My School!

This is what Max cried when I pulled out of the primary school parking lot yesterday. "My school!"

Max's first day at preschool.

I was thrilled.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

My school! My chance! My relief.

Ring of Despair

I 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.

(Just a little snippet from my morning.)

Cleanup in Aisle 2

Why so long between blog posts? Because Max's toddlerhood is kicking my ass.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!"

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Which is good timing, because I'm pretty sure he's standing there pooping his pants.

Tower of Babble Babble Babble

Max 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.

This is not bragging. This is me being completely obsessed with language and lists. (OK, maybe a little bragging.)

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.)

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.

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.

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.

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."

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.

Names
Dada
Mama
Brother
Gabe
Grandpa
Baby (any little baby he sees)

Animals
dog
cat
pig
moo moo (for "cow")
bird
duck
horse
mouse
goat
bear
lion
hippo
bug
dinosaur

At the Table
cup
spoon
fork (comes out "bork," too cute)
knife
grapes ("beeps")
cookie
cracker
pouch (those squirty puree things)
bottle
cheese
banana
carrot
peas
corn
cake

Body
hair
ear
eye
nose
teeth
mouth
toe
head
pee pee (fear not, I will teach him anatomical words)

Toys/Characters
ball
block
boat
map (from "Dora the Explorer")
backpack (ditto)
Thomas (as in the Tank Engine)
Blue's Clues
Bot (from "Team Umizoomi")
Elmo
Bubble Guppies (he hits all of the syllables, but not exactly in the right order)
Bubble Puppy ("Bup Pup")
SpongeBob ("Bob Bob" -- and thanks, Gabe, for the early exposure)

His World
car
truck
crane
choo choo (for "train")
book
bath
sock
shoe
hat
tissue (one of my favorites, and one of his most clearly articulated)
bubble
balloon
pumpkin
toothbrush (this one comes and goes, it was one of his first words, but he doesn't say it much now)
light
door
bink ("pacifier")
snow
sky
moon
sun
star (in the astronomical and geometrical sense)
triangle
rectangle
oval
circle
box

Colors
blue
green
purple
orange
black
pink
red

Other
bye bye
hi
hello
go
uh-oh
no
thank you
don't
all done
up
down
big
small
apart
together
pop
pat
back
cold
hot
march
amen (although I think even at church he thinks we're all saying "Oh, man!" like Swiper the Fox on "Dora")

And then one of my favorite things he says, in a way, is the fake snore for "sleep." "Acgghh-shooo, acgghh-shoo, acgghh-shoo ..."

Co-Sleeping Nightmares

The scene this morning.

I hate co-sleeping with my baby. I do it, but I hate it.

Here are a few things you should know:

1. Max has been a terrible sleeper since the day he was born. Hates to sleep. Never seen anything like it.

2. He isn't really a baby anymore. He's a 17-month-old toddler, and co-sleeping with him has gotten increasingly frustrating.

3. My husband doesn't like this arrangement any more than I do, although for different reasons.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

Get. Off. Of. Me.

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.

My dear husband wants to sleep in a bed with his wife in it. Sigh. 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.

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.

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.

He is still quite the restless sleeper at night, but he can usually self-soothe with a little handful of hair.

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.

It sucks.

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.

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.

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.

Just not on my nose.

Boy First, Brother Second, Babysitter Third

Gabe was so confident when holding infant Amelia that
he went ahead a read a book at the same time. She
looks pretty content about it, doesn't she?

Many people are referring to Gabe, my nearly 16-year-old son, as a "built-in babysitter" for the little brother I'm about to pop out.

True, he will be a good babysitter. He happens to be a professional one, serving as the nursery attendant at our church. He has a knack for getting babies to smile at him, toddlers to play with him, and youth to follow his directions.

He is particularly good with his cousin Amelia, who is about 18 months old. He recently was her shepherd at my baby shower, and she adored him so much that she called him "Daddy," which my cousin Amanda says isn't an identity confusion issue but more of a compliment that he is that good of a guy to be around.

But what I really want Gabe to be good at is being a brother. Even more so, I'd like him to be good at being just Gabe.

It's critical for any sibling to have his or her own life, and perhaps more so when there is a big age gap.

Friends who have been in similar situations advise me that while an older sibling eventually can carve out his own life, it can get quite delayed when a big part of a pre-adult stage is spent tending to a little brother or sister. We see it with teen parents, so it stands to reason the pattern would be similar in these cases.

Gabe and Amelia hang out at my baby shower.

There are still many positives to Gabe being a caretaker for his younger sibling, namely gaining the experience that will come in handy when he may care for his own baby. It may just raise his score on the attractiveness meter as well. This is the time when people start dreaming about what kind of mate they would like, and it's genetically coded into us to look for a mate who will be a good parent. "SWM, good with kids." Bingo.

But Gabe should be allowed to concentrate on being good at his video games, too. He really needs to be good at his school work, and his chores, and his driving skills. He must attend to his own development in faith, outlook on the world, political leanings, etc.

Having a baby brother certainly will influence all of those things. But it shouldn't shove them onto a back burner, and he shouldn't have to sacrifice all of the experiences of being a regular teenage boy.

Gabe is going to be a tremendous help to me and Dan as Mommy recovers from surgery and Daddy recovers from his entire world being turned upside down. He will do the same kind of chores he already does around the house, and he also will be taught how to change diapers.

He will not need any encouragement to shower love on his brother, and the little one will be blessed to get in that much more cuddling and cooing and soothing from the big one.

I will need reminders to secure other babysitters if I need one, and to let Gabe be Gabe.

Just Say No to Helicoptering

Dear Helicopter Parents,

Back the f*ck off. You're actually endangering your child's safety.

Thanks, Mommy Remix

An article on the New York Times blog The Well Column recently raised the issue of an increased safety hazard when parents go down playground slides with their toddlers in their laps. The velocity from the adult's significantly greater mass can exacerbate injuries to the child if a limb gets caught. (Read full post here.)

Or how about some broken teeth or a bloody nose when you both go flying and you land on top of your little one? Maybe if someone is recording the moment, you could win some money toward medical bills from "America's Funniest Videos." At least baby teeth are supposed to fall out.

In general, I'm not a fan of slides. In elementary school, we had one of those giant, metal monsters that were scorching hot in the sun and from which a classmate fell and earned himself a compound fracture. At Cedar Point, a flight down the multi-laned, bumpy blue hill on a burlap bag gave me a friction burn on my wrist. At Discovery Zone (otherwise known as Dante's third ring of hell) where I worked as a "kid's coach," I wish I had a nickle for every time I had to blow my whistle and remind a guest that "the roller slide is for going down, not going up."

Slides are a slippery enough slope toward the emergency room without parents adding themselves into the equation.

True, parents think their arms are the safest place their little ones could ever be. But not when momentum is involved.

You cannot protect your child from every little bump and bruise. You shouldn't, really, else how will he know how to pick himself up?

I am positive that each time my parents said, "Jump up," they were attending to more than my physical state. They were instilling emotional fortitude. They were teaching me self-control and strengthening my pain tolerance.

Remember, we are not raising "children." We don't want them to stay children, for heaven's sake. We are raising them into men and women. Adults will need to rely on a foundation of "jump up," not "let me kiss it and make it go away."

I'm as klutzy as the next person, but most of my "falls" now are screw-ups at work, injuries in my relationships, oversights in my finances. If I sat on the proverbial playground crying until someone came running and fixed my boo-boo for me, I'd be sitting there quite a while.

Helicopter parents (those who hover over their kids' every moment) may be well-intentioned, but they need to adjust their radar scopes to a longer range. They need to account for how this kind of parenting will play out in the long run.

Kids who can't fend for themselves turn into adults who can't problem-solve their way out of a paper bag. Nobody wants that.

The Nice Side of Mommy

I always took time with Gabe to smell the flowers.

I can be nice too, I swear.

I even have photographic evidence of me as a permissive, engaging parent of a toddler.

Gabe was a wholly sweet child who was safe and secure in the knowledge that he was well-loved by his entire family. It wasn't that hard to parent him, even with my no-bullshit method during ages 2 and 3.

Some of my husband's family are so traditional/superstitious that they will not send baby gifts until my second son is born. I am starting to wonder if I may have jinxed myself by pontificating on what kind of toddlerhood parent I was, guaranteeing that this little one inside of me is going to come out squalling and not stop until age 7.

You'll have to check back in a few years to see what kind of photos I post for that.

I let Gabe spend as much time as he wanted in the petting zoo.
(Truthfully, as much time as the goat wanted him in there.)

I let Gabe ride the big tractor with my dad, which is only among
the most dangerous things you could possibly let your kid do.

I'm even SMILING as Gabe lifts a dyed egg out of the mug
with his bare hand. (Notice the bib and newspaper, though.)

Let's Get This Straight: You're the Parent, He's the Toddler

I recently read a fairly cute blog post on how to recognize parents with toddlers in a grocery store.

It's not exactly farce, though. Some parents really do let their kids open food packages while shopping and let their kids unload the cart at the checkout.

Screw that.

Ask my son Gabe, and hopefully he will tell you that he had a happy, idyllic childhood. And I never once let him eat something in the grocery store before I paid for it.

He may have helped unload the cart, but I'd be damned if I waited on him to do it all or, worse, make the person behind me wait. And if he ever shot me one of those "NOOO! Gabe do himself!" shouts, that would have been the last time he helped. Ever.

Call me old-fashioned, but I was not put on this earth to be ruled by a toddler. I've had enough immature, tyrannical bosses in my life, thank you very much, and I refuse to enthrone one who came out of my own body.

I know very well that I have succumbed just like any other parent to whatever immediate relief will make a kid happy (well, quiet) in a given moment. But I don't make those moments into regular habits for my child.

Gabe learned early that mommy giveth AND mommy taketh away. But it was a consistent dichotomy: What I permitted I always permitted, and what I refused I always refused. Consistency is the holy grail of parenting. Sure there were lapses, but that probably helped him trust that I was a human being with her own failings and that he need not develop any inferiority complexes over it.

Sometimes new parents ask me, "How do you get a child to _______?" Whatever fills in that blank, I often have trouble really describing how. An answer of, "Uh, I just told Gabe and he did it" is rather unsatisfactory, but it's the truth.

[Keep in mind we're talking toddlerhood here. Getting Gabe the teenager to do whatever I want him to do in whatever way and whenever time I want him to do it is a whole 'nother ballgame.]

While I tried to be calm and kind, I do admit that most of my directives were just that: directives. Commands. Authoritative statements. "Buddy, put away that toy before you get out another one." "Gabe, it's bedtime. Brush your teeth." If I ever added the word "please," it usually indicated an escalated level of command, as in, "Turn. Off. The. Television. Please."

I would throw in some questions and choices, just to mix it up and make sure he wasn't completely warped as a child. But they weren't about anything that I had strong feelings. Bedtime was bedtime. It was not a negotiation. What plastic toy he could drag into the bathtub or out to the sandbox? Have at it, kiddo.

This kind of parenting takes extreme dedication, and it helps greatly if you were raised this way in the first place. To save yourself so much aggravation down the road, you must be willing to take the time to show a child how to do whatever you want him to do. You must sacrifice your personal desires and needs and resist the temptation to give in just to get back to your own life. You must be willing to dig your nails into your palms to keep at bay exasperated screams and camouflage the buttons being pressed. (Make those known and you are toast.)

They don't call it "sticking to your guns" for nothing. This is heavy ammo you are wielding, and it must be done with the same amount of care and discretion as any rules of engagement in a war zone.

You will need to pick your battles, to 1) save your own sanity, and 2) keep your kid off some psychologist's couch in the future, complaining about what a controlling bitch of a mother he had. But if you do battle, you had better win.

I know several lovely, decent, well-intentioned parents who involve their children in every level of family interaction and empower them with adult activities as soon as their gross motor functions materialize. If a child expresses a desire to do/eat/play with something, the wish is granted at the parent's immediate convenience. The child is the sun and all other family members orbit around him.

If all that works for them, woo-hoo. It's just not how I roll. Because it's not only the parent who has become subject to that little person. House guests are expected to treat the child that way; strangers in public are expected to accommodate the waiting, wailing and wandering. I'm not into that unless there is a medical or behavioral condition.

If my toddler has real hunger-induced crankiness while we are at the grocery store, I leave my cart right in the aisle, exit the store, go home (or to the car or park or restaurant or some other acceptable eating space) and feed him, and then we try the shopping trip all over again.

If he's fussing because he just wants to eat that muffin right away because it looks yummy, he does not get it. (Heck, I know it looks delicious, I'm the one who put it in the cart, but if I can wait, so can he.) If he throws a fit and demands the muffin, I leave my cart right in the aisle, exit the store, go home, and put his ass in time out. I wait for someone else to be with him, and then I go try the shopping trip again by myself. (And duh, those muffins ain't coming home.) Dinner may be three hours late, but one screwed-up meal is worth having your child behave on every other shopping trip you'll take together.

That's the hard part, the heavy artillery. There are times for diplomacy and lots of opportunity for outright silliness and relief. You must control the moments that are critical for teaching your child how to be a respectable person in society, but every other moment can be filled with cuddles and kisses and laughter and joy. Do attend to their general comfort, and bolster their self-esteem. Ooh and aah at art projects, compliment tasks well done, spend lots and lots of time reading books together. You must do that part of parenting too.

Please.

When, If Ever, Is Mothering a Career?

"My career choice was to be a mother."

When Ann Romney, wife of Republican presidential candidate Mitt Romney, said this on Fox News in the aftermath of a campaign staffer for President Obama saying she had "never worked a day in her life," I vapor-locked.

Story: Romney wife rebukes claim

My career choice was to be a journalist. I also chose to be a mother.

Does this mean I have two careers? Or does this make me less of a parent? Do I "work" less for my children? Do I take care of my home with less effort?

Well, given the layer of dust on the credenza these days, perhaps the correct answer to that last question is affirmative.

But I will bet my baby's new booties that Ann Romney had a maid to dust her furniture, as well as other paid staff people who worked hard to keep her household -- and her children -- in mothered order.

It wasn't the smartest thing for Hilary Rosen to say when criticizing the presumed GOP nominee's economic policy rhetoric that he was relying on his wife as an economic expert for working women.

But Ann Romney has a billionaire husband who supported her entire lifestyle, including her "career choice" to "stay home" and raise five sons. I doubt she was "home" all the time anyway. She is not the SAHM champion by any stretch of the words, and certainly not by the word "career."

She never had to compete for a promotion or fight for her labor rights. She never had to manage others on a critical project or be managed by a nincompoop. She never had to be disciplined for her screw-ups. She never had to beat deadlines, meet demands or produce materials when somebody else's money was on the line. She never had to wrestle with the guilt of sacrificing any of her time or priorities away from her children, either.

So how exactly is she the best person to advise the leader of the United States of America on its women who have careers outside of their homes?

This isn't about whether stay-at-home moms work hard. Of course they do. This isn't about which is a better choice. That's impossible to say.

But I admit, I bristled pretty hard when Ann Romney compared her "choice" to my "career."

It's hard to find a way to express this without offending moms who devote their entire day to raising their children and tending their homes, which would be the last thing I would want to do. The offending, not the staying home. That SAHM grass is looking mighty green on the other side of the fence, even though I know it can be thankless, isolating, exhausting work.

If Mitt Romney has said he was relying on his wife to advise him on how to make sure stay-at-home moms had more support for their choice, perhaps in debt relief or the best possible family health insurance for their working spouse -- heck, how about a Nanny McPhee for everybody -- then that would have seemed relevant and even poignant.

But if he's getting ideas from her about how to support mothers-with-careers, then he'd best keep brainstorming.

It's OK to Hate Them

My husband tells me that he knew I was a good mother because "every once in a while you say things like, 'I hate that @*]%$#< kid.'"

Of course I love Gabe. To pieces. But sometimes a combination of rage and disappointment get the better of me, and I mutter -- TO SOMEONE ELSE -- what I'm thinking about him at that particular moment. Doing so helps me return to feelings of pride and appreciation all the more quickly.

I'm quite distrustful of parents who have only good things to say about their children. You can't pull one over on me, as my mother says. I know how kids are, and it ain't all good.

Sure, I'm happy to hear about their successes, but the longer you go on acting like they are perfect children, the more obvious it is that you are trying to convince me that you are a perfect parent. At which you're going to fail, by the way.

The following is what parents really think, as a friend texted me recently on treating her youngster's ailments:

"I gave her some Benadryl. I hope it knocks her ass out. If my husband keeps it up, I might put some in his beer too. Everyone shut the f*ck up and take a nap."

This is how parents retain whatever sanity they have left, through honest expression. Bottling that up and insisting to everyone else how ducky family life is may cause such a bottleneck in your emotional well-being that you will explode at the most inopportune moments.

Worse, you could do actual damage. You could say that kind of stuff to your kid's face. You could cause physical harm. You may just do something heinous.

Say it with me, folks: "I ... hate ... my ... kid." We know you don't really mean it, deep down.

Some days, perhaps deeper down than others.

The Shock of New Parenthood

Realizations come like the dawn to new parents,
but not until reality zaps them like an electric fence.

There are some things in life you just can know intellectually, and others you must experience first.

Growing up on the farm, my father told me repeatedly that the electric fence surrounding the pastures would poke me if I made bodily contact with it. I conceptually understood what he was saying, but I had no way of knowing that the "poke" was -- at once a zap in my fingertip and a sickening thud in the middle of my abdomen -- until I actually touched the damn thing.

Similarly, knowing what kind of parent you will be is not really possible until you actually touch the live wire.

Even though I might be a different kind of parent to a different kind of baby, I generally know what to expect. Not much is going to shock me this time around.

I "know" there will be sleepless nights and unshowered days; crying jags (the baby's and mine); and wild vacillations between unbearable love and unbearable exasperation. I know about walking around with the odoriferous mix of lavender-scented lotion and milk spit-up always clinging to every article of clothing you own. I know how much of a change it will be to bend every adult thought, moment and hope around the demands of a tiny little person who cares not that you once had a career and a sex life.

I know how to encourage the various stages of physical, mental and emotional development, and how a toddler will totally have his own way of doing all of that despite my best efforts. I know that I prefer to give him real food over processed junk, medical terminology over goofy labels for body parts, PBS over Cartoon Network.

I know he'll grow like a weed and get filthy anyway, so most of his wardrobe will come from thrift shops. I know he'll be equally curious about his mommy's makeup and his daddy's shaving cream and that it won't freak me out if he comes out of the bathroom with eye shadow on his chin and foam on his arms. I know to organize his room and play areas into "centers" just like a preschool does, making it that much easier for him to learn early how to pick up his own toys.

I know that school is his job, and that I'm not spending my valuable time doing his homework. I know that sports or band or chess club are his activities and his chance to have a life apart from me, and that I'm not spending my valuable time sitting in a lawn chair watching his practices. I know that he will be expected to mind his manners, help out at the farm, go to worship, and be nice to every person and creature he meets.

I know I don't know everything, but I know I've tested, failed and succeeded enough to be confident about parenting. I've had plenty of advice and criticism, thank you very much (sincerely, some of it was helpful). I got this.

My husband? He has yet to be zapped.

Gabe was fully cooked once that egg ever came to live with him, so his role has been more like what he assumes as an officer with any new able-bodied seaman that comes his way, teaching adult tasks by example. When Gabe blundered through the sliding screen door, Dan just got his tools and talked Gabe through the repairs. The next time Gabe knocked the door off its track, he muttered a curse under his breath, got the tools and fixed it himself, without even been told to do so. Ta-da!

Dan shared with me that during one of his recent sea cruises, he spent many a long watch wondering what kind of parent he would be to our baby. He said he felt much better when he realized that I already was a good parent and that he just had to be the one following my example this time.

That was a really nice compliment, and frankly a good plan, but he will need to find his own way too.

He will have to face that moment when he discovers his son is painting his lawn mower with mayonnaise, and put to the test all of his preconceived notions about discipline as a teaching method and not a punitive method, and somehow find the strength not to drop-kick that kid to the moon like he will really, really, really want to.

He will have to find an answer when his naked son toddles up to him and asks, "Daddy, when I do this to my penis, why does it do that?"

If he ever responds with, "Ask your mother," I will remind him that I don't mow and I don't have those parts. Totally his area.

He will have to change diapers, read aloud stories, and scrape pureed squash off the baby's face and back into his mouth, over and over and over. He will have to bandage boo-boos and attend parent-teacher conferences. He'll know that thud in the gut when he sits up all night long, praying that the fever leaves the most precious grip on his heart he has ever known.

He may have other challenges, too, like figuring out how to parent when he is away for months at a time on his ship.

I know he'll be just fine. Once he gets poked for real.