Enough growing already!

As a parent, I feel constantly torn between the two extremes of looking forward to my kids being older and keeping them young while I still can. I very firmly do not want to have any more babies. That is clearer and clearer all the time (and probably warrants a bad mom post of its own). But something about Kate’s 2nd birthday today makes me think about how quickly the time passes and how easily I forget the little moments that make little ones so special.

The parent mantra is all about helping your children grow up. Grow into better, complete, responsible individuals, contributors to society who remember their manners and have enough ambition to move out someday and live a life of their own. All of that is very good. My friends with school-aged children can take them to movies, on roller coasters, and drop them off at parties without batting an eye or taking an extra change of clothes.

Growing up means great things for Kate. She has friendships, sleepovers, catfights, good books, first kisses, and meaningful goodbyes ahead. She will grow bigger, stronger, smarter, and braver (heaven help me). She’ll have her own dreams to replace those I have for her, and she’ll impose her strong will on someone other than just me.

But being little had its moments too. Kate was a laid-back, happy baby who was not at all colicky or high maintenance. She survived a rough bout of stomach flu that put her in the hospital, but bonded mother and daughter like no bedtime ritual ever has. She competed valiantly with Sam—wanting to be just like her big brother and run as fast, build as tall, and sing as loud as he does. She wants to leave her own mark on things. Literally. She basically potty-trained herself (praise to God). She’s had a great first 2 years.

So this mama has to get over the growing and remember to embrace every day, every stage, for the joys that it brings. When Kate wants to rock a little longer, or Sam wants to crawl in my bed and cuddle, I want to remember that these days are short and take every snuggle I can get.

Who's The Boss?

Remember that show in the 80s-- Who's the Boss? Where Angela, a divorced mom raising a somewhat confused and off son hires Tony the ultimate housekeeper to live in with her family. Who's the boss? Well, at home it was really Tony. That's the catch-- she hired him, but he's in charge. Get it?

Well, I'm wondering where you go to order one of these so-called bosses for your home. Not the pint-sized, teenaged ones who think they know so much, but the Tony Macelli, vacuum the plaid curtains, fix dinner and slip in a little "How you doin?" every once in a while kind. Maybe it's just me, but it seems like being the boss at home is really less desireable a job than it's made up to be.

It first occurred to me a couple of years ago, when every day I would look down at the leaves that my dog was tracking in and think, "Man, that's annoying." "Oh, it's still there." "Isn't anyone going to pick that up?!!" That's when it hit me: no. No one is going to pick that up except for little old me.

Since then, it's been a down-hill slope of responsibility and multi-tasking. Picking up the groceries, the dirty socks, the kids from preschool. A lot of picking up involved. Who else but a mom can handle walking on a treadmill, reading the book-club novel, overseeing computer time and watching Dancing with the Stars at the same time? Not to mention the fact that the dryer and dishwasher are probably all running at upstairs at the same time. It makes me tired just thinking about it.

As a teenager, you fight for control over your life. Control is seen as supreme-- eat what you want, stay out as long as you want, go out with whomever you want. But we forget about the other side of the control coin-- responsibility. With control means responsibility for consequences, good and bad. It's not so much the good ones that bother us--getting paid for working is nice, and children are a nice byproduct of marriage-- it's the negative ones that are hard. Owning my home means raking the leaves. Eating and making what I want for dinner means washing dishes. Buying the clothes, car, furniture I want means making more money or eliminating that trip to the spa next week.

It occurs to me that the American Dream is not necessarily the responsibility, but the control. Lots of resources (time, money, stuff), and limited consequences. The problem is, other than during campaign season, those two things are rarely said to co-exist.

So, if you can think of a Tony who would be willing to come take all the responsibility at my house, I'd happily keep the control.

EPA: Earned Potty Average

I told my husband last night that I think motherhood stress can be judged by a new statistic: Earned Potty Average. Its a count of the average number of times you go to the potty (there's that word again) in one hour. Use the following scale to determine daily craziness:

Less than 1: Big deal. I mean, my co-worker goes more than that on his own. You either have kids in diapers, which require entirely different statistics, or you've graduated to having potty soloists.

1-2: Average average. Maybe you have a preschooler that needs help wiping or a short daughter that can't reach the paper towels, but you're time committed is minimal. You're on your way to graduation!

2-3: Potty training is in season. You're definitely in there often enough to get to know the full lay of the land. Do you have to sing or read a book? Bonus points for that. You're probably even making a couple of unnecessary trips a day. Maybe a separate ratio should be tallyed for successful to unsuccessful trips. The lower the ratio, the more likely it is that we're eating out for dinner tonight. And don't ask why.

3-4: So sorry. At this level, you either have multiple potty trainers (twins, close-in-age children), or need to consult a doctor about potential bladder problems. I can't even imagine this level of potty trips, much less gather enough patience, encouraging words, or books to make those trips enjoyable. You probably need to consider investing in one of those blow-up portable potty seats a stranger told me about yesterday-- then little joey can go anywhere anytime! (As long as he can hold it long enough for you to blow up the seat, add the liner, and find a hidden place to put it.)

Oh, the drama.

Stupid Potty

I admit it. I hate potty training. I mean, it seems like a really good idea-- no more diaper changing: whee! A child who can take care of their own business seems like a true accomplishment.

That's the rub right there, really: no newly potty-trained child is really taking care of their own business. It requires you, the designated responsible party, to remind them to go, join them in the bathroom, wipe, and wash hands. Not to mention the book-reading while perched precariously on the side of the bath tub. The problem is, potty-trained is actually more high maintenance than untrained for quite some time.

Even the word "potty" sounds stupid. Yet, it's one of those fine examples of parenting vocabulary that has a way of slipping itself into my adult life. As in, "Excuse me, I am really enjoying this meeting about the resuscitation of the economy, but I need to use the potty."

So, even though I do want my children to become productive self-pottying members of society, I dread every step of the process required to get them there. Every accident is not only an inconvenience, but also a signal of parenting failure. It has nothing to do with the particular child who is actually going to the potty (or not); it has everything to do with mom. All the other moms look at you like, "Oh, well she started too soon" or "she's obviously not following-through on the program" or "she's definitely not using the Dr. Phil plan." It's all yet another opportunity to match up my own personal potty-training skills with the others and see who comes out on top.

Therefore, I will continue to hate potty-training until the line of true self-sufficiency is crossed. In an ideal world, I would wake up one day and find both children perfectly dry and ready to go in their Buzz Lightyear or Princess undies. Until that day comes, I'm a hater.

Away... and liking it

I slipped away into the KCI terminal, glancing back at my little lady in tears in the back seat of Grandma and Granddads car. And I left anyway.

As if that weren't bad enough, I enjoyed it. I had a great time in Vegas, spa-ing at the Bellagio (jealous much?), eating extremely tasty yet expensive food, sleeping in a big bed and controlling the shades by remote. Stuart left work on Thursday and we jetted away to scenic Reno (um, no) and enjoyed two days together at the Reno Air Races.

Do you know what kind of trouble exists in the great big kidless world? Well, more than I experienced, I'm sure, but I did indulge in some simple joys. Silence. Hand-holding (the grown-up type). Waking up to an alarm clock (okay, that's not too joyous). Shopping AND trying things on. Even if I didn't need them. Or think they would fit. Eating whenever we wanted.

Ah, but here comes the rub: I couldn't indulge without noticing all the little almost-two-year-old girls riding in strollers with their moms at the outlet mall. Or the boys checking out the airplanes and having shirts signed by the pilots.

The moral: You can leave town, but the ties remain.

I was totally floored by a story on Good Morning America (another of my childless pleasures) about a woman who left her family for a writing conference 7 years ago and never came back. Abandoned her husband and 6 children, leaving them penniless and the 14-year-old daughter to sacrifice her life for mommyhood. How does that happen? How can she walk away without seeing her kids faces in the streets of London, or checking out the kids clothing in a catalog? How do you take the savings, knowing your kids are left destitute?

No matter how independent I want to be, or how fun it is to be childless for a weekend, I can't imagine pushing away the shoestrings tying me to my two little bundles of fun.

Bad Wife

In addition to bad mom moments, my days are often punctuated by bad wife moments. Yours? Of course not.

Today, in all of the wildness that is caring for a sick child, we sat down to eat lunch. Sam said a very nice prayer, which he had to start twice due to my knocking over the curious george book mid-sentence and kate yelling "George! George!" I lift up my sandwich to take a bite and open to the first page of George, when the phone rings. Of course, it could only be one person. Stuart.

I admit, I'd been waiting for him to call all morning to tell my tale of woe and I was anxious to get lunch over to make it to coveted nap time.

So I answered the phone: "OH, hello Stuart! How are you doing today? I love you so much!"

No.

"Do you, like, think of what could be the worst possible time to call us and then pick up the phone to dial? It seems like you always call as soon as we sit down for lunch or put someone in bed. Stuart? Stuart?"

Fortunately (or unfortunately) it was Stuart who caught this tirade at his thoughtful call home. But man, what a way to greet someone. Poor thing. After a quick apology, we did chat and he got to talk to the kids, but I've since called to add some more groveling to the batch. Good grief, Jaime.

Oh the Horror: Halloween, Part One

(I refer to this as Part One, because with more than 2 months until the big day, I am sure there will be more posts about this favorite of kiddie holidays.)

Today's bad mom trait: I don't like girly costumes.

Last year, Kate was a quite adorable ladybug. Easy, cuddly, and cute. But this year, as we start to see the costumes pop up at some of our favorite kiddie stores, I noticed that the big girl costumes are all, well, girly. There are basically three choices: fairies, princesses, or butterflies. They are all pastel and glittery, and come with either the essential wand, tiara, or wings. Ugh.

It sounds cute, when someone else talks about their little butterflies and candy cane fairies, but it just seems SO... foo foo. Kate's not a foo foo girl. I don't think.

I want her to be a kitty cat (with whiskers, but not with glitter, and not to be confused with the "pussy cat dolls" of skanky pop-culture variety) or maybe a pirate girl to match her brother's pirate theme. She's not old enough to choose, is she? Maybe Dora? That's not too bad, and definitely doesn't include sparkles. Unless she's Princess Dora.

I think I'm in for it.

Watch that mouth!

I've got a big mouth. Less in the physiological sense, and more in the "not afraid to say anything" sense. Often, this trait serves me well. Often it doesn't.

One of my favorite things about scripture is how God takes our weaknesses and makes them strengths. Take Peter, for example. Character trait: Passion and loyalty. Good side: "You are the Christ, the son of the living God!" Bad side: cutting off the soldiers ear. How true it is that our strength taken too far is often our weakness.

So, I got caught saying something about an external appearance issue that was unflattering, though not necessarily untrue. Definitely unkind. Even I was embarrassed. The question now is: what do I do about it?

No amount of groveling or apology will erase the memory of my remark. But I can change how I choose to act in the future. In Sunday's sermon, Francis preached of Jesus' lack of condemnation for the adulterous woman when he told her to "Go and sin no more." So that's what I must do-- change my future in response to my past.

I can't change my personality, nor do I really care to. But I can choose to speak kindly and appropriately to others, treating them as I would want to be treated, no better than I want to be treated. Not everyone has my thick skin, and I need to remember that we are called to be kind for a reason. When I am critical of someone else, I'm judging them, not loving them as we are called to do.

So the next time I come up with that clever description of someone's new do, or new shirt, or old shirt, if I'm not prepared to tell it to the wearer, I think I'll keep it to myself.

The 5 second rule

Every mom and college frat boy knows the 5-second rule: When food drops on the floor, or any undesirable surface, you have 5 seconds to pick it up before any nastiness is transferred rendering the food inedible. In fact, I even heard a factoid on the news about how some scientists (moms I'm sure) proved that there is some validity to the rule because germs can only transfer from surface to surface so fast-- much longer than 5 seconds, but I can't remember the exact number.

There is some variation in the 5 seconds required for location, food absorb-ability, and general preference. For example, dropping a sucker in the sand is bad because of absorption, but worse is the sucker in the ashtray. Or on the floor of the McDonalds bathroom. You get the idea.

Well, with the first child, even 5 seconds is unacceptable. No dirt must enter the mouth of my child, despite all of the crib chewing, lovey loving, and general exploring. But with the second, 5 seconds is avoided completely by the upgrade: the head-turn.

My youngest child, Kate, eats things off of the floor all of the time. I try not to notice, by a quick turn of the head. She adds a difficulty factor to this in her loves of mooching and throwing.

It all came to a head Tuesday night at Fazoli's. Everyone knows it's 99 cents kids meal night on Tuesdays at Fazoli's, and we were there in force. Kate loves the breadsticks, but kept dropping them on the floor. Then she thought it was fun to throw them on the floor. I think it adds flavoring. At first, I turned my head. But when it became a constant entertainment, I had to intervene with the "Let's eat at the table" comment. She doesn't care. Then she slides it cleverly off the table with a defiant look, and I am forced to throw the breadstick remnants away which leads to the inevitable crying. Ugh. That's the point of the head turn-- avoid the crying.

So, later, as if the throwing isn't enough. Kate shows up from visiting the coloring table with a new breadstick. Where did this mystery breadstick come from? They don't have the friendly old lady passing them out anymore (cost cutting measure), so it's not that. There are several tables nearby, and a helpful lady who told me, "She didn't have that when she walked by a minute ago." But it didn't look dirty, and no one looked mad, so I just hoped for the best. Sam told me that she got it from our table, and I chose to believe the best.

You all feel better about your parenting and worse about mine now, right? Well, no one's sick. Yet.

Tuesday, August 19

I ate two breakfasts this morning. I know, we all do it sometimes. Admit it. I tried to be good and had a 90 calorie special k breakfast bar. Have you seen these things?!! How do they chock all of that nutty goodness into just 90 calories, you ask? Well, I'll tell you. It's called portion control. My 90 calorie breakfast was elfin size.

SO, as I approached work, I considered, rationalized, my need for more breakfast. I didn't have dinner last night (but I did have ice cream). I work out (4 days a week). Breakfast is the best meal to splurge on because you have all day to work it off (sitting at my computer).

I know it's not really a bad mom moment, just a bad me moment. Same.

Invitation

Yes, I admit it, I am a good mom that has bad mom moments. And I believe that everyone has them. They are so funny, in fact, I have decided that it would be best to share them with others-- sort of my own homemade therapy.

Join in. It's a support group of sorts. I'm sure we'll all have something to add sooner or later...