DotMoms

A big steaming bowl

By Melissa

We're a few months into this year's school lunches and one thing is crystal clear, Daniel would like to eat nothing but plain, white rice. I'm striving for variety and my 12-year-old is craving rice.

He does not mean rice and vegetables. There is no "rice and..." that he enjoys.

The rice is plain. The same as it's been since he was a toddler. I wish I could tell all the parents of toddlers that Mr. Picky will change. That one day, there will be a miracle and he will stop refusing the family dinner. Except that this didn't exactly happen for us. Daniel is 12 and still prefers the same dish he demanded at three. He's not demanding anymore, but his big brown eyes plead with us. Plead for the wonder that is plain, white rice. 

For his healthy and substantial lunches I am not shunning rice. In fact, we love rice in all its forms. Since the moment Daniel learned we had thermos-like food jars to pack along with his lunch, he's been politely and consistently begging for his plain rice. We are out of rice. This is, in his mind, a disaster.

Instead, I've subjected him to edamame, sunflower seed butter, and kumquats. He likes it all. But nothing compares to his beloved. Sometimes I think he's going to grow up, go to college, and be the weird kid in the dorm who dismisses the pizza in favor of a big bowl of steaming rice. 

Hmm, that doesn't sound so bad. Forget what I said. Parents of picky toddlers, there is hope.

Melissa is a thirty-year-old art historian and mama to two boys (11 and 10) living in Missouri. She and her husband are threatening to have another baby.

The big month

By Melissa

This is it. It’s time, so says our carefully laid out plan. It’s time to make a baby. And I’m suddenly terrified.

For years, I wanted to have a third child but someone never wanted it. That’s right. I wanted a baby but my husband most certainly did not. His reasons were always good, too good. We had two kids already, we were both in college, kids are hellions on wheels, we both worked outside the home, the marriage needed help, we then started new careers, the laundry was never done, the cats looked jealous already, the living room paint wasn’t dry…

Whatever, I’d say. Let’s do this thing. Logical Schmogical. And yet we waited, because no way no how was I going to have another child without his expressed joy and enthusiasm. I’ve been down that road and it blew. Mightily.

Yet one glorious day, he looked at me and said it. “Let’s have another baby.”

I, naturally, collapsed in puddle of laughter before looking up, tears in my eyes, “Are you kidding me, because that’s not funny.”

He meant it. The plans were ironed out, the vague notion of when it’s “right” began to form. And lo, here we are. I’m useless, frozen, terrified.

Kids are hard. Babies are hard. Pregnancy is hard. Childbirth is HARD. I really don’t like to do things that are difficult. Easy does it for me, darling.

I want my body to get healthier every time I eat a cookie. I want the car to wash itself. Likewise, I want our next baby to magically appear on a fluffy white cloud, bathed, fed, and slumbering peacefully so I can simply bury my nose in his fine baby hair for a few hours.

I have a feeling it’s not going to work out that way. Scary.

Melissa is a thirty-year-old art historian and mama to two boys (11 and 10) living in Missouri. She and her husband are threatening to have another baby.

School supplies?

By Melissa

I don’t mind buying school supplies. However, I’m tired of buying ridiculous items year after year for two kids. I realize that many schools are strapped for cash. But my goodness, so am I.

We live in a mixed-income school district that consistently builds on to existing schools, adds new pretty architectural features, creates new computer labs, etc. We are nowhere near the upper echelon of the income bracket, but clearly, the school district is doing okay. So why am I buying Post-It notes, special expandable folders found in only one of our local stores, different colored highlighters, felt pens of certain colors, dry-erase markers and erasers, and a load of other minute but seemingly meaningless crap?

This is the year. The year I finally figured it out.

It’s not because the school district needs those things, because really? Post-Its? It’s because teachers are using those items more and more and they aren’t standard school-provided necessities. I think what gets me is how those items are used: rarely and poorly.

The Post-It notes are used as bookmarks, which would horrify most librarians (the sticky! On the pages!) The expandable file which must have 12-13 files in it, the most elusive variety so it would seem, is used to shove papers in all year long until it’s seams break and we find it under the bed. The felt pens? Are better than regular pens? But wait, we need regular pens too? Highlighters must be in different colors so you can highlight whole pages at a time, in different colors, somehow on the idea that this how one takes notes. (Note to all: this is not a good way to take notes). Dry-erase markers and erasers are barely used. They come home year after year looking brand-spanking-new.

Is it just me? Am I the only one annoyed at the odd school supplies bought and not used correctly? I think I would feel better if I thought they had a real purpose. Am I just being a Cheapy McThriftypants?

Melissa is a thirty-year-old art historian and mama to two boys (11 and 10) living in Missouri. She and her husband are threatening to have another baby.

How to fail at homeschooling

By Melissa

The boys are coming up on a new school year and I am once again doing a little pre-school homeschooling, fighting the uphill battle of summer academic amnesia. The boys attend our local public schools, with decent results (someday I’ll share my rants directed toward a useless violin instructor). However, the moment that last day of school ends my children lose it. All of it.

It takes me a while to figure out how much of the previous year’s learning is gone, relegated to the deep recesses of a little boy’s active brain, hiding and refusing to come out. Then, I hit the nearby teacher’s bookstore, grab a few items (usually spending less than $20) and we hit the books. This summer, they are brushing up on math, especially fractions, spelling and grammar, typing, reading comprehension, and various research projects.

In both my husband’s family and mine, there are hard-core homeschoolers. Some rock the Kasbah and their kids are doing great. Some do not, not academically and not in any other way. (Let us not discuss the social aspects of homeschooling, because that is easily integrated and a weird argument. I mean, is public school teaching what I want them to learn in regards to social development? Not always.)

I know what successful homeschooling looks like and what it doesn’t. And sadly, I have learned that my personality doesn’t really blend well with full-time homeschooling. Here are my top five ways to fail at homeschooling.

5. Suck.

4. Set a flexible, homeschooling schedule to fit with existing work-at-home schedule and then sleep in, really screwing up your timing because you left some wriggle room, but not this much. Before you know it, crap, it’s 3:00 in the afternoon and you still need a shower.

3. Get angry with your older child because he has a learned behavior of feigning ignorance from his stay at elementary school, which has thus far been highly successful. It ticks you off, immensely. Wonder what he’s going to do in middle school this year.

2. Pine for a stiff drink at 3:30 in the afternoon. Realize that you’re only 30 minutes into the day’s lessons and form the vague notion that (see #5), you suck.

1. When you watch your younger child do all his fraction addition, subtraction, and multiplication in his head, incorporating denominator changes, you come to understand that you have really underestimated his abilities. Again this year. And you suck.

Melissa is a thirty-year-old art historian and mama to two boys (11 and 10) living in Missouri. She and her husband are threatening to have another baby.

Learning the social rules of 'tween dating

By Melissa

My 11-year-old son has his first girlfriend.

They do not speak to each other.

This is my first brush with how awkward it's going to be to deal with this growing son. I want to be supportive, yet I'm not sure how to define this new relationship and in turn, how to parent him through it. He tells me Casey is his girlfriend because he sent her a note that asked, "Will you be my girlfriend?" She did not answer, but her friend was sent undercover during reading time and responded with Casey's affirmative reply. His first relationship was born.

However, they are required by the social rules of elementary school not to speak to one another. It's so very Victorian. The tiniest of love notes are passed, they must not assume so much as to speak directly, they pine appropriately for the other after school. Fascinating.

I ask mom-questions. Do you like her? Answer: duh. Did you see Casey today? Answer: duh. Are you going to call her? Answer: red-hot blushing.

Calling on the phone is apparently permitted by these strict social rules, but neither has gone through the act of dialing the numbers. After a few weeks of working up the courage to ask Casey's friend for Casey's number, to do so in person violates social constructs, Daniel gets his girlfriend's number. Now he's hoarding it in his special drawer where he keeps favorite rocks and prized Lego creations. Now that summer's arrived in it's scorchy, muggy glory, I thought the phone calls might also arrive.

Nope.

I wonder if he'll even see her when they start sixth grade in the fall. Yet, it doesn't seem to matter. He likes her. She likes him. That's all there is to worry about.

He likes to shyly confide the reasons why he likes this girl in the sweet moments I have him alone in the car or when we're washing the dishes. To watch him in this in-between time is interesting, weird, and lovely all at once.

He likes her simply because she's nice.  He might call her one day, but I doubt it will be soon.

Melissa is a thirty-year-old art historian and mama to two boys (11 and 10) living in Missouri. She and her husband are threatening to have another baby.

No Girls Allowed

by Melissa

It had to be unanimous. The kids had to agree to this new baby thing. If we were going to have another baby, when these boys were already 11 and 10, we felt they had a rightful say in the matter. Does that mean we would have scrapped the whole idea if they didn’t want another sibling? No. But it would have indicated the need for more discussion, more preparation, and perhaps more time. As it happened, they loved the idea. They both adored the idea of a new little person in the house and they were even mostly kind of okay that another baby meant we needed a new house. They voted yes. As long as we didn’t have a girl.

Both Daniel and Brett love babies. They’re the first to ask to hold a new cousin and the first to get on the floor to roll a ball to the toddlers. They are comfortable holding infants and running alongside a quick preschooler. Daniel has a sweet spot for a tiny smile or coo. Brett likes when a little one can play a bit rough and tumble. I know that a new baby isn’t all coos and adorable expressions, but so do they.

Part of the reason we waited so long to consider another child is that my ex-husband kept having kids. He had one child with a girlfriend and then another with his wife. Yes, he has four kids with three mothers. I claimed the role of president of this unsuspecting Mothers’ Club a long time ago. Having these two kids meant my boys ended up with two siblings who don’t live with them. If we had any kids, then the boys would have no less than three half-siblings with three people not part of their original parent group. We felt unsure about how that would affect them and if we should add to that interesting, and challenging, family dynamic.

Turns out, the boys have adjusted fine. Their half-siblings are simply a part of their life and as far as they are concerned, are the same as any sibling with no difference except living arrangement. I’m glad. It’s all any of us ever wanted. Armed with that knowledge and their blessing, we feel more comfortable moving ahead with the baby plan. But, no girls, we’ve been warned. NO girls.

Their younger siblings? Sisters.

Melissa is a thirty-year-old art historian and mama to two boys (11 and 10) living in Missouri. She and her husband are threatening to have another baby.

Wanted: New Baby and a Lick of Your Bourbon

by Melissa

Once upon a time, I was staring at a pregnancy test in disbelief. It was my second pregnancy. I already had a baby, a fourteen-month-old. And I was nineteen. I would later learn I was already twenty-weeks pregnant. I had ignored all signs of pregnancy in order to save my sanity. I couldn't believe I was pregnant again and I was heartbroken.

Fast-forward almost eleven years to today and you can find me scouring preconception information in medical books, journals, and on the Internet. I'm going to try to have a third, maybe even a fourth, baby. I've never tried to have a baby; they came unbidden when I was a teenager. I love my two boys, now 10 and 11. I am glad that I have them. But those early years were so hard; so so hard that one would think I would be a bit gun-shy about having another. 

I'm not. I can't wait. However, this time I'm 30-years-old and I am in a stable marriage of eight years. I'm happy. My career is flexible and a source of joy. I think I can emotionally parent a baby again. I think this time I'm going to have just as many problems, but they'll be different, more universal and not so pointedly teen-mom related. I hope to find more mothers struggling with late nights and fussy toddlers. I don't imagine you are all hiding in some dark corner hoarding the last bottle of Bourbon, are you? Oh god, are you?

At the same time, my odyssey of teen motherhood has taught me that in the worst of situations I still make a pretty great mom. Motherhood is never easy, but I hope that the strength of my two kids young lives affords me the knowledge that I can do this.  That even in the darkest nights of pregnancy and new childbirth, I can remember that once, it was harder. And once, I made it through a better, stronger woman.

Melissa is a thirty-year-old art historian and mama to two boys (11 and 10) living in Missouri. She and her husband are threatening to have another baby.

Peanut butter is a food group, right?

By Melissa

Last fall my husband, who has always been the most patient and tolerant man I've ever known, began to express ... loudly ... his dissatisfaction with my end of the bargain.

My end of the bargain is the part where I stay at home and take care of the house and the kids and maybe put a meal on the table at the end of the day. This may sound ridiculously traditional but the truth is, when we had kids we each signed up for a job in this family.

Both the jobs are hard and rewarding and both jobs wear us out and fill us up in some very important ways. Both our jobs are equally important for the survival of this family and we both have to do our jobs well.

When Logan first began to complain about the fact that after a 10- to 12-hour day he was walking in the house to cook dinner each night, I felt defensive. I didn't stay at home so I could cook and clean! I stayed at home to raise these kids and that's my first priority! What is this, the '50s? Why are you oppressing me?

But then, over time, I began to realize if I was going to be a stay-at-home mother then this was part of my job and if I didn't want this job then I needed to get a job outside of this house.

A job outside of the house wasn't entirely an option until very recently, so in the meantime I learned how to cook! It wasn't that I didn't know how to cook, it was that I'd look at the contents of my refrigerator and pantry and I'd never be able to create a meal out of its contents no matter how complete the offerings.

I'm simply not talented in the kitchen. Left on my own I would eat cheese and crackers and spoonfuls of peanut butter every day. But it turns out I have these two small children who must have balanced meals and they must have them every night.

We went to a wedding and while chatting with another mother at the reception I mentioned how it had been an 'issue' in my home that although I stay at home full time, I've never been able to put dinner on the table on a regular basis.

She said, "What you need is a crockpot ... because then you'll have your meal going while you're having cocktails with the playgroup moms and dinner will be ready by the time you get home!"

I fell a little bit in love with her in that moment.

Me and my minivan

By Melissa

This week, my daughter turned six. This week, we bought a minivan.

I never thought my identity was wrapped up in a car, in a vehicle which takes us from point A to point B. But then I am from the Motor City and every person I know is at least two degrees from one of the Big Three. From my husband, who works in automotive advertising, to my Ford executive grandfather, to a friend who works as a personal chef for the Ford family.

Perhaps it's in my blood.

But maybe it's the fact that now, no matter where I go, I'm a MOM in a MINIVAN.

In the past, when I escaped the house without my two absolutely perfect children, I could hop in my SUV and, with the tinted windows hiding the two car seats in the back, I could pretend for a few minutes I was actually childless.

Not that I want to be childless at this point, but it's always nice to relive the best times in our past in whatever small ways we can. It was nice to escape my reality on a brief trip to the grocery store alone or on a date night with my husband.

In a minivan, no matter how tinted your windows are, you can never escape the fact that you are a Mom and you have succumbed to the convenience of carting five kids and all their gear at one time.

I am a mother, but first I'm Melissa. In my minivan, everyone I pass sees me as A Mom. That's my box and now I fit in it.

It took exactly six years, but I finally gave in. I drive a minivan now.

My sense of shame

By Melissa

My daughter's birth was strenuous. I labored the entire day and the baby wasn't tolerating labor very well. Honestly, neither was I. Her heartbeat kept dropping during contractions and each time this happened I had to roll my massive body into a new position to relieve whatever trauma was bothering Madison in utero. After that, her heartbeat would return to normal.

Until late in the day, when her heartbeat dropped and I changed positions a few times but it didn't help her. Ten to 15 doctors and nurses rushed into my room and prepared for an emergency C-section. One of the nurses had a brilliant idea, "Why doesn't she try laying on her stomach on this bean bag chair?"

At this point I had been laboring for eight hours, I was catheterized, epidural-ed and I had wires coming from places wires do not belong. I was in no mood for this, but as I've learned many times in the last six years, a lot of mothering involves doing things you aren't in the mood to do.

Wearing nothing but cords and a hospital gown, up I went on all fours, my stomach resting on a bean bag chair. Have you ever worn a hospital gown? You may recall hospital gowns do not close in back and because of this you typically don't want to be on all fours while wearing a hospital gown. I gave 10-15 members of the hospital staff, plus whoever else was called up to see the spectacle, quite a show that day.

As I kneeled there waiting to see if my baby's heartbeat would return to normal, I began to cry. Logan leaned in saying, "It's going to be all right. I know you're scared."

I yelled, "I'm not crying because I'm scared!!! Would you look at me?" We shared a good laugh over that, with the room of 100 spectators.

Now explain to me how, after all that, I am still horrified by wearing a bathing suit in public?