DotMoms

Relief pitchers

By Melissa

I've been staying at home with my children for nearly 6 years now.

My stay-at-home life has been as much a function of my inability to face finding loving daycare for my baby as it has been a practical consideration given the cost of working versus the amount of money I would bring home.

As a stay-at-home mother, one of the hardest parts of this job has been my sole responsibility for the care of my children on a daily basis. Of course I have a spouse and I have the occasional daytime babysitter, maybe six times a year, but the day to day job of raising two small children is my task in the most practical sense.

The practical sense is probably the part of this job I'm the worst at.

Keeping the house clean. Keeping the children engaged. Patiently answering the same question until my eardrums bleed. I'm really good at loving my children and trying to be the best mother I can be, but I am very bad at the practicalities of raising children.

In the last week I've taken my youngest (and last) child to preschool. It's just two days a week for a couple of hours and I've been looking forward to a few child-free hours since Max was a zygote. Internally though, I wondered if it would feel different once I was actually there, dropping my last baby off at school to start trying out a life that doesn't include me.

It seems many of the stay-at-home mothers I've known have had trouble with this milestone. There are tears at the first day of school from some of the mothers and some of the kids. Some of the stay-at-home mothers I've known have relished the all encompassing role of being the sole day to day influence in their child's life.

Where I struggle with the dependence of two small children, they feel boosted by it.

What I've felt instead of sadness resembles unadulterated joy. At first it was just joy because, people, I have 2.5 hours to myself two times a week! However, I quickly realized 2.5 hours is like nothing in the magic vacuum of "freedom."

I'm also happy because my children can be away from me and be their own little people and not as much tiny extensions of me. There are now even more people who, on a regular basis, can fill in some of the gaps I leave by being human and imperfect.

Max's preschool teachers love to sing and play! I hate singing and playing!

Madison's first grade teacher loves to paint! I hate to paint ... with children ... in my house.

On top of all that, a little bit of absence makes the heart grow fonder. It's so nice, at the end of the day, to ask my children what they did. I have to ask now, because it isn't always EXACTLY THE SAME THING I DID.

I think this new form of mothering I'm entering is going to fit me better. Well, either that or I'm just drunk on the 2.5 hours of freedom twice a week.

Expertise

By Melissa

Madison slept through the night at six weeks old. I'm not talking about the Dr. Sears version of "Sleeping Through The Night" that's something like four hours at a time, because I'm serious about sleep, and four hours does not count when you're serious about sleep.

She slept from 11 p.m. until 6 a.m., and by 12 weeks she was going to bed at 8 p.m. and waking up at 7 a.m.

We threw a party. A huge party with balloons and cocktails and a champagne fountain. We rolled her out in her crib and she waved affectionately at her public. I considered traveling the globe giving lectures titled "Getting Your Baby To Sleep Like She Really, Really Means It!"

Because I was obviously a pro! I knew all about getting a baby to sleep through the night. I would rid the world of the insanity of the non-sleeping baby and the entire Sleep-Deprived Parent phenomenon. (Which really is the cruelest joke of new parenthood. No sleep. Well I also believe the hormones are a cruel joke. And the pain of breastfeeding is also a pretty cruel joke. A joke in a "Ha ha, this is purely evil" type of way.)

I was so cocky about sleep, I decided to have my children 2.5 years apart. Surely I knew all there was to know about getting infants to "Sleep Through The Night Like They Really, Really Mean It!" Another child would be like getting an MBA!

Then Max was born and I never slept again.

I was looking over the little journal I kept next to my bed for writing about how things were going in that first year. According to the journal, nothing at all happened in Max's first year except he wouldn't sleep through the night.

That's pretty much all I ever wrote about. I realize now I had become psychotically determined to figure out how to get my child to sleep through the night. At least every other entry was about his sleep, and how it was seriously lacking.

To sign off I would write, incredulously, "Doesn't he realize I AM A PROFESSIONAL?"

All I thought I knew about infants and getting them to sleep was thrown out the window. The same window I imagined hurling myself from at the 1 a.m., 3 a.m. and 4 a.m. wake-ups. The same window my husband imagined hurling himself from while he was on duty.

What I realized at about month 15 of Max's life was this: I really didn't "make" my daughter sleep through the night. She wanted to sleep, and I certainly wanted her to sleep, and we were gloriously compatible in the sleep department.

I will say I watched her cues pretty well, and I learned how she liked her day to go, and I made sure things happened the way she liked them. Naps were at around the same time each day, she liked GIN Gimlets, not that wimpy Vodka version, I put her to bed awake (because cuddling was not on the "Turn Ons" list) and she cried for five to 10 minutes before she could let her brain shut down and go to sleep.

If I had really created a Sleeping Baby Empire (a book, videos, a world tour), all I really could have lectured on was "How My Daughter and I Work Together To Get Her The Sleep She Wants."

I was only an expert on that particular topic. I had no clue how to get your baby to sleep through the night. I had no clue how to get my second child to sleep through the night. Really, I knew nothing at all.

In the five years I've been a mother, I've only become an expert at not knowing a single thing. Even the things I know can change without warning. I'm always changing the rules and changing the way I do things, because my kids change and what worked for one might not work for the other. I think it also proves, once again, that there are a million right ways to be a mother, because it is all about what works for you and your child.

However, I do have to say, I am actually an expert at smiling and leaving my body while my son flails about and shrieks during an agonizing public tantrum.

I'm thinking about taking that show on the road: "How To Leave Your Body and Smile Vacantly As Your Child Makes A Public Spectacle Of You."

Because, I assure you, I am a pro at that.

We're fast talkers

By Melissa

I really like talking. A lot. I especially like talking to my husband.

At one time this was easy enough. Before our daughter arrived we'd grab a drink after work and sit out on the porch chatting for hours, dazzling one another with our superb conversational skills.

Even after our daughter arrived, we'd still have long conversations on the porch. We'd just take our baby outside with us. She didn't have much to contribute to the conversation, so she'd sit on the ground on a blanket and chew on her toes and drool. Mostly we'd talk about how she was chewing on her toes, but also about other things.

Then it happened. She started talking too, and she wanted to talk with us!?

Suddenly our long, leisurely conversations became rapid fire discussions, before Madison had something to share. All our funny stories were being crammed into 5 word sentences:

"Funny Thing Today. Ha Ha!"

This wasn't satisfactory so we practiced speaking with several intermissions.

Me: "So, today we're out to lunch with my mother....."
Madison: "Leeee Deeeeee MMMMMM!"
Me: "Oh! Really? Well then, back to my story...where was I?"
Madison "EEEEEE EEEEEE!"
Me: "Fascinating! So... anyway... lunch..."

That didn't work well either.

It only got worse as Madison began speaking in full sentences. Robust sentences. Long sentences, with lots of important details which commanded all our attention. Then we added another future talker to our family, our son.

Now our son is three and Max has the same love of the spoken word the rest of our family has. Between the four of us I think we're single handedly responsible for the noise pollution problem in the entire state of Michigan.

We're trying to teach our children to "Wait for your turn,", but this is no easy task since it means I also have to wait my turn. Sometimes at the dinner table, while Madison is sharing a story I feel myself bursting at the seams to interrupt, and I start bouncing in my chair with my hand raised, softly saying, "Oh, oh, oh!".

Really, it's quite rude, and my 5-year-old has to remind me to "Wait for your turn."

I want to but it's, you know, hard to wait for my turn.

Then when it finally is my turn to talk, I have to talk really fast to get out what I want to say, before it's someone else's turn.

Because in this house, if you're going to say it, you'd better say it fast. We're Fast Talkers.

Three-year-old injustice

By Melissa

My son is three and appears to be struggling with something resembling either schizophrenia or PMS. We call him the Tiny Tyrant because we never know what will spark his wrath. Will it be ketchup on the wrong side of the plate? Will it be a blue popsicle when he specifically said, in his mind, he wanted RED? Will it be failed peace talks in Palestine? We just never know.

I've been told several times, during several tantrums by several people, how they admire the way I endure a tantrum. How I look like I don't really notice what's happening. How I don't look flustered at all by the events unfolding in front of me, as if I don't hear my child screaming at the top of his lungs. I remain calm and stoic throughout the event.

The truth is, I don't notice. Just as the tantrum starts I sneak off and smoke a little Crack just to take the edge off. From there, I'm cool.

Okay, not really!

I do leave my body and find my happy place during the worst tantrums. I've actually found the labor breathing techniques, which didn't help me at all during labor, are quite useful while waiting for a tantrum to pass.

"He he hoooo. He he hoooo"

Sometimes we have better luck with this process than others.

Last week, we had what I call a Grand Mal Tantrum on the sidewalk in our neighborhood. We made it down the street with all the screaming and all the flailing and by the time we walked in the door to our home, I really did want some Crack. Okay, not really!

Really I wanted to sit down on the floor with Max and scream and cry and kick and I wanted to shake my fist at a world which would allow a boy to suffer the injustice of leaving the park when his mother said so and then I really just wanted a nap.

Instead I put Max in his room and I went to my room and took a time-out. I came back, gave him a cuddle and read a book with him and it was naptime for both of us.

How do you deal with tantrums?

Everyone welcome Melissa, a new DotMom (you can read her bio here).