There But for The Grace of God Go I

This poor family was removed from a flight because they couldn't calm their toddler down enough to get her in a seat for takeoff. Not that I disagree with the airline's decision - they have a business to run - but I'd hate to be the parent with my name out all over the Associated Press because my kid was naughty. And believe me, I have so been there!

Baby Fart

Arugula

Two years ago I was beating my head against a brick wall because Miles wouldn't eat vegtables. I tried and tried. Finally he got over it. And he's never been great, but he'll eat the requisite four broccolis before dessert. And now that I'm working a couple of days a week and really too busy to pay attention, he's started doing the strangest things. I was cooking this week and he tried the arugla and then ended up eating an entire bowl.... Who'd have thought...

Scissors

I came home from work on Monday and my sitter handed me a huge hunk of hair - apparently Miles took it upon himself to give his hair a little trim. He went into the bathroom and it was quiet for a moment, and voila!

There's a nice big patch in the middle of his head where he cut it pretty much down to the scalp. So I took him to the "trained professional" and she cut the rest of it off pretty short - not THAT short - so it will grow in a little less awkwardly.

Oh, and did I mention we have a kindergarten interview next weekend? Good to know that he will be looking like someone took a machete to his head.

So he's lost scissor priviledges until high school...

Always, Always, Always Check References

I think this must qualify as one of the worst babysitter moments ever. Frankly, I'm still in complete shock.

But this weekend we were up in Tahoe, and we had a babysitter watch our two kids. And our friends' eight month old baby. From 9-3 while we were skiing.

This is someone who has probably watched my kids about ten times in the past year and a half. She was recommended to us by a former sitter, who was very reliable and had come highly recommended, although we didn't check actually check the newer sitter's references. She's always been a bit of a character, but it all seemed very harmless. Although now I remember things that I should have thought more about. Like that she'd given up partying for a year so that she could get her act together.

So we got home from skiing (we'd called and told her we would be an hour late). And after we got home she said "Miles is a angry at me. I raised my voice at him because he spilled my beer."

BEER?

The heads of all four adults snapped around to look at her. But I think we were all too stunned to say anything.

BEER?

And here's what's worse. Not only was my sitter boozing on the job, but yelling at my kid because of it.

So there's a lesson here... I'm just glad it was only my couch that got seriously hurt.

A Little Perspective

WARNING... Bragging post about to happen.... But I thought this was pretty cool. Miles drew this picture of our family yesterday. (The horizontal lines are stripes, by the way because for some reason we're all wearing stripes). I'm the one on the left with the really big head. Not because my noggin is really so oversized, but because he's trying to show the barrette on my ponytail. (The little square part on the bottom of the back of my head is the barrette.) Okay, so I may look a little weird, but I was quite impressed that my barely-four-year-old-son is already experimenting with perspective!

Post Partydom Syndrome

Okay, I'm never having a party again. Miles turned four last weekend and we had a big bash. Fifteen kids (counting the siblings) with parents. We went to the local firehouse to ride in the truck and try out the hose. Cake. Pinata. By the time everyone left my house looked like a bomb went off. And I was so tired that all I could do was sit on the couch and watch two episodes of Rescue Me back to back.

It was fun though, and it was all worth it.

But not the after-math. We're all so tired. Miles has been asking for treats at BREAKFAST time all week. And cranky. And not sleeping. And they've been fighting, fighting, fighting over the toys.

So next year, we're heading to Chuckee Cheese.

Everybody Remain Calm

I like mantras.

I like the simplicity of having a saying that can help you stay focused while getting through life.

When I was employed in Silicon Valley I had two. For years after reading the Dalai Lama’s “Art of Happiness” I chanted “affection and compassion, affection and compassion” to myself as people cut me off on highway 101 at rush hour, or jumped in front of me in line at the grocery store, or were rude at restaurants.

The other was “you can’t get what you want if you don’t know what it is.” The friend that shared it with me meant this in terms of men, but I found that it applied well to other situations including shopping for furniture, ordering dinner, and directing projects in the workplace. Give good direction, and you’ll get good results.

But I’ve been a little bit lost in the post professional world. The very qualities that helped me be successful at work –energy, impatience, perfectionism, goal-orientation – are often liabilities in the toddler department.

I was at our preschool one morning last month when a minor disagreement over a toy ignited a screaming match between two three year olds. Our director, in an unassuming voice said “okay, okay, people. Everybody remain calm.” And I thought, okay, here is the mantra for my post work life.

My son is one of those people who constantly pushes the limits. I’ll have to ask him, oh, ten or twelve times to brush his teeth. Only when he’s threatened with a loss of privileges (Dora the Explorer is the ultimate leverage) will he actually step into the bathroom. He’ll continually put toys into his mouth. He’s also a born negotiator: if you offer him two books at bedtime, he’s bound to ask for three. If you sing three songs, he’ll ask for four. (He got this from his dad, of course.) And I, of course, am completely unequipped to deal with him.

My energy level is way, way, way too high. While I think it is important to set limits with your children, I find that too often at our house, a relatively minor incident can escalate into a full-fledged conflagration. I’ll assign a timeout too rashly, and when Miles won’t take it, a full fledged battle will ensue. It is like I threw gasoline on the fire. When he starts the endless bedtime negotiation, I’ll get angry and ultimately find myself yelling – which is not exactly the best way to help him relax and fall asleep.

For a couple of weeks after I first found this new mantra, I was great. I calmly doled out discipline. I separated my kids during battles without adding a level of hysteria to the situation. Things were calm in our house.

Then summer happened! And I’ve been spending way, way, way too much time with my kids. There’s nothing like traveling alone with your children – to different time zones! - to increase your stress level. Needless to say, I’m failing miserably at staying calm.

The best that I can hope for is that if I keep working at it, I’ll better learn to manage my emotions.

Or that my kids will just wear me out to the point where I don’t have enough energy to fight back!

Some Days

One of the other Moms at school said to me recently, "Some days you get a lot done. Other days you survive."

How true. Except that I'd say "some months." We're having a great summer, but between packing for trips and unpacking when we get home and planning for the next thing, and buying the occassional birthday present, that's about all we do!

Stockholm Syndrome

My kids were sick last week. Which wouldn't be such a big deal (I should be used to it by now, right?) except that it has followed on lots of weekends when Mike has been either away or unavailable. Oh yeah, and it coincided with Miles giving up his nap. Anyway, Mia had an ear infection and high fever for several days, and Miles had a fever for a couple. Which meant no school, no playdates and LOTS of time around the house. A little too much time around the house. Oh yeah, and did I mention the weather was wet and foggy so we couldn't even go into our (tiny) backyard?

About midweek I realized that I really, really, really needed a break. So I got Sunday "off" and talked my friend Lisa into spending the day with me. We tossed around a bunch of different options - hikes, manicures, wine tasting, spa treatments, movies, lunch. For several days we talked about what to do but for some reason I just couldn't identify what I really wanted. And Lisa, who is the best and most understanding friend that you could ask for, sounded a little testy when she finally said, "well, what do you WANT to do?"

Technically Stockholm Syndrome is when hostages start to identify with their captors. Remember when Patty Hearst changed her name to Tanya and tried to rob a bank? Obviously I identify with my little captors - I love them more than anything else in this world. But in my case Stockholm Syndrome is about identifying too much with their world. Spending so much time with them and thinking about them that I have trouble of conceiving of spending my free time anywhere but at Target or Costco or the grocery store.

But the happy ending is that we went for a long walk at Chrissy Field and then drove up to Napa for a day of drinking wine in the sunshine...

Job?

Ok, I realize I complain alot, but deep down inside (sometimes very, very deep) I've been happy and grateful for being able to have the opportunity to stay home with my children.

Well, up until last week anyway. Miles finally gave up his nap. Now he's supposed to have an hour of (mostly) quiet time in his room - which gives me just enough time to make dinner, take out the trash and occasionally shower. And then I'm back on duty. Art projects, books, pretend trips to the doctor, bike riding, cooking dinner together.

All this quality time is, frankly, a bit too much for me. I've decided its time to start looking for a job!

Carnivore?

A couple of weeks ago I became cautiously optimistic that Miles was becoming less of a picky eater. After all of the agonizing that I had had in the last few years about what my kids eat, he has suddenly (with no urging from me) started eating three things that he always rejected-- hard boiled eggs, dried fruit and turkey cold cuts.

But at the same time, he's also asking more questions about food.

We have a board book called "A Train Ride with Monet," which is basically ten stunning paintings very loosely woven into a story about a train ride. It isn't a very compelling text, but as someone who learned most of what she knows about art from the '70s board game "Masterpiece," I like to delude myself that I am exposing my kids to great art.

One of the pages shows an oil paiting of turkeys, and reads "pass a flock of turkeys, feathery white." Last week, when we were reading it, Miles suddenly said, "hey Mom, does turkey come from turkeys?" I was surprised. It had never occured to me that he didn't connect the chicken on his plate with the chicken on Old MacDonald's farm.

And ever since he's realized that we eat the pretty, fluffy white birds that he's seen a million times in the picture book, he's had a lot of questions about what we eat.

"Does chicken come from chickens?" (Yep, you can't pull the wool over my son's eyes.)
"Ham comes from pig, right?"

And here was the kicker - "What are horses for?" Basically meaning, do we eat those beautiful creatures that we were feeding watermelon rinds to last weekend in Tahoe.

Let me get something straight. I'm not a vegetarian. I don't eat liver or scrapple or even dark meat turkey, but we have meatloaf from time to time and every now and then I really, really, really want a hamburger. But still, I found it strangely difficult to explain to my child why we eat some animals and we don't eat others.

And then yesterday, when he was playing with his little plastic animals, he asked, "Mom, what comes from giraffes?"

"Poop!" I answered brightly, since it was that time of day.

"No, Mom, what comes from giraffes?"

And I realized that he was wondering whether we ate giraffes. Which seemed kind of horrifying to me. So I started to explain again what the difference is, and realized that in his mind there probably isn't much difference between the soulful big eyes of the giraffe he sees at our zoo's African Savannah, and the big brown eyes of the cow he sees at the children's section. Or - for that matter - the big brown eyes that sees when he looks in the mirror.

If I really thought about it, I might rethink some of my own food choices. But I'm probably too old for that at this point. But my neice - who is now fourteen - has been a vegetarian for political reasons for a decade now. (Yes, she made that decision when she was the same age that Miles is now.) And it will be interesting to see where Miles goes with this.

Skinny Jeans And All

Ok, so motherhood isn't the only thing that I'm insecure about. I'm also pretty insecure about fashion. Which is incredibly stupid if you think about it. It isn't as though I'm going to work or anything - just grocery shopping, going to the playground, teaching at my son's preschool.

Nevertheless, I still have fashion anxiety. Or maybe angst is a better word. I'm so very, very tired of the white t-shirts and old Gap jeans that I always wear to the playground. Last summer I wrote about my quest to find clothes that were fashionable, not exactly the same as what everyone else is wearing, machine washable and cheap. I lamented the fact that these things were not readily available in my neighborhood. And that I couldn't find them on the Internet. But now I've realized that the real problem is me.

I'm chronically behind the times. By the time I noticed that everyone was wearing cargo pants - and wanted some for myself - they were no longer in stores. By the time I warmed up to trouser jeans (which reminded me a teeny bit too much of those Dickies we had in junior high) you couldn't find them anywhere.

So I did the unthinkable. A couple of weeks ago, I bought some of those '80s pants (now called skinny jeans) that are in the stores. My friend Lisa said they made me look thin, so of course I had to buy them. And part of me figured that I might as well buy the skinny jeans while they were still selling them because by the time I wanted them its a sure bet you wouldn't be able to find them for love or money.

But when I got them home, I just couldn't believe what I'd done. My husband laughed out loud when he saw them.

After Mike finished laughing I left them on the top of my dresser for a couple of weeks, but finally, I was behind on laundry and needed something to wear so I took off the tags and put them on and took the kids out. And felt ridiculous! Memories flooded back - illicit drugs, Yaz, Limelight, white pumps, Obsession. But here's the thing. Instead of making me feel youthful, it made me feel like one of those old ladies that tries to look young by dressing like a teenager.

But I'm not just insecure, I'm also compulsive. So the good news is that now I have something else to obsess about.

I Don't Like Spiders and Snakes....

I'm more than a teensy bit insecure about my parenting skills. But every now and then I do something that makes me just want to pat myself on the back and say, "girlfriend, you rock." Like when I took the kids - by myself - to Florida. Or last Saturday when I held a tarantula.

It was Bug Day at the Randall Museum, our local nature museum for kids. And Miles was transfixed by the spiders. We couldn't drag him away. Several other kids had held it, and I thought that he might want to also (with a little encouragement). So, in a moment of unaccustomed bravery, I held out my hand and held it.

It's legs were kind of soft as it walked across your skin, but the big soft body that dragged across my palm was creeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeepy.

But of course, I constantly underestimate Miles. He was wayyyy too smart to want to hold that thing.

But now I will have something to think about in the middle of the night, or next time we go camping.

On Being Mom

One of my friends just sent me a very beautiful essay called "On Being Mom" by Anna Quindlen. There are so many things in the essay that speak to me, even though her children are grown and mine are still (unfortunately) in diapers.

Quindlen writes movingly about the things she learned as a mother -- to listen to herself (and her kids) and not the experts, to learn to be humbled, and most of all to live in the moment. "I wish I had not been in such a hurry to get on to the next thing: dinner, bath, book, bed. I wish I had treasured the doing a little more and the getting it done a little less."

Several years ago my friend Stephanie told me that she tried to spend an hour of uninterrupted time each day with each of her children. Possibly this was before I had any of my own. But I remember thinking what a short time an hour seems like. And now that I have two, I think what an impossibly long time it seems.

It is easy to be busy. As a stay-at-home Mom I can't sneak errands in during lunchtime or on the way home from work-- I have to arrange childcare for every haircut or workout, or bring kids along with me. Even evenings out with my husband require tons of advance planning (by me, not him. he just shows up). I have all of the responsibilities of my son's coop nursery school. And then the many logistics of running our household. And checking email. And watching 24. It is very easy to get caught up in all of it.

Plus it can be hard to keep my kids' attention. I can spend a large portion of their precious naptime preparing afternoon art projects that will keep their attention for say maybe five minutes. Even dying Easter eggs got old after ten. And also - dare I say it - sometimes playing with the kids can be boring. I mean really, how many times can we pack our bags and pretend that we're flying on the couch airplane to Hawaii? Sometimes it is just easier to let them play by themselves, or to try to get them to watch Sesame Street.

But I'm already feeling the pull of nostaglia. Even Miles at 3-1/2 is feeling it. One of his new favorite activities is pouring over the photo albums of when he and his sister were newborns. "Is that Miles? Is that Miles" he asks, unable to recognize his baby self. And in another way, I'm having trouble recognizing him too. As grueling as it can be, it is just going too darn fast.

So thanks Anna Quindlen. My gift to myself for Mother's Day will be to try to be present more often.

Yoga Junkie

From time to time you read in the news about women who abandoned their children for crack or meth. If I ever leave mine, it will be for yoga. Mike was out of town for most of last month. When I organized some time for myself, I found myself booking sitters around yoga classes (I like Mark at Pretzel's Yoga.) Because when it came right down to it, I didn't need drinks or movies or girls dinners or trips to Target. I needed the plow position to keep me sane.

I did yoga religously for several years before kids. But we moved across town and I got pregnant and that was pretty much the death of my downward dog. But back in February I started going again. After an initial week or two of soreness, I've turned into a complete junkie again. When I do the plow position, I can actually feel all the little pebbles of stress in my upper back melting away. And not only does my body feel better, but my mind too.

When we were in Florida and I wasn't able to make it to class for a whole week, I could feel my body reverting back to it's old self. Shoulders hunched, one higher than the other, knots in between the blades. I felt like Quasimodo. And my patience was shot.

When we got off the plane I gave the kids back to Mike and drove over to Potrero Hill for my fix. And then I was tall again. Straight again. And calm again. And much more zen with my children.

How To Hate Yourself in Nine Easy Steps

1. Decide to take your two toddlers across the country to visit your mother, who lives in a destination to which there are no direct flights.
2. Decide you can do this without your partner, who needs to work.
3. Plan your trip soon after the clocks change so everyone's sleep schedules are out of whack.
4. Make sure that your son loses his binkie the week before.
5. Allow your son to stop napping after the loss of said binkie.
6. Make sure that your destination has lots and lots of breakable stuff that he can't get into. And a piano that is really fun - but annoying - to bang on.
7. Be sure that your destination includes a pool without a gate or net so the kids can't go outside to play without intense supervision.
8. Notice that your son never, ever, ever listens to what you say.
9. Find yourself yelling the entire trip....

Good, now you can feel guilty about it for months to come.

The Kindness of Strangers

It might be because once when we were flying home from New York with six month old Miles, I gave a stranger my white Gap t-shirt. His 1-1/2 year old had vomited all over himself (including his shoes) and the father had no extra clothes for him. So he walked off the plane wearing my t-shirt like a ball gown - and I never saw it again. Or maybe I did something extraordinarily nice in a previous life. Or maybe people are just better than I thought. Or maybe I just looked REALLY pathetic.

But whatever the reason, this past week I was on the receiving end of a kindness from strangers. Strangers who carried my enormous carry on bag off of the airplane, while I carried Mia and tried to corral Miles into the right direction. Strangers who didn't complain when my daughter kicked the back of their seat for three hours straight. Strangers who played peek-a-boo with her for hours. Strangers who peeled my son away from the plane window and directed him down the aisle. Strangers who gave us juice, watched my daughter, played with my son.

So if you ever see someone stupid enough to take a two year old and one year old across the country, and change flights on the way, help them out. They might be too frazzled to show it at the time, but trust me they are grateful.

San Francisco Treat

You know it has been awhile since you cleaned out your cabinets when you find something in them that EXPIRED in 1997.

When I was unpacking groceries on Saturday, I noticed a dusty box of Rice A Roni behind the cereal. When I took it out, I was appalled to see that it had expired nine years ago. Which means it has probably been sitting around for ten or eleven. Which is a long time. A VERY long time. Ten years ago, Clinton was president. The Internet han't boomed yet. I wasn't even dating my husband. And now we have a mortgage, wothless Internet stocks, two kids and a lot of anxiety about kindergarten.

I'm very conflicted about how much I want to pride myself on my housekeeping skills. I mean, I don't want to view myself as some sort of fifties stereotype who is fulfilled by spending my days vacuuming the house, cooking dinner and fixing a drink for my husband at the end of it. At the same time, this is sort of my job right now so I'd like to do it well. And, yes, have I mentioned I'm a little compulsive? I realize that old rice isn't exactly a health hazard but still, I'm kind of uncomfortable with what it implies about how clean we are. Not only do we apparently go entire decades without cleaning out, but the worst part is that we moved in 2001, and somehow we still managed to pack it up from the old house and unpack it in the new.....

So being the compulsive person that I am, I thought about cleaning out some more. But I was afraid of what else I might find.

Big Girl

Ok, it won't come as a surprise to anyone who knows me if I say that I'm more than a teeny bit anal. I had a color-coded timeline for the week before our wedding for family members and wedding participants. I do packing lists for our family before each trip in Excel (and save them all). And I carry around a little spiral notebook that contains lists of things I need to do (long and short term), groceries we need and clothing that the kids need. Each night I pick up (and sort) all of the kids' toys.

So you'll understand why it bothers me so much when my kids don't snap into line and follow the perfect structure of the lives that I've planned for them. Sometimes I have trouble letting them do their own thing. And lately that's all Mia wants to do....

Lately she doesn't want to lie down to change her diaper. She resists a lot of the clothing I pick out for her to wear. And today she had a complete meltdown because I tried to peel her Clementine for her.

Last week my friend (who has three daughters) said that sometimes she just lets the girls do whatever they want to do, because she doesn't want them to be on such a tight leash that they have to stage a huge rebellion when they reach adolescence.

I thought a lot about this.

So I've started asking Mia "where" she wants to change her diaper. She'll usually go ahead and do it if she gets to choose the place. I drew the line at the bathtub, otherwise we've been experimenting all over the house. I'm letting her pick her own outfits (although she keeps going for these ugly, ugly, ugly purple cords from Old Navy). And today I gave into the possibility of a big sticky pulpy mess in the back seat and let her peel the Clementine.

And she showed me up. It was perfectly, daintily peeled.... each piece of peel handed personally to me in the front seat, instead of deposited on the floor for posterity. And hopefully we'll still be speaking when she hits high school.