Creature Bug

My I Love You

I saw this poem floating around Pinterest, but it was always condensed. I wanted to use the whole text in a photobook, so I recreated the image. It's from this book, and it may be overly sentimental, but it's still just the way I feel.

12

One of the things on our to-do list for the summer is to get Addie on a good sleeping schedule, and preferrably sleeping in her crib. Even though I don't mind co-sleeping, for a variety of reasons it seems to have run its course (partly because she wants to nurse all night long, making me a very tired mamma; and partly because the other girls never remember to be quiet when they come wake us up in the morning, which leads to Addie waking up in the morning, which leads to grumpiness all the way around). At the very least, Little Miss has to learn to take naps in her crib because now that she's fully mobile that's the safest place for her.

When it comes to sleeping, Addie does not like her crib.

At all.

And she'll tell you that; you don't even have to speak Baby to figure out she doesn't think her crib is for sleeping.

She'll play in there. She'll sit in there. She'll even lay down and tell long and imaginative stories in there. But sleep?

Hardly.

She'd rather sleep just about anywhere else. My arms. Her swing. The Ergo. A blanket outside on the grass. Probably her first choice for naps is in her carseat because that's what she's used to. During the school year, her nap schedule was determined by my commute. She'd nap on my way to class; she'd nap on the way back. On the days I didn't teach, I just did errands during her napping hours. She's so used to sleeping in her carseat she won't even fuss much about it. At naptime, I put her in there, and she falls asleep.

But it's time to make the switch and get her used to her crib, at least for some of her sleeping. And since Jason and I trade off days to sleep in during the summer, then now is the time to figure it out. Because once the school year starts up again, I'd rather not be doing the sleep deprivation act.

I was hoping those stuffed animals would give Addie a good pep talk about sleeping in her crib. We'll see.

PS: Of course, I don't let her sleep with all those animals in the crib with her. It was just for the photo. And the pep talk.

PPS: For more of Addie's Numbers, click here.

Have Baby. Will Travel.

When Megan and I first started talking about a trip to Hawaii, I knew it meant taking Addie along because if I'm going somewhere for more than a few hours, then Addie comes along too. Even though Addie is a happy baby, flying with a baby to a tropical paradise is still flying with a baby, if you know what I mean. It means traveling with gear. The Ergo, stroller, car seat, a diaper bag packed with Cheerios and books, and a suitcase packed with diapers and wipes were essentials for me on this trip. (My only moment of panic was how I was going to get into the airport after being dropped off outside. Picture this: Addie in the Ergo, umbrella stroller under my arm, one hand holding the car seat, the other hand pulling a suitcase--with my carry-on bag perched precariously on top. I finagle my way through the rotating doors, and a little grandma (bless her) asks if she can help me. I let her carry the stroller.)

Traveling with a baby means highchairs at mealtimes, or if you didn't quite time it right, breastfeeding in that fancy beachfront restaurant. (But hey! at least we were eating AT a fancy beachfront restaurant where people are so happy to be in Hawaii they don't care what you're doing.)

 

It means finding creative ways to get through meals. Sharing the guacamole from your Hawaiian pork nachos might be necessary. Or discovering that napkin rings make great teething rings too.

Spending an afternoon shopping might involve strollers if it seems too warm to pack the baby.

Just so you know, in Hawaii, shoes are optional.

When traveling with a baby, you might have to find reasons to hang out a little while longer so that you don't put a baby who will fight you with her mighty healthy lungs if you even think about putting her back in the car.

Hanging out might involve smoothies.

And even after hanging out, traveling in the car with a baby who is used to having siblings entertain her may not be worth taking a picture of.

(Hence, no picture of screaming baby in the car.)

So, if at all possible, travel by golf cart instead. Preferably a sweet six-seater red one. You cannot go wrong with this baby.

Be sure not to pack your schedule too tightly. No one is happy with excess busy-ness. Hang out in the backyard. Zip around the golf course in your golf cart. If you're in Hawaii the time-zone change will have you leaping from your bed at 7 am, and compel you outside (in jammies, no less!) to appreciate the above 70 temps.

Traveling with a baby might provide you with lots of opportunities to talk to other people: people who are parents, people who are grandparents, people who love babies, people who feel some pity for you and your pregnant friend who are hauling very heavy luggage through the airport (bless the Hawaiian airlines guy who helped us with our luggage on our return trip). We encountered so many friendly people, and I think we can partially thank Addie for that.

And if your baby falls asleep in the car seat, and she does best taking her naps there, then by golly, you haul that carseat down to the beach and don't worry about what people say. Although, it should be worth noting that your biceps may hate you for the next two days.

It was worth it though. Because when Miss Baby woke up, I got this:

It was so much fun seeing my girl dig in sand, put her feet in the ocean, and taste her first pina colada. Now all my girls have been to Hawaii as babies, and that's a tradition I was happy to create.

Traveling with Addie may not have been the easiest thing in the world, but everywhere we went people were willing to help us. Of course, I didn't have to go far to get some help. Megan and Addie were best friends.

I know some people get nervous at the thought of traveling with a baby--and certainly it requires some work and creativity--but I like to travel. And if I have a baby, then she goes with me.

My little traveling buddy.

Just don't make her ride in the car too long, and she's happy as a clam.

Week 317: Her Stories

When we were eating breakfast yesterday morning, Sydney asked me, "Do we need to get ready to go somewhere?" Nope, I said. Nothing to do today.

"Good! I just want to sit here and eat my oatmeal."

I agreed that not having to be somewhere by 9 am was a fabulous thing, indeed. Of course, by 9:30 both the girls were asking to go visit Grandma at school (daycare), and so a half hour later we were driving down the road. But only because we wanted to not because we had to. And nothing was starting without us. And they could leave whenever they wanted to.

We work pretty hard at not over-scheduling ourselves, but this summer we decided that Sydney could be involved in swim lessons and three different day camps. It happened to be that all three camps were in consecutive weeks that followed the end of swim lessons. First, Vacation Bible Camp at our church. Second, day camp at Royal Ridges Ranch. Third, Vacation Bible Camp at cousin Clover's church.

Whew. We were tired.

The VBCs are only for a few hours, and we don't have to pack a lunch, so the time commitment is actually pretty small. The horse camp was a little more involved what with packing a lunch, and making sure she caught the bus, and lamenting over every piece of clothing that came home stained (with tar? oil? grease? special staining sauce? I grimaced in my laundry room).

Horse camp was also a little more involved for me emotionally. This was the first real adventure for Sydney that I felt quite out of the loop on. I know the organization well enough to feel comfortable with it, but I didn't personally know the adults she had for leaders, didn't know the other kids who were on her team (aside from her two cousins Amanda and Clover), didn't know if she was eating her sandwich or just throwing it away.

She was, for the first time ever, doing something that was rather out of my reach.

With church activities, I'm either involved or I'm related to someone who is involved. With kindergarten, her grandma was her teacher, her sister was a pre-school classmate, and her cousins were also classmates. With ballet, I sit and watch her. I don't own her activities, but I've seen the script and watch the action and know how the story unfolds.

But this? This heading out into the woods to learn about horses and complete obstacle courses and swim in a pool without me watching? It was all hers.

The most I knew was what I learned from attending the Open House the day before camp started, where I learned that Sydney was on the orange team, and that the obstacle course had a big tire campers had to get through.

I'm blaming the tire for some of the stains on her clothes.

Of course, when she got home every afternoon, dirty and exhausted, I nonchalantly tried to pry information out of her. "What did you do today? Who did you meet? What songs did you sing?" Sometimes I'd get the answers I was expecting. She'd serenade us with the songs she'd learn. She'd tell us that she wasn't sure if she liked lunch because no one was there to make sure she ate her sandwich, "so I didn't. And I was sad about that." She'd tell us which water activity they did that day, and what clothing items she'd forgotten to bring home.

Most of the time, though, she kept the stories to herself. Maybe there weren't really any stories to tell. She actually never seemed all that excited about whatever it was she was doing. We'd give her little tasks to do--learn someone's name today ("I learned TWO names today!"), try not to cry during the obstacle course ("I only cried once today!"), remember to bring home your lunch box ("Tada! My lunch box!")--but all in all it was her camp and only a few bits and pieces floated back to us.

I realize now that it's happened: Sydney is going to have stories that will be hers, and I'll only be allowed to be a part of whatever she chooses to share with me. Even when she does tell me stories, some still won't be ones I'd share here because...well, because they aren't mine to tell.

It's a little scary for both of us, I think, but also exciting. I love seeing her grow up, and I love hearing how something she's learned at home has transferred to a decision she makes out in the big world. Like how eating carrots for lunch is a good healthy decision, even if she "didn't really want to, but I did, because it's important."

I know Jason and I still have huge roles in the story of Sydney's life, but little by little she's writing her own lines, discovering her own role, and finding a space on the stage that's all hers.

I'm so proud.

December Views {4}

Even though summer is hands-down my favorite season, I do love the fact that in the wintertime I can say, "I got up at the crack of dawn to take pictures," and it seems impressive without me actually having to lose any sleep.

I knew today would be my chance to snap some sunrise pictures because (1) I don't work on Fridays and (2) the clouds are coming in because it's supposed to snow tonight. In fact, the clouds showed up about 10 minutes after I was done taking pictures.

My enthusiasm for sunrise photos was a bit diminished when I realized that there really aren't any good places on our property to take unobstructed photos.

Somehow I had in my mind that I would snap that really great horizon photo...but then the trees. Oh, those trees! But of course I love the trees, and I'd rather have them than a photo op anyway.

It's pretty in it's own way, right? I've always thought there was a certain je ne sais quoi about powerlines. Perhaps this photo captures the juxtaposition of sunrises and powerlines. It's nature versus industrialization; light versus dark; solar versus...electric. Ooh. I feel a paper topic coming on.

I'll stop now.

I gave up on the sunrise pictures and decided to capture some other views. A few steps and half a turn later is our orchard.

Looks quite a bit different than it did last April, hmm?

 

(As a photography sidenote, I love how these pictures nicely illustrate warmer and cooler photos. Blue-tinged photos--which my point-and-shoot Sony leans towards--are considered cooler. Yellow-tinged photos are considered warmer. In the case of the above pictures, they are literally cooler and warmer. Nifty.)

I love living somewhere where there are seasons, although I'm not always fond that where I live rain is a constant part of every season. Oh well. The grass is greener.

Today, however, the grass wasn't so much greener as it was quite frosty. Crunch crunch went my boots as I plodded across the field in my jammies.

Crunch crunch went a pair of smaller boots right behind me.

Mama, I'm cold.

I know sweetie. But your eyes look so pretty in the freezing weather.

Hey! I look pretty all the time!

She got me there.

I thought about maybe making this early morning photography a habit.

Then I put my hand on Jason's truck.

It took my body three hours to warm up after that, and I decided I'll sleep in tomorrow.

{December Views}

Week 267: Brave New World

A couple weeks ago, we enrolled Sydney in a swim class. Well, technically, Sarah enrolled Sydney in the same class Clover was taking. I don't know what I'd do without my sister-in-law. She's fabulous.

I'm a firm believer in kids knowing how to swim, and since Syd spends so much time by the water down at the creek then it's good for her to be aware of some water safety stuff.

Even though Syd loves getting into her swimsuit, she had been a little bit hesitant about hanging out in the water. Also, she hates having water on her face with the kind of passion I normally only reserve for mushrooms (although I don't think I would burst into tears should a mushroom land on my face).

Sydney paid attention in class, and got some practice blowing bubbles and kicking and all things water related. I sat on the sidelines and cheered her on. I told her how good she was doing, how proud I was of her, how much fun water was.

And in between cheering her on, I kept my mouth shut because the truth is this: I don't like water much. I don't like swimming. I'm petrified of lakes and the ocean and deep spots in the river. I saw "Jaws" at a young and impressionable age and that pretty much did me in for the rest of my life, although I have been known to suck it up and go waterskiing or wakeboarding. I've also been known to hyperventilate in the water when I'm done waterskiing.

There's a difference between passing along caution and passing along phobias. My deal with water doesn't need to be Sydney's deal with water.

Once she learned about the safety of wearing a lifejacket, the world of water opened up to her. She was excited, and the past couple weeks when we've gone down to the creek she's been putting on her life jacket and getting in the water. She even goes in the murky spots I don't go in. I resist the urge to panic--not for her safety but out of a lifelong habit for my own safety--and instead try to celebrate with her.

I want Sydney to be brave, to try new things, to not pick up on the small fears I have. She is not naturally a brave kid, but my enthusiasm for roller coasters and performing in front of people has rubbed off on her, and that's good. It's probably too late to convince her that bugs are okay (I'm not irrational about them, but I do not like to touch them). But water? Maybe she'll learn to love water.

In fact, she has learned to like water a great deal. And I watch in amazement as this little person does things I wouldn't, as she does things her own way with her own sense of accomplishment. I want that for her, to be strong at what I'm strong at, but also to be strong at things I'm weak in. I'll cheer her on.

Speaking of doing things her own way...

This little person decided to potty train herself. It was not our idea--we didn't really want to be doing the whole potty training thing while we were on vacation--but she had her own ideas, which is just exactly how she is. She decided one day about two weeks ago that she was done with diapers. I admit that I kind of discouraged her from giving up diapers (probably on one of those days she was on the toilet every half hour or so), but she was not to be deterred. Frankly, I think she potty trained herself to spite me. That also is exactly how she is.

It's her own accomplishment, through and through, with very little help on my part except to feed her candy habit as reward.

That's how it is. You wake up one day and suddenly your kids have outgrown you and your fears.

I'm okay with that. In fact, considering I don't have to do diapers anymore AND I have a new little buddy to go on the rides with me at Disney World, I'm more than okay. I'm celebrating.

The Skunk Cabbage of Motherhood

I was talking to my mom on the phone yesterday--she had just gotten back from spending the afternoon on a warm Hawaiian beach...very nice for her--and she asked me, "Are any of the flowers on the farm blooming? Are the rhodies blooming?" I confirmed that they weren't blooming. Few blooms around here except the lilac bushes, which are, in fact, quite lovely.

My mom was relieved. She didn't want to miss the blooming of the rhododendrons. They really make the place look amazing.

I didn't mention, since she would have seen them before she left for vacation anyway, that there is quite the distinguishable shade of yellow blooming all around the duck ponds and the creek.

And if you happen to walk by the distinguishable shade of yellow you will also encounter a distinguishable scent. The scent of skunk. Coming from the skunk cabbage.

Most people hate the scent of skunk, but my sister and I agree that we find the smell kinda comforting. It's true. To you it's just a stinky roadkill; to us it's the smell that reminds us of home.

It's not that we especially like skunk cabbage or anything, but here on the Family Farm--where a significant portion of the land is swamp--we have more than our fair share of skunk cabbage growing about. And when we played in the swampy areas as kids, the smell that surrounded us from March to September was the faint smell of skunk. So now? The scent of skunks brings back memories of our childhood summers. The smell of skunk reminds us of home (though you won't catch me buying a candle scented with skunk cabbage).

I was thinking today that though we'd probably prefer to associate motherhood more with this--

rather than this--

I think moms and skunk cabbage have something in common.

I better explain.

The skunk cabbage produces heat, and it's this trait which enables it to survive in the winter. The snows may fall, but the skunk cabbage's little heater keeps going and helps to melt the snow around it. This heat allows the skunk cabbage to be one of the first flowers to appear in spring, allows it to have the largest leaf of any native plant. It's big; it's strong; it's warm.

I like to think that we moms try to have this ability too.  We make sure the ground around us stays warm. We make sure that our love is big and strong and the first thing our baby clings. Because of our kids, we know that no matter how icy our life gets, how cold and damp we might feel sometimes, we still keep going. We still keep everything warm.

Of course, we don't always know what life's groundwork is going to bring us.

Like Erin, it might joyfully unexpectedly place a baby in our arms two days before Mother's Day.

Like Abby, it might mean celebrating our child's life, ended too soon, the day before Mother's Day.

Like Amanda, it might mean listening to the heartbeats you've been waiting to hear for years.

It gets cold. It gets warm. We keep going.

We're skunk cabbages, Moms. We might like to thing we're roses or tulips or daisies or daffodils. And certainly in a way our life is full of all those beautiful flowery moments. But sometimes we're not so pretty, and sometimes we might even be downright stinky. That's how life is. The beauty is that we keep going because we love our child so stinkin' much.

Happy Mother's Day, friends. Here's to keeping the ground warm.

Week 248: The View From There

What a difference five days makes away from my family.

I missed them, of course. But also? It was good to get away. It was good to be high in the mountains, eating too much food, staying up too late, and hiking trails that reminded me to exercise more often.

As I sat in the Denver airport, waiting for my return flight home, I looked out the window to pass the time. The view was not of the Rockies, but of the eastern plains that stretched for miles. I was fascinated by visions of telephone polls at least a mile away, maybe more. I was amazed that no tree or mountain interrupted the landscape.

There are no views like that around here. For one thing, there are the mountains which rise up on both sides: the Oregon Coast Range to the west, the Cascade Range to the east. For another, even if you're looking north or south, the view is always obstructed by a hill or trees. Lots and lots of trees.

Most of the time it's good to live with the mountains in sight. Gives you a sense of bearing. When my sister lived in Florida she complained that she had a hard time with direction because every direction looks the same. Not so, here in the Willamette Valley. You always have the mountains to point you in the right direction.

I looked out that airport window, and remembered advice that I gave to my students a few weeks ago: Use natural formations as metaphors in your speeches. The mountaintop experiences. The valleys of despair. They nodded in understanding. Familiar metaphors for these students who have Psalm 23 memorized.

But sitting there in the airport I remembered the other metaphor we use for mountains. A mountain of work. A mountain of laundry. Mountains aren't always majestic. Sometimes they keep us from having perspective. All we see is the mountain, never the vista. All we feel is trapped in, never sure of what's out there on the horizon. That huge pile of rocks and dirt becomes the very antithesis of inspiration.

Last night in the airport, I looked long and far. I wanted to permanently burn that image into my memory because I don't know when I'll have that kind of view again. Eventually I boarded the plane, and began my journey home--towards the mountains--but I was grateful for the reminder that the horizon is out there, even if I can't see it.

You can have your mountaintop experience.

As for me, I'll never forget the perspective of the plains reaching farther into the distance than my eyes could see.

Amazing, Baby

In just over a month a certain lovable, mischievous, high-spirited baby is going to turn two years old.

Two.

Once you turn two, I think a little bit of that baby sheen wears off. Fortunately, Jules still has lots to go around, evidenced by how often I smooch those cheeks of hers, or nuzzle my nose into the back of her neck, or nibble on her ears, even though most of those actions elicit a semi-serious "No Mama!" from said Baby.

To some degree, I've taken all of Jules's milestones in stride, without quite as much marveling over the little things she does like we did with Sydney. Jules has been getting her two-year molars, but somehow I haven't felt the urge to write about it. Go figure.

Sure, we're quite smitten and entertained by Jules, but the first word and the first tooth seemed just a little bit less miraculous the second time around. Also, there has been virtually no consulting of parenting books with Jules. I just don't care that much what books have to say. And the pregnancy books that I poured over while I was pregnant with Sydney? Untouched the last time I was pregnant. Partly because I don't find pregnancy fascinating, and partly because I don't like someone trying to give me a complex about the tuna sandwich I'm eating for lunch. It's tuna, for goodness sakes. Not a martini.

But there's a new book in town, and it's not preachy, it's not stress-inducing, and it's even got me--a non-baby person by all accounts--pouring over the pages.

 Amazing Baby is, first of all, a gorgeous book. Seriously. The book has pages and pages of beautiful pictures of babies, and it almost makes me want to have a baby just so I could take some pictures of her. I'm not talking Anne Geddes-style pictures (which I enjoy and have nothing against). I'm talking close-ups, action shots, pensive shots, amazing baby shots. At this particular moment, what I love the most about the book is the photography and the fabulous anatomy page-overlays that are quite informative. I can hardly remember what else I want to say about the book, so distracted am I by these adorable babies.

There's other good stuff too, though. Like the whole premise of the book, which is that it delivers all sorts of amazing facts about the first two years of life. It mostly skips past the gestating stage (not completely, but enough so that I wouldn't call it a pregnancy book) and delivers on what is so amazing about these little babies we have.

For instance:

• Newborns can swim
• There are seven reasons why a baby cries
• Babies are born with several automatic reflex actions
• A baby's brain makes up 10% of her weight; it's only 2% for adults
• Babies best fall asleep hearing the heart beat at 72 times per minute, the rate a relaxed pregnant mother's heart beats 
• A two-year toddler is an amazing word-learning machine

That last one? I knew that. Favorite word around here? Gum. It's the only leverage I have in getting Jules to eat breakfast, take a bath, and get dressed.

More than your standard (or even a-typical) parenting book, author Desmond Morris has written a book that celebrates the achievements of babies and just how remarkable their young lives are. The tone of the book is encouraging, engaging, and educational, filled with helpful suggestions to make a child's early life even more remarkable. My only complaint is that Dr. Morris credits evolution as the reason why babies are so irresistible and amazing. I heartily disagree on that point.

Nevertheless, this beautiful baby development book is one that could just as easily go on the coffee table as it could in a gift bag for a new mom. First-time moms may want to consult those tried-and-true pregnancy books, but this would make a great compliment. Second and third and fourth time moms will appreciate this book for its unique perspective of seeing life from the child's point of view.

I feel like I probably ought to give the book away, since I'm not pregnant (although I do have a child who fits in the category of under two-years-old), but I can't part with it. Plus, someday there may be another baby in my life who reminds me not to take the amazing development of life for granted.

 

But don't worry, Jules. That won't be for a long time. Plus, no baby can replace you because you, my sweet, are amazing. And I know I haven't told you how amazing you are for being able to feed yourself, or put on your own pants, or choose your own shirts, or open the fridge and get your sippy cup and an apple, but you are. Amazing.

*

For more reviews of Amazing Baby check out Parent Bloggers Network.

Carried through the Drops

Earlier this week it was non-stop rain. Drop, drop, drop. Huge drops splattering against our living room window, little drops splashing onto our shoes as we walked to the car. Downpours, showers, sprinkles, mist: we know how to talk about rain here in the Pacific Northwest.

But today? Sunshine. I woke up to bright blue skies, a woodpecker tapping near my bedroom window reminding me not to sleep in too late even though the girls are at their grandparents' house. I shuffled out of bed to the computer--a path already so clearly marked in the carpet I vacuumed yesterday--placed an order for a client (my freelance job, remember?) and opened the window to breathe in the smell of November.

I think I have almost shrugged off all the stress that has been bound up so tightly within me. The selling of the house, the deciding to postpone building until the spring, the moving, the returning to school and coaching, the teaching, the moving again, the studying for graduate exams, the small family crises that seem to pop up now and again--all of it weathered during the last two months, each drop soaking us, pushing us deeper into the storm where we had no choice but to huddle together and remind each other, "We're going to make it. We love each other, and we'll make it."

 

And today the sun is shining, though there still remain a few intermittent drops.

Drop.

Sydney, who has done so well with all the transitions and tolerated the changes, is showing signs of having reached her limit. She didn't complain when she had to start sharing a room with Jules. She didn't complain when she started making her weekly-treks back up to the farm. But this week, when we dropped her off in an unfamiliar classroom at a new church, she looked at us with tears in her eyes. "I don't want to," she whispered, but went anyway. Sure, she's always been my timid one, but it was different this time. It was anxiety; it was going into the unknown. Again.

Drop.

Wednesday, after Jason went back to school after enjoying Tuesday off, she said, "I want Daddy to stay home. I don't like it when everyone leaves." But we colored together, and painted, and played with toys to make up for the time we lost while I was studying for exams. That night she and I slept side-by-side, a tradition we have for the one night we stay up at the farm away from Jason.

Then as I started to drive away yesterday--leaving her with grandpa where their plans for the day involved feeding corn husks to a neighbor's cows--she waved sadly from the garage, tears streaming down her face, crying that I was once again leaving her.

Drop.

One little drop isn't much, but eventually they add up, each one getting us a little wetter until we realize with a start that we are soaked through. I know all the changes have affected the girls. Their sleeping habits were disrupted; Jules developed a terrible nighttime cough; Sydney asks less often to go do things and would rather be home, coloring, painting, reading books. She holds my hand more often, reluctant to let go.

We're doing the best we can by keeping a schedule, keeping Sydney in her dance class, going to the library, and now we have decided to scrap our church-hunting plans until after Christmas and just arrange our weekends so that on Sundays we are in Oregon instead of Washington.

When I was going through the hardest part of the storm earlier last month, I found myself in constant prayer, crying out to God to hold me together. He did, and He carried me through the storm. He soaked me in His love just when I needed it. On this side of the rain I can see that.

This week, and probably for a few more months of changes to come, Sydney will weather her own storm, and I know what she doesn't: it'll be okay. It'll be okay because I'll carry her through it, whispering to her every moment of every day how much I love her, reassuring her that even when she can't see us we still think of her.

There will be drops, but I hope what she remembers more than the drops are the Tuesday nights at the library, the Thursday nights of sleeping next to me, and all the other moments where we splashed in the puddles together.

Helping me Grow

See, the thing is I'm not always very good at this parenting thing. Somedays I get it right, but then somedays....oh, somedays I just don't get it right at all.

Like last night, as I hunched over the computer screen and played back the entire day in my mind's not-quite-so-reliable eye. I saw a day that had left my parenting skills beaten and kicked to the curb. Harried. Exasperated. Wit's end. Frenzied. A touch of the crazies. I was there. I'm going out on a limb here and saying that we've all been there.

Believe me, at the end of the day there was no melancholy to be seen. No blues. No pinks. No greens. Maybe a little bit of red. Mostly it was just, "I have failed to parent my child into kindness. I have failed to convince her to sit at the table. Woe is me." Additionally, "I have failed to keep page-books from out of her mighty grasp and therefore am slowly but surely collecting a library of books held together with tape and staples." Melodramatic, much? Indeed.

So I typed it all out. And mourned the failure of my parenting skills.

But there you were, helping me out, letting me know that perhaps all was not lost with my sweet not-yet-2-year-old child. In fact, as you mentioned repeatedly, I would do well to see this as a stage, a phase, a moment in time that she would undoubtedly grow out of. (And dear Jules, if you're reading this when you're all grown up and not hitting people anymore, know that I love you to the moon and back even as you laughed and poked me in the eye.) Me, with my "I don't want to enable her or give her an excuse for bad behavior" attitude, but failing to recognize that, oh that's right, kids grow up.

Hey, did you know?

Kids grow up.

Pauline reminded me of that when I read her comment. By the way, I had Pauline as a high school student for four years, and even though she dodged out of AP English (I will not forget, Po, no never), she was an amazing person who hardly ever hit people, and probably never in the face. And now she's all grown up with a job, and husband, and a house. Just think. She was two years old once too, and then she grew up into a good person.

And I have every day, for years and years, to teach my girls to be like Pauline--to be girls who don't hit or push other people, with their fists, or their stuff, or their words. I get to help them learn to be kind and loving people, which, oddly enough, is a mentality they don't always come by naturally.

So thank you, for being here, for leaving comments, for the conversations today that I had in living rooms and kitchens, for even not leaving comments but just coming back to see how this all works out. It's why I write, why I creaturebug, why I love this little place. Because you set me straight and remind me that I'm not in this alone.

I'm growing up too. Little by little.

***

Now you know what I would miss if I didn't do all of...this. Tell me what you would miss, even if you don't keep a blog but just read them. What would you miss if it was gone? (*Update: I took Devon's advice and revised one of the categories.*)

(poll)

I know that according to last Saturday's poll, Wednesday is nobody's favorite, but it still turned out to be a good day, didn't it?

She's a Lover and a Fighter

A not-so-small bit of anxiety has crept into our Tuesday night ritual of storytime at the library. Here we have been going for nearly two years, feeding our hearts with all sorts of wonderful books, never worrying at all about the other families who gather with us to be nourished by Pumpkin Soup and Apples, Apples, Apples.

The past several weeks, however, every time we go to the library we have encountered a mischievous sprite who insists on pushing the babies down and hitting the other toddlers on the head. She has the most disarming smile, and is certainly a sweet sight to behold when she's bouncing up and down and flapping her arms with the songs. But then, when you least expect it...pop! She hits you across the face with a book.

It's hugely embarrassing. For us. Because--ah yes, she's at it again--the storytime stalker is none other than our Jules, our sweet Jules, who is tormenting the other kids. I feel like I'm always apologizing, and we are constantly monitoring her as she weaves in and out of the children scattered throughout the room. If ever she pauses just a little too long in front of one child, gets just a little too close, we are quick to scoop her up and plop her back in our lap.

Some nights she's better than others, although our stress level never diminishes, and then there are nights like tonight. She smiled at a baby for a few seconds, and then after establishing eye contact, Jules pushed her over. That earned her some discipline with Daddy out in the hallway. Later on, she was watching another child play quietly, and crept closer to observe. We reminded her, "Gentle," which she interpreted as "Grab the baby in the face." Uff da.

Her ferocity is entirely characteristic of her: she tackles us with her hugs, smothers us with her kisses, wraps her arms tightly around our neck as she screams, "LOVE!" Sydney put it best the other day as she rubbed the spot where Jules hit her: "I know she's just trying to get my attention, but it still hurts." If only all her passions could be channeled so positively.

Even though almost 2-year-olds aren't always known for their kind and gentle spirits, Jules seems to bypass kindess and gentleness more often than not. We praise her to the moon and back whenever she exhibits kindness, and yet, it doesn't quite stick with her. I want to teach her to be nice, to refrain from using violence. I don't want to be the parent who shakes her head and sighs with comic exasperation, "Oh, two year olds. What can you do?" 

I also don't want to be the parent who is worried about her child's behavior because it reflects poorly on her parenting skills. More than anything, I want my children to be caring because they want to be caring, because it's part of their character.

It's hard to talk to a 20-month-old about character, though.

As for advice? Yes, please.

Continuing the Debate on Vaccines

Up until the past couple years, I rarely read non-fiction. It wasn't that I didn't like it, it was just not on my reading radar. But in the last year, my reading list has had a lot of medical non-fiction that I highly recommend: 28 Stories of AIDS in Africa, The American Plague, Better, and as of this past weekend, Autism's False Prophets: Bad Science, Risky Medicine, and the Search for a Cure by Dr. Paul A. Offit. I admit, I'm hooked on medical science books even though I have no desire whatsoever to be directly involved in the medical field.

Last year, I read (and reviewed) Dr. Offit's book on vaccines, and so I was quite interested in reading his follow-up book. I've already given my opinion about vaccines, so I won't rehash that here. However, the book isn't so much a parade for vaccines as it a defense of them. It largely grapples with the question: do vaccines cause autism?

It's a big question, an important question, one which parents all over the world are struggling with. The media is quick to publish studies that demonstrate the dangers of vaccines; politicians like John Kerry, Dave Weldon, Robert F. Kennedy, Jr., and Joe Lieberman have condemned vaccines; even Oprah has jumped on the vaccines-cause-autism bandwagon. Who are parents to believe?

Offit traces of the history of the vaccine debate, beginning with the first study that linked MMR vaccines with autism.

• When it was proved without a doubt that MMR vaccines did notcause autism, mercury (thimerosal) was blamed for autism.
• When thimerosal was removed from vaccines, the rates of autism actually increased, rather than decreased. Evidently, thimerosal was not be blamed.
• After decades of research, no link has been found that ties vaccines with autism.

While Offit is clearly on the side of "vaccines do not cause autism," his book looks at the research that was given to the contrary. He spends pages highlighting the opposing research, even devoting whole chapters ("Lighting the Fuse," "Mercury Rising" ) to the story that vaccines cause autism. Each time, however, Offit provides damning evidence to the contrary. No respected medical establishment believes that vaccines cause autism.

Among many circles, that answer is not a popular opinion. Some go so far as to accuse these establishments of a mass-conspiracy, and that the government is simply unwilling to pull vaccines from the market because of the pharmaceutical company's lobbying. Offit admits that vaccines aren't perfect, but the FDA and CDC have been quick to act when an immunization poses a threat.

For example: "In 1998, the FDA licensed a rotavirus vaccines, and the CDC recommend it for all infants.... Studies showed rotavirus vaccines caused intussusception in about one of every 10,000 babies who got it....Within months of the vaccine's release, the CDC had discovered the problem and withdrew its recommendation--a testament to CDC diligence and post-licensure surveillance." If there was any link at all between vaccines and autism, the CDC would have caught it by now and would have acted accordingly.

More than just providing research, Offit provides the drama that surrounds vaccines. The court cases, the conspiracy theories, the death threats, the high profile individuals, the risky treatments for autistic children--all are part of the controversy. And unfortunately, an entire cottage industry of litigation lawyers, advocacy groups, and unethical doctors have taken advantage of parents who are looking for a cause for autism.

Even more unfortunate is that this industry sees autistic children as poisoned and damaged. From Kathleen Seidel, founder of Neurodiversity.com (an autism resource web site): "I get really angry at those who work parents up into a nasty emotional state. I just think it's destructive to be led down this path of endless recriminations that goes with being encouraged to think that kids are autistic because they're damaged."

In an age when we are all trying to do the best for our children, when we aren't entirely sure who to believe, I found the book and all the statistical evidence that it provides as a great reassurance that vaccines do not cause autism. Furthermore, rather than spending money and resources fighting against vaccines, we should be focusing on what does cause autism and how we can support those who are affected by it.

And as a perfect stroke of good timing, yesterday one of my students showed this heartwarming video about Jason McElwain, an autistic student.

Paul Offit will donate all royalties from sales of this book to autism research.  Parent Bloggers Network provided me with my copy of this book.

In Mind

This quote from Better, one of my favorite books from this past summer, has been rolling around in my head since last June.

"The hardest question for anyone who takes responsibility for what he or she does is, What if I turn out to be average?...I could tell myself, Someone's got to be average. If the bell curve is a fact, then so is the reality that most doctors are going to be average. There is no shame in being one of them, right?

"Except, of course, there is. What is troubling is not just being average but settling for it. Everyone knows that averageness is, for most of us, our fate. And in certain matters--looks, money, tennis--we would do well to accept this. But in your surgeon, your child's pediatrician, your police department, your local high school? When the stakes are our lives and lives of our children, we want no one to settle for average." (italics mine)

Worth pondering.

*

I have a political post in the works, and as part of my research, I have a little question for you (also, if you haven't voted in the presidential poll, do that too):

(poll)

Week 226: Jules

Would you like to see a video of Jules or a video of my messy apartment?

How about both?

It's classic Jules: the smiles, the exuberance, the hugs, the waving. If only she had ripped up a book and pulled Sydney's hair, you would have had the perfect picture of my sweet-talking baby.

Extra cuteness goes to Sydney who watched the video and said, "Delightful!" Precisely.

Reviewing 'Maybe Baby'

One of the joys of the blog community is getting to experience (in a way) the amazing moments in someone's life. Last week I was daily checking my Google Reader to see how my favorite ex-patriot living in London was doing. Talk about amazing moments; for me, there is nothing more amazing than the moments of trying to become a parent.

If you ever click on those Tiny Reads I have linked on the left sidebar, you may have noticed me sharing posts written by London Southern Belle. (I just moved up her two latest posts in my feed-sharer so you can easily see what she's been writing about.) I won't share her whole story, but the highlight of last week is that she had two little embryos tucked inside her and, oh how I'm hoping those little babies are thriving and growing.

I've been reading Amanda's blog for years, and wanting to understand her story and other's like hers is one of the reasons why I agreed to review a book (for Parent Bloggers Network) about infertility. I don't have any personal experience with infertility; however, I have friends who have experienced great difficulty getting on a path that led to a baby in the arms. Sometimes the path is fertility drugs; sometimes it's IVF; sometimes it's adoption. Whatever path it is, I know it was walked with great sacrifice.

  I didn't know what to expect when I picked up Maybe Baby: An Infertile Love Story, by Matthew M. F. Miller. Before reading the book, I hadn't read or even heard of his blog, although I follow it now. The book was a unique reading experience for me not only because I haven't read a book about infertility, but I haven't read a parenting/love story book written from the guy's perspective. In fact, it was precisely because there is a lack of men writing about this topic that inspired Matt to start his blog.

As for the story, it is told with wit and grace and frustration and heartache. But realIy, it's filled with honesty and humor. And not just a little bit of honesty and humor. A LOT of honesty and humor. There were times when even I squirmed a little bit over his frankness, but I reminded myself that it's good for me to understand that the process of getting pregnant is not always a simple one. As for humor, who would have thought that talking about infertility could be humorous? But Matt easily finds the tone and uses it with great care and effect. After all, those awkward moments in the doctor's office...let's just say it made me thankful to be a woman.

The story begins with Matt and his wife Constance thinking about when to start their family. They are waiting, saving up money, getting everything in order. Then they make the decision to start trying for a baby. They try and they try, and while they are certainly having fun trying, they aren't getting the positive sign on the pregnancy tests. So they turn to doctors, drugs, and diet. This process was the most eye-opening for me, and though the book could certainly serve as a guide for "how to increase your chances of getting pregnant," Matt doesn't let the narrative get too technical. The story is infused with his own fears and questions, and provides a point of view that (I think) isn't often explored.

I walked away from reading the book with a greater sensitivity and awareness to the fertility struggles that 6.1 million Americans face. Honestly, it had never crossed my mind that asking a married couple "Do you have kids?" would be an inappropriate question, and I'm still not sure that it's inappropriate to ask in every context, but I'll certainly be more thoughtful in the future. Though I try to be careful about what questions I ask others, there is room for improvement. Most definitely. More than providing lessons in etiquette and instruction, however, Maybe Baby is a testament of what true love can withstand, enduring all the bumps in the road while the one bump in particular eludes them. That should be an encouragement to anyone.

And how does the book end? The book doesn't exactly end on a triumphant note, which is why I promptly looked up Matt's blog to see how he and Constance are doing. I will say there has been some IVF triumph, but there has also been some heartache (which Matt managed to still find some humor in). While their story isn't as near to my heart as Amanda's, I'm still cheering them on that after the next several months they'll have a baby.

Not a maybe.

Week 225: Rebekah

When we moved, we left behind one very important person of our family. Or rather, we moved to one place and she moved to another. It may sound very well-to-do to say we had a live-in nanny, but it wasn't really like that. She wasn't just our nanny, she was our friend.

Once upon a time, Rebekah was our student. I had her in 9th grade English; Jason had her in history classes. After she graduated from high school, we invited her to live with us and be our nanny while she attended WOU. She lived with us her freshman year in college, then she took a year off to nanny for a family in Bolivia, and then came back to us a year ago. She would have lived with us this upcoming school year, except that we sold our house and figured she didn't want to live in tiny apartment with us. If we had had enough time to plan things out, we would have rented a house so that Rebekah could still live with us. That's how much she is a part of our lives.

She made our girls dozens of meals, changed diapers, spent hours on the floor with them, playing games, doing puzzles, loving them to pieces. She wiped away tears, rocked them to sleep, and washed their clothes. We daily placed our girls' lives in Rebekah's hands, and she never failed us. Any parent will know what I mean when I say, She loved our children and that made her a saint.

If I measured love by how many pages she read to Sydney,

and all the pages she read to Jules,

 

and multiplied it by a million...that's how much she has meant to our family.

She and I have spent countless hours in the kitchen, talking over breakfast, over lunch, over dinner. More than someone who takes care of our family, she is family. I honestly don't know how we'll manage the school year without her. Gosh, I don't know how I could even handle having another baby without Rebekah's help. To say she helped around the house is a major understatement.

This past summer, we were doubly blessed to have Rebekah's twin sister Anna living with us. It was great fun having them both around, especially since there were wedding plans in the works.

Last Saturday, Anna got married.

 

Though Anna's beautiful dress captivated the girls, in the end they were both clamoring for Rebekah, especially since they hadn't seen her in a couple of weeks. Poor Jules even refused to speak with Rebekah's older brother until he fetched Rebekah for her. The girl has her priorities.

It didn't matter that Rebekah had dozens of friends and family to see, had important maid-of-honor duties to attend to; she still took time to carry Jules around and hit the dance floor with Sydney. It was a sweet way to end our time together with The World's Best Nanny.

There is no way to express how much love our family has for Rebekah, and how much we already miss her. Almost every day since we have moved, Sydney asks, "Are we going to see Rebekah today?" Whenever I drive downtown, past the shop where Rebekah worked, Jules points out the window and says, "Beeba."

I suspect every parent can think of at least one person who will be remembered by how they loved our children. Rebekah is that person for us. We were blessed to have her live with us, and no matter what, she'll always be family.

The Language of Parenting

One thing I have learned in my relatively short tenure as a parent is that not all words are equally effective. There is saying "no," and there is redirection: "Let's do this instead." There is saying "no," and there is instruction: "It's dangerous to stand on top of the table." There is saying "no," and there is offering choices: "Instead of coloring on the walls, precious child, how about coloring on this paper or this coloring book." (Confession: I haven't quite matured to the level of offering choices when the walls are being colored on.)

It's hard work, this constant monitoring of how we understand, mold, discipline, converse with, and encourage our children. Sometimes I succeed--I'm good at offering praise and encouragement. Sometimes I don't--I'm inconsistent in my discipline and have a shallow well of patience when the girls are distracting me from something I'm involved in. Most of the time, the only one who offers me feedback on my parenting is Jason. Which is fine, since to be quite honest I tend to not be great at receiving admonishment from someone else.

I will say that in general I'm very careful about the words (though not always my tone) I use to and around my girls. That's not because I'm a super fabulous parent; it's because all those classes in child psychology and the power of words have trained me to be conscientious in what I say around students and children (if only I were so consistently thoughtful when I'm talking to adults...*sigh*). I have always assumed my children's spirits are as sensitive as my own, so I try to make sure that I don't say something I'll regret. Don't mistake my admission as bragging because let me tell you there are plenty of things I'm not great at, but that's a different (and longer) post altogether.

  My constant vigilance of what I say helped me connect with two books we've been reading for the past few weeks. Parent Bloggers Network hooked me up with Ready for the Day! and Ready for Bed!, two books published by Free Spirit Publishing (who have some other fabulous things too, like these Story Starters in a Jar). On the surface it seems like the books might be geared towards helping kids learn how to transition through routines like breakfast or bedtime without sass or stress. Certainly the books do help promote positive behavior. However, the books are also meant to help parents learn the language of positive parenting.

As the story unfolds for each book, different parenting phrases are highlighted to show examples of the parent validating feelings, offering choices, and giving encouragement. In Ready for the Day!, the child whines about wanting to stay home with her dad instead of going to school. Her dad follows up on the whining with, "I know just how you feel. I wish we could spend the day together too." He doesn't say what might be the first reaction for many of us, "Stop whining."

It might seem hokey or too touchy-feely, but honestly it doesn't come across that way in the book. I'm all for books that help parents and children navigate the routines of the day in emotionally healthy ways. In my own personal experience, the book helped me remember the importance of validating feelings when Sydney cried at discovering we weren't going to be living in our house anymore. My knee-jerk reaction would have been to distract her from the topic and say something along the lines of "Don't cry. It'll be okay." Instead I said, "It is sad that we aren't in our old house anymore. I'm sad too. But we're going to build a new house that you'll love even more." I cried when we moved; I should certainly allow the same kind of emotion from my child.

Obviously, these books aren't meant to replace our other silly, artsy, dance-themed, farm-animal, Bible-story books, but they are a good addition to our library that remind all of us how to work together.

Now if only I could train myself to respond more appropriately to Julianne dumping juice all over the floor. Right now, I'm pretty much stuck in the rut of "exasperated sigh followed by smacking my hand to my head." I'll tell you right now, that technique isn't working.

Me. On Fridays.

This morning I woke up at 9 am, ate breakfast while sitting on the floor, took an uninterrupted shower, and drove off to register Sydney for her tap class that starts next week. Just for kicks, I went to the bank, called the water company, insurance company, DMV, and tried (unsuccessfully) to get caught up on all my blog reading. I pondered again who I might vote for in the upcoming Presidential election, wondered if maybe we should consider moving again into a different apartment that's newer and smells better, and now I sit, drinking tea, writing.

It's Friday. And I'm without kids.

No, it's not because they're off at pre-school or daycare. Well, maybe that's not true. Now that I look at the clock it's possible that they are at both pre-school and daycare because they might be with Jason's mom who runs a pre-school/daycare. I'm not entirely sure where my children are, but I know they are either (a) with my parents or (b) with Jason's parents.

It's Friday. And I've been without my kids for 28 hours.

Certainly, I've been away from the girls many, many times, and sometimes for more than a few days at a time. But now that the school year has begun, so has the tradition of Thursday nights at the Family Farm. For the past two years, Sydney has gone up to my parents' house on Thursdays, and returned to us on Fridays. It's been a great arrangement: Sydney got to spend time with her great-grandparents who drove her to and from Washington, and she got to spend time with her grandparents and cousins at the farm. At home, we got to spend time with Jules, and she was the only one who needed to be watched while I was teaching on Thursdays.

This year, however, I'm doing the driving to and from Washington, and both the girls are staying Thursday nights at the farm. Then on Fridays, they are with Jason's parents until we pick them up later that night after Jason is done with soccer. I'd get them earlier in the day, but then we girls would be without Jason all weekend.

That means every Friday--all day long--it's just me. By myself. Catching up on errands, on grading, on other work. Waiting for Jason to come home from soccer games. 

Yep.

I'm not one of those parents who needs to be with my kids all the time; I don't feel guilty about the girls staying the night at the farm. They love it, and it's a good arrangement for everyone. But when I add up all the hours that I'm without my girls, my heart squirms a little bit. I'm reluctant to say how lucky I am to have the day without the girls since I truly feel lucky that I get to be home with them. If they were older, if they were in school, if I were working, if this weren't going to be a weekly arrangement? I think I'd be more accepting. However, spending days away from my sweet baby Jules--no matter how much mischief she causes--is tough on my mommy psyche.

As time goes on, I'm sure I'll start saving all my errands and appointments and "things to do" for Fridays so that when we are all together I can give them my full attention and not be distracted by my to-do list. I can't quite imagine living a life where I'm not distracted by what I have to do, but I think it might just be possible.

For today anyway, I've checked off several things I had been saving for today, and now I'm going to organize my cupboards. Doesn't that sound exciting? Not so much? Well, it'll get done at any rate. Maybe my No-Kids Fridays will be a good thing. Maybe I'll end up feeling guilty and unproductive, although I hope not.

Or maybe I'll even start the Great American Novel.

First, though, I got to get to those cupboards.

Week 220: The Manners of Eating Out

We don't eat out much. In fact, I would say we eat out approximately once every six weeks. Many reasons keep us from eating beyond our own kitchen. The main reason is money, first and foremost. We have just enough money for groceries every month, so buying food somewhere else doesn't exactly fit in the budget. When we do eat out it's nearly always because we've saved money specifically for that outing. We also don't eat out because we are mostly against fast food, leaving us with the option of sitting down in a restaurant...

...sitting in a restaurant. Hmm.

I can't imagine what sitting in a restaurant would look like with our two girls. Sydney, of course, does fine in a restaurant except that she won't eat any of the food until we find a place that has watermelon and blueberries on the menu. Jules doesn't do fine. She doesn't sit. If forced, we can keep her entertained, but it's not fun. Not relaxing. Not what I'd rather be doing instead of eating at home. If one of the reasons to eat out is because it prevents you from having to cook, we already have the answer to that dilemma. Cereal. It's a perfectly acceptable meal, chock full of vitamins, and no fat.

We can arrange our life so that we don't eat out. What we aren't willing to give up is eating out at someone's house. The trouble is we don't even do that frequently enough to give our girls much practice at developing good manners. I know the answer lies in habits formed at home, and in areas of "please," "thank you," and taking her bowl to the sink, Sydney does quite well. But I don't often make food that she won't eat because, well, because she won't eat it. And the advice of "let her go hungry" doesn't work because she won't get hungry enough to eat. She'll just cry from the hunger pains in her stomach. Needless to say, meal times are my least favorite times of the day. Why oh why does there need to be three of them?

So, when my former student invited us over to her family's house for dinner, I was both excited--I had been anxious to see her new house since I'd heard all about the construction of it--and nervous. My girls, while charming, are not good dinnertime guests. Nevertheless, we made the drive out to Gaston, prepared at least with sippy cups.

The verdict?

The M&M appetizers were definitely a hit.

The watermelon and blueberries were cheered.

The steak was avoided, as was the salad.

The almond rice? "I only eat white rice," said my firstborn, much to my embarrassment.

But she did eat a spoonful of the non-white rice after seeing the chocolate truffles for dessert. She did. There were some tears, but she did.

Jules was appeased with a box of raisins, which she ate while running laps around the dinner table (the result of a meal sans highchair).

Fortunately, our hosts were not even the least bit bothered. I, however, am checking out some books at the library this week to inspire better manners. Not that book knowledge will translate to real life actions, but the only other alternative is to never go anywhere. Frankly, that idea doesn't sound too terrible.

If only I could check out a book that would inspire a broader taste in foods. I only eat white rice?!...good grief.

***

This post was written for Parent Bloggers Network as part of a sweepstakes sponsored by Burger King Corp.

(c) Creature Bug 2008. All rights reserved.

Working Week

It's Friday, and I'm feeling oh-so-scatterbrained. It's Friday, and I'm tired. It's Friday, and I couldn't be happier. Usually summertime Fridays are no different than any other day. Jason's home during the week; I'm home during the week; we are essentially living a perpetual weekend life. But this week?

Oh, mercy.

This week Jason was gone. He was down in San Diego living it up at a teaching conference. Well, I'm not sure how much living it up he did, but I do know that he ate better than I did on account of having a nice food stipend from the school district. By his accounts, it was a good conference. He's training to be part of a new instructional program at his school called AVID. The purpose of the program is to reach out to the average, every day learners ("students in the academic middle," as the program identifies them) and prepare them for college. Is that not just a stroke of brilliance or what? Generally speaking, the low learners and the high learners get the lion's share of the budget when it comes to special funding. This time, the school is spending money on the kids whose exceptional features are working hard and having potential to go to college. I love it.

What I haven't loved so much is being on my own this week. Anyone who has ever had to do the solo-parenting (whether as a full-time life, or as a brief week-long deal) knows that it's not easy. For me, the toughest part of the day is bedtime. I never did figure out a good way to handle the double-duty bedtime routine. Consequently, all three of us are exhausted from being up too late. I did have the advantage of spending the week at the Family Farm, so that made things easier (life is always easier when there's a creek with a sandy beach nearby).

I suppose my week on my own is kind of a warm-up act for the months that are to come since I'll be doing the solo-parenting job a couple nights a week while we're living life in two separate cities. Plus, soccer season starts in a week. Soccer season means games, four days a week. It means practices. It means me and the girls finding new ways to grow weary of each other. I'm always happy for Jason when soccer season starts because I know how much he enjoys it. I'm always happy for me when soccer season ends because I know how much I don't enjoy it. I do enjoy the extra income it brings in though, so I can't complain too much.

However, I think the more I type the more I'll be tempted to complain, so I better see if there's a pile of laundry somewhere that needs folding. I'll just end by saying Jason flies in to PDX tonight, and we are all very ready for him to be back with us.

Week 218: A Yogos Container Full of Love

One of my jobs this weekend was to go through the girls' closets and toy boxes and box up toys they don't use, or can be put "on hold" to be brought out for future use ("Look Mom! New toys!"). This is, as you can imagine, a job that has to be done when the girls aren't around because the moment I start putting toys away is the exact same moment those toys become just what they always wanted to play with.

I've always tried to rotate toys in and out of use, but now that we are boxing them up--only to be unboxed when the new house is finished (whenever that is)--I'm being a little more selective. Sydney may not daily play with her Leapfrog book, but it definitely shouldn't be hidden away for the next 12 months. As for Jules? Well, give her a couple of spoons, some wooden blocks, and a marker and she's set. Unless it's a toy Sydney's playing with it; then she has to have whatever that is.

As I rummaged and tossed, organized and collected, I found what used to be quite the revered object in our house: a Yogos container. If you aren't familiar with Yogos, well, you aren't missing much. The Yogos container, is, in short, a pocket-sized container that you can dump a package of Yogos into and then press a button to have them dispensed into your palm, one at a time. Look...here's one up for sale on eBay at a ridiculously exorbitant price.

While I personally am not a big fan of Yogos, the girls like them, and I can't find it in myself to object too strongly against them. I have a feeling they're a lot like candy, except that yogurt covering suggests otherwise.

But this is not a story about Yogos. This is a story about the Yogos container. Because that container was a big stepping point in my life as a parent. Who knew such a small thing could end up representing such a defining act.

The first Yogos container to enter our house was a couple years ago. Sydney had received one from her grandma, who had found it in a box of Yogos. Yes. It use to be that Kellogg's just gave them away. In a box. Had I known this, I would have bought approximately 2 dozen boxes. But, alas, I did not know.

Sydney loved that Yogos container. She took it with her everywhere, so that if at any moment she developed a craving for Yogos she could dispense one into her tiny upturned hand. My job was to keep the container full of Yogos. My job also became keeping track of the container because 2-year-olds aren't known for their ability to remember where they set their things down, especially when we're walking out the door, and in order for us to leave the house without any tears, such-an-such an item must be in hand.

Sydney and her container were the best of friends for many weeks. And we all thought it was quite cute how much joy that little toy brought her. She got such a big kick out of seeing Yogos come out of the little hole, and we got a big kick out of watching her.

As is sometimes the case, though, free toys aren't built to last forever. It was then no huge surprise when the Yogos container's mechanism for dispensing Yogos stopped working. It was also not surprising that Sydney was deeply saddened by her toy's demise. What was surprising, however, was my internal reaction to seeing Sydney so sad about her broken toy. I had loved watching her smile over this little gadget, and I instinctively wanted to replace it. The added drama to the story is that I was probably 7 months pregnant at the time, and feeling more than a little traumatized that Sydney and I would have to share each other. Or rather, Sydney was going to have to share me.

So I set off with a determination to find a new Yogos container for Sydney. We went to grocery stores all over the city, trying to find a specially marked Yogos box that might say it had a container inside. I emailed Kellogg's, begging them to send me a new container. I even looked on eBay, but the sale of one had already expired. I didn't know what else to do, and as silly as it sounds, I was really upset over it.

Every couple days, Sydney would see her Yogos container (because I couldn't bring myself to throw it away) and ask in her sweet little voice, "Fix it, Mamma?" That container wasn't just a Yogos container. It was everything I wanted to be able to provide for Sydney. It was every wrong I couldn't right. It was me trying to make up for Sydney's loss as an only child (and, yes, I realize getting a sibling isn't a loss, but track with me here). She and I both wanted a new Yogos container for reasons a world apart from each other.

I was pretty much at a standstill for what I could do about the broken container. I couldn't fix it. I couldn't buy one. I couldn't stand in line, sleep out overnight outside a store, or feverishly call a radio station in order to win one. I think I would have. Maybe. Who knows. I was delusional with pregnancy guilt and hormones. Either way, it seemed that the dispenser had disappeared into the abyss of cereal and boxed toys.

But then.

One day, earlier this year, we were at the grocery store and saw a little something different on the Yogos box. I sent Sydney down the aisle to check it out, and low and behold! The Yogos containers were back! Syd and I probably looked ridiculous and we screeched and danced in the aisle, rejoicing about our found Yogos container.

Our celebration might have been a bit premature since it turned out we had to send in 3 UPC symbols and an order form to Kellogg's to get the Yogos container, but we did all that. It didn't cost us anything except the stamp on the envelope and a few weeks worth of waiting. It arrived one blessed day in our mailbox and I don't know who was happier: me or Syd. She had her Yogos container back, and I had fulfilled what I had set out to do. I wasn't a failure.

I wasn't placing any bets on how long that new container would last, so I sent off for a couple more Yogos containers, which wait in our kitchen drawers, ready to be called into action whenever they are needed.

My search for the Yogos container gave me a little bit of perspective on why parents do crazy things to get something their child wants. Sometimes the reasons aren't great--we want our child to be the coolest or want to be the parent who is the coolest. But many times are motives are as basic as wanting to do something that makes our kid happy.

I don't suspect I'll ever be the parent who waits in line, or pays top dollar, or physically strains myself to get the year's hottest toy--I'm just not cut out for that kind of job. But my search for the Yogos container made me realize that there are some things I'll always want to fix for my kids. I realize I won't be able to fix all the broken things in my children's lives, but this one thing--this Yogos container--well that, my sweet child, I can fix.

***

This post written as part of Parent Bloggers Network blog blast event promoting Hasbro's Hot Summer Toy Event.

Week 216: Twirly Girl

Now that I have fortified myself with a Costco-sized bottle of Excedrin (I think I felt my kidneys twitch in horror at watching me buy a bottle of 300 pills), I am ready to tackle the task of writing once again. Although I think I might be just a little out of form, since after rereading that last sentence it makes it appear as though I've consumed a Costco-sized bottle of Excedrin, rather than having purchased it. In fact, I haven't even had one Excedrin today, which is a major success. It had not occurred to me that I should go see a doctor about all these migraines, until so many of you kindly mentioned it. I suppose I should. If I go I'd love to find out if I could get an MRI, not because I think I need it, but because seriously, how cool would that be to see a picture of inside my head? If I could get a copy of it, you know I would absolutely find a way to work that photo into one of my classroom lectures in the fall because that's the kind of crazy teacher I am.

Waking up without the familiar ache behind my left eye was so refreshing. Before I was fully awake, I listened as Jason helped the girls with breakfast, heard the running of the bath water, smiled to myself when Jules screamed "Bath!" the moment she realized she heard the tub filling. I stretched and got ready to get up, but not before I heard Sydney ask, "Where's my dress?"

Where's my dress? It's what she says nearly every morning, and by some amazing parenting magic, I almost always know which dress she's talking about. There's no trick to it really: it's just whatever dress she wore the day before. And unless the dress had an unfortunate meeting with yesterday's lunch, it will still be good to wear another day. Up until Sunday, there were only two choices--the heart dress, or the spinny dress. Don't let the labels deceive you. They're both spinny dresses. And now, thank heavens, we finally have added another spinny dress--dubbed "my new dress"--to the mix.

I have a child who loves to wear dresses that twirl. Loves them beyond measure. She will tell you, "I have a closet full of dresses! Full!" She holds up both her hands to show you just how many dresses she has. But ask her what dresses she'll wear? "Only the spinny ones. If it doesn't spin..." here she shakes her head sadly, "then I just. can't. wear. it." Oh honey. You don't need to explain to me how much drama a wardrobe can inspire. I have been known--in a fit of post-pregnancy angst--to ruthlessly donate nearly everything in my closet, so much so that I literally don't have a week's worth of clothes left to wear.

I will confess to you that I am thrilled to have a daughter who is all about dresses, and princesses, and pink, and ballet slippers. Although I would have been happy no matter what her favorite color, I was a bit nervous that I'd have a daughter who would more closely resemble my sister. Now, before my sister gets all up in arms about this statement, let me insist that I love my sister. However, I think she and I can agree that we didn't have much in common growing up. She was a definite tomboy who hated dresses, favored the color blue (she was excused from pink since she had red hair), and was much more in her element playing sports and actually being friends with guys instead of--like her older sister--flirting endlessly with them. She was cool, but she was different from me. And it wasn't until she went to college that we figured out we liked being around each other. And then in a twist of fate (mostly related to her living and working in SoCal), it ends up that she fixes her hair more often than I do, and has a wardrobe that has more skirts and bikini swimsuits than mine. It's so unfair. 

Even though I'm by no means a CoverGirl--I wear minimal make-up and if my hair is long enough to be in a ponytail that's how I'll wear it all the time--I'm still a big fan of dressing up and wearing heels. I knew I'd love Sydney no matter what, but there was a part of me hoping we'd be able to share a bond over dresses, and twirling, and teacups, and dolls, and fairies with pink and purple wings. Suffice to say, her love of dresses probably outpaces mine. Certainly her love of having her nails painted definitely outpaces mine. She and her cousin Clover were treated by Great-Grandma to their very first professional manicure last week, and boy oh boy, it was something else.

Sparkles! Pinks! Purples! It was like a little tiny piece of heaven had fallen into a display case, centered between a poster of toes in the sand and a poster of an exotic location in Thailand. Sydney picked out a lovely shade of purple for my pedicure (and, oh, I do love pedicures), and she and Clover jointly picked out the sparkly shake of pink that all of us were getting on our nails.

By the way, that dress she is wearing is the spinny dress. Important to know that.

Of course, for all my wishes of sugar and spice, I always wished for a girl who would be just as interested in puppy dog tails. If not puppy dog tails, then at least tadpoles and crawdads. Right after she got her nails done, she promptly headed down to the creek and got down to the business of playing.

Because if you're going to be living at the Farm, you can't be a pansy about getting dirty (although I can be a bit weak-willed about tolerating dirt).

Go on, Jules. All the girls are playing in the sand. You can do it too.

That's the beauty of my little girl. One moment she's spinning in a salon, singing a made-up song about having beautiful nails--to the tune of Sound of Music's "Sixteen Going on Seventeen" naturally--and the next moment she's digging in the sand, building a house for all the little periwinkles that crawl along the shore.

My girl. Already an expert at twirling.

(c) Creature Bug 2008. All rights reserved.

Week 211: Mean Streak

I know instinctively that my children will be different from each other. After all, I grew up with three siblings, and we are different from each other in lots of ways. We're similar in plenty of ways too, like our facial expressions (furrowing of brows, sarcastic opening of mouth), our vocal intonations, our innate nature to incessantly tease our dad, our ability to collectively roll our eyes at our mom when she says something that begins with, "You promised..." But we don't respond to stress the same way, nor do we interact with other people the same way.

And yet, here I am, dumbstruck by Jules' propensity for toddler violence. She is, I dare say, got a mischievous mean streak so far removed from Sydney's personality that Jason and I sometimes don't even know what to do. When Sydney was frustrated as a toddler, rather than hit others, she would hit herself. She'd run headlong into the wall, or find a toy and whack herself over the head with it. It concerned me for awhile, but with lots of intervention she eventually outgrew it. Jules, however, has no inclination to punish herself when there are so many others just hanging around.

Just a few days ago, Jules was mad at Jason for picking her up to scold her, so she hit him in the face. He sternly told her "no," and grabbed her hand. She hit him in the face with her other hand. He grabbed her other hand and more sternly said "no." When she realized that she had no free arms with which to hit him, she head-butted him in the nose.

Ingenious, yes? Jules is such a terror of physical energy and mischief we can't even anticipate what her next move will be. She so often torments the dog that we weren't surprised when Daisy--after months of endurance--finally snapped at Jules last week, and nipped her in the hand. Of course, our old shi-tzu didn't do a bit of harm, so it was more the shock of it that hurt Jules' feelings. She was momentarily derailed from her tail-pulling escapades, but soon enough was back at it.

It's as if she should have been born into a family where she might have an older sibling who'd pick on her and she's genetically wired to physically defend herself. Only, Sydney doesn't pick on Jules. On the contrary, Sydney's response towards Jules pulling her hair or stealing her glasses off her face is so passive that I complained to Jason last night, "I just wish Sydney would defend herself more actively," recalling an episode at the library a couple weeks ago where Jules pushed an older kid on the head, and he stopped her in her tracks when he gave her a hefty push back. She looked startled, and then decided that this kid wasn't to be messed with.

At my most exasperated point, I wish Sydney would push Jules away. I don't want Syd hitting Jules. I just would like her to do something a little more proactive than whine and complain when Jules uses Sydney's hair as a rope in order to climb up on the couch. "Maama! Jules is pulling my hair again!" Or when I see Syd watching tv without her glasses only to discover that Jules is running physical experiments on them behind the chair. "Sydney," I say with a tone that is unfortunately becoming a hallmark feature of my voice, "don't let Jules take your glasses." And Sydney sighs and shakes her head in response, "What am I supposed to do?"

Supposed to do, indeed. Already Jules has received plenty of time-outs, swats on the hand, and flicks on the mouth, because, oh did I not mention this earlier? She bites. She bites to be funny; she bites to be ornery; she bites when she's bored; she bites when she's mad. I'm not of the "bite them back to teach them a lesson" camp, so we persist in flicking her mouth and giving timeouts. Even still, Jules knows she doesn't actually have to bite Sydney in order to make her scream. All she has to do is slyly open up her mouth and lean all vampire-like towards her older sister to get a response.

"She's biting!" Sydney screams as Jules simultaneously shakes her head and points to her mouth. She knows the game too well, this one.

I know some of it is just a toddler phase that she'll grow out of, but I also know that younger siblings can sometimes be a thorn in their older sibling's side (speaking as the oldest sibling of my family). Even though Sydney adores Jules, she has a hard time playing with her when Jules is so persistent in being unkind. I know there's a part of Sydney always waiting for Jules' naptime so she can receive a reprieve from all the toddler torture. Honestly, we all kind of wait for Jules' naptime...Daisy included.

We are doing our best to curb her propensity for hitting, for teasing, for pinching, for biting, for head-butting. Of course, just as soon as I scoop her up to punish her, she's gently patting my face with her little hands and murmuring, "Den-dull." Yes, Jules, gentle. And she snuggles into my neck waiting for me to kiss her face and breathe in the scent that instantly calms me down. She still gets a time-out in her crib, but as I walk out of her room, I hear her laughing behind me, blowing me kisses on my way out.

She may be fierce, but she still has a whole lot of sweetness to hand out as well.

(c) Creature Bug 2008. All rights reserved.

Week 209: Discovering Ballet

If you had ever visited my bedroom when I was a teenager, you would have thought I was a ballerina. Ballet posters adorned my walls, my closet doors, my bulletin board. I had teddy bears with tutus, pins with ballet slippers. I had seen every dance-themed movie, and secretly practiced the ballet moves behind the closed doors. I wanted with all my heart to be a ballerina, or at least some kind of dancer.

But I never took dance lessons.

To tell you the truth, I'm not sure if I ever even asked my parents if I could have dance lessons. I had piano lessons, voice lessons, a short and unfortunate period of time as a soccer player. But I never danced, even though I really wanted to. I suppose I didn't ask my parents because I figured they would say no. Maybe if I had really been insistent on it they might have considered it. It didn't ever cross my mind that I actually could be a dancer, only that I wanted to be one.

So, last Christmas when Jason's mom--who had been a ballerina for 20 years--said she'd help pay for Sydney to attend a dance class, I was giddy with excitement. Just like pursuing my own dance aspirations years ago, it had honestly never occurred to me to put Sydney in ballet at a dance studio because I always figured it would be too expensive. As it turns out, it really was too expensive for us, so I don't know if we can manage her going back in the fall. However, I don't regret the money we spent. And if there's any way we can have Sydney in ballet again in the fall--especially because she clearly enjoys it so much--then we'll do it.

Every Monday morning since last January, Sydney would put on her red leotard, her white tights, her white dance skirt, and her pink ballet slippers. She'd spend 45 minutes in Miss Erin's class with nine other 3-year-old girls, and they would twirl, and leap, and stretch, and demi-plie. They also diligently practiced their routine that they were to perform for the recital. I was a little apprehensive that Sydney would be too shy, or not be able to follow the directions, but my fears were unfounded and Sydney thrived in her class. She loves to dance.

Last Friday was the dress rehearsal, where I took most of these pictures and the video. Saturday was the recital, and it was a big production, much bigger and much more professional than I thought it would be. Sydney's dance school had rented the Historic Elsinore Theatre, and all the preschool classes were part of the matinee performance (the school-agers and adults performed during the evening production), as well as the advanced ballet class. Sydney's grandmas and grandpas and cousins came to watch Sydney the Beautiful Ballerina. She with her hair pulled back in a bun, make-up sparingly applied, costume properly fluffed, tights brand new for the occasion.

There is something magical about little girls in tutus, their sweet voices reminding each other where to stand on stage. The music played, the tulle swirled and swished, and the little pink slippers tripped across the stage. Sydney knew where to go and swayed when she was supposed to. As I watched her, I was surprised by the tears in my eyes. Who knows what more she'll do in the world of dancing, but for that moment she was a beautiful dancer, on an amazing stage, curtsying before an applauding audience. Even afterwards, as she held her flower bouquet in her arms, I looked at her and beamed. Not because I had a secret wish for Sydney to fulfill my dreams of becoming a dancer; I was just so very proud of what she accomplished. On her own two pink slipper-clad feet.

 

Bravo, my sweet.

Here's the video...Sydney is the one without her crown (she had her crown on for the performance, but we couldn't find it for the dress rehearsal):

(c) Creature Bug 2008. All rights reserved.

Time With Dad

Even though we get to spend one-on-one time with Jules every Thursday night while Sydney stays at my parents' house, we don't often get time to just hang out with Syd. Which is a shame, because she is really just such a fabulous kid. She's funny, she's artistic, she's smart...traits that I don't always appreciate as we go through our regular daily routine.

When I made preparations for this weekend, Jason asked if Jules could stay with his parents and if he could have Sydney all weekend. Just the two of them. Hanging out. Playing outside. Going to the beach. Isn't he a brilliant Dad? Yes. Yes, he is.

Honestly, I am a little envious that he's the one who gets to spend all the time with her instead of me, but the envy is softened by the fact that my heart is filled to the brim with joy at knowing they're having a great weekend together. Plus, I'm hanging out here, in Pasadena, with my sister. I can't complain about that.

(c) Creature Bug 2008. All rights reserved.

Week 207: Collecting

There is a woman
who never forgets anything
what people said,
what day of the week,
and what was on tv
from every day of her life
since she was a child.

Her memories make me thankful
for the grace of forgetfulness

like how many times
I raise my voice
or sigh in exasperation
or feel discouraged.

Our ability to forget,
especially for mothers,
is what keeps us sane
and helps us heal from
the guilt of every mistake
the imperfections of parenting
playing unceasingly in our mind
like an intolerable YouTube video.

We want to look back
at the difficult years
and remember the joys
not the sorrows
the sweetness
not the bitter.

But I wonder

If I could take memories
from this week
and store them on a shelf
in my mind
like teacups, or spoons,
or salt and pepper shakers

What would I choose?

The walk to the park,
the lunch with friends,
the afternoon sitting on the floor
with the girls
who made fish faces on the window.

 

The dash of light across Julianne's hair
The silly smiles from Sydney

I'd collect the sound of her voice when she says,
What a beautiful day it is!
Or the screech of delight when the littlest she
figures out the answer to,
How old are you?

The shelf would hold the feeling
of little hands, and big,
of precious kisses on baby soft skin,
and late night loving ones before bedtime.
Next to these
the feeling of curly hair wrapped around my finger
and the intangible sense of comfort.

All this I would keep,
hide,
horde away
in memory's closet.

My wish

May I be a woman
who collects
cups of sweet memories,
bowls of grace,
and
plates of joy

not the woman
who stores the sorrows
in a box
under my bed with ugly shoes
and unforgiving mistakes.

The woman who never forgets
helped me remember

the beauty of memories

both kept
and lost.

(c) Creature Bug 2008. All rights reserved.

Braving the Fears

Sydney had a nightmare last week.

She woke up screaming for her daddy, refusing to leave her room without him carrying her out. Normally when she wakes up in the middle of the night, she wanders into our room, gets one of us to help her into the playpen, and then falls back asleep. Not this time.

The next morning, she wandered out to the kitchen and said, "My room is on fire." I made a move from my chair to rush to Sydney's room before she stopped me: "In my dreams. My room is on fire in my dreams. The door was burning, and I was calling and calling for Daddy and he couldn't get me because my night light burned the door." She started crying again as she told me the story, and I scooped her up in my arms and reassured her that it was just a dream, not real.

She has been terrified of going to sleep every night since then, insisting that we leave the door open and her night light off, when before she always wanted the door closed and night light on. She trembles with fear every night as she wakes up with the same nightmare: her room on fire.

We showed her the smoke alarm, and how it worked. We talked to her about us being right next door. We prayed with her for Jesus to keep her safe at night.

She is still afraid, although she was less fearful tonight.

I am at a loss for what to do. Teaching my children courage has never exactly been my strong suit, although I think I fake it pretty well at times. There are certain phobias I have that I work hard not to convey to Sydney because I don't want her to inherit my irrational fears.

No need to be afraid of the dark. See! It's okay!

Isn't swimming fun? Isn't water fun? Ooh, look at your pretty swimsuit!

It's just a tiny bug. It won't hurt you at all.

I may be afraid of the dark, terrified of water, and phobic of bugs, but I try to put on a brave, smiley face, just for my kids. Except, of course, whenever I encounter spiders, for which I have no false reservoir of bravery. I can't fathom a situation in which I could calmly react to a spider. Hmm...maybe if I were in a movie opposite Matthew Macfadyen, being paid $10 million dollars?

Nope. I just ran the image through my mind, and not even money and Mr. Darcy could get me to share screen time with a spider. This fear--this internal shaking that causes me to break out in a cold sweat--is what Sydney must be feeling each night when she approaches her room at bedtime. And the most I can do is hold her, rock her back and forth and say, "You're okay, baby. You're safe."

I want her grow up brave, grow up strong and confident; I don't want her to grow up saddled with all my fears. It's, of course, what every parent wants...that our children will inherit the best of us, rather than the worst. I want to give my girls my confidence in public speaking, my ability to communicate through writing, my strength in finding humor. Or at least, perhaps not these specific traits, but the act of boldness to do something. I work hard to overcome my eating disorders, my depression, and my manic anxiety not for my own benefit (because I have after all these years learned a few coping techniques) but for the benefit of my children. My real fear is that these are the fires that will burn in their adult doorways, and all my words of bravado will be too little, too late.

Fortunately, I keep growing, learning, maturing, and yes, facing my own fears. I find that practicing to be brave for my girls actually does make me feel a little less afraid. My words echo back to me in Sydney's voice as she gives herself a pep talk before taking medicine, "It's okay, Momma. I'll very be brave."

Right now, I'm hoping her nightmares are just a phase that will soon pass. We continually monitor what she watches, and encourage her in every way imaginable that she doesn't have to be afraid. I don't know what to do beyond that...Except try to practice what I preach and tell myself when I'm in a room full of my own fears, I'll very be brave.

As a parent, I think it's the only choice I have.

*****

(c) Creature Bug 2008. All rights reserved.

Saving the Littlest Bums

Alrighty now, I still want to give away these two jars of Diaper Goop.

So...let's try this again, shall we?

Leave a comment indicating you're interested in trying out Diaper Goop, and I'll choose two random winners on Wednesday, April 9th. In the contest already are the previous comments from Margaret, Amy, Rachel, and Jen so you four are already entered.

The following post (linked below) is from Thursday, which I had removed because of all the negative energy it was bringing to my blog and also my computer. I have clarified some particular elements of the previous posting because clearly the way I wrote it before was giving people--people who don't actually know me or my blog, but people nonetheless--the wrong impression of life in the Creature Bug household. I will chalk up the whole experience of...whatever that was...as a small bump on the road of an otherwise wonderful blogging journey.

*****

When Strangers Judge You

I had an unfortunate incident happen to me today. One of those things that I suppose happens to people every day, although rarely to me. One of those things that at first seems like a practical joke, but then you realize that it isn't. One of those things that makes you laugh, makes you mad, makes you confused, and above all else, makes you wonder what on earth is going on.

I had a post up today that tried to come up with a clever way to talk about the miracle properties of Diaper Goop (that I received from the ever fabulous Parent Bloggers Network). In this post (which no doubt is still in your Google Reader if you haven't read it yet), I talked about how Jules cries in her crib, even with a messy diaper. While this is true, I haven't ever knowingly allowed her to cry in her crib with a messy diaper. My story was meant to illustrate how Diaper Goop keeps Jules rash-free even when I sleep through her cries. (BTW: It's a great product, and the whole family has loved using it.) Also, the story was meant to be humorously self-deprecating--me, the lazy mom. Ha ha. Of course, as anyone who knows me will tell you, it couldn't be farther from the truth. I do everything in my power to keep my kids healthy, safe, and happy. My friends know that. People who regularly read this blog know that. And yet, one story, taken out of context gave someone the right to call me a bad mom.

Today a stranger judged me. Not just one stranger, although the first one I suspect encouraged the rest of the group to follow along, leaving a string of mean comments in their wake. Today people who don't know me judged me on the basis of one half-factual story. These are people who have never met me, never been to my blog before, never read my posts before, never seen my pictures of my girls or been witness to my love for my children. These are people who tried to shame me into thinking I was a bad mom, although there are no words that will make me feel that way.

If it made them feel better to get their scolding words off their chest and say it to me, well, all right then. If they felt like they were making the world a better place--teaching one more bad mommy a lesson and hoping she changes her meth smoking, whip cracking, martini-before-noon drinking ways--okay. There is a place for outrage, this I know. Unfortunately, it was completely misguided being directed at me. Who, I guess it needs to be noted, does not smoke meth, crack whips, or drink martinis.

Clearly they don't know me otherwise they would have known that I am the mom you want on your side, in your corner, fighting for justice and safety. I am the mom you want teaching your children in the classroom. I am the mom who is raising children to be compassionate and loving, not, as you too quickly surmised, someone else. If there's anything you can learn from this mistake it's this: it's very difficult for a stranger to adequately judge someone else. Especially if you're judging through the printed word. Especially if your directive to judge came at the prodding of an annoyed friend. There is no happy ending to that story.

I have my failings as much as anyone, but when it comes down to it I know I'm a great mom. I don't need to list everything I do for and with my children because who the heck cares about that? My kids, that's who, and they aren't reading yet. But when they get old enough to read this post, they'll be the first to rise up and call me blessed. Of that I am convinced.

My story does have a happy ending, however. And it is this:

xoxo

*****

(c) Creature Bug 2008. All rights reserved.

Where 33 inches* and 22 pounds will get you

 

Last week, I took the girls in to get their immunizations. For Jules, it was her 12 month well baby check, for which she was, you may note, 3 months late. I just couldn't bring myself to make her get shots in the dead of winter because I pretty much felt like January isn't a time to tempt fate by visiting the doctor's office, and February is absolutely the worst month ever (aside from My Birthday, Groundhog's Day, and Valentine's Day) so why make it even more miserable with 3 pokes in the leg? Therefore, I waited until the first day of spring was within our sights, and then took them in.

Jules still ended up picking up some cold germ (no doubt because she kept putting her hands in her mouth after touching every possible surface), but oh well. I just can't bother myself to worry that much about colds. This was a baby born in December after all, and suffered through bronchitis for the first three months of her life (although it didn't really seem to bother her since she still smiled through it all).

The official measurements: height at 33 inches* and weight at 22 pounds. That puts her 7 inches and 10 pounds smaller than Sydney. I admit I'm a bit amazed she doesn't weigh more. Jules is a very good eater. Give her a box of raisins, and 60 seconds later she'll ask you for more (but please don't give her more because she doesn't digest those raisins...ever seen a diaper full of raisins? not pretty). She eats meat. She eats vegetables. She eats fruit. She eats Sydney's leftovers. She eats our leftovers. I'm amazed by it, especially considering Sydney's main food groups are cereal, toast, and fruit. She is the quintessential picky eater.

Not Jules.

Yet, she's still on the petite side. I asked our pediatrician about it, wondering if maybe she should weigh more. He said, "It's not surprising considering you're tall and thin." Okay, let's give it up for the pediatrician. Love him.

He also pointed to the fact that Jules has been walking since 9 months, so she's just burning those calories off. I don't deny that. This girl is a mover, a shaker, a mom-just-cleaned-the-house heart breaker. Out of exasperation, I finally had Jason install another child lock on a kitchen cabinet because she insists on pulling things out. Of course, all the dangerous stuff is locked up; I'm just locking up even more stuff for the safety of my sanity.

This girl. Nothing is safe from her.

She rips up magazines,
rips up books,
rips of any shred of paper she can find,
(usually with her teeth, and then spits out the paper all over the house, so I'm constantly scraping up dried spitballs from the walls/floor/furniture),
scatters Sydney's hair ties all over the house,
pulls Daisy's tail,
empties the dog dish,
pulls my hair,
pulls Sydney's hair,
turns the computer off.

And the big trick lately is to climb. Find a chair, a stool, a bench, a pillow, and climb it has high as it will take her.

Like this week, when I hear her yelling for me as I'm back in my room folding clothes.

"Mama!" she screeches. "Maaamaaaa!"

Ever at her beck and call, I wander out to the dining room to see that she has taken possession of a container...

from the floor,
up to Sydney's craft table,
onto the chair,
onto the table,
into the box,
and gotten stuck.

Being 33 inches can get you into all sorts of trouble. Heck, it gets me into all sorts of trouble. Thank goodness she sleeps through the night because we all need our rest to keep up with this girl.

*Edited to add: I noticed this morning that Jules was just under 29 inches on her birthday, and so thinking it would be quite amazing for her to have grown 3 inches in 3 months, I re-measured her. When she's standing, she's just under 31 inches. Evidently, Jules still falls under the "baby" category where she's being measured head to toe (rather than head to heel). So, she's 9 inches shorter than Sydney, not seven. Nonetheless, that 2 inches isn't holding Jules back from anything. 

*****

(c) Creature Bug 2008. All rights reserved.

Week 198: Hypotheticals

Tonight we met with Todd (designer for our new house) to go over some changes in the plans. The big changes involved the master bedroom, the garage, and one particular wall in the dining room/living room. We had a good brainstorming session, and I feel good that Todd will come up with something that draws from our collective design sensibilities.

The other smaller change involved reconfiguring the upstairs bathroom--the one that the kids will use. Well, smaller change for him. But really the whole reconfiguration is based on one big hypothetical: having another child.

Which isn't to say that I am having another child, only that I might. And if that other child is a boy then I want the bathroom to function well as the siblings share the space. If we have a boy. Which we might not. If we have another child. Which is more probable than even having a boy.

It's a conversation I've been having with myself (and Jason) for the last couple months, and even though it's not something I lose sleep over (at least, not too much), it's something I toss around in my mind as I look at house plans and we wonder exactly how to divide up room space. The whole conversation with myself goes something along these lines. Are we having more kids? If we are, then when would be a good time to consider having this other child (though I realize, of course, that this isn't totally in my control, but hypothetically speaking...)? Should I get pregnant while we are assured of Jason's job and therefore awesome health insurance? How will this affect my teaching load? How will we afford a new car since we don't have one that could seat three carseats? How far apart do we ideally want the kids do be in age? Do I really want to be moving into a new house pregnant? Wouldn't it be easier to be pregnant next year so that Rebekah the Amazing Nanny can help out? Am I even suited to parent three children?

On the other hand, the conversation sometimes goes like this. Please dear Lord, we are not having any more kids. That easily answers all those other questions.

I realize that I am blessed to be even in the position to be having this conversation with myself, knowing that there are some people who would give the sun, moon, and stars to be in my spot. I also realize there is a lot that's not in my control regarding the whole thing. But still. It crosses my mind. More than occasionally.

It wouldn't really be a difficult choice if I was excited about the prospect of having another baby. Jason and I have always kind of thought we'd have three kids. It's a nice compromise between our two families. There were two kids in his family, and he always wished there were more. There were four kids in my family, and I always felt like my mom was on the verge of a nervous breakdown from the stress we caused her. Three is good. A nice prime number. I don't care about the middle child syndrome because I figure once you have more than two, there are always middle children. Maybe you have one middle kid, maybe you have two or three. As my sister says, "Tyler and I are the middle kids in our family," and she's right. Oldest, youngest, and middles. You deal with whatever you get, and you parent accordingly.

The idea of a three-child family is more more appealing to me than actually having three kids. I'm not even dreading being pregnant anymore, which was the bigger concern last time around. It's the fact that most days I feel like I'm just treading water, trying not to drown in a sea of sippy cups, tiny socks, and play-dough. The thought of adding another child to the mix? Really? Me? The one taking Zoloft every day just to keep my head together?

I don't know. My gut says, "Wait a few years. It'll make it easier." My significant other (who also has an important say in the whole thing) says, "I'd really like to be out of the baby stage in a couple years instead of starting it all over again."

Seriously. I don't know.

It's not a decision I have to make right now, at this instant. It's not even a decision I have to make in the next couple months. It might be a decision we have to make this summer, if we're factoring in health insurance. I'm just thinking aloud here, not really expecting some sort of revelation. The only one who really knows the answer to the question "Are we having any more kids?" is God and my ovaries. Whatever my decision ultimately is, it's still not completely up to me.

Last week Sydney said to me, "I want a baby brother."

I smirked. "Did Daddy tell you to say that?"

"No. I just want one. I have one baby sister, and I want one baby brother."

"We'll see," I say.

She looked at me, smiled, and agreed. "We'll see."

*****

Just for spite, I'm giving away the pregnancy book I reviewed last July, Body, Soul, and Baby. If you're interested in winning it, leave a comment at that old post, and I'll choose a randomly lucky winner Wednesday at 8 pm PST.

*****

(c) Creature Bug 2008. All rights reserved.

Week 195: In the blink of an eye

Every six months, Sydney and I take a drive up to Portland to see our dear ophthalmologist Dr. Landon for an eye appointment. That first appointment was kind of traumatic for us, just in learning that Sydney needed glasses, that she was far-sighted, that her eye crossing inward wasn't a temporary phase. Since then, however, Sydney wearing glasses has become pretty normal for us. Each time we have an appointment, we go in with fewer fears and worries. Sydney wears glasses. No big deal.

Although for as much as it's "no big deal," it has certainly had no small effect on her personality. We're pretty sure that she was born with poor vision, which explains a lot of the kinds of personality quirks she had as a baby. She always cried if we were very far away from her...probably because she couldn't see us. She never wandered away from us in public places...probably because she didn't know where to go. She rarely smiled at strangers...probably because she couldn't recognize the expressions on their face. I'm sure plenty of kids are like this--even with perfectly good vision--but it makes sense why she was like this, considering.

Although she is a typical kid at home--silly, energetic, smiling, ready to laugh at anything--out in public she can be very shy, reserved, even sullen at times. I'm guessing those first twenty months of not being able to see very well are responsible for this. I used to worry about this because sullenness is, well, not endearing. She's gotten better though, through a lot of role playing and coaching at home.

"What do you say if someone says you have pretty hair?" (the comment she receives the most)

"Thank you."

"And why do you say thank you?"

"Because it's polite." Yes, indeed, good manners matter.

Even at random intervals during the day I'll say, "What pretty hair you have, little girl." To which she smiles and says, "Thank you, Momma." Nevermind that we might be creating pint-sized vanity; she has to learn to be polite.

On the upside, having glasses has given her opportunities to develop positive character traits. She's learned responsibility through taking care of her glasses. She's learned to be careful, knowing not to put her glasses away with the lenses down, or to call for help if someone (including her sister) grabs for her glasses (which resulted in the only time I have publicly scolded a kid in Spanish for taking Sydney's glasses). She's very detailed oriented with a keen eye for puzzles, a trait she's learned from having to memorize where things are when she doesn't have her glasses on to see.

I have to keep all these positive things in mind as I process the newest development in Sydney's vision. Last Sunday, I had planned to write about how we've adjusted so well since the initial diagnosis. I remember reading through the first post and thinking, "Wow. We don't even worry anymore about Sydney's eyes." I recalled with understanding Gretchen's comment about how glasses are just part of who her son is. I didn't think I'd ever get to that point, but I did. I am. Sydney wear glasses, and for the most part the only thing we worry about is Jules breaking them (again) or when we'll be able to teach Sydney to clean her glasses without our aid.

Then I heard Dr. Landon say, "Since her eyes are still crossing, then I think she should wear bifocals." She went on to explain how this would work, and I nodded and kept my face free from emotion. "Of course," I said when she was done. "We'll get the prescription filled this week." I haven't filled it yet.

Truthfully, I'm doubting myself a little, knowing that Dr. Landon made the prescription based on my comment that Sydney's eyes still cross when she's looking at something up close. It's a true observation, but maybe I've overreacted.

I don't know why I'm feeling the way I am. In a matter of seconds, I went from patting myself on the back for my fabulous adjustment, to wishing that Jason was there to hold my hand on the drive back from Portland. Jess's comment last week helped me realize that bifocals aren't the end of the world; Sarah's comment has me considering getting a second opinion, which I had been thinking about anyway. Both comments helped me take a deep breath and clear my head a little.

So, here, a week later, I'm feeling a little less bravado. And here, a week later, I'm feeling a little less worried.

Welcome to this marvelous world we call parenting.

*****

(c) 2008 Creature Bug. All rights reserved.

Love in my heart

This morning I watched my neighbor go outside in the early morning and start up her husband's truck. While it warmed she went around and scraped off the ice on the windshield and other windows. Although I've never her seen her do this before--I always see him doing it--I was curious to watch how it played out. She went back inside the house, and when her husband walked out the door and smiled at his warm, ice-free truck, I smiled too.

That's love, I thought. I know my neighbor well enough to know she was doing something sweet, something romantic. Tomorrow is one of the most lovely days of the year. Sure, Christmas and Thanksgiving are great. But the one that's just sweet and thoughtful and reminds us to celebrate love? Valentine's Day wins. It's why I send out Valentine's Day cards instead of Christmas cards. I'm really not all that romantic, but Valentine's Day isn't just about romance, it's about telling people you love them.

As I watch Jules learn how to give us kisses, and see Sydney's attempts at teaching Jules how to hug, I am reminded that children aren't born knowing how to love.

They are born needy. They are born hungry. They are born crying. They aren't born loving you.

That's my job. To teach my girls how to love. We taught Sydney to say, "I love you," by saying it her to every day over and over. I taught Sydney to give me kisses, to snuggle next to me, to kiss my cheeks with her eyelashes. Now, on her own, she gives me unprompted hugs. She kisses me in the morning when she climbs into bed with me, throws her leg across my stomach, wraps her arms around my neck, tucks her head into my shoulder and whispers, "I love you, Mommy," before going back to sleep. It's one of the best parts of my day.

I love my children, and love teaching them how to love me back.

And I love my husband, who knows how to love me better and more than anyone. I don't have to prompt him to say "I love you." Don't have to ask for kisses. Occasionally have to hint for foot rubs. Still. He's nearly perfect.

Even a month and a half after our trip to Maine, my heart still warms at those memories. The Monday morning we drove from Camden to Logan Int'l Airport in Boston, it snowed and snowed and snowed. The roads were quiet, and Alicia Keyes' new album played in the CD player. I took out my camera, and captured a video of it just so that I could always watch it and remember that moment: my favorite song, with my favorite guy, giving me a smile as we drove away from one of the best weekends of my life.

(video 1:32)

I doubt anyone else will find the video as perfect as I do, shaky footage and all. On the surface it just looks like a trip down a snowy road, with music in the background. But to me, I watch it and smile because it looks and sounds like love might look. Yes. Just exactly like that.

Have a lovely Valentine's Day.

*****

(c) 2008 Creature Bug. All rights reserved.

the odd sneeze

If your one-year-old child happens to sneeze a long noodle out her nose, it's probably better to assume that it was the spaghetti she had for dinner the night before rather than part of her brain.

Because the advice nurse might think you were a bit crazy if you called to ask about the dangers of sneezing noodles.

I'm just saying.

One flu over the cuckoo's nest

It was bad enough that Jason had the flu.

But then Sydney got it.

And then Jules got it last night. Boy did she ever get. She got it all over me, many times. Even though I had my mind determined not to get the flu, even though I mentally said, "No flu! I'm stronger than this bug! My tummy is no place for a little bug. Go away! GO AWAY!" and then I drank some hot water and ate some carrots just to prove that I was healthy...I still got the flu. Maybe it was cleaning up all those germs (I washed my hands a million times, but I think it must have been airborne). Maybe I shouldn't have eaten those chocolate chips for lunch. That was probably the invitation that the flu bug was waiting for (because who can pass up chocolate?). Plus, I neglected to get a flu shot this year, even though I have been getting it for the past several years and it has kept me healthy. No reason for me not getting the flu shot, just didn't go in and have it done. I am a hearty believer in them despite the perilous warnings by some who say something along the lines that it's just a governmental scheme to insert tracking devices into our bloodstream and then when the time is right they'll allow the alien forces to invade.

Err...I guess maybe nobody says that. Except old reruns of X-Files.

So, yes, Jules and I are in recovery. Jason is mostly better. And Sydney's bout with the flu was only for a few hours. Today she was healthy enough to take care of her poor mama. She got me Sprite. She turned the lights off, pulled the curtains, and put a soft blanket on my pillow. She said, "I'll just watch a movie, Mama. And I'll be quiet while Jules is sleeping." She was. Sure, she did end up having a BOZ marathon, watching almost five hours worth (the teacher in me cringes), but we were in survival mode. Plus, she totally deserved a veg-out day considering that she wasn't feeling 100% anyway. We do what we have to do to make it through.

We have to because there's just TOO MUCH to do this week. Tomorrow we're meeting with our general contractor and designer for the new house we're building (far far into the future). Friday is Jules' birthday. Saturday a party. Sunday...surely something...oh yes, I'll have to go Christmas shopping because of course I haven't even started that. Too busy to be kept down with the flu. I'll even eat carrots for breakfast tomorrow if I have to.

On the upside, I suppose I am officially a 'mom' now that I've had to clean up after flu-infested children. I had a streak of three-and-a-half very good years, but all good things must come to an end. And all bad things must come to an end too.

As sweet Julianne would say to the flu bug: Bye bye!

(video: 27 seconds)

Week 185: Imaginative Play

I saw an article in the newspaper last week about kids and imaginative play. Some researchers were alarmed that kids weren't learning how to play on their own, watching too much tv and listening to their iPods too much, and consequently....well, I don't know. I didn't finish reading the article, but I suspected the findings would include something like 'let kids play more on their own, powering toys with their imagination instead of remote controls and high-powered batteries.'

I didn't finish reading it because, truthfully, I don't worry about Sydney and imaginative play. Once upon a time I did. I worried that she'd never play on her own and that I'd have to entertain her for the rest. of. my. life. Which isn't to say that I don't love playing with Sydney, I do. But I also wanted her to be able to play on her own and entertain herself. After we had her vision checked and got her glasses, she became much more willing to play away from us (maybe because she could finally see!). She even had her own posse of imaginary friends that she would pull from the mirror and "line up" on the floor. Her "friend" Dawby first visited us a year ago, and comes and goes at random times. And as for Jules, she is more than willing to wander away from us and play on her own. I'm sure it helps that she has a sister around.

Even though I don't think kids need fancy toys to encourage imaginative play, a certain selection of well-made toys can go a long way. I love blocks (even though they end up all over the place) and I love the little play kitchen that both girls are so enamored with (even though the plastic foods find their way to every place but back to the little kitchen). Several weeks ago we added another well-made toy to our collection, courtesy Parent Bloggers Network: Discovery Channel's Ready Set Learn! Lift-Off Rocket.

The timing for getting the rocket couldn't have been better. Sydney had been introduced to Little Einstein's Rocketship, and our library had just converted the Discovery Room into a science fiction exploration center. We were totally spaced out...in a good way.

As soon as we got the Lift-Off Rocket, Sydney was clamoring for me to get it out the box. She recognized right away what it was, and was "flying" it around the house in no time. The four little space critters were shuttled through the living room, zooming through the hallway, and having adventures in Sydney's room. In Sydney's imagination, the little animal astronauts would have breakfast in one of the rocket's compartments and take a nap on the fold-down bed in the other. Maybe while Commander Bunny Astronaut was talking to Houston, Commander Lamby-kins was rolling along on the space buggy exploring the little moon crater (all included with the Rocket).

It's a toy that does take a couple batteries in order to power its blast-off sounds, but it is mostly powered by imagination. My favorite kind of toy.

Turns out, the library has the exact same Rocketship in the Discovery Room, except instead of animal astronauts, they have people astronauts. Sydney was delighted to see that she could play with the Lift-Off Rocket at the library as well as at home. Because I adore our library and our children's librarians (Hooray for Ms. Karen and Ms. Connie!!), I see their endorsement of the Rocket as a good sign. True, spending nearly $40 on a toy is kind of out of our price range; however, I will say it is well-built and one of those toys whose pieces are not so small that I worry about Julianne playing with it. Jules is big on sucking on the little astronauts (I can hear them now: "Slobber monster straight ahead, Captain!"), and they have held up quite well. Also, I must mention that the product is made in China, but that Discovery Channel hasn't had any product recalls so I'm believing that it's safe. I haven't yet moved to the point of refusing to buy any toys from China, although I'm close.

I can't leave you with just a recommendation of a toy without giving you my favorite resource that will assist your kiddos in developing that imagination of theirs: BOOKS!

Some of our favorite space books:

• Papa, Please Get the Moon for Me, by Eric Carle. Monica's father fulfills her request for the moon by taking it down after it is small enough to carry, but it still changes. Very sweet.
• Beegu, by Alexis Deacon. A small, yellow creature from space finds no welcome on earth until visiting a children's playground. Good for teaching about acceptance.
• Mooncakes, by Frank Asch. We love Asch's Moonbear books--they're wonderful stories about a little bear and his love of the moon. The illustrations are simple, yet creative enough to capture a child's imagination.

Imagination, prepare for lift-off...5...4...3...2...1...Blast off!

Week 183: Finding her own

One of the most mysterious things about parenting is seeing your child develop a personality. Obviously, there are certain things that we do as parents that help shape their personality, but we can't control it all. This is a good thing, I'm sure, since my first inclination would be to wish for children who were always polite and ate their vegetables and slept through the night and never whined about the color of their breakfast spoon.

No, I'm not one to look for adventure, but quite clearly I have found it in the soul of Julianne. Whereas Sydney rarely opened up cupboards and drawers, Jules always does. This frustrates me more than it ought to, but I refuse to put locks on every cotton pickin' drawer and cupboard in our house. The cleaning fluids are locked up, but beyond that I hate door locks. It serves me right, then, that I'm running around all day swatting at Jules' hand, but she needs to learn to live in a house without destroying it. Seems like a reasonable request to me, yes?

Also, Sydney wouldn't wander far from us (and still won't), but I'm often looking up from doing the dishes to discover Jules is nowhere to be seen. I wander through the house, calling for her as if she'll call back like Sydney does, "Here I am, Mama." Eventually, I discover her off in Sydney's room, playing with the toys. She's not a big fan of me leaving, that's for sure. But she doesn't seem to mind going off on her own. It's so funny to me, because she has been like this since she could crawl. I'm sure it's because she follows Sydney around the house and so feels comfortable going wherever she pleases, but I'm not quite used to a child who appears to be more independent than I am.

Now, as Jules is fast approaching her first birthday, she is showing signs of her opinions. She likes the remote controls; she doesn't like it when we're sitting on the couch without her. She likes you to be on the floor so she can bring you books and sit in your lap; she doesn't like to sit in your lap for more than 5 seconds at a time. Julianne and books is still something she is working out. She knows she should like them. She sees Sydney sitting in Jason's lap at bedtime listening to stories, and Jules wants to be part of it in some way. She stands next to the chair, whining, begging to be picked up, hoping to be part of the bedtime routine with Daddy and Sydney. The thing is, though (and you might find this rather unfair), she just can't. She rips the pages of the books. She doesn't really want to sit there, she wants to pull the glasses off Sydney's face and stick them in her mouth. She wants to stand up and have Jason catch her as attempts to jump out of the chair. It's charming...in it's own way. But it's not very relaxing, which is what we need to get Sydney to go to sleep. Someday she'll get to be part of the bedtime routine, but not yet. For now she'll have to be happy sitting with me.

Fortunately, being happy is something she is pretty good at. She's the smiley, outgoing one--an opposite personality from Sydney. Sydney is not outgoing, which isn't to say she can't be friendly, but she's not very comfortable around strangers. Part of me thinks that God gave her this personality trait so that I wouldn't be tempted to take her to a modeling agency. Not that I find the idea attractive, but I've had strangers tell me on more than one occasion I should have Sydney model. At $75 an hour, it's not a bad gig, but Sydney would hate it. I probably would too.

Jules, on the other hand, is all smiles. She's even started the look-over-the-shrugging-shoulder thing that is quite charming. But take a toy away from her and the smile stops, the head shakes, the voice becomes insistent that we give it back right now.

Oh, our sweet little Jules. She who we call Juju, Jubee, Jujubee, Jujubee Jones, Julsie, and Jingle Bells. She's a joy, and a handful, and personality all her own.

The Sigh

Finally, I'm here to finish up the sounds of the Creature Bug household. Need to review? Well, there's The Howl, courtesy of Julianne. There's The Whine, courtesy of Sydney.

And there's The Sigh, courtesy of me.

When I'm working with actors, I often tell them that they get one sigh per show. "You get one! Make it a good one!" That's not to say that they can't really have more than one sigh, but I get annoyed with over-sighing actors. When I'm teaching my speech students, I tell them to avoid vocalized pauses. Words such as "um," "uh," "so," "like," fall into this category of vocalized pauses. "Just pause," I say. "Don't say anything."

It's a hard thing to learn. Keeping quiet. In fact, it's a lot easier for me to teach this concept than to follow it myself. Certainly, when delivering speeches you would be hard pressed to catch me saying "uh" or "um." Or, even on the rare occasion that I do any acting, I manage to keep those sighs at a minimum. But in life, in my daily go-about-my-existence routine? I fill my vocalized pauses with sighs, and not in a dreamy birds fly over the rainbow kind of way.

When I find Jules ripping up yet another book, I sigh with exasperation. "Jules! No ripping up books!"

When Sydney squirrels out of getting into her clothes and wants to jump on the bed instead, I sigh with impatience. "Sydney! Put on your clothes."

When Daisy leaves muddy footprints on the kitchen floor, I sigh with irritation. "Daisy! Get in your bed!"

When Jason patiently explains that we can't spend thousands and thousands of dollars on the backyard, I sigh with discontent. "I just want to be able to go outside."

When I see the pile of laundry (albeit clean and unfolded at this moment), I sigh with frustration. "Why can't I find the time to do this during the day when I have the most energy?"

This list could go on and on. Unfortunately, most of the time I sigh it is directed at the girls. Whether it's because I just changed Jules' diaper and now it's poopy again, or I'm being asked to help with a task I know Sydney can do on her own, I have to constantly keep myself in check that I don't become the mom who is always frustrated. The one who scolds too often or disapproves too quickly. It's no way to go about parenting, or living for that matter.

If I were to self-analyze--which I tend to do fairly regularly--I would say it's because for some crazy reason I feel rushed all the time. Even when there's nowhere to go. Even when there's nothing to do. Who cares if we're all showered and fed and in respectable clothes by 10 am? Isn't that why I stay home, so I can enjoy the day in my jammies? I write that sentence and immediately hear a familiar voice that says, "How productive is that?" (it's not Jason's voice, he's far too kind for that). Obviously, my days are productive. I feed my girls; I bathe them; I clothe them; I read stories to them. But I can't forget the other stuff--like grocery shopping, or doing laundry, or washing the dishes--because that's all part of parenting too. Not quite as fun, but still a necessity. When did these things because my measuring stick of accomplishment? When did I forget the peacefulness of staying calm?

When Sydney was born, I actually did slow down a lot. I found reserves of patience and kindness and humor that I didn't even know I had. Part of motherhood was embracing the new slower pace that I found myself living. Even after Julianne was born I kept my cool most of the time. I had heard that having two kids was an easier transition than having one, and believed it for a few months.

But that sage piece of wisdom hasn't turned out to be so true for me.

To use a basketball metaphor: I'm still figuring out how to transition from man-to-man defense to zone defense. I haven't quite mastered the art of zone defense, hence the sighing. The exasperated, impatient, irritated, discontent, frustrated sighing that only makes things worse rather than better. When September melted into October, I became aware of my incessant sighing. Partly because I could hear Sydney using it in her conversations, partly because of the book that I'm reading (oh so slowly, but I am still reading it). And so I've been working on changing the kind of parent I am.

I need to remember my advice I give to my students: Don't vocalize all those pauses, but even still, I get one sigh. One. And maybe it would be better to use it looking out the window when Sydney says, "Look! The sun is finally coming out to play!" That'd be a good way to use it.

If only I could get Jules to stop ripping up books. *sigh*

The Whine

(Part Two of Three)

I think some of you weren't brave enough to listen to The Howl, so I'll spare you the sound that makes my blood pressure climb, gives me tension headaches, and puts me a foul mood faster than an episode of Wife Swap. I suppose I should be thankful that we got off relatively easy for Sydney's Terrible Twos. She really wasn't so terrible. Rather delightful actually. Sure, we had the occasional meltdown, we definitely had the throw-self-to-the-floor-and-cry routine (but rarely in public), and we had what we now have discovered was the warm-up period for what has become a daily routine: whining.

Oh, I know. Kids whine. What's new. But oh my goodness gracious, it drives me nuts. Now that Syd's vocabulary has increased substantially than it was over a year ago, her ability to transform any word into a whine is a marvel.

Me: We're having spaghetti for dinner. Yay! Just what you asked for.
Syd: I don't waaaaaaaaaaaaaaant spaghetti. I want toast.
Me: We're having spaghetti.
Syd: *serious frowning* I don't liiiiiiike spaghettiiiiiiiiiiiii.
Me: Sorry.
Syd: But whyyyyyy? Whyyyyyy? Whyyyyy not?

It's lovely.

To her credit (and ours, because you know I'll take it), she doesn't throw herself on the floor as much as she used to. She has tempered the flailing of arms, the kicking of legs, the banshee screaming. But she has replaced it with the tiniest of moves that disproportionately irritates me. She hangs her head and frowns. Huge frown. Forget the little birdy landing on the lip, let's get a Canada goose to nest there.

Other than the technique of redirecting her attention, we have yet to discover an effective way to combat whining. The whole, "I can't hear you when you're whining" doesn't work because she just interprets that to mean we actually can't hear her and so whines louder. I'm onto her semantic games and say, "I can't understand you when you're whining," which prompts her to yell, resulting in time-outs. We also try, "You need to ask in a polite tone," which only works if we're planning on saying yes to whatever her request is, otherwise she gets quite upset if she goes to the trouble of changing her tone only to be met with a "no." I should insert here that if we say "yes" to everything she wants, then she is a fabulously well-behaved kid. "Can I play with my race cars?" Sure. "Can I give Daisy a bone?" Good idea! "Can I have a piece of gum?" Let's wait until after lunch.

"But whyyyyyyyyyyyy?"

Because.

I try to be a good parent about it. Certainly, me getting agitated and snappish at her doesn't model the kind of behavior we want from her. Yet I have my limits. My ears just get tired.

When I was reading this book, I came across the story of a mom who felt like a failure every time her kids cried during the day. I chuckled to myself (and did feel sorry for the mom, too) because the idea of getting through a day without a crying, whining child seems ridiculously impossible. So much so that I don't feel even a tiny bit guilty about my parenting skills when my kids cry. Seriously. Kids cry. I can control that as much as I can control the leaves falling. But my response? Sometimes I feel like I can't control that either, even though I'm the big kid and need to exercise patience and kindness and all good things that I seem to have so little of at times.

I want to do better. I want to be patient, I do. And if it was just a phase, maybe I could work through it. But I taught high schoolers for five years, and been teaching college students for two years, and let me tell you: whining is not a phase. It's a character trait. In some respects, maybe this whole post is just me whining. I'm not stamping my feet over it, but I could be persuaded to after a car ride in which there is copious amounts of whining because I turned I took a left turn instead of a right turn.

Nevermind my whining though. Let's focus on my parenting techniques. There's got to be a better way to deal with kids whining. Please, somebody, help me out here. That can be your Halloween treat for me--a piece of parenting candy that will be both a trick and a treat.

Not a good sign...

...when you try a new cookie recipe
that's supposed to be more healthy
than other chocolate chip cookie recipes,
and after working hard
at dumping in the brown sugar,
the chocolate chips,
the chickpeas
(that's the healthy part)
and assorted other ingredients,
after standing in front of the oven,
watching the seconds tick down
from the microwave timer
until she could finally exclaim,
"They're done!"
(with such joy that you wonder
why you don't bake cookies with her more often),
she takes a bite,
says,
"Ack! Ew! Get it out of my mouth! I Don't Like It!"
spits out the bite of cookie into your hand,
and runs out of the kitchen as if you had forced her to eat kidney pie.

And you realize,
at that moment,
cookies ought not to be healthy for you.
Lesson learned.
Momma will do better next time.

Week 176: Pity me...

...my children aren't taking naps anymore.

It's all for the best that Sydney doesn't nap. On her new no-nap schedule she goes to bed between 8 and 8:30 and then doesn't wake up until 8 in the morning. I'm all about sleeping in, so I'm glad to see I've won her over to my side (which is to say, not the side that Jason is on, the side that wakes up before the sun comes up to go play basketball or run or bike half a marathon or something).

Sweet little Julianne, however, needs to take a nap. I need her to take a nap. I need her to not be wandering all over the house, ripping everything from everywhere and destroying anything that can be destroyed. Syd and I need a break from the adorableness that exudes from Jules. I mean, really. Too much adorableness in one day is exhausting. Just ask us. We need to wallow in the regular. Certainly, Sydney is chock full of cuteness and hilarity and fabulousness, but she offsets all that with throwing a fit every once in awhile. Plus, I can count on a good solid hour of just doing my own thing (reading, grading, blogging, napping) while she is fully immersed in the world of musicals. At the moment, her most favorite movie is "Singing in the Rain," and so has been a daily fixture at our house for, oh, three weeks. That Gene Kelly. He's kind of adorable too.

Where was I?

Yes, naps.

Jules takes a 20 minute nap a day. Per day. At one shot. The end.

I find it near impossible to get anything done. I've tried just letting her cry in her crib until she goes back to sleep, but then she cries for 40 minutes until the hour is up and I go get her. Also, Sydney doesn't help matters by notifying me every minute or so that "Jules is crying Jules is crying Jules is crying Jules is crying." It's fun around her. Real fun.

Fortunately--and I forgot to mention this earlier--but we have Rebekah living with us, who is a full-time student as well as our trusty, amazing, wonderful nanny who takes care of the girls while I'm teaching. Some evenings, if her homework is mostly done, she comes in and entertains the girls while I'm attempting to make dinner. OR! She makes us dinner. No, you can't have her. And yes, we love her to pieces.

So, yes, we're not taking naps around here. Kind of crabby about that. Even though Jules is going to bed at 8, it's little consolation because I'm ready to go to bed around that time too. I'm hoping that this is just a phase, and eventually she'll figure out that the house is a happier place to be when we all get to have a little quiet time to ourselves.

Week 167: Explaining turquoise eye shadow

[EDITED TO ADD: My mom sent me that ninth grade photo, which I've included at the bottom of this post because clearly I have no dignity left (must be all that nursing babies in public). My memory failed me just a bit because I see that I did manage to keep the bangs up for photo day. Lucky, lucky me.]

I think it is one of the blessings of technology that digital photography wasn't around in the 80's. Otherwise, with a click of the mouse, we could all too easily pull photos displaying our collective penchant for neon colors and hairspray. I'm aware that some folks are still smitten with that era, but aside from the music, jelly bracelets, and perhaps the leg-warmers, I think it is an era best left unrepeated. Although my naturally curly hair spared me the tragedy of sporting bangs that reached to the high heavens (because I couldn't get my hair to uncurl off my forehead), I still fell victim to fantastically colored eye shadow. And by fantastic, I mean that as totally un-fantastic.

Although the 80's had passed by the time I entered high school, there was still a smattering of style hanging on through the early nineties. Therefore, my 9th grade school photo is a sight to behold. Hair semi-straightened (pre-flat irons), braces, white turtleneck, turquoise sweater, turquoise hoop earrings, pink lipstick, and glowing turquoise eye shadow that perfectly matched my sweater. Thankfully, I'm far enough removed in years from the picture to not cringe anymore. That was me. It was the era. That's the way it goes.

But for many years I asked my mom about this picture as well as most of my other junior high pictures, embarrassed to the core that I ever looked so unfortunate. "What on earth were you thinking, letting me wear that out in public?"

My mom would shrug and smile. "It was fine. You looked beautiful."

Yet somehow, in my pre-parenting days, I felt like my mom should have stopped me from looking so uncool. Told me that baggy tshirts were just not flattering, that neon pink lipstick should never leave the house, and my hair was best left without all the millions of tiny clips that perfectly coordinated my outfit (or, my second favorite hair choice: to pull back little strands of hair with a rainbow of rubberbands). What are parents for except to save their children from embarrassing fashion choices?

Of course, what would my mom have said? "You look ridiculous"? Oh, that would have gone over real well in improving our mother-daughter relationship. The truth is, though, my mom didn't think I looked ridiculous. She let me make my own choices, and at the time I looked like every other kid in my school.

As a young adult, I vowed that I would keep my kids from looking goofy. Make sure they coordinated. Matched socks. Combed hair. Looked respectable. In short, micromanage their sense of choice.

Quite honestly, it has been much easier to give up this notion than I thought it would be. If Sydney wants to wear her neon-green Crocs with her dress from Hawaii, that's fine. She wants me to put her hair into funky, curly pigtails (or "ears" as she calls them)? Fine and dandy. Shoes deliberately put on the wrong feet? If it makes her happy. It's so...not a big deal. I admit I don't let her wear just anything. Turtlenecks are totally unflattering on her, so they have to go. But I've learned that at some point it's important to let kids make their own choices about small things. I hardly even notice other little kids' fashion choices these days since I am so used to unique outfit choices that toddlers make. I smiled when I was at the park last week with Inkling and her boys because Critter had put his shorts on backward. I smiled not because I thought it was silly but because that's the way we parents let it roll sometimes.

And, as of Friday, part of letting it roll was to let Sydney pick out her own glasses.

It was time for a new pair. She's had her purple Disney ones since the beginning, and that was a year and half-ago. (Here's a picture from her first day of wearing glasses.) Back then I picked out her glasses. They seemed odd, too large for her tiny face, and magnified her eyes to dinner plates. Shari, our fabulous optometrist, told us that it would be awhile before she outgrew that pair. Over the past 18 months, we've made many a visit to Shari so she can work her magic in keeping the frames from getting too helter skelter. When we visited Shari again on Friday, she pulled out a new collection of frames. "I thought of Sydney when these came in."

The new glasses are sleek, very cool, with bendy frames, and we chose ones with transitional lenses.  I had Sydney try on the red frames. She looked in the mirror and tilted her head this way and that to get a good view. I held out the purple frames.

She took the turquoise frames. "Oh, how 'bout green!" she exclaimed.

"How 'bout pink?" I suggested.

"Or green?" she said as she put them on.

"Look at these pretty purple ones! Or orange! Do you want orange!" She ignored me as she looked at her turquoise frames in the mirror.

"I want green." And that was that. No matter how much I suggested she choose a different (dare I say girlish?) color, she had made up her mind. She doesn't care that strangers call her boy unless I have her in pink. She doesn't care that the tiny fleck of pink on the frames won't be large enough to indicate gender when others see this short haired, curly headed kid. She wanted green.

I briefly, very briefly, considered getting the purple ones anyway. There's a chance she'd forget which color she initially wanted. But then I decided that it was her choice. She picked green. She gets green. Plus, she can't stop talking about the new green glasses she'll get later this week.

Of course, she'll look adorable no matter what color she picks. Sure, her frames may not match most of her clothes, but that's okay. Turquoise eye shadow, turquoise glasses--what does it matter in the end? There are plenty of things Sydney won't get to choose, but in matters of identity and positive self-expression, I think she's old enough to make some choices. Maybe in many years she'll ask me, "Why on earth did you let me wear turquoise glasses?"

And I'll say, "It was fine. You looked beautiful."

-----

Seriously. Pimples and all.

 

The seventies, though. Now that's when I totally found my fashion.

Even though I'm 100% sure I'm not pregnant...

...I've been reading a book about pregnancy.

I will say upfront that this has to be the most altruistic thing I've done lately. Read a book about pregnancy, that is. I read for all you hopeful and future pregnateering women out there. Because as we all know, I enjoy pregnancy as much as I enjoy...I can't even think of an equal comparison. I'd rather do my taxes, go swimsuit shopping, have my wisdom teeth pulled out and read Beloved again--all at the same time--than be pregnant. Me and pregnancy just aren't friends, except at the end when I get a beautiful baby out of the whole ordeal. Otherwise, it makes me muy loco.

And yet, here I sit, reading Body, Soul, and Baby by Dr. Tracy Gaudet (who gets help from freelance writer Paula Spencer). I was not quick to email the lovely ladies at Parent Bloggers Network regarding this review, I admit. Refer to previous paragraph for reasons why. However, in the end I decided that since it's possible I'll experience pregnancy again, reading Body, Soul, and Baby might be helpful. Afterall, the other 3 books I read during pregnancy (only with Sydney, I refused to read anything educational whilst Jules was rumbling in my tummy) didn't inspire me to read them again. Except one that told me what exercises to do after my ab muscles ripped in half.

What makes Body, Soul, and Baby different from other pregnancy books is its soulful approach to pregnancy. It initially comes across as rather touchy feeling, but after several pages I started warming up to Gaudet. She gives lots of real-life stories that she has encountered from her practice, so the stories and advice she gives ring true. I especially appreciated her run down of all the different emotions that expectant moms can feel. So often we want pregnancy to be this romantic, blissful, super-happy time, and while that is true for some moms, it was not true for me. Even though both my pregnancies were planned, I didn't ever really revel in the beauty of it. It was just something I had to go through, which made me feel guilty (because there are plenty of women who can't experience pregnancy) and then I had a hard time getting out of that funky depression/guilt thing. Gaudet hopes to change this cycle and validate all feelings with her words of encouragement. She writes,

Remember--no feelings are bad ones. By acknowledging frankly how you feel, you're actually less likely to simmer in guilt. If you are having severe nausea and vomiting, then on a purely physical level, you are miserable. Owning up to that feeling does not negate the happiness and excitement you may also be feeling about the pregnancy. (page 121)

Gaudet hopes to create a different framework for thinking about pregnancy, providing exercises that expectant moms can do in order to check in with themselves, their bodies, and their baby. Tools like dialoguing with your physical and nonphysical self and using dreamagery (a type of focused imagery exercise) might read a little too New Agey for some moms, but I think the concepts behind them are good. Namely, that we slow down, calm down, and create moments of stillness as we experience pregnancy. I can't say for certain that I would have used these tools when I was pregnant (because I was so stubborn about not wanting to let it affect me), but if I had, I know it would have forced me to give up so much of the negative energy I was harboring.

In addition to working through the stages of pregnancy, this book gives the best and most comprehensive chapter on labor and delivery I've ever read. There's even an illustration and explanation of an epidural, which I had been totally clueless about until I asked Jason how it worked when he saw me get one when Jules was born. Since he was mildly grossed out by the procedure, my information from him was a bit sketchy, and BSB filled in the blanks.

Gaudet does a stand up job addressing postpartum issues, and my favorite quote of the book pops up on page 441 when she attempts to answer the question of How Long is "Postpartum":

...I most like the model followed in some Asian cultures in which it is traditionally believed that the postpartum period is one full year long. Obviously a woman in this day and age in our culture can rarely take a full year to "recover" from childbirth, nor does she need to. But this perspective recognizes that while physical recovery from childbirth requires only a matter of weeks, the whole person requires a more generous span of time. (boldfacing mine)

I love this. It just seems to resonate with me, the whole idea that I'm still working on getting used to my body, my child, my life a year after delivery. I think in Canada they get a year off for maternity leave (yes?), which supports this idea that twelve weeks is not enough to "get over" being pregnant. Maybe it's just me, but Gaudet's words gave me permission to keep reflecting on this postpartum stage that I'm in. And that's a healthy thing.

Whether or not expectant moms would use just this book for the pregnancy journey is a matter of opinion. There were lots of great illustrations and stories, although it didn't have as many charts as I've seen in other books. That's all just a matter of visual organization and learning styles. Either way, I think Gaudet brings a much needed perspective to pregnancy, one that's mindful, thoughtful, and soulful. How's that for wonderful?

Week 161: The Solo Week

Not only am I officially on summer blogging hours (which means, incidentally, less blogging), but last week I was in charge of parenting my two little whippersnappers all by myself, so I hardly had the emotional fortitude to sit down at the computer and write without falling asleep from sheer exhaustion. Obviously, I parent by myself all the time during the day. That's my job. But our bedtime routine relies heavily on two people. Sydney needs her 30 minutes of cuddling in the reading chair, with her bedtime stories, and her blanket. Jules needs nursing, a little bit of rocking, and then a nice back rub before going to sleep. Generally speaking, these two things go on at the same time. Jason mans his station, and I man mine. With Jason gone, it's a bit tricky and as Sydney would say, "Hawd Wurk."

I didn't mention it here because I am irrationally afraid of things that go bump in the dark and didn't want too many people knowing that I was holding down the fort solo, but, yes, Jason was gone all week, taking a group of 8th graders to Boston, NYC, Philly, and DC. Even though I would have loved to go, taking babies is not encouraged. And while some junior high girls are all a-twitter around babies and certainly would have offered to hold the adorable Miss Julianne, it would have resulted in them missing out on the educational wonders that abound in the aforementioned cities. Plus, nursing a baby around junior highers would probably be high on my Least Favorite Activities. So, anyway, I stayed home.

Once I got past the panic that clutched my heart after dropping Jason off at the airport (what if something happens to him? what if something happens to me? what if I need the cell phone? what if he forgot the tickets in the car and now can't get ahold of me because I'm driving home and no one can reach me?), I girded myself up for "just another week." For as much as we did miss Jason (and the few moments when I wasn't in top form), we got through it just fine. I've come to realize that it's a lot about being mentally prepared. I knew that Saturday would arrive eventually, and he'd be flying in. If for some reason his flight had been delayed/canceled/rained out/snowed out/technical difficultied away from landing on Saturday, I'm not sure how I would have handled that. There was no Plan B to Operation Survive-the-Week.

Fortunately, I did break up the week with a trip up to my parents' house for my dad's birthday on Tuesday, then stayed overnight and went down to the creek on Wednesday to watch Sydney and Clover play in the water. Friday night, I stayed with Jason's parents; Saturday was another birthday party; and then Saturday night Jason came home. As Jason said, "What's seven days? After travel time and driving to the airport, it's like 2 days away from each other. Then there's meals and sleeping, so really, it's like 20 minutes. Twenty minutes away from each other isn't so bad." Yes, after 10 years of marriage we have learned to comfort each other with lines from Seinfeld. Cheaper than a Hallmark card.

Today and tomorrow we are busy getting ready for our trip, and 48 hours from now I will be in Kauai breathing in the lovely tropical breezes and slathering on sunscreen. It's only been two years since we went last, but we're so in love with Kauai we could go there every year and not get tired of it. Our hotel has wi-fi, so I'll probably post from there. I'd thought about leaving the computer at home, but with no laundry to do, and no meals to fix, and my grandma going along to hold Jules all the live long day, I'll have plenty of time to read, lounge around, and relax. I'll post pictures so you can live vicariously through my vacation.

Next post...from the sandy beaches of Kauai.

And, yes, I deserve it.

Week 160: Half a year old

Thank you all for the wonderful, congratulatory, WOO HOOing comments you gave me for finishing grad school. I know that so many of you have been with me long enough to read my many posts on whatever class I was taking at the moment, and all the ensuing exuberance and stress that such classes brought. Your comments were the icing on the celebratory cake (actually, I made myself a plum tart rather than cake). Seriously. You're all Rock Stars.

Naturally, it's a relief to be done, and also a relief to be done at this particular moment. The last couple weeks were more than just a bit tricky to be lallygagging (as if) at the computer, typing away on nominalization and noun phrases and whathaveyou, because a certain tiny someone has become a certain tiny crawler.

Oh yeah.

She's mobile.

Even though the last six months have sped by at lightening speed (unlike the first six months of Sydney's life which felt like the unending winter of Narnia), I wasn't ready to start redoing the house in order to accommodate a crawler. None of us were, really. Including Sydney. Especially Sydney. For as much love as Sydney has in her heart for Jules, there are moments in the day when she'd rather not have to share her new Winnie the Pooh books. Or her blocks. Or make sure that her Memory cards are not on the floor whereby they will soon become wrinkled and slobbery and un-new.

I know how she feels since there are plenty of moments in the day when I'd like to read my new Real Simple magazine instead of picking up that fragment of a weed that Daisy brought into the house from her last adventure and now is making its way into Jules' mouth. Sydney and I even work together, strewing the living room with all sorts of fabulous toys that Jules should adore with all her heart and want to play with and crawl to and fall in love with. "Here!" Sydney says, "Play with this, Jules!"

Jules will comply, mostly. Until you put something on the floor that she isn't supposed to have and quick as a flash she's up on her knees and tearing across the room and reaching, reaching, grabbing, squealing with joy at the prospect of a new and utterly fabulous forbidden toy that she can make out with.

"ACK!" Sydney and I exclaim together more than a few times during the day. "No Jules!"

I know, I know. We should say something other than "No." Redirect, redeploy, reinvent our house to have a room where Sydney and I could hide all our toys and books and magazines from tiny, curious fists. Well, let's face it: it's faster to say No. She's got to hear it eventually. Might as well break her ambition to rule the world now. And there's no denying that she has ambition and will in no uncertain terms let you know what she wants. I don't remember this about Sydney at this age, the whole "give it to me or I'll arch my back and screech in frustration" act.

It would be unfair to say that we have a lot of frustration going on in the house, because really, we're all generally happy people. Sydney, despite the real tears that she cries every day over something, is a kick in the pants and makes me laugh every day. Jules is little Miss Happykins, who smiles even when she's whining because she still thinks every one is a total hoot. And Jason and me? We're on summer vacation, people. It could rain all summer (but it better not) and we'd still be happy because we're not working, and thanks to 12-month paychecks Jason still gets money. You have to love that. Oh, and just to remind you, we're going to be in Kauai this time next week. Where I will not be having a complex over how I look in a swimsuit. (Don't tell me I look skinny, because clothed-skinny is so not the same as swimsuit-skinny and we all know it...so, I'll spend the vacation in shorts. Big deal. Which means, I guess, that I do have a complex about how I look in a swimsuit, but whatever.)

But back to the present, Pacific Northwest time...Yes, we're all learning how to adapt to this new little girl who is no longer content to lie on her back and examine her toes. That trick has been played, and now the new trick is to move and grab and keep us on our toes, making sure no chokable pieces are on the floor. Sydney's run-in with chokable parts will be permanently ingrained in my memory (the link to that story is worth checking out, btw. It's a CRAZY story), and I'd like to avoid any matters similar to this with Jules. I have to brush up on my game though because just today when we were up visiting my parents, Jules grabbed a fistful of grass and shoved it in her mouth. Yes, there's adventure at every corner.

I know you shouldn't wish for your kids to get older faster, but this age--this constant vigilance and language deciphering--it's not my favorite. Obviously, I've only experienced it once, but babies are tricky. I really hit my parenting stride when Sydney turned two-and-half. We could talk. Drink cocoa together. Share secrets about Grey's Anatomy. Fun stuff.

That's not to say that Jules isn't fun too, but darn it all if it isn't a lot of work. And a lot of vacuuming.

Maurice Hilleman might have saved your life

A few  years ago I saw my mom reading a book about the 1918 flu epidemic. I borrowed it from her, and got around to reading through it last summer. The book bogged down a bit in a few parts, but it was still interesting. (Did you know more soldiers died from the flu than were killed in action? Did you know that another flu epidemic is likely to strike in the next 20 years?) Even though I am not by any stretch of the imagination a "science person," I do enjoy a good book about diseases because I find the story of epidemics and plagues fascinating. Germs don't really scare me much, for whatever reason. Deep water, yes. Spiders, ohmygosh yes. Germs? Eh, not so much.

Because of my basic interest and knowledge of flu epidemics and such, I have kept up with news stories about the bird flu and other flu-ish outbreaks. I also have followed the media circus surrounding vaccinations. Just in the last several years, vaccinations have come under fire as a possible cause for autism. First it was the MMR vaccination that caused autism, but it turned out there wasn't sufficient evidence to support this claim. Then it was mercury in vaccinations that caused autism, but that wasn't fact either. Then it was the chickenpox vaccination, but no clear link there either.

If I needed further proof of the positives of vaccinations, I got it in the form of a new book that just came out last week. Parent Bloggers Network sent me a proof copy of Dr. Paul Offit's new book called Vaccinated: One Man's Quest to Defeat the World's Deadliest Diseases, which I just finished only moments ago (I started it several weeks ago and then homework fell from the heavens, so I couldn't get back to reading it until this weekend).

The story is about Maurice Hilleman, a scientist from Montana. Never heard of him? Have you heard of measles, mumps, rubella, chickenpox, hep A, hep B, pneumococcus, meningoccus, and Hib? Hilleman is the guy who created vaccines to all these diseases. Yeah. Impressive.

Before Hilleman's death in April 2005, he told his story to Dr. Offit, resulting in this book that encompasses not only his life and professional career, but also the history of the field in which he was working. The narrative, while occasionally jumping awkwardly between direct quotes and explanatory prose, holds together as an informative and compelling story. It's no quick read, that's for sure, but it is well researched. And while the plot centers around Hilleman, there are lots of side-plots that bring in a considerable amount of the history of vaccinations--stories about Pasteur (rabies vaccine), Salk and Sabin (polio). If you're not really interested like I am in all the backstory and political shadows of vaccines, then the first three-fourths of the book might not catch your attention. But the final few chapters should be mandatory reading for anyone who questions whether or not vaccinations are necessary.

I know that there is a growing population of parents out there who don't want to vaccinate their kids, whether for personal or religious reasons. Even in my own Christian community, not many parents support the idea of giving teenage girls the papillomavirus vaccine, which prevents cervical cancer. And up until I read this book I thought, "Well, whatever. It's their kid." I effectively had no opinion on vaccinations.

This book changed my mind on that.

As I was reading about life in sub-Saharan Africa where most children aren't able to get vaccinated, the thought occurred to me that one of the reasons why I feel safe to take my young children out into society, allowing them to play with other children, is because I assume that those children have been vaccinated against some of the deadlier diseases. Certainly, I know that my kids aren't immune to all contagious diseases out there, but I don't imagine that they will catch measles. I don't worry about polio or diphtheria or mumps or smallpox. I don't worry about these diseases because with immunizations these are preventable diseases. But what about the kids who parents don't believe in immunizations? What about the parents who are willing to put my child's life in jeopardy for their personal beliefs? What about the parents who are essentially counting on every one else to immunize their children so that their own non-immunized kid won't get sick? When personal beliefs end up with very public results, yeah, well, I have opinions about that.

Sure, some kids have compromised immune systems and can't get vaccines. I get that. And I certainly understand the hesitancy to use new vaccines, especially if their pediatricians aren't recommending them. When I took Jules in for her Well Baby check a few weeks ago, I passed on one of the new vaccines (for a disease I hadn't heard of and don't remember) because our doctor said that it had just been rereleased after a decade-long FDA ban because the original version had nasty side-effects. My decision was also helped along because our doctor said he wasn't giving it to his daughter. Maybe this makes me a hypocrite, what with all my "vaccinate your kids" passion, but I guess the immunizations I feel most strongly about using are the ones that have been around for years.

At the end of the day, I'll definitely remember one of the final quotes from the book:

"Despite all of society's negative pressures, vaccination has proven itself beyond the shadow of a doubt to be the most logical way to control infectious diseases in a community.... The success story is undeniable. There is no measles, a little bit of mumps, no rubella, a little bit of hepatitis B in many communities. And the reason is vaccination....  But it's not free. It comes with a price, an imperative. And that is that you have to keep using it."

So, thumbs up on the book. And yay for Maurice Hilleman.

Precisely

Reading books,
fixing mac-n-cheese,
making chocolate milk,
finding the favorite blanket in the middle of the night.

Wearing the purple clip in my hair to the library,
singing Amazing Grace as a lullaby,
knowing how to fix curly hair,
smooshing the playdough between my fingers.

Administering medicine,
applying bandaids,
kissing owies,
sending to time-out.

Tieing shoelaces,
snapping seat belts,
playing hide-and-seek,
taking naps in the middle of the day.

Loving unconditionally,
practicing patience,
modeling compassion,
living a life dedicated to God.

It's part of being a mom.

I'm a mom because of Sydney and Jules. My girls.

Happy Mother's Day!

(This post inspired by the writing prompt at Parent Bloggers Network and Light Iris. If you can squeak in a post today (Friday), send them the link to be entered to win a spa gc. Mmmm...spa day...lovely.)

Week 153: Perfectly Good Mother

In honor of Mother's Day, this week's posts are going to center around the theme of Motherhood and my crazy emotional thoughts about that. It all stems from a book I just finished reading (compliments Parent Bloggers Network), and I think I need the week to totally process it.

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Before I became a mom, I had one huge advantage over most of the other moms I knew:

I had very low expectations.

I was not of the "I just want to be a mom,"--
"Ever since I was a kid, I've wanted to be a mom,"--
"Motherhood is what I've dreamed of,"--
"Having children will be amazing,"--
crowd.

No sirree. Motherhood didn't seem like fun. at. all. It seemed like a whole lot of work with very little reward. My mom never glossed over the hard times of motherhood, and so for first few years of marriage when people asked when I was going to have children my stock answer was, "Never." It didn't matter that I knew somewhere deep, very deep, in the darkest unswept corner of my heart that I would probably become a mother, someday, eventually. Having kids was one of those things I didn't look forward to.

I hardly expected any benefits to having kids, so when they did come in the form of drooling smiles, big bear hugs, and utterances of "I love you Mommy," it rocked my world. I can see now how I am fiercely in love with my daughters and that becoming a mom has profoundly changed me in a positive way. But I have to admit that all those pre-parenting thoughts saved me from the disappointment and guilt of realizing that at 2 in the morning, I have uttered the words, "I hate this." Heck, I have uttered that phrase at 2 in the afternoon. Sometimes I do, in fact, hate the chores of parenting. I don't feel terrible about not loving motherhood all the time. It's the hardest job I'll ever do. There is no upside to not getting enough sleep and the ensuing insanity that results from that. The best I can do is to have a sense of humor about it, which I am successful at maybe half of the time.

I also thought that those pre-parenting thoughts would put me squarely in the camp of Realistic Expectations. I wouldn't expect perfection. I wouldn't dream of utopia. I wouldn't try to control the uncontrollable. I would, in essence, change the very DNA of my character. Easy.

And, I thought, I wouldn't have a real need to read a book called Even June Cleaver Would Forget the Juice Box, by Dr. Ann Dunnewold. Extreme parenting? Child-centered parenting? Cat fights with other moms? No thank you. That is not me. The book's tagline "Cut Yourself Some Slack (and still raise great kids) in the Age of Extreme Parenting" just didn't seem to fit me. Except that OF COURSE it did fit me. Cut myself some slack? Hello! Maybe just every-once-in-awhile-or-every-minute-of-the-day. I am not good in the cutting slack department.

Anyway, as I started reading through the book I realized that while I may have a mailbox in the camp of Realistic Expectations, I don't live there full time. I'm not sure if I ever even stay the night there. Really, I'm just there during the day with my kids. It's easy for me to say, "We don't have the money," and feel perfectly okay that Sydney sleeps in her bedroom of hand-me-down furniture, and won't attend pre-school, or be in dance class, or wear designer jeans. I don't expect perfection of my kids, and don't expect Sydney to be the next child prodigy. She'll be a very regular kid, and I'm okay with that.

Yet...That dreadful yet...at night, when I starting thinking through everything, I leave Realistic Expectations, and go to the land of Perfect Mommies. I read through other blogs and my magazines and think, "That's what I should to do." I should work on the backyard, the organized phone consul, the beautiful photos. I should make soup from scratch, send off those homemade birthday party invitations, make cookies for the next church event. I should sew aprons, and dolls, and make flower bouquets. I should be content, be happy, be outgoing, send encouragement cards to all my friends.

The "shoulds" go on forever. Some of them probably legitimate ones at that. But the "shoulds" kill me. For as much as I think I don't compete with other moms, I am sad to confess that I do sometimes. Especially in the Martha Mom department. Even just this weekend, for a church event for families of young children, I made blueberry/cranberry cobbler from scratch. Part of it was because I had a real craving for shiny-top blueberry cobbler; part of it was because I wanted to appear impressive, if just for one sugary second. I'm kidding myself if I think I don't expect perfection at least some of the time.

For as much as I didn't think Dunnewold's book would apply to my life, it does.

The perfectly good mother is not a model of perfectly perfect. Perfect is impossible. Perfect implies A++, 110 percent of the time. "Perfectly good" as an adjective keeps the standards high, but achievable. It means clearly good, without qualification. Perfectly good is a solid A- or B+. Compare that to "good enough," or even "slacker." Sounds like barely passing to me. Perfectly good is admirable, but you don't have to "kill" yourself, and it by no means creeps into the realm of failure. (page 20)

The main theme of the book is about getting moms to accept the idea of being a perfectly good mom and stop competing with each other. I appreciated the amount of research Dunnewold put into the book, with excerpts from dozens of parenting essays and books. She includes perfectly good sayings that help keep moms focused on real thinking. She isn't just writing to young families either. It's for all parents who have kids under the age of 25. She also includes a helpful chapter on perfectly good dads.

When I finished the book last night, I cried. Not just because I'm hyper stressed out (although I am) but because even after all that reading I know it'll be so difficult for me to give up my parenting insecurities. Some areas are easy. Overscheduling? No problem. Some areas are harder. Overprotecting? Overperfecting (myself, not my child)? Most definitely. We need to look hard at the overprotecting, overperfecting, overproducing, overscheduling lifestyle and see what really works for us and our families.  It's about examining what is really necessary. It's about saying, "Enough for now."

I'm not saying the book has the answer to all the plagues of motherhood, but it convicted me in areas I didn't even think I had issues with. Serious conviction. Considering the fact that I didn't think the book would apply to me at all, I'd say that's a big leap. I think I'll try to capture some of my other reactions this week, and hopefully by the time Mother's Day rolls around I'll be saying Happy Perfectly Good Mother's Day.

Thanks to Parent Bloggers Network for providing me with my copy of the book.

Catchy songs and a pair of pandas**

(Logistics forced my post about Jason's marathon down a notch, so make sure you keep scrolling to see pictures of my amazing guy running his socks off.)

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It takes a special kind of someone who can write a catchy tune about wearing diapers and using the toilet. I can't say for certain that I love these people, since they are responsible for getting such tunes stuck in my head. For me to absentmindedly sing. In public. In front of students.

A recent defining moment in my professional career: "Are you singing about diapers, Professor?"

What? Uh. Maybe.

And who is responsible for this fabulous soundtrack in my head? The songs are from a DVD called Go Potty Go! We got it last month from Parent Bloggers Network--just as we were finding some success in potty training--and it was an instant hit. Before we watched it, I couldn't quite imagine how on earth someone could make a clever potty training video.

Songs about underwear? Hmmm.

Songs about poop and pee? Ack.

But give it up for Paige and Parker Panda who won me over. They are just too cute for words, and in no time had Sydney and me marching in the livingroom to the Underwear Parade song (we were, however, fully clothed). The 15-minute video is cleverly animated and has a positive, motivational approach to potty training. Silly songs, friendly looking animals, and well-phrased questions make it a highly interactive video that didn't wear and tear on my nerves like some other kids videos I've encountered.

When we received the video, Sydney was already mostly potty trained. What I was most interested in discovering was if it would help her remember the whole "wash your hands bit." Boy, did it ever. She's crazy about washing her hands now. I'm sure our water bill next month will certainly reflect this trend. The video also inadvertently provided us with a tune for the whole underwear in the daytime, diapers at nighttime bit. The original song: "Diapers are for babies, and that's okay. But I'd rather be a big kid, and do it the big kid way." Because I wasn't loving the "for babies" tagline (even if it's true), we kept the tune and now we sing, "Diapers are for nighttime, and that's okay. But underwear is for daytime, and we do it the big kid way." It's perfect. In fact, we use lots of the tunes from the DVD for other various activities we encounter throughout the day. That's how addicting they are.

Sydney loves singing the songs from Go Potty Go, so much so that my parents put the video on their iPod so she can watch it when she visits them. Oh yeah. We're high tech in our potty training.

One thing about the video that caused a slight hiccup in our routine: it mostly stresses the use of a potty chair rather than a toilet. It does give a fleeting mention to using a toilet, but all the pictures are of a potty chair. In fact, the pictures are of the exact model we own. Sydney never got into using the potty chair, and just went straight for using the toilet. This was fine with me because the thought of cleaning out the potty chair seriously grossed me out. After seeing the video, Sydney wanted to start using the chair. We had to have a chat about that, and after some smooth moving on my part she decided she was okay with our original program.

Another thing that I thought about getting worked up about, but just can't bring myself to doing it, is that judging from the style of underwear, most of the animals are boys. In fact, I think Paige Panda might be the only girl, although maybe the fish too (red polka dot underwear...probably female?). So, the video is not exactly gender equal, but whatever. They're cute anyway.

And the last small "I would do this differently" thing: have a continuous play feature. The video is short, so I didn't mind Sydney watching it twice. Not a big deal to have to press play again, just would be nice.

Well, I've reviewed diapers. And now I've reviewed movies. Hopefully, this wraps up my discussion on potty training for the next couple years. The second time around I will go into it wiser, more prepared, and my head full of potty-wonderful tunes.

**I originally called this post "Tinkle Tunes" but had to change it. It just weirded me out too much. That title was a nod to my dad who has--for better or worse--taught his granddaughters to say "tinkle." My brother and I aren't sure if we like this development, but grandpa gives them candy so I don't think we'll win this one.