DotMoms

First love

By Elizabeth S.

My son is in love.

It's not a crush. It really is love. He is 4 and she is a pre-school classmate. She is a beautiful brunette with glasses and she holds his happiness in the very palm of her hand. He tells me he is going to marry her.

At first, the love was unrequited. Then she caught on and (happiness!) the love was returned. Now she realizes the power she holds and has been seen to rebuke him, if only temporarily. How quickly they learn. And how heartbreaking (and endearing, and amusing) for me to hear of my son pining in the corner, waiting for his ladylove to take him back into her favor.

At a recent parent-teacher conference, I was surprised to see Hilary's name mentioned in almost all of the columns of my son's "report." His behavior and patterns appear to be dictated by his sweetheart's presence, mood, and inclinations on each particular day. In the part of the report where the teacher had asked him questions and wrote down his answers, they went something like this:

Teacher: What makes you happy?

Ethan: Hilary.

Teacher: What makes you sad?

Ethan: Hilary.

Teacher: What is your favorite thing to do at school?

Ethan: Play with Hilary.

You get the picture.

No doubt, this love will pass and Ethan will return to his former self. Until the next time. But I will always remember the lovely Hilary, even when Ethan is 16 and pining away over Sophie, Katie or whoever captures his heart. I'll remember Hilary even when Ethan is married and watching his own children suffering the slings and arrows of Cupid's folly.

Right on cue

By Elizabeth S.

My son was always a bit unpredictable, and I often noticed he ventured into uncharted territory (such as tantrums and fridge-climbing) well before his playgroup peers. I would get sympathetic glances from other moms, and sometimes not-so-sympathetic ones. We had a rough couple of years with him.

So I was very relieved when my daughter came along and demonstrated very early on that she had read and memorized the textbook. She was a textbook baby in every sense of the word. Maybe even more perfect than textbook.

She was conceived on the first try. She was born on her due date. She was born, specifically, at two minutes before 10 p.m., which was very convenient for our family doctor because his shift ended at 10 p.m. She weighed exactly 8 pounds. Not an ounce under or over. She was offered the breast and knew exactly what to do with it. When she was done, she went to sleep. She followed to the letter the "Easy Baby's Guide to Life."

When offered solid food, she decided she quite liked it. All of it. Even steamed broccoli. She was always agreeable, pliable, and generally happy. She smiled at strangers and charmed them easily. She was affectionate but not clingy. She was sweet but strong. She was absolutely wonderful. A dream kid. And after the challenges of our son's early years, we felt we deserved her.

But recently, she reached the chapter of the guidebook titled "You're Two: Here's What To Do," and my world has changed. The sweet face that beamed at strangers now scrunches up into a scowl that provokes double-takes. The tantrums have begun. A recent shoe-shopping trip saw her throwing her baby doll and cup on the floor and kicking at the poor man trying to measure her feet. I swear she would spit if she knew how.

These days, when she wakes up from her nap, I don't get outstretched arms and smiles. I get the under-the-eyebrows-glare and a 10-minute screaming session during which she claws at me to be picked up and then kicks at me to get down, over and over until I give up and walk away.

All I can say is, I wish the textbook would revise the second chapter, and I can't wait for her to close the book on it! My hope is that she will continue to be predictable, and outgrow this phase within a year. Or two.

Who's that girl?

By Elizabeth S.

An astonishing thing happened to me recently. For the first time in about five years, I spent five days being just me. I went home to London alone – yes, alone – and spent a heavenly week doing whatever I wanted. No kids, no husband, no responsibilities beyond getting to dinner and theatre dates on time… and it was wonderful. My family held together without me, and I did not feel guilty. Well, not too much. I realized how much I needed to just be ME for a while.

After 11 years of marriage, four-plus years of motherhood, and an ugly journey into post-partum depression, I feel like I finally took a moment to look up from domestic Diva-dom and say "Hold on a minute. Where am I? What happened?" and I started to think about the things that used to make me tick. Things like photography, theatre, ballet and so on.

I noticed that those things had been all but banished from my daily life, replaced with Playdoh, playgroup and playgrounds. I never felt that stay-at-home motherhood suited me particularly well, but I wanted to do it for my kids and it's been worth it, every second. But lately, I have begun to climb the walls. I need a little bit of my life back, and the timing seems just about right.

My trip home was one of the first steps; it recharged my batteries and gave me the impetus to tweak my life and regain some balance. I am considering evening classes to prep me for a new (flexible, family-friendly) career once my youngest turns school age. I have taken the time and effort to make dates with girlfriends to see local theatre and ballet performances. I see the light at the end of the tunnel, and I feel better about the daily grind, knowing that the stay-at-home routine is a temporary – and interruptible – phase in life.

Overall, I think all this tweaking will make me a better mom; a happier mom and I hope a more interesting one, too.

Violent protest

By Elizabeth S.

My son turned 4 recently, and is if on cue, he took us into unchartered territory… violence and TV.

I am not sure when or where, but he happened to see the Power Rangers on TV. He may have been watching Noggin and changed the channel. My husband remembers this happening, but not exactly how it happened. All the same, neither my husband nor I ever saw Power Rangers and only had an inkling of what it is about. I had seen pictures of teenagers in pink and red jumpsuits with helmets on. It seemed a bit silly, so I assumed it was fairly harmless.

For a week afterward, my son was begging for a Power Rangers DVD. I didn't pay too much attention. Then one day, while he was in school, I ventured into the mall and saw some great clothes in Baby Gap. I picked out a pair of "Katy Cat pants," which are bibs or dungarees to you and me. He calls them Katy Cat pants because of a character in a book, and he loves them. I couldn't believe my luck in finding a pair that didn't have baby-like snaps in the legs, and I snatched them up.

When we got home after school, I told him I had a surprise for him and gave him the Gap bag. When he saw the Katy Cat pants, he dissolved in tears. He wasn't having a tantrum – he was genuinely heartbroken and I felt terrible. "But I wanted a Power Rangers DVD!" he sobbed. I didn't feel quite so terrible after that…

The next day, Daddy took him to pick out a DVD. He watched it with the same fascination and gusto he once reserved for The Wiggles. I never thought I'd say this, but I miss The Wiggles. Wake up, Jeff, all is forgiven.

Ethan spent the rest of the day playing as usual, but now his antics were punctuated with "I'm a Power Ranger and this is my wacksaw," or words to that effect. What a wacksaw is, I have no idea. When we saw a police car on the way to the store, he declared that he was a Power Ranger and could tell the policeman off and hit him with his "wacksaw." Later that day, my husband said, "I'm not sure I like those Power Rangers." I couldn't have agreed faster or more heartily.

So we were faced with an unpleasant scenario; we had to take away what we had given him, and it was something we knew he wouldn't want to part with. I was dreading it, with visions of tears and screaming dancing in my head. But the most amazing thing happened… when I told him the Power Rangers were too naughty for our house and we couldn't have them anymore, he just accepted it. No tantrums, no complaining, and not a wacksaw in sight.

Mind, body, soul

By Elizabeth S.

Being a mostly stay-at-home mom (I work two nights at my local newspaper) I struggle to fend off isolation and boredom. I never wanted to stay at home, and always assumed I would keep my career going while having kids. But when they came and I realized I just wanted to be home, it was an easy choice to make.

But making the choice and living the choice are two different things. My feelings about motherhood run the gamut from delight to loathing, but my feelings about my children are rock steady. I love my kids, but I don't always love being at home with them. And the long, cold winter pushes the isolation and boredom to peak levels.

Being a stay-at-home mom means you spend your days taking care of others' needs. Feed, change diaper, find sippy cup, read same books over and over, take to library, take to playgroup, take to park, feed again, bathtime, bedtime, locate the pacifier… and so on.

If you take a moment to call a friend or go to the bathroom, an emergency of the pre-school kind will inevitably arise and you will have to abandon your moment of indulgence to take care of things. Evenings are often spent exhausted and listening to husband's career and colleague dilemmas. Before you know it, you've gone months without taking care of yourself.

I recently read Tom Perotta's "Little Children," an amusing tale of suburban parenthood, and I laughed out loud when one stay-at-home mom and a stay-at-home dad began making out at the playground. I understand that a lifestyle of gargantuan selflessness can lead to one surprising moment of complete abandonment of all values and common sense. It's as if the person inside the mother suddenly jumps out of the bushes, eyes wild and arms gesticulating madly, shouting "MY NAME IS NOT MOMMY – IT'S NANCY! AND I AM STILL HERE!"

While most of us manage to keep our paws off the dads at the park, we do need to feed ourselves physically, mentally and emotionally. For me, the answer is ballet. It's an art form, it's exercise, it's beautiful and it's fascinating. I watch it whenever I get the chance. I use the "New York City Ballet Workout" book as part of my daily exercise routine, and I listen to a boatload of classical music. It puts a skip in my step all day, and it reminds me of who I am and what I love about this world.

Besides, the gorgeous men in tights are a welcome distraction after a day of hunting for the sippy cup. And there's no danger I'll make out with any of them.

Vacuuming sucks

By Elizabeth S.

You know, I've always suspected that housework is bad for your health, but now I've formed the opinion that it's an outright hazard. Vacuuming, in particular, has so many pitfalls lying in wait, that you might consider a clause in your insurance policy.

In our house, the first problem is the children. When the vacuum is switched on, you can't hear them. At first, they stay close to you and -- in a cute little rendition of Hansel and Gretel -- place crumbs in your path, delighted when the vacuum gobbles them up. But then they grow bored and disappear to do who knows what. And it's the who knows what that scares me. I can't hear them, so if they are out of sight, they could be pulling out each other's eyelashes or painting the walls or hanging the cat.

The cat. You see, the cat (the old male grumpy sod) tends to hide during the day to avoid the children. Can't imagine why. He comes out for sustenance of varying kinds later in the evening. But during the daylight hours, he is most often found sleeping his ninth life away under our bed. So when I approach said bed with the vacuum cleaner, it is with some trepidation because I know at any given moment, a furry blur is going to scream its arse from under the bed, taking out all who step in its path. I imagine this happening when I am close to the doorway and therefore the top of the stairs. I would hate to die that way.

Then there's The Pile. To the naked eye, it appears that I married a grown man -- capable of holding a most definitely responsible job in very fine fashion and of being a jolly good dad to boot. And he's even good-looking. But a closer examination reveals the beating heart of a teenage boy and the evidence lies in the corner of his side of the room. Are the clothes clean? Are they dirty? Can they walk? Are living things making love in there? I am not by nature a curious person and I can easily live without seeking the answers to any of those questions. So I vaccum around the pile, taking care not to upset a single solitary thread.

The final challenge takes us back to the darling children. You see, while I have been upstairs facing demons and dust bunnies, the little ones have been downstairs, hopefully not pulling aforementioned eyelashes, but most likely making some sort of creation that would require me to revisit the family room with aforementioned vacuum and do that room all over again. The problem here is that I might burst a blood vessel, or perhaps introduce my kids to the finer art of cursing like a whore, or perhaps even kill, kill, kill aforementioned vacuum cleaner. Which cost a lot of beans.

And this is why I believe housework to be the most evil of necessary evils. Any donations toward Merry Maids cleaning service would be gratefully and humbly accepted.

Child's play

By Elizabeth S.

I went with a girlfriend to see "Finding Neverland" the other night. I imagine that just about anyone would enjoy this film, but it is a true joy for parents to watch, and I could relate and sympathize with many moments in the movie.

The magic of childhood was obviously a big part of the film, and I just loved watching the four boys playing pirates, jumping on their beds, putting the youngest brother in "jail," and generally giving their poor mother a run for her money. After a particularly demanding bedtime routine, Kate Winslet closes the door to her boys' room, gathers herself and gives a little sigh… a sigh that made me smile with recognition.

It's also a sad movie, and I watched a few scenes through my own personal waterfall, but mostly I came away with a reminder of how important playtime is for children… and the magic of make-believe.

At home, I enjoy watching my children watch television. That doesn't sound so great on paper, but I'm choosy about what they watch and I love to see them getting involved and mimicking what they see on screen.

My daughter loves her Teletubbies tape, which contains a small segment of a little girl tap-dancing in her back garden. My daughter (21 months old) gets to her feet and copies the dancing girl step-for-step, including all the arm and hand movements. Every time she does this, I literally melt, and I just had to record it on videotape. My own mom tells me she watches the tape almost daily. I think dance classes are in Amelia's future.

My son (almost 4) loves kiddie-style documentaries about things like airplanes and planets. His current favorite is the "digger tape" which gives him the lowdown on construction sites. He gets very excited about demolition and cranes, but mostly likes to imitate "Construction Foreman Dave" driving a backhoe. Ethan sits in his wooden kiddie chair, wearing his bright yellow construction vest and his hard hat, and he copies "Dave" down to the slightest gesture. When Dave reverses, Ethan turns in his chair and looks over his shoulder. Every gear change is copied exactly and I just love to watch it, because he is so immersed in his world.

I remember when my classes at school took a turn, becoming more academic, and I felt very keenly that my imagination was being stifled, particularly in English class. I hope school districts are doing better now, and I hope my kids go on pretending for as long as they want to. Clap your hands if you believe!

Mum's the word

By Elizabeth S.

If I knew then…

My cousin's wife is expecting… but only just. She's nervous because it took her a long time to get pregnant and she's in the very early stages. Talking to her reminds me of how scary and exciting the first pregnancy is, and it makes me stop for a minute and be grateful for my two kids… and if I'm perfectly honest, the fact that I don't have to be pregnant right now.

It is such a momentous time for a woman, being pregnant for the first time, and it's surprising how much of the matter remains hush-hush. After my son was born, all I wanted to say to my mom and other women who had children was "Why didn't you tell me?!" I'm fairly certain the answer would have been "If women told, the human race would die out.”

I knew about stretch marks, for example, and I walked around with my head held high as my ever-expanding belly showed no sign of the things. I was sure my twice-daily moisturizing ritual was working wonders. Until one day I saw a little something out of the corner of my eye in the bathroom mirror, just below my belly. I leaned back as far as I could to get a view of the "underbelly" and nearly fell over in disbelief and horror when I saw the railway map that was now printed on my navel in shocking Technicolor. Nobody told me to look underneath.

I also knew that labor and childbirth would hurt, but I also believed my mom when she told me, "It's amazing. As soon as the baby is born, the pain is all over. Just like that!" Uh-huh. And so it was I walked around (gingerly) for days wondering why on earth she hadn't given me the lowdown on mommy's "recovery period."

When my husband's grandma visited after the birth, she took one look at me and said "And now you know." And she laughed. Heartily. I believe she even clapped her hands. It was then that I got it: "Welcome to the club! Now you're a mother. Now you KNOW. But there's one cardinal rule for members -- don't reveal any details to the uninitiated."

So I hope my cousin's wife has a safe and healthy pregnancy. I'll be praying for her to keep having symptoms. If she asks about baby care, I'll be happy to offer tidbits of advice. But if she asks about the business of birth, I'll keep mum.

It's a wrap

By Elizabeth S.

One thing that's guaranteed to ruin Christmas morning: Packaging.

I understand that toy manufacturers have redesigned toy boxes so the kids and parents can "test" the toys in the store before buying them. I understand this means they have to secure the toys in another way. I understand that theft may also have led to the new security packaging we see on the things we buy. But all the understanding in the world doesn't help on Christmas morning when my son is climbing the Christmas tree in absolute meltdown mode because 45 jolly minutes have passed and Dad hasn't yet managed to free the Super-Mega-Transforming-Super-Hero-Type-Toy from its many twisty-ties and its hard plastic womb.

Whatever happened to the days when a kid could just tear the gift-wrap off, open up a box and actually take a toy out and play with it? A slight delay may have taken place while the hunt for batteries ensued, but that's about it.

Now it's 2004, and the world is a nastier place and we have had to create a new Christmas tradition. I call it Boxing Day, but it's not like the Boxing Day I grew up with in England. On this Boxing Day, I literally beat the living daylight out of boxes. And their twisty-tie cohorts.

Sometime around Dec. 20, we get the kids to bed and rent a movie. My husband stretches out on the couch and I sit cross-legged on the floor, armed with scissors, Swiss Army knife, screwdrivers, batteries of all sizes and the usual wrapping paper and tape. I open each and every toy, get rid of the finger-slicing hard plastic wombs. I un-twist all those horrid little twisty-ties and remove the little plastic tags that hold them to the cardboard. I unscrew battery compartments, add batteries, re-screw battery compartments. And then I try to return the toy to its former home. Not always easy. And then I try to wrap it. At this point, I have lost the plot in the movie we rented and my legs have turned numb and yes -- I admit -- I do resent my husband a little bit. But hey, it's better than ruining Christmas morning.

A slight wrinkle

By Elizabeth S.

My son delivered a blow the other day. Peering closely at me, he said, "Mommy, you have cracks!" And then he laughed. And I don't mean a chuckle; he really laughed hard. The kind of grab-your-sides-'cause-it-hurts belly laugh. Gleeful mirth in the face of my crushed equilibrium.

I considered putting him in the cellar with bread and water for sustenance and a solitary lump of coal to play with, telling him he couldn't come out until he had learned to say "My, my sweet mommy, you look so youthful today." But we don't have a cellar.

I considered sitting him down and letting him know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, who gave me those "cracks" in the first place. Mr I-Won't-Sleep-For-More-Than-Two-Hours-At-A-Time-Until-I-Am-A-Year-Old, that's who. But he wouldn't listen.

When I was pregnant, my then-boss told me that the first 12 months of motherhood would age my face about 2 or 3 years, and by the time my wee urchin was 5, I would look 10 years older. She was right about most things, and it seems she might be right about that, too. Horrid woman!

And then all I could think of was the time my mom scared the living daylights out of me by confiding that when you get older and your skin loses elasticity, your face will FALL OFF when you bend over. It seems to me that it would have been kinder if she hadn't mentioned it. I mean, she didn't tell me what childbirth would do to my nether regions, so why dish the dirt on this? Why? It's an image I have never shaken, and I live in dread of the day that my forehead, cheeks and chin wrestle free of my skeleton and hang loose. Horrible, horrible, horrible. Can you staple it back? It's a near miracle that I didn't become a plastic surgeon.

But guess what? The story has a somewhat happy ending. A twist you may not have seen coming. Redemption! You see, the next day, my son stared closely at me again and made the cracks comment again. But with a small … no, not small … an absolutely fundamental and monumental difference. He said I have RED cracks, and he was looking at my eyes. And then he said the same thing to my dear blurry-eyed husband. Red lines! Not wrinkles! Teeny little harmless red lines in my eyes. NOT wrinkles. Not. Nothing a few eye drops and a good night's sleep won't cure. No need for the Botox after all.

Am youthful and gorgeous and have skin like a baby's bottom.