Mom in the Mirror

A mother knows

The first time I had mother's intuition was before my son was born -- about 9 months before, in fact -- when I just knew I was pregnant.

My husband doubted me, with good reason. But reason wasn't a factor for me. I didn't need a home pregnancy test or doctor to tell me I was carrying a little baby. My body told me, my soul told me, my mother's intuition told me.

To humor my husband, I did take a pregnancy test. And I did, of course, immediately follow up with a visit to the doctor for vitamins and other necessary treatment.

But meeting my mother's intuition for the first time was like meeting myself as a parent and knowing, just knowing, it would be OK.

I've always been a big believer in "listening to my gut," I just never realized my gut had a special place in it reserved for parenting.

My mother's intuition told me my baby was a boy, even though we didn't have the gender determined by ultrasound or any other means. The only medical indication was that our baby's heartbeat was slow the last two weeks before birth, which is typical for a boy.

I also knew, before my son was born, that he would be very physically active. He hardly rested at all while he grew inside me, so I was not at all surprised that he was four years old before he slept through the night for the first time. I knew he'd be a restless child.

From the moment he started nursing, he has been intense. "Spirited," the books call it. And I knew from an early age that this would be a defining characteristic of his, not just a phase. As a newborn, an infant, a toddler, and ever since, Colter has been, well, Colter. And I've known him in a way no one else can.

Before I experienced it, I didn't believe it was possible to have such a developed sense of someone else. And I certainly had no reason to believe I would have such a sixth sense, since my mother didn't seem to have any parenting instincts at all.

So when I worried out loud about the kind of parent I'd be, how able I'd be to read and interpret my child's signals, I was discouraged by all the mothers who said to me, "Don't worry, you'll just know."

"But how will I know?" I'd ask. "How?"

I'm not a big believer in things I cannot explain. I am a skeptic.

Just tell me, I'd say, how exactly will I be able to tell one cry from another? One diaper from another? How will I be able to tell my child is sick just by looking in his eyes?

I don't know, they'd say, you just will.

And for the most part, they were right.

Now that my son is 8 years old, I can walk through the door after a day at work, take one look at him and know he's sick; I can tell when my son is lying to me, or when he's just up to something in another room, out of sight.

I can't explain it, but I've come to accept this way of knowing.

Some mothers say they don't have this instinct. Perhaps they don't. Or perhaps they're just not listening for it. I don't know.

And I'm certainly not saying that God or nature or evolution made us good parents by biology or inclination, even if she/he/it enabled us to understand our offspring intuitively.

Anyone who knows me knows how much I struggle as a mother. I'm far from perfect. I make flawed choices, compromise when others wouldn't, and have no idea how to handle more situations than I'd like.

I have not been lured by this "mother's intuition" into a false sense of security. In fact, it's had the opposite effect on me. It has made me more vigilant.

Because with this knowledge comes responsibility, a responsibility to pay attention to and nurture this intuition, while informing it, arguing with it, and deciding when to trust it.

I don't think mother's intuition has made me a better parent, but it has made me a somewhat more confident one.

Don't ask me how I know. I just know.

This LifeFiles column originally appeared on about 70 TV station websites managed by Internet Broadcasting Systems.

In the buff

My son has always loved to run around naked, but now that he's 8 years old and will strip without thought in front of friends, I'm not sure this is such a good thing.

"Mom, we're both boys!" he tells me when I realize he just changed into a bathing suit in front of his friend. "Honey, he did this all summer in the locker room at camp," my husband reminds me.

And yet Colter's total disinterest in privacy concerns me.

For one thing, I'm not sure he's such a great judge of what makes other people uncomfortable. So, while it may be entirely shameless on his end (no pun intended), it may embarrass his friends.

And for another thing, I don't want him assuming that other people feel as free baring themselves.

I've become much more diligent about changing into pajamas in my bedroom (instead of the bathroom, where he often barges in), but if he wants to talk to me he just stands around and waits. When I say, "Colter, I'm naked!" he just smiles.

Sometime soon we'll get around to dealing with the whole Oedipal thing, but meanwhile, how do you teach your kids about nudity without making them ashamed of their bodies?

When helping hurts

I always thought it was a good thing to help my son. But when he was a toddler, I learned that one of the best ways to help your child is to encourage him to do for himself what he can. So, I let him spill -- I mean, pour -- his own juice, tie his own shoes (no matter how long it took), and pick out his own clothes.

As he grew older, he wanted to do less and less. "Mommy, I'm thirsty," he'd yell to me from the couch. "Mommy, can you get my pajamas?," he'd ask while brushing his teeth.

As the challenges he faced grew more complicated, I'd gladly accommodate him when I could, because I wanted to reserve "no" for lessons larger than laziness.

This approach has worked relatively well for us as a family.

So imagine my chagrin when his teacher -- at a conference last week -- relayed this anecdote:

Colter took a Band-Aid out of the cabinet in his classroom, put it on his cut, and let the paper trail fall behind him as he returned to his desk. When his teacher asked him, "Would you do that at home?" He said, "Yes, my mom picks up after me."

Does your "helping" ever backfire?

The class pet

Colter wants to bring the gerbil home.

I remember friends bringing home the class gerbil when I was a kid. Or the class fish or guinea pig or whatever pet was favored by the teacher. They were all named "Sunshine" or "Butterball" or something else sweet and sappy.

I thought they were stinky and small and my parents would never have let me bring one home anyway. Although, at the end of one summer at camp I really thought I could persuade my mom to let me bring home a horse if I could only figure out where to store the hay.

So, Colter wants to bring the gerbil home. And Gary has agreed.

What if it bites me? What if it escapes? What if it dies on our watch?

Why can't they have a class cat?

Does your child have a class pet?

Lucky 7

Seven has been my lucky number since I was 7 years old, the first time someone asked me what my lucky number was. (I'm very loyal.)

When Colter was 7 years old, it was his lucky number, too. Now that he's 8, his lucky number is 8. Fickle boy.

What's your lucky number? Your child(ren)'s?

That sucking sound

"Julie, Colter has a Lego in his mouth," a little girl called to me from the living room this week.

"Yes," I sighed. "He likes to chew on things."

"I don't think it's safe," his friend responded.

"If you can get him to stop, that'd be great," I told her.

Colter never sucked his thumb as a baby and he never had a pacifier. But suddenly, at the age of 6, he started putting his fingers, toys, Game Boy, the remote control, anything and everything in his mouth. For the two years since, he's been like a perpetual puppy: always chewing.

If I had a minute for every time I said to him, "What's in your mouth?" or "Please take that out of your mouth," I'd have all the time I need.

At first, I thought maybe he was teething. He was losing teeth, new ones were coming in, but after a while it was clearly something else.

And what could I say? I sucked my thumb until my 13th birthday. I figure he'll stop when he's ready to stop, like I did.

Do your kids suck their thumbs or fingers?

Foods that make us feel better

I never ate tomato soup as a sick child, or grilled cheese sandwiches. I always imagined other kids did, those who lived in conventional homes where they all sat down together at the dinner table for a meal.

I ate Pop-Tarts, frozen Milky Ways, shrimp cocktail. These foods didn't help me heal. They weren't even nutritious. They were simply what I could find in the pantry or freezer.

Now, when I'm not feeling well, I fall back on other foods: doughy bread, mashed potatoes, tuna casserole. And always, ginger ale. I can tell I'm starting to feel better when I start craving hot dogs or pizza.

When Colter is sick, he doesn't usually eat at all. From the time he was very young, his first food on a sick stomach has been crackers or matzo and butter. When he's feeling a little better he wants grilled cheese, grilled peanut butter or grilled tuna. And I know he's recovered when he starts asking for chicken nuggets and ketchup.

What foods comfort your kids when they're sick? What foods comfort you?

The sound of squealing brakes

I was working at the computer a few days ago while Colter played outside, and I heard it. The sound of death: A car braking. Fast. Hard.

I ran outside trying not to panic. As soon as the door closed behind me, before I could even look for my son, I heard, "Hi Mommy."

He was fine. This time. Every time, so far. And he was nowhere near the street.

But it only takes one time. One close call, near miss, or worse.

I don't know why I am so afraid he'll be hit by a car. But I am. I'm terrified when he plays outside.

Gary recently asked me of our homebody son, "How did you manage to raise an agoraphobic?" Maybe he can read my mind?

What sounds scare you?

When did I become so weepy?

Before Colter was born, I wasn't much of a crier. I could sit through most sappy movies dry-eyed ("Terms of Endearment" was the exception) and I didn't need Kleenex during weddings or funerals. I was stoic, even.

But over the last 8 years, I've found myself weeping during bar mitzvahs, "goodbye" speeches at work, even those cotton commercials about the "fabric of our lives."

What is WRONG with me?!

It's like when my milk ducts closed, my tear ducts permanently opened.

Do you cry more now that you're a mom?

Take my son out to the ballgame

I grew up a sports fan in the city of sports fans.

Chicago, described by poet Carl Sandburg as the city of big shoulders, is actually the city of big dreams. And little victories.

I know because I watched part of almost every professional game played in the city, in person or on TV, from the time of my birth until I left for college.

My father was a fan's fan -- he was even buried in his Chicago Bulls T-shirt -- and he hoped his children would become sports spectators like he was. He took me to Blackhawks games when I was in elementary school. Then when hockey scared me, he took me and my older sister to Chicago Bears games.

It was love at first sight for football and my family. We became season-ticket holders and neither snow nor exams could cause us to miss a game.

We sat in one of the very top rows at Soldier Field, just underneath the scoreboard, where we drank hot chocolate, froze our toes off and yelled at the team until the Bears finally won the Super Bowl.

A decade after they won, when I was pregnant, I even considered naming my baby Payton, after legendary running back Walter Payton, who was the team's touchstone during the years of Sundays I watched them play.

I wanted to offer my son the same sports fan experience I had growing up, snow and all, but it didn't work out that way. Colter was born in Chapel Hill, N.C., where the closest rivalry was between Tobacco Road neighbors UNC and Duke University.

When we moved down 15-501 from Chapel Hill to Durham, my husband and I remained loyal Tar Heels, while our son split the family's loyalties by becoming a Blue Devils fan. This seemed only fair since, as a kid myself, I split my family's loyalties by becoming a Cubs fan, even though my father owned a small business in the shadow of Comiskey Park and knew people who worked for the White Sox.

But we all agreed about the Durham Bulls. They were a find. We took Colter to the AAA games and all enjoyed the showmanship. It helped that my employer owned the team and provided free tickets.

When we moved to Florida a few years ago, it was the Bulls' Major League counterpart -- the Tampa Bay Devil Rays -- we went to see play.

Our first Devil Rays game was thrilling: my birthday was announced on the Jumbotron. That same year, the Tampa Bay Buccaneers won the Super Bowl. And then the Tampa Bay Lightning won the Stanley Cup.

I was in Sports Country again.

But only briefly.

I'm not much of an athlete -- I nearly flunked P.E. -- although I did play basketball (badly) and softball (with less enthusiasm) in high school. My husband is far more athletic than I am, but the last organized sport he played was volleyball -- not very popular down here, unless there are beaches and bikinis involved.

Colter has always been a physical kid, but after getting tired of soccer he took up channel surfing and GameCube as his personal pastimes (his thumbs do get quite a workout).

In an effort to re-engage him in team sports -- and because the tickets were once again free -- it was back to the baseball diamond for us.

But this time, things had changed. Or maybe I had.

First, there's the food. I spent $30 on two hot dogs, two orders of fries and one lemonade. And that tab didn't include the pizza, popcorn, peanuts and Dippin' Dots we ate after our "meal."

Then, there were the fans. As a kid, I screamed, "Bob Avellini sucks," from the stands. But as a parent, I was amazed by the language and gestures my son was suddenly seeing and repeating.

When you consider the crowds, the lines, the bathrooms and the parking, sports suddenly seem, well, unsportsmanlike.

There is as much jockeying and competition off the field as there is on it.

So, this lifelong sports fan may be hanging up her ball cap, at least until her son is on the playing field. Because however fickle I may have become about professional teams, I'm very loyal to my son: Wherever he plays, however he plays, I'll always be waiting on the sidelines, just as my father was.

This LifeFiles column originally appeared on about 70 TV station websites managed by Internet Broadcasting Systems.