tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-43253374127212469382024-03-14T09:50:00.153-04:00Mommy RemixAn old pro becomes a new parent all over againMOMMY REMIXhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11432130123796382508noreply@blogger.comBlogger92125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4325337412721246938.post-75742604250805983612016-06-11T13:11:00.001-04:002016-06-11T13:11:06.068-04:00Finishing Last in My First 5KMy fingers are so swollen I can barely type. I feel sweat pooling in the small of my back. I'm still panting a little bit, and the bunion on my right foot is on fire.<br />
<br />
All of those things started about 50 feet into the 5K race I entered today. I was only walking it, with a team of village employees, but it became clear right at the very beginning that my goal was going to be finishing the course at all.<br />
<br />
My team, resplendent in our blue "It Takes a Village" matching shirts that we got especially for the <a href="https://www.facebook.com/events/1731277293767323/" target="_blank">Julie's Fitness Studio 5K</a> during Whitehouse's annual <a href="http://www.awchamber.com/cherry-fest.html" target="_blank">Cherry Fest</a>, joked around at registration that it was our job to be toward the back of the pack, watching out for folks. One was a lieutenant in our first responder forces, so technically that is his job. But the course was lined with members of our police and fire departments and other event volunteers doing just that, so he got to participate in all his fit glory.<br />
<br />
I got to watch him and the others outpace me pretty quickly. Like, from the start line. We had been hanging out in some shade, but organizers moved us onto the street and into the sun and humidity and 87 degrees, told us that we would be walking around the village park, into the metropark across the state route, around the large quarry, up the main street of our little town, and then down and back the paved bike trail that used to be railroad tracks.<br />
<br />
I felt like fainting right there.<br />
<br />
I signed up for this race several weeks ago at the invitation of one of the village administration clerks. As a new village council member, I thought it would be an important show of solidarity. As a fat person, I thought it would be a motivation to exercise more and go on training walks and kickstart -- for the umpteenth time -- my overall fitness journey.<br />
<br />
The first thing worked out quite well. The village employees are truly some of the best people around. The second thing never happened. I scrubbed my shower until my pectoral muscles burned so badly I couldn't sleep, but I didn't really do anything else physical during this alleged prep time.<br />
<br />
I had known my husband was going to be ashore for Cherry Fest, so I signed him up for the race too. It was a fundraiser for <a href="http://www.natures-nursery.org/" target="_blank">Nature's Nursery</a>, a local wildlife rescue, and the sponsoring business is owned by a high school classmate, so every entry supported good things.<br />
<br />
My husband is in excellent shape. He came back from his ship voyage particularly "piped" this time, and he's always jumping on his bicycle to go to the hardware store or doing physical labor around the house. He could at least drag me off the course if I fell over.<br />
<br />
At the race we met up with our great next-door neighbors, a retired couple who always keep a lovingly watchful eye on us, especially during sea voyage times. I was so glad that they were willing to walk along with us, because I immediately knew I would never be able to keep up with those long-legged employees in their blue shirts. I'd just walk companionably along with these senior citizens, thank you very much.<br />
<br />
That worked out great for about half a mile. I was beginning to breathe heavily, and I felt shooting pangs in my shins. I couldn't keep up conversation. But the men had started swapping stories about being in the military, so it was fine to just listen. By the time we started circling the quarry, there was a large gap between us and the village team, still in sight but quite far ahead, and there were just two people behind us: a grandmother with a little girl in a sundress, moseying along.<br />
<br />
That's when I knew it: I was going to be last. I was going to be dead last out of a group of at least 100 people, probably more. (A little girl in a sundress and her chaperone aren't people you consider as those you've beaten.)<br />
<br />
On the far side of the quarry there is a stone gravel parking lot, and for some godforsaken reason everyone went the long way across the lot instead of up the shorter side on the partially patched drive. We briefly considered the shortcut as a group. They would have been willing to do it for me, because by now everyone knew I was struggling.<br />
<br />
But I was kind of disgusted with myself for even suggesting it. It would have shaved off mere feet from 5 kilometers. So I decided that I was in this race, by God, and I was going to do the course as it was laid out. No cheating. I'd accepted that I was going to be last, and I couldn't make it worse by cutting corners.<br />
<br />
By the time we were heading back up the main street, I was regretting ever signing up for this stupid event. Everything hurt. My wedding rings were cutting into my finger. (Because I am a vain dummy who thought that if someone saw a big rock on my hand they would at least judge me as being attractive enough to one person on the planet, instead of just a sweaty pig in a blue shirt huffing all over town.)<br />
<br />
I started to fall behind my husband and neighbors. Just a few steps at first, then a few lengths, then officially not even keeping up with them.<br />
<br />
It was so tempting when we came back to the front of the park, near where we started the race and approximately halfway through the course, to quit. Just quit. Go sit under a shady tree, watch all the festival-goers, eat some ice cream, and wait for the rest of the team to go all the freaking way down the paved path to Cemetery Road -- a cemetery! where I'd end up if I kept walking! -- and all the way back against the wind.<br />
<br />
Somehow I got onto the path. My husband and neighbors kept turning around and calling out to me, "You OK?" I'd lie and say, "I'm great! Just slow!" The bunion throbbing in my shoe said something else. Something vulgar.<br />
<br />
We passed runners who already had crossed the finish line, checking their wristwatches and fitness bracelets or lounging around in the grass. On the path lots of runners came by from the other direction, some looking just as miserable and uncomfortable as I was but very determined to finish. Oh yeah, and actually running. Some of them would smile at us -- the obvious laggers -- and wave or shout "Good job!" as they pounded pass. I saw a mom and her teenage-young adult daughter run by, and heard the mom whisper to her, "Almost there, sweetie."<br />
<br />
I started to cry.<br />
<br />
I had at least half an hour to go. I was confronted with how overweight I am, how sedentary my life is, how incapable I am of leading my children in physical activity. I started praying for the EMT on the four wheeler who was monitoring the course to come buzzing by again. My plan was to throw myself in front of it and blame him for why I couldn't finish the race. But I was wearing that damned blue shirt and it was just too unseemly a thing to do to another public servant.<br />
<br />
There was nothing to do but keep going. One foot in front of the other. My husband and neighbors were so far ahead I couldn't even hear them anymore. I turned around once or twice and saw that the grandma and little girl in a sundress were still plugging away, but they were a good distance back too.<br />
<br />
I was alone.<br />
<br />
And that turned out to be just what I needed. I cried a little more. I started imagining that people would indeed celebrate me for not giving up. I started noticing the pretty wildflowers along the path, the corn coming up in a field, the tidy backyards of homes where all kinds of people live, slow ones and fast ones and fat ones and fit ones. We're all in it together. It takes a village.<br />
<br />
At some point I stopped trying to check how much closer I was getting to the finish line. I didn't care. I'd get there eventually. I was going very slowly, sipping on the water bottle my husband had the good sense to prepare for me, even though the water had gotten quite warm. I didn't care about the inferno in my foot, or how the shirt was clinging to me, or how audible my breath was. I smiled and waved at bicyclists and couples pushing baby strollers on the path.<br />
<br />
I thanked 8-pound baby Jesus in golden fleece diapers for the beautiful breeze.<br />
<br />
As I neared the finish line, close enough to see that the clock timer was about to pop over an hour, I saw a group of people in blue T-shirts coming toward me. It was the village people. "We're here to finish with our teammate," one said. My husband crossed the line with our neighbors and then doubled back too.<br />
<br />
I was pretty moved. I didn't cry, though. Maybe because I mostly felt like throwing up. But the race organizers were congratulating me and we were posing for pictures and laughing and looking for cookies and bananas and it all kind of just happened. I don't think it actually hit me that I had indeed finished the race until I got home.<br />
<br />
I'm going to take a cool shower and then stay off my feet for a while. I'll do some laundry. Make dinner. I want to renew some energy to maybe go back up to the festival for a while, saving some for taking our 4-year-old to the fireworks display tonight. <br />
<br />
Because that's what people who participate in 5K races do. They are normal people with normal lives who do physically active things as part of that life. I can do that.<br />
<br />
I can be last. That's still in it, that's still finishing. And I am not alone.MOMMY REMIXhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11432130123796382508noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4325337412721246938.post-8000454923417051302015-10-16T11:35:00.000-04:002015-10-16T11:35:20.648-04:00My School!This is what Max cried when I pulled out of the primary school parking lot yesterday. "My school!"<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHJvFy7IzX0r9ytsw7OrFl6dix0t0PbRzIirLiY6xyeM8cgeLw_nZkrWi6a3cif1yh9UptlZw3IsXJQCgCSqfk-iu6zzpAo5xkjBqfX1bvqCDW2e20oFdyPBA8-82_4o2gFizZu8-a3iX9/s1600/maxpreschool1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHJvFy7IzX0r9ytsw7OrFl6dix0t0PbRzIirLiY6xyeM8cgeLw_nZkrWi6a3cif1yh9UptlZw3IsXJQCgCSqfk-iu6zzpAo5xkjBqfX1bvqCDW2e20oFdyPBA8-82_4o2gFizZu8-a3iX9/s320/maxpreschool1.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Max's first day at preschool.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I was thrilled.<br />
<br />
He wasn't crying-crying, there weren't any actual tears. He was too exhausted from his third day of preschool in a very stimulating classroom to wind up into any kind of tantrum. He might have just been accessing an emotional response appropriate for leaving a place and practicing with it.<br />
<br />
I don't care about any of that. I'm just glad he said something spontaneous. I'm glad he talked at all. And I am more than grateful that school quickly has become a place he enjoys.<br />
<br />
It's been a rough journey these last several months, discovering that Max has a speech delay and perhaps a few sensory issues. His development was cruising right along, his vocabulary was growing, and his academic learning was way ahead.<br />
<br />
At 3 years old he can sing the ABCs, correctly identify the sounds each letter makes, and even list a few words here and there that begin with those sounds. He asks me to make crescents and trapezoids when we play shapes with a rubber band, and he is about one letter away from cracking my password on the Kindle to download more apps.<br />
<br />
But tell me what he did at school? Say what he is thinking? Communicate in sentences that aren't first given to him for parroting? Nope, not yet.<br />
<br />
These last few months have been a confusing and often depressing journey, but the light at the end of the tunnel is glowing brighter. Actually, it's really illuminating several more tunnels, and we still have to evaluate and explore and outright guess which one is Max's best chance at being his full and authentic self. But at least we've figured out how to drive the freaking train.<br />
<br />
Paperwork for anything having to do with school or a state board or a child's brain development is an endless stapled packet. Four different packets are really the same one just in slightly different wording or order. We all know just how much I like filling out paperwork.<br />
<br />
But now it's an outright battle. Paperwork is just one more tactic that I'm willing to employ to get Max the help he needs to unlock speech and let all of the learning and behavior skills fall into place. I'm willing to drive to a different city to get him the best therapy. I'm willing to be what I never thought I would be: a parent who drives her kid to and from school.<br />
<br />
I dutifully stand in the parent waiting area, the vortex of possible friendship and probable judgment. I willingly hand over my little love to other people who don't let me past the buzzer-locked double doors. I scour the little half sheet of paper that reports what he did in school that day as an attempt to have a conversation with him about it.<br />
<br />
Happily, three days of this have yielded more results than the previous three months. My stress level has plummeted with just a few hours a day completely belonging to me, when I can actually schedule appointments or clean the house or get some grocery shopping done (which increasingly has become a screamfest when I have to drag along Max). We're all benefiting from a routine.<br />
<br />
Max sweetly feels some ownership of this new place, this school with new toys and new playgrounds and new friends. I am feeling the same gratitude for it.<br />
<br />
My school! My chance! My relief.MOMMY REMIXhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11432130123796382508noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4325337412721246938.post-5545998028553986202015-03-26T09:43:00.001-04:002015-03-26T09:51:20.600-04:00Ring of DespairI suppose it's OK to let Max play in his bedroom while I'm here in the boys' bathroom sorting his brother's laundry he is going to be stuck downstairs all day it's freaking snowing again and I'm too filthy to go to the gym and take him so he can have fun in the kid room there I didn't wash my hair yesterday it's so dirty it hurts I'll just wait until he naps if he naps he hardly ever sleeps but maybe he will be merciful to me today and I can pop in a workout DVD and shower too while he naps Jesus how much laundry does Gabe have did he go to school naked his closet is only so big wait a minute what's that sound that very distinct tinkling sound of delicate metal and gems on crystal oh my God that little shit has gotten into my jewelry dish again I'd better rush into my bedroom and see what's happening he hears me coming he's already saying "oh no no no" and "it's OK" like I'm not going to spank you look what you did dammit how many times do I have to tell you oh yeah you can run but I'm going to catch you oh God you're struggling and I'm mad and I just hate myself for spanking you and this morning is just going to shit I'm trying to do laundry and housework and act like I've got it together and here you are dumping my jewelry you're entertaining yourself you've got no one to play with I guess there's just nothing to do but pick it up no I don't want your help just get away from me I don't even want to look at you right now and I hate hate hate myself for how I feel about you when you're just a little guy and you're just curious and I wish I was a better mother and oh my God where the fuck is my wedding band no get away stop it oh shit where is it where is it I've found all the earrings and the diamond and the other rings where is the band how many times do I have to tell you to leave my things alone this is my stuff stop it leave it just leave it alone my wedding band is gone I'm crying now and I know it's just a ring just a thing but this makes me so sad your daddy gave me this ring this is from daddy he gave it to me on the day we finally got married and this is my wedding ring and I miss him so much he's gone so long at sea and he gave me this ring and I'm sobbing and there is snot coming out of my nose and I'm on the floor now you're really crying and upset and trying to hug me and crap I have to hug you because you're making that funny little upset penguin honk and you only ever do that when you're super upset of course you're upset because you're just 2 and you don't know why your mom is on the floor sobbing but you know it might have something to do with you and you just said "it's OK" in half reassurance to me and half hope for yourself and you're putting your soft little chubby hands on the side of my face and trying to physically lift my sobbing face into a smile this makes me love you and hate myself even more and stop it you have to go somewhere else now I can't do this right now I just want to find this ring it has to be here somewhere I'll go through everything and lift up everything and put away all this piled stuff maybe it fell into this stuff everywhere wait a minute I'm doing extra work now and it's taking more time where did he go I hear the rattle of the blinds in the guest bedroom my God is he hanging himself in the cords of the blinds while I'm looking for a stupid ring I'm running down the hallway nope there he is just screwing around trying to make that noise again with the blinds c'mon let's go downstairs and do this laundry please I just want to do some laundry it's the one thing that always makes me feel like I can accomplish something just something anything in this house that can be some evidence that I have done something right.<br />
<br />
(Just a little snippet from my morning.)MOMMY REMIXhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11432130123796382508noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4325337412721246938.post-79951872446642846032015-03-12T16:28:00.000-04:002015-03-12T16:28:43.926-04:00Spring, Swings and SongMy <a href="http://mommyremix.blogspot.com/2015/03/winter-pants-blues.html" target="_blank"><b>pantless wish</b></a> is slowly but surely coming true. Temperatures are in the 40s and the snow is melting. There are huge swaths of snow-squashed grass emerging in the yard, and the roads and sidewalks are clear enough for actual traversing without 4-wheel drive.<br />
<br />
I've spent the last several minutes listening to one of the surest signs of spring: birdsong. I am no ornithologist. I can distinguish a handful of birds -- cardinals, robins, blue jays, crows, eagles, hawks, doves -- with confidence, and I will get lucky at correctly guessing a finch or sparrow. And of course I know pigeons, seagulls, geese and ducks. But that's mostly by sight and rarely by sound.<br />
<br />
This one bird that has been calling nearby sounds exactly like another great sound of spring: swinging. You know, that rhythmic squeaking of a metal chain link on a metal hook that has hung mostly unused and frozen in ice all winter. Swings squeak any season, but there is something ringing and extra clear about it in spring, when a kid can finally get to it in the park again. Summer swings sound different, I swear.<br />
<br />
So if you know what that bird is, that one that sounds like a creaking swing set in spring, let me know.<br />
<br />
Max and I will be doing some actual swinging any day now. We went for our first spring walk up and down our street today, jumping in puddles and stomping the random dry leaf that had clung to a tree all winter but finally made a dive to make way for new growth.<br />
<br />
We have been driving past the village park all winter, but there was something about it today that finally made him ask to go to it. Maybe it was because he can finally see the ground again and he remembers how fun it is to run around there.<br />
<br />
Or maybe that calling bird reminded him of the swings.MOMMY REMIXhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11432130123796382508noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4325337412721246938.post-11594819340324214452015-03-02T10:49:00.003-05:002015-03-12T16:28:53.458-04:00Winter Pants BluesThe sun is shining on the fresh snow, making it look a lot more pleasant outside than it actually is. Temperatures are hovering around 20, which is a lot better than the recent below-zero stretch, but that's still more than 10 degrees below freezing. I'm not going out there, and neither is my toddler. Unfortunately this is contributing to some cabin fever and a slight funk.<br />
<br />
Sure, we could go out for a few minutes. But unless the ratio of time outside is favorable to the time spent before and after, dealing with all of the snowsuits and boots and mittens and the literal body wrestling to get the 40-pound block of human ice back inside the house and then the mopping up of wet snow melting everywhere, I'm not likely to attempt it today.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXyJ87JnGg2E_6EYuzi05SWrk-7krUS_v2EtMUNSE1EhNxo-DZEwyEiXNmE4KTa3JIYY3WZbKTBBW17F0kc9hNKxgUAfcLlPDiHZ8kRdNFh5LATD2zWWVsfY4Ff_D5ihQn62XiXpoC5wB3/s1600/dress.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXyJ87JnGg2E_6EYuzi05SWrk-7krUS_v2EtMUNSE1EhNxo-DZEwyEiXNmE4KTa3JIYY3WZbKTBBW17F0kc9hNKxgUAfcLlPDiHZ8kRdNFh5LATD2zWWVsfY4Ff_D5ihQn62XiXpoC5wB3/s1600/dress.jpg" height="320" width="224" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I've been Pinning dresses like mad.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Lots of us encounter a sudden dip in emotional well-being this time of year. Seasonal affective disorder (SAD) is a <a href="http://www.mayoclinic.org/diseases-conditions/seasonal-affective-disorder/basics/definition/con-20021047" target="_blank">real thing</a>, but I haven't really experienced it in northwest Ohio. Central New York in winter, yes, but not here where I have lots of positive associations with winter weather and where we really fare a lot better than other parts of the country when it comes to never-ending snow or consecutive gray, sunless days.<br />
<br />
A lot of my friends begin complaining about the winter weather early in the season, like by Dec. 1. I have an unofficial rule of waiting until March 1. But again, I know where I live and I know there is going to be a few more fierce snow storms before spring really arrives, no matter what the date on the calendar is.<br />
<br />
It's March 2, and I feel freer to grump a bit. Being stuck inside a house with a toddler makes anyone grumpy at any time of the year. But he isn't really the object of my distress right now.<br />
<br />
It's pants.<br />
<br />
I am so sick of wearing warm clothes. Especially pants, with their tight waistbands and their dragging hems, but I've pretty much had it with long-sleeved tops too. How I long for skirts and dresses, for toe-bearing shoes, for skipping out of the house without a bulky wool coat that is screaming for an end-of-season trip to the dry cleaners.<br />
<br />
I know it can be a symptom of depression when a woman wanders around her house all day in her nightgown and robe. But it's because I can't bear the thought of putting on pants one more day this winter. Not if I don't have to go out in public or welcome a non-relative into my home. I don't even own snow pants.<br />
<br />
Ugh, please, no more pants. Give me spring and a flowing, flowery frock. I'll even be satisfied with my heather gray jersey-knit dress that is basically a giant T-shirt. Even if you can't see it, I want to be bare from my undies to my shoes. Free legs. Pantless legs. ZZ Top legs.<br />
<br />
Now I really am having a depressive hallucination.MOMMY REMIXhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11432130123796382508noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4325337412721246938.post-72590641228379602682015-02-27T19:34:00.001-05:002015-02-28T08:50:36.477-05:00The Tax Tutor ComethMy husband is a great provider for our family. It's a hard way to go about it -- being away from that family more than half the year in one of the hardest professionally skilled jobs on the planet, IMHO -- and sometimes we wonder if it's all really "worth it."<br />
<br />
There's not much arguing with the net worth on the balance sheet, though. We may not be together like most couples get to be, but when we are together we get to live and travel and have experiences that a lot of couples only dream about. I mean, Robin Leach isn't going to show up any time soon, but it's a comfort for which I can be only grateful.<br />
<br />
One of the greatest things Dan ever did for us financially was to contract with a local firm that manages all of our money matters. Taxes, investments, cash flow, household budget, college savings plan -- you name it, they do it. They set up a trust for all of our assets, and I finally got a power of attorney that makes handling business while Dan is away at sea so much easier.<br />
<br />
The best part is that Dan and I can pester our financial consultant and our accountant -- hell, even the secretary there -- as often as we want. They are extremely nice and knowledgeable. And whenever there is an issue, or some sort of hoop jumping that financial matters inevitably require, they and the rest of the team there will do the research and make the calls and fill out the forms.<br />
<br />
Oh my God, the forms.<br />
<br />
Any and all forms ever sent my way should come with a brown paper lunch bag. Forms make me hyperventilate. I have a bad association with forms when it comes to money and insurance and other Really Important Stuff. Very bad. But the folks at <b><a href="https://www.hantzgroup.com/Default.aspx" target="_blank">Hantz</a></b>, along with <b><a href="http://www.toledocpa.com/default.asp" target="_blank">Titus & Urbanski</a></b>, just handle it and tell me where to sign.<br />
<br />
Spare me any lecturing on how I, especially as a smart and capable woman, should know more about finances and should be able to figure it out myself. I'm scarred, OK? Besides, for good or evil, money is rather important and having experts sort it all out isn't a dumb idea. I take my clothes to a really good tailor, even though I could take three times as long to hem my own pants and probably end up with uneven stitches and a bloody finger. I'll take my money to a really good financial firm, and I won't be the one calling the banks and the brokers and the myriad governmental gatekeepers and waiting on hold until Christ comes again.<br />
<br />
Enter Tony the Tax Man, as I call him. T-Bone, as my husband calls him. We met him at a vendor's booth for his firm at our little village's annual summer festival. Dan had been on the hunt for a new CPA to prepare his taxes, which are ridiculous because of his sailing schedule, independent consulting, union, Navy orders, etc., and was considering a financial adviser too since I had quit earning my own paycheck and the whole family's financial stability was now in one basket.<br />
<br />
Filed under Small World Wonders, it turned out folks from Tony the Tax Man's firm were the exact same ones who gave a presentation on retirement investments that I had covered for the newspaper. [You can read that little gem here: <b><a href="http://www.ourtownperrysburg.com/Our-Town-Business/2013/01/14/Older-residents-urged-to-do-estate-tax-planning-for-retirement.html" target="_blank">"Older residents urged to do estate, tax planning for retirement"</a></b> -- I did not write that boring headline, by the way.]<br />
<br />
Dan and I ended up scheduling a meeting with Brian the Brain (a moniker I only now made up but which totally fits), and it was he who had been the first one to ever make any of that 401(k) shit sound sensible to me -- and hopefully to the Silver Sneakers seniors gathered at the YMCA that day as well. A copy of my article was even laminated and among the pile of magazines on the lobby table when we first arrived at the office. Good omen, eh?<br />
<br />
So now, Tony the Tax Man prepares our return, Brian the Brain keeps our finances on track, and Kristine the Great (our lovely lawyer queen) helped us prepare all of the documents that say who gets our kids when we die. Now that is one-stop shopping.<br />
<br />
But today I'm particularly fond of Tony the Tax Man. A preview ad for HBO's <b><a href="http://www.hbo.com/silicon-valley#/" target="_blank">"Silicon Valley"</a></b> finally made me realize why he looks so familiar; Tony apparently is the stunt double for Zach Woods. A letter from the Ohio Department of Taxation made me realize how very vital Tony is in keeping my hyperventilating feelings at bay.<br />
<br />
Good ol' ODT sent both Dan and me an "identity verification" letter stating how very concerned the department was with being responsible to the American taxpayer and doing everything it could to combat fraud. What I read was it wanted me to jump through one more goddamned hoop and had made it cumbersome enough in the hopes that it wouldn't really have to issue us any refund.<br />
<br />
At first I played it very cool. I followed the letter's directions, went online to take the <b><a href="http://www.tax.ohio.gov/IdentityTheft-IDQuiz.aspx" target="_blank">ID quiz</a></b>, and had Dan's letter scanned in and ready to attach to an email that I planned to send to him aboard his ship with this very easygoing and reassuring note that I had successfully passed the quiz and he just needed to do this teensy little thing and everything would be golden.<br />
<br />
Instead, I wrote him and cc'd Tony the Tax Man with a record of my failure. I couldn't even get past the log in page. But Dan couldn't either, and I suppose that made me feel a bit less incompetent. We kept getting these errors that we weren't in the Ohio Department of Taxation's system. All I could think was, "Then why the f*ck did you send me this letter?" This is why I hate this stuff so so so much. It never works out.<br />
<br />
But Tony eventually got us the answers we needed and set us on the path to passing the quiz. Tony the Tax Tutor.<br />
<br />
I highly recommend getting a financial adviser or manager or consultant, even if you think you don't have that many finances to be advised/managed/consulted in the first place. An adviser actually helps you find more money. And if you can, find one that does all these services together, especially if you are ever paying for anyone else to do your taxes. The fee for this particular firm is $100 a month, and that includes our annual tax preparation so really it's only 60 more bucks a month for the year. Money doesn't scare me that much to miss the good deal in all of this. Kristine the Great had her own fees, but if you have people you love and property you want to protect and pass on, you really need the kind of stuff she handles.<br />
<br />
Now all that's in my little brown paper bag is a sandwich. Bought and paid for, baby. Pass the mayo.MOMMY REMIXhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11432130123796382508noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4325337412721246938.post-15622262533098175462014-12-03T14:55:00.000-05:002014-12-03T14:55:19.652-05:00Elf on Shelf Might as Well Be Chucky<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjujaplkZrPIbJPSVZ_G4PeOFRlEi-ynWOD9qFfkLJykJ2HjF7-cEAPpfvIToG6kw7Oos0g7vm1ncj6HBTBpO8YCrq4FbRnF8Tk2qb7PdMs_2elRs9CgMm4vaaHTajVWHOL_bvInnlR3WC3/s1600/chuckyelf.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjujaplkZrPIbJPSVZ_G4PeOFRlEi-ynWOD9qFfkLJykJ2HjF7-cEAPpfvIToG6kw7Oos0g7vm1ncj6HBTBpO8YCrq4FbRnF8Tk2qb7PdMs_2elRs9CgMm4vaaHTajVWHOL_bvInnlR3WC3/s1600/chuckyelf.jpg" height="296" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">These dolls are essentially the same thing to me.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Not just no, but hell no.<br />
<br />
I am not a fan of the Elf on the Shelf. I cringe whenever friends post pictures on social media of where the little doll -- of the literary version or some other similar incarnation -- moved upon its own volition throughout their homes.<br />
<br />
I am a fan of childhood mystery and magic. I am a fan of holiday tradition. I'm just not a fan of dolls that move. Not since the movie "Child's Play."<br />
<br />
More campy than creepy now, that stupid serial killer doll Chucky made me rather anxious in my adolescence. Dolls were my most favorite toy growing up, and several dolls and stuffed animals were still hanging around my room as fond reminders when I first saw the film in the late '80s.<br />
<br />
A possessed doll isn't really groundbreaking in the terror genre, but it remains a thread in storytelling because what could possibly be worse than an object intended for joy to turn into something dreadful, particularly when it belongs to a child?<br />
<br />
I developed an abject fear of any stuffed thing with eyes and limbs suddenly coming to life at night and hacking me to pieces as I lay in my bed.<br />
<br />
I'm sure I've given my sons enough terror in their lives and reasons for therapy. I don't need to add to the mix dolls that apparently got up on their own two legs and climbed up a bookshelf or crept into the cereal box or tangled themselves into a strand of Christmas lights.MOMMY REMIXhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11432130123796382508noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4325337412721246938.post-46088389066021924942014-11-19T11:04:00.000-05:002015-02-27T07:53:53.087-05:00Cleanup in Aisle 2Why so long between blog posts? Because Max's toddlerhood is kicking my ass.<br />
<br />
So is karma. Remember how I said I'd never let my kids eat something in the grocery store without paying for it? No matter how well I try to adjust my errand schedule around his eating schedule, his tantrum-threatening blood sugar level often demands a tub of miniature peanut butter sandwich cookies.<br />
<br />
In the 20 seconds it took me to write this much, Max snatched a votive candle from a drawer and drew wax lines on the bay window. When I let out an audible sigh as I was rubbing the scribbles off with my shirt sleeve, he succinctly said, "Oh, shit." So much for struggling not to swear in front of him.<br />
<br />
Back to the grocery store. But not to the grocery store to which we usually go, and where Max usually gets to ride in one of those plastic cars attached to the shopping cart. We recently stopped at a local mom-n-pop to get some of my favorite deli treats.<br />
<br />
Max erupted into the worst screaming fit he has ever had in public as soon as we got through the door. It unbelievably increased in intensity when I tried to wrestle him into the child seat of a regular cart. I got frustrated because I had zipped up the lining of his brand new winter parka and couldn't get it off of him so that he didn't have some sort of heat stroke while thrashing around in the cart.<br />
<br />
Wait, I have to stop for a minute and tend to his absolute heartbroken sobbing that I won't let him play with my computer mouse.<br />
<br />
And now I have to feel bad that when I tried to forcibly lead him away from my desk, he stumbled and fell and sat down hard right on my iPad that he was using to watch PBS. I said out loud, "Oh, shit!"<br />
<br />
OK, back to the grocery store tantrum. It was so bad so fast that I just pulled him out of the cart and threw him back in the car before we even made it down one aisle. My superhumanly sweet mother-in-law, visiting from Arizona, was with us, and she generously offered to sit in the car with him while I shopped in peace.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-3tMXmXwLvbsy8mdwVZfNgCPtgk3MgMrLkaQZb9zMH4BmZuoLIKJdCiIOopr7eeCN138WaiptkbG7o8Ik_qpcWa0-GB_VfAhEw84THlPJWjph40GOomq5rUdm6pXHSj3VFSUyL8GrIlj_/s1600/maxtable.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-3tMXmXwLvbsy8mdwVZfNgCPtgk3MgMrLkaQZb9zMH4BmZuoLIKJdCiIOopr7eeCN138WaiptkbG7o8Ik_qpcWa0-GB_VfAhEw84THlPJWjph40GOomq5rUdm6pXHSj3VFSUyL8GrIlj_/s1600/maxtable.jpg" height="180" width="320" /></a></div>
I swear to God, only 83 seconds have passed since I started writing again. I had to stop to pull Max off of the kitchen table. See photographic evidence. And no, he didn't want those boxes of toys. He's looking for my new ceramic wine bottle coaster dish and stopper. He likes to swirl the stopper around in the dish and listen to the clink-clink-clink. I had it on the table only once, for a party on Sunday, but he knows he might score some salt shakers or place mats or something else if he gets up there. He has zero interest in the toys meant for him.<br />
<br />
And while writing that paragraph, I had to yell at him for using a similar box of toys as a stepping stool on the bay window bench in an attempt to flip open the safety locks on the side windows that help keep robbers out and children in.<br />
<br />
Where the hell was I? Oh yeah, the grocery store. But not the right grocery store. Thank goodness I remembered to leave the car running with the heat on. My mother-in-law would not have complained, but she would have been a tiny little icicle by the time I got my potato salad and sandwich spread. My toddler fell asleep, one whole hour before his usual nap time.<br />
<br />
I've left and come back again. Max said he wanted peaches for a snack. While serving him the last container, I realize we have to go to the grocery store and get more.<br />
<br />
I don't get to throw a tantrum. I don't get to melt down and have someone feed me and put me down for a nap. I don't have a choice that it's freaking snowing again and I would have to bundle up Max so much that he might not fit in his car seat on our trip to the grocery store.<br />
<br />
Max is a smart, sweet, lovey-dovey boy that has a limitless need for my attention and efforts. I do better when I write more, but I haven't had the chance to blog in almost a year. I'm not as good as a mom when I don't process it, and I can process only the reality. My reality seemed too stressful, or it seemed too unseemly to complain or make Max out to be a terrible kid when he's really just a typical 2 1/2-year-old boy.<br />
<br />
But there's no explaining to him that I will have more time to give him attention if he would just simply let me have a little time to myself. I end up feeling like I'm at this computer all day because the constant interruptions stretch out the work of five minutes to five hours.<br />
<br />
I feel like a failure. I feel like I should be more grateful that he has energy, that he is inquisitive and curious, that he wants my hugs and kisses and tickles and smiles to make everything right in his world.<br />
<br />
There, I've said it. I've written it. I feel it sliding off and slipping away from me, returning some buoyancy and confidence to spend the rest of today tending to my toddler's needs.<br />
<br />
Which is good timing, because I'm pretty sure he's standing there pooping his pants.MOMMY REMIXhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11432130123796382508noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4325337412721246938.post-38839060100024379642014-01-14T14:47:00.000-05:002014-11-19T22:15:20.223-05:00Tower of Babble Babble BabbleMax is 20 months old and on the cusp of a vocabulary explosion. I can feel it. I thought it might be good to record what words he can say now.<br />
<br />
This is not bragging. This is me being completely obsessed with language and lists. (OK, maybe a little bragging.)<br />
<br />
Of course, only a few of the words below are articulated as clearly as you and I might say them. Max can't really make the "L" sound at the end of "ball," but we all know he is saying "ball" when he is saying "baaa-uh." (The fact that he is usually carrying his big orange bouncy ball is a pretty good clue.)<br />
<br />
A few words come out "baaa-uh," but if you listen carefully to inflection you can tell whether he is saying "ball," "bottle" or "block." Other words don't sound anything like the real word -- he says "beeps" for "grapes" -- but we know what he means and that counts as a word in my book. That is what language is for, after all. Communication.<br />
<br />
It is hilarious how he says "triangle" and "rectangle." There are at least six extra syllables in there, but he gets an "A" for effort.<br />
<br />
Speaking of "A," I'll also note that he is beginning to correctly identify and say some letters and numbers, including: A, B, D, E, O, R, T, 2, 8 and 9.<br />
<br />
All of these words for the past several months, and only a few days ago did Max finally call his parents Mama and Dada. His first word ever was "Grandpa," starting out as "Papa" but moving fairly quickly to "Gam-pa." My mother is beside herself that he still hasn't called her "Woo" yet. (That's another story how she got that moniker.) Max learned both "Brother" and "Gabe" (which comes out "Ge-eee") but still no "Woo."<br />
<br />
Here's the bragging part. All of the words listed below are what Max says in context or in correct identification. He can speak a lot more words, often just repeating what someone else is saying, but this list is really about what he can say about the things he knows.<br />
<br />
<b><u>Names</u></b><br />
Dada<br />
Mama<br />
Brother<br />
Gabe<br />
Grandpa<br />
Baby (any little baby he sees)<br />
<br />
<b><u>Animals</u></b><br />
dog<br />
cat<br />
pig<br />
moo moo (for "cow")<br />
bird<br />
duck<br />
horse<br />
mouse<br />
goat<br />
bear<br />
lion<br />
hippo<br />
bug<br />
dinosaur<br />
<br />
<b><u>At the Table</u></b><br />
cup<br />
spoon<br />
fork (comes out "bork," too cute)<br />
knife<br />
grapes ("beeps")<br />
cookie<br />
cracker<br />
pouch (those squirty puree things)<br />
bottle<br />
cheese<br />
banana<br />
carrot<br />
peas<br />
corn<br />
cake<br />
<br />
<b><u>Body</u></b><br />
hair<br />
ear<br />
eye<br />
nose<br />
teeth<br />
mouth<br />
toe<br />
head<br />
pee pee (fear not, I will teach him anatomical words)<br />
<br />
<b><u>Toys/Characters</u></b><br />
ball<br />
block<br />
boat<br />
map (from "Dora the Explorer")<br />
backpack (ditto)<br />
Thomas (as in the Tank Engine)<br />
Blue's Clues<br />
Bot (from "Team Umizoomi")<br />
Elmo<br />
Bubble Guppies (he hits all of the syllables, but not exactly in the right order)<br />
Bubble Puppy ("Bup Pup")<br />
SpongeBob ("Bob Bob" -- and thanks, Gabe, for the early exposure)<br />
<br />
<b><u>His World</u></b><br />
car<br />
truck<br />
crane<br />
choo choo (for "train")<br />
book<br />
bath<br />
sock<br />
shoe<br />
hat<br />
tissue (one of my favorites, and one of his most clearly articulated)<br />
bubble<br />
balloon<br />
pumpkin<br />
toothbrush (this one comes and goes, it was one of his first words, but he doesn't say it much now)<br />
light<br />
door<br />
bink ("pacifier")<br />
snow<br />
sky<br />
moon<br />
sun<br />
star (in the astronomical and geometrical sense)<br />
triangle<br />
rectangle<br />
oval<br />
circle<br />
box<br />
<br />
<b><u>Colors</u></b><br />
blue<br />
green<br />
purple<br />
orange<br />
black<br />
pink<br />
red<br />
<br />
<b><u>Other</u></b><br />
bye bye<br />
hi<br />
hello<br />
go<br />
uh-oh<br />
no<br />
thank you<br />
don't<br />
all done<br />
up<br />
down<br />
big<br />
small<br />
apart<br />
together<br />
pop<br />
pat<br />
back<br />
cold<br />
hot<br />
march<br />
amen (although I think even at church he thinks we're all saying "Oh, man!" like Swiper the Fox on "Dora")<br />
<br />
And then one of my favorite things he says, in a way, is the fake snore for "sleep." "Acgghh-shooo, acgghh-shoo, acgghh-shoo ..."MOMMY REMIXhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11432130123796382508noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4325337412721246938.post-61103434533139503142013-11-29T17:01:00.000-05:002013-11-29T17:01:05.077-05:00The Sound of Music"The Sound of Music" is kind of sacred cow in our house, but one of Max's favorite lullabies is one that I wrote to the tune of "Edelweiss."<br />
<br />
You may remember that I do this a lot. I composed a <a href="http://mommyremix.blogspot.com/2012/06/maxs-lullaby.html" target="_blank"><b>new version of "I See the Moon"</b></a> to connect our baby to his daddy when he is out to sea, coming up with it long before I was even pregnant. When Max turned into such a nursing fanatic, I was moved to write <a href="http://mommyremix.blogspot.com/2012/06/maxs-anthem.html" target="_blank"><b>"No Sleep till Boobie,"</b></a> an homage to the Beastie Boys.<br />
<br />
This new one gives a shout-out to all of the folks who love him. We call Gabe "Brother" a lot, Woo is my mother, and Poppy is Dan's mother's beloved. I have to be careful to sing this when Max is really tired. He loves to say "Grandpa" and will pull out his pacifier and say, "Paaaaaa," waiting for me to repeat the verses so he can do it again.<br />
<br />
Maybe I write these lullabies just because I can't remember the real lyrics to anything. But I like to think it's something clever and sweet. Hopefully, personalized songs will make Max remember that his mother really could be kind to him when every other thing about trying to get him to sleep sucks donkey balls. <br />
<br />
And so, here's our lovely rocking chair song, "Baby Boy" (imagine Christopher Plummer crooning it, drawing out all of the vowel sounds):<br />
<br />
<b>"Baby Boy"</b><br />
<br />
Baby boy, baby boy<br />
Boy, does your mommy love you<br />
Baby boy, baby boy<br />
Boy, your daddy loves you too<br />
<br />
Grandma, Poppy<br />
Your aunts and uncles<br />
Brother, Woo and Grandpa<br />
<br />
Baby boy, baby boy<br />
Boy, your family loves youMOMMY REMIXhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11432130123796382508noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4325337412721246938.post-77968388523325513762013-11-20T13:33:00.000-05:002013-11-20T13:41:07.869-05:00'We Deserve to See a Range'I cried for three days when I found out I was going to have another boy. Now I can't imagine my life without Max in it, but boy oh boy did I want a girl.<br />
<br />
I love the idea of seeing what kind of mother of a daughter I'd be after being the daughter of my mother. I also love the hair bows and the frilly dresses, the dolls and the sparkles, the girly girl stuff in all of its forms.<br />
<br />
But I know there are varied, wonderful dimensions to being a girl. I happen to have some of them. A pink princess castle isn't the only part. Hell, it doesn't need to be a part at all.<br />
<br />
Frankly, castles should be gray. A little reality doesn't hurt any girl. Boys get castle sets that resemble real stone, so why does a girl's castle toy have to be pink? It's more of the same conspiracy to label girls as the "weaker" sex that is stamped right on their diapers. (See <a href="http://mommyremix.blogspot.com/2013/03/the-cheese-stands-alone.html" target="_blank"><b>"The Cheese Stands Alone"</b></a> blog post.)<br />
<br />
Toy company GoldieBlox, which makes interactive books and games, is doing its very best to combat this nonsense and encourage girls to play with science and engineering concepts. (See <a href="http://www.slate.com/blogs/xx_factor/2013/11/19/goldieblox_commercial_rewrites_the_beastie_boys_urges_young_girls_to_pursue.html" target="_blank"><b>Slate.com article</b></a>.) Even better, it set a commercial of girls using all of that pink plastic crap as the world's biggest Mousetrap game to a Beastie Boys tune. I just so happened to have a little love affair with them when I was growing up.<br />
<br />
That's not very pink and frilly at all. But they did inspire an awesome lullaby, "No Sleep till Boobie." (See <a href="http://mommyremix.blogspot.com/2012/06/maxs-anthem.html" target="_blank"><b>"Max's Anthem"</b></a> blog post.)<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />
I love, love, love Christmas. I look forward to decorating my house all year, but I don't do it until after Thanksgiving. That holiday deserves its own feast and festivities.<br />
<br />
I do my best to avoid the rampant commercialism that heralds the coming of the prince of peace. (No, the irony is not lost on me.) But I'm not always quick enough to mute the commercials between the few TV programs my toddler watches.<br />
<br />
There are about four blog posts in this introduction alone, and I'll probably get to all of them at some point. What I want to write about today is one of the toys I heard advertised in those commercials.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuP3jNgxrqT0omdyU8tjpeRS_MffeJq67usQtQXPSxu_jGJ-w188qMAVGk6VVqiRm72FL47VGizQ9q3p0vt5MjJOjVhUPhUWmY8k_vitMG4rTRbbIPh1MwdNtA9A0Fjv8ooEtaKQgfIVk1/s1600/operation.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="252" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuP3jNgxrqT0omdyU8tjpeRS_MffeJq67usQtQXPSxu_jGJ-w188qMAVGk6VVqiRm72FL47VGizQ9q3p0vt5MjJOjVhUPhUWmY8k_vitMG4rTRbbIPh1MwdNtA9A0Fjv8ooEtaKQgfIVk1/s320/operation.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Hasbro was hocking its games, including Operation. I about needed one myself when the announcer happily proclaimed that the pieces were "now easier to remove!!!"<br />
<br />
What the hell? Isn't that the absolute point of this game?<br />
<br />
My grandmother had the classic version, preserved since it first came out in the 1960s. We played with it constantly as kids, jumping every time our little metal tweezers made contact with the exposed metal border of the various anatomical parts the player is to remove.<br />
<br />
There probably was a significant electrocution risk, but we played it like it was designed to be played: tough.<br />
<br />
Operation back then taught us to be careful, patient and persevering. Operation today will teach kids that everything is easy and handed to them on a silver platter.<br />
<br />
And we wonder why kids can be such pains in the Adam's apple.<br />
<br />
The piece that desperately needs to be removed from parents' brains is that unfortunate desire to make things easier for their children. That won't make an experience more enjoyable. It just will heighten children's disappointment in all things and will erode their self-confidence and creativity. And yet Hasbro has caved to get their money.<br />
<br />
Childhood isn't complete without a little zap now and again. MOMMY REMIXhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11432130123796382508noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4325337412721246938.post-5131724917808770142013-11-01T13:01:00.000-04:002013-11-01T13:09:57.736-04:00Neither Snow, Nor Rain, Nor Heat, Nor Gloom of NightThere was a blizzard yesterday, but not the snowy kind of my childhood that prompted us to wear thermal leggings under our Halloween costumes and parkas over them.<br />
<br />
It was a social media storm, conducted by pleading parents and a few school board candidates mere days away from the election. Heavy rain and wind were in the forecast, and communities all over northwest Ohio started postponing trick-or-treat times.<br />
<br />
Some did it earlier in the week, while other officials tried waiting as long as possible to see if the weather would cooperate. But once a few communities started switching dates, the rest fell like dominoes -- even those with long-standing traditions of Oct. 31, rain or shine.<br />
<br />
It is apparent that many bended not to Mother Nature but to Mother Next Door.<br />
<br />
I get it. No one wants to be outdoors in that kind of weather, let alone shepherding kids dressed as dinosaurs and superheros and spooky creatures. And there was the danger of cars losing traction on wet, leaf-strewn streets and plowing into crowds of candy-collectors. Because that happens all the time.<br />
<br />
What no one really wanted was a kid dressed as Iron Man writhing on the kitchen floor in a full-blown tantrum that he didn't get to go trick-or-treating this year when his parent determined the weather was too inclement. <br />
<br />
First, it would have needed to be an active tornado warning for parents of yesteryear (like mine) to even consider not letting us go out on Halloween night. We might not go far or for very long, but we all bundled up and got a few blocks covered. We'd dutifully unzip our coats when neighbors asked, "Well, what are you supposed to be, sweetie?" Hell, most of the time we incorporated boots and gloves into our costumes just to be prepared. It's the end of October in northwest Ohio. It's gonna be crappy weather most years.<br />
<br />
Second, if I had thrown such a fit, my parents never would have let me trick-or-treat again. It just wasn't acceptable, but particularly to be that dismayed about an annual event, one at which we'd get another shot the next year. This was the same for Fourth of July. Fireworks were on July 4 only, and there weren't even displays every week at the baseball game like there are now. If it rained, the show got canceled and you waited until next year.<br />
<br />
This was crucial development for us on how to handle disappointment. Parents today seem much less willing to deal with this admittedly hard part of raising a child. They hover over their kids and fix every little trial that comes their way. They're reordering days of the year, for heaven's sake.<br />
<br />
I know several amazing, clever, thoughtful, dutiful parents with smart, respectful, playful children who wanted trick-or-treat times to be rescheduled around the weather forecast. This alone certainly doesn't make for a parenting failure. But it is a disturbing trend nonetheless.<br />
<br />
If the weather turns sour next Halloween, I encourage you to get more creative about how you will handle it. A neighbor of mine throws a party every year for his children and their friends, and he arranges for them to trick-or-treat on our street at a certain time. (He and his wife even offer to supply the candy.) You and your neighbors could always do this among yourselves.<br />
<br />
Check around your communities for shopping malls and churches who offer indoor trick-or-treating for a Plan B. You might find it a happy alternative on most years.<br />
<br />
Or stay home and make a night of it. Throw an impromptu Halloween parade around your house, banging on pots and pans. Hide all the candy you were going to pass out around your house and have a scavenger hunt, with all the lamps off and using flashlights. Play games, make paper plate masks, read books, watch "It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown." <br />
<br />
Resist the urge to call your town hall and demand an official change in trick-or-treat times. You'll be setting a much better example for your kids.MOMMY REMIXhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11432130123796382508noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4325337412721246938.post-1931898525824550482013-10-30T08:58:00.000-04:002013-10-30T08:59:46.008-04:00Co-Sleeping Nightmares<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy_rObiI6v25XSJalIJ8SkZ1AJ3IYjj1Iilts4f6fmilzCU6_c2r2gEe6BJTQSwORv7n3sibT_lVhe5JheS5Drk6z1YaJNp_yb0Z31ThuIcunYkZ9YmXVBYeCoIQsG_W9Tm9ORVY2HNrPY/s1600/IMG_20131030_080212_282.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy_rObiI6v25XSJalIJ8SkZ1AJ3IYjj1Iilts4f6fmilzCU6_c2r2gEe6BJTQSwORv7n3sibT_lVhe5JheS5Drk6z1YaJNp_yb0Z31ThuIcunYkZ9YmXVBYeCoIQsG_W9Tm9ORVY2HNrPY/s400/IMG_20131030_080212_282.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The scene this morning.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I hate co-sleeping with my baby. I do it, but I hate it.<br />
<br />
Here are a few things you should know:<br />
<br />
1. Max has been a terrible sleeper since the day he was born. Hates to sleep. Never seen anything like it.<br />
<br />
2. He isn't really a baby anymore. He's a 17-month-old toddler, and co-sleeping with him has gotten increasingly frustrating.<br />
<br />
3. My husband doesn't like this arrangement any more than I do, although for different reasons.<br />
<br />
4. Yes, I've tried everything. Yes, it's safe. Yes, I'd like it to be different. Your advice is not being solicited here. I need to vent.<br />
<br />
Co-sleeping supporters tend to be the enthusiastic kind, the ones who are really into attachment parenting and point to cultures across the globe who don't put their offspring in cages in a separate room at night. They fiercely defend the practice against the traditionalists and the medically panicked alike.<br />
<br />
I'm not one of those people, really. I'm doing it just because that's the only thing that worked for Max. I found myself trying to explain the history of his sleep habits and justify how he ended up in my bed here in this post, but I deleted all of that. You'll just have to believe me. From the day he was born he was like this, and having him sleep next to me was the last resort.<br />
<br />
Gabe had slept in his own places, after all, with no trouble. Fifteen years later, I had every intention of my new baby sleeping in his own bed. We had a bassinet, a crib AND a playpen set up well before Max even came home. We were fools.<br />
<br />
Getting Max to nap during the day in his crib was a major achievement that took months and months. Hell, just getting him to fall asleep in the first place is a victory every time. I spend hours of my life trying to rock him and sing to him and pat him. No, I don't let him Cry It Out. That's mean. And he doesn't cry. He just lies there awake, happy, waiting to throw a tantrum later in the day when we're out in public and he hasn't napped.<br />
<br />
Nighttime is still ruled by co-sleeping. And not just sleeping in the same bed with me; Max wants to sleep cuddled up right up next to me, and I can't stand it. I don't like sleeping with anybody else, not even my husband.<br />
<br />
Hold on -- there are several things I like to do with my husband in bed. (How do you think Max got here?) I'll cuddle, talk, have sex, horse around, even submit to the occasional spooning for a nap. But when it comes to really sleeping, at night, to recharge my body and brain?<br />
<br />
Get. Off. Of. Me.<br />
<br />
I don't need a BTU factory or a sheet stealer or a nerve pincher. I need a good rest. In a bed all to myself, with no one else's tossing and turning, snores, or farts other than my own. Selfish, I know.<br />
<br />
My dear husband wants to sleep in a bed with his wife in it. <i>Sigh</i>. I suppose, but it's just all rather moot since there is a toddler in his spot. My husband is out to sea right now so it's not like he's getting much sleep at all, but when he comes home the guest bed is still waiting for him. I had hopes that I would train Max to sleep in his own crib at night by the time his daddy came back, but that plan is going to the same place where most of mine go lately: straight to shit.<br />
<br />
Still, sleeping-as-in-sleeping with my husband would be better than sleeping with Max. Because the real issue is that Max likes to sleep with strands of my hair clenched in his grasp.<br />
<br />
I forget when Max started using my hair as his security blanket, but it's lasted for more than a year now. Some kids suck their thumbs. Max holds my hair. He runs his fingers through it, he holds it taut and strums it like a guitar, he even sucks on it if I'm not paying attention.<br />
<br />
He is still quite the restless sleeper at night, but he can usually self-soothe with a little handful of hair.<br />
<br />
This does not mean restful sleep for me. Max doesn't just reach for my hair, really. He drowsily gropes for it, which means he first picks my nose or slaps me on the forehead before he finds my scalp. And as he has gotten older and more independently mobile, he also wants to be cuddled up RIGHT NEXT TO ME. He even tries to put his very heavy, bowling ball-like head on top of my head. No matter how much I push him over onto his own side, he rolls or scoots or slides until he is pressing every available body part against me.<br />
<br />
It sucks. <br />
<br />
Try being asleep and getting head-butted in the nose so squarely you bleed or poked in the eye so hard you see stars. Happens to me nightly. Oh, and try to conceal your rage. Try to feel like a good mom when you throw your toddler into his crib from a rather significant distance just because you can't freaking take it one more night and then feel how tightly his arms clutch around your neck when you go back in and pick him up and he goes instantly back to sleep because all he needs in his little life is a fistful of hair and a warm cuddle and the assurance of love from the woman who just moments before treated him like bag of trash thrown into a can.<br />
<br />
Trust me, if I could get Max to sleep through the night in his own bed, I would. I was rather desperate to get it done while Dan is away. Then I would truly get some time in the bed all by myself. Because I know that as soon as I kick out the kid, the husband is going to come back in. At least he stays on his own side and hasn't punched me in the head yet.<br />
<br />
I'm not looking for suggestions, or even sympathy. I'm just trying to put an alternate perspective out there on co-sleeping. Not everyone is doing it out of choice or good will. Some of us are doing it because it's the only way that works, and by that we mean what's best for our kids. It certainly isn't because it's what is best for us. So give us a break.<br />
<br />
Just not on my nose.MOMMY REMIXhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11432130123796382508noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4325337412721246938.post-81529290006636945232013-10-28T13:37:00.001-04:002013-11-01T13:15:12.968-04:00Let's Pretend Caillou Gets CanceledI'm about to join the legions of parents who express a deep and abiding hatred for the cartoon character Caillou.<br />
<br />
My hairless baby unfortunately looked a lot like him, although we mostly got Charlie Brown references, thankfully. But why is Caillou hairless? He's like 4. Does he have cancer? Lice? A lazy artist?<br />
<br />
No, insists publisher Chouette, from whose books PBS made the titular series. Caillou -- pronounced "ki-YU" -- is bald so that he can relate to all youth. According to Chouette's website:<br />
<br />
"Caillou stands for all children. He doesn’t have curly blond hair, a carrot-top, brown hair, glasses, or ethnic features, because he represents all children. We wanted to make Caillou universal so every child could identify with him. And they do! Caillou’s baldness may make him different, but we hope it’s helping children understand that being different isn’t just okay, it’s normal." <br />
<br />
Give me a break, Caillou is NOT representative of any other kid than a lily white one. He has parents with Caucasian skin, mousy brown hair and schlumpy clothes, and a little sister with plenty of orange hair. It's sort of creepy, in a vague, break-away religious cult kind of way.<br />
<br />
And he is such a whiny brat of a boy. His incessant, plaintive dialogue is made all the more irritating by the high-pitched, nails-on-a-chalkboard sound that comes out of his mouth.<br />
<br />
The narrator rubs me the wrong way too. She's always so very impressed with Caillou's antics, whereas I just want to tell him to shut the hell up and go sit in his room and read a book.<br />
<br />
Even when raised in the most supportive, cognitively developed way, no child is going to pick Caillou when asked which cartoon character is most like him or her. <br />
<br />
The PBS website claims that the show has evolved since the days I first suffered through it with Gabe. There seems to be a big focus on playing make-believe and building self-esteem and cultivating a child's imagination.<br />
<br />
Are there children out there who are not imaginative? Is this a skill that has to be taught? Are we doing something that squelches imagination in children? I think Max will be fine without this show.<br />
<br />
And besides, the new synopsis raises a red flag for me:<br />
<br />
"Like other children, Caillou spruces up reality with a healthy dose of imagination. Each episode begins with an everyday event from Caillou's life that, through his mind's eye, quickly turns into a fantastic and larger-than-life adventure."<br />
<br />
Hmm. I don't think I want my child concentrating that much on removing himself from reality all the time. I loved, loved, loved "The Neverending Story," but this show's premise just sounds like an early exposure to mental illness.MOMMY REMIXhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11432130123796382508noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4325337412721246938.post-5264441514285717372013-05-09T09:02:00.000-04:002013-05-09T09:02:00.472-04:00Mouth Fishing<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRcCTvAc0XO5srNG4AAsyfYZiSOMxwV9yWfWhxTP4FWK-1C5zYMKdhvC5lPd92p3hBcQ7e42K32DZodOQxbVlDmrUVl36VOboZYNkZc6CpmonpIR8jBGLUG3Cwi2zNq0AaldxPTEFWG32E/s1600/maxelcaminoreal.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="1" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRcCTvAc0XO5srNG4AAsyfYZiSOMxwV9yWfWhxTP4FWK-1C5zYMKdhvC5lPd92p3hBcQ7e42K32DZodOQxbVlDmrUVl36VOboZYNkZc6CpmonpIR8jBGLUG3Cwi2zNq0AaldxPTEFWG32E/s320/maxelcaminoreal.jpg" /></a>I knew a young boy who swallowed a bug, I don't know why he swallowed a bug ... but he's not dying on my watch!<br />
<br />
This morning I had to fish out several pieces of ladybug from my nearly 1-year-old son's mouth. To say this took an extreme amount of fortitude would be an understatement.<br />
<br />
I grew up on a farm and am no stranger to bugs, but I have become more squeamish about them over the years. And the thought of them crawling all over my baby, let alone in his mouth, is just a bit too much to stomach.<br />
<br />
The first one who tells me that bugs are just protein is going to be forced to eat a plate of them.<br />
<br />
Since I didn't want the bug to go into Max's stomach, I knew I had to get it out of his mouth. I'm always swiping a finger through his mouth to remove all the other weird things he manages to find and put right into his most exploratory baby part -- mostly little stones of grout from the aging tile in our kitchen.<br />
<br />
Thankfully he seems content to roll around these stones and leaves and bits of fuzz in his mouth until I notice the telltale signs on his lips and come in for the swoop. Unfortunately he has gotten wise to my efforts and now will clamp shut his jaw instead of submissively letting me dig around in there.<br />
<br />
It made my knees week this morning to discover he had a ladybug in his mouth. We have a real problem with them getting into our house, but I haven't seen many yet this spring. (Centipedes are another matter, they're everywhere, but hopefully they are too fast for his pudgy baby fingers.) I think he must have discovered a dry old dead one in some corner missed by the vacuum.<br />
<br />
I had to mentally instruct myself to get this out of his mouth. I had to convince myself that to feel the crunchy bits of wings and legs and disembodied head of the ladybug with my finger wasn't nearly as nasty as them being on his tongue.<br />
<br />
Let me tell you, ladybug bits don't come out easily. They want to stick to that wet tongue, and the baby wants to keep exploring that new texture. It was quite the battle, complicated because I was holding him over the kitchen sink so that I could fling away the bits of bug as soon as I captured them. I didn't need to worry about them landing on the floor where he would just find them again and put them back into his mouth.<br />
<br />
Guh-ross.MOMMY REMIXhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11432130123796382508noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4325337412721246938.post-28005388030471896272013-04-06T10:19:00.000-04:002013-04-06T10:22:38.105-04:00My Driving GraceMy teenager finally secured his driver's license, and I feel like I've suddenly cloned myself.<br />
<br />
Gabe is entirely willing to drive my husband's Big Red Truck to the village recycling center or my -- gulp -- brand new compact utility vehicle to the grocery store. He can take himself out to my parents' farm or to the barber shop.<br />
<br />
My schedule revolves around the schedule of my nearly 11-month-old tyrant. I have to allot my time for chores and errands according to how long Max will nap or how long he will be awake and pleasant. Consecutive slots are gold.<br />
<br />
I found it remarkable when I stood at the kitchen sink washing baby bottles and extra formula and forgotten batteries came into the house during that same time slot. Two chores got checked off the list, and I had to physically do only one of them! It was like magic!<br />
<br />
It was Gabe, without whom I would be totally sunk -- especially while my husband is out to sea.<br />
<br />
There is a cumulative time-saving effect as well. I crossed off so many things from my list yesterday, including vacuuming out the fireplace for the season, that when I laid down Max for a nap this morning I realized I didn't have much to do.<br />
<br />
So, I'm writing my first blog post in a month. Hopefully I will get to do this more and more often.<br />
<br />
All thanks to a brand new driver in the family. Now I truly know what my mother meant when she said the day I got my license was one of the happiest days of her life. MOMMY REMIXhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11432130123796382508noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4325337412721246938.post-35938591274374326022013-03-05T08:46:00.001-05:002013-03-05T08:46:29.777-05:00The Cheese Stands AloneSexism starts early in life. <br />
<br />
I clad my baby in a brand of diapers that are adorned with cartoon characters. I use this brand because it offers decent leak protection and a nice little rewards program that lets me donate diapers to others.<br />
<br />
These diapers are unisex. Some brands have a color-coded differentiation for boys and girls, which I find unfortunate. Can we give their genitals some time to actually develop before we cover them in pink and blue? Excuse me, pink OR blue.<br />
<br />
But my brand may be worse. My brand isn't just telling babies that boys and girls are different, these diapers implicitly state that boys are better than girls.<br />
<br />
The male cartoon characters are sometimes featured solo on the diaper, but the female characters appear only with their respective male partner or in a group. They never get to stand on their own.<br />
<br />
It's fine for a baby girl to have Mickey Mouse smiling over her hooha, but it would be intolerable for a baby boy to wear a diaper with Minnie Mouse batting her eyelashes right over his pee-pee. Right?<br />
<br />
No, this isn't right. This is how we indoctrinate our children right from the beginning that boys are supposed to be strong and independent and girls are supposed to be supportive and cooperative. Those all are good things to be, certainly, but when we start parsing them out on a gender basis we make the dividing line thicker and more damaging than it needs to be.<br />
<br />
What's most troubling to me is that it's OK for a girl to wear boy things but not OK for a boy to wear girl things. Girls in overalls are cute but boys in a tutu are unacceptable. <br />
<br />
Let's be quite clear: It's unacceptable not because it's just different but because it lessens the boy, it sucks away his manhood, it turns him into a weak girl. If a girl wants to step up and play with the big boys, that's admirable. But for a boy to parade around in a Minnie Mouse diaper would be an anathema. <br />
<br />
I like it that girls and boys are different. I celebrate many of those differences in my womanhood, and I honor many of those differences in the manhood of my husband, male family members and other men I know. But none of those elements are harmful to the other person, none rob the other of basic personhood.<br />
<br />
It boils down to girls being inferior to boys. When girls wear boy clothes, it's as if they are bettering themselves into being boys. When boys wear girl clothes, it's as if they are lowering themselves into being girls. It's acceptable for a girl to be like a boy because that is the ultimate way of being a person. It's unacceptable for a boy to be like a girl because that is giving up the best for just OK.<br />
<br />
Damn shame, really. I'm kind of glad whenever Max poops all over it.MOMMY REMIXhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11432130123796382508noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4325337412721246938.post-48860631003570772052013-02-19T18:24:00.000-05:002013-02-19T18:24:37.764-05:00Now This Is Really Working from HomeIt's been a little over two weeks since I quit my job at the newspaper, and I'm finally getting around to doing all those things that I said I would do now that I'm not offering sacrifices of time and sanity to the altar of journalism.<br />
<br />
Like write my first Mommy Remix blog post in two months. <br />
<br />
Maybe I needed a longer break from writing than I anticipated. Maybe I underestimated how much more time I would be spending with my family. Maybe I wanted to be out of the public eye for a little while.<br />
<br />
I do want to reconnect with the blogosphere. Frankly, I need some adult engagement other than the residents of "Sesame Street."<br />
<br />
I have been fortunate to recognize some affirmation here and there that my husband and I made the right choice in me quitting my job and him continuing to go out to sea to support our family financially. I went to the doctor today and when the nurse asked the litany of questions at the beginning, including how many days I had felt despair or worry or anxiety, I was thrilled to answer "none" when I know my answer would have been quite different just a month ago.<br />
<br />
To keep on the worry-free track, I'm not going to sweat explaining my decision in a blog post.<br />
<br />
I will share that I am glad I pushed through that time when the reporting position I took to "work from home" was so overwhelming just because it was new, and that I didn't quit when I was flailing (and never home, by the way.) I am confident that there will be a media job for me in the future, when Max is older and Gabe is on his own and when I have energy again for a career as demanding as one in newspaper.<br />
<br />
I also will share that it's an odd thing to give up the clout of being in the media, the vanity of seeing my name in print, the real and measurable effect I can have for a wide range of people by telling their stories.<br />
<br />
And to be a housewife? There is a fear of becoming dependent on my husband, of being marginalized, of making a mistake. <br />
<br />
But each day that has gone by has brought a new little victory, even if it was just getting the laundry done. I suppose I always managed to get the laundry done before, but all of my chores feel easier now. I especially love doing them without the burden of a story deadline hanging over my head all the time.<br />
<br />
I love cuddling Max in the morning and not feeling guilty that I hadn't checked my work email yet. I love being able to go wherever I want, even on short notice, because I don't have to cover some assignment at a certain time. I love, love, love getting to spend all that extra time with my husband before he went out to sea.<br />
<br />
My gratitude for him is boundless. He even bought me a brand new car. I think we're both getting a little kick out of him taking such good care of us right now. We'll just enjoy it for as long as it can last.MOMMY REMIXhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11432130123796382508noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4325337412721246938.post-39611352602832487522012-12-17T14:57:00.002-05:002012-12-17T16:09:28.264-05:00One Rotten Sugar Plum at 'Nutcracker'<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkFTlzznWw8bRQkloROlUJE8xiadMBeNEv8yW77hiM1wsMHJUu4IjL4R6Wg4-GI4QWADqinQhP2LpcJu8y9UVhpVsmx-VObJAZedy0NDEUtYpheoEoHfEzvbZ1PXU94XUZfCsk0-f_l68H/s1600/nutcracker.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkFTlzznWw8bRQkloROlUJE8xiadMBeNEv8yW77hiM1wsMHJUu4IjL4R6Wg4-GI4QWADqinQhP2LpcJu8y9UVhpVsmx-VObJAZedy0NDEUtYpheoEoHfEzvbZ1PXU94XUZfCsk0-f_l68H/s320/nutcracker.jpg" /></a></div><br />
With a 7-month-old baby and a 16-year-old teenager in our family, the holidays are an interesting spectrum of joy.<br />
<br />
We're celebrating all of Max's "first" moments while we're encouraging Gabe to begin appreciating the traditions from a cultured adult perspective. And like all parenting moments, there are a few exasperated sighs mixed in with all of the laughter and smiles.<br />
<br />
On Saturday night, we took Gabe to the Toledo Ballet's performance of "The Nutcracker" at the Stranahan Theater. Dan helped him tie his necktie and advised him on when to button and unbutton his sports coat, and he got more practice at holding open doors for his mother. Gabe agreed to pose with me and a dancer dressed as the titular character with an amazing lack of I'm-too-cool-for-that attitude.<br />
<br />
The performance was stunning. Dan especially liked the well-choreographed opening scenes, and Mary Carmen Catoya as the Snow Queen was a marvel. The clever stage trick of "flying" the young angels was a nice touch, and 101.5 morning host Rick Woodell was hysterical as Mother Ginger. The show was a lovely mix of traditional en pointe and innovative gymnastics.<br />
<br />
Now, here's the downer. I understand "The Nutcracker" is a magnet for families with young children. It's a fantastic children's story, after all. And with the amount of children in the cast, it's likely that a third of the audience were relatives. I actually enjoyed the occasional exclamation of amazement, a question about why a character was doing something, or even a plaintive request to be boosted for a better view.<br />
<br />
What I could not tolerate was the running commentary of the little girl seated behind me. She apparently was familiar with the show and had to announce every scene with precocious authority, as well as complain when things weren't happening fast enough for her. She was sitting with her Nana, who deserves her own scolding for engaging this child in casual conversation throughout the entire performance.<br />
<br />
I know the difference between children who have age-appropriate attention spans or even other challenges that mean they don't have the same aptitudes or social skills of typical children, and children who are badly behaved brats. First clue is that the little urchin kept wedging her patent leather-encased foot between the seat and back of my chair, poking me right in my behind even after I twice shoved her foot away with my hand. Second clue is that she asked her grandmother to tell her the time, repeatedly and at a moment Nana was busy, and when she was told she did not say thank you but instead replied, "Well, why did I have to ask you eight times?"<br />
<br />
At that point my son's jaw dropped and he exchanged a look with me that pretty much confirmed we both knew he would be mangled if he ever spoke to me like that.<br />
<br />
A very young girl next to us played with her stuffed kitty and cuddled into the seat when she got tired. Two lovely girls sitting in front of us politely engaged with us when their dad was telling us about seeing a man propose to a woman out in the lobby. An entire gaggle of children nearby sat in their bow ties and frilly dresses and simply enjoyed the ballet.<br />
<br />
People, please teach your children some decorum if you are going to take them to the theater. It's never too early -- or too late. Nana and her rotten sugar plum have their work cut out for them, though.MOMMY REMIXhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11432130123796382508noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4325337412721246938.post-40569310896367123152012-11-25T11:02:00.000-05:002012-11-25T11:38:05.713-05:00Fat Baby Clothes<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyb00sZAJnoBmg2laMp7NdTvTztKr7RjEfmFCezLbabE_tCEIEi-gXkSD474lfLc9XYDOU-S1A_0Vui9yRUXfun7EmXFcVM-HcMwpTS6YC0tpq7Vly3AwdGqfsbBw8cwRDC4SBFAbxpM5u/s1600/fatbaby.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyb00sZAJnoBmg2laMp7NdTvTztKr7RjEfmFCezLbabE_tCEIEi-gXkSD474lfLc9XYDOU-S1A_0Vui9yRUXfun7EmXFcVM-HcMwpTS6YC0tpq7Vly3AwdGqfsbBw8cwRDC4SBFAbxpM5u/s320/fatbaby.jpg" /></a></div><br />
I'd like to start a clothing line called Fat Baby.<br />
<br />
A sister tells me Chunky Monkey would be more appealing, particularly in this society where being fat is such an anathema. But perhaps being more honest and accepting in the label will help society get over its skinny-ass self.<br />
<br />
I have a fat baby. Max's weight gain is approved by our pediatrician, he eats normal amounts, and everyone stops in their tracks to marvel at how cute he is, so he isn't "fat" in an unhealthy way. But yes, he has several arm rolls, and his drumstick legs nearly got eaten on Thanksgiving.<br />
<br />
My in-laws always call Max "fat baby." I bristled at first, especially because Mom weighs about 90 pounds soaking wet, but I eventually relaxed into it as a term of endearment. <br />
<br />
What is frustrating is how tightly most of his clothes fit. Six months old, Max is wearing outfits labeled 12 and 18 months. He didn't fit into hardly any of the cute 3- or 6-month clothing that I got at my shower or on one of my own hormonal shopping sprees.<br />
<br />
I know those labels mean next to nothing, but 6 to 18 seems a big jump. Depending on the material, the clothes sometimes are too long in the sleeve or leg, but at least they have generous enough inseams to fit around those chubby arms and legs.<br />
<br />
I can't believe how tight some of the clothing is. Who are these scrawny babies who fit into these things?<br />
<br />
The above sister theorizes that since much of our textiles come from areas of the world where children are indeed longer and thinner, there is an inherent design or manufacturing standard that doesn't accommodate western babies.<br />
<br />
I got pretty mad at Heidi Klum about it. I love watching "Project Runway," and they're always talking about how "real women" look and dress, so I was expressly disappointed to by a long-sleeved onesie and a cardigan from her baby clothes line only to have Max scream in protest as I tried to shove him into them. The items looked OK on the hanger but I didn't realize how tight the arm holes were before purchasing them. At least I got to keep the cute felted hangers.<br />
<br />
So, it's up to me to start a clothing line that has fabric allowances in the clothes where they should be. And fercrissakes, maybe some socks that are snug on the foot but big enough to go over the moo-juice-fed calves.<br />
<br />
Maybe I won't call it Fat Baby. Rockin' the Rolls? Thunder Tots? Ewes Not Fat, Ewes Just Fluffy?<br />
<br />
Just Fluffy, for short.MOMMY REMIXhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11432130123796382508noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4325337412721246938.post-44580318889981200852012-11-09T23:35:00.001-05:002012-11-09T23:37:56.226-05:00Daddy Ashore<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjabpYI5iWqASoGFJfc6eiJKYRoHfUj1O_DrprRn9EbhRJaAE3bN_6KZBJZN4FCmP-br8FkG4RxU-9zj3gBaq7WJ4w1vyF7J_FL30TkVYs7HwpWUlXfIbLl-llUEw__bIaFjIynNLN7Dh7I/s1600/maxdaddypark.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjabpYI5iWqASoGFJfc6eiJKYRoHfUj1O_DrprRn9EbhRJaAE3bN_6KZBJZN4FCmP-br8FkG4RxU-9zj3gBaq7WJ4w1vyF7J_FL30TkVYs7HwpWUlXfIbLl-llUEw__bIaFjIynNLN7Dh7I/s640/maxdaddypark.jpg" width="500" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Daddy takes Max for a little motorcycle ride in the village park.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>After four long months, my husband has returned from sea.<br />
<br />
One hundred and twenty-eight days have gone by since he last saw his infant son. His jaw-dropping, eye-widening smile when he came down the escalator at the airport and saw us standing there was worth every minute.<br />
<br />
Max got a lot bigger since he was 2 months old. He wasn't ever a scrawny thing, but he has plumped up into a chubby chunk of absolute cuteness and several arm rolls. And he can sit up on his own and stand on your lap and babble away, which are amazing to a man who remembers him only crying, eating and pooping. <br />
<br />
Baby and daddy adjusted to each other quite well. I'd like to think Max actually remembers him, but it's hard to tell and really doesn't matter.<br />
<br />
It probably helps that every night I played for Max a voice mail Dan left for him and that I showed him one of our wedding pictures in which Dan is kissing me, saying, "That's Daddy! See Daddy? That's your daddy!"<br />
<br />
Max is a happy, interactive baby, and he had Daddy enamored pretty quickly. He must have said, "Look at that smile!" a dozen times the first night home.<br />
<br />
The next day, we put the baby in the stroller and did our village rounds, including the post office, hardware, bakery, and dollar mart. This time we added the park, and we both delighted in Max's little feet clapping away as Daddy pushed him in the baby swing.<br />
<br />
We still have some things to work out. A minor one is that Dan isn't used to how baby things multiply like baby rabbits and spread all over the house. If he has a better solution, he can knock himself out. But most parents accept a certain level of it and deal with it.<br />
<br />
A major one is that Max was still co-sleeping with me in our bed. I had made significant progress in Max sleeping in his crib for his naps, but we never got around to a different nighttime routine. He is still nursing a few times a night, and he rests best when he's cuddled up next to me.<br />
<br />
But since Dan has been working aboard a ship for 128 straight days, standing a midwatch that gives him only a few hours of sleep here and there, his first night home was going to be spent in his own bed.<br />
<br />
Max slept contentedly the first few hours in his own crib -- some pretty vital hours for a husband and wife to be alone in their bed after being parted for four months -- but protested mightily when I tried to put him back in there after a nursing session.<br />
<br />
I gave it a good hour, and then gave up and took him into the guest bed and spent the rest of the night with him in there. I didn't sleep well at all.<br />
<br />
But there's always a transition period, no matter the time away. This time is special because it's the first one coming back to a son who is older and bigger and different, but there will be more of those times to come.<br />
<br />
For now, we'll all just sleep when and where we can. I'm the only one awake, keyed up after seeing the new James Bond movie for our date night. Max is still asleep in his downstairs playpen where my mother laid him, and Dan is curled up in the big chair asleep with his dog.<br />
<br />
My plan is to wait until Max rusltes, take him upstairs, nurse him back to sleep, and conk out with him in his bed. Shh ... don't wake Dan.MOMMY REMIXhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11432130123796382508noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4325337412721246938.post-24804224950561899192012-10-25T20:43:00.001-04:002012-10-25T20:43:28.983-04:00How about Little Girls Go as Little Girls<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0f2XPzEeyFBBbB0gxL03E-Af4apGbRCrbUhAQnp4ONmlkpJ_bZn_C7Ivmf6H5Hh6V8290r6DYYlfw56LLN5DxfzLxNd4c7sy6REOqPheuft1pTykz5ZaNJCXu5_17vEHMlloqjveXEaAf/s1600/2012-10-24_13-41-31_456.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0f2XPzEeyFBBbB0gxL03E-Af4apGbRCrbUhAQnp4ONmlkpJ_bZn_C7Ivmf6H5Hh6V8290r6DYYlfw56LLN5DxfzLxNd4c7sy6REOqPheuft1pTykz5ZaNJCXu5_17vEHMlloqjveXEaAf/s320/2012-10-24_13-41-31_456.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some costumes for sale at a local grocery store.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Maybe I am getting old. But not so old that I can't remember that when I was a young girl, I dressed up as Casper the Friendly Ghost for Halloween.<br />
<br />
These days, girls are apparently dressing as Candy the Slutty Ghost.<br />
<br />
If not some ridiculously pink and frilly princess, girls have few options from purchased costumes that aren't a miniature adult version of what a woman would wear to a Halloween party with the singular goal of getting laid.<br />
<br />
Is it too much to ask that a vampire costume for a girl not include a red lace corset? Or a devil costume to include pants?<br />
<br />
It's an adult concept that sex is part of the whole dark fantasy of a creature who can suck the life out of you, or that lust is a sin that can undo the saintliest of saints.<br />
<br />
It's scary that young girls are parading around in these concepts and getting Snickers and suckers.<br />
<br />
This makes me an old fuddy duddy, right? I suppose I'm rather fortunate that I have boys. Else I'd be spending all night on Oct. 30 trying to make a homemade costume appropriate for a young girl.MOMMY REMIXhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11432130123796382508noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4325337412721246938.post-37269072322538121532012-10-22T15:51:00.000-04:002012-10-22T15:51:41.187-04:00Gadget WarsMy teenager recently got the latest iPad, a gift from my mother for being so helpful these past months with the baby and at the farm.<br />
<br />
Well, that and she would give him the moon if she could.<br />
<br />
I'm the one with the professional need for such a gadget, but there he sits with it, on the toilet, playing chess. It's among the least damaging ironies in my life right now, so I'm mostly OK with it.<br />
<br />
However, we've already had a fight about it. Well, not really a fight. I do not fight with my children. I say something, the kid has about two or three sentences in which to make any kind of viable point, and then I end the conversation with either acquiescence (rarely) or an imperative (usually). If there is attitude in there from one who has come out of my womb, there is often an elevated consequence.<br />
<br />
I didn't know he had done it the first day, but the second day I caught Gabe trying to take his new iPad to school. He claimed he used it for his assignment book. I know for certain that he used it to play chess, watch stupid videos on YouTube, and generally dork around with his friends.<br />
<br />
The assignment book is a sore subject. Gabe has slipping grades only because he cannot keep track of his homework assignments and turn in completed homework on time. It's been a struggle his entire school career.<br />
<br />
If I were convinced that an electronic device that cost hundreds of dollars would inspire him to do the simple task of noting when his homework assignments were due, I would have bought one for him years ago. I am not convinced.<br />
<br />
I'm also not prepared to replace it if he loses it or it gets stolen. He once borrowed my husband's scientific calculator because he had misplaced his own, and then managed to misplace the loaner. Not a great day.<br />
<br />
Complaints that "other kids" bring their iPads to school fall on my deaf ears. Perhaps these kids have shown an immense level of responsibility. Perhaps their parents aren't even aware of what they do. Perhaps I don't want my children to get caught up in the horror of status symbols.<br />
<br />
I understand the great value in students learning with the kinds of technology that they will use in their advanced education or employment. As a high school sophomore, Gabe can practice his iPad swiping here at home. He has several other semesters during which to demonstrate to his mother that he is the kind of student who needs to carry around such a tool during his school day.<br />
<br />
But he is the kind of kid who handles an adult-level of work and family obligations. I think I will take him out to dinner.<br />
<br />
He can even bring his iPad.MOMMY REMIXhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11432130123796382508noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4325337412721246938.post-84111661409856122942012-10-05T23:23:00.000-04:002012-10-05T23:29:42.644-04:00To Work or Not to Work, That Is the QuestionI'm out of writing juice.<br />
<br />
My new reporting job is sucking it out of me. It's also being rather gluttonous with my emotional and physical well-being.<br />
<br />
I sent some videos of baby Max to his daddy out to sea, and they inspired him to protect what he could see as the results of a good, strong mother-son relationship. He said that I could quit my job and that he would keep working hard to support all of us.<br />
<br />
To say I was relieved would be an understatement. On "E" in my articulation tank, I can't adequately describe what I felt to have been given that gift. It's something for which I had been praying about six months into my pregnancy, and now Max is almost 5 months old. <br />
<br />
I also have no words for how difficult it has been to consider really quitting my job.<br />
<br />
Lots of people are telling me lots of different things, which is turning my brain into utter mush and spurring my already manic tendencies. My bosses are begging me to stay and insisting that I just need to give it more time to feel settled and qualified in this beat. My mother is dead-set against me giving up a career for which I've paid so many dues.<br />
<br />
I think my boys are leaning toward me quitting. My teenager Gabe found the most gentle way he could to tell me that I've been a raging bitch the past several weeks. Max just clamors to be nursed more often.<br />
<br />
My identity has been wrapped up in newspaper for so long that it is far more challenging to jettison it than I ever had imagined. I have clear pictures in my mind of what kind of mother, wife, daughter, sister, cousin, auntie, friend, and community member I could be without the stress of a professional job. But I go back and forth several times a day.<br />
<br />
My litmus test has become: "Do I really need this kind of bullshit in my life?"<br />
<br />
The question is easily answered with a resounding "hell no" upon cranky emails from coworkers, standing in the damn rain at assignments, or typing a story with one hand while the other hand is desperately trying to guide a boob into a screaming baby's mouth.<br />
<br />
Yet these "well maybe" answers keep creeping in. A story, typed with one or two hands, sometimes turns out really well, and it's hard not to be proud of it. A reader will thank me, or I make a really interesting new acquaintance. Suddenly laundry and bottle washing don't seem that glamorous, or even necessary.<br />
<br />
I have more than 100 pairs of shoes in my closet, and I haven't found the walking ones just quite yet.MOMMY REMIXhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11432130123796382508noreply@blogger.com1