DotMoms

The preschool years: Not easier, just different

By Kristen C.

I never went into this whole mothering endeavor with the intention of winning an award. In fact, on most days, I feel less like a good mother and more like a really bad one. But as I've written before, I believe there's a part of every person that wants to be good. We don't wake up every morning and say to ourselves, "I'm going to do a crappy job of parenting today."

And yet, I feel as though I might as well have T-shirts made that share that sentiment with the whole world, even though part of me feels like they probably get that from watching me in action.

It's hard not to feel that way when your daughter is throwing the mother of all tantrums -- including (but not limited to) splashing me with water, smacking my hand and face, and kicking the floor, door, and any other hard surface she can find.

It used to be sort of funny. I'd chuckle about it to myself as I sent her off to the corner.

But now, it's just not as humorous. I feel her pain, her frustration, and her annoyance over a new baby, her father going back to work, her mother's split attention, and heinously annoying grandparents that just won't let her be.

I feel like one of those parents who sits in the therapist's office and tries to explain away all her child's behaviors, when really, she is part (if not all) of the cause.

"But she's a really good kid. So smart and kind. We just brought a baby home and all hell broke loose..."

I'm not afraid to discipline my child, and in fact, I have way more patience and understanding than I thought I'd be capable of, but there's only so much screaming, yelling, and smacking that I can take before I start to wonder if I'm being effective. I wonder whether the corner time, taking away of privileges, offering of choices, and quite frankly, doing the consistent and right thing will ever pay off.

If the first two years were hard in one way, the next few appear to be just as hard (if not harder). I never expected it to ease up. But it seems like there's tons of support for moms enduring those sleepless teething-filled nights, and little solace for those of us entering the challenging preschool years -- when the focus has changed from tub pooping and crib diving, to dealing with discipline, safety, socialization, and life skills.

Where we go from basking in our badness to actually striving for some goodness. Not for our own sakes, but for the sake of our little ones who really truly deserve the best.

I guess our nights will always be sleepless, just for different reasons.

Kristen C. is a former college music professor turned stay-at-home-mother/rock star to her daughter Quinlan.

Remembering life with an infant

By Kristen C.

Last week I tried to feed my friend's 9-month-old son a potato chip.

Hey. It was a Ruffles! Chip. Cheerio. C'mon. Same difference.

And then a few weeks before, I tried to get him out of the car base in his carrier seat and totally forgot what to do.

Seriously. How do I have a fully functioning 2 and half-year old?

It amazes me how much you forget after just nearly three short years. It's probably for good reason, at least in my case, although I still not-so-fondly remember bouncing her with my foot in her already-vibrating baby seat just hoping to get another 15 minutes of a nap out of her.

15+1 = A full 16-minute nap. SCORE!

And there was the time I tried to pull my boob out of her mouth and replace it with a binky so I wouldn't have to hold her for a nap with her lips still stuck around my nipple.

Yeah. So much for that effort.

I have vague memories of the past -- the lullaby turned weeping song that I used to sing over and over and over while I rocked her to sleep at 3 a.m.; the little onesies I used to struggle to fit over her cloth diapers; and the pictures of me at 135 lbs., down about 15 lbs. from my typical pre-pregnancy weight, after enduring six months of the elimination diet.

But in the long scheme of things, time has flown by and with it, my memory for all things that have to do with taking care of a tiny baby.

I suppose changing, cuddling, and rocking a newborn again will bring it all back to me, in waves of emotional outburts of the good and not-so-good kind. But if not, I figure it's OK to make new memories. And this time, I'm all about those "making life easier and not being such a crazed type-AAA lunatic mommy" memories.

Letting go. Delegating. Or what I like to call "Here you go honey, I'm off to the spa for a full day of pampering and if he cries the whole time it won't be the end of the world" parenting.

Who says I didn't remember anything?

Kristen is a former college music professor turned stay-at-home-mother/rock star to her daughter Quinlan.

Raising an un-girly girl

By Kristen C.

I have nothing against pink. It's a great color. You know, breast cancer awareness, a well-cooked steak, sapphires. And dresses or skirts, while fairly limiting when it comes to active toddler activities (like anything that involves more than sitting quietly in a chair or sleeping), are all fine and dandy. Hey, they got us through three months of wearing a leg cast, so I really shouldn't complain.

But when it comes to my daughter, I've tried to steer fairly far away from the overwhelming amount of pink and the "I swear it's a skirt, but clearly it's more like a belt" mini-skirts that seem to be forced down the throats of mothers with daughters.

Apparently girls don't like airplanes, trains, alligators, or elephants. And if they do, they must be pink. And "spoiled rotten" or "cute as a cupcake."

Ack.

Part of me isn't surprised at the current state of oversexualization of our society when you look at all the crap we're given in which to dress our girls. It's either blue trucks and yellow bulldozers, or pretty pink ponies and purple balloons.

Hmmm... I wonder who's got the power?

And so I've tried valiantly to dress my daughter in browns and blues, buy her cars and blocks, and offer her pants and sneakers. Sure, there's a bit of pink, but for the most part, I try to show her a plethora of options, most of which do not include lace or beading of any kind. And while she loves to put on makeup (thanks to watching me get ready every morning), and coddle baby dolls, I still believe I'm raising a well-rounded fairly un-girly girl who likes playing house just as much as banging on a tool bench.

But then just the other day, she came home from a shopping trip with a new Build-a-Bear dog dressed in... you guessed it... pink furry Ugg boots, a bright pink miniskirt, and a pink sweater with sequins.

SEQUINS???!!!!

My only thought? It had to be my mother-in-law.

Kristen is a former college music professor turned stay-at-home-mother/rock star to her daughter Quinlan.

I'm all out of nice

By Kristen C.

My husband informed me the other day that I am not nice.

I laughed.

And then told him I save all my "nice" for my daughter. And if I, per chance, have anything left to spare, I'm happy to send it his way.

But lately, "nice" has been a little hard to come by. I'm stretched thin living sans husband with my in-laws, nearly 8 months pregnant, and chasing after a 2-year-old. And after being asked "What's that?" about 2,409 times a day, and fending off multiple requests for candy that are usually made in a heinously whiny tone, I use up about all the nice that I have left.

I'd usually laugh and internally roll my eyes at my father-in-law waving my wet bra around on a hanger, my mother-in-law asking me if I know how to put a plastic bag in the small bathroom trashcan, or my husband complaining about his extra long workout at the gym.

Alone. Quietly running. With no diapers anywhere in sight.

Yeah. Must be really hard man.

But now, I feel pulled in way too many different directions. And I literally ration all my nice out to my daughter. She doesn't deserve tense responses or a frustrated tone, particularly when her grandparents are not the most patient, kind, and attentive folks who rely on television and large amounts of candy when called upon to babysit.

And so, I save all the nice patient loving understanding mom that I have in me for her.

I figure until I start getting some darn "nice" sent my way (or at least where I can wash and dry my own bras and not get instructed on skills I learned in 1st grade), it's drought season over here. Let's just hope it doesn't last too long.

Kristen is a former college music professor turned stay-at-home-mother/rock star to her 20-month-old daughter, Quinlan.

The incredible unlightness of being

By Kristen C.

The cat is clearly out of the bag. A very large cat who walks slowly and takes about 15 minutes to get up.

Pregnancy does not suit me. People try to tell me I'm tall so I "wear" it well, but quite frankly, the only thing I wear well these days is a large muu-muu. And even then, it really doesn't look that great.

Basically, when I get pregnant, I spread. All over. I seriously could pass for a linebacker. And I'm only 6 months along.

The first time around, I didn't know any better. I ate well, exercised, and still gained 60 pounds. Now granted, I drank jars of ranch dressing and working out consisted of walking about the speed of a large oceanic tortoise, but still. I figured the "next" time would be different.

And so, it was.

For about 14 minutes.

And then I spread. All over. And this time, it's worse. Clearly I will never be one of those pregnant women who look like their spouse misplaced his basketball under her shirt. Let's face it. I look more like the large man who plays basketball with his spouse on the local YMCA community team.

It'd be one thing if I could lay around all day and eat chips, but carrying the extra weight while chasing around a toddler makes life difficult. I got stuck in the slide at the playground the other day. And I couldn't even fit into the swing. Soon I'm going to need someone to accompany me places in case I've fallen and I can't get up. Cripes. I'm a walking Med-Alert commercial.

I imagine there are some advantages to all this. You can't miss me in a crowd. And I can reserve several seats at a time (as long as they don't have arm rests). But most importantly, I'm growing a healthy baby...

who better weigh at least 25 pounds at birth.

Kristen is a former college music professor turned stay-at-home-mother/rock star to her 20-month-old daughter, Quinlan.

Typical is highly underrated

By Kristen C.

It doesn't take much for mothers to believe their child is a genius. It starts innocently enough. "My son can sing Twinkle Twinkle in English and Spanish," or "My daughter can stack her blocks in a Frank Lloyd Wright type structure" and suddenly, you are surrounded by future MENSA members.

And instead of just going on your merry way while your child beats the heck out of the drum with a maraca in what could quite possibly be an "anti-rhythm," you try to convince yourself that your not-yet-walking 14.7-month-old who says nothing but "dada" and can throw her smashed peas, avocado, and sweet potatoes so they hit you directly on your forehead in what you swear looks like a Jackson Pollack circa 1942 is smarter than them all. 

After enduring long days and long nights where my child was attached to my breast stopping only to breathe and poop, I was excited when she started interacting and responding. But instead of talking in full sentences, she just said "dada" and "more." And instead of dancing circles around me with perfect turnout and pointed toes, she toddled around later than most of the other kids. And while I was far from disappointed, I do admit to being a little surprised.

Now at 26 months, she's far from what I would consider typical. She can draw balloons and faces, complete with ears, hair, and beards, and she reads along to her own bedtime stories, tells the lady at the bank that she'd "like a pink lollipop puh-lease," and reminds me at least 14 times a day that she would like to watch Curious George.

And while I'm fiercely proud of the lovely brilliant person she is becoming, there's a part of me who can't help but enjoy the typical toddler stuff she does that makes her just plain two. Maybe it's because I was taking ballet and 2 1/2 and playing the violin at 3. And while those opportunities have served me well in my life, there's something simply marvelous about watching your child achieve those milestones that make them a "regular old kid." Like when my daughter threw her first "knock 'em down, drag 'em across three rooms and a kitchen floor" 15 minute tantrum, pooped in the tub, and drew faces all over our living room wall. Who cares if she can speak four languages when she can color in the Tiggers on her bed sheets with a permanent marker? Now THAT is worth bragging about.

So, imagine my surprise and utter joy when my daughter waddled into my office the other day with a colored pencil stuck up her nose, hands waving back in forth in a silly joyful dance of achievement. It took all I had not to laugh hysterically while reprimanding her. And later that week, I actually caught her engaging in full-fledged nose picking. NOSE PICKING? HOORAY! It took all I had to not pick up the phone and call my own mother to let her know "the good news."

Perhaps nose picking is far from brag-able, but with all the pressures to involve our kids in tons of activities and classes before they can even talk in full sentences, I've found comfort in what might be considered typical. And as a first time parent, I can't help but feel proud that my child is just being a kid.

And while I think it's awesome when kids can do "downward facing dog" and recite Tennyson for memory, I'm just as pleased to hear about how they ate a bug and did a scary (but harmless) somersault off their toddler bed.

Because for me, all the other stuff, like my daughter's ability to do 30 piece puzzles, sing almost totally in tune, and recite the Gettysburg address while tightrope walking, is just icing on the cake.

Kristen is a former college music professor turned stay-at-home-mother/rock star to her 20-month-old daughter, Quinlan.

You can tell she's a mother by her purse

By Kristen C.

As far back as I can remember, I've been obsessed with purses. I mean really. Who doesn't love a cute bag? It's like a baby, except way quieter and no sore nipples or puffy eye lids involved.

Back before the kiddo arrived, I was known for carrying the smallest purses ever. I had a ton - the bright green one shaped like a Chinese take-out box or that pink sequin number that looked like a change purse with a strap. Granted, I could barely squeeze my credit cards in them, but that was okay - because what else do you need when you're out clubbing at 1 a.m.?

I remember perusing the purse section at the local department store, staring curiously at the large gigunda handbags, and thinking "who carries these things?" I mean, seriously. They could quite possibly hold a lamp, mirror, and large ficus plant (ala Mary Poppins).

And then I saw them.

MOMS.

There they were, lugging their huge purse over their shoulder while chasing their child through the store in their socks- still wearing the clothes they were attempting to try on.

I never really got why they had such big bags. I would watch reruns of "Let's Make a Deal" with great curiosity, particularly loving the end of the show where the women would madly scavenge through their bag to finding a sewing kit or a bandaid for the chance to win $50. "A sewing kit?!" I would chuckle, until about five women in the audience would stand up in their ridiculous costumes and wave them in the air.

I guess I just didn't get it.

That is until I had kids.

Initially, I toted the ever unpopular, yet reasonably stylish diaper bag, which, in most other countries could house a family of four. I mean those bags, no matter how cute they might be, are gigantic. And I think they cause undue pressure on mothers who think "Oh no, I have an empty pouch - I must not have packed enough diapers..." when she already has a full pack stuffed in there "just in case." (Right, just in case the world ends while you're out at Target to pick up some milk and bread).

That lasted a good six months until I became a little more comfortable with the whole mothering thing and realized I didn't really need to bring diaper rash cream, 14 teething toys and my hand pump with me to the grocery store. And then I transitioned to the big purse. Yes. THAT PURSE. The one that holds 14 crayons, a bottle of bubbles, a Nutragrain snack bar, a diaper, 3 checkbooks, a cell phone and charging cord, and my wallet.

Now I'm proud of my big purse. Granted, I can't find a darn thing, even a very loudly ringing phone, but if my kid starts screaming in Old Navy, I can sit her in a dressing room, serve her a full meal, and entertain her with an educational puzzle session while I'm trying on tank tops.

And as for the small purses, they're still near and dear to my heart. But instead of packing them away, I have a little girl who totes them around just like her mama did. And in true form, she packed one up yesterday for a trip to the store - a ceramic cat, a Lego, her cell phone, and a set of keys.

Then she handed it to me to put in my purse.

And it fit just fine.

Kristen is a former college music professor turned stay-at-home-mother/rock star to her 20-month-old daughter, Quinlan.

Finally, I WIN!

By Kristen C.

I'm really not that competitive. I mean, I love a good game of Pictionary and Charades, but other than that, you won't see me racing down the road trying to get to the red light before Mrs. Honda Odyssey, or trying to beat the slow old lady to the shortest grocery line. I figure if there's no monetary prize or bragging rights, then what's the point?

But when it comes to my daughter, I admit to keeping score - with my husband, that is. And up until yesterday afternoon (much to my chagrin), he was in the lead by a mile.

I've been building my negative score since her infancy. My first loss happened when she decided to poop out the side of her diaper for the first time. "Who put this diaper on?" I fumed. Heh. Then I realized that I had in fact placed the questionable diaper half-way on my daughter's tiny butt. Darnit. Mommy: -1, Daddy: 0

Then there was the one and only time she has ever fallen out of the bed. Of course it just so happened that I decided to bend down and pick up the same pair of boxer shorts that always just misses the laundry basket every single day when she decides to take a dive off of the bed and onto our hard wood floor. Mommy: -2, Daddy: 0

And worst of all had to be three broken bones (two in the leg and one collarbone) in three months, all of which occurred while she was in my ever vigilant, almost eagle-like  care. Mommy: -2045, Daddy: 0

To credit the husband, he doesn't rub it in, when really, by all rights, he could. Granted, I am with her for most hours of the day (and night), but still. He keeps his mouth shut. However, I have seen the smug "I'm in the lead with a score of ZERO" look every now and then. And it bugs me. Big time.

So, I can't tell you how pleased I was when my daughter skipped into the bathroom (right next to the computer room where I was working) and started popping around in front of the mirror. Curious to see what all the clamor was about, I peeked in. And to my pleasant surprise, I found her entire face covered in my favorite lipstick. It was a beautiful mask of nude shimmer moisturizing lipstick by Almay.

I quickly scooped her up and ran to our front room where my husband had been sitting about two feet away from her while she decided to give herself a lipstick facial. And I didn't say one word. I just laughed and tried out my "smug-I-finally-got-one-on-you-sucker" look.

Mommy: 0, Daddy: -1

Kristen is a former college music professor turned stay-at-home-mother/rock star to her 20-month-old daughter, Quinlan.

All by myself

By Kristin C.

I should have known it would come around to bite me in the butt. But I still did it anyway. It was funny. You know, laughing at the kids wearing a backwards shirt, mismatched socks, and shoes on the wrong feet. I used to wonder why the mom just let them go without trying to fix it. I mean, at least switch the darn shoes around.

And then I woke up with a near-2-year-old. Let’s just say I get it now.

It started with clothing choices. I’d set out a nice shirt/Capri combo and she’d refuse to put it on. And remembering the helpful motherly advice I was given by those experienced mom types (yes, the kind you actually want to get), I decided to pick my battles. How bad do I really want her to wear that outfit? So, into her drawers she would dive and pull out whatever suited her mood – yellow pooh shirt with pink flowered shorts and a red hat.  Lovely combo.

Those outfits were an easy fix. All I needed to do was change her diaper and I could switch something else on her. She’d never know the difference and I’d save myself a few public chuckles.

But then she figured out how to actually put on her own clothes. So, not only does she now have to pick out her own clothes, but she must put them on, all by herself, no matter how long it takes. Take today, for instance. She had on a pink shirt, a yellow dress, socks, and sandals. It took her almost 30 minutes, but by gum, she was dressed. So what if the shoes were on the wrong feet and the shirt wasn’t intended to worn with that particular dress (or any dress, for that matter)? She did it herself. And I didn’t dare go near her.

The other day we went out to the grocery store. She was wearing her dress on backwards (circa 1990’s Kriss Kross) and her sandals on the wrong feet. And while she sat in the cart quite proudly, I attempted to zip through the store as fast as possible so not to endure the laughs and giggles I was sure to get.

But then, as we turned passed the tomatoes and towards bananas, I saw a sight for sore eyes. A little boy, just my daughter’s age, sat in his cart with his shirt on backwards and his shoes on the wrong feet. And instead of laughing, I smiled and him, and then at his mother. And then we both laughed – with, not at, each other.

Kristen is a former college music professor turned stay-at-home-mother/rock star to her 20-month-old daughter, Quinlan.

In search of my hotness

by Kristen C.

I’m not exactly sure when or where I lost it, but I’m pretty sure it’s long gone – my hotness, that is. Do you remember yours? I had a love/hate relationship with mine.

Sure. I loved modeling, free drinks, and hot dates. Who doesn’t? But, the nasty cat calls, bad pick-up lines, and unwanted affection are quite forgettable. However, considering I haven’t had even one questionable 3.8 second glance in ages, I’m ticked.

When I was pregnant, I decided to put my hotness on hold. I tried to do the “regular-just-a-size-larger-with-belly-peeking-out” tank top look ala a pregnant Rachel on Friends. I even wore maternity thongs. But, that lasted until my seventh month. And then I gladly welcomed the “these-could-shelter-1400-refugees” underpants and the blessed belly panel jean skirt and called it a night. So long, hotness – see you after the baby.

I packed up my own underwear and a flattering black nursing nightgown in my hospital bag, convinced that no one would get me (the on-hold hot one) in one of those hospital gowns and disposable underpants. But, suffice it to say that after popping a large child from your crotch, you could care less about the underpants and the gowns.

I stuffed myself into my going home outfit and tried desperately to get my hotness back by attempting to fit into anything that wasn’t marked “large-pregnant-woman-wear.” Since all I could find that fit were an old pair of socks (hey - they weren't maternity socks!?), I decided my hotness may in fact have left forever.

I gave up for awhile. Maybe it was the stinging pain while peeing or the rubbing of the lube on my nether regions just so I could enjoy a bowel movement. Or perhaps it was the baby that was almost constantly attached to my saucer-sized nipples that you could see from China (the nipples, that is). In fact, I'm pretty sure if you type in "Kristen's Nipples" on google earth, you could see them. No magnification required.

So, lately I’ve taken to trying to spruce myself up. A pedicure here, some shaved legs there. I bought some new clothes, joined the gym (to which I go every once and awhile – particularly when I want to read and shower in peace), and found some cool shoes. And I’m hoping that with a little effort – four pounds of make-up on a light day – I might just find my hotness.

Granted I’m a little wider, and a whole lot wiser, I’d still like it back. At least before it’s gone forever, and all I have are crappy boring stories of “that old and wonderful hotness.” Those were the days.

Kristen is a former college music professor turned stay-at-home-mother/rock star to her 20-month-old daughter, Quinlan.