DotMoms

Still a rookie, after all these years

By Kris

My son, Ben, recently turned 7. Standing in the kitchen the morning before his birthday, he said, "Mom, I used to call you Mama, but now I call you Mom."

Granted, "mom" is way better than "dumba," which my 5-year-old, John, calls me when he's mad. And I'd already noticed "mama" fading from Ben's vernacular. Still, seeing him by the fridge -- smile full of gaps, tall enough to grab a Popsicle from the freezer -- I felt that familiar pang. I'll sure miss hearing Ben say "mama." I sure wish I could slow down time.

Along with five teeth, Ben's lost some childhood wonder in the past year, replacing it with teenage eye rolls and a general disdain for anything he deems babyish. At John's preschool "letter parade," for example, all the 5-year-olds marched proudly, holding their blow-up "letter buddies" and singing songs. Meanwhile, Ben hid in the van, sticking his head out at random intervals to moan, "Get me out of here!," "This is so babyish!," and "I hate this!"

Age 7 is new territory for us both, and I feel more like a rookie parent than ever. How do I help this exuberant boy navigate life, with all its complexities and unspoken rules? Not to mention those pesky spoken rules. Our days once consisted of us, the backyard and the bookshelf. Now, school, sports, friends and daydreams all vie for Ben's attention. I never know what he'll say next.

"Mom, how were you doing in high school?"

"What?"

"How was high school?"

Long, stunned pause.

"For me?"

"Yeah."

"Not ... great."

"How bad?"

"Not too bad. I was just ... shy. It made things harder for me."

"How shy? Like, did you have a few friends? Did you know a few people and did you talk with them sometimes?"

"I did."

After this exchange, Ben kicked a ball around the family room with John, stopping twice to charge me and plant a kiss on my cheek. Later that night, we were in his room preparing for bed. He chatted and played, then blurted out, "You know that Spider Man book? I can remember a whole page without looking:

     "If you want to know the truth,
     "I like Mary Jane a lot.
     "I've known her since I was little.
     "But now she’s my girlfriend.”

He looked at the floor, covering a giggle with his hand. When he looked up at me with those big blue eyes and that silly grin, I caught a glimpse of him five, 10, 20 years from now, growing up and away from me, experiencing things he can only dream about -- for now.

"Wow, Ben, that was great! You know, someday, you'll meet a special girl, too."

"Yeah, I guess. I just want to live with you for the rest of my life, Mom."

Want to know the truth? I think I'm going to like age 7. A lot.

Kris Clouthier is a freelance writer who lives north of Boston and has not conceded defeat in the war against bathroom talk.

Rhymes with "soup"

By Kris

Most kids go through a "bathroom talk" phase, and my boys are in it. At ages 5 and 6, it's no longer just run-of-the-mill body parts and secretions. Now, they add sophisticated adjectives such as "hairy," "stinky," "baby" and the show-stopping combo "hairy-stinky-baby."

Sick of giving warning and time-outs, I found myself pretending not to hear them in the other room:

"I can't believe your stinky head!"

Beavis and Butthead laughter.

"You big hairy baby butt!"

Beavis and Butthead laughter.

So enamored did they become with the rebellious rush of uttering forbidden words that it spilled over from the playroom to the dinner table.

"Do you want some peas?"

"No, I don't want any butts, poopy head."

My husband and I handled this development with the utmost diplomacy and maturity. We yelled, lectured, sent them to their corners, issued empty threats of bed without dinner. I may or may not have banged the table with my fist. The neighbors may or may not have been concerned.

After three days of dinnertime skirmishes, I blurted, "That's it! No video games until you both START USING YOUR MANNERS!"

A few days later, when nothing improved, I also took away TV. This will hit them where they live, Brian and I agreed.

Two weeks into the ban on all "screen time," the boys were unfazed. Even more surprisingly, so was I.

Now and then, I have let them watch a "baby video" with their sister, and one day I let them use their Leapsters for an hour so I could meet a deadline. We still have our weekly movie night. Overall, though, I have learned that without the specter of a video game or TV show on the horizon, the boys don't whine incessantly for them. Instead, they chase each other playing cops and robbers, shoot hockey in the basement, or do laps through my dining room on their plasma cars.

One day, Ben asked for a video. I chuckled, but he shot back, "An exercise video?"

"You're on," I said, and pulled our dust-covered Chicken Fat videotape from the cabinet. I did have to say, "Join in or leave the room," a few times, but in the end, we all got a work out and had fun doing it.

Even though the video ban has had benefits beyond what I imagined, I remain, once again, humbled. I look back fondly to the early days, when I believed I could teach my kids not to jump on my couches every time I turn my back, when I thought consequences for bathroom talk would make them stop using it.

"So, John, how was beach day at school today?"

"It was so goobledy poop, Mom!"

Beavis and Butthead laughter.

While manners have vastly improved at the dinner table, I still hear a lot of bathroom talk though the day and have gone back to time-outs when necessary. The battle wages on.

Even my 20-month-old has joined enemy ranks. She recently pointed to a picture of a baby and said, "Poop."

"What?" I said the first time she did it. "Are you saying ... she has a poop?"

"Yes," she answered primly, then proceeded to point to all the babies saying, "Poop, poop, poop ..." as I rested my head in my hands.

The other night, Brian began reading "Tom and Pippo's Day" to Ava, and he mispronounced "Pippo" as "Peepoo."

"It's 'Pippo,' " I corrected him from the couch, where I sat with the boys.

"You mean, it's not 'Peepoo'?" he asked, grinning. After 10 minutes of tear-streaming laughter, we headed upstairs for bed, where the boys let fly all the bathroom talk they could muster while Brian and I pretended to be deaf.

I guess in parenting, it's not always whether we win or lose, but how much we can laugh -- and ignore -- in the process.

Kris Clouthier is a freelance writer who lives north of Boston and has not conceded defeat in the war against bathroom talk.

In the news: Cough and cold medicines not for toddlers

By Kris Clouthier

Last month, my 18-month-old daughter had a cough and a fever. When I called her pediatrician, the nurse told me give to her an over-the-counter cough and cold medicine. When I asked her which drugs, exactly, I should look for on the package, she didn't know.

"Dimetapp's a good one," she said.

"Dimetapp?" I repeated.

"Yes, Dimetapp."

"Do you know how many different kinds of Dimetapp there are?" I asked.

She laughed. "Look for the purple box."

I didn't laugh. Instead, I asked her to find out the drug names and give me a call back, which she did.

At the time, the Centers for Disease Control (CDC) had not yet issued its warning that cough and cold medications can be dangerous -– and in rare cases deadly -– for infants and toddlers. The report, published in January, cites three infant deaths and 1,519 emergency room visits related to these medicines from 2004 to 2005. The CDC urges parents to give these medicines to children under age 2 only when following the precise instructions of a health care provider.

The three infants who died all had blood levels of pseudoephedrine, a decongestant, that were nine to 14 times the recommended dosage for ages 2 to 12 years. Here are some highlights from the article, which appeared in Morbidity and Mortality Weekly Report:

• There are no Food and Drug Administration (FDA) approved dosage recommendations for the use of these medications in children under age 2. It's unknown what dosages will cause illness or death in this age group.

• Clinical studies have shown that, in kids under age 2, cough and cold medications are no more effective than a placebo in treating upper respiratory infections.

• The American Academy of Pediatrics sounded the alarm on this issue 10 years ago, urging health care providers to tell parents that these medicines will not suppress a cough and carry a risk of side effects and overdose.

• In 2006, the American College of Chest Physicians issued clinical guidelines "advising health care providers to refrain from recommending cough suppressants and other over-the-counter (OTC) medications to young children because of the associated morbidity and mortality."

According to the CDC report, I was smart to ask for exact drug names. In 2006, the FDA stopped the manufacture of one drug, carbinoxamine, which had been mislabeled for use in kids under age 2 despite safety concerns. Production stopped in September 2006, but some medicines containing carbinoxamine could still be on the shelf.

The experience with our pediatrician's office left my husband and I scratching our heads, wondering why these cough and cold medicines don't have the dosages for kids under age 2 on the package, along with the cartoon baby and the words "Infants and Toddlers." Now we know: There are no FDA-approved dosages. This makes me wonder why they're packaged for infants in toddlers in the first place, and how many parents guess the dose once they get the medicine home, rather than calling the doctor.

Now that I've read the CDC report, I think I owe our pediatrician a call. I'd like reassurance that her office will warn parents of the ineffectiveness of these medicines in small children, and the potential dangers.

Adverse events potentially related to use of cough/cold products in children younger than 2 years should be reported to the FDA's MedWatch reporting program by phone at 1-800-FDA-1088, by fax at 1-800-FDA-0178, online at http://www.fda.gov/medwatch, or by mail to 5600 Fishers Lane, Rockville, MD 20852-9787.

Kris Clouthier is stay-at-home mom to three and a freelance writer. She lives north of Boston.

Desperately seeking my motivation

By Kris

I want to lose 20 pounds. Really. I do.

For days, I've had WeightWatchers.com open on my computer, mouse perched over the "buy" button. You see, they have a "deluxe at-home kit" that has everything I need to lose the weight. At $130, it's pricey, but I'm the heaviest I've ever been. I need to do something soon or I'll have to buy a whole new wardrobe. That will cost much more than $130.

Trouble is, this pesky voice in my head isn't so sure the Weight Watchers kit will help me lose 20 pounds. After all, my niece proposed swapping childcare to work out, and so did my neighbor. Have I followed up on those offers? No, I have not. Ten minutes of simple exercises a day would help trim my waistline. Have I done even one push-up? No, I have not.

So, the pesky voice has a point. I'm already well-versed on the logistics of losing weight. Maybe a myriad of food lists with points and a calculator won't help me slim down. Maybe what I'm lacking is simple motivation. Which, true to my luck, no one sells.

Over the years I've gained and lost this 20 pounds at least five times. Along the way, I've used different tricks to stay motivated. Do any of them translate to my life now, as an almost-40 mother of three? Let's see:

• Wear clothes that make me feel fat. The theory is, it's harder to order that large fry with my stomach hanging out over my pants and both thighs numb from lack of circulation. I do have a foggy recollection of this working for me in the distant past. But I did this faithfully for the last year. It just makes me cranky.

• Think how fantastic I'll look at my goal weight. I've hit my weight goal and, eh, I looked all right. Why put myself through all the exercising and deprivation when a simple A-line skirt accomplishes so much?

• Think how hot I will look in a bikini. Two summers ago, I reached my goal weight and bought myself a flattering bikini. Despite the lack of cellulite on my spray-tanned legs, despite my flat abdomen, I had no desire to wear the bikini "around." Outside the water, I prefer to be more covered up. The allure of the bikini is dead to me.

• Do it to please my man. Do I even need to explain the many ways this doesn't work? OK, one example: Two years ago, the summer of the goal-weight bikini, we went to a wedding. I chose an outfit to accentuate my new body. Was Brian bowled over by my trim waist and firm buttocks? Maybe. I believe he said, "You look nice." Contrast this to last week, when we went to another wedding. Twenty-five pounds heavier, I wore an A-line skirt and a wrap top with belly-hiding folds. And Brian said ... "You look nice." Although sweet, Brian is no wellspring of weight loss motivation.

• Realize how much longer I'll live with faithful exercising and a monkish calorie intake. This is just so arbitrary, isn't it? We all know I could get hit by a truck tomorrow.

• Think how much better I'll feel. Oh, fine, so I'll feel better if I lose the weight. That's true. But I also feel quite pleasant after eating a huge plate of pasta or a bar of chocolate.

Well, that last one does still has some motivational power. If I eat well and get some exercise, I'll be less stressed and have more energy. In short, I'll feel better. Isn't it ironic that those benefits will come, even if I don't lose a single pound? Maybe that's the problem: I've been focused on the wrong thing. I don't want to look great. I want to feel great.

If nothing else, I just saved $130.

Kris Clouthier is a weight-obsessed freelance writer and stay-at-home mom to three. She lives north of Boston.

When did lunch boxes go soft?

By Kris

My son Ben started first grade this fall, and at $2.50 for a hot lunch, I knew he'd bring lunch most days. He needed a lunch box.

At Target, Ben found a beige one with a fluorescent yellow stripe and a star -- a soldier lunch box! With an attached water bottle! As he swung his choice through the air with glee, I glanced up and down the aisle looking for the real lunch boxes. You know, the ones made of hard plastic, not this soft stuff. I saw insulated totes, bags, boxes and backpacks featuring every licensed character and color a kid could want, but none made of hard plastic.

I hesitated. Looking at the box's supple white interior and the delicate cotton threads holding it together, I knew it wouldn't last. But I had no choice. I bought it, and so began my struggle to keep it clean.

Strategy No. 1: Surface clean only. This worked, um ... once? Even though I've asked him to, Ben will not throw his lunch leftovers away at school, or even put them in a plastic bag to protect his lunch box. Therefore, on most days, his lunch box returns home with every crevice of its interior blanketed in granola and oxidized fruit guts.

Strategy No. 2: Wash it under running water, then hang from a cabinet knob to dry overnight. This worked OK for about a month. Except that I always had a lunch box hanging off my kitchen cabinet. Then one day, I realized the thing was rotting from the inside out.

Strategy No. 3: Pretend the lunch box's threads were always black, and that it didn't smell. This didn't work, of course. The damage was done. Ben had also chewed the spout on the plastic sports bottle into a mauled mess.

Strategy No. 4: Throw it away. Go online and find a real, hard plastic lunch box. Price is no object.

In the end, I shelled out $45 at Lunchboxes.com for a plastic lunch box and a stainless steel thermos. Sure, it still comes home covered in goop, but at least I know I can wash it and dry it without staging a multi-hour process that ends with it molding anyway. Even if the Batman sticker falls off, I can stick something else on there to replace it.

This whole episode left me wondering: How are soft, insulated lunch boxes an improvement over the hard plastic ones? I'm not the paranoid type, but have retailers and lunch box makers conspired to force parents into buying several lunch boxes a year? Or do I just have a sloppy eater on my hands?

Kris Clouthier is a stay-at-home mom and freelance writer living north of Boston.

Chronology of a perfectionist

By Kris

Age 5: Did other girls get Barbie anxiety? No, I didn't want to look like her. Sitting in front of my Barbie plaza, I'd set the table and arrange dresses on tiny heart-adorned hangers. I'd make Barbie iron the clothes or fix dinner and, in the process, knock a dress to the floor or jostle the table, leaving the dishes askew. A knot of frustration welled up in my chest: I wanted everything perfect!

Age 15: I hated high school. Holed up in my bedroom one day, I wondered whether my penchant for neatness made me a perfectionist. Impossible, I decided. With my mousy hair, fat thighs and lack of personality, how could I be considered a perfectionist? I was the opposite of perfect.

Age 25: I studied "Color Me Beautiful" to find the perfect color hair, wardrobe and makeup. I took Dale Carnegie to become the perfect employee and person. I got a job in editing, a profession that rewards perfection. I cleaned the apartment for hours, scrubbing the toilet, dusting every crevice. I quit smoking, and so began my health kick: hours of grueling workouts, a vegan diet, a suitcase of vitamins. Finally, my best self was coming out. Finally, I felt good enough.

Age 30: Perfectionism translates well to pregnancy, if perfect means researching the best baby gear, studying hypnobirthing and every other childbirth method invented, and doing all the right prenatal exercises the recommended number of times. On discovering my 200-keigle-a-day habit, my doula sighed and shook her head. "You're trying to control everything," she told me. "You can't."

Age 34: Four years into parenting, I thought I could maintain control. I exercised daily, took writing jobs, kept up with the house, shopped and cooked. Then a miscarriage derailed me. When I got pregnant again six months later, I experienced the flip-side of perfectionism: giving up. I couldn't do everything "right," so why try at all? Takeout containers amassed in my fridge. Mountains of clutter grew on every flat surface. I gained 25 pounds, after having the baby. I felt like my sorry high school self.

Age 37: Hi. My name is Kris, and I'm a perfectionist in recovery. My three kids leave no time for perfect cleaning, preening or working out. And it shows. I just tell myself, "Everything is as it should be." Most days I can smile at the birthday cake I made with the botched "B," the crooked tile in our new kitchen floor, the water stains on my favorite leather shoes. I guess it's a relief, knowing perfection's not something I can create with any reliability, let alone sustain. It appears in my baby's laugh, the smell of a roasting chicken, the sun's warmth on a crisp fall day. Then it's gone. The ever-present clothes on the floor, the dirty dishes on the table -- they're just side effects of living. I hope I can teach my daughter that, before she starts playing with Barbies.

Kris Clouthier is an imperfect stay-at-home mom and freelance writer living north of Boston.

Connecting the dots in DotMoms

By Robin P. and Kris

Robin: When I began writing for DotMoms in the spring of 2004, I was the 15th mom to join. One day, a co-worker said, "Hey Robin! Did you know one of the new DotMoms is from Massachusetts?" I was stunned. A DotMom, here? In my very own state?

Kris: I'll never forget the e-mail Robin sent me that day. She made me feel so welcome.

Robin: I was overjoyed, especially after reading Kris' posts. She sure knows how to make me laugh! Finally, a few months ago, we decided to meet. On my way to meet her for some outlet shopping, my cell phone rang. It was Kris, telling me she was running a bit late. I asked her what happened.

Kris: When I said, "It was a combination of calamities," Robin let out a big chuckle. Any nervousness I felt dissolved when I heard that laugh.

Robin: Kris tends to make even the worst situations sound funny, so I couldn't wait to hear what had happened to her.

Kris: Here's what happened. I bought an iced coffee at a drive-through and my sugar-mixing technique -- blowing into the drink through the straw -- backfired, big time. I was covered! Scrambling, I found a pile of ancient wet wipes in my purse, tore into them and found not one molecule of wetness. I dashed into the McDonald's bathroom, which had blow dryers, no paper towels. Using my quick-thinking skills, I grabbed toilet paper instead, which left embedded shreds of itself all over me. The coffee stains looked quite wearable in comparison. If you think that was dumb, consider that when I got back in the car, I forgot coffee had pooled on the lid and promptly spilled all over myself. It was SO FUNNY! Well, the next day it was.

Robin: Kris was exactly like I'd thought she'd be ... even better. When she told me her story, I laughed but I was truly amazed. I would've thrown a tantrum if that had happened to me. I probably would've called the whole meeting off and driven home in tears because my skirt and shirt had coffee stains on them. Kris just shrugged the whole thing off. I've never met anyone like her.

Kris: Robin really floored me with her bright personality and constant smile. Everyone should know that she is also very kind to flustered waitresses. I love that in a person! I'm so glad we finally consummated our friendship ... for lack of a better word.

Robin: After browsing, we headed into Ruby Tuesdays for lunch and more chatting. We were amazed to find we both attended UMass, Amherst, and we both majored in journalism, although I was there five years before she was.

Kris: The most amazing similarity? We both hold our pens the same wrong way, balanced on the ring finger. What are the odds?

Robin: I've been an outcast all my life because of my pen holding technique ... until I met Kris! If we weren't worried about being stuck in rush hour traffic, we probably could've talked for a few more hours.

Kris: Who is she kidding? We could have talked for days! Although, at the rate the words flew out of our mouths, we probably did cram in two days' worth of conversation.

Robin: We made a plan to meet again in October to go holiday shopping at the same mall. Neither of us could deny that we'd made a real connection. The only thing we couldn't figure out was, why did we wait so long?

Have you had the chance to meet any of your online friends? We'd love to hear your story.

Robin P. lives with her husband and daughter in a suburb south of Boston. Kris is a thirtysomething writer and stay-at-home mom who lives north of Boston with her husband and three children.

In the news: Should school buses have seat belts?

Last month, my 4-year-old son went on his first field trip, with his preschool, to a farm 30 minutes away. How exciting! His first school bus ride.

My enthusiasm fell into uneasiness, though, when I remembered: Massachusetts school buses don’t have seat belts. Picturing the little boy I’d strapped in to his car seat a billion times whizzing down the highway freestyle on a bench seat, I seriously considered driving him myself and meeting the class at the farm. In the end, John took the bus and lived, and I chastised myself for being overprotective.

Then the other day, I saw a news story about hybrid school buses. They can save school districts lots of money on fuel costs, but all I could think was, “Do they have seat belts?” The article mentioned nothing about them.

So what is the deal with school bus seat belts? A quick Google search revealed that, every few months, newspapers around the country ask the same question, often after a school bus crash. A few weeks ago, a Maryland crash injured dozens of kids and prompted a Tuesday editorial in the Philadelphia Daily News that declared, when it comes to the anti-belt research, “something is fishy.”

Rather than seat belts on school buses, the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration (NHTSA), which establishes federal motor vehicle safety standards, requires “compartmentalization.” This involves small spaces between seats and high, cushioned seat backs, which creates a “protective envelope” that works for children of all sizes.

NHTSA says school buses are about seven times safer than passenger cars or light trucks. According to data it released in May, “The school bus occupant fatality rate of 0.2 fatalities per 100 million vehicle miles traveled (VMT) is considerably lower than the fatality rates for passenger cars or light trucks (1.44 per 100 million VMT).” An average of six school age children die as passengers in school bus accidents each year.

However, another federal agency has raised safety concerns about compartmentalization. In 1999, the National Transportation Safety Board (NTSB) said that, in rollovers or accidents involving side impact, school bus passengers do not hit the cushioned seat in front of them. Instead, they hit “either another passenger, the side wall, the windows, or the edge of an adjacent seat,” none of which “are designed to absorb impact energy.”

Therefore, NTSB believes that a better “school bus occupant protection system” involving lap/shoulder belts can and should be developed, so that passengers remain in the seating compartment in all types of crashes, including side impacts and rollovers. In addition, NHTSA should require the new system on all new school buses.

Meanwhile, in its May report, the NHTSA advised states to consider the price tag and the reduced seating capacities of buses with seat belts before requiring them. It suggests that the price and capacity issues could lead to more kids not taking the bus and, statistically, that will lead to more kids getting hurt on the way to school.

To me, that sounds like a copout. If new buses with seat belts have fewer seats, then get a few more buses. Not to be cavalier about the budget constraints towns face, but this is our kids. Why is it acceptable that in a side impact crash or roll over, kids will fly about the bus?

At first, the NHTSA statistics comforted me about John’s bus ride. That is, until I read the Guideline for the Safe Transportation of Preschool Age Children in School Buses. Turns out, NHTSA recommends that preschool age children always sit in car seats when traveling in school buses.

I didn’t know that. Did you?

And I’m left wondering, if a bus has no seat belts, what does one use to strap in the preschooler’s car seat?

I think the Philadelphia Daily News editorial says it best: “Is the [anti-belt] research sloppy - or slanted? Whatever the answer, our kids deserve better.”

Kris is a thirtysomething writer and stay-at-home mom who lives north of Boston with her family.

In the news: The cell phone as ‘wireless leash’? Sign me up!

Three years ago, when my boys were ages 1 and 3, I made fun of my friend for buying her 11-year-old daughter a cell phone. “You’re kidding, right?” I asked, peering down my nose.

“It’s more for me than for her,” she claimed. “Believe me.”

Call me a cell phone snob, but I never envisioned myself shelling out a monthly fee so my kids could call me for a ride or converse with one friend while trolling the mall with another.

Then I read this article and learned that many cell phones have global positioning systems. They no longer just let us talk to our kids. For a fee, they let us track their exact location.

Since April, Sprint, Walt Disney Co. and Verizon Wireless have all launched cell phone tracking services. All three services let users locate their child’s cell phone via the parent’s phone or the Web.

With Sprint’s “Family Locator,” parents can also set up alerts, which automatically notify parents of their child’s whereabouts on scheduled days and times. For example, every afternoon at 3 pm, you could get a message letting you know that your daughter has arrived at home. Sprint charges $9.99 a month to put the service on up to four Sprint Nextel phones.

Disney Mobile, which launched this month, also offers “Family Monitor,” which lets parents set limits on family members’ wireless spending. Disney Mobile’s family plans range in cost from $59.99 to $249.99 per month, according to its Web site, and include five or more uses of its “Family Locator” service.

Verizon’s plan, “Chaperone,” offers two levels of service. Keeping track of your child through his cell phone costs $9.99 a month. For another $10 monthly, “Chaperone with Child Zone” lets parents create up to 10 specific “zones” (e.g., school, Billy’s house, the ball field). If the phone, and hence the child, should wander out of the zone, the device text messages the parent.

So my cell phone snobbery has been quelled by my burning desire to track my kids' every move. I can even see myself getting addicted, lecturing my son on his first day of college not to forget to keep his phone with him.

Now, if they could just figure out a way to prevent kids from stashing their phones at a friend's and going "off radar." I wonder how old Ben will be when he first turns his cell phone off just to lose me. If he's older than age 13, I'll count myself as lucky. But he'll still be in big trouble!

What do you think of these new family locator products? Will they help keep kids safe, or will they give a false sense of security? Do they help family's stay close, or do they infringe on kids' privacy?

Kris is a thirtysomething writer and stay-at-home mom who lives north of Boston with her family.

DotMoms Daily: June 7, 2006

• Strict parenting can produce overweight kids

• Rethinking first foods

• Safe baby law gives newborns a chance

• Some use Web sites to keep tabs on their children