, but I've decided that once Nicholas is 2, I'm no longer entitled to blame him for the excess weight I've been carrying since his birth. And as I move towards a less starchy, more vegetable-oriented diet, there's less and less overlap between what I'm eating and what Daniel is willing to try. I don't know, maybe it's asking too much to expect a 4-year-old to try chickpeas, spinach and orzo. (Even Nicholas turned it down, although he loved the yogurt sauce.)

All these choices are tricky, because food isn't just about taking in the nutrients and calories needed to fuel our bodies. It's about taste and pleasure. It's about ethnic pride and family memories. Feeding people is often a way of showing our love, as is eating the food that people have given us. Studies have shown that eating family meals together is a key predictor of child well-being.  Is it OK for us to all be eating different things, as long as we're sitting down at the same table? 

Elizabeth L-B lives with her husband, a SAHD, and two sons in Alexandria, Va., and works for the federal government. 

Bad housekeeping

By Elizabeth L-B

When I was in elementary school, my father once left a note on the door of the bedroom that my older sister and I shared:

P and E -- Your bedroom smells like an elephant died in there, but it's such a mess, I can't find the body. Please clean it up.

Over the next 20 years or so, my organizing and cleaning skills improved. I never had a place that looked like something out of Martha Stewart, but my home was never so messy that I was embarassed to have people over.

Things have gone downhill since the boys were born. I work full-time and spend most of my non-work time with the boys. When the boys finally settle for the evening, I'm a lot more inclined to read a book, check out my favorite blogs, or try to fit in a bit of exercise than I am to vacuum the living room. Tony does some cleaning, but it's far from his top priority either. Both of us find it discouraging how quickly the boys can turn a room that you just spent an hour cleaning into a disaster zone. (Yes, I suppose it's an improvement that Nicholas is dumping the bookshelves onto a clean carpet.)

Having people over isn't much fun these days, because it usually involves an exhausting whirlwhind of cleaning to make the house presentable. (We recently hired a new babysitter, and I found myself frantically scrubbing the downstairs bathroom half an hour before she was due to arrive.) I tell myself that anyone who cares more about the house than our company isn't worth having as a friend, and yet I still cringe a little as I hear the Cheerios crunching underfoot.

Last week, I think we hit bottom. At least I sincerely hope that this is bottom. After returning from a long weekend, I discovered a sippy cup of milk that had fallen behind the toy chest in the boys' bedroom. I dumped the main chunk of sour milk into the toilet, rinsed the cup out, and left it soaking in the kitchen sink. Half an hour later, I realized that some of the "curds" in the sink were moving -- ack! yeck! maggots! We scrubbed the sink thoroughly and poured bleach down the drain, but an hour later we were still tracking down the survivors squirming their way up from the disposal. (Shudder.) 

I'm not sure how we're going to turn things around (yes, I've heard of FlyLady), but something has to change. I'm not sure I'd want to visit someone else's house that had gotten this bad. We can't live like this.

Elizabeth L-B lives with her husband and two sons in Alexandria, Va., just across the river from Washington, D.C., where she works for the federal government, mostly on welfare policy.

I don't know how he does it

By Elizabeth L-B

I was reasonably good with them as babies. Of course, I had the totally unfair advantage of having these things on my chest that were the source of milk and could provide comfort even when hunger wasn't the immediate problem. I like to take long walks, and I soon figured out that almost any crisis was improved by fresh air and a change of scenery. And even when it didn't make the babies happier, their crying wasn't as annoying when it didn't bounce back off the walls at me.

I was quite good with them as toddlers. I could play peek-a-boo and read board books forever. I'm quite content to take walks that take 10 minutes to go to the end of the block because there are so many rocks to be picked up and manhole covers to be stomped on and doggies to be pointed out. And I got quite good at stepping over the screaming child and letting the tantrum run its course.

But I don't think I'm very good at this preschool stage. I don't want to read the Berenstain Bears, or Dora the Explorer, and I'm totally sick of reading books about trucks and trains. I don't want to be Steve or Dave or any of the Powerpuff girls, let alone all three. I can take it when Daniel asks "why" when I've said no to him, but it drives me crazy when I say "yes" and he still wants to know why. And I'd like once, just once, to have him do something just because I asked him to without negotiating for a better deal.

What boggles my mind is that I only spend about three hours a day with Daniel on weekdays (more on weekends), and I still feel like I've been through the wringer by the time he goes to bed. My husband is home with him all day (no preschool during the summer!) and still somehow manages to stay both pleasant and sane. I don't know how he does it.

Elizabeth L-B lives with her husband and two sons in Alexandria, Va., just across the river from Washington, D.C., where she works for the federal government, mostly on welfare policy.