Decisions, decisions

Okay, I'm ordering Kate a dress and a leotard/tutu for her birthday, but I can't decide on the fabric for the dress. I think the style will look great on K, but I need some help with the details!

Here is the dress style:

Obviously, the halloween is darling, but I want it to be able to be used all fall/winter. I'll layer it over a long-sleeved shirt and leggings. Here are the fabric choices:

Incidently, I'm also getting a tutu/leotard. The tutu will be pink, purple and gold and have a satin ribbon (instead of a flower, which some girls think is scratchy and I don't want to take any chances.) The leotard will be hot pink and have a K on the front in a dark flowered print. Here's a sample:

Isn't this stuff the cutest? You can order it too from my old youth group friend Michele through her website http://squeaksandbeeps.blogspot.com . She's so creative and I'm excited to get some things for Kate that actually fit her!

PLEASE comment or email me and let me know what you think!

Starting School: The Bad Mom Way

Since Sam was in utero, I have dreamed about him starting school. I've drooled over the aisles of school supplies each summer, just waiting for the day when we'd pick our pencil case, our backpack... you get the idea.

Starting last spring, we began receiving little glimpses of elementary school life. We went to kindergarten enrollment. (Previously called screening, which they still do but don't want to call it that or be too critical because that wouldn't be PC.) One thinks, as an educated and modern mama, that the point of such a process would be information. I have learned, however, that parents are on a strictly need-to-know basis. We provide all sorts of personal information about our kid and ourselves, but when it comes to dates or procedures or even expectations we can have for our first school days-- don't need to know.

So, welcome to August, where I ("new parent") am bombarded with required meetings and events-- all before Labor Day. Some with kids, some without kids. Some informative, some social. Some required, all required-- who knows? Therefore, here I am, trying to navigate the complex world of Elementary School.

Top off the total sense of confusion with something I should have expected, but in fact did not: social hierarchy. Why is it I feel like I have returned to junior high? It seems so obvious who the cool parents are and the fun parents and the popular parents... throw in the conservatives vs liberals, rich vs poor, and worst of all the concerned and the nonchalant. Who do you want to be? What do you want the other parents to think about you? The world and identity I've worked hard to create, to earn, to be in other spheres of my life is irrelevant here. I'm an unknown, and whether or not that will be good enough for everyone else is unknown too.

Of course, all of this heavy pressure comes from the inner desire to create the perfect school experience for your child-- sign up for the right volunteer opportunities, the right after-school clubs, the perfect Cyclone sweatshirt. As if any of that will actually impact their experience at all. The truth is, Sam's school years are his, not mine, and it's his role to create. He was totally cool with the whole process. In the car on the way to school, he said, "I want to try everything. Everything you can do, I want to do." And he shook hands with other kids and introduced himself, just like he always does. He'll be exactly who God made him to be. And he's so much stronger and bolder and more secure than I think that he is, and I know he will be just fine.

Now whether I'll make it or not remains to be seen...

Such a sucker

The countdown to Kindergarten is on. In my head, a clock is ticking away every day, every minute until my little man steps on the bus for transition day.

For those who don't know, transition day is elementary school code for letting the kindergarteners have a practice day all to themselves before being trampled by the more experienced bullies, I mean, 6th graders. They even have a "yahoo/boohoo party" during the morning, which I think means that the parents of kindergartners who are home on friday mornings get together and bond. Aren't I going to be spending enough time with these people over the next 7 years?

The impact on my life seems to be that I have become a total pushover to the whims of my son. Now, he's gone to timeout twice in the last 24 hours for disobedience and attitude (yes, my son, with the attitude). But if he wants to play computer all day, fine. If he wants to build a space ship in the living room, whatever.

Case in point: yesterday I took him to piano. This is Monday routine: Kate to Jo's, Sam to piano, Sam to Jo's, mom to work. Well, he heard me making plans for Five Guys, and wanted to come to lunch too. It's an adult lunch, with boring conversation, I said. No games. No problem, he responded. So, he came.

Then during lunch, he looks at me with those big eyes, and comes over to give me a hug and tell me that I'm his "best mommy." I assume this public appreciation will disappear with many other vestiges of youth on August 14.

So, when I mention going to Jo's and he gets all, "Let's run errands. Let's spend the day together." What am I supposed to do? Run errands. Spend the day together, even though that is Sam code for going downstairs to play Jump Start World while I work upstairs.

It's going to be a long two weeks (but oh so short!!!!)

No offense intended, but dogs ARE a lot like kids

We've had some dog issues of late with our aging, but quite lovely, pooch Maddie. It's enough to make me want to pull my hair out after I chase after not two, but three mess-making children around here! We got the good word last Saturday that her kidneys are o.k. (whew!), so all seems well on that front.

Last night we had dinner with my friend Ellie, who has just become the proud owner of a cockapoo puppy. As she followed the puppy and raced it outside to potty and cleaned up its messes, she told me she realized that it really was like having a child. Here she is going through the potty training process again, yet finding herself totally enamored with this furry little friend. You know she's crossed over into dog-lover territory when she mentioned her desire to kennel the puppy during vacation with a place that will truly love and care for her dog.

So, here I am this afternoon, racing home from work in a mad dash to get my poor, somewhat anxious dog out of the pouring rain. (Who knew it was going to rain today? Not I, and I get the weather by text message every morning! I guess it helps to read it.) I got home to find a very wet, very muddy Maddie waiting by the door. You know the drill-- I rush her into the bathroom, trying to minimze collateral damage, and give her a bath all while wearing my sexy new wedge sandals. Nice.

It's then that I realize, Maddie is truly like having a child. I know you skeptics and dog-haters out there are thinking, "Don't compare your dog to my child!" and I've heard that before. But as I'm scouring the tub and cleaning the mud off the floors and trying to salvage the new rug, I'm thinking that this is the same thing I do for the kiddos every day. I'm constantly loving on them, caring for them, washing them, keeping them warm-- all the good parts of parenting. Yet at the same time, I'm gritting my teeth and scrubbing the mud or crayon off of the bathroom tile, putting in another load of laundry, and thinking how much cleaner and easier life would be in general without all of the mess-makers.

I wouldn't offer my heart to my dog were she in need of transplant, or jump in front of a moving vehicle for her like I would my own children, but a lot of the feelings are the same. Maddie is a part of my family, take it or leave it, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

Mom’s Perspective

This week we reached an exciting milestone for Sam: preschool graduation. I'll admit that before having children, I mocked these teeny commencement exercises with great vigor. I mean, really? Do we want to convey the same measure of congratulations to a kid who's managed to attend 3 days of morning classes and learned his ABCs as we do someone who's completed 12 years of schooling or has completed the work required to obtain some sort of valuable career? And those tiny little caps and gowns? Come on.

But, as a mother of a preschool graduate (class of 2022—woo!), all of the sudden, I see a reason to celebrate. The end of preschool and beginning of Kindergarten is a real milestone for these little graduates—they are leaving the safe confines of snack time, mommy pickup and morning songs and are headed to the big bad word of daily expectations, monotony, standardized testing. It's a step that we've been waiting anxiously for since Sam was born—the move to Kindergarten. He's so ready, I know that, and yet, I get emotional when I think about the end of preschool.

I've never been particularly nostalgic, at least I don't think of myself that way. And though we've been blessed to attend a terrific preschool the last three years, I've never thought about missing it or the comfort and familiarity it offered. But preschool was a proving ground for Sam—where he made his own friends, followed directions and achieved things that he'd never do for Mommy (coloring!), and navigated the complex world of schedules and projects thrust on the 3-5 year olds in attendance. We learned that Sam has an uncanny knack for memorization, particularly when set to music. He's graduated from the love of Thomas the Tank Engine to the much more sophisticated world of Legos, Wii, and Star Wars. We thought he was so grown up when he started in the Red Room three years ago, but I look at him now and see a totally different Sam. He's a big kid now. No remnants of baby remain. He doesn't need me to dress him or write his name or brush his teeth (though I still help with the shoe-tying and the lunch-making).

As excited as I am to buy school supplies (real ones, that will be stored in a desk with his name on it) and begin the 12-year journey through the public school system, I am mourning the friends and familiarity to which we're saying good-bye. Maybe that's the reason parents take these milestones so much harder than their children—because we are not only seeing the moment in time, but the big picture of the changes that are coming, the things that will never be again. We are remembering how much life changes from one phase to the next, instead of eagerly awaiting the start of the next big thing (grade school, high school, driving, graduation, college, marriage, parenthood…). I know that Sam will have so many fun times and new friends and great things to experience in the days ahead, but I also grieve just a little bit for the things we're leaving behind, knowing that, though with good intentions we promise to keep in touch, get together, that our paths are separating for now.

In saying all this, I also need to apologize to my own parents for never really understanding the emotion that accompanied these big events in my life. I couldn't wait for the end of high school, college, etc—if anything, I've short-changed times in my life by putting too much value on the next phase down the road. I remember at my last high school choir concert, the alumni were asked to come on stage to sing the alma mater. My mom, an alum, came up on stage for the first and only time during my high school years. She was emotional, and made even more so by the fact that I wanted her to stand on the other side of me so I could be by my friends and her. I didn't get it. I didn't understand why the event was important to her, because I saw it as my day, my last song. As is typical with kids, my perspective was all about me, and I didn't really appreciate her gesture or her feelings.

I think I'm starting to get it now…

Reckless (and I don't mean my driving)

Parenting is such a mysterious thing. I feel like our days are totally unpredictable. Not for lack of schedule-- in fact, we often have too much schedule to go around at my house. Unpredictable because I can't accurately forecast the mood of the house from one moment to the next. One minute, the kids are playing and having a great time, and the next there is a major breakdown because K changed the tv channel or threw a sword down the stairs or bit her brother's back. (Yes, Kate is often the instigator of such destruction.)

Last Wednesday, I felt like we'd had a pretty good day, yet I also felt like I'd gone through the wringer at least twice by the time I plopped into bed. Like a good Christian role model, I save my quiet time for the very end of the day, when I'm good and attentive (read: nearly asleep, but trying hard.) I pray that God will make something stand out of the chapter I'm reading, but I admit I don't always anticipate lightening. It struck, however, when I read these words:

"Reckless words pierce like a sword, but the tongue of the wise brings healing." Proverbs 12:18

So often, I instigate drama, or at least fan the flames, by using words that are not necessarily hurtful, but aren't very well thought out. In the heat of battle, I often say something that, while logical, isn't very helpful or healing. Later, I regret these words. Not because they were violent or profane, but because they were exactly as that verse put it: reckless. Not wisely chosen. Not helpful. Just convenient.

Last night, for example, I left Kate playing in the bathtub long enough to get Sam started on a project. I could hear her playing, and was making progress with Sam's kindergarten info sheet (did you know they gave out homework before a kid has even attended class???!!!). But when I went to help her wash, there was water all over the floor, soap everywhere. Lots of soap. "Kate," I snapped, "What were you thinking?! The water has to stay in the bathtub! This is a TOTAL mess! I'm so disappointed in you!"

Now, that isn't a tryable offense, but it wasn't at all what I wanted to say, if I would script the moment in advance. I calmed down a minute later and apologized and told Kate that messes are easily cleaned up and that we need to try to keep the water in the tub next time. Those words were the right ones. The first set: reckless. I spent lots of time and energy trying to fix the careless words I spoke initially, and dealt with the guilt of those words for the rest of the night.

Kate's resiliant, and was fine after a few minutes of some rather soggy snuggling. But my prayer is that next time, I'll forego the reckless words for the healing ones.

Piano: Why was that a good idea again?

Sam has started taking piano lessons. He's really pretty good. He always wants me to help him, which surprises me. I hated it when my mom tried to help me with my piano lessons. Sam's his own man, though, and he prefers me to sit with him while he practices.

This has brought about its own set of challenges. First, our schedule is crazy and so there is no consistent time to practice. Second, I really didn't think his 20 minutes at the piano would be MY 20 minutes at the piano. Finally, though Sam wants my help, he really hates it too.

So last night, we waited until too late to practice. It was right before bed, which I now know is not a good idea. He has this need to do everything perfectly. When he misses one note, it sends him completely over the edge. He gets all pouty, and at one point, he started to cry.

I was being the model parent, encouraging him to keep trying, telling him that it takes work, etc. But it resulted in trauma and melt down, and finally bedtime. Let's just say it wasn't my finest parenting moment. I was so frustrated that my model parenting was met with such poor results, which caused me to melt down and contribute to the drama.

So, as is often the case, I went to bed frustrated and discouraged with my role as parent. I prayed and read the Bible (I'm in Proverbs, which is great for learning about gaining and imparting wisdom), but was still feeling down. Just before I went to sleep, I remembered what I told Sam during his practice. He was complaining about how piano is so hard, and he just couldn't get it right. I said:

"You know, Sam, the best things in life are often hard to do. The fun things. That's why we practice, so that we can get better and do fun things, like read or play basketball or piano."

Later I said, "You don't need to be perfect. We practice so that we can keep getting better. Everyone makes mistakes!"

I dish out pretty good advice sometimes. If only I'd take it myself. Parenting is no different, really. It's great. It's one of the most important roles I'll ever play in life. But instead of reminding myself that I just need to keep getting better every day, I demand perfection. Of course, perfection being impossible, I'm constantly discouraged.

So, I'm trying a new tactic: giving myself permission to make mistakes. But when I make them, I need to learn from them and keep going, rather than banish myself to time-out until the end of time.

My fickle friend

I am a lover of technology. In fact, marketers label my household "early adopters." We are often one of the first to have new gadgets. Sometimes it pays off, like the tivo. Sometimes, we pay way more than everyone else because we had it two years earlier and in a lesser model-- like our circa 2000 2 megapixel digital camera.

My newest challenge is the new car and it's oh-so-handy dvd system. It's not just your average pull-down dvd player. No, it's embedded in the headrests, so that both kids can watch their own movie on individual screens, or switch and watch the same movie. I know, it's amazing. They even have wireless headphones, so Mommy doesn't have to listen to Happy Feet ever again. I hope. It's a mommy dream world.

However, I have always felt very strongly that in-car dvd players are not for everyday use. They are for long trips, extended waiting, that type of thing. Not for 5 minute trips to Target. And based upon the current amount of time it takes to get each of them started and set to the correct audio, etc, the time-to-movie could be greater than the trip itself.

The temptation is the lovely silence that occurs when the kids are plugged in. They actually look forward to the trip to the babysitter because of the enticing images of Hermie or Tinkerbell on the screen. Mommy can listen to whatever I want to, and no one complains. No Radio Disney. No Mamma Mia.

But I look backwards, and see my two-year-old in a technology-induced coma, with her little headphones balanced precariously on her little head and feel like I've signed a pact with the devil himself. With the DVDs on, I lose my kids to their cartoon wonderland. I miss out on the sometimes difficult, sometimes informative recap of their day. I miss out on our prayer time on our way to Jo's. I miss out on the colors of the sunset and the constant barrage of questions about where we're going next and who's going to be there. (I don't miss that part as much). When are they going to learn to bicker over the seats or the radio? When are they going to learn to play I-spy?

Giving into this technology makes me miss out on my kids and their growing up. And, for now, I'm not willing to miss that. So, I'm prepared to be the bad guy who takes the DVDs out of the car and puts the headphones away. I'm sure I'll miss my uninterrupted sports talk, but I'll be all the better for it.

The Discipline Diet

It’s the first of the year, and everyone I meet is on a “healthy eating” kick. In case you missed it, healthy eating is the new code word for dieting. No one’s dieting; they are adopting a more healthy lifestyle.

No matter what you call it, healthy eating is a lot like parenting. We’re all looking for the latest, greatest way to discipline our children, love our children, give them security and intelligence and self-esteem. So, a new book or idea comes out about how to best parent, and we’re all on it like ants on a picnic.

The problem is, whether it’s a new diet or a new discipline, I think the average person (assuming I’m that average person) has about a good week or so of new routine in them before life gets busy and you’re back at zero again.

Here’s my theory: We all have a baseline parenting style. Some of us are push-overs, or strict, or touchy-feely, or educational. Most of us are a combination of a lot of things—how we were raised, what we see on TV or on the playground, what the parent educator told us with our first child. Your day-in, day-out approach to raising your kids: that’s baseline.

A new method or strategy for parenting seems really promising, so the good parents that we are run home and put it into practice (read: try it out to see if it works). However, most of us are only willing to go at it so long without obvious results.

In that respect, dieting is much easier. At the end of the week, I’ve either lost a pound, or I’ve gained it. If I have gained, I can typically enumerate the super bowl snacks, lunch-time cookie and cake tasting that attributed to the problem. If I want to get back to losing, it’s up to me to go back to the method that produces the results I want.

With parenting, however, sometimes the results are not as obvious. Is my child’s good behavior because of my extra-good parenting technique, or is she just having a better week? Worse yet, is my son’s temper tantrum due to a lack of positive reinforcement or because he’s had too little sleep or because he’s just in a mood? Moreover, most of the parenting results I’m really after—success in school, moving out at age 21—don’t show up until much later.

The only hope I have in this is to keep trying—to replace old habits with new ones. In Galatians, Paul says this: “Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.” (Gal. 6:9)

How does that look? I've heard it takes 20 days to build a habit, and only 3 days to break a habit. So for 20 days, I need to consciously try to apply what I've learned. I can ask God for help. I can ask my friends for support. Whatever it takes. At the end of 20 days, evaluate. Instead of looking at my kids, I need to look more at myself-- do I like myself better as a parent when I talk like this or encourage this behavior or incorporate this tradition? If so, it's working, and I have finally worked my way through to a new baseline. Whew. Now I'm tired.

Mommy’s Car or Toys R Us Boutique?

I am no neat freak, just ask my mother. However, a new trend has started among my children that is turning my car from the grocery getter to a traveling toy chest.

I’m not sure how this kind of thing starts. I think it’s a compromise made in an effort to take less than 10 minutes from door to driving. “Can I take a Wii game?” “No.” “Can I take this very small lego man that I will cry after losing?” “No.” “MOM, can I please take Moosee?” “Sure, whatever it takes to get out of this door and into the car.”

So, now my car has become the resting place of many past-favorite toys. Past, because once they are lost in the pit of the car, they are out of sight and out of mind. There seems to be a necessity among my children to bring a bit of home with them into the car. Perhaps it’s a transitional item that helps them as they step into the great big world. Perhaps it’s a desire to have something that brother or sister doesn’t. Perhaps it’s a new way to stall the ever-impending reverse down the driveway.

Whatever it is, it’s a mess. So at least once a week, I demand that each child, particularly Sam, take his backpack, McDonald’s puppy, dirty socks, crayon drawing, and empty cup out of the car and into the house. “But Mommmmm,” I hear in the distance, “I can’t carry all of these things by myself.”

“Well, you carried it all out here, so figure it out. Maybe it will take more than one trip.”

Despite the messy process of cleaning up the mess, they are no less motivated to eliminate the carriage of extra items into the car. I think the only possible remedy is removal of all toys from their possession or the removal of their hands. Neither seems acceptable, so I’ll just start budgeting that additional 15 minutes on Thursday nights to clean it out. Again.

Now, I’m not sure who I can blame for the mess outside of the car….

Me and My Big Mouth

I was feeling pretty sure of myself last week, however, when we had a special speaker talk to us about discipline. The speaker had read a book called Don’t Make Me Count to Three, and was sharing her experiences trying it out. We all laughed and lamented the joys of being the lead enforcer around the house, but all in all I was feeling pretty good about myself. My kids, though strong-willed (Kate) and sometimes a little too smart for their own good, are generally such good kids. So in control. I even told an example about how I just talked to Sam about how we handled an argument a few months ago, and he took it all in and we decided to make some changes. Problem solved.

I went home that night and thought about how to incorporate some of the ideas she had, like working on the root issue instead of reacting only to the specific event. For example, instead of only teaching kids to take turns with the Wii remote that just got thrown across the room, you use scripture to talk about how people are more important than the things that we have and how God wants us to love each other. Good stuff.

As the aura from the evening’s good discussion was just beginning to fade, my son lit into a huge tantrum about bedtime. Huge. Not only did he cry and throw a fit and say he didn’t want to go, he flat out REFUSED to go to bed. After a few minutes, my patience went out the window and I banished myself to my room mid-sentence to cool down before my yelling awoke Kate. I could tell you the blow-by-blow, but let’s just say it wasn’t exactly the textbook example that was given at our session.

I will give myself credit for ending fights well, and we always apologize and hug and talk about how to do better next time. So I went to bed feeling silly about my professed successful discipline methods, but no less secure in my parenting.

Queue the rest of the week: Sam has gone into a complete testing period where he wants to see just exactly where the boundaries are and see how far back he can move them. He has tried every technique in his arsenal, and I’ve used all of mine. The result? Frustration, exhaustion, and embarrassment. Who was I to think that I was some sort of parenting success story? I was blessed with good kids. I am blessed with a God who cares about them and cares about me, and who I believe can undo any of the damage I happen to do to them. Am I the success, or is God?

After a week of enforced bedtime, time spent in the “safe spot” at school, and a little help from Dad, Sam is starting to morph back into the well-behaved child I know. I am glad to know that he’s unleashing some of his craziness on his teacher as well, and it’s not solely for my benefit. (I told Stuart that Sam’s “not listening” trait was inherited from HIS side of the family.) I think I’ll live to fight another day.

One of the “experienced” mothers in the group asked last Wednesday, “Isn’t this all kind of exhausting?” Oh yeah.

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.

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.

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.