DotMoms

Turn of phrase

By Elizabeth S.

My mom always smiled when I said I couldn't wait for my baby to talk. A mother of three, she knew that once begun, the talking never stops… whether or not you're on the phone, trying to talk to your husband or simply just wanting to give your much-maligned eardrums a break.

But as with most things, the good comes with the bad. Now your child can charm you with his stories (inevitably featuring some sort of bear, dragon, dinosaur or princess) but he or she can also talk back. "NO! I don't want to go to my room!"

Sometimes, they make up their own words for things, and you can go for quite a while without knowing what they mean. Other grown-ups will look at you with tilted head and raised brow, waiting for you to translate and you'll stand there with your mouth flapping. Your kid will get mad at you for being so utterly stupid, and the day you figure it out you'll be unreasonably happy about it.

My son, for example, kept talking about "huffers" and the "BIG huffer" and I had no clue what he was on about. Every time he said it, I would scan the horizon looking for something that could adequately be described as a "huffer" but I was pretty sure he wasn't talking about Walgreen's. Until one day, driving down University Avenue, the huffer-speak began in earnest. Lo and behold… the UW chimneys. Of course! Why hadn't I thought of it? A huffer is clearly a chimney! In fact, I think it's a better word for it. Chimney tells me nothing, but huffer captures the essence of the thing beautifully (yes, I know I didn't know what it meant at first… let's just skip past that, shall we?).

But the funniest thing about language and preschoolers is that they have the words but don't always grasp the concept behind them. My son has been testing me in recent months, and he's been chastised and time-outed and sent to his room more times than I can recall.

Fearing that our life together centered soley around discipline and correction, I sought to soften things with this explanation. "I always love you, I love you even when you're being naughty and need a time-out." He seemed to understand this, but to be sure, he kept repeating it back to me. So we had reached a consensus. All was good.

Then one day, he turned the tables on me. "Mommy,” he said, "I love you all the time, but sometimes I don't love you." I was speechless.

Hair-raising

By Elizabeth S.

It seems as women, we are born into hair problems. We don't suddenly enter the world of bad hair days when we turn 15, we are pretty much initiated in the womb, where we are covered with weird hair stuff called "lanugo."

Some babies are born with copious curls and others are baldies. The baldies have problems because they will be in need of hats and by the age of 3 or 4 months, this simply will not do. Average perch-on-the-head-time for a baby's hat is 4 seconds. Average getting-run-over-by-the-stroller-wheels time for a baby's hat adds up to about 10 months.

But then the hair gets longer and the first dilemma presents itself: bangs or no bangs? To me, bang-free hair seems more sophisticated somehow and also shows off the little darling's face so beautifully. Images of a small Caroline Kennedy abound. And why hide that adorable little forehead? But I also hate to see a tot trying to eat or play with a curtain of hair in the way, and we all know how futile it can be trying to hold it back with a barrette. The barrette spends as much time in the hair as the hat did on top of it. And there's the choking fear which makes most moms think twice. So, yes, we'll go with the bangs. For now, at least.

But then the hair gets longer and the second dilemma presents itself: long or short? Bobs are cute as can be, but the allure of long hair can hold mighty sway. So Mom and Dad (men DO have an opinion when it comes to hair, it seems) debate the pros and cons.

In our house it goes something like this:

Mom: The bob is so cute and it is easier to manage.
Dad: I like long hair.
Mom: I do, too, but little girls shouldn't have to deal with tangles, don't you think?
Dad: I like it long.
Mom: Perhaps we could keep it in a bob until she's older and it's thicker, then we can grow it long.
Dad: I like long.
Mom: Yeah, long is really pretty. And she would look so lovely, and it would be so cute in braids.
Dad: Yup.
Mom: Yeah. Umm, yeah. But the bob would be easier...
Dad: Sigh.
Mom: Let's keep it short ... for now.
Dad: Short is fine.

When in Rome...

By Elizabeth S.

Halloween is a very American affair. Growing up in England, we didn't trick or treat and we didn't dress up in costumes. There would be brief mention of the holiday, its history and perhaps you'd see a jack o' lantern here and there, but that was about it.

When I first came to the States, on October 23, 1993, I felt like I had stepped through the television screen. First was my arrival at JFK in New York. The sight of the Manhattan skyline was breathtaking and I felt like Dorothy seeing Oz for the first time. Then I made my way to the Midwest to meet my future husband's family and there I met with Halloween and what seemed to me like the set for "The Wonder Years" or some other TV show.

The lawns of the farmhouses -- and then the suburbs -- were dotted with big orange pumpkin bags filled with leaves. Interesting, I thought, in England we don't rake our leaves ... we let the rain turn them to mulch and feed the lawn. I thought the pumpkin bags were funny and a little cheesy, but I admired the spirit of it.

Everywhere I went, I saw homages to Halloween. The witch crashed into the tree, the orange lights on porches, the cheesecloth ghosts hanging from trees. And I loved it. When children first knocked on our door, shouting "TRICK OR TREAT!!!" I happily doled out fistfuls of candy and eagerly awaited the next gaggle of ghosts and goblins.

Now that I'm a mother, the holiday is even more fun. I delight in seeing my kids and their friends dressed up as lions, tigers and bears. One little girlfriend came to a Halloween party as a surgeon, blue scrubs and a lamp on her head. That was a favorite of mine and I might attempt to recreate it for my daughter next year.

I say next year because this year, we happen to be heading back to England and will miss the festivities. I'm a little sad to miss out, but I console myself with the knowledge that my own little monsters will easily avoid the sugar high and the over-stimulation that can oh-so-easily happen at Halloween.

Happy Halloween, everyone.

The Full Monty

By Elizabeth S.

My 3 1/2-year-old son is learning about the life cycle of butterflies at preschool. His marvelous teacher even went so far as to buy some caterpillars so the children could observe the entire process and set the butterflies free once they've hatched. My son is loving this "unit" and our fridge has been endowed with many a be-winged piece of art.

But the butterfly talk has returned him to a favorite habit of his earlier (or should I say even earlier) years... nudity. I thought this phase was behind him (no pun intended) but apparently, when a little boy ... erm caterpillar ... enters his cocoon (mom's favorite throw rolled up), he must be naked in order to transform into the butterfly.

As with most things toddler, this must be done a certain way. And so we find ourselves each morning carefully selecting the day's attire only to see said attire being thrown to the corner so my little thespian can enact the emerging of the butterfly. It's a slow process, apparently. And mom shall remain attentive -- nay entranced -- for the entire time. Every time, I am told.

But I have noticed that it is easier these days to convince him of the need to get dressed again. All I have to do is suggest that a playmate might drop by, or a neighbor might see his "bits," and he's into his pants faster than Cher in a between-songs outfit change.

Aside from the pleasure I get from seeing Ethan running with the things he's learning at school, this episode has had a charming bonus. The recent nudity has reminded me of funny moments when he was two and fervently opposed to clothing of any kind. I admit I found it endearing.

I suppose my favorite memory would be the time I took him to the park. Our local playground had a train theme, with the slide being the engine. Kids would climb up the ladder in rear, enter the body of the train and then come out at the top of the slide. This particular day, Ethan climbed up the ladder and came out the other side in the buff. Once I had contained myself, I returned him to his proper state of dress only to watch an encore performance. After the third display, I shook my head and took him home, where he could freely wander in all his glory.

So thank you, my bare-bottomed butterfly boy, for the memories.

Editor's Note: Elizabeth S. is a new DotMom. You can read her bio here.