Goodnight Moon, Goodnight Spoon, Goodnight Tater in Her Own Room

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I sit here tonight pondering the question “When is hope a beam of light in the darkness and when it is merely a delusional wish?” Or to rephrase, “Will bunk beds succeed when all else has failed?”

Though I have faced many parenting challenges over the last 9 years, and though I have run across several things I wish I had handled better or differently, I have only had one true parenting failure to date. But it’s a biggie.

My darling Tate, 7, my sweet, funny, smart, sassy, lively, independent, stubborn child does not sleep. Jill laments the fact the two of her boys are picky eaters. I have a picky sleeper. And, like Reid and Mack, the issue isn’t threadcount of the sheets or mattress firmness or the amount of light in the room, it is sleeping. Tate does not like to fall asleep, and she does not stay asleep. Sleep, which to me is better than alcohol, sex, chocolate and shopping at Target combined, eludes her, and thus me.

I’m at a loss. Cat, 9, started sleeping through the night in her own crib by four months of age and only wakes us if she is severely ill or if there is thunder. Tate, at the age of 7 and a half has slept through the night in her own bed, less than a dozen times.

Now before you judge me as an overly permissive, coddling mom raising a clingy, whiny kid let me note two things: first, she has never screamed loudly about a puzzle or anything else in Target and second, no one who knows her believes me. When we talked to her teacher and school counselor about the issue, they thought we were kidding.

During daylight hours, Tate is fearless. She is the picture of independence. She gets quite snappish if you try to hover or tell her how to do things. She tied her shoes before her older sister did. She dressed herself completely before her older sister did. She used the stove to make eggs, walked alone to the bus stop, and insisted on being dropped off at the door to camp instead of walked inside. Recently, when we need a quart of milk or a single item, she insists that I drive her to the local mini-mart and wait outside while she walks in and purchases the item alone. She thrives on independence.

Except at night. At 8 p.m. all bets are off and she cannot fall asleep without Mommy laying beside her and cuddling her. I am her human teddy bear. Without me, she will lay in bed for HOURS, literally HOURS and not fall asleep. Once asleep, it is only temporary as EVERY night between 1 and 4 a.m. she wanders into the guest room and crawls in beside me. I decamped to the guestroom last year in an effort to give my husband an escape from our sleep-deprived hell. When Tate comes in, it rarely wakes me and if it does, it isn’t for long but Darling Hubby was left tossing and turning.

For the last six months, I have given up on the three-hour long “Go to sleep, Go to sleep, Go to sleep, FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY CHILD, GO TO SLEEP” sessions. I just let her go directly to the guest room without passing Go or collecting $200 whereupon I cuddle her for about 30 minutes and she drifts to sleep. Unfortunately, she sleeps in a starfish position, leaving me cling to the edge of the bed for the rest of the night. If I try to sneak in with Darling Hubby after she has drifted off, she wakes up and comes to retrieve me, like the errant well-worn bear that I have become. If I am sick, or just exhausted and send her in with her Dad to cuddle, she wails and shakes as if I have sent her to the gallows. Not only does she need someone to sit with her until she falls asleep, that someone MUST be Mommy. I only get a pass if I am out of town or she is. Only then will she accept a substitute, usually in the form of a Grandma, occasionally in the form of her older sister if all-night t.v. watching is thrown into the deal.

The icing on this crapcake it that Cat now too sleeps in the guest room because otherwise, as she put it, I would be punishing her for being a good sleeper. She needs Mom’s love and attention too and besides, this is saving me a lot of laundry. At this point, I am too tired to put up an argument. The more the merrier ladies, should we invite some friends?

Now as you are judging me, which you almost surely are, let me run down what we have tried in our failed attempts at establishing a normal bedtime routine free of tears and recrimination – traditional Ferberizing, family bed, letting her sleep with her sister, letting her sleep with one of our dogs, letting her sleep with two of our dogs, me sleeping on her floor, giving her melatonin, the occasional Benadryl cocktail (at our doctor’s urging when I hadn’t slept in weeks), a rewards chart, a punishment system, letting her scream it out (her personal best went for six hours and included three rounds of vomiting) and several other things that I have forgotten in my sleep-deprived state. If you told me that standing on my head while wearing a badger costume would work, I would immediately start Googling badger costume outlets. I have no pride. I have no shame. I just want to have my nocturnal hours back to do wacky things like catch up on work and maybe get some sleep myself.

We have consulted over a dozen books, dozens of websites, two pediatricians, her teachers, the school counselor and a therapist. Everyone’s brilliant conclusion? She is a happy, healthy, well-adjusted kid who happens to have sleep issues. She will outgrow it eventually. She is genuinely afraid to sleep for reasons no one knows but her but eventually she will decide its no longer cool or comfortable or necessary to sleep with Mom. Different people have all reached this same conclusion about every six months for the last seven years.

The problem is I am now firmly convinced that she will go from sleeping with me directly into the bed of her first college boyfriend. It’s been more than seven years and I see no light at the end of this tunnel. There is a faint glimmer of hope on the horizon, but Darling Hubby tells me I am setting myself up for disappointment. He thinks that our daughter is like a bad boyfriend, raising my hopes only to dash them on a whim.

This is where my rumination on hope comes in. We took the girls mattress shopping a few weeks ago, thinking that perhaps a new mattress might help. Tate was very excited about the mission and dutifully tested each of the three dozen or so mattresses in the store. We found one that fit her requirements and our budget and were all set to leave when she and Cat spied them – bunk beds.

The set is white, with a twin on top, double on bottom and a trundle for storage or company. And the campaign to win parental hearts and minds commenced. “We SO need these,” they said. “No you don’t,” we countered. “These are the coolest beds ever,” they said. “Being cool is overrated,” we replied. We were holding firm, deflecting their pleas like Wonder Woman deflected bullets until they launched the missile against which we had no defense, “I will start sleeping through the night in my own bed if we get these,” Tate said. “And I will sleep in her room with her to make sure that she does and to help her,” Cat added.

To shorten the recap of the ensuing discussions, Darling Hubby thought it was a bet only a sucker would make. Who on earth would spend twice as much money to get bunk beds on the promise of a child who has so far been unable or unwilling to put herself to sleep without inflicting trauma and herself and her mother? Surely no one is that soft-hearted or soft-headed. Surely, any rational adult would see through this ploy and not fall for it.

To which I reply, in the words of Norman Cousins, “Hope is independent of the apparatus of logic.” Or, as I explained to Darling Hubby while ordering the bunk beds, “If given the choice between betting on my kids or betting against them, no matter what logic dictates, I always want to choose to bet on them. I may end up being wrong but I won’t be sorry.”

The beds are due to be delivered at the end of the month. I hope I like sleeping in them as much as I do the guest room bed.


No, Reid, don’t become one of them

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Living in a house full of stinky old boys can corrupt even the sweetest soul.

Take, for example, my delicious little Reid, who just turned five. He’s a sweet little darling…but I can already see the signs that he is turning to the dark side.

Today we had the twin boys who carpool with us over to play after school. The three little guys hopped out of the van and came tearing inside, heading for the basement and the bounty of toys and video games therein. Reid got to the basement door first and pulled it open. Then he turned, smirked and, with an elaborate flourish of his hand, exclaimed, “Ladies first!”

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And we all drove to the bank in our newfangled covered wagon

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A couple of weeks ago our whole family headed to the bank to open savings accounts for the three boys. They already have accounts we created for them at birth, with money that is put away for college. But we wanted them to also have personal savings accounts, where they could deposit their allowances and have some sense of ownership and responsibility for their money.

I fondly remember opening my own savings account, 30-some years ago. I had a little blue bank book where the cashiers would manually record every deposit I made, and keep a running total of my balance. Thirty five cents. A dollar twenty. These were the types of deposits I made. The amounts were small, but I was proud of my little nest egg.

Of course, times have changed. Byron handled the paperwork for these new accounts while I kept the boys occupied. Afterwards, he told me, “Well, I wanted them to have something to start off with. So I put $500 in each account.” Way to teach them the value of money, dad.

No matter how much I talked up the Opening Your First Savings Account Experience, the boys just weren’t enthused. The bank is boring. The only part they cared for at all was the gathering of all their change from their piggy banks, so we could pour it in the change machine. That was dirty and noisy and mechanical, so they approved.

But my little blue bank book story did nothing for them. They are used to Mommy’s nostalgia for the days before computers and cell phones and they just aren’t impressed. I did interest one listener though. The account manager at the bank was listening as I wove my tale of bank transactions from the days before Steve Jobs and Paul Allen. When I finished, she asked me incredulously, “Is that true? Did they really do that?”

Sigh. I’m old.


Random ramblings about Target….bear with me as I try to get writing again

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I’ve been to Target three times in the last three days. So…about an average week. Ha! No, I don’t usually go quite this often. But the first trip led to the second trip which led to the third trip. And the third trip guaranteed that I won’t be going back for a fourth any time soon. Let me give you the run down on the week’s visits to Tar-jay.

Visit 1
On Monday, Reid had his birthday party and he received two identical Star Wars Legos kits. Luckily, one parent was nice enough to include a gift receipt (which I always forget to do, myself). So, on Tuesday after school, Reid and I went to Target to exchange his toy. The whole way there he was moaning, “What if there is nothing I like? I don’t want to do this.” Post-preschool exhaustion is a real problem for Reid. But then we walked into the Legos aisle and he immediately saw a Harry Potter set that apparently he was born to own. He grabbed that thing and clutched it so tightly in his little white hands that I don’t think anything could have pried it out of his grip.

Okay, so objective achieved. Now all we had to do was get from the toy section in the back of the store to the registers in the front of the store without spending $5,000. Ha! Okay, maybe we didn’t quite spend $5,000. But we grabbed quite a few things, some necessary some…not so necessary. The not-so-necessary included a six-pack of Reese’s peanut butter eggs. I don’t need them. I know I shouldn’t have them. But, damn, those things are delicious. And they were on sale! Normal price $3.49, marked down to $3.00. There was a big sign saying so.

Let me just interject that, as a true candy connoisseur, I believe that Easter is by far the best time of year for candy. Some people will make the case for Christmas time, or maybe Halloween. Those people are wrong. Peanut butter eggs. Starburst jelly beans. Cadbury carmel eggs. Peeps. Sweet sugary deliciousness. Every spring my Twizzlers have to look the other way, because they know I have no will power and will be cheating on them for weeks on end.

Anyway, so we rang up all our items and were headed out of the store when I noticed that my peanut butter eggs had rung up at full price, not the sale price. Well, it was only 49 cents, you say? Hardly worth worrying about, right? To that I respond, “Have we met?” I hate when things don’t ring up the right price at stores. And it has happened to me more than once at this particular Target, so I am even less likely to let them off the hook. Reid and I headed to Guest Services to remedy this gross injustice.

Of course, it took about ten minutes to get my 49 cents back. (Not my personal record, mind you. I once spent almost 20 minutes getting 99 cents back at Modell’s. I am nothing if not committed to being consistently idiotic about this stuff.) The first cashier wasn’t sure what to do, and was all aflutter. Then the employee at the next register said, “Who cares. Just ring it up at $3.00. It’s 49 cents.” This was said with a really expert withering look in my direction. I replied, “Yes. But I like to bring these things to your attention, because I figure you need to fix them in the system so everyone isn’t overcharged all day.” Blank stare. Yeah, that’s not happening.

So finally, finally, the guy figures out how to return my peanut butter eggs and then ring them up again with the correct price. I have to hand over my Tinkerbell Visa card again, and then we’re finally done. By this point even I was like, “Why, Jill, why?” But we’d done it. We’d struck a blow for consumers everywhere, and shown Target that they can’t take advantage of me.

Until I got home and realized that, after our transaction, the cashier had handed me my two receipts…but not my peanut butter eggs.

Visit 2
So the next day I had to go back to the same evil Target to get the peanut butter eggs that had been so viciously stolen from me. This time I went before picking up Reid from school, because he may be just five years old, but he would definitely have called me on this ridiculousness if he had been aware of it. After I got my candy (I just went back and got one off the shelf – the shelf that still said $3.00 on it! – and put it in a bag with my receipt from the day before. I was not willing to face the humiliation of asking permission at Guest Services. How do you explain that one? “I was here haggling over 49 cents…”)

I had a few extra minutes, so I walked around a bit and got my Target on. Construction paper. Yes. Birthday present for the party next week. Yes. Swim and sport shampoo for Aidan’s shower. Yes. Pajamas for Mack. Yes. Then I saw a rack of cute t-shirts. I went and tried one on and I liked how it looked. So I picked out three different colors. This is how people like me – people who don’t like looking at themselves in the mirror anymore – shop. We find something that doesn’t look too bad and we buy it in a whole bunch of colors. Saves time and agony.

I went up to the register, realizing I was running out of time before I had to be at the preschool for pick up. The cashier held up the pajamas I had chosen for Mack and commented on how they were on clearance. “That’s a good price! Were there other ones?” I chuckled to myself, thinking she was just like the Target Lady character on Saturday Night Live, who is always exclaiming over everything that comes through her lane. I replied that there were a couple other sets of the pajamas on the rack, in a couple of sizes. She said, “No, but were there other ones? Other kinds? I don’t like these.”

I’m sure she didn’t mean it to sound as rude as it did, but I couldn’t help replying, “How nice of you to say that, since I am buying them.” But the good news was that everything rang up the correct price and I made it to the preschool on time. A successful trip to Target!

Until I tried on the light pink t-shirt I had bought and realized that it made me look like warmed-over death.

Visit 3
Now, I return a lot of things to Target. By “a lot” I mean that I return more things to Target every year than most people will ever buy – and keep – in their lifetimes. It is Target’s own damn fault, though! They’ve made their returns process so simple and convenient. So if I see some shorts, but I’m not sure whether they will fit Aidan, I buy them anyway, knowing I can always bring them back with no hassle.

I never gave much thought to my addiction to Target returns. And then once I said something to fellow DwCer Erinn about returning something and she said, “I don’t think I’ve ever returned anything to Target.”

I don’t think there could be a sentence in the English language that would be more bewildering to me. I was absolutely floored. I. Cannot. Imagine. That. Life. That life is as foreign to me as being Paul McCartney or a Sherpa or a drug mule. What does she do with her time? Why does her brain allow her that flexibility? How can I get to that happy place?

Anyway, I, of course, was back at Target the next day to return the pukey pink shirt (and replace it with the same shirt in two different, better, colors). And…since I had time…Gatorade for football practice? Yes. A birthday card for Byron? Yes. Drain cleaner? Don’t mind if I do.

But my sojourn through the second happiest place on Earth was marred by the screaming of a little girl being wheeled around the store by her mother. This dear, sweet little harridan, who looked like maybe a young three-year-old, sat in the back of the cart screeching for the entire 20 minutes I was shopping. Her mom was moving at about the same pace I was, so I couldn’t get away. This girl was having a fit because “I….WANT….A….PUZZLE.” Over and over with the I want a puzzle. For 20 minutes.

The mother was mostly just ignoring her. (And ignoring the looks of fellow shoppers.) Every few minutes she’d coo, “I know. It’s hard. It’s so hard” or “I’m so sorry.” or (this was my favorite) “I think it is wonderful that you want a puzzle. I know it’s hard that there aren’t any ones you don’t already have.”

No “Stop crying.” No “That’s enough.” No “Stop making a racket – you are driving everyone nuts, you spoiled little asshole.” She didn’t take the kid outside. She just ignored it and then acted like it was cute the way her kid was SCREAMING like the world’s most obnoxious prima donna. I could imagine this girl’s future and I predict that it includes a lot of tiaras, a mostly-ignored pony and some really inappropriate men.

Don’t judge me. I was seriously pissed at this mom by the time we hit the grocery aisles and I saw her at the end of a row, sheepishly telling a fellow shopper, “She wants a puzzle.” with a little half-smile, as if to say, “Isn’t it cute?” I went around the corner, where the little angel could see me but her mom couldn’t. I waited for her to look at me and then I quietly but firmly said, “STOP. IT. STOP IT RIGHT NOW.” Her eyes got wide and she stopped right in mid scream and watched me as I walked backwards down the aisle. At the end of the aisle I put my finger up and pointed at her and mouthed “STOP IT.” again.

I’d like to think I saved this poor girl from a lifetime as a spoiled brat. Like maybe her tiny brain would have an epiphany right there near the soup – “Hmmm, just because Mommy doesn’t make me act right doesn’t mean it’s okay to torture all the innocent people in this shopping establishment.” But no. My influence was short-lived. I could hear her screaming again a few minutes later.

I bet her mom stopped at another store on the way home to find her a puzzle she doesn’t have already.

The good news is that I came home with everything I paid for, and nothing needs to go back. I don’t have to go to Target tomorrow. Victory! (Although, come to think of it, I am already running low on Reese’s peanut butter eggs.)


Well, every super villain needs them

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Two of my kids are picky eaters. It is the bane of my existence.

Now, I’m not talking picky eaters like, “That’s the wrong brand of macaroni and cheese.” or “This steak is too rare for me.” I’m talking picky eaters like absolutely refuse to eat almost anything. Ever. If Reid and Mack took up smoking and got hair weaves, they would be indistinguishable from the models for Italian Vogue. Food rarely passes their lips.

Yesterday Reid burst into tears in the car because I mentioned that we might go to a restaurant he doesn’t like. “I can’t do it! I can’t do it!” Last night Mack and I had a 20-minute showdown because I wanted him to eat a piece of bread with butter on it. Yes, I know, I’m really pushing the limits on cuisine. We went back and forth, with the whining (him) and the threatening (me) and the begging (both of us) until he finally choked down half of it – by holding his nose for each bite and then immediately washing it down with water. Bread and butter.

In order to get them to eat, sometimes we play a game called Questions. It’s not too hard to explain. I come up with a topic (Star Wars, Presidents, Math, etc.) and then I ask each of them a question related to that topic. If they get the answer wrong they have to take a bite of food. This game works well at getting them to grimace and have a few bites of asparagus or mashed potato. But it is a lot of work. I have to think of the topics, then come up with questions that aren’t too easy or too hard, depending on the age of the kid who’s up.

Byron is no help with this game at all. If the topic is baseball, he’ll ask Reid, “How many hits did Roberto Clememte have in 1969?” When we give him the stink eye, he’ll ask, “What? Isn’t the point to make them get it wrong?”

But that isn’t the point. The point is to make them have fun and forget that they are being made to eat gross, disgusting FOOD. It’s also a nice way to interact because they each get a turn, and they know they will get that turn. So there isn’t as much interrupting and yelling over each other.

The other night, while playing Questions, I did a round of Reid questions. That led to Aidan questions, Mack questions, Daddy questions and finally Mommy questions. For Reid, my Mommy question was “How many brothers does Mommy have?”

This led us into an off-game discussion about all the people we know with two brothers. Mommy has two brothers! Auntie Emmy has two brothers! Grandpa has two brothers! And, of course, I said, “All of you have two brothers.”

Reid started shaking his head adamantly. “What, Reid?”

“I have zero brothers.”

I laughed, “What? You have two.”

“Nope. None.”

“Well then, what do you call these two guys?” I asked, gesturing to the brothers sitting on either side of him.

He looked to the left. He looked to the right. Then he looked back at me and said, “Minions.”


Teachers v. Lawyers, according to second-graders

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I haved been working with Kaylee’s second grade class on their creative writing. This is a complete blast, and a valuable learning experience.

For example, once they kids had to think of three things they were thankful for, and three reasons why they were thankful for each item. “A” chose his teacher as one thing he was thankful for, stating: “She is pretty. She is nice. She is every bit of my life.” So sweet! It almost makes up for the long hours, the budget cuts…. Well, it’s nice to be appreciated.

Another time the kids had to write about a secret hiding place they had, whether it was real or something they had to make up. “H” described her hiding place in great detail, ending with, “And no boys allowed!!! Ever!!! If you come in you will get your head chopped off!!! BY MY LAWYER!!!!” (As a side note for you lawyers: is decapitation included in your hourly rate, or is there a separate charge for that?) Anyway, as I read over her writing, I wasn’t sure if I should mention the violence. I mean, who among us hasn’t written violent murder fiction as an outlet? No one? Really? Then me neither….

As if she read my mind, “H” said, “I’m not sure I should write that.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Well, I do actually have a secret hiding place, but” – she dropped her voice to a whisper – “I don’t have a lawyer.”

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Jimminy Crickets

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Earlier this year I was the subject of an article that ran in an in-house publication. For the article, I was asked if I had made any New Year’s resolutions. I said that I had made only one, to try to be the person that my kids think I am.

My Darling Hubby thought that was a strange answer. “What do you mean by that? You are who the kids think you are. What are you, some kind of secret agent?”

But I am not who my kids think I am. My daughters, for reasons I do not understand, see a better version of me than really exists. They think THEIR MOM is wise, organized, loving, kind, patient and able to handle anything. I am those things, sometimes, usually when I am asleep. The real me spends a lot of time being cranky, tired, disorganized, selfish, chubby, lazy and not remotely able to get it all under control. The point is that my kids think I am beautiful and have it all figured out – EASY PEASY LEMON SQUEEZY. That’s who THEIR MOM is.

I understand the disconnect. I have it with my own Mom. She and Dad were up last week to celebrate Cat’s birthday and somehow someone raised the question, “Who is the biggest prude sitting at this table?” Without hesitation I emphatically blurted, “Mom.” My Dad laughed so hard I thought he would choke, and my Mom gave me hurt and puzzled look. My friend Beth chided me when I defended my answer but I dug in saying, “It has to be Mom. My MOM is a lady.”

And it’s true. MY MOM IS a lady. I think I can count on one hand with fingers left the number of times I have heard her utter a profanity. I have never once heard her discuss her sex life, either with my father or before my father. She blushes when we mention her first kiss and changes the subject. She is unfailingly kind to friends and strangers alike. She never wears clothing that is too revealing or too young. She has no tattoos that I know of. I have never even heard MY MOM tell an off-color joke. MY MOM is a lady. She is appropriate to her core. She will probably write thank you notes in advance for the people who attend her funeral.

I, on the other hand, am more like my Dad. I like off-color jokes. I am fluent in profanity. I have threatened to get a tattoo on my hip that says “You must be this tall to ride this ride.” I am often not appropriate, even when I try to feign appropriateness. I say things that cause other people’s jaws to drop, often when I am just saying what I think. I don’t TRY to be inappropriate any more than I TRY to have brown eyes. It’s inherent and inherited.

The other night, Cat was explaining sex to her sister and said it was when a boy stuck his penis into a girl’s vagina and peed on her eggs and when he was done, it could make a baby. Without looking up from the laundry I was folding, I yelled from the other room, “No honey, we have talked about this before. You really need to get the facts straight. A boy doesn’t pee. HE EJACULATES. He E-JAC-U-LATES sperm which fertilizes the egg. If a boy pees on you during sex, he isn’t doing it right.” My husband gave me a death glare and walked out of the room shaking his head. I went back to folding the laundry.

I am quite sure I have never heard MY MOM utter “ejaculate” or “if a boy pees on you during sex.” MY MOM, the person I know, would never do that. I think the only time I heard MY MOM mention sex was when she was referring to gender.

Now, for all I know, she could be Whore of Babylon behind closed doors. Maybe she and Dad let their freak flags fly in ways I could never fathom involving Jell-O and midgets and sparklers. To that I say, EWWWWW ICK and rock on you crazy kids. But I am sure MY MOM would never do that because MY MOM is a lady. The person I believe MY MOM to be will chew me out for the off-color nature of this post. The woman married to my dad who shares MY MOM’s name and body might start Googling “Jell-O midget sparkler fun.”

I should get back to my original point which is I strive to be the person my daughters believe me to be. THEIR MOM is honest and good. THEIR MOM is fair and kind. THEIR MOM does the right thing because it is the right thing to do.

I may be starting to see myself more through their eyes.

Tonight I was at Target. I had stopped on the way home from work to pick up a few things, giddy at the prospect of a few minutes in Target without the kids. The person manning the check-out line was a former colleague and so I stood there a good 10 minutes or so catching up with her on how she was. When I got to the parking lot I unloaded the bags and then looked under the cart and saw two boxes of sparkling water. I checked the receipt, which though it totaled an amount that was my rent in college, did not include charges for two boxes of raspberry-flavored sparkling water. My friend had been so busy chatting with me, she hadn’t charged me the $4.98.

I started to close up the car. It was less than $5. Target easily gets a disproportionate share of my income every month. It was no big deal. I was tired. I wanted to get home. I needed to pee. I had a million things I needed to do. I didn’t feel like marching back across the parking lot and into the store. I am no Pollyanna and I wasn’t going to lose sleep over $5 worth of sparkling water. I had a $5 Target gift card in my bag and thought about just leaving that in the cart for the next person to find.

And then I thought “What would I do if the girls were with me?” If the girls were with me, I would go back into the store, explain the mistake and pay for the water. I would want to model good behavior and help instill good morals. I would take the time to do the right thing so they knew what the right thing to do was, regardless of the amount of money or inconvenience. Well, I wouldn’t do all of that, but THEIR MOM would.

Dammit. Damn kids and their belief in me. Damn sweet faces. THEIR MOM would do the right thing.

And so THEIR MOM did. THEIR MOM grabbed one of the boxes and the receipt and marched back in to Target. THEIR MOM waited for her friend to check out the person she was helping. THEIR MOM explained the error and apologized for distracting her friend and paid the $4.98 while I/me/the me that is not their Mom rolled my eyes.

I am not the person my children believe that I am. But I hope I am becoming more like THEIR MOM a little more every day.


Not to be confused with scaling Mt. Everest AKA Is this how Lewis and Clark felt?

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Cat turned 9 today.

I’ve been reeling for the last few weeks that my oldest child is, in her words, “halfway to 18.” In my head, I have composed several poignant posts to commemorate this milestone and to reflect on my parenting experience to date. But before I could commit thoughts to screen, Cat composed the perfect post without even trying.

For the last few years, Cat and Tate have, from time to time, stood beside me to see how tall they were in comparison to me. They would touch me wherever their heads hit and make some kind of pronouncment like, “Look, I am just south of your boobs” or “Look, I am in the middle of your boobs.”

Today, Cat hugged me for a long time and then stood up straight with a jolt. She suddenly started yelling jubilantly, “I’m at the top of your boobs Mom. I am at the top of your boobs. I have FINALLY crossed over the mountains.”

Happy Birthday Cat. May all your journeys end with such happiness.


I’ll have a pina colada, hold the guilt and second guessing

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I miss knowing everything. It was a nice feeling.

Before I had children, I didn’t actually believe that I knew everything (my physics and chemistry grades being strong evidence to the contrary). That said, I rarely felt like the dumbest person in the room.

In fact, when it came to things, like child-rearing, something I knew NOTHING about, I felt like I knew a lot and had no trouble voicing my opinion from time to time to friends who were parents. I cringe when I think now to about 10 years ago when my friends’ children were small at how I would tease them or offer helpful hints when I had absolutely no point of reference other than my complete and utter devotion to my beagle, Vandal.

Two close friends of mine, Mary and Karin, demonstrated obscene patience with me. For example, both would come into work and relay their feelings of guilt at leaving their kids at day care. They would tear up at recounting the morning’s painful departure that left both mom and child inconsolable. They would describe their pain and angst at whether their choices for their children were right, how torn they felt, how the suffered and how they questioned their abilities as mothers. Caring nuturer and good friend that I was at the time, I recall saying things like, “Jesus, Mary, you left them at day care, not prison. Let’s get a blueberry muffin and you will feel better.”

When my friend Karin told me that she and her husband had not been away alone anywhere together for more than 10 years, I was aghast. What? Seriously? How? Good God woman, get thee to a resort sans kinder and pronto. I am sure I said something like, “Your children cannot be your whole world. It’s not good for you or them. Let’s go get a blueberry muffin and you will feel better.”

Karin and Mary are saints. Despite my popping off over the years, they still, for reasons I do not at all comprehend, love me. I probably make them feel smart and sane and wise by comparison.

Of course they have had the delicious pleasure of watching me eat buffet-loads of crow over the last nearly nine years. I called them sobbing when I took Cat to day care for the first time. She was there for an entire THREE HOURS and I believe I cried for four. Though the wonderful day care ladies demonstrated patience and expertise that I will never possess, I was sure that during lunch, they would put down the books and diaper wipes and poke her with needles or tell her she wasn’t as cute as the other babies. Clearly my fears were based in reality, since Tate to this day calls one of her day care teachers her “other Mommy.”

While I could, ten years ago, somewhat understand the day care angst, the vacation-away-without-the-kids angst eluded me entirely. I figured if there were responsible grandparents or other close family or friends in the picture, my friends should run like hell to the nearest beach and commence wasting away in Margaritaville and not come back until the cash ran out.

So with that lengthy preamble, Mary and Karin, this one is for you.

It has been five years since Darling Hubby and I have gone away on vacation without the kids. We went to St. Lucia for his 40th birthday for 5 days and if I recall correctly, our cell phone bill that month was, I kid you not. over $350 calling home to check on Cat and Tate who were being spoiled silly by their grandparents.

Since then, we have sent the kids for several stays with my parents for up to 8 days at a time. But while the kids are at Camp Grammy and Poppy’s being spoiled silly, we do things like paint their rooms, clean their closets, shovel out the playroom or dare to clean under their beds. Sure, we may go out to dinner. But over Chang’s chicken wraps we discuss whether Tate is sleeping through the night, whether Cat is practicing her math, our plans for our next family trip, or some other item related to the children. While the children are gone, they aren’t really, and even in their absence, our world continues to revolve around them.

I have become THAT mother. My kids, alas, are the center of my world. My universe does in fact revolve around them. Everyone else, even Darling Hubby whom I adore, is secondary.

And here I sit, awakened at 5 a.m. staring at a suitcase. It contains Hubby’s swimsuit and polo shirts. I can’t put any of my clothes in because I have already filled it with guilt.

Yes, Darling Hubby and I are taking a long weekend, without the girls, to someplace with sunshine and fruity drinks, to celebrate my 40th birthday. And yes, I have spent the last week increasingly panic-stricken at the notion.

The kids are not helping. Yesterday morning, Cat awoke crying saying that she had a bad dream that something happened to us on our trip. Tate is refusing to sleep until we return. Last night, Cat asked Darling Hubby to swear that nothing bad would happen to us and then tearfully and dramatically announced that she would kill herself in anything did. Tate chimed in that she would be “bummed.”

Although I know logically that this was all a ploy to induce guilt and merely masterful manipulation, it worked. I know that they will be fine. In fact, they have a fabulous weekend planned. I know they will be well cared for in our absence. I know that they will be safe and loved and will have entire chunks of time when they are not laying on the carpet sobbing and missing me. I know. I know. I know.

This knowledge did not help last night when they curled up next to me and whispered, “Don’t go, Mommy.” Ridiculous as I know I sound, it took every ounce of will-power I had not to jump up and cancel our trip. Had my husband not been packing his own suitcase (something that NEVER happens), I probably would have. But he has been counting the days until this trip and is excited about it as I am conflicted.

Every year during our annual Disney trek, we look at each and say, “We need to take a trip with just the two of us.” I mean it when I say it. Now the time is here, and my will is faltering. There are rooms to clean, a laundry mountain to scale, homework to help with, a Leprechaun trap to build. Maybe this isn’t the best weekend to get away from it all. Maybe after they start college, or grad school, or are retired.

For all my grousing, cursing, grumbling, pleas for a break and fantasies of time away on a beach with fruity drinks, when confronted with the reality of leaving the kids, even for a long weekend, my heart aches. I want a break. And I don’t. I want to unplug. And I don’t. I want to show them (and me) that Mom and Dad can focus on each other for more than 30 seconds and that it is important. And I don’t. I know what the right thing to do is. And I don’t. I used to know it all. And now I surely do not.

Mary and Karin, (or anyone else) feel free to heap on the advice and the ridicule. I know I have it coming. I know that I am being ridiculous. I know we will go and have a great time and we will all survive it without signs of long-term trauma. I just don’t know how I will be able to swallow the fruity drinks with this huge lump in my throat.


Santa and the mermaids are safe, for now

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I should have prepared for this moment.

I knew it was coming. Jill wrote about it. We’ve had near-misses. But somehow I never sat down and thought what I would do when it happened. And now it has, and I am sitting here wondering why I didn’t prepare and how I could have handled it better.

Why does parenthood seem like a series of pop quizzes for which you have never adequately studied? I don’t have the dream where I show up for school on exam day having skipped all the classes – I live it. It’s called being a Mom.

Well established background fact to this story #1 – I am not a morning person. It is not uncommon to hear one of my children utter in a loud stage whisper, “Let’s not tell Mom about that until she has had her caffeine.”

Well established background fact to this story #2 – I think reality is over-hyped. While I am trying to raise my children to live in the real world successfully, we also have a highly developed sense of whimsy and silliness. We are members of the Cult of Disney. Tate believes she is secretly a mermaid. My children think I know all. We often play a game called, “In My World.” Each person takes a turn saying things like, “In my world, my job is to lay on the beach sipping fruity drinks while George Clooney rubs my feet” or “In my world we have 13 puppies who can dance and sing.” My children are highly functional in the real world, but when they are with Mom, we engage in frequent flights of fancy.

Background fact #3 – I try very hard to tell my children the truth about anything they ask me directly. As a result, my children will come to me when I am brushing my teeth with such gems as “What is a period again?” and “You make a baby when I boy releases urine from his thing and it waters a girl’s egg right? Does she LAY an egg for him to pee on? Is that how it works?” When faced with such questions, I answer honestly, in age-appropriate (mostly) language, and they return to pretending to be pop stars or secret ninjas or princesses and I take a handful of Advil.

This morning, on the drive to school, Tate suddenly looked at me and asked, “Is there such thing as the Tooth Fairy?”

Background fact #4 – When I am confronted by the children with a question that I do not want to answer, or I am unsure how best to answer, I immediately switch into lawyer-mode. It’s not intentional; it’s my defense mechanism.

“Why do you ask?” I said.

“I want to know,” she countered.

“Fair enough. I was just wondering what was the genesis of your question, or rather what brought this up?”

“I was talking to some kids at school (“DAMN THOSE KIDS AT SCHOOL,” I thought) and some of them don’t believe in the Tooth Fairy, or mermaids or Santa,” she said.

“What is it that YOU think?” I asked, still stalling for time.

“I think there are mermaids. And of course there is a Santa (relieved sigh from the driver’s seat) but I am not so sure about the Tooth Fairy,” she said.

“What has formed the basis of this opinion?” I asked. “Is there any particular reason you doubt the existence of the Tooth Fairy?”

“Not really, it just doesn’t add up,” she said.

I was quiet for a while. I did not want to have this conversation. Tate, 7, is my baby. In MY World, my children remain innocent and believing in Santa and mermaids and fairies and goodness and fairness and all-knowing Mommies forever. This fervent desire however was in direct conflict with my desire to be straight with them when asked direct questions so that I have street cred when they are older.

Stupid parenting pop quizzes.

Stupid mornings.

Stupid Mommy for not mainlining caffeine as soon as the alarm goes off.

Finally I drew a deep breath and asked, “So who do you think IS the Tooth Fairy?”

“Parents,” she said. “That is the only thing that makes any sense.”

I was quiet for a while longer and then said, “You are very smart Tate.”

I could feel her looking at me for a minute. I broke the silence by reaching out my hand and saying, “I’m the Tooth Fairy, so very pleased to formally meet you.”

She burst out into giggles and shook my hand.

“Wow,” she said, “you don’t look at all like I thought you would. I pictured a little tiny hippo with wings and a pink tutu.”

“Sorry kid,” I said. “It’s more like a Mommy with a big butt and sweatpants.”

She laughed again. I was quiet for a minute. Then I just had to know.

“Tater, are you disappointed?

“In what?”

“Disappointed that I am the Tooth Fairy?” I asked.

“Not at all,” she said. “I asked you a question and you told me that truth. That makes you a good Mom.”

“Thanks Tater,” I said. “That means a lot. Do me a favor though, don’t tell your older sister yet. Let’s wait until she figures it out, okay?”

“Don’t worry Mom,” she said. “I won’t tell anyone. Some people need to believe in fairies and stuff like that. I wouldn’t want to take that away.”

“Besides,” she added, “This way you can keep leaving me money when I lose teeth.”