The Rubber Band

As I prepared to leave my teaching job to stay home with Abbey, eight months pregnant with Dylan, I was so certain that some of my mommy guilt would be alleviated.

I just knew that after spending so many waking moments with them, I would be comfortable, if not eager, to leave my children with Ryan, with my parents, with the mailman if necessary, to spend time with other adults, to enjoy dinners with my girlfriends, to have some alone time.

I was wrong.  As silly as it may seem, it’s more difficult for me to leave them now.

Ryan and I occasionally have date nights; we’ve even left the munchkins overnight with Grandma and Grandpa.  Regular runs keep my sanity and sugar junkie tendencies in check.  However, most of the time, the kids are sleeping during those outings.

During the day, I may close my eyes and think about how lovely it would be to sit alone at a little table, my laptop in front of me, my tattered writer’s notebook next to my (still warm) coffee.  I may close my eyes and think about how lovely it would be to close the bathroom door when I use the facilities.

Excited to have a few hours to myself a few times a year, I schedule my hair appointments and thumb through magazines looking for hair inspiration.

Monthly dinners with girlfriends are scheduled over e-mail, and I mentally evaluate my closest for something appropriate to wear.

Walking to my car, I feel light, literally, without snacks and straw cups crowding my purse, only myself to buckle safely into the car.

I turn the radio a little louder than I would with the kids in the car, not worrying about what comes out of the speakers.

Backing down the driveway, I feel it begin.  An uncomfortable feeling, housed somewhere between my heart and my stomach.  The lightness I feel suddenly seems too light, wrong, disorienting. 

It’s as though there’s a rubber band connecting me to Abbey and Dylan.  When we’re at home, I don’t feel it, but as we’re separated, it begins to stretch, and I feel as though part of me is missing.  That invisible band is what drives me to check my cell phone obsessively when I’m away from them, what made it impossible to stop the tears as our plane taxied on the runway on our way to Vegas.

I know, rationally, that part of raising our kids means developing independent little people.  Independent little people who do not bring their mommy with them to pre-school or their first school dances or their first fraternity party.

I need to work on stretching that rubber band.

Soon.  I’ll work on that soon.

Lessons from Abbey

Cringing, I grit my teeth, biting back my annoyance as she digs in her heels, adamantly arguing that she shouldn't have to go inside.  The concept of time is still beyond her grasp, at least when it comes down to the choice between making dinner and playing with sidewalk chalk just a little while longer.  My impatience bubbles to the surface, and I'm hoping that our neighbors aren't listening to her tantrum.

I pause for a moment, remembering that she is just three years old.

Often, I forget how very young she is, and I have to stop and take in the softness of her cheeks and baby fineness of her feathery eyelashes.

Her voice is still childish and small, but her expression is serious when she tells me: "I would prefer to wear the pink shirt."

There's no hesitation as she grabs one of her toys from Dylan's chubby fist, but she is sincere when she reminds me: "Dylan's just a baby; he doesn't know any better."

She shyly answers back when a new acquaintance says hello, but her small hand seeks out mine, holding tightly until she is comfortable again.

At bedtime, she chooses a story we've read hundreds of times, but now she carefully cradles her doll so Baby can see the pictures.

Pushing limits whenever she can, she insists on making a detour through Dylan's side of the car, climbing into her carseat and buckling the chest strap herself.  Yet, when she's sad or tired or scrapes her knee while running in flip flops, she clings to me like a baby monkey, legs and arms wrapped tightly around my body.

Navigating her way from the life of a toddler to one of a child, she wavers back and forth between the two worlds, gracefully and seamlessly mastering some changes while stumbling with frustration on others.  Yet, she remains undaunted, pressing forward, reaching higher and higher.

Chastened, I think of the times I have doubted myself, afraid of moving beyond my sphere of comfort and familiarity.  I think of the times I have given up.

She does not give up.

She has so much to learn.

She has so much to teach me.

She is just three years old.

the prompt was to write about a child that inspires me

is it cliche to be inspired by my own daughter?

because I am, every single day

He's Full of Surprises

Pregnant, coloring at the dining room table with Abbey, I worried.

Somehow, I had made it through the ultrasound without caving and begging the technician to tell us the sex of our healthy baby.  After finding out with Abbey, Ryan and I had agreed that this baby would be a surprise.

But now, coloring at the table with my relatively calm daughter, I worried.

I was scared to have a boy.

I wanted a son.  A little guy to look up to Ryan and wear preppy clothes and tattered baseball caps.  A grown man to dance with as a mother of the groom.

Still, I was scared to have a boy.

My own childhood was filled with dance classes and days spent at the library devouring books and playing school in my room next to my canopy bed.  I loved skirts that twirled in circles.  I didn't like bugs or dirt.

What would I do with a boy?

Of course, I fell in love with him the moment I met him.

There's nothing sweeter than the ten times a day he stops what he's doing to come hug me and bestow one or two or seven slobbery kisses on me before returning to wreck havoc on the house.

Little plaid shirts and sweater vests and khaki shorts catch my eye nearly as much as tulle skirts and hand-crafted headbands.

Still, he proves daily that my fears weren't unfounded.  He presses every button within reach and loads the DVD player with any CD or DVD he manages to find around the house.  We've strategically positioned three gates and could use at least one more.  Our chosen cupboard locks stop him for approximately eight seconds when he decides to open them.  He gleefully runs anywhere he shouldn't and has an inner device that leads him to drinking fountains and doors he can open himself.

I worry when I take him places, because he's notoriously unpredictable and not quiet about his preferences.

Waiting for Abbey's recital to start, he climbed up and down and up and down the wide steps of the auditorium.  Ryan and my dad were on alert that they would likely spend the majority of the show in the hall with Dylan.  Trying to get him to sit on my lap when the lights dimmed elicited his loudest vocal protests, and even his beloved Cheerios did little to distract him from the thought of climbing those stairs again.

Then the music started, the lights shone on the dancers, throwing rainbows off their sequined costumes, and he leaned against me, mesmerized.  Later, as Ryan held him, snack cup still clenched in one hand, I was amazed.  He craned his head to get a better view.  He spontaneously clapped during performances.  He didn't have to leave the theater until he went home at intermission.

Maybe boys aren't so scary after all.

not scared of Colleen's play structure at all

Around Town

There are days when the kids and I stay home all day, playing Cootie and reading books and using copious amount of Elmer's glue to fasten sequins and pom-poms to anything and everything. Those days are comfortable and familiar and cozy.

Then there are days when we venture out and try something new, like going to the house of a new friend or trying a new play structure at a different, out-of-the-way park. Those days are exciting and unpredictable and, truth be told, a little scary.

Today is like that, because I have not one, but TWO guest posts going live around town today. It's like having a playdate in the morning and going to a new hands-on museum in the afternoon.

I'd love it if you would come with me on my playdates today!

Amy at Spread a Little Thin is right here in Michigan, so you don't have to travel far! She's a hilarious and irreverant mother of three, along with doing a million other things, including providing me inspiration for the most delicious sounding summer cocktail on the planet. She's letting me hijack her blog today to tell you about the time I tried to discipline Abbey and ended up crying in the bathroom.

Nichole from In These Small Moments and The Red Dress Club and Babble is a person I admire tremendously, as a writer and a mother and friend, and I am so honored to be visiting her blog today for her Small Moments Monday series. Nichole is a superb writer with a real gift for capturing those little moments that catch your breath and make you pause in their beauty. I'm telling a story there today about one of those moments I wish I could bottle for eternity, a time when Dylan formally bestowed the "Big Sister" label on Abbey.
 
In an ideal world, I would love to have actual playdates with both Amy and Nichole, but for now, please virtually visit them with me!

I Might Regret Saying That

With the amount of conversation that takes place in our house each day, there are bound to be some discussion mishaps.  Unfortunately, Abbey has Ryan's memory; she remembers minute details about things I say months after the fact.

Her love of Honey Bear is abundant, and who can blame her?

One day she was continually asking about getting a pet.  A dog, like Honey Bear, or a cat or maybe a baby lion.  I was able to diffuse the question for a while by trying to explain that lions only live in the zoo or in Pride Rock (like Simba from The Lion King). 

That only kept the request at bay for a short time.  I should have just told her we weren't getting a pet, but it's hard hurting her little animal-loving heart.

So I told her our house isn't big enough for a pet, except a fish that she can have when she's four.

Not one to miss a loophole, she asked if we could get a pet when our house gets bigger.  Or when we get a bigger house.

All of this is fine.  What's not fine is that whenever we visit a house with a pet, she loudly pronounces, "They must have a bigger house than us!  They have a dog!"

I'm starting to get some odd looks.  Lesson learned; I will be a little more careful about how I answer her questions!

Until our house gets bigger, she will have to settle for Pup.

this is Pup

of course Pup is pink 

and no, it's not her birthday

although we did sing happy birthday

to Pup of course

Visiting with Friends

Kir is a blogger-turned-friend I met through The Red Dress Club, and she is one of those people I wish lived around the corner next door.  She can always make me smile, she's girly in a lipstick-loving and shopping and Royal-Wedding-watching way, and who doesn't need a friend like that to be honest about whether that new pair of shoes is absolutey inappropriate for playground playdates?

Also, she is an enthusiastic and fun-loving mother to two adorable little boys, an infertility success story, and someone who treasures her role so dearly.

And she asked ME to do a guest post for The Kir Corner, her lovely blog.  (Insert permanent happy face here!)

At first I was scratching my head about coming up with a "proud mommy moment" that felt right for my first guest post. Some days I feel proud that I got to go to the bathroom without a major meltdown happening three inches from the (open) door. Other days I feel proud of everything, from the way the kids are playing together to the way Abbey knows the words to "Don't Stop Believing" to the way Dylan stops playing just to toddle over for a Mommy hug.

But, as usual, I wasn't at a loss for words for long! Please come visit me over at Kir's this morning and then stay to get to know her.

the virtual Kirsten

notice the fabulous red shoes?

I told you, she's great

Bubbles Aren't Fun Dip

There's an overwhelming consensus that women forget about the physical pain of labor as a defense mechanism designed to make sure we have more babies. 

I seem to have blocked out the pesky phase in Abbey's life when she ate everything and anything she could get into her little hands.  I don't mean the phase where she happily ate a wide variety of foods, because I'm still waiting for that one.  I mean the phase where she liked to nosh on non-food items.

Dylan has gleefully galloped into that phase with open arms, an open mouth, and little fists clenched around anything I don't want near his mouth.

I vaguely remember having to watch Abbey in stores to make sure she wasn't picking up things from the shelves to eat.  But mostly, it's a hazy memory of a cute little girl investigating the world around her.

That memory is a lie.

Because this phase?  The eating everything in sight phase?  This phase is disgusting.

In Macy's, he bent down to find a half-eaten Oreo under a display.  I tackled him before he got it in his mouth. (Aunt Jessica witnessed that one, lucky her!)

At the park, he munches on sticks and wood chips and grass.

Outside, he delicately licks stones and dandelions and my keys.

In our driveway, he samples sidewalk chalk and bubbles.

He's learned the word "yuck", because I say it each time I remove an offending object from his hand or his mouth.

I think he has the meaning confused with "yum".

I hope this isn't a long phase.

Yuck.

hmm, looks interesting

this little stick is kind of like a spoon

tastes a little like my bath toys

because I like chewing on those, too

Reading is Cool

Like so many parents, I've asserted that what I want most for my kids is for them to be happy and healthy.  I say I try not to look at them and say doctor! lawyer! nuclear physicist! actor!  I say that I hope that I can be a constant source of love and support as they find their own paths.

But those are lies.

Because, really, there is something I want my kids to be.

I want them to be readers.  Bookworms.  Gluttons for the written word.

Some of my earliest memories involve books and reading and falling into worlds crafted by others, and I desperately want Abbey and Dylan to experience those moments of wonder and imagination.  Maybe they'll be curled up with an e-reader instead of a worn, library copy of The Boxcar Children, and I am absolutely fine with that, as long as they're reading.

I've been told that I know an obsene amount of utterly useless facts and information, and I fully credit that to all of the reading I do.  Books have opened doors to times and places and people I never could have imagined.

So, even though I can honestly say I hope they choose careers and life paths that lead to a contented life, I also have to mention that I hope, hope, hope that they'll walk down that path with good books under their arms.

Or a good Kindle.

Abbey's reading Tails to Dylan

it's a favorite, because there are tails you can touch

"seriously, put the camera away!

Dylan's not even dressed yet!"

the morning after Easter

I love that they're reading their new books

Who Needs Toys?

Like so many parents I talk with, Ryan and I are fighting a losing battle with the toys in our house.  I am becoming suspicious that they mate in the night and multiply like bunnies, because it seems like whenever I think things are getting organized, I come downstairs to find my house once again enveloped in kiddie clutter.

The funny thing about all of the toys is that Abbey and Dylan are just as content playing with boxes and spoons and furniture as they are with the fancy toys that litter our floors and shelves and closets.  Their imaginations turn everyday objects into things of wonder, and there are days that the "toys" stay in their bins all day.

Why, then, is it so very difficult for me to downsize our toy collection?  Do other people have a strange, emotional attachment to their kids' toys or is it just me?

these are their cars

in case you haven't heard, when Abbey is five, she's getting her own car

she wants her own car so she can drive herself to the library

who am I to argue with a reader on a mission?

the back of Grandma's furniture is a great drum 

Abbey wanted to join in on the fun

thankfully Grandma is a good sport

Playing Catch-Up

I won a parenting award a couple of weeks ago.  Of course, I had to bestow the award on myself, but it was one of those weeks where everything went right: we got out of the house on time, ran our errands without meltdowns, played with friends at playdates, and threw a minimal amount of food on the floor.  So I won an award!  Yet, because I've been on this parenting rollercoaster for at least a few hills now, I refrained from patting myself on the back just yet.

Because the last week has been the kind where parenting awards sit dusty on the shelf, perhaps rudely snatched away by the Academy.

A week of catch-up, where nothing seems to happen exactly the way I planned, where my to-do list explodes exponentially although I am happy to finish one or two things by the end of the day, where molars threaten to rob me of all sanity (and Dylan of his lunch if he keeps shoving his little fists into the far reaches of his mouth in an attempt to soothe the teething pain).

It's easy to get bogged down in these kind of weeks, to let frustration take over, especially for people (like me) who forgot to pick up their extra box of patience at the store.  I'm trying to remember that the to-do list will never truly be cleared, that the tantrums of today will fade into the teenage rants of tomorrow, and that a little pen on a princess costume just means that maybe the princess will write a novel instead of idly waiting for her prince to arrive.

So this week we coast along, knowing that another upswing is on the horizon.  We have one chance to live our lives, so I might as well throw up my hands and ride.

proof that we're a little behind right now

this was purchased in December

we made it this week

perhaps more disturbing is that the expiration date is June 2011

I think we'll pass on the eating and just admire our handiwork

Mr. Fix-It

Gender stereotypes are annoying.  Yet I find myself mentally saying, "he's such a boy!" almost daily with Dylan.  He never stops moving, he's never met an electronic device that he doesn't want to investigate, and he's recently discovered the joys of tools.

Abbey never had toy tools, so Dylan improvises as he goes along, which often means he slyly pilfers a screwdriver that you put down for a moment while working on a project.  While putting together my Bissell Sweep & Steam (love, love, love by the way), he tried to help when I had to take a minute to scratch my head read the directions.  He still smears food all over his face when he attempts to use utensils, but he actually had the screwdriver in the little screw hole and was turning it around and around.  Craziness.

My idea about the "best" part of being a parent changes all. the. time. but I have to say that I adore observing them develop into their own little selves.  My goal is to let them find their own ways in this big world, trying on different interests and passions as they discover new things, with me playing the role of cheerleader, my pom poms filled with strands of love, support, a little bit of wisdom, and hope for their futures.

another project?

helping Daddy fix the sound on the DVD player

Monkey See, Monkey Do?

A Facebook conversation today left me thinking about girls and body image and acceptance and how all of those things are tangled together with images and attitudes and expectations. Our (albeit brief) conversation concerned a celebrity who may or may not be a little too thin and how seeing that affects our girls.

I’m not denying there are unrealistic portrayals of women in our celebrity-obsessed culture. I also think it’s one of our most important jobs as parents to raise our kids to be true to themselves, in spite of the pressure that is going to bombard them from all sides.

Maybe it’s a devil’s advocate reaction, but I have a problem condemning every tiny body staring at us from a magazine cover, “She’s too thin!” I have friends who are super thin but still healthy, so I don’t think skinny automatically equals unhealthy. Are some of the ultra-skinny women out there unhealthy? Sure. But I also think that some of them parlay a combination of good genes and hard work into that body shape.

Of course, that means that I somehow have to teach Abbey to accept her body and other people’s bodies in ALL shapes and sizes. Despite my own body issues, I’m trying to set a healthy example by eating relatively well and running and staying active. I monitor what I say about my own body. I plan on having honest conversations about it as she gets older.

Will that be enough? I don’t know. Images are powerful motivators and so is peer pressure. Will my efforts fail in the face of emulating the “it girls” of 2023? If I’m still blogging ten years from now, will I be packing mayo-laden sandwiches and sending them off to Hollywood stylists?

a new game at our house

Abbey and I call it "giant Dylan"

he lurks in the back of the dollhouse, laughing

then a little (giant) hand sneaks around the corner

and grabs something from the side where we're playing 

of course, she needs to get in on the action, too

My Little Helper?

Abbey has gone through a lot of phases as a big sister.  She has been enthralled, bored, jealous, interested, apathetic, and entertained at times.  Our current phases is a "helpful" one, which is sometimes extremely helpful and sometimes, well, not so much. 

I can say that she is an invaluable resource during grocery store trips.  I don't know how many of you have taken kids to the grocery store, but it has potential to be an Olympic sport.  I thought I had it rough pre-kids, when I just had to keep track of a list and a handful of coupons.  With kids, you do that, while making sure no one a) falls out of the cart, b) eats anything picked up off the floor or licks the cart, and c) starts adding completely unnecessary items to the cart.  During this marathon, Abbey keeps Dylan thoroughly entertained; for some reason, he finds her absolutely hilarious when she's doing things like dancing in the aisles.  I let such shenanigans occur, because they make everyone's life a little better.

There are many moments like our grocery moments, when she distracts him or plays with him or makes him smile and laugh when he's not in the mood for Mommy's funny faces. 

Yet, the helpful stage can be tough when he's in no mood to be consoled, and she doesn't understand.  I try not to interfere too much, because I know how much she likes to help with him.  I appreciate it both for its actual assistance and for what I think it is beginning to represent, which is her growing interest in and love for her little brother.  She's finally beginning to see him as a little person and not a baby doll or an annoyance, and I am so excited to see their relationship develop.  Sometimes, though, I feel like I need to step in, as evidenced in the photo below.  How much help is too much?

he was mad that he couldn't see the big trucks anymore

well, and tired (did someone say nap strike?)

she wanted to "rock" him

and yes, that's last year's Halloween costume, just for fun

Borrowing from the Bank

I did my homework this week for the Back to School blogging challenge! The first part of the homework involved making a deposit of ten ideas into the Idea Bank; the second part was writing a post using one of the ideas from the bank.

I want to write about a childhood memory that still affects how I feel today. It’s a memory that I mull over more than necessary, especially since having a daughter.

Nursery school was a pretty rocking time, from what I recall. I remember a cool wooden loft that was used as a story nook, cute little cubbies to hang our things, some beanbags to play with, a shady outdoor area.

And a lady that told me little girls shouldn’t eat as much as little boys.

she said what?

I know, Dylan, crazy, right?

To back up a bit, my best buddy and partner-in-crime back then was a little boy named Craig. So one day, at snack time, we were having chocolate pudding. Craig and I were sitting at a mini-table, on those mini-chairs, another one of our friends was sitting there as well. I was excited to have our snack, excited to be sitting with my friend, and when Craig took a giant helping of pudding, I spooned the same mega-scoop into my little bowl with a smile.

And the nursery school helper immediately told me that I shouldn’t have taken so much pudding. She said it sternly. She told me that girls do NOT eat as much as boys.

At four years old, I didn’t have body image issues. But I remember feeling embarrassed and ashamed, and a four-year-old shouldn’t feel ashamed about a little extra pudding. It obviously impacted me a lot since I still remember it with crystal clarity, even though most of my early memories are much hazier.

I cringe when I think about that sharp statement and the countless other off-hand remarks that have shaped my body image. I know I can’t keep Abbey in a sparkly, pink bubble, immune to society’s immense pressure on girls to look a certain, often unattainable, way. I can’t bottle the innate self confidence that children possess and save it for her to breathe in the first time she hears one of those negative remarks.

But I do my best every day to strive to feel better about myself, so that she grows up watching me feel comfortable in my own body, complete with its imperfections and its strengths.

If she takes a little extra pudding one day, because her best bud Brendan has an extra large helping? I’m pretty sure she’ll make up for it by running around, laughing and smiling the whole time.

a friend is borrowing last year's ladybug costume

Abbey (of course) needed to try it on

to be honest, the tutu is in regular dress-up rotation 

she was bummed to let it go

I tried to explain that Ella will bring it back

a good lesson in the concept of borrowing?

Welcome to Mars

Remember that whole Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus craze?  I never read the book, because I didn't need a book to tell me boys were different than girls.  (I was in high school when it came out.  I didn't understand myself, let alone the opposite sex. 

Dylan is only eight months old, and I already feel like I am on a different parenting planet than the one we landed on when Abbey was born.  Now, I'm going to go all generalization-crazy here.  Keep in mind I am talking only about my personal experience with my research group, sample size two.  I know that all kids are different, personalities play a big part, blah blah blah blah. 

Yet, I'm telling you, there are stereotypical differences already.  I had a moment of panic when I was pregnant and exhausted and having a rough day with Abbey.  (We didn't know if we were having a boy or a girl.)  I realized that having two teenage girls at once would be terrifying but that having a little boy to chase all around the world was equally terrifying.  I calmed myself down by thinking that not all boys were wild beasts and that I could always invest in wine if we had another girl (just kidding about the wine.  I think.)

I'm sure it's true that not all boys are wild movement machines, but our boy is all over the place.  I remember being able to leave Abbey in the family room with a couple of toys while going to throw in a load of laundry.  I would come back, and she would be calmly playing in the same spot.  If I do that with Dylan, there's no predicting where he will be when I return.  We hardly child-proofed with Abbey, and I am already trying to decide just how many gates and cupboard locks are too many, really?? 

So welcome to Mars.  I can't imagine what it's going to be like when he is walking running all over.  I feel grateful that we've got our little Venus around to balance things out.  And by balance things out, I mean throw tantrums that generally stay in one place.  Because no matter what planet they're from, both are so wonderfully challenging and wonderfully rewarding in their own ways.

until we get another gate, we stop him however we can

foiled again

he doesn't let himself worry about it for too long

Slide Slide Slippity Slide

I was cautious, perhaps overly so, with Abbey when she was a little bitty thing.  I was strict about organic foods, didn't let her watch any TV until after she turned two, kept her away from sugar and overly processed foods (her birthday was the first time she had anything cake-like.)  Poor Dylan doesn't have those safeguards in place, partially because we are so busy now.  The poor guy can't seem to get his organic puffs in his mouth (they get stuck to his chubby little hands), but he deftly used his pincher grasp to snag an Extreme Cheddar Goldfish from Abbey's bowl, gummed it, and swallowed it before I leapt the laundry baskets to save him from that deliciously cheese-powdered cracker.

I wonder sometimes if I need to bring back the caution a little.  Have I started to careen down a slippery slope?  We started letting Abbey watch Sesame Street a couple of weeks ago, and she is in love.  (And I am absolutely shocked to see Gordon and Maria are still on, plus some lady with a rocking nose ring.  Props to Sesame Street  for keeping it cool.)  Have I created a monster?  Started a downward spiral that will lead to a life of Nick Jr., processed food, and a knock-off of Lady Gaga's now-infamous meat dress?

Maybe.

We had a Grandparent's Picnic this past weekend, and I enlisted Abbey's help in making Oreo Truffles.  Behold the results.

please notice the bib

it's Dylan's, except he won't wear it

she asked to wear it for the candy making

it's the first time she's worn one in over a year

kids can be silly