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.