DotMoms

Afterlife fears of a preschooler

By Erin

My son is asking about death.

He wants to know if he will die. He wants to known when he will die. He wants to know how he will die. He wants to know what will happen after he dies. He wants to know if Mommy will die. He wants to know if Daddy will die.

When I was asked these deep questions by a not-quite 4-year-old, I paused. This was one of those moments when I needed to have my Mom act together. I was not going to get away with a, "Oh, just because..." answer.

It was during my pause that my son threw me for a loop. It seems he wasn't so concerned about dying, but actually more concerned about being "alone" and "away from everybody."

He wasn't really worried about dying, he was worried about not being able to hug his mom when he needed it most.

Did anyone else's heart just jump into their throats?

I, of course, assured my tiny worry wart that he would always have someone. I was vague. I was very non specific, and I choked back tears the entire time, knowing it wasn't true.

I lied.

I wasn't as concerned with the lie as I was the truth. One day he may be alone. One day I won't be here. One day...

I think I liked it better when I thought he was obsessed with death.

Erin Kotecki Vest lives in Southern California and is a writer and stay-at-home mom of Jackson, three, and Hala, one. She spent nearly a decade as a news reporter and anchor in Orlando and Los Angeles.

Who's weaning who?

By Erin

After five days of severe engorgement, 40-plus toddler temper tantrums, and hundreds of tears, my daughter is weaned.

The end of breastfeeding is one of the most bittersweet parts of motherhood. Yet another milestone. Yet another page in the baby book. Yet another opportunity for me to shake my head and wonder where the time went.

My 21-month-old daughter is calling herself a "big girl." Part of me can't stand it. Part of me is proud.

I keep telling myself she's almost 2. I keep telling myself she's still a baby. I keep telling myself she's a big girl. I keep telling myself she's still little. I keep telling myself she's getting big. My mind is mush.

I'm not usually a weepy mom, so I'm blaming all this emotional baggage on hormones. That's it. My hormones are wacky and I can't write straight or think straight and it totally explains the tears falling on my keyboard.

My therapist once told me breastfeeding was a big control issue for me. If my children were only nursing and not taking a bottle or not wanting anyone else, it was my way of keeping control over my family.

Damn my therapist because I feel like my daughter is no longer under my control. I can't quiet her with my breast. I can't keep her close to me, instead of watching her run with a sippy cup across the park. I can't make her boo boos go away by lifting my shirt. And I'll be honest, it sucks.

I know this will pass. I know I will take a deep breathe and be thrilled when I have three glasses of wine instead of one. When my bras no longer have snap openings. When I can leave the house for more than a few hours and not have to rush back home for a feeding.

A blogging friend of mine recently said she initially resisted having kids because they break your heart. I'd have to agree.

Maybe it's all the milk stored in the breast over my heart, but it sure feels like something is breaking. As I again wipe the tears from the letters "D," "F," and "G" on this computer I will blame the hormones. As I again try and cuddle with my daughter as she runs with her cup, I will remember this is life, and it's time to let go.

Goodbye, baby. Hello, little girl.

Erin Kotecki Vest lives in Southern California and is a writer and stay-at-home mom of Jackson, three, and Hala, one. She spent nearly a decade as a news reporter and anchor in Orlando and Los Angeles.

The Mom Diet

By Erin

I just finished two handfuls of goldfish crackers, a half of a hot dog, and three sips of a juice box.

You guessed it, I'm on the Mom Diet. And it's not working. Winter may be on the way, but I'm already a good 15 pounds heavier than I should be. I'd like to call it "bulking up" for the cold weather, but who are we kidding? I live in Southern California.

I pick off my children's plates. I "finish" their lunches, snacks, dinners. All of those string cheese sticks and yogurt cups are adding up. Even when I make myself one of those "diet" frozen lunches, I still end up "cleaning" the mac and cheese off a plastic, animal-shaped dish.

Motherhood is a one way ticket to FATville. I'm on the express train and I'm trying to jump off. But it's hard when babies keep you up at night and the lack of sleep and lack of energy to buy, prepare, and cook low-fat foods are constant. And exercise? Does laundry count as exercise? I haven't been great at keeping up with the laundry, either.

I obviously cannot wait until my children are grown to lose weight. I MUST be the role model they need in this department. But it's sooooooooooooo haaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrd. And yes, that is me whining like a 3-year-old. I need motivation. I need a kick in the butt. Or I need a million dollars for lipo and a personal trainer. Maybe a chef, too.

So what are your weight loss secrets? Do you have any? Or are you hoping for a miracle, like me?

Erin Kotecki Vest lives in Southern California and is a writer and stay-at-home mom of Jackson, three, and Hala, one. She spent nearly a decade as a news reporter and anchor in Orlando and Los Angeles.

I demand a "Do-Over"

By Erin

We've got a few weeks before preschool starts, despite all the back-to-school hub bub going on here at DotMoms and around the country. My kids are still lazily lounging in their PJ's and watching cartoons, instead of watching me manically run around the house stuffing backpacks with extra underwear and healthy snacks.

It's because this house is NOT back-to-school that I am angry. And I KNOW you will understand.

Yes, despite not having set foot in a classroom, both of my kids are sick. Runny-nosed, coughing, feverish and whiny, they are currently tugging at my leg for another Popsicle.

Labor Day hit and an entire summer of health was knocked away as soon as the notebooks and backpacks hit store shelves. It was if they just heard it was time for finger paints and macaroni murals and POOF, the snot began to form.

I demand a Do-Over. Those of us NOT in school just yet should not be at the pediatrician, carting antibiotics and tissues and whimpering children across the waiting room.

Yes, I am bitter. Because I realize those first few years of school mean snot wiping and ear drops. Pink eye and puking. Rashes and runs.

...but we should at least be in school before it begins.

Erin Kotecki Vest lives in Southern California and is a writer and stay-at-home mom of Jackson, three, and Hala, one. She spent nearly a decade as a news reporter and anchor in Orlando and Los Angeles.

Toddlerese

By Erin

If the United Nations needs another translator, I'm available. Although I'm not sure they really care to hear from the toddlers of the world.

Now that both of my children are babbling and chatting my ear off, we've learned to communicate rather easily. It's not until someone else joins the conversation do I get those "What did she just say?" looks. For me, it's easy!

Of course she just said "I want your water," how did you miss hearing that? Ok, maybe to you it sounded like "Ga waaa da waaaaaaaaaaawaaaaawaaaaa," but it was clear to me.

And the 3-year-old? Well you can usually make out just about everything he says, except when he's in a hurry. Or, you know, making up his own words. Or playing the endless rhyming game. The one where he really wants cheese, but will instead ask for schmeeze. Pimming is swimming. Bed is fled. Shoes are, you guessed it, poohs.

I am immune to these language and linguistic quirks. After all, these are the two people with whom I converse most of the day. We talk naturally, back and forth, back and forth, of ba-bas (babies) and rikes (bikes). And occasionally I will let a toddler word creep into my adult conversations. So what if I have to go potty? I'd like to hear of one mother out there who hasn't used that term accidentally while dining with friends.

I assume that as my children grow, their toddlerese will turn into tween and teenese. Then I can pepper my conversations with "dude" and "whatever." And some day, long from now, we may all speak in complete sentences. But until then, I will continue to serve as translator extraordinaire.

Erin Kotecki Vest lives in Southern California and is a writer and stay-at-home Mom of Jackson, three, and Hala, one. She spent nearly a decade as a news reporter and anchor in Orlando and Los Angeles.

You've come a long way, Daddy

By Erin

My husband is far from the father I thought he would be.

When I met Aaron, he had long hair, black Converse, and skulls hanging from his rear view mirror. He talked of never getting married, never adding to the world’s “problems” with more children, and he refused to say “I love you.”

Today he took both of our “problems” in the front yard to fly a kite. They ran around chasing him, and he kept scooping each child up, doting on them with kisses, “I love you’s,” and snuggles.

As they ran around, chasing the diamond with tails in the sky, I silently thanked society for allowing men to become more involved in parenting. Our fathers may have flown kites with us, but did they change diapers? Do the dishes consistently? Take ALL the kids grocery shopping every Sunday? Clean up toys?

My Dad was amazing, and gave us tons of love and affection. But he came from a very different school of thought and a different time. Men were involved in parenting, but not necessarily in the trenches of dirty diapers and administration of antibiotics.

Today’s father is delving even further into the fray as the father’s before him. It’s no longer “sissy” for him to show off his technique for swaddling. He can feel secure and proud carrying around your pink diaper bag while carrying the baby in a sling. He’s even sharing war stories of “who got peed/pooped on” with other soldiers over coffee at the office.

The National Fatherhood Initiative says children with involved, loving fathers are significantly more likely to do well in school, have healthy self-esteem, exhibit empathy and pro-social behavior, and avoid high-risk behaviors such as drug use, truancy, and criminal activity compared to children who have uninvolved fathers.

Now if we could only get them to give birth.

Erin Kotecki Vest lives in Southern California and is a writer and stay-at-home Mom of Jackson, three, and Hala, one. She spent nearly a decade as a news reporter and anchor in Orlando and Los Angeles.

Movie Mania

By Erin

I’m sleeping with Owen Wilson.

Every night, I roll over and hear “Kapow!” and “Kachow!” in Owen’s dreamy, unmistakable voice.

As a reward for my three-year-old’s very first poop in the potty, he brought home Lightening McQueen, racecar from the new Pixar movie Cars, from the toy store. And because we are a co-sleeping family, Lightening, voiced by Owen Wilson, has been sandwiched between my toddler and I every night from 8 p.m. to 7a.m.

Not exactly the way I pictured my first roll in the hay with a celebrity here in Los Angeles.

Even more troubling though, the release date for this movie is June. JUNE. It is not even IN theatres yet and my son thinks Cars and all it’s characters are demi-Gods, gracing his life with vroom and zoom goodness.

Admittedly, because my husband is in the “industry” we get a bit more excited around here for major animation releases. But even at a recent trip to the zoo, where every child standing in front of the Lemur exhibit was singing “I like to move it, move it,” I KNEW we were not the only family with Movie Mania.

My children are still young, so I think I’ve been spared the real mania thus far. In fact, my three-year-old’s first movie IN the theatre will probably be in June. But if he is already pumped up for this new film, what happens in the summer when he sees it on the big screen, but is UNABLE to watch it 45 times a day at home, because it’s not on DVD yet? Will we be spending every Saturday at our local Cineplex? Will it be like a ride at an amusement park where you exit the car with your heart pumping and you race to get right back in line?

I’m not sure, but I’m saving my pennies for those tickets, just in case.

Erin Kotecki Vest lives in Southern California and is a writer and stay-at-home Mom of Jackson, three, and Hala, one. She spent nearly a decade as a news reporter and anchor  in Orlando and Los Angeles.