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  • My top five most important moments of the summer so far
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    My top five moments of the summer so far

    My family's summer, by the standards of many, has been insignificant. No big trips to Indonesia or Florida or even Branson. No season passes to professional baseball or the zoo or a water park.

    But the summer has been great, if you examine the details. If you smell the candylike honeysuckle vine on the table. If you notice the confident smiles on my preschooler and toddler. 

    Some may be underwhelmed by my list of important moments this season. By my calculations, their sum is pretty great. 

    5. Trading flowers and produce with neighbors. Such a simple idea, but the act signifies respect, fellowship and community. We've gotten peonies, honeysuckle and homemade crabapple jelly from our kindly neighbor. I've given a voluptuous bouquet of snowball flowers, handpicked strawberries and an array of greens from our garden. These things make the kitchen and the heart happy.

    4. Harvesting greens from our garden. My boys, ages 3 1/2 and 2, snub verdant vegetables like it's their job. But if they help plant the seeds, nourish them with water and wait -- just-picked kale becomes the next lollipop. 

    I made smothered spiral pasta the other day with arugula pesto made from our garden bounty. My kids practically licked their plates. "Pesto pasto is kind of like Fruit Roll-Ups," my oldest declared. Okaaaaay. We have a winner. 

    3. Being away from my child when he was sick. (I said important moments, not happy ones.) My husband and I had driven four hours to attend a child-free wedding. My son vomited on our date weekend and spiked the punch with a 102-degree fever. I cried because I couldn't be there to hold him. I almost left my groomsman husband at the wedding so I could drive home. The babysitters, aka my parents, talked me down from the ledge. My boy was sick but well-cared-for. He would be OK. And so would I. 

    2. Then I vegetated. I knew I couldn't be there for my son, so I took advantage of my solitude. It was midday, and I was alone with a bed and a remote. The hubby had left to fulfill groomsmanly duties. No one begged for a glass of milk or climbed my shins for a seat in my lap or walked around naked, clutching his underwear, a few seconds away from sitting his unwiped bottom on an heirloom rug. 

    I became the blissed-out cliche of mothers of small children everywhere: I turned on HGTV and I took a nap. And when I woke up, I continued to lie in bed for another hour until I had to get up and go to the wedding. This kind of unbridled nothingness no longer exists in my life, but as it turns out, mom me is still pretty good at it.

    1. Getting comfortable with swimming. Not in the kind of pool that's become de rigueur for the suburbs -- the one with tube slides, a lazy river, zero entry and toddler splash/torture park. We have been splashing in simple rectangles of chlorinated water. 

    First, we entered the foot-deep baby pool, where my youngest would only sit on the edge and splash. Then we dipped into a medium-sized rectangle, where my oldest stands chest-deep. There he held his breath and went under for the first time. Then he jumped off the edge, without me catching. Then he shot out of my arms like a cannonball.

    Now, after a second outing, both boys are sprouting gills. "Mommy, I can do it myself," said my be-goggled and life-vested 2-year-old in water that's over his head. So I let go. And his grin stretched as wide as the pool. 

    After that experiment, I let go of my oldest, too. He had spent 30 minutes stiffening at my attempts to support him while he kicked. But without my arms, he figured out that he could, in fact, keep his head above water. Doggy paddling at best, but life-jacket-free, independent, bona fide swimming. His confidence soared.

    Indeed, summer is my favorite. Part of the reason is a theme among the top five: discovery. 

    The heat encourages us to get outside. Sunshine fuels us as we physically go outdoors and become active. But that same sun shines a light on ourselves, encouraging us to get outside our comforts. 

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    Posted on: Jun 19 2013 - 06:00:00 AM
    Tags: SUMMER
    Truly, it takes a village
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    Here is the thing about living in a small town. 

    If you want something to change, you'd better be willing to help change it. There aren't a lot of other people around to do it.

    I'm embracing this reality as I insert myself into a project to build a destination playground. It's a project I hope will show my kids what a great place this is to grow up. And not just because we're trying to build a super-sweet place to play.

    It's because to get this million-dollar project done on our budget of $150,000, we're going to need hundreds, possibly thousands of volunteers. These are people who will not only raise the money and construct the playground in a five-day barn-raiser but also watch the volunteers' children, make them food and scour the town for borrowed tools and donated materials. 

    More than 60 people are working on this already, only a few weeks into the the Concordia Community Park Project's yearlong effort. And more approach us each day with ideas for fundraisers, offers to bake cookies and a general willingness to contribute their talents. 

    This kind of community-built playground isn't new, but I'd never heard of it before I moved to our town of 5,000 this spring. At least two towns within 50 miles of us have completed similar builds. People threw so much money at the latest one, in Clay Center, Kan., that the Safari Run Playground there raised 140 percent of its budget  -- $245,000, compared with the original goal of $175,000. That was two years ago. 

    I am so inspired by the people I have been fortunate enough to work with. Many of those who are most enthusiastic about building a new park don't even have young children. They just want to see this town thrive. 

    And it is. So many of Concordia's best features have come together not because of a single corporation or benefactor but because of hordes of tireless volunteers, raising $1 at a time. 

    The six-screen movie theater. The historic Brown Grand Theater, an opera house renovated two decades ago and now in the process of raising hundreds of thousands more, just so it won't have to close. The sports complex -- a web of baseball fields that becomes the heart of the town every summer -- came together decades ago in the same way -- with volunteers. 

    My father is my example here. He's a farmer who transitions from field to board meeting several times a week. He's been a member of not only the local elevator board, but the school board, economic development board, rural water district board and even a country cemetery board. He'll probably serve on that last one until he's buried there. 

    He never seeks recognition for his servitude. And now that I'm meeting people who have taken similar paths, I realize that small towns are built on the backs of people like these. 
    I'm helping with PR. I promise that this blog is not just a shameless plug -- I'm not getting paid! I just want to pay forward the dedication to keeping our small town alive. 

    We're in the run-up to our kickoff event, called Design Day. We're flying in a playground designer from Ithaca, N.Y., who will interview dozens of children about what they want in a playground. Then he'll take those ideas and use them to draw his mock-up of our park, which we'll showcase in a big reveal that night. 

    So not only will hundreds of adults have a hand in building this park, but a generation of local children will, too. My 3-year-old is getting into it: He says he wants a slide. 

    You got it, buddy. A whole village is working on that. 

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    Posted on: Jun 12 2013 - 06:00:00 AM
    Tags: PLAYGROUND
    The kids are sick with Iwantmommy-itis
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    Being the parent that your kids reach for is great. Until it isn't. 

    I relish the morning snuggles in our too-small-for-four, queen-sized bed, with each boy claiming one of my arms. The bedtime stories, with one boy on each leg, rapt with the Sandra Boynton book du jour or Curious George or Llama Llama. 

    The book my boys seem to identify with most lately: "Llama Llama Misses Mama."

    I'm lucky if I get to sneak away for a bedtime-hour yoga class once a week. When I leave, I steel myself against crying so tortuous I may as well have killed their favorite cat. I keep going, selfishly thinking that they'll quiet as soon as I leave. And most times I return to two sets of tear-stained cheeks and a traumatized husband. Talk about a buzzkill.

    I've done this to myself, I suppose. My kids have been in my care full-time for the last year and a half. I wipe their butts and their tears most of the time. I feed them. Read to them. Play with them. Comfort them when a bad dream about a short supply of lemonade rouses them. 

    The clinginess extends to public settings. At playgroup, Quinn, 3 1/2, once eyed me warily as I walked toward a trash can while the kids sat for a snack. Bennett, 2, cried to be held during toddler music class, even though I was dancing right next to him. 

    My husband, Will, adores his kids and contributes when he can. Tuesday morning, he woke up and made us waffles. But often he's working hard at his desk to support the rest of us. It breaks his heart when he finally has a free moment to lead their nightly recitation of "Curious George Makes Pancakes" and they beg for me instead.

    That clinginess is hard on Will and taxing for me. I try to nudge the boys to bond with Dad. But just leaving the room can bring on the wailing. 

    Take Tuesday night for example. By 7:12 p.m., I had been separated from my kids by one floor for five minutes. I retreated to our upstairs bedroom so I could begin writing this blog. Dad would scrub away their summertime filth in the bathtub. 

    Will began herding the kids toward the running the bath. Quinn ran after me instead. The baby gate blocked him. 

    I had just fluffed my bank of pillows and opened a blank document. Typey, type, type. Type type. 

    "Mommyyyyyy! Come back! Boooo hoo hoo hooo!!!!!!!"

    I feigned work through the discord. Type, type, type. Gibberish. Must. Focus. 

    "Mommy I want youuuu!!!!" Quinn whined. "I want you to give me a bath!!!! Boo hoo hoo…"

    Every maternal bone in me felt a magnetic pull toward my distressed son. Every weary muscle resisted, knowing that a post-bedtime start to my writing would take me past midnight. Will finally coaxed him into the tub. The wailing stopped.

    My fingers clickety-clacked through the silence. 

    Thirty seconds later, this: 

    "Uh, Mommy wh'ahh you? Unhhhh!" (Toddlerese-to-English translation: Where are you?)

    A freshly washed Bennett, 2, had picked up the pleading from the bottom of the stairs. I could picture his hair drying into a fuzzy Rod Stewartlike spike-halo.

    "Mommy come back! Uhhhhh, Mommy come back, ehhh!!!"

    I caved. Bennett shuddered with relief, popped his thumb in his mouth and nuzzled my shoulder. Then I speed-read each boy a book and tucked them in, with Dad dutifully providing sips of water and harmony on "Hush, Little Baby."

    We see glimmers of co-parent dependence. Will and Bennett got some man-to-man time all morning Saturday, and both boys frolicked with Dad for several hours in the park that night while we listened to live music. After a day of relationship repair, they wanted him to read the story that night.

    I relish those moments just as much as the ones when they want me. Seeing their delight as they interact with their patient, loving father is as good as anything I can get myself.

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    Posted on: Jun 5 2013 - 06:00:00 AM
    Guest blog: Please welcome 3-year-old Quinn
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    Involve your kids in your everyday tasks, experts say. Cook with them. Have them help vacuum and dust. Sort laundry.

    Why not add a new mommy/kiddo task? We're experimenting here, but 3-year-old Quinn fancies himself a master storyteller. It's natural that he should debut on this blog. 

    So, dear readers, please welcome my little car lover, Quinn Metcalf. He dictated a few stories, with a little prodding from me to fill them out. Here is a transcript. The plots meander a bit. Sue us. 

    ME: What's the title of your blog?

    QUINN: A-B-C … I'm going to have to go to the bathroom today, and I'll write mine down.

    (Runs toward bathroom clutching his kiddie computer. Obnoxious music fades as door closes.)

    …

    QUINN: Mo-om, I'm done!

    ...

    (He returns.)

    ME: So what are we writing about today?

    QUINN: 1-2-3-4-5. 2-3-4-5.

    ME: Don't you have a story about you and a DeLorean?

    QUINN: Um, it was great. There was no condish--,  condish--, air conditioning on there, so I popped the doors open. I popped them open, and then I drove with the doors open. 

    ME: Where did you go?

    QUINN: To the DeLorean dealership. There was all kinds of DeLoreans. 

    ME: What did they look like?

    QUINN: They look like my DeLorean. They were different than mine. Well, one was black and silver. And some of the others were not. 

    ME: How many were there?

    QUINN: Um, there was, like, 10. The 10 DeLoreans did not drive. They were getting the 10 DeLoreans fixed.

    I used to have a DeLorean and then I got a Corvette and went there. I popped the doors closed when I parked in the garage, and then I took the Corvette out of the garage and then (burp) and then I went to the DeLorean dealership with the Corvette.

    ME: And then what happened?

    QUINN: Well, nothing much. Just a little. And when I got there and when I went inside, I saw lots of Hondas in there. And then when I came back, I went in one DeLorean. The black and silver one. No, one DMC.

    ME: So, what else?

    QUINN: So, nothing much. A small kind. 

    <<<< STORY NO. 2 >>>>>

    QUINN: Today I vacuumed with a Dirt Devil D3. 

    ME: OK, what'd you vacuum?

    QUINN: Ooo, just a floor. And the tops of the fl--. I vacuumed the top, too. 

    When I got to the DeLorean dealership with them, there were kind of one DeLorean, so I had a Honda CRV, and someone else, a lot of friends parked there, and then we got out of our cars and went inside. 

    ME: What'd you do inside?

    QUINN: We looked at DeLoreans. They were up there, but not a lot of DeLoreans, just a little. 

    (gulps down some watermelon)

    ME: Do you have another story?

    QUINN: Nothing is in my other story. 

    A car was called a Honda Accord, and lots of CRVs were at the … kind of 10, but the other one left, and my car, the old Honda Accord, it parked (burp) at the Honda dealership.

    I opened the doors and then when I got out, my car, my car did not have gas. I took a different car and bought pump gassy, the thing that you pump gas, so I pumped it in my old Honda Accord and I put it back in the bigger car and I went back in the Accord and it had gas. 

    Then I went home and went to bed. 

    ME: What else do you want to tell your readers?

    QUINN: There will be no readers. Mom, maybe when I grow up, I will be an author. I don't want to be an author when I grow up. I said I did not want to.

    <<<< STORY NO. 3 >>>>

    QUINN: I had a wolf and the wolf was bad. And the wolf could, it could, the wolf could, it could, it could. Could, could, could, it could … could it? Could it? Could it? Could it? (and on, and on)

    Howl and the fountain country. And they were eating a hot dog and it was very yummy. And they were in the living room taking a rest. And they were doing an address and then they could interrupt their daddy and they could come back and ask their daddy if they want to go in their (GMC) Acadia. GMC Acadia, that's what it says. (sings) GMC Acadia. GMC Acadia. GMC Acadia. (and on and on)

    I was driving the Acadia to the GMC dealership and then GMCs were there and then-- I want some watermelon. Don't type "I want some watermelon."

    And the Acadia, it was just hanging out there. 

    We're all done, Mom.

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    Posted on: May 29 2013 - 06:00:00 AM
    Tags: GUEST BLOG
    When that tornado siren sounds, I'm in the basement
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    I was 10 when I thought I was going to die. 

    Mom threw open my bedroom door and lurched me awake. "We have to go to the basement," she said. "NOW." 

    We walked across the living room quickly, the brown carpet padding my steps. I was groggy and unalarmed. It was quiet, save for maybe the sound of rain. We reached the top of the stairs. 

    BOOM.

    The sound rang through the countryside and in my chest and knocked me to the ground. My heart echoed the boom as it pounded twice, three times as fast as it had only seconds before. Immediately after the boom, the wind screamed with an urgency I'd never witnessed. I leapt up and flew down the stairs to the basement. 

    This was my first panic attack. I thought my life would end as the wind swirled in the blackness. We had a finished basement, with a full-sized door and crude plank stairs leading to an outer entrance. Someone had forgotten to lock the cellar doors, and they were slamming, the metal crashing and mocking me as I sat in a ball against the west basement wall. 

    My father decided he needed to close those doors. Whether he thought the wind would blow them off or that the exposure to the main basement door would leave us vulnerable, I don't know. But he opened that door and stepped into what I thought was the eye of God. I was not certain he would come back. 

    My mom held onto his legs as he ascended the stairs, I guess to hold him down, lest he be sucked away by the ferocious wind. I was screaming, pleading for him to stop. 

    He did not. It took a minute, but he reached around and fought the doors closed. Once the hatch was fastened, he came back to our nucleus and assured me that he was OK. That we would be OK. 

    And we were. The house was untouched by the storm, which turned out to be straight-line winds of 100+ miles per hour, according to meteorologists. Several of the trees in our yard were gnarled, as were many of the trees throughout the county. Several homes had their roofs blown off. That freight train sound people associate with tornadoes was pervasive that night, whether the tornado was true. 

    I still hear that sound and live that memory every time we endure a tornado warning. I flash through so many storms of my past. The time I was at a baseball field as a teenager when the sirens droned, and I screeched across town in my '66 Mustang, probably more of a hazard than the funnel cloud that never became a funnel. The time the sirens interrupted drama practice and we sweated while hugging our knees in a stuffy hallway of my high school. The time, just weeks after Bennett was born, when our new family of four rode out a storm that pushed lunchtime and nap time and plowed past the dirty diaper with no backup, ripping into Meltdown City, county of Quinn, then 1 1/2. His storm, fortunately, was bigger than the real one.

    I cannot imagine what kind of emotional damage the people of Moore, Okla., must be experiencing. My scars haven't healed 21 years later, and the events that caused them weren't even life-threatening. 

    I try to prepare if I know there's a threat of severe weather. I lay out shoes by the basement door and fill an emergency bag with diapers, wipes and water. I pull out the folder with our important documents and set it next to the shoes. 

    I do this knowing that if a Moore or a Joplin or a Greensburg tornado hits, the preparations matter little. But taking precautions helps me feel more in control, which helps me minimize my panic. May my children never experience such fear. 

    We had a tornado warning in our county the other night. The kids were asleep. Our internet was down, and cable was out. Foolishly, I hadn't dug out the weather radio since the move. My phone beeped about a warning in Cloud County, but the page explaining the details would not come up. 

    We have to go to the basement, I said. 

    "Let's just find out where the tornado is first," Will said with his signature calm. 

    He didn't want to wake the kids if we didn't have to. That's understandable. But as far as I was concerned, we had to. With some tornadoes, you have little warning before they strike, as we saw this week with the Moore event. I was not going to put my children in jeopardy while I fiddled with my phone. 

    I am fortunate that my husband understands my fear. He doesn't share it, but he follows my lead. We carried two very much alive deadweights down two flights of stairs and into the dusty basement. Then, once safe, we switched the Wifi setting on my phone and arm-wrestled it into telling us the twister's location.

    We learned that we were never in danger. The tornado was east of us and moving further eastward. 

    I could breathe again, and reflect. For me, the calm comes after the storm, never before. 

    I am grateful that I've never had my house blown away, or loved ones taken in a storm. 

    I am grateful that the times I huddled in a school hallway, I never had to witness the building being blown to splinters or my friends buried under rubble. 

    I am grateful that I live in a time when I can get weather news on my phone, computer, television, radio and weather radio, and failing those, the city's tornado sirens. I am grateful that I never have to stick my head out the door and look at the clouds. 

    I am grateful that others are out there, risking their lives to bring me all of my alerts. I am grateful for weather spotters. 

    I will never be one, because I will always, always, be in the basement. 

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    Posted on: May 22 2013 - 06:00:00 AM
    Tags: TORNADOES
    It's getting harder to eat healthy
    283 Views

    I am a mother at battle. Every day, the war on food rages. 

    Keep the kids away from sugar, or they'll become obese and develop diabetes and heart disease and cancer and all the Other Horrible Ways to Live and Die. 
     
    That's what the experts tell you. I feel like I am losing. The boys find Twizzlers on Dad's desk, just after they brush their teeth in the morning, which follows the donut that Dad sneaks in. The pharmacist gives them lollipops. They order lemonade with lunch at a restaurant. Grandma and Grandpa supply a steady pipeline of chocolate or cookies or candy or cake or ice cream. Because that's what grandparents do. 

    Sugar is the oldest in a list ingestible enemies that grows every day. A quick scroll through Tuesday's Facebook feed turned up dire warnings: The World Cancer Research Fund declared processed meats too dangerous to consume. Fluoride in our bodies must be removed, lest it, too, cause our cells to mutate and overtake our bodies.  

    My family has enough dietary restrictions without all the external pressure. We avoid dairy because my husband has been lactose intolerant since birth, and I don't do that well with it, either. I cut out wheat and corn for myself because an elimination diet revealed that the two grains were causing my health issues. Even our 2-year-old is high-maintenance: Apples and tomatoes aggravate his reflux so much that they make him cough, sometimes to the point of vomiting. "Salsa makes Bennett's tummy tummy hurt," he says, dipping his tortilla chip into an alternative mound of refried beans.

    With all those factors to consider, diet and its relationship to overall health tends to dominate my days. I suppose that's why I let the external pressure to eat healthy become yet another source of mommy guilt.

    My cupboard has Stevia, coconut flour, coconut oil, flax meal and a bulk bag of chia seeds. I didn't even know these things existed a decade ago.

    Pinterest pushes the Paleo diet, with its lack of grains, dairy and processed foods. Some sources say it's all about PH and iodine levels. And then there are singular warnings to eat organic, avoid GMOs, MSG and artificial sweeteners and seek out free-range, grass fed meat. There's even an app that will help you boycott Monsanto products.

    Last week I watched a documentary that's been getting some buzz among people I know. "Forks Over Knives," available on Netflix, postulates that meat and dairy cause the ills of the western diet: heart disease, cancer, diabetes, strokes. It argues that these problems are virtually nonexistent in cultures that mostly avoid those two food groups. Japan is but one example. 

    All that information is hard for me to digest. My go-to philosophy aligns with that of author Michael Pollan, who says that eating whole foods, mostly plants, will keep you healthy. If a supermarket item makes a health claim, stay far, far away. Pollan argues in his book, "In Defense of Food," that any food advertising omega 3s or some other vitamin du jour probably has been stripped of essential nutrients that food scientists have yet to appreciate. 

    Ever seen "Portlandia"? In one episode, a pair of diners are so unsatisfied with their waiter's answers about the food's origins -- Is it locally sourced? Organic? How are the animals treated? -- that they excuse themselves, drive to the farm, drill the farmer and end up helping with chores. Then they return to the restaurant and their table, where their waiter has been, um, waiting patiently. 

    Reality is almost there, in some instances. I'm not "Portlandia" neurotic yet. But in that vein, here's my word of the week: 

    Orthorexia: An unofficial disorder in which a person obsesses over healthy eating. 

    That this word exists gives me comfort and relief from some of the guilt that threatens to press down on me for shirking a good chunk of society's health recommendations. 

    Everyone close to me knows that I try pretty hard to get my kids to eat vegetables. Most moms do. But I can't control what they eat when my husband feeds them, or my parents or anyone else. 

    Will and I spent 2 1/2 days away for a wedding recently, and when I came back, I learned that the kids survived entire days on donuts, grilled cheese, french fries and lemonade. No veggies. When I brought up my concern with the babysitter, aka my mom, she shrugged and said, "Well, you could always fire the babysitter." Then, "Oh! They had grapes!"

    Will talked some sense into me that day. He's so good at balancing me out. He suggested that I might have criticized my mom unfairly, considering that she rearranged her whole weekend so she could care for our children.

    I knew he was right. So I picked up the phone, apologized to Mom and gave her the unconditional thank-you she deserved for watching the boys. 

    The food war still wages within me, I suppose. But I'm realizing that my children and everyone around them shouldn't have to fight the battle as fervently as I do. Eating an occasional hot dog won't kill a person. Working hard enough to avoid them altogether might.

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    Posted on: May 15 2013 - 06:00:00 AM
    Me, a teenager? Pssh. Want to see my stretch marks?
    348 Views

    In Kansas City, my fashion sense passed for frumpy, frazzled mom. (See also: MOM JEANS)

    Here in our new home of Concordia, Kan., I look more like a high school babysitter, according to random strangers.

    One of my first encounters with a neighbor went thusly: 

    KID ACROSS THE STREET, RIDING A SCOOTER: Hey! Who are you? 

    ME, with QUINN: We're your new neighbors. 

    KID: Are you the babysitter? 

    ME: No, I'm the mom. 

    KID: Why are you wearing boots? 

    Valid questions all. I dressed young that day, and my crow's feet and laugh lines fade from 50 yards away. I was wearing a pony tail, my fuzzy North Face jacket, gray skinnies with holes in the knees and black rain boots. My play clothes. I can't begrudge a boy for honesty. 

    A couple weeks later, a solicitor rang the doorbell. We also had visitors that afternoon, a cousin-in-law and her mom. 

    MAGAZINE GUY: Hi, is your mom home? 

    ME: Uhhh …

    Cousin and her mother peek around my shoulder.

    MAGAZINE GUY: OK, hi there. I'm selling yada yada yada …

    I bought zero magazines to support this stranger's dubious charity or to "help his career." Plus, my mom wasn't home! She's the one with the money, right?

    The third time I was mistaken for a teenager, I was at the mall. The same one I used to haunt as an actual teenager. 

    My mission: Find shoes to wear to a wedding. 

    I skulked around several stores and found nothing I wanted. Then I remembered the mall's flagship shoe store. My mother had come along for our day of shopping -- that's what you do in north central Kansas, because you have to drive an hour to get to the mall -- so I left the kids with her and ducked into the store alone. Ahhh.

    Lindsay enters wearing Chuck Taylors, a backpack/diaper bag and her signature ponytail. Her eyes dart among the displays like those of a caged animal or a mother who knows she has two minutes before meltdown. A baby screams somewhere in the mall. 

    SALESWOMAN: Is there something I can help you with? 

    ME: Yes. I'm looking for a black heel. I have this gauzy black dress with a gold bib …

    SALESWOMAN: So you're looking for a prom evening shoe? 

    ME: (Laughs) I'm 31 years old. I won't be going to prom. 

    So let's review. An 8-year-old boy thought I was a babysitter. A grown magazine salesman dismissed me and asked to speak to my mom. And a shoe store employee thought she was selling heels to a prom goer. 

    It's true that I'll get old and there will be zero question that I'm eligible to buy alcohol. Zero question that I should be arrested for trying to get into prom. One day I'll be carded not for alcohol but for my senior citizen discount. 

    But in this moment, I feel demeaned. Because when people look at you like you're a teenager, they don't see your experience. They don't trust you to make important decisions. 

    I felt the same way when I was an actual teenager. Now that I've outgrown that stage, I'm happy being 31. I've earned my stretch marks, trust me. Don't make me prove it. 

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    Posted on: May 8 2013 - 06:00:00 AM
    Tags: FASHION
    'Viewticle' and other toddlerisms I'll miss
    297 Views

    Write that down, people say when your child does something cute. Sounds easy, except it isn't. I'm a writer and I can't even keep my boys' childhoods documented, save for this blog. 

    But ever since my 23-month-old son, Bennett, started talking -- really talking -- I've been reminded of the wonderment that comes with learning a new language, and how cute the slip-ups can be. 

    Check one thing off the to-do list: I'm writing it down. The best toddlerisms from Bennett and his big bro, Quinn, are hereby recorded for your reading pleasure. Here are the ones I'll miss the most:  

    "Viewticle." Quinn, 3 1/2, is really into cars. He's better at identifying them than I am. He likes to tell us which "viewticle," aka vehicle, is the best for him. Today, his Little Tykes car was a yellow Volkswagen Beetle. Tomorrow he might drive a GMC Acadia or a Chevy Equinox. 

    "Honna Elmement." Bennett likes to contribute to Quinn's conversations about cars. He usually pipes up and tells people that I drive a Honda Element. He just can quite pronounce it. 

    "Honda Colorado." More car stuff. Our new neighbor drives a Chevy Colorado truck. So does Bennett, kind of. Every morning as I'm finishing my breakfast, Bennett comes up to me with wide eyes and insists that I join him under the dining room table in the "Honda" Colorado. He often stops the car to "Get out, get pizza."

    "Loria" and "Tubia." In Quinn's fantasy, he lives in Loria and Brother lives in Tubia. They are far away from each other but within driving distance, he says. 

    "Badubaduba-you." Bennett's pronunciation of "W" is part of his more noteworthy attempt to sing the ABCs. "A, B, B, D, E, Meh, G / M-M-M-O-P / Now I know my ABBs / Won' shu come un pway wif me?"

    "Penus." One of Bennett's more unfortunate mispronunciations surprised Will and I the other day when he kept demanding, "Want more penus!" We understood when we saw the peanut crumbs in his bowl. Ah, peaNUTS.

    "Loupe-loupe." Aka, cantaloupe. The boys can put away almost an entire cantaloupe in a sitting.

    "Toot-toots." Boys love their fart jokes. Who knew those jokes would be cute if you replaced the word "fart" with "toot-toot"? I'm not sure who introduced the idea of announcing bodily functions, but my boys love to giggle when they proclaim, "Mommy, I made toot-toots!"

    "Have a birfday." Bennett is anticipating his second birthday, less than a month away. Every morning, he digs out the plates from his sock monkey tea seat, grabs some plastic silverware and distributes pretend cupcakes for his daily birthday party. He's perfecting his song: "Have a birfday to you, have a birfday to you, have a birfday dear Bennett, have a birfday to yooooou."

    "Gronk." My father started the most intelligent game we play: Gronk. The child nestles his head under the adult's chin, then the adult says, "Gronk" in a throaty growl. Someday I will miss how easy it is to get these kids to laugh.

    "No, don' say dat!" Bennett's default state of indignance. He might say this if he doesn't want raspberries blown on his tummy, or if his dad is belting a ridiculous '90s song or his brother is calling him "Country Breakfast." 

    But Bennett, you should say that, and say it often. When you're too old to snuggle in my elbow and suck your thumb, I'll miss these phrases and so many more.

    What are some of your kids' greatest hits? 

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    Posted on: May 1 2013 - 06:00:00 AM
    We had to give up the dog
    392 Views

    It was so hard. I never thought I would abandon on a beloved pet. 

    But there I was last week, only a few days after my husband and I agreed to shelter the little Jack Russell terrier that stole our hearts after she wandered onto my parents' farm. 

    We just weren't prepared for Effie, as we called her. She was raised an outside dog, the people at animal control told us. We have an invisible fence, but I hadn't learned to use it. She scratched at the front door and whined when she had to stay inside. 

    With all the crazy -- entire days spent focusing on the bodily functions of the dog, my two young boys and the cats, whose litter box had to move when they refused to emerge from under the guest bed -- I had no time to learn. 

    We had no kennel. Effie is so smart that she defeated every system I arranged for sleep.

    The first night, she jumped the pressure gate in the playroom doorway. She seemed content to stay downstairs, away from the cats' new realm in the second story of our house. A thunderstorm struck late that night, and I found her cowering under a chair when I came downstairs to check the weather radar. She jumped in my lap and trembled as I booted up my laptop in the dark. I got to mother her. We bonded. 

    The next night was much more trying. More thunder. Pressure gate in the play room door way: jumped. Pressure gate moved to the stairwell: jumped, and stairs scaled. Double-high pressure gates in the playroom doorway: Bottom gate knocked down, top gate demolished. Doubled pressure gates in the stairwell: bottom gate knocked down. 

    These charades lasted for hours until she finally settled on the bench at the foot of our bed upstairs. The cats were protected two doors down in the guest bedroom, where the litter box was newly installed and the door was closed. 

    Things stayed calm for about two minutes until our little insomniac awoke. Bennett didn't fall asleep until 4:30 a.m.

    The sleeping arrangements would have been an easy fix with a kennel. It was the arrangements with the cats that were more difficult. 

    One afternoon the dog spent an hour trying to see out a living room window because she glimpsed a neighbor cat outside. She yipped and yelped, scratched the woodwork and perched on the window ledge. Imagine how she reacted with a cat in the same room. Up, down, around. Both animals on the piano, claws gripping the antique woodwork. One up the curtain, eight feet high. 

    The dog so terrorized our older cat, Gertie, that the cat didn't come down from atop the fridge for two days after Effie left. 

    There were some heart attack-inducing moments the morning we decided to send the dog to the shelter. Effie had defeated the bottom-of-the-stairs gate again. She climbed the stairs and discovered Gertie perched somewhere in our bedroom. A chase ensued. Gertie hid in the guest bedroom. Effie scratched at the 95-year-old door. My 3- and almost-2-year-old sons nearly fell down the stairs, still ungated at the top after two months in this house (we're working on it, promise!). The temperature was subfreezing, and Effie wouldn't relieve herself outside. She peed and pooped on our 3-year-old's rug. Then she peed in our 1-year-old's room. I lost it. 

    I was beginning to understand what we had to do, but my father, a kindhearted farmer and dog lover, articulated it: Having a dog shouldn't be that hard. The situation wasn't right for us, and it wasn't right for Effie. Much more time stewing over the decision would have been unfair to our sons, who were becoming attached, and to the dog.

    Effie is a loving, sweet dog who deserves better. She deserves an active family without cats. One with a fenced yard. One who can take her on frequent walks. 

    She can still find that, and whatever the case, she's better off than she was when she arrived at the farm, cold, dirty and hungry. 

    Maybe after some time, when our family is more settled in our new home, we can try again with a puppy who doesn't know she's not supposed to like cats. Maybe the cats will have forgotten by then. 

    If you're interested in adopting Effie, you can contact the O'Connor Animal Shelter in Concordia, Kan., by calling 785-243-3131. 

    read more...
    Posted on: Apr 24 2013 - 06:00:00 AM
    Tags: DOGS PETS
    A stray dog has invaded our home and our hearts. Now what?
    359 Views

    This is a story of love and heartbreak. This is the story of a dog our family has known for two days. 

    The sweetest little dog, possibly a Jack Russell terrier, wandered onto my parents' farm last weekend. They don't live there but fed and watered her and showed her a downy bed of hay in the property's dilapidated barn. 

    I knew of the dog but gave it little thought as my guys and I drove over to seed lettuce in the garden that first evening. Many times throughout my childhood, strays would turn up at the farm. It's far enough off the highway that pet owners see it as a punishment-free animal drop. I had trained myself not to get attached to the animals, because often they would wander away as fast as they would wander in. 

    As we pulled up, this dog's sweet face and stubby, happy tail caught our attention. She shivered in the evening chill. She clambered into the car without invitation.

    This dog is no puppy. Physical traits hint at a rough life. A back toe flops as if it's little more than a skin tag. A raspy whine approximates a bark. Flecks of gray dot her neck. 

    She had dirty collar with no tag. Quinn, our 3-year-old, named her F-150, after his favorite model of Ford truck. I suggested Effie for short. 

    We all melted for Effie. Soon we made plans to take her in.

    The next day, Quinn and I drove back to the farm and picked her up. First stop was the police station in our small north-central Kansas town, where an animal control officer would check for a microchip. The officer recognized her immediately as the pet of people the department had been watching for some time. She's been tethered outside for most of her life, the officer said. Animal cruelty charges were a possibility. 

    In the meantime, we've been taking care of her. I have made sure to impress upon the kids that she is not our dog, not yet. Quinn, especially, has been exercising his nurturing instincts. He has bathed Effie and led her on a leash. He has followed her as if he's the puppy, clutching bits of kibble and begging to hand-feed her. 

    All of us want this arrangement to work, but we have two other pets. Two old cats. The natural order of the house is definitely shaken, and we're all learning to adjust. 

    Shortly after Effie entered our home, for example, I heard the front door squeak open and closed. I found Quinn standing against it. 

    "The doggy had to potty," he deadpanned. 

    I flung the door open and dashed barefoot down three flights of concrete steps descending toward the street. Effie was already zigzagging across the neighborhood, popping in and out of backyards with her nose to the ground. I considered giving up the chase as I hopped in pain and pulled a sandbur from my heel. Then I remembered that animal control had my name and number. 

    I followed the dog into a couple backyards. I looked up and saw two neighbors peering at me from the other side of a backyard fence, staring with mouths agape. 

    After a sheepish explanation, I finally cornered the dog and hauled her home. Quinn and I talked about how Effie cannot be set free in our open yard. Eventually she curled up under a blanket, finally calm. 

    Until Gertie the cat walked in. 

    Ears pricked. The dog sprinted out of the starting block of the couch and gave chase, as if she were duty-bound. The cat puffed up and leapt onto the piano. The dog scrambled up after her. The cat moved ever higher, scaling eight feet of lace curtains. 

    No one was hurt, unless you consider my scratched forearm and the alpha cat's ego. She's been in hiding ever since. 

    We're emotionally torn -- even Will, who has long been the naysayer on the topic of adopting a dog. We all agree on this: We want a dog eventually. We would like to rescue this dog. We hope she can fit with our family. But there's a real chance that she won't. Our cats have been part of our lives for nine years, and it's unfair to make them live out the next nine from the top shelf of a closet. With two small children in the house, I'm not sure I have the energy or patience to facilitate peace among the animals, all while keeping an energetic dog entertained without a proper fenced yard. 

    Stay tuned. We may need to find a (cat-free) home for this amazing little girl. 

    read more...
    Posted on: Apr 17 2013 - 06:00:00 AM
    Tags: DOGS PETS
    The List never ends
    485 Views

    A Someecards greeting I saw recently sums up my life: 

    "Men: If you ever wanna know what a woman's mind feels like, imagine a browser with 2,857 tabs open. All. The. Time." 

    That's also a good summation of the book/movie, "I Don't Know How She Does It," starring Sarah Jessica Parker. I found the main character's incessant lists depressingly relatable. 

    My to-do list is an evolving, shape-shifting black hole in my mind that can't be harnessed. Writing it down is futile and exploring it is maddening.

    I've lived with my to-do list for so long it's become ingrained, a constant buzz of tension in the back of my mind. Whenever I start to give voice to The List, I stress out myself and those around me. Especially my husband. 

    But sometimes you just have to vomit it out. Maybe that's a therapeutic way to take back its power. Whatever. Here's my list as of 9:08 p.m. Tuesday, random and chaotic, just as it scrolls through my mind.

    Speaking of vomit, Bennett threw up. Pick doctor before tomorrow. Have records transferred from the old pediatrician's office. Figure out which insurance is effective, because we're in the middle of switching. Figure out whether the doctors here take the new insurance. 

    DO TAXES

    Correction: Hubby did them last night. CANCEL TAX APPOINTMENT

    Schedule oil change. For both cars. New battery for Will's? His car died twice in the span of a week. 

    HANG TOP-OF-STAIRS BABY GATE

    Plan Bennett's 2nd birthday party. Car theme? Send invites. Correction: Make friends, then send invites.

    Write/send thank-yous for Quinn's birthday presents from December. Too late? (Er, thank you, everyone, for the gifts! Sorry I'm a toad.)

    Figure out tornado plan. Where in the basement should we huddle?

    Dispose of bucket full of broken plate glass in basement. That would be some deadly flying debris. 

    FIND WEATHER RADIO. Did it end up in the guest room? The basement? The pantry?

    Buy fire escape ladder for the second story of our house. Replace smoke alarm batteries. Test smoke alarms. 

    Install screen under the ornate heater grate in the kitchen. Figure out whether all the peas, carrots and tiny cars the kids have poked through are fire hazards.

    Find big boy bed for Quinn. Loft bed with slide, like his friend's? DIY fort bed? Face reality and get normal bed? Full or twin? 

    Hang antique door from basement over guest bed as headboard. Clean spider webs off door. 

    Hang pictures throughout house.

    Order pictures from Bennett's 1-year photo session, for crying out loud. Schedule 2-year session. 

    Organize/back up photos on computer. Get some printed? Or compile into photo book? Trying not to feel guilty because I did that for Quinn's first birthday.

    FIND CAMERA. TAKE PICTURES OF MY GROWING CHILDREN

    Find preschool for Quinn to attend in fall. Tour it. Sign him up for swimming lessons. Help him learn to catch/throw ball better.

    Clean office. Organize filing cabinet. Figure out how to repurpose old dresser into media cabinet for the living room. Or don't. Just get it out of the middle of the living room.

    Plan container garden. Basil, oregano, tomatoes. Lavender? Thyme? Watch the yard more closely to see which spots get the most sun. Figure out landscaping situation. As in, how to mow a near-vertical slope? Google this. Alternative: How to build a massive retaining wall? 

    More container gardens -- need flowers for porch. Especially next to my zen spot, the porch chaise. Plus the flower bed near the street that's sitting empty. 

    Buy swing set? 

    Reseed lawn. Weeds everywhere. Bare spots from previous owners' dog are eroding and making small rivers and holes. Google reseeding. Figure out where to buy bulk lawn seed in our new town. 

    Get dog? Small, medium or large?

    Plan/order birthday gifts for Bennett. Buy birthday gift for Dad. And mother-in-law. And stuff for Mother's Day!

    Friends' wedding coming up in May… what to wear? BOOK ROOM

    Vacuum. There are only a few rooms here with carpet, but it's been more than a month! 

    Plant lettuce in vegetable garden. Google how to keep Bambi from demolishing the other half of my broccoli plants. Make defense plan.

    Figure out why the damn Internet has been out for half the day. 

    Don't skip yoga again. Meditate more. Relax more. WATCH "DIRTY DANCING" IN 3-D AGAIN

    Visit old friend's parents. Call old friend. GET NEW PHONE THAT WORKS. Call cell provider, cancel old plan. Call landline provider -- figure out why it's been out all day, too! 

    Make piano tuning appointment. Make dentist appointments for me, Will and Quinn. Make haircut appointment. FIND STYLIST

    Take break. Go outside, listen to rain. 

    …
    …

    Check gutters. Need cleaned? 

    Find spot for future porch swing. Build from pallets? RELAX

    Figure out how to install indoor swing for the kids. 

    Build coffee table. Pick design for expensive-looking knock-off. Figure out if Dad's old barn wood will work. LEARN TO USE POWER TOOLS

    Fix broken toilet paper holder again. Fix off-balance ceiling fan. Use WD-40 on kids' squeaky bedroom doors. 

    Buy master bedroom rug? Dust blinds in master -- they're disgusting. 

    Install handrails on outside steps. Paint dining room/remove wallpaper border. 

    Catch up on news. Subscribe to local paper? 

    Ignore list. Read with kids. Play outside. Walk to park. Go to library. 

    Do more for me.

    Find inner peace. 

    Purge guilt. 

    Go to bed at 10. 

    Sleep eight hours. 

    LET

    THE LIST 

    GO

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    Posted on: Apr 10 2013 - 07:20:00 AM
    Tags: TO-DO LIST
    Nothing triggers mutiny like talking on the phone
    338 Views

    Whenever I pick up the phone, something blows up.

    So I do everything I can to avoid it. I procrastinate making even short, simple calls. I rely on texting. I speak to one cousin exclusively through Gchat. She, too, has two young children. 

    Since the move, the kids and I have attempted to Skype with friends in Kansas City. That meant coordinating two sets of two preschoolers. I spent most of the "conversation" running after Bennett. We hung up when the other 1-year-old fell and hit his head. 

    My kids, ever so perceptive, pick up on my phone anxiety. Quinn's play phone talks are usually about 10 seconds long. They always end abruptly with the same sign-off: "I'll have to call you back. All right, bye."

    Hence, my dread leading up to a recent call I made to my cell carrier. My iPhone, its screen shattered for six months now, had finally died. And the lack of cell towers near our new home in north central Kansas means that having a smart phone with this carrier is moot. It's time to sever the deal. 

    So I called customer service. I waited until my kids were fed, pottied, rested and otherwise content. But the moment I pressed my ear to the Big Gray Brick, aka our new house phone, my pair of 3-and-unders roiled with jealousy, sending the household order crashing.

    First it was the chasing. The boys like to run after each other when they get bored. Sometimes Quinn forgets he's 10 pounds heavier than Bennett and knocks brother to the ground. Little guy slammed into a door frame about the time I heard "Press one for English."

    I persevered. I needed to take care of my $70-a-month paperweight. I picked up Bennett and paced. The crying receded to a subtle whimper. Big brother trailed us, chattering loudly about his toy Hummer and Mustang as I attempted to explain my problem to the operator, who was finally on the line. 

    Big brother disappeared. Little brother giggled loudly about something. Big brother emerged, naked. He'd pooped and needed help. 

    I will not hang up this phone, I resolved.

    I mitigated the bathroom situation, providing plenty of background discord for the increasingly impatient customer service rep. We Metcalfs moved to the kitchen, where Quinn drove his cars and emitted an extended, monotone moan. Bennett disappeared into the "money room," aka the laundry room, where the kids like to spelunk for pocket change. 

    Quinn's constant "Uuuuuuuuuunhhhh" was furniture to me. I barely noticed it. Then I checked on Bennett and found him toddler-squatting over the cat bowls. He had rearranged, dumping most of the food into the water dish. A good sample of his creation dribbled from his grinning pie hole. 

    And the smell. It wasn't coming from the litter box. It was wafting up from my youngest child. 

    Just about that time I learned that it was going to cost me $125 to cancel my service contract, or $199 to get a replacement phone with insurance. A replacement for my 3GS, outdated by three generations of newer iPhones. No. Way. I hung up a dissatisfied customer.

    The weight of the moment settled on my shoulders: I have to do something worse than talk on the phone around my children. I have to take them to a cell phone store.

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    Posted on: Apr 3 2013 - 06:00:00 AM
    Tags: PHONES
    A letter to my boys about love and marriage
    445 Views

    Dear Quinn and Bennett,

    If you're reading this, you've probably found this blog entry in a stack that your Gigi printed out years earlier. Being my mother, she is my greatest cheerleader. She has always kept a more complete record of my writing than I have. 

    So if you've found the stack, you're probably older. You're probably grown, or close to it. Reading through my blogs is a way to reflect upon and learn about your childhoods. I hope that the world you're living in is different from mine as I write. 

    It's March 26, 2013, the day of opening arguments for the U.S. Supreme Court case that could decide the fate of gay marriage. I hope that reading this, you're surprised that we as a society got into such heated disagreements about equality. About whether same-sex couples have the right to dedicate their lives to one another, as recognized by the state. 

    I hope that by the time you read this, there's more tolerance in your world. I hope that you had gay friends in high school. I didn't. I didn't know anyone who was gay and living openly. Gay and lesbian people in our small Kansas town, for the most part, didn't come out until they left high school. I think that's changing in 2013. I hope that by the time you're grown, the words "coming out" are as quaint and obsolete as the sounds of a rotary phone dialing, a typewriter clacking or a dial-up modem booting. None of which I expect you to be able to conjure in your memories. I hope that gay people can be themselves from their moments of self-realization, that they'll be free and accepted as "out" from the beginning.

    I hope that it's hard for you to understand a world that would allow oppression. 

    As a borderline Gen Xer and Millennial, I have that kind of disbelief about the struggle for civil rights, which predates me by a generation. It's hard for me to fathom that people of color had to use separate drinking fountains and attend separate schools from their white counterparts. You've studied this in your history books. People I know and love were affected by it. 

    We are one people. This is obvious to me. That we all deserve equal rights should be just as clear. I hope that you read this and see the struggle for marriage rights as a historical anomaly. 

    We're getting to that point now with civil rights. We've got a long way to go, but we're making leaps. Our first black president is in his second term. 

    We're making progress with gay rights. Gays who can be killed defending our country don't have to hide their identities anymore while they serve in the military. Many states allow gay marriage, with more joining the established ranks each year. 

    I remember when I fell in love with your father. We were completely smitten. We were babies, still college-aged. It was swift. Only three months after meeting one another, we had a sappy moment where we held hands, told each other we'd get married someday and have beautiful babies. And you are both so beautiful. 

    I was fortunate that I didn't have any barriers to making a life with your father. We have pursued happiness to the hilt. That is what I want for you, no matter who you love. 

    Hugs and love,

    Mom

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    Posted on: Mar 26 2013 - 07:00:00 AM
    Let's talk about sex, baby
    439 Views

    No, really. The sex talk has been coming up a lot with the babies in our house. 

    Not in many details, and only the bits that are relevant to a 3-year-old and a 1-year-old. But what we talk about -- appropriate times to touch oneself, appropriate names for private parts -- we talk about a lot. 

    "Buddy, please take your hand out of your pants," I whispered while a relative was visiting. When it happened again later, I explained, again, that touching yourself is an activity reserved for bedrooms and bathrooms. It's not to be done in front of Mom, Dad, brother or anyone else. 

    Oh, what they don't tell you about raising little boys. 

    Discretion has to be taught. Privacy has to be emphasized. Rules about clothing -- as in, you have to wear it, all over your body -- have to be enforced over and over. 

    This is our everyday. I hadn't given it much thought until recently, when I read a Huff Post Parents piece about parents' responsibility to boys in raising them in a way that prevents the next Steubenville  rape. They've got to be kind, respectful of the power that comes with sexuality and brave enough to speak up against unspeakable acts. 

    The point is that so many people think that raising boys is easier than girls. But tragedies like the much-publicized rape of a 16-year-old girl in Steubenville, Ohio, show that we need to be vigilant for our boys, too. "Now is the time to make this stop. If you are the mother of a son, you can prevent the next Steubenville," the column says. (http://www.huffingtonpost.com/kim-simon/prevent-another-steubenville-moms-of-sons_b_2896131.html?utm_hp_ref=parents&ir=Parents)

    The "sex talk" isn't one talk but a dialogue that begins in toddlerhood and evolves as the child grows up. "If you start out this way at a young age and continue to dialogue about sex with your child, your child will feel comfortable talking to you about sex as they get older," says an article on AskDrSears.com, namesake website of the authors of the ubiquitous "Baby Book."

    Self-stimulation is the main topic at our house. My philosophy has been to avoid scolding and use the public incidents as opportunities to talk about private parts. 

    But perhaps I've been too lax. Researching for this blog has sobered me about the reality of stranger danger and how that relates to our modesty policy. The kids have a game wherein they strip off their shirts and run screaming around the house. Last summer Quinn went naked for weeks in my last-resort approach to potty training. But maybe my philosophy clashes with my practice, if you consider this tidbit from Dr. Sears: "Begin teaching 'private parts' as early as age three so that modesty becomes part of a child's growing sexuality."

    The practice of modesty isn't exactly a way of life for my children. Yet. 

    Thus my approach evolves again, just as it has a thousand other times. My goal isn't just to steer the ship to its destination -- kind, respectful adults -- but short term, it's to wrench the wheel the heck away from that iceberg ahead. To avoid anything that will screw up my kids. 

    So does that mean joint bath time for my sons should end? Maybe. Should I start being more careful and lock the door when I dress or use the restroom? Perhaps. 

    Here's something reassuring: The private-parts topic can take a long time to resonate with a child, up to age 5, according to an article on lifescript.com, a women's health site. That's good -- old windbags here plans to talk about this stuff for a long time, anyway. 

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    Posted on: Mar 20 2013 - 06:00:00 AM
    Tags: SEXUALITY
    The view's good here on the prairie
    439 Views

    We're settling into our new home in Concordia, Kansas, population 5,300. Before we left KC, many people acted surprised that we were moving to such a small town. How would we adjust? Especially Will, my husband, who grew up in Topeka and had only visited such a small burg? 

    We're thriving, thanks. Here are some of my favorite details from the last two weeks. 

    We heard cows mooing while sitting on our back patio. We live a block from the edge of town. 

    We have a 180-degree view of the sunset from our second-story guest bedroom. It's breathtaking. 

    The wind woke us up the other night. We thought it was a storm, but then we remembered: The wind just blows like that on the prairie.

    We have a yoga class! It's organized by nuns, so it's free. Sometimes we have to do DVDs, because the teacher, a high school classmate of mine, has to Skype in from Texas. But doggone it, we had a full class last week.

    The nuns also host playgroup for preschoolers twice a week. They babysit while the parents chat and have coffee. LOVE.

    I saw my first 3-D movie here. I plan to see many more, thanks to free babysitting provided by my parents, who live five minutes away. (P.S. This "Wizard of Oz" fan adored "Oz: The Great and Powerful.")

    I bought 11 children's books -- many of them classics -- for $1.25 at the local thrift shop. Among the lot: the original Clifford, Amelia Bedelia, a Bill Peet book and Brown Bear, Brown Bear.

    The boys have discovered gymnastics. They love the tumbling and the running around. I love that it tires them out.

    One of my very best friends in this life lives half a block away. And she just put in a pool.

    We walked to the city park. We were the only ones there.

    The cable company has a drive-up window for bill paying. 

    The town "welcome service" lady came calling with an armload of coupons and brochures. 

    I ran into my brother at Walmart. Then I saw one of my favorite high school teachers, who conspired with me about who my brother should date. The next trip, I saw my aunt. Then an old friend. And another. 

    Which helps me understand why many women here always seem to look well-kept and primped. You leave the house expecting that you'll see someone you know. No more rumpled Sunday errand sprees, I suppose.

    Perusing a women's clothing store here, my boys hid in the same clothes racks I stowed away in as a child. 

    I was stoked to find some antique wire baskets and stacks of old burlap sacks at a farm charity auction last weekend. A cookie jar included in the lot had a gem of a note tucked inside about the person who gifted it to the consigner. That happened on "Tuesday, Aug. 19, 1980. We were enjoying pancakes & sausage."

    Quite a few gluten-free items are available in area stores, amazingly. I'm told that a local, nonprofit "buying club" has access to plenty more, plus organics. Plus -- PLUS -- I found my favorite gluten-free cookies, Pamela's Dark Chocolate, Chocolate Chunk Cookies, at Walmart. The box I bought expired last June, but on principle, I was happy to be reunited with them. 

    In short, we have access to everything we need here. Foremost, family and friends at every turn. We're going to do just fine.

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    Posted on: Mar 13 2013 - 06:00:00 AM
    Tags: KANSAS MOVING
    Adventures in baby-gating
    459 Views

    My kids had been in our new house for approximately 28 seconds before they bolted toward the wooden, open staircase, unimpeded. 

    I knew when we bought this place that we would have to do something about that. But we need baby gates NOW if my fair heart is going to survive this move. 

    Part of me feels overprotective, installing them for a boy who's 3 and a quarter and another who is 21 months. Both could navigate the stairs on his own at our old house. 

    But this house is 1,000 square feet larger than our old place. This staircase is three times larger than the puny five-step ascent to the upper level in our former home, a side-to-side split. And these stairs are solid oak, with no runner. My carpet-trained boys have been slipping on our hardwoods as if we've littered the floor with banana peels.

    I can usually tell when one of the kids starts to head upstairs without supervision. But if I'm in the kitchen, on the other side of the house, they might make it to the landing nine steps up before I get to them. 

    Quinn has already slipped on the stairs. He was walking in socks and missed a step. Fortunately he was holding Dad's hand and suffered only a scare. 

    His bedroom is upstairs, and he can overpower the puny pressure gate we put in his doorway at night as a stopgap. But I worry that he'll be confused when he wakes up in the middle of the night. He could wander down the stairs instead of into the bathroom or our bedroom. The house is so unfamiliar to him that just Tuesday he asked me how to get to the kitchen from the playroom. 

    So baby gates it is. How completely overwhelming.

    There are dozens of options, and each one has to be customized to fit my staircase. I needed two gates for openings of different widths, both wider than most gates. I needed something that wouldn't damage the wood. Drilling holes in the six-inch, antique newel posts and eight-inch baseboards would be criminal. 

    Amazon offered little help. I mean, find me a gate that is 58 inches wide and works safely at the top of the stairs. I searched myself in circles, which I'd also done for the stairway in our previous house. There, I'm embarrassed to say, I gave up. 

    Quinn was newly mobile. We bought a pressure gate from Babies R' Us for the top of the stairs. I probably spent $50 on it. It had an extender that was supposed to make it just wide enough to fit the hallway. 

    Except it didn't work. The hallway was so wide that the gate teetered on the pressurizing heads. Clumsy me knocked it over a couple times, sending it crashing dangerously down the stairs. 

    So I gave up. And there, the configuration of the house and the shallowness of the stairs enabled us to go without. 

    Giving up here at our new house wasn't an option. A fall could mean serious injury or death. I needed an expert to tell me what to buy. 

    There are whole businesses dedicated to baby proofing. A search online turned up at least two in Kansas City that will send someone to your home and tell you how to childproof. I don't have the money or the resources to do that here in rural Kansas. I had to search online. 

    Google sent me a baby proofing angel: A live support chat dedicated to baby proofing. 

    The operator of the website, KidSafeInc.com, took my specifications and churned out a recommendation. I spent an obscene amount of money on the two gates, extenders and mounting kits that won't damage the wood. If all that prevents the kids from breaking their necks, it's money well spent. 

    I doubt baby gates were such a commodity when our house was built in 1918. Oh, Google gods, I have another question for you …

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    Posted on: Mar 6 2013 - 06:00:00 AM
    Snowstorm, schmostorm: Today is moving day!
    436 Views

    Why I thought it would be a good idea to move in February, I will never understand.

    Perhaps my belief in global warming is too strong and I never expected snow to disrupt us. More likely, I didn't believe our house in Kansas City would sell so quickly. After about a month and a half on the market with no showings, I was sure we'd be sitting for a long time. Then -- bam! -- two days after the New Year came our first showing. And kazam! we had an offer.

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    Posted on: Feb 27 2013 - 06:00:00 AM
    Tags: MOVING
    Goodbye KC, hello regret-free life
    617 Views

    I got to hold both of my children until they fell asleep today. Separately. I got to listen to them breathe. To feel and appreciate their pulses as I kissed their sweet foreheads. 

    Those were my exquisite moments today. 

    I am so blessed that I get to do this every day. I quit my job 14 months ago to spend my days with my little rays of light. Leaving my job and everything I'd worked for was a terrifying but liberating introduction to a life of no regrets. This week, my family and I strap on the moon boots and make a giant leap for Metcalf kind: We're packing up the house and saying goodbye to great friends and favorite places, preparing to leave Kansas City in the rear view and start anew in our own little Mayberry.

    Will and I are getting good at this diving in headfirst thing. First he and a couple friends started a nonprofit a few years ago. That was his dream, and it was a scary one. He left his stable government job for one without benefits or a steady paycheck. Then he revised and found other work that could reliably feed a family of four. That's when he let me have a turn at my dream: raising our babies full-time. He works from home, so we get to be a cozy little family every single day. 

    These experiments with dream catching have empowered us. Now we're leaving everything we've known for the last decade-plus and starting a new chapter in Concordia, Kan.

    This is the step where we realize the dream we have for our children. To grow up minutes from grandparents and an extended family with uncles and cousins. To grow up in the kind of town that sends a "welcome wagon" to your house when you sign up for city water service. 

    We're living a life of no regrets, in the big sense and the small one, too. Like today, when the big stuff -- moving preparations -- became overwhelming, the kids and I hit pause to live out a smaller dream: swimming in February. We layered our bathing suits under our all-weather coats and bumbled down the road to a community rec center with an indoor splash area for kids. The half-hour we played in the water was Quinn's exquisite moment of the day. He was thrilled beyond measure with the frog slide, the tiny lazy river and the independence of swimming, life-jacketed and untethered to mom. 

    Our journey toward a regret-free life isn't unbridled. We have setbacks. We have frustrations. We have discouragements. But days like today remind me that we're doing the right thing in the macro sense and revive the day-to-day mission. I'm riveted by news of a gas explosion and four-alarm fire in an area close to home, so thankful that friends who live nearby are safe. I'm rocked by unrelated news that a kind-hearted childhood friend died suddenly at 31, leaving behind a husband, parents and 8-year-old daughter. I hadn't seen her in many years, yet my heart is heavy.

    Days like today make you feel every breath, yours and those of loved ones. Hug tight your little sources of light, today and every day. 

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    Posted on: Feb 20 2013 - 06:00:00 AM
    Craigslist brings out my crazy
    605 Views

    Eight months pregnant, I scooted behind the wheel of my compact SUV and drove north to the hinterlands of Gladstone. My mission: Bring home two beautiful mid-century modern dressers I'd won on Craigslist for $75. 

    I was alone, unafraid and unhindered by logic. I dismissed the mental flash that the seller could be the type who would cut a baby from a woman's womb. I wasn't thinking with my brain anymore. Most of my blood flow had diverted to my abdomen, whose occupant chirped that he needed the perfect nursery despite our small budget. Go forth, Mom, and retrieve those solid-wood bureaus with dovetail joints. Dad will refinish them. I will love them forever. 

    Maybe the baby only kicked. Didn't matter -- I was nesting. 

    I had set up the appointment without consulting my dearly beloved, Will, who happened to be busy. I wouldn't be able to lift the dressers. They might not fit into my car. Will hated DIY anything and would cringe at my batting eyes pleading for him to stain and polyurethane the wood so our unborn wouldn't get the chemicals. 

    Doubters be damned, I shot off an email exclaiming that I NEEDTHESEDRESSERSNOWPLEASEPLEASEPLEASE. I offered to come get them whenever the seller wanted. I had been trolling the free classifieds site for weeks looking for a dresser I could use as a changing table, and this ad had a beaut, with a companion to boot. 

    I'd missed out on too many perfect pieces of furniture, including a similar dresser earlier that week. I knew I couldn't afford to skirt The Rules of Craigslist again. Pay heed, dear students: 

    1. Be patient. Do not settle. Craigslist is well-fed and will deliver what you want. 

    2. Be persistent. Check the site multiple times a day, especially if you're using busy categories like furniture or baby+kids. 

    3. Be prepared to pounce. The too-good-to-be-true items -- the stunning-yet-cheap Holy Grail pieces -- go within hours or even minutes. Sellers know their power and often make these first-come, first-served. Even if you were first to respond, the next person in line might be willing to pick up an hour from now. Drop everything and go after it, if the piece is worth it to you. 

    The situation with the dressers worked out. The woman had teenagers who could load them. Only one fit, of course, and they had to do some creative shoving. I batted my eyes again and convinced Will to call a friend with a truck to pick up the larger dresser the next day. 

    Let it be known that Will does not condone my Craigslist habit, nor the garage sales that preceded it or my general buy-now-arrange-transport-later mantra. Will loves to share the history of my B.C. antique rocker (before Craigslist). I'd been garage-sale hopping in my Honda Civic when I spotted it in north Independence. Thirty-five dollars and an unsuccessful loading attempt later, I told the sellers I'd be back for it later that day.  

    This was the first time Will grudgingly called a friend with a truck. But his grumblings didn't discourage the habit. There followed the time we rented a UHaul truck because we had no way to move the hand-carved dresser I bought from a recent divorcee looking to unload most of her furniture. There was the glider I bought for the nursery, which fit into the SUV no problem but required us to rearrange our plans to pick it up. The '50s-style kitchen table and chairs I scored for $15 and, with the legs removed, miraculously fit into the Civic. That was our best buy: We used it every day for six years. I just resold it for a $5 profit. 

    With all the urgency of a successful Craigslist buy comes naivety, at least in my case. I thought of the dressers story last week when I met a stranger in the Hy-Vee parking lot. I was there to broker several sales out of that same SUV. A woman pulled up alone in her minivan and waddled over, classic late-pregnancy. She wanted my $5 spice rack for its glass jars -- materials for a project of hers.

    She was savvier than I had been, meeting in a public place. But that's not enough anymore, a KC robbery detective told KCTV5 last April. Buyers lured in by great deals for cars or iPhones or whathaveyou have been robbed or killed. Sometimes the sellers become the targets, as happened with the Indianapolis man and two witnesses who were shot over an iPhone. (http://trenchreynolds.me/2013/01/25/december-craigslist-murder-in-indy-over-an-iphone/)

    The robbery detective's advice? Have the exchange at a police station. 

    I still have items for sale, but after researching for this post, I might take them down and head to the thrift store and eBay. I have a family. They deserve better than risking everything for a wicker Pottery Barn chair I recently chased, alone, to an Olathe garage for 90 percent off retail. 

    We're moving to central Kansas, where Craigslist exists but at a much slower pace. There, the preferred methods of used furniture trade are more old-fashioned: auction, garage sale and even Facebook.

    How will I furnish the new house, you ask? I'm evolving. Online flash sale sites like Joss & Main and One Kings Lane look like decent options. And my dad has a generous supply of old barn wood I can "reclaim," but I suppose I should learn woodworking before I commit to any Restoration Hardware ripoff projects.

    Who else out there is a Craigslist junkie? I mean that figuratively, of course. Oh, and P.S.: It is possible to sell a used litter box on Craigslist. True story.

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    Posted on: Feb 13 2013 - 06:00:00 AM
    Tags: CRAIGSLIST
    This one's for all the moms and dads who play
    534 Views

    I would have been jumping alongside my toddler boys if I hadn't gotten stuck in the door of the bouncy house. 

    This is not out of character for me. I am a mom who plays. That's part of the deal, right? I thought so, but lately I've been seeing a lot of the contrary.

    The kids and I have begun working through a Kansas City bucket list in preparation for our big move across Kansas. We decided to hit the wee climber's dream on Tuesday: a bouncy house emporium loaded with climbing apparatuses, playhouses and slides. This one was toddlers and preschoolers only -- no big kids allowed. 

    Just as I'd dressed the kids in comfy clothes, I did the same for myself. Playtime jeans, the ones I'd worn so hard the knees had ripped. Hair: ponytailed. Purse: mom pack, a black canvas backpack with an elegant bird pattern. 

    The sign said socks only, so I leaned my rubber, winter boots against the shoe cubby, the kids' shoes tucked inside. We padded inside and confronted the din of inflation machines, laughter and general toddler noise. Children whizzed past. My timid boys clung to my legs. 

    Playing wasn't an option for me. It was a requirement. I'd have to prove that this place was fun.

    We waddled, still attached, toward the gigantic plastic tree, complete with slides, tunnels and bridges. Quinn tentatively climbed up, and Bennett decided it would be OK to follow. We all played peek-a-boo through the slats of the bridges. For a loooong time.  

    Finally they were comfortable enough for me to turn around for a second without them screaming in fear of abandonment. As I looked toward the other play structures, thinking about what we could do next, I saw all the shoes. On every mother's feet but mine. 

    OK, they didn't expect to climb on the kiddie equipment. Fair enough. I probably shouldn't have climbed on it, either, given weight restrictions, but I went shoeless to leave the possibility open. Sometimes my kids need encouragement in new situations. They need me to be play with them to show them everything is OK. 

    Moving my eyes off the floor, I saw several clusters of moms chatting, showing no intent to get involved in their kids' play. They wore expensive knee-high boots. Sparkly sweaters. Chandelier earrings. Perfectly curled hair. Suddenly I felt underdressed in the bouncy house emporium.

    Two of the perks of this place were free wi-fi and a coffee bar. I couldn't imagine pulling out a laptop in the bouncy house coffee shop, but I saw several moms glued to their phones in the play area. 

    I am not perfect. I am not judging. Playing with your kids can be exhausting and tiresome. I checked Facebook and email, too. But I did so in the 10-second lulls between shouts of "Wow, you're bouncing so high!" and being tackled by my younger son, still unsure of his surroundings.

    Playing with your kids each day, for 10 minutes or two hours, is so important for their development. Need evidence? 

    From Parenthood.com: "Studies show that through play children learn to take the perspective of others; they learn self-control and the ability to take turns. Children who play make-believe or games with rules are more empathetic, less physically aggressive and more cooperative with other children and adults."

    The problem, according to the article, is that so many forces compete with a young child's time. Television. Computers. Academics, even in preschool. Fantasy play at young ages helps develop problem solving skills, the article says. If parents participate, they can "get to know their kids better and strengthen the parent-child bond." 

    A piece by another publication said that kids need parents to play because in decades past, children grew up in more of a village model, where they met friends in common areas in the neighborhood. An adult usually happened to be working outside nearby and could watch the children, at least peripherally. In today's society we have to be more protective, and kids just don't get as much time playing with other kids. 

    Parents who play fill the gap and build sandcastles. They blow bubbles. They break out the soccer ball or the T-ball set or the basketball and teach the kids a game. They roll down grassy hills. They tromp through snow, winded, pulling the sled up the hill just one. More. Time. They huddle in the linen closet for a tea party in their son's "house." They curl into his "bunk bed" under the vanity counter in the bathroom. They wear a superhero cape to the grocery store, like this guy: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/01/28/dad-and-son-superheroes_n_2567314.html

    That all sounds nice, right? But it's work for adults to get down on the floor and play along. Some experts suggest scheduling parent-child playtime. I don't schedule, but I do sit with the kids and pick up a toy. I'm still working on leaving my phone in the other room. Sometimes Quinn will cock his head and say, indiscreetly, "Mommy, would you put down your phone and come play wif me?"

    After the last few months of getting the house ready for sale and keeping it clean for showings, I'm happy to drop everything for play. I want to be the kind of mom who colors and teaches and wrestles. I want to do only enough dishes and laundry and vacuuming and scrubbing to get by while they're awake, leaving the bulk for the hours when they're asleep. 

    That's why, on Tuesday morning, the boys and I left a mess, packed the snacks in the mom pack and drove west to the bouncy house emporium. At the main attraction, the bouncy house, tiny bodies spilled in and out of a two-by-two-foot opening. I boosted both my apprehensive little ones through the doorway, intent upon following them. I poked my head through, the mom pack catching on the doorway. I was stuck, but my kids got it. Mom was involved, and they were happy.

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    Posted on: Feb 6 2013 - 08:45:00 AM
    Tags: PLAY TODDLER
    Happy Kansas Day! 29 reasons to love the Sunflower State
    552 Views

    We've sold our house! We've bought a new one! You can count on more detail on that in a future blog post. For now, though, as I prepare for a move to my former hometown in rural Kansas, I pay homage to my home state on its 152nd birthday, which was Tuesday.  

    Ahhh, Kansas, why do I love thee? There are so many reasons. Let's start with the first 29, in honor of Kansas Day on Jan. 29: 

    1. Roots. So many Kansans are descended from the families that were the first to settle Kansas. My family still owns and farms land near a river bend that my great-grandfather staked in the Homestead Act. The original barn and windmill still stand. Sometimes we go to Christmas Eve service at the one-room country church where my ancestors are buried. The church is still lit by lanterns, heated by fire and plumbed via a hole outside.

    2. The two-finger wave. Especially when it's a stranger.

    3. Funnel cakes at the county fair. 

    4. Windmills. Both the creaky throwbacks and the elegant electricity generators of today. 

    5. Wheat. The way it tinkles and waves in the hot June wind. The way it tastes, gritty and nutty, fresh off the grain truck. (I still love wheat, even if my GI tract hates it.) 

    6. College basketball. I'm a KU girl, but this year, name me another state where the only three schools with Division I teams are also all ranked in the top 25. Over three seasons, the "triumvirate" of KU, K-State and Wichita State "is winning 81 percent of its games," reads CBSSports.com's Eye on College Basketball blog. "Safe to say, Kansas is the best season-to-season college basketball state in the modern era." Why, you ask? Maybe because we -- er, James Naismith -- invented that shiz.

    7. The state motto. Ad astra per aspera, which is Latin for "To the stars through difficulty." Does it get more poetic? 

    8. Symmetry. The big rectangle with a bite out of one corner is the geographical center of the contiguous states, which means it's equally close to the east and west coasts. 

    9. Sunflowers. Mostly the wild ones, which blanket the state's roadsides in the early fall, giving travelers a barrage of big yellow smiley faces against the big, open sky. Speaking of which ...

    10. Big sky. Unimpeded cloudscapes. Sprawling, polychrome dusks. Thousands and thousands of stars twinkling against an inky black night.

    11. The rolling majesty of the Flint Hills. Especially when lit by a burning orange sunset. But also …

    12. The flatness. Kansas gets ridiculed for being the nation's pancake, but I love being able to see the distance. Makes me feel free, not enclosed. 

    13. The weather. Several people on my Facebook feed noted the appropriateness of the forecast surrounding Kansas Day: 70s and muggy on a January Monday, 30s and rainy with possible tornadoes on Tuesday and snow by Wednesday. We don't get bored.

    14. Quirky landmarks. My dad was always a big proponent of roadside oddities such as the Garden of Eden in Lucas, the Dalton Gang Hideout in Meade or the World's Largest Hand Dug Well in Greensburg. When you grow up only 47 miles from the World's Largest Ball of Twine, you have to appreciate random landmarks. 

    15. Brown V. Board. Don't tell me Kansas has never been progressive. We started out as a free state. 

    16. My hillbilly childhood. Floating down the river on a tractor tire tube. Splashing in the cornfield irrigation water. 

    17. The anything goes-ness. In my hometown, a guy used to ride his lawnmower as his main transportation. You could drive down main street of a neighboring town and see an antique tractor angle-parked five feet from the bar. 

    18. Kansasisms. It's not soda, it's pop or Coke. You eat dinner at noon and supper at 6.

    19. Strong women. Little Kansas girls have so many great historical role models: Amelia Earhart, Clarina Nichols, Carrie Nation, Kathleen Sebelius. Even Dorothy. 

    20. The wind. Kansas has two of the top 10 windiest cities, Dodge City and Goodland, according to the National Climatic Data Center. In Kansas, the wind whips over the landscape and reminds you that nature is in control.

    21. Zero traffic. I'm not talking Johnson County, of course. The house we just bought sits on a corner in a small town. We toured the house twice, including a couple stints of 10-20 minutes each sitting on the front porch. Not a single car passed. 

    22. Low cost of living. Example: Will and I got married in an ornate, gorgeous, restored early 1900s opera house in my hometown. The rental fee? $150. 

    23. Low crime rates. The most-read section of my hometown newspaper is "For the Record," the police blotter that lists every drunken driving arrest and damaged mailbox. These are notable events because major crimes are rare. The entire state saw 116 murders in 2011, according to the KBI. Kansas City alone racked up roughly the same number that year. 

    24. Neighborliness. Tragedy can happen anywhere, but when it happens to Kansans, especially farmers, neighbors step in to harvest your crops. 

    25. Pride. Cloud County, where we're moving, declared itself years ago the Stained Glass Capital of Kansas. Did anyone protest? Probably not. But the town embraces the designation, and you'll find stained glass in many a downtown window. 

    26. Kids can be superstars. People lift up the children of small towns. High school sporting events are top stories on the radio or in the paper. People who don't have kids involved attend games -- even those played out of town. 

    27. The sense of making your own way. If you don't like something, run for mayor and change it. 

    28. Creativity. I used to see kids used to water ski on irrigation canals by sitting on rusty car hoods tethered to a friend's truck. Unsafe, yes. But ingenious and resourceful.  

    29. And finally, my 3-year-old's top reason to love Kansas: "Topeka and Lawrence," Quinn says. "I love Buick Century and I love Subaru Outback." Grandma, who lives in Topeka, drives the former. A great family friend, who lives in Lawrence, drives the latter. Can you really argue with that? 
    ¸Ė›

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    Posted on: Jan 30 2013 - 12:00:00 PM
    Tags: KANSAS
    Cash in the Mickey bank, earn a toy vacuum
    505 Views

    Little man's first lesson with money came down to Mickey Mouse, the bank and a vacuum. 

    Mickey was full of coins. Quinn, who is 3, had been collecting them for months, not because he understood their value but because he liked to insert them in the slot in the back of Mickey's hollow head. At every opportunity, Quinn would ask to ride in Daddy's Honda Accord, where he could mine a bottomless supply of change on the floor and in the seat crevices, the console and the wells of the door handles.

    A full Mickey meant it was time for a lesson in saving, spending and rewards. One recent morning, the boys and I shook out the contents of Mickey and spread it out. A wash of childhood memories flooded me as I spread out the cool metal discs in a single layer, preparing to count the loot. Quinn wasn't so excited, but he didn't understand or care how many Barbie accessories this much change could buy.

    We talked about the different coins and their worth. We counted out piles worth a dollar for each type of coin, even pennies. Everyone was bored with counting by the time we got to $25, and the remaining pile was massive. Clearly mining Daddy's car is a lucrative pastime. Maybe I could try it, too. I do need a new pair of sexy, non-mom jeans.

    I explained that Quinn could use his money to buy something that he wants, but relinquishing his booty to the bank in exchange for a modest stack of bills was a hard sell. 

    When he thought about it, though, he decided he could use a new toy: a kid-sized Dyson. A purple one. His best friend had received the toy version of the popular vacuum for Christmas, and playing with it was pretty much the best thing ever. 

    I had resisted this toy for months. So many friends and family members had suggested that my Dyson-loving son needed his very own, but mean Mom had deflected, saying that we had enough toy vacuums in our overflowing utility closet. Plus, he was outgrowing vacuums. We no longer have to leave out the real Hoover and Eureka as toys. And recently, he even told me that he didn't need to see the vacuum aisle during a trip to Costco. 

    At the bank, both boys loved watching the change machine eat up the money. I couldn't believe how much Quinn had amassed -- close to $100! We got the receipt to take to the cashier, and he looked around confused. 

    "OK, mommy, where's my Dyson?" he asked. 

    He's still got a lot to learn. Perhaps the next step is taking him to open a savings account. Or requiring him to contribute to something he really wants: a Corvette big-boy bed with working headlights. At close to $300, that one is out of my price range, but with birthday and Christmas money, along with Daddy's car, he might just earn enough to convince me to kick in the rest. 

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    Posted on: Jan 23 2013 - 12:00:00 PM
    Tags: MONEY
    Confessions of a pee wrangler
    549 Views

    Disclaimer: Everyone knows motherhood includes some not-so-polite, gross details. If that's not your thing, you probably should click over to a different blog that doesn't glorify bodily functions.
     
    If my encounters with pee and poop were a pie chart, my own would span an eighth of the pie, my 20-month-old son, Bennett, who is in diapers, would claim three-eighths, and my 3-year-old son, who is "potty trained," would sprawl fully half. 

    I'm not one of those people who uses frivolous quotations. Quinn is potty trained on paper, but he hits his target cleanly only once or twice a day. He goes through 3-6 pairs of pants and underwear. My brilliant solution? Gumdrops for a dry floor. 

    My sweet child likes to do everything else better than he likes to use the restroom. He waits until he has to pee so bad that it makes him dance. The stream starts flowing while he's pulling down his pants. It continues while he stumbles toward the too-small potty chair he won't give up. It flourishes in a 180-degree arc across walls, big toilet and floor as he turns to sit down. It dribbles a meager tinkle as it meets its target. 

    My eighth of the pee pie is usually tainted with something kid related, because if you're a stay-at-home mom with a 20-month-old who can suck down a tube of toothpaste in less than a minute, you pee with the door open. Sometimes the kids come in, wailing and teary, when they bump their heads and need a hug. Sometimes they try to crawl in your lap. And sometimes -- OK, never? -- you let them. 

    Sometimes Baby pulls the stool out from under the sink, turns on the hot water faucet and pumps the soap. You confiscate soap, head off burn and catch the child when he slips off the stool and nearly knocks his jaw on the sink. All before standing up. 

    You like to retreat quietly to the bathroom. Sometimes you need three minutes and take them all, despite the troublesome hush that befalls the house. 

    Baby spends his free moments outwitting the child lock on the kitchen cabinet that stored the Santa and Halloween candy. A pile of chomped plastic-wrapped candy canes and metallic wrappers litter the floor.

    Maybe Big Boy likes to streak after using the restroom. He forgets that he must wait for help in the bathroom. That he must wash his hands before he plays with his cars or eats a cracker. That he must shield the contractor or the cousins he hasn't seen for three years from his "jewels," as he calls them, especially while they're finishing lunch in your dining room.

    You lecture him to stay put. That might mean staying in the bathroom that has half a shred of toilet paper left on the roll and none under the sink. Out of principal, you wipe with that half a shred, at the expense of your fingers' dignity. Had you run to get a backup, Big Boy would have run, too.

    Sometimes you get so tired of wiping pee off the floor that to get your son to go on time, you lend him your phone, which he uses to watch home videos. He likes to close the door to the windowless bathroom and watch them in the dark. For a half-hour. Sometimes he drops your phone on the tile and the screen shatters. And you end up at the Apple store a month later because you've seen it slough off one too many glass shards.

    Sometimes, when you're in public, you can't get to a restroom fast enough. So you offer a water bottle in the car. 

    Say you have lunch with Daddy. Big Boy gulps down apple juice and little else. You drive around for an hour while waiting for a Genius Bar appointment at the Apple store. Wake Big Boy 15 minutes into spontaneous car nap. Console crying, unhappy Big Boy as you exit the car, three minutes before appointment. Big Boy clings to your leg and sobs as you hold Baby, the runner. You guide Big Boy across the street. Baby's unzipped coat comes off in 28-degree weather, mid-crossing. You kneel and adjust coat while issuing pep talk and hug to quell the crying before you enter the store. Fail. Enter Apple store, ignoring 30 heads turned to stare at the sweaty, sobbing child and his harried mother who wears leopard-print shoes with clashing socks. Consult Genius. He can't do anything about the cracked screen today. Lady, you have to back up your phone and come back. COME BACK? With these two? Exit store and guide shuffling, sniffling 3-year-old back across the street and back to car. Buckle both kids. Wipe sweat from brow. Big Boy whines: "Mommy, I have to go potty!"  Crane neck for child-friendly, bathroom-accessible store within 10 feet. Spot week-old water bottle in console. End scene. 

    But the scene of life doesn't end. Starting with those first horrific newborn blowouts, the quality of a young family's days are tempered in part by the quality of bodily functions. Baby is quickly approaching potty training. Bennett is still cute and contained, though. He tells me when he wets or poops, and Tuesday night, he brought me a diaper and the pillow he uses during changes. 

    Sometimes Baby sits on the training seat on the big toilet, reaches over and grabs toilet paper from the roll and wipes. He doesn't rip off the used piece. One time, you forget to remove his rumpled portion before you roll the paper up for use. 

    That had to have been a good day. The toilet paper was clean, and there was no pee on the floor.

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    Posted on: Jan 16 2013 - 12:00:00 PM
    Tags: PEE
    'Poison Control. Oh, you again?'
    572 Views

    My baby must be trying to kill himself. 

    This thought, however irrational, popped into my head as I entertained my happy 19-month-old Monday night in the waiting area of a crowded emergency room. 

    Inside Bennett's abdomen swirled a minty, red, white and blue concoction laced with fluoride that threatened to poison him. About three-quarters of a tube of toothpaste. This was only the latest in a series of dangerous behaviors that seem to be his preferred entertainment option, despite a large arsenal of toys. 

    There were the two other near-poisonings: Bennett's encounter with industrial fertilizer* two weeks earlier, and the mushroom-eating incident** in a cousin's backyard. There's his obsession with power outlets, with their easy-to-outwit, "baby proof" plugs. There's his infatuation with cords of any kind, especially draped around his neck. There's the time he moved a chair to the kitchen counter and flipped on the garbage disposal. And the time he stepped off a four-foot platform at the playground, just beyond my attempt to save him. The time he helped himself to a sharp knife out of the back of the dishwasher, which he opened himself. 

    By divine grace, we've always averted catastrophe. I consider myself an attentive mother. I do my best to baby proof. But this kid is fast, dexterous, determined and unfazed by my laughable attempts to outwit him. He will be the one to give me a heart attack.

    About 45 minutes earlier, Bennett had emerged from the bathroom, sucking on a 4.6-ounce tube of children's toothpaste, acting quite proud of himself. What had once been nearly full was nearly empty, drained in the minute or less he was out of my sight as I cleaned the kitchen after dinner. The only evidence of his misbehavior was the tube in his mouth and a pea-sized dollop on the hall floor. 

    I fumbled for the Poison Control number on my laptop. I should program this into my phone, I thought. My fingers were starting to shake, but Bennett seemed overjoyed. Left unchecked for a moment, he scaled the arm of his child-sized recliner and leaped off, just as I lunged toward him. I missed. He nearly grazed the brick fireplace with his head. "Yay!" he said, clapping and pointing at me, pleading for my applause. 

    I dialed. "Poison Control," a woman answered dispassionately. I shared that my intrepid son had sucked down his weight in toothpaste. She methodically proceeded through a list of questions. How big is the tube? Uh, 4.6 ounces, I said. The strength of the fluoride? 0.15 percent. How much does he weigh? 26 or 27 pounds. She clicked over to hold for several minutes, too much time for me to digest that my giggly son could be corroding from the inside. 

    The silence on the other line ended, and the woman sounded baffled. She had done the math three times, and a coworker had verified her work. Usually, she said, she reassures people that it's hard to ingest enough toothpaste for it to be toxic. My son, the little champ, appeared to have crossed into the danger zone. I would have to "take him in." 

    Hospitals apparently don't take poisonings lightly. The ER at Centerpoint was full of patients waiting to be helped, but we were called up for a room right away. They had the report from Poison Control. Bennett was entertained by the red light on the cord attached to his toe and all the mysterious cords hanging from the wall. 

    An hour after the incident, he showed no telltale stomach cramps, diarrhea or vomiting. He was apparently safe. The hospital staff discharged him almost as quickly as they admitted him.

    I am one grateful mom. I went home, put him to bed, sank into the couch and slid into an incidental meditation session. I was stunned by Bennett's antics and my failure to protect him. 

    This is a phase, surely. He will gain judgment, and I will worry less, I hope. In the meantime, it's time to reassess and re-baby-proof for the kajillionth time. 


    *Pellet fertilizer, it turns out, is less toxic than liquid fertilizer. Over Christmas Bennett found a forgotten sample of industrial fertilizer in my parents' living room dresser, unscrewed the lid and flung it in a 360 degree arc. He probably didn't eat any, but my brother's assurances that he'd be "foaming at the mouth" weren't enough for me to let the incident go without consulting my friends at Poison Control. 

    **My husband, Will, cleared the mushroom from Bennett's mouth before he bit anything off. Our cousin, an EMT, had us give him milk. Fortunately, B was fine.

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    Posted on: Jan 9 2013 - 12:00:00 PM
    New Year's resolutions from a 1-year-old
    563 Views

    Hi guys, my mom took today off from blogging. She said something about resolving to take a few bleeping minutes to herself, then disappeared (before my bedtime!) with her new fuzzy blanket, a glass of wine and her book club book. She left her computer open to this white screen you can type words on. 

    My name is Bennett. I can't say much besides "Duh duh duh" yet, but I have all these thoughts I wish people could understand. Why have I been crying in frustration all this time if I can write, you ask? Let's not get ahead of ourselves. I don't really know how to reason yet. 

    So it's 2013 now. A new year I guess? I don't really know what that means. I think I was born in the year 2011. I do know that we had a party the other day with some gross little pizzas my mom was trying to get me to help make and some yummo chocolate snacks she let me eat, even though she said they were for puppies. I drank a lot of juice and people laughed when I took my pants off. 

    Anyway, I keep hearing about those things called New Year's resolutions. Mom said she isn't making any real resolutions this year. Something about avoiding the guilt about breaking them. I like breaking things! I should make some resolutions. 

    OK then. Here I go. 

    1. Figure out how to plug things in. I've been working hard on this. You know those plugs people put in the white rectangles on the wall with holes in them? Those plugs are super easy to pry off. But every time I do that, my parents freak out and put them back in. If you take them off, you can put other things in, like pretzels or the vacuum cord. AND WHO DOESN'T LOVE TO VACUUM?

    2. Grow taller. That way I won't have to climb on stuff all the time, which is kind of hard work and makes bruises on my shins. I learned a few weeks ago that I can take the wooden step stool out of the bathroom and move it around the house to turn on lights. I really like doing that, but that thing is almost as big as I am and very awkward to carry, especially up the steps. I also realized I can move the kitchen chairs! Those are way higher than the step stool. You can get to the buttons on the fridge that make waterfalls, the cords on the window blinds AND the buttons on the microwave that make the beep-beep sounds! One time, I even reached Mom's cheese machine (I've also heard her call it a camera) on the counter. Score! If only I were a little taller, I would be able to do these things without climbing. Climbing takes precious seconds away from the short window I have before Mom stops me.

    3. Build up my toothbrush collection. I love to brush my teeth, and I love variety. I have a happy lion toothbrush, a Dora the Explorer, a red one, blue one, red with purple spots and oh, a few more. It's cool, because people just give me toothbrushes after I find them and put them in my mouth. The ones I like best are the big ones I find in Mommy and Daddy's bathroom. It's like Christmas every day in there, because every time I stick one in my mouth, the next time I go back, there's a brand new one! They get replaced the fastest when my nose is drippy, for some reason. Toothbrushes are fun to chew on, but they're also fun to hold while you're doing other things, like opening the trash can or the toilet lid. I could wax poetic about toothbrushes all day. 

    4. Get Mom to take more showers so I can hang out in her room more. The other day, I figured out that if I stay quiet but sit right outside the bathroom door where she can see me, she leaves me alone longer. But the thing is, she can't really see what I'm doing. She keeps these awesome little bottles with liquid and pastey stuff under her sink. Some of them smell like flowers, and others smell like my toothpaste. That day, I finally figured out how to twist the caps off! A whole new world opened up, because all those bottles have different things inside that I like to rub on my hands, my hair, the walls, the carpet … She had three of the toothpaste ones in there, and I got all three of the lids off and stashed them in Daddy's nightstand. That way, when she took one out of my mouth, I had backup. I also had time to get out all those sticks with cotton on them that she puts in her ears after her shower. And there were these blue squares with white circles inside, but the weird thing is, when you pull on the white part, it's string that smells like heavenly, God-sent TOOTHPASTE! I kept pulling and pulling, then draping it around my neck like those necklaces she wears, but I never found the end before Mom took it away. There's always tomorrow, I guess. If she showers. 

    5. Tease my mom more. She really likes this thing called KU. And my dad really likes this thing called K-State. My uncle really likes K-State, too, and likes to tell me KU-PU. I like how much attention and tickling I get from Mom when I say it, too. I really just say, "PU-PU," but that's cuter, so I win.

    6. Eat more candy. Ever since Halloween, I've gotten into this stuff. I usually just want to eat candy, instead of the lame-o sandwiches and vegetables Mom gives me for lunch. I know where they keep it -- in my Jack-O-Lantern bucket in the locked kitchen cabinet. My arms are skinny, though, and sometimes, I can reach through the little space in the door and grab a candy cane or a shiny green piece with chocolate inside. If people like our neighbors and Santa keep giving it to me, why would my parents keep it from me? That's just cruel. At least I brush my teeth. 

    I could go on about how I want to learn to talk, jump, use the potty and drive, but everybody knows I'm supposed to do that stuff soon, so I'll spare you. Duh-duh duh duh, everyone! Or as you talkers might say, Happy New Year!

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    Posted on: Jan 2 2013 - 12:00:00 PM
    Tags:
    Savor the lasts moments like the firsts
    457 Views

    There are a million things I had planned to write about. 

    My 3-year-old son's separation anxiety. Both kids' fear of Santa. The madness of the run-up to a major holiday. 

    I can't find the words to fill in those stories. Not today, not post-Sandy Hook. 

    Today I'm thinking about those phases and all our kids' other ones as moments to savor, whether they're cute, annoying, heartwarming or aggravating. I first started thinking about this concept a few weeks ago when I read an inspiring column about the importance of appreciating your children's lasts, just as you do the firsts. (http://www.huffingtonpost.com/devon-corneal/parenting-lasts_b_1874086.html) The last time your baby says "Uh-ee" before lining up and pronouncing "uh-oh" correctly. The last time he wraps his arms around you, eyes gleaming, and says, "You're a beautiful princess, Mommy." The last time he runs naked around the house, evading your pleas to wipe his bottom and wash his hands after he's gone to the bathroom. 

    You celebrate and document the first steps and first words, Devon Corneal's column says. But the last moments of any given phase, they're hard to pinpoint as they're happening. They fade in and out without much ado, and you don't realize they're lasts until much later, when you reflect and try to rewind a memory that's become fuzzy with neglect. 

    The key to savoring the lasts is to make the most of the middle moments, knowing they could be the last moments. Because they could also be the Last Moments, as the Sandy Hook tragedy so grimly reminds us. 

    I'm sitting here at 6:41 a.m., trying my hardest not to be annoyed that my adorable, drippy-nosed baby has climbed between me and my computer and begun kicking the keyboard. Bennett may not do this for much longer. He'll grow to big to ball up in my lap, suck his thumb and tuck his head into my shoulder. So I put the laptop down and engage. 

    I'm trying to appreciate that the movie "WALL-E" is playing for the 131st time. Whenever Quinn gives it up, I'll miss this film and its peripheral moments, such as when Quinn pretends he's WALL-E and sidles up. "I just love you so much EVE-ah," he says to me.

    Today I'm going to savor all the moments, try to memorize them. Even going the ones at the grocery store, kids in tow. Even the fight to get them dressed. Even -- especially -- the hugs, the tickles, the "I love yous." 

    Today I'm going to love like it's my last day. Maybe if we all do that, we can do our little part to heal the world. 

    P.S. If you're like me, you've been reading obsessively about the shooting and related commentary. If you haven't already, look at "I Am Adam Lanza's Mother," a brave essay on mental illness by the mother of a violent 13-year-old boy. http://anarchistsoccermom.blogspot.com/2012/12/thinking-unthinkable.html

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    Posted on: Dec 19 2012 - 12:00:00 PM
    Tags: SANDY HOOK
    My top 10 nontraditional holiday traditions
    645 Views

    I love Christmas. But sometimes I loathe the axillary stuff that goes along with it. A lot of joy and memory-making goes along with many of the traditions, true. But there's so much PRESSURE once you have kids to give them an idyllic experience that I end up feeling inadequate even if I do bake four dozen sugar cookies and hand-knit the tree skirt (neither of which I've actually attempted).

    Sitting here listening to Hanson's Christmas album, I'm realizing that many of my favorite Christmas traditions are the childlike ones that I can achieve organically, with little effort. Here they are, in list form, because people make lists at the end of the year. My faves are miles from any cookie exchange, gingerbread house or handmade salt-dough gift tag. Ugh, Pinterest, you abuse me. 

    In the words of the toe-headed '90s trio, "Christmas means to me, my love …"

    1. Seeing the lights. Any lights, really. Growing up, my family and I would drive around our small town, traversing every street, judging who had the best lights. Here, the Plaza lights are great, but more my style is Longview Lake's Christmas in the Park. The latter has gazillions of twinklers and dozens of animated figures. My parents always strung lights outside, so I have a little Clark Griswold in me. I also have a fear of ladders, so I've been hoarding day-after-Christmas discounted lights for years -- all of which remain in their packaging. Next year, honey? 

    2. Thinking about buying an Elf on the Shelf, then not doing it. I'm in my third year for this one, so it's officially a tradition. 

    3. Posing with Santa. Yes, me. My children so far have refused to sit with any bearded stranger alone, and someone is always crying. Let's hope it's not me this year. Bass Pro Santa, we're coming for you, so have plenty of candy canes ready. My kids are used to being bribed.

    4. Drinking Shatto Noggy milk. I have to live vicariously through the kids on this one, because I haven't added dairy back into my elimination diet. And the hubs is lactose intolerant. Convincing 3-year-old Quinn that he needed milk with the word "egg" in the description was a hard sell, but he and brother both downed a glass in good time. They must've enjoyed it.  

    5. Dominating my family in board games. No matter the game, it seems as if there's always lopsided competition. Will and I versus the toddlers at Candyland. Or me, an editor and word person, versus my husband, a computer genius, at Scrabble. I get giddy when we play, but Will would rather spoon his eyes out. I feel the same way about playing him, a lifelong movie buff, at Scene It. We battled once, and he clobbered me in 97 percent of the questions. Now that game has a quarter-inch blanket of dust.

    6. Complaining that my mother goes overboard on gifts. She says it's because her family growing up didn't have much, so she always wanted to provide for us. But when you have so many gifts under the tree that you hide some when guests stop by, you know you have a problem. We love you, Mom. But fair warning, big brother and I are staging an intervention for next year. We all have more than enough flashlights -- a perennial favorite under the family tree.

    7. Christmas Eve service at the Danish Lutheran Church, a one-room prairie church with no plumbing or electricity in the center of the cemetery where my ancestors are buried. The pastor gives only one sermon there each year. All the neighbors cram in around the wood-fired stove, coerce their children into performing an awkward talent show and hunker down for the recitation of Jesus' birth story. My earliest memories of Christmas are intertwined with the overwhelming scent of pine from a pasture tree, smashed peanut shells on a wood floor and the tinny sounds of a 100-year-old pump organ. 

    8. Browsing online for gifts that no one in my family would like except me. This is an activity best done when I've finished my shopping for the season. I just spent an hour doing this, because imagining the people who would actually buy a $237 whiskey advent calendar or a "wood-fired hot tub boat" is just as fun as imagining the gifts. This activity helps me to procrastinate other, more tedious tasks, such as writing a blog, wrapping gifts or addressing Christmas cards that may or may not go out by New Year's. 

    9. Setting up emails for the kids from Santa's Portable North Pole. This is another fun way to procrastinate. I sent each of my kids a personalized video from Santa today, then willed the rosy-cheeked philanthropist to tell my adult brother that he's "got great legs." Someone else in my life may get a video with Santa congratulating him for "trying to hold in your farts more." The production value is impeccable, and the personalization options are numerous. This is a dangerous tool.

    10. Shooing the cats out of the tree. This one recalls all the Christmases Will and I have spent together. The first year we bought our artificial tree, at Kmart, our cats, then kittens, took up residence in the center of the tree, halfway up. A day or two in, all the ornaments on the lower half were gone, and the bottom portion sagged and bowed, with the upper part full and bright. Pretty sure we skipped the tree the next year. After that, we went live. The cats ignored those. But after we waited so long to dispose of them, hauling off two years' worth of trees one March, we're back to the artificial tannenbaum. And our cats, now in their silver years, still climb the darn tree. 

    Bless them anyway. And bless our family and our nontraditional traditions. Quinn and I reread "The Grinch That Stole Christmas" tonight. To paraphrase: It doesn't take contrived traditions and unneeded stress to create a magical holiday. Christmas will happen no matter what.

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    Posted on: Dec 12 2012 - 12:00:00 PM
    Tags: CHRISTMAS
    My boys love pink. So what?
    733 Views

    We went to a 1-year-old's birthday party last weekend. Just as we were about to leave, the kids got to choose an inflatable guitar to take home, a play off the "rock star" theme. Bennett, who is 1 1/2, bypassed the blues and blacks in favor of a pink one. 

    Quinn, who just turned 3 on Monday (!), enjoys red's pastel cousin as well, but he has more sophisticated interests in the feminine mystique. Quinn calls himself Melissa or Ashley, two women he adores, depending on the day. We sang "Happy Birthday" to "Ashley," not Quinn. He chose a pink donut on a pink plate for his birthday breakfast. He sat down at a children's museum's face painting station and announced that he was doing his makeup. 

    Am I causing psychological damage by letting my kids explore and pretend? I don't think so. Some have observed that their constant physical activity and proclivity for dirt make them "all boy." But if my manly boys want to wear my necklaces or high heels around the house, I'm going to let them. The next moment they might be swimming in Daddy's shoes and T-shirts, Quinn proclaiming that as a newly minted 3-year-old, he's eligible to grow a mustache and be a daddy.

    They're not confused. They're imitating the people they spend the most time with: my husband, Will, and me. 

    I grew up a tomboy. I had Barbies but I remember my mother chiding me for not playing with them enough. My favorite way to play with them was to cut their hair or give them a bath. 

    Dolls weren't nearly as interesting as playing outside on the farm where I grew up. I caught bugs. Ran barefoot. Climbed trees. Tamed feral cats. Coaxed my own little brother into wearing a dress. Shh — don't tell Scott I wrote that.

    As for Will, he has been known to switch up his mostly black wardrobe with a smokin' pink dress shirt. And he once made up — and became famous for, in our little circle — a riotous interpretive dance to a Cher song. But shhh — that's supposed to stay quiet, too. 

    My point is, we don't always follow the stereotypes, so why should we force that upon our kids? People tend to have strong opinions about gender identity in children. The social convention, of course, is that you bring your girl home from the hospital in pink clothes and a hair bow, or your boy in blue. You buy dolls for your girl and cars for your boy. Most people do this and think nothing of it. A smaller group of people still believe there shouldn't be crossover. 

    There's been pushback in recent years. My first awareness of the movement against gender norms came two years ago with the "My Son is Gay" post from a KC mom who writes the Nerdy Apple blog. She let her 5-year-old son dress as Daphne from Scooby Doo for Halloween. People all over the country praised and chided her. A short time later, the editor of the J.Crew catalog published a photo of her young son painting his fingernails. Then word came out of a new extreme: parents who withheld their children's genders altogether, hoping they could transcend the stereotypes and grow into their true, predestined selves. 

    I doubt I would let my kids wear dresses or show off painted nails in public at this age. I would make that choice to protect them from the inevitable insults of others, not to suppress some feminine urge. One of my biggest jobs as a parent is to help my children feel secure and build their self-esteem. Setting them up for torture to indulge preschoolers' whims seems shortsighted. If they still want to wear dresses as teens who understand the effects of their actions, then we'll talk.
     
    On a macro scale, there is growing din about the Disney princess effect, wherein little girls come to idolize the characters for their long, flowing hair and beautiful dresses, supposedly cultivating unhealthy self-images. Likewise, people crow that boys need role models other than superheroes. Toy manufacturers are starting to notice. Lego and Mattel have construction sets marketed toward girls this year, according to a New York Times article this week. 

    My house is equal-opportunity. Some of the boys' favorite toys are yes, the cars and trains, but also their play kitchen and myriad toy vacuums. They're culturally literate about superheroes and princesses alike, but don't obsess, at least not yet. We're teaching them to help in the kitchen, to ride bikes, to paint, to read, to play with sticks, to build with blocks, to be kind to others.
    That last one is what I really want them to understand. We all have our differences, our quirks, our anomalies. But every person — including boys who wear dresses — deserves respect and freedom from judgment.

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    Posted on: Dec 5 2012 - 12:00:00 PM
    Black Friday sucked me in, and I'm giving myself an intervention
    511 Views

    I'm fresh off the adrenaline of scoring some insane deals for Black Friday and Cyber Monday. Scouring the Internet for slashed prices has possessed me for the last few days. And hey, I finished my Christmas shopping. 

    I should feel triumphant. This is a first for me, a woman who has never completely finished Christmas shopping more than a day or two before exchanging gifts. 

    Instead I feel cheap, like a cheat. Christmas isn't supposed to be this easy, and it shouldn't involve this much stuff. 

    All my life I've stewed over finding the perfect gift for each person on my list. My inability to make quick decisions is classic Libra. On top of that, I've always strived for highly individualized gifts. Last year I set out to give each person something I handmade. I can't remember if I accomplished it, but I came close. And even though I started a couple months before Christmas, I worked myself to death trying to complete all the little gifts. The luscious, fuzzy monogrammed blanket for my mom. The super-cool stick horse for Quinn. The elephant tag blanket for Bennett, then just a baby. The ridiculous T-shirt with Metcalfville drawn on the back for Will, a roadmap the kids could drive on, thereby scratching his back. Sugar scrubs for neighbors, friends and teachers. Hand-done canvas prints of our family portraits for the grandparents.

    After all the time I spent planning, chasing down supplies and assembling the gifts, only a couple were actually used. I barely had time to breathe last Christmas season, let alone enjoy the holiday spirit.  So this year I decided to put in a little less effort and give myself a gift: happiness and freedom. I hoped no one would notice. 

    Handmade or not, this year had to be different. We're trying to sell our house. We have two toddlers. I have no time to flit leisurely from store to store, in search of beautiful, unique gifts. I wish I did, because that would mean I could shop locally more.

    My solution would come on Black Friday, my moral bane and my frugal boon. I bit my lip on Thanksgiving and spread out the barrage of Black Friday ads, hoping I could find a few deals that would fit with the people I love. 

    I had already bought several of the kids' gifts but knew I wanted a couple more items: an easel and a tool bench. Kohl's had both, at greatly discounted prices. I sucked in a deep breath and held it as I prepared to elbow my way through the store that night. I dreaded the crowd, but I also dreaded my weakness for sales. I knew I wouldn't be able to resist coming home with a truckload full of stuff we didn't need. 

    My brilliant mother-in-law made a suggestion: Why don't you check online, she said.

    And there they were, the two items I thought I needed for the boys. Free shipping, an extra 20 percent off and money back in the form of Kohl's cash. Cha-ching.  

    The snowball of my inhibitions gained speed as it raced away from me, down the avalanche of Black Friday regret. I kept looking for deals. Here's something I could buy for Will, I thought. And something for my parents! And there's something for the neighbor boys!

    The problem with allowing myself to be sucked in by Black Friday was that I allowed the repressed consumer in me to unleash her desire. I have pretty strong restraint throughout the year. I don't buy a ton of stuff, mostly because if I don't go shopping and I stay away from Pinterest, I don't think I need anything. Last year at Christmas, I did OK. I still gave a lot, but there was more meaning attached, with all the handmade items. But this year, once my fingers were oiled and accustomed to typing in my credit card number, there was nothing stopping that animal urge to get the best deal. When I had finished buying for everyone else, I bought for myself. I couldn't possibly just pass Will the link to that discounted, professional grade hair straightener, because what if he had hesitated? THE DEAL WOULD HAVE BEEN LOST.

    Things got uglier. I went out on Black Friday, mid-morning, advertising fliers in hand. As I waited in one line at a discount home decor store, someone screamed for 911. An elderly woman had collapsed while waiting in line. Rumor around the line was that she might've been a diabetic and had neglected to eat, allowing her blood sugar to plummet.

    After an initial hush, broken only by the sound of a couple nurses cutting through the crowd to her aid, the cash registers recommenced and the lines moved forward.

    Are good deals worth your life? Do we really need all the stuff we hoard around the holidays? Absolutely not, on both counts. My realization is too late for this year -- all the gifts are en route to my house. But next year, I'm planning an intervention. No shipping is always free shipping. Santa's sleigh might even fly better because it'll be so light. 

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    Posted on: Nov 28 2012 - 12:00:00 PM
    Weekend at Grandma's a success!
    573 Views

    We did it. We broke the shackles, released the hounds or whatever else you want to say. We left the kids with someone else overnight. 

    I wish I could say Will and I had a romantic weekend away. A bed and breakfast somewhere in northwest Arkansas, maybe. Or a quick trip to Chicago.

    Nope. We were at home, scrubbing the waist-high ring of grime from the entire house. I worked from sunup to bedtime preparing for our appointment to take pictures of the home before we listed it for sale. Will worked his job during the day and shampooed carpets, scrubbed toilets at night. 

    It was work, but I had no one to counteract my work. And it was so peaceful. I almost finished an audiobook, and no one was there to tell me to "Turn the man off, Mommy!" 

    The idea to leave them with my parents was hasty. I was flustered, faced with cleaning the house, which was still a wreck two days before it needed to be immaculate. Weeks of working on home-improvement projects meant that normal de-cluttering and general picking up was neglected, as were my children. And you know what happens when little children, especially boys, are neglected. They make messes. 

    So there I was, the Wednesday before the Friday of our appointment, scrubbing several years' worth of stubborn grime off our white kitchen blinds. Both boys were having a snack, sitting quietly. Too quietly. I turned around and saw Bennett peering over the edge of his high chair, dropping experimental handful after handful of Cheerios onto my fresh-scrubbed floor. Quinn hopped out of his chair, crunching cheerfully over the Cheerios to inspect his brother's handiwork.

    My yin had been fighting that kind of yang for days. I'd be buffing scratch remover into a bedroom door, only to drop everything and sprint-stumble down the hallway after Bennett as he careened toward the stairs. I'd be rearranging a closet when I'd find Bennett surrounded by mini shampoo bottles and Q-tips, covered in soap and clutching an open can of hairspray. 

    Will walked in from the other room like a well-timed beacon. He grinned at me, my hair extra frizzy, my dark circles extra shadowy. 

    "I have a crazy idea," he started. 

    Take the kids to your parents' house today, he suggested. Drive the four hours each way. Lose a day that you expected to have for cleaning. Then bust your rear cleaning all day Thursday and Friday morning, when I'll be able to help, he said. We'll meet up with the kids Friday evening, when we had planned to visit the parents anyway.

    I sat there stunned. I couldn't believe the brilliance. I couldn't believe I hadn't thought of it. 

    My parents were willing, if a little hesitant. Mom is retired, and Dad is a farmer with a flexible schedule, at least this time of year. My mom had a hair appointment and a funeral to work around, but Dad would fill in the gaps.

    I threw some clothes and diapers into the boys' suitcases and we raced westward. In my haste, I left their coats hanging on the banister, next to the Pack 'N Play sheets and baby monitor. I stress-ate almost a pound of carrots, the only food within reach that jibed with my elimination diet. (That blog is here: http://www.mom2momkc.com/?a=profile&u=19245&t=blog&blog_id=4935)

    The kids, and my parents, weathered the situation beautifully. Quinn was surprisingly amenable on short notice, probably because we told him he would get to spend a "Week at Grandma's" just like the Berenstain Bears. Bennett, in his confusion, spent the hours of 1 a.m. to 5 a.m. the first night awake, sometimes happily sucking his thumb and other times exploring the buttons and gadgets of my bewildered parents' darkened living room. Quinn's lip quivered a few times, but he toughed it out. "I was sad because I remembered that I forgot my parents," he told my brother. 

    Will and I beamed as we Skyped with the kids from afar, realizing anew how amazing and powerful their presence can be on our mood. They grow so much and so fast, that even after two days, I noticed little changes. Bennett discovered that he could pee on command when Gigi was changing a Jell-O-soiled diaper after dinner, and he peed on her, to his delight. Then he did it again for Daddy the next day. Quinn had a sleepy moment in the car with Grandpa. "I'm going to blink my eyes," he announced, just before passing out. They drove around a bit, then once home, Quinn opened his eyes and announced he was ready to go to the park. So they went.

    In the kids' absence, the house sparkled. We moved out the toys and erased the grime. The thing is, all those times I wished the loud, plastic clutter away, I never realized that was what made it feel like home. Or maybe I was just missing my children.

    We couldn't get to Concordia fast enough that Friday night. The kids stayed up a little late so they could see us. We stepped two feet into the doorway and got tackled with hugs, kisses and dozens of "I love you's." The scope of the boys' love was overwhelming, unexpected and magical.

    The experience was good for all, methinks. Will and I got a breath of fresh(er) air, even if it was laced with cleaning chemicals. My parents got quality bonding time with the kids, even if everyone was ready for a three-day nap by the end. And the kids began to understand that, independent of us, they will survive. Maybe even have fun.

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    Posted on: Nov 21 2012 - 12:00:00 PM
    Tags: SLEEPOVER
    I wear my mom jeans with pride
    871 Views

    I looked at my feet recently and saw my vanished sense of vanity. 

    The kids were strapped in the car while I was pumping gas, so I had a couple minutes to look around and notice things. I leaned against the dusty car, looked down. Fuzzy brown socks bulged over the bridges of my feet, poking out of my faded, leopard print, clearance flats. Mom jeans, not quite electric blue, met them at the ankles, completing a trifecta of awful.

    I didn't even realize I was still wearing the socks until that moment. Rather than be embarrassed, I chuckled and snapped a picture. 

    Since having children, I've evolved into the kind of person whose stress level you can read by her appearance. Fuzzy socks and flats=busy but comfy day. Two different shoes (this happened last week, too)=chicken-with-head-cut-off kind of day. Puke/snot/other unspeakable stains on the clothes=do not approach.

    I used to take care with my appearance. My morning beauty routine usually took about 30 minutes, including showering and dressing. I've whittled that to 10 minutes. Shower, towel dry, comb hair, lotion, brush teeth, dress. Usually there's a kid or two hanging out in the bathroom, pulling toilet paper off the roll or rummaging in the trash. If I'm alone, I can shave off two minutes of referee time and complete the routine in eight minutes. 

    Where younger Lindsay lingered in the mirror to perfect her appearance, older Lindsay lingers quizzically. Hair askew. Extra wrinkles around my smile. Winter lizard hands. "Meh," I think. Then I snap the ever-present hair tie off my wrist, throw my mane into a ponytail and pivot away to run toward the baby with one hand in the toilet and a toothbrush in the other.

    I quit primping when I had my first child. I was working then and feeling a lot of guilt about the lack of time I was spending with Quinn. I opted to forgo the make-up and blow-drying in favor of a few extra minutes with him in the mornings. 

    What I didn't know was that I was making a semipermanent choice. I got rusty beyond repair. By the time I had Bennett a year and a half later, I had lost my ability to assemble a fashionable outfit. I stopped shopping for myself, save for once or twice a year to replace worn-out wardrobe staples. I asked for a fleece from Bass Pro for my birthday this year. I saw an Internet special for velour track suits and considered buying one. Y'all, I stopped buying SHOES.

    None of this bothers me. I read once, and wholeheartedly concur, that You Don't Have to Be Pretty. "You don't owe prettiness to anyone," the blog post reads. "Not to your boyfriend/spouse/partner, not to your co-workers, especially not to random men on the street. You don't owe it to your mother, you don't owe it to your children, you don't owe it to civilization in general. Prettiness is not a rent you pay for occupying a space marked 'female'." (If you're pumping your fist in agreement, here is the link: http://www.dressaday.com/2006/10/20/you-dont-have-to-be-pretty)

    I used to feed off of being pretty and fashionable. In college, I was poor, but I'd spend hours sifting through thrift store racks and reveling in cobbling together outfits. I still remember what I wore the night I met my husband. Red velvet blazer, boys tuxedo shirt, pastel striped tie. I was a bloody hipster. 

    I would look ridiculous if I tried to go in public like that now, I guess because it's a state of mind. My mind is focused on taking care of the kids and selling our house, not on going out. Last Saturday Will and I caught the opening of "Skyfall," the new Bond flick, and my hair was as rumpled and my clothes were as snot-stained as ever. It was only an 8 o'clock movie, but I was so tired, I (gasp) fell asleep in the theater.

    Perhaps I need an intervention, but I like the comforts of my ultra-low-maintenance routine. I love reaching over in the morning and putting on glasses, rather than fiddling with sticky, dry contacts. I judge my shoes for comfort, not sex appeal. I avoid anything within 50 paces of a "dry clean only" tag. Good god, I am my mother. 

    I have a feeling that the rest of the mom-jean-wearing set wasn't born that way, either. Pump those fists, ladies, hop in your minivans and carry on. It's a wonderful kind of freedom, living on your own terms. 

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    Posted on: Nov 14 2012 - 12:00:00 PM
    Tags: VANITY
    Daylight Saving Time, the enemy of modern parents
    842 Views



    Daylight Saving Time is no friend of anyone with small children. 

    Monday morning, my Facebook newsfeed was cluttered with people complaining about being up so early with their kids. One person lamented that her son was almost 4. "When does it end?" she said. 

    I remember those days pre-children, when I'd look forward to the day of "fall back," when I'd get an extra hour to catch up on whatever. Maybe on reading, the shows on my DVR or cleaning. Or maybe, if my little heart could dream big enough, SLEEP. 

    I remember those days like I remember the pain of childbirth. I know it happened, but I have little concept of how it felt. 

    Once you switch your wake-up mechanism from alarm clock to baby, Daylight Saving Time becomes an enemy that attacks by confusing its targets. 

    Flash to 2:33 a.m. Monday. Bennett, 1 1/2, woke with a spirited, happy coo. I bypassed the back rubbing and subsequent crying and plucked him from his crib. He sidled up next to me in my bed.

    He plugged his noise maker with his thumb. But for an hour he tossed, kicked, flipped and belly-flopped between Will, my husband, and I. 

    I'd had all I could take after an hour. By 3:33 a.m., Bennett was back in his crib, ready to play. I switched his noise machine to "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star" and turned on the projector. As if that was going to appease him. 

    An hour later, we were both asleep in his cushy arm chair. Me with a neck ache, he with sprawling toddler limbs poking in all directions. An hour after that, Quinn, nearly 3, tugged on me to get up. 

    We were all thrown that morning, but we pressed onward and ran errands as scheduled. We loaded into a cart and speed-shopped through Sears' hardware, women's clothing and home decor departments in a record 10 or 15 minutes. The time was around 11 at that point — noon to my unfed, sleepy children.and nearly nap time. DST demon baby flailed, cried and frantically stuffed his face with Honey Bunny Grahams. 

    It was time to pay for my items, but Bennett decided he wanted to bungee out of the cart. I placed him on the floor. He bolted around the corner, down an aisle. He laid down. I picked him up. He dive-bombed. 

    That's where he stayed, all 27 pounds of him in a football hold. Balancing him on my hip, I fished my wallet out of my bag and swiped my card. Quinn rubbed his eyes and whined over and over and over and over and over that he wanted to go home. 

    As we left, the clerk flashed a sheepish smile and offered a futile sign-off: "Take it easy."

    We were in similar straits Tuesday morning, even though we made sure the kids went to bed an hour later than usual. Bennett began chirping at 5 a.m. I let him lie. Quinn came in at 5:33, pants soaked from an over-wet Pull-Up. I changed him and pulled him under the covers, determined not to rise for the day until at least 6. 

    Oof. Quinn flopped on top of me, straining to see the clock. "Five-four-seven," he said. Bennett continued his chirping. I rolled over. 

    Quinn lay still a few minutes. "Fifty-five, five," he said. I let him rouse his brother, one of his favorite jobs as the elder sibling. They played a few minutes, separated by crib bars. Quinn came back, tugged on me. "Five-five-nine," he said.

    I zombie-shuffled into Bennett's room. 

    " 'iiiiiiiiii!!!!!" yelled a bright-eyed Bennett.

    "Can I get in Bennett's crib?" Quinn asked. "I want to go to sleep." 

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    Posted on: Nov 7 2012 - 12:00:00 PM
    3 epiphanies from eating nothing but chicken and rice
    820 Views

    My friend deadpanned when I told her about my new diet of broiled chicken and brown rice. 
     
    Three to five times a day. Just chicken, rice, a vitamin and water. No seasoning allowed. 
     
    "You should be hating the world right now," Mel said.

    My allergist set me onto this plan for two weeks — today marks the end — so we could get to the bottom of some mysterious food sensitivities I have. Allergy testing came up negative. I'd already cut out gluten, dairy, soy and nuts, which all helped, but I was still getting sick a couple times a week. Broiled chicken and brown rice are two of the most hypoallergenic foods, my doctor explained. If I felt good at the end of the diet, she said, we'd know that something I'm ingesting is causing my problems. 

    Well, it's been two weeks, and I'm symptom-free. I don't hate the world. In fact I'm happier and more energetic than I've felt since I can remember. This weekend, for example, I worked on projects around the house because we're preparing to sell. I spent hours power washing the patio and front stoop on Saturday. On Sunday, I painted the patio, helped the kids decorate pumpkins, made lunch, went trick-or-treating at the zoo, then returned to put a second coat on the patio. Before, when I had no energy, it would have been a pick-one-or-two scenario. This time I was in turbo mode with energy to spare.

    I am grateful to the diet that I first deemed horrid. It's made me feel like me again. I'm also feeling reflective, so brace yourself for a few personal revelations.

    1. Health is way more important than good food. 

    I love food. I love trying new foods from hot, James Beard Award-nominated chefs. I love pretending I'm a gourmet chef at home. I love taking seconds of foods that I love, or even thirds. But if I had to give all that up forever, I'd be fine with it, I now realize. Because I haven't felt this good for this long since I have no idea when. No fatigue, unintended weight loss or sudden, intense hunger that makes me feel like I'm going to pass out, no matter how much I devour. I now realize I was malnourished. My body couldn't absorb nutrients from what I was feeding it.

    My husband, Will, and my mother indulged in some scrumptious-smelling take-out last week while she was visiting. Pizza, sesame chicken, burritos. They got some great laughs at my expense every time they'd sit down to eat and say, "What are you having?" 

    Meanwhile, I'd be fanning the smoke detector, set off by a dirty, hot oven that was attempting to char some flavor into my meat. Quinn, my oldest, snuck in his own joke — "Mommy's cooking again!" — and Bennett, the baby, perfected his pronunciation of the word "Beep."

    I expect to eat like a (semi) normal human again soon, even if I have to go through a painstaking elimination process. But this epiphany about health over indulgences is huge for me. I could do without and be happy. I never knew.

    2. Sugar does not control me.

    A sidebar to "I love food" is "I worship chocolate." I doubt I've ever gone this long without sugar, even as a baby, when I nursed and probably got it through my mother's milk, just as my kids did through mine. One of the first things I did when I went gluten-free recently was find gluten-free cookies (Pamela's Dark Chocolate, Chocolate Chunk Cookies are divine). But here I am, two weeks in without a drop of sugar and not only surviving, but thriving. OK, I'm contradicting myself as I salivate over those cookies while I type. I'll have to repeat this lesson to myself once my sugar ban ends. 

    3. No one will advocate for my health like I will.

    I've had these mysterious symptoms for so long, and they always seemed disconnected. Fatigue, stomach stuff, anxiety, blah, blah, blah. I had asked several doctors about them over the last couple of years, but usually my question was an afterthought in a visit for some other reason. There were always explanations:

    Pregnancy will do that to you. Nursing makes you hungrier, and it helps you lose weight. You have two very small children: You're not getting enough sleep. Your body does weird things in the postpartum period. 

    When the symptoms kept happening, I would Google them. That tended to turn me into a hypochondriac. But I persisted and found a doctor who could help. And now that I know I wasn't crazy — that it's possible for me to feel healthy and vibrant — I don't want to go back. 

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    Posted on: Oct 31 2012 - 12:00:00 PM
    These town mice are about to be country mice
    5058 Views

    Will and I are thinking of moving back to my hometown in north-central Kansas. We want our kids to grow up in a small town, where everything is a two-minute drive, grandparents are plentiful and shootings only happen to wild game. 

    This is a big step for us. I've been away for a dozen years, and my husband has only visited. We both need to start practicing our two-finger waves. 

    We went back a couple weekends ago to see family and friends and to look at a house. Some locals had put together their version of the popular Color Run, the traveling charity 5K where participants get blasted with shots of powdered color. The novelty brings people out by the thousands in cities like KC. In Concordia, a town of 5,000, hundreds came out to benefit Big Brothers Big Sisters as runners, walkers and volunteers. As I walked with a dear friend -- who also moved back recently -- I got a little verklempt. Around me were all these giddy people, many of whom I recognized or knew as old friends. At the color stations, the adults and children acting as volunteers were so enthusiastic that they had more color on themselves than they put on us.

    This was the sense of community I've been missing for so long. As my friend's husband said, this town takes care of its people. Especially its kids. 

    I want that for my family. So bad. 

    Now is a great time for the move that we've been mulling for several years. I'm home with the kids, and Will can work anywhere with his job. The boys aren't in school yet. Plenty of time to reestablish with few emotional scars.

    Their scars, anyway. Mine snuck up on me while I was scrubbing the stovetop yesterday. 

    I had no idea I'd fallen in love so much with our home, with this town. But Kansas City has a way of doing that to you when you least expect it. 

    As I leaned into that oven stain, preparing to meet our real estate agent, my cursing stopped short. I looked up and really saw my kitchen. I'm in the curtains, which I scrambled to sew the week before our firstborn arrived. I'm in the granite countertops, which I convinced my husband to buy. I'm in the tile floor, which Will and I and a friend installed one cold December -- so cold that we cut tiles with the wet saw right there in the middle of the house. My kids are in that kitchen. It's where they took their first bites of cereal, and of cat food, where they got their first goose-egg bumps and even where they landed when they first came home from the hospital.

    That wistful moment washed away with the oven cleaner as I moved on to vacuuming and mopping. I'd been decluttering and feebly attempting to stage the house for a week. Tuesday was the final cleaning push, for now at least. My mother was here to corral the children. But as I vacuumed, I kept seeing all the memories we've made here.

    I looked outside and saw a beautiful landscape that I love for its character and loathe for its maintenance. I saw the long swath at the base of our backyard slope, perfect for running off excess toddler energy, passing a soccer ball and learning to use a baseball tee. I saw the towering silver maples that give shade and shelter in the warmest and coldest months.

    We've got a great set of neighbors who we'll miss dearly, a retired couple we talk with nearly every day and buys birthday gifts for the children. And the whole family has great friends here, some accessible by stroller, who we'll never be able to replace. 

    The tears are streaming now. And we haven't even put the house on the market! 

    I'm sentimental by nature, so this wave of nostalgia shouldn't have surprised me. But it did, because while I was so busy planning this move, I didn't notice how much I'd fallen in love with our current home. 

    It was a starter house with pink rooms and pink ceilings when we moved in five years ago. It would need work -- buckets upon buckets of paint, foremost -- but it was a definite upgrade from our apartment, with a pretty yard, an extra bedroom and tons more storage. 

    Over time, we filled the bedrooms and filled our hearts. Now it's home, and it'll be hard to leave. 

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    Posted on: Oct 24 2012 - 12:00:00 PM
    Tags: MOVING
    Daycare is dramatic for my stay-at-home kids
    687 Views

    It's hard to go to daycare when you're used to hanging out with mom every day.

     

    We tried it for a few hours on Monday. I was desperate. We're thinking about putting our house on the market (more news when I can share – promise!). There's no way I can effectively chip items off my overwhelming and expanding task list if the kids are around. It's hard to deep clean when your 1 ½-year-old has sneaked past the loose child lock on the kitchen cabinet and dumped hundreds of Splenda packets and played the open sesame seed jar like a maraca. Meanwhile, your newly potty trained and proud almost 3-year-old is streaking, post-poop, pre-wipe. My life is a mine field with no room for task lists.

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    Posted on: Oct 17 2012 - 12:00:00 PM
    An ode to our neglected 'children,' the cats
    529 Views

    We're a two-cat household. Everyone has their claws, including me sometimes, when I get irritated enough with the animals. 

    They've scratched holes in the carpet outside every door, because they can't stand to be shut out of rooms. They puke in random places that I and my family sometimes step in. They meow in search of a playmate at 3 a.m. They leave half-eaten cricket carcasses on my living room floor. 

    But after the kids go to bed, the cats become my friends again. Gertie, the streetwise tabby, crowded in next to my laptop earlier, snuggling her fuzzy body up to my leg. Meeko sleeps on my head and purrs.

    Gertie and Meeko were our babies before we had babies. We had them for five years before Quinn was born. We never considered giving them up, but we were nervous they'd harm the baby. After an initial hiss the first day home, the aggressive one, Gertie, has allowed all the pulling, pushing, poking and prodding the boys have dished.

    I spend my time now doting on children, not cats. We used to trim their claws, which we'd left intact. (Eight years and mangled carpet/furniture/door frames later, I'd make a different decision.) When trimming nails proved difficult, I slipped nail guards on each of their little daggers. I brushed their teeth with a special rubber brush that slips on a finger. We bought them a drinking fountain because they preferred faucets to bowls. We harnessed them and took them for “walks” outside our old apartment, where they would sniff a small patch of grass. 

    We loved these cats like they were our children. When our real kids came along, I didn't have time for pets. My main contact with them during the day was dishing out food or pushing them off the kitchen table. 

    At least in my circle of friends, neglect is a common fear among pet owners. One friend has a bulldog. Anyone else would smell his horrendous gas and wilt, but she bathed him with Juicy Couture. He was her baby, and when she got pregnant, she worried that she'd hurt his feelings when the real baby came and he had to move out of her bed.

    Another set of friends had two cats, also with a motorized drinking fountain. They gave them up before their baby girl arrived because they were worried the cats might be too aggressive. 
     
    That hasn't been our situation. Whatever attention our cats lost from us, our children replenished. They're as much a part of our family as ever.

    Bennett wakes up looking for Gertie. Some of his happiest moments are when he stumbles upon her napping in a random spot and gets to pet her. The other day, when he found her in a rocking chair, he flapped his arms and giggled, poking and patting her as gently as his clumsy arms would allow. Gertie got annoyed, but she just turned around and flipped her tail into his arm. Bennett loved that so much he couldn't stop shrieking.

    I reformed my negative attitude toward the cats when I saw it reflected in Quinn. The child had been just as loving as Bennett toward our pets when he was a baby. But once Quinn learned to talk, he became aggressive, wagging a finger as he chased the cats around yelling “no.” It's taken a few months, but he's back to loving them, even though Meeko, the shy one, would be happier if he didn't acknowledge her existence. 

    Meeko was a farm kitteh, the runt of a litter born in a little girl's bedroom and who was tossed and squeezed and over-loved. A coworker was trying to unload the kittens, and I convinced my husband, Will, to come with me “just to look.” 

    Heh. He knew what he was in for when I grabbed the kennel before we left home. We took Meeko as a friend and gift for Gertie, who immediately hissed, smacked her and chased her under the TV console. Ah, sisters.

    A year earlier, Gertie introduced herself to us at the pound when she climbed on my husband's shoulders. He had to have her, even though the staffer who helped us warned that she might be … “challenging.” 

    It's been eight years of challenges, but I have no regrets — not even the carpet. These cats, annoying as they can be, are family. And with family, you overlook the flaws and embrace everything else. Here's to another eight or more, ladies.  

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    Posted on: Oct 3 2012 - 12:00:00 PM
    Tags: PETS
    Goodbye gluten, I'll miss you
    725 Views

    Thirty may be the new 20, but 31 is definitely still 31. 

    On the eve of my 31st birthday, I'm feeling exactly my age. Switching to a new, fussy, gluten-free diet will do that to a person. 

    I'm a week in and singing a dirge for my beloved whole-wheat bread, a staple in my diet since I could chew. I'm a wheat farmer's daughter. I used to climb into the bed of a grain truck, heaping with amber mountains, and pop a handful into my mouth, convinced by my father that if I chewed long enough it would turn into gum. It would be against some law of societal order if my body rejected this stuff. 

    I'm about to get personal, so if that's not your thing, tune out now. I've been having various issues for the last year, maybe longer. Fatigue, GI stuff that need not be named, sometimes heart palpitations. Not pretty. For a long time, I blamed pregnancy, mostly because the doctors did, too. Then I had Bennett. Things got worse. But I didn't question it much, because of course I was tired — I had a new baby. And I thought all the other stuff was a result of being tired and stressed.

    But now that Bennett is 1 and I'm getting more sleep, I still have this problem. It hits several days a week around 9, 10 a.m. and knocks me out for an hour or two. Then, by lunchtime, I'm fine. 

    I'd tried changing up my diet a bit with the expectation that I had a tinge of irritable bowel syndrome. That helped some, but not much. I finally dragged myself to see a doctor. The curve ball she threw caught me waaay off-guard. 

    You probably have a “gluten sensitivity,” she told me. 

    By the sound of my symptoms, she thinks it's not celiac disease. Apparently there's a tipping point that I have to figure out. If I have this “sensitivity,” I can probably have a little gluten, but if I make spaghetti one night and eat the leftovers for lunch, I'll probably be hurting. 

    So for now I'm cutting out gluten-filled foods completely so I can take my tiny, shackled baby steps forward. I'm feeling better already. 

    But nixing gluten cold-turkey is overwhelming. I have to change the way I make most meals. Pasta has to come from the gluten-free aisle. Bread? A gluten-free loaf is half the size, comes vacuum-sealed and costs $4. One of the hardest things to give up is beer. Yes, there are alternatives. But I'd really love to pop the cap off one of the Bob's 47 bottles from Boulevard that are so lonely in my fridge.

    Sniff. 

    So rice becomes a new staple in my diet. Pretty much at the very moment that Consumer Reports and the FDA said that arsenic taints most of the rice and rice products available to us, including the organic ones. So if I cut out gluten and make myself more comfortable now, do I die of cancer later? 
     
    From the Huffington Post:
     
    "Consumer Reports also recommended that people eat no more than three servings a week of rice products and no more than two servings a week of rice, and that children eat just one serving a week of other rice foods and avoid rice drinks altogether."

    Rice isn't the only alternative grain, of course. There's quinoa, millet and amaranth. Probably others. Ugh. Can you see me wrinkling my nose? 

    Sorry. I'll try to stop whining.

    I've become a more adventurous cook since I've been staying home with the boys, but with all the other chaos in my life, I haven't had time to make room for this change. It has stunned me. I haven't gone grocery shopping for a week. We've been eating sandwiches and take-out for days. Will, my husband, has done a little grocery shopping for me, and he found a package of gluten-free cookies, bless his heart. A little crumbly, but not too bad! He's also going to make me a gluten-free carrot cake. Yum.

    I do a lot of running around, literally chasing children all day, so I get hungry. I cannot just cut out carbs. I Googled gluten-free baking, and many of the blogs I found said you have to custom-mix the alternative flours to suit what you're making. No more all-purpose flour from the shelf. One lady listed 10 whole-grain flours, seven white flours, four nut flours and three bean flours, then said, “This is really all about playing.”

    The gall of that woman. Somebody just tell me how to do it. 

    Did I mention that I get hungry? A lot. I'm accustomed to eating three solid meals, plus at least two, sometimes three, snacks a day. When the kids and I are out, I often rely on prepackaged snacks, as much as I hate to admit it. So now I'm out a granola bar and a bag of Cheddar Bunnies that I swiped from the kids' stash.

    Google sent me to Gluten Free Mommy (glutenfreemommy.com) for a list of 30 snack ideas. No. 1 on the list: 

    Water. 

    Water?? (Is that even spelled right? It looks weird. WATER???????)

    I love me some water. I drink gallons of it and little else. But water ain't gonna settle the rumble in my gut and the low-blood-sugar twitch in my leg. 

    Some of her other ideas — sweet potato fries, dried fruit with nuts, chocolate-covered bananas — sound OK, if labor-intensive. Maybe labor-intensive is what I'm in for.

    That's just how this change feels, like I'm in for something. A life change that I wasn't expecting. So here I am, feeling over-dramatic and every bit my age, as reality is hitting and I have to take responsibility for my health. 

    So who else out there has gone gluten-free? Any tips or great recipes for the newbie?

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    Posted on: Sep 26 2012 - 12:00:00 PM
    Sorry Martha, I bought the Halloween costumes this year
    564 Views

     

    We're set for Halloween this year, and I have no remorse. 

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    Posted on: Sep 19 2012 - 12:00:00 PM
    Tags: DIY HALLOWEEN
    The best response to awkwardness about my son's deformed ear
    742 Views

    Someone once asked me how parents should react if their child says something insensitive about my son's ear.

    It's deformed. You might have read that blog. He can hear out of one ear, and he's doing just fine. 

    Quinn is 2 ½ and starting to understand that his right ear is different from the left. I've caught him cupping a hand over his hearing ear, then trying it on the other side. I don't think he understands that he's different from everyone else. If he does, he hasn't mentioned it. 

    That's why it makes me cringe a bit when another child, especially one Quinn admires, says something like, “His ear is weird.” I don't want Quinn to lose his innocence yet. I never want him to lose his spirit.

    So what should a parent say? I wasn't sure of the answer when my friend posed the question. My default response would have been something like, “There's nothing wrong with him. He was just born a little different.” Shrug, then silence. Maybe I'm too close to the subject — too emotionally involved — to come up with an articulate answer.

    Credit goes to a cousin of ours for my “aha” moment. 

    We see this cousin only every couple years because we live so far apart. Her kindergarten-aged son hadn't seen Quinn since he was a baby, when he wasn't fun enough to merit much attention from a 3-year-old. This visit, he deadpanned about Quinn's ear, really seeing it for the first time.

    His mom's answer was flawless. I was in awe. I shouldn't have been surprised, because she's the kind of mother every other mom can learn something from. I certainly do. 

    She opened with a line similar to mine, saying that Quinn's ear is what makes him unique. What makes him special. 

    Here's the brilliant part: Everyone has something like that, she said. 

    She hopped up and took off her shoes, prepared to prove her point right there in front of us. 

    See this? she said to her son. I have extra skin connecting these two toes. I was born with that. You don't have that on your feet. It's something that makes me special. 

    She gestured to her daughter. Remember the dark spot on your sister's eye? she said. Most people don't have that. It's what makes her unique. It's what makes her, her.

    She pointed out an anomaly on her son's body. What it was, I don't remember. A mole, perhaps? Whatever the case, the child lit up with recognition. He didn't press the issue. He never mentioned it again, at least not in front of us. He seemed to understand that even though Quinn is different, it's no big deal. Even better, Quinn seemed satisfied, although he wasn't paying much attention. 

    Our cousin normalized my son by saying that everyone is unique. She never apologized for her son. Never scolded him for making the observation. Why should she? Children are constantly learning. Curiosity is innate. He meant no harm by saying it. 

    Shoving such a statement aside because it's uncomfortable benefits no one. It makes the child who's different feel inferior, and it stokes ignorance and intolerance in the child who said it. 

    So there it is: Everyone has something that makes them different, whether it's small, like a mole, or big, like an ear. We wouldn't be who we are without these distinctions. Society wouldn't be the same if humans were homogenous.

    Generalized, that sounds so cliche. Personalized, it's a revelation. 

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    Posted on: Sep 12 2012 - 12:00:00 PM
    I take my mommy time while scrubbing the toilets
    409 Views

    Scrubbing toilets has morphed into a mommy-time retreat for me. I had to settle for that kind of alone time, because a lot of the things that used to represent a break — going out to eat, even going to the bathroom — are so much work with toddlers around that they make me tremble with dread.

    This dichotomy occurred to me recently as I wrestled a wayward shoe onto my fussy 1-year-old's foot for the 15th time and my tired, hungry 2 ½-year-old whined that he wanted his corn on the cob back. The one he had rejected minutes earlier. The one that I gave to Bennett, who had gnawed through it like a typewriter and slimed with runny nose goo. 

    Going out to eat with small children is not relaxing, it's taxing. I deserve hazard pay.

    This fact came fully into view as I paced the hallway outside the kid-friendly chain restaurant bathroom to appease Bennett, who was an hour past nap time and on the floor, only partially placated by his usual diversion, a high-chair lap buckle. I left the restaurant with more food on my clothes than in my belly. My kids were so tired and overstuffed with crackers by the end of our too-long wait that they barely touched their entrees.

    Restaurant outings are only the beginning of a list of activities that used to offer me a break. Here's another good example: Using the restroom.

    When I was working, this was a two-minute opportunity to stretch my legs. Now that I'm home with the kids, I find myself holding it like a nurse on a 12-hour shift, at the risk of bladder infection. With Bennett on the loose, no amount of quiet play with blocks or cars can be trusted. I have to pee with the door open, and he either follows me in and clambers onto Quinn's potty chair to reach the sink, or Quinn pushes him around in my absence. Using the restroom is especially fun when both of them crowd in and elbow one another for a hug from mommy. I'm flattered, really. Who doesn't love to break up a fight with their pants around their ankles?

    Forget grocery shopping with my husband. That used to be a breezy weekend activity. Now taking him means the kids have to tag along. Two restless toddlers with little to entertain them usually means I throw my back out carrying someone through the store. 

    Blow-drying my hair is another good example. Before kids, the white noise and repetitive brushing would help me zone out and prioritize goals for the day. Now, this particular appliance terrifies the children, like some otherworldly implement that might melt them (or me) into oblivion. Blow-drying my hair is a luxury reserved for weddings, funerals and our semiannual date night. See also: make-up.

    I wish I could say I faithfully read the newspaper. Sorry, former colleagues. I still subscribe! But whenever I get the paper out, someone self-destructs. Occasionally I get to scan headlines and a few stories online, but only if I split the computer screen with YouTube videos of Sesame Street. 

    Now that I have children, I have to find other ways to relax. That's a relative term, of course. 

    My No. 1 “downtime” activity is cooking. As long as I'm alone in the kitchen. 

    If the kids are around, the stress meter blows up. But if hubby is off work and babysitting, I'm probably dancing to ridiculously peppy music while I dredge the tilapia. I always try to celebrate mommy time, no matter how mundane the circumstance. See also: cleaning the kitchen or scrubbing toilets. 

    I actually volunteer to mow the lawn. This used to be Will's main chore. But I see it as alone time and a workout. Double score.

    Vacuuming. I get to sit on the couch and supervise. Quinn, aka Vacuum Boy, usually refuses help, and Bennett mimics brother. Both kids are occupied, and another chore gets checked off the list. Smiley face. 
     
    Grocery shopping alone? Wahoo! I used to hate grocery shopping. Either I'd make Will do it or he'd come with me. Now it's an opportunity to clear my head, and alone, I can finish in a third of the time it takes with the kids. See also: Leaving the house alone for absolutely any reason. 

    Don't misinterpret my list to mean that I dislike my kids. I love them more than life itself, yada yada. They are little versions of me and my husband, so of course they're cool people. But being a mom is exhausting, and it changes you in so many ways. I'm all about embracing the muck work, as long as I get a few minutes to myself.

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    Posted on: Sep 5 2012 - 12:00:00 PM
    Traveling with toddlers makes me sweat
    548 Views

    Like, stinky armpits, drenched forehead kind of sweat. Like, I'm standing outside the rental car facility in stifling humidity, wrestling two car seats our of the car and onto a jury-rigged system that approximates those $80 car seat dollies with a $4 luggage strap hooked to each suitcase. The result was unwieldy, but at least my husband and I were able to tote two seats, three suitcases, two kids and a stroller through the airport on our own.

    We just returned last weekend from our epic East Coast vacation, and it was everything we hoped it would be, despite its challenges.

    Great seafood, stunning views of the coast, lifetime memories with family. We crammed two vacations into one over two weeks, with mostly happy results. We spent the first week in New Hampshire with Will's uncle and aunt, and both his mom and my parents traveled with us. Three grandparents = three extra sets of hands for the kids = AWESOME. After a week there, Will, the kids and I hopped on the crazy New Jersey Turnpike and drove south to Norfolk, Va., where we met up with Will's cousins.

    My apprehension about flying with the kids was merited, but we prepared enough that the crying stayed at a minimum. I tried not to make eye contact with fellow passengers. Their dread was palpable when Quinn screamed because he thought I was boarding without him in Charlotte. He pulled it together just in time to board, then slept almost the whole flight home.

    A few highlights from the trip: 

    The beach. I'd almost forgotten how cleansing that first breath of sea air can be. The kids loved their ocean-sized sandbox, jumping in the waves, chasing seagulls and crashing through random beach volleyball matches. Last night, as Quinn was snuggling into his own bed, he said he would take a good “nap” so he could have energy to go to the beach today. If only, baby boy.

    The history. Many of the spots we visited hark back to colonial days. Hampton, N.H., where we first stayed, was founded in the early 1600s. We toured the “medieval-style” Hammond Castle in Gloucester, Mass., which I couldn't tell you much about because I spent the tour preventing baby from breaking the gothic artifacts. And on a quick jaunt to Boston, we breezed through Old Ironsides, a functioning Naval ship from 1797 that sailed for the first time in 15 years the next day. And later, in Virginia Beach, we kayaked in the area where the Jamestown settlers landed and stood in the alleged spot where the pirate Blackbeard hid before he pillaged incoming ships. Will and I, wearing dorky life vests, posed for a picture with the Spanish moss-draped trees.

    The family. Reconnecting is wonderful, especially when it's lubricated by a little wine. And seeing our kids bond with cousins their own ages was heartwarming. As Will's cousin Vanessa said, you know you have good cousins when nine people can share a house with one bathroom and no dishwasher and still have a good time.

    A trip is a really good trip when you can learn something, too. This is my take-away:

    —Barbecue is the key to happiness. No, really. We stayed free the whole trip because we stayed with family, so we splurged a bit and had Jack Stack shipped on dry ice to New Hampshire for our uncle's birthday. He raved that it was the best barbecue he'd ever had, and we joked that the reward was twofold: He got great food, and because he had to warm it up on the grill, he got to feel like he was responsible for making it. We couldn't let our cousins in Virginia down, so we repeated the meal the next week.

    —Tornadoes don't happen just in the Midwest. Usually people who aren't from the Midwest will ask about tornadoes with awe and soak up stories of our close calls. So it was pretty ominous when, the day after I shared a story of my own, we ended up in our cousins' Norfolk bathtub during a tornado warning. Two Midwestern tornado staples — sirens and a basement — were missing. We found out we were in danger only when another cousin from Vermont, who was with us for the mini-reunion, got an alert on his phone.

    —You can't prepare too much when traveling with kids. For a month leading up to the trip, I thought about exactly which bags we would need, whether we would take car seats, which stroller would fit in the rental car, etc. All those preparations helped the flights go smoothly. Ish. Flying with toddlers is hard work, you guys. I had Bennett in my lap, and during the first flight, a three-hour direct stint to Boston, we went through all the books, toy cars, gadgets and videos I had prepared in the first 20 minutes. I was so distracted by baby baggage that I left my wallet on the plane after flight No. 2. I didn't even notice until someone paged me to retrieve it over the airport PA. Yeesh.

    —You need extra patience, flexibility and love to deal with toddlers on the go, especially ones suffering chronic sleep deficits because they can't stand to miss a moment of the action with their grandparents. Keep your expectations low, and random tantrums won't faze you. 

    Case in point: We drove up the New England coast to the picturesque Nubble Lighthouse on a rocky jut of Maine's coastline. Lightning cracked when we got out of the car, so I ushered the kids back in quickly. Once the storm passed, Quinn refused to get out, instead screaming until the last five minutes we were there. That's when he let me lead him down onto the rocks for a closer look. We shared a tender moment discovering a star fish and baby lobsters in the wild. That's what I will remember, not the tantrum. Well, mostly. 
     
    —Buy three times as many snacks as you think you'll need. Travel tends to muck up mealtimes. Plus, snacks can head off a tantrum in an instant. It surprises me how often I forget this. 

    —A vacation with kids is not a vacation. I worked as hard as ever to keep the kids dressed, fed, rested and happy. And we had mishaps. Quinn fell out of bed while napping and gashed his head on the foot of a nearby dresser, dripping blood all over the carpet (he was OK). And pent-up energy after Day One of our road trip to Virginia caused some crazy tandem tantrums that spurred a hotel maid to give me the stink eye.

    But vacation or no, this trip was great. It gave us those lasting memories, made us all appreciate home again and helped everyone decompress from the day-to-day. And after being around his wise, old cousin of 5 years, Quinn reinitiated potty training after a monthlong hiatus. Life's a beach? Why, yes it is.

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    Posted on: Aug 29 2012 - 12:00:00 PM
    Frazzled parents seek reliable babysitter, call immediately
    717 Views

    Our years-long quest to find a weekend/night babysitter has been a series of false starts and disappointments. But I still have hope. 

    We don't have family in town, so no free babysitting on a whim. We have friends who say they're willing, but it's hard to ask favors of people when they're unlikely to ask you to return them. We've done that out of desperation a few times, but only once that I can remember since the birth of our 14-month-old son, Bennett. And that was for a wedding.

    I'm so tired of taking our nights out separately. We've got a schedule. On Tuesdays, Will sees a movie while I write this blog. I get Thursdays to myself for yoga. He meets a friend for drinks at a dive bar down the street every couple weeks. I get random nights out with friends and a monthly book club meeting. We know the importance of dates for our relationship, but we just haven't been able to make them happen.

    We hired a high school girl to babysit once, probably two years ago. She came recommended by a friend of a friend. My friend had never met her. I was desperate, though. We had tickets to see the Pixies. No way I was letting those go to waste. 

    She came over for a meet-and-greet beforehand and seemed nice enough. The woman who had hired her initially was a teacher at her school and apparently said she was a dedicated student and athlete. I was sold, even if the information came secondhand. Again: desperate.

    She only had to watch Quinn, then about a year old. We came home from our date around 11 p.m., and he had long been asleep. We'd given her $20 for pizza, which she didn't order, on top of the other $50 she earned. When we asked her how the night went, her “fine” was barely audible as she whizzed out the door. 

    I can only surmise what scared her off. Screaming baby, unable to fall asleep? Something on my laptop, which I let her use? “The Secret Diary of a Call Girl” on my bookshelf, which I paid pennies for at a work book sale and never read? I still have the high school track sweatshirt that she left behind.

    My parents watch the kids whenever they can, but that involves a four-hour drive. We usually sneak away for a few hours when we visit them, to see a movie or meet friends. Last fall they graciously drove here to give us an anniversary date. We were giddy as we enjoyed a dimly lit restaurant with no kids' menu, a movie at the drive-in and a Sporting KC game the next day.

    A DVD I watched this week resurrected shudder-worthy memories of our botched anniversary date the year before. The movie, “Friends with Kids,” is a mediocre story of a man and woman who are best friends. They decide to have a child together out of wedlock because they watched their married friends turn mean and bitter once they had children. At least once, you see the lead characters scoff at nameless, harried parents who've brought their children to $100-a-plate restaurants. 

    Those parents were us, save for the $100-a-plate part. It was our sixth anniversary. Will had just gotten back from a business trip and missed his son, so he canceled with friends who had offered to babysit. I reluctantly played along as we took our then-1-year-old to Houston's on the Plaza, where the wine is plentiful and the lighting is not. Quinn was good until the food came. Then he screamed and squirmed so much that we had our meals boxed up before we took our first bites. 

    Last spring a neighborhood high school girl walked by and chatted up Quinn and I. She said she needed a job this summer and would welcome my call. I was impressed with her friendly demeanor and confidence, and Quinn was impressed with her skateboarding skills. I never got around to following up. Now there's a letter crudely taped to her door — evicted, I presume. 

    But now I'm rambling. I've buried the hope in my story — buried the lede, as journalists say. 

    I think we've met The One. We have yet to go on our first date, though. With her as the sitter, I mean. 

    We met her at a high school graduation party. Quinn found her. She was wearing a headband, so it was love at first sight. He flirted with her from behind an ornamental birdhouse. She flirted back. She grew up in the house behind our good friends' home, so she came with a strong recommendation. And her sweet mother, also at the party, cajoled her into giving us her number. 

    It was so hard not to text her that day. Will said we had to wait so we wouldn't look desperate. He had a date in mind — he wanted to see “The Dark Knight Rises” with me as a belated birthday present. Her number burned through the phone in my pocket for weeks before I finally got up the nerve to ask her to come over. 

    When I finally did, she said YES!

    We set up a double date with a couple we used to see almost every week but now see every six months. We were stoked.

    Then Murphy and that stupid law reared their heads. The night before the movie, Bennett woke up screaming seven times. Molars. The child who I thought would nurse until he died cut me off cold turkey, he was in so much pain.

    I agonized over canceling but decided that I couldn't inflict the torture of a screaming, weaning baby onto an unsuspecting babysitter. We'll have to try another time. 

    Until then, I'll be stockpiling date ideas. Get out of your PJ's honey, we're going out. Someday. 

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    Posted on: Aug 8 2012 - 12:00:00 PM
    @#$%! We have a curse word
    621 Views

    It took only 2 ½ years for my little parrot to soil his innocent lips with a curse word. 

    Quinn looked sheepish, yet almost proud, when it happened. To his credit, he used perfect timing, inflection and context.

    But gah. My little guy isn't ready for this. 

    I was in my usual rush that morning last week, flitting about the kitchen, dodging toy tractors and play food as I raced to get a snack for the kids before we left the house to run errands. I opened the fridge and, in all my grace, knocked loose a box of strawberries, sending dozens of delicious red orbs tumbling. 

    “Oh, man!” I said, proud of my restraint. 

    “God [rhymes with lamb] it,” Quinn muttered from the next room. 

    I did a cartoon double take. I wasn't sure I'd heard him right. That's a word that Will and I both use under our breaths, when we're fed up and think the kids aren't listening. Since we've had the boys, we've cleaned up our language considerably, at least around them. But a foul word still slips out every now and then.

    “What did you say?” I asked.

    At first Quinn deflected, referencing the game he was playing on my phone. But when pressed, he replied, “Nothing. I didn't mean to.” 

    Children are amazingly perceptive. Here is a word that we've never directly said to him, never defined for him, yet he knew the appropriate time to use it and how to say it (punchy with a hint of annoyance).  On top of all that, he knew that he wasn't supposed to say it. 

    Few parents like to admit their kid picked up bad words, because it's most likely a reflection of their own speech. But a 2010 study by Timothy Jay, a Massachusetts psychology professor, found that kids were swearing earlier and more often than children of previous generations. We're talking ages 3 and 4. And guess what? The trend reflects an uptick in cursing among adults. 

    The advice I've heard about young children cursing is to ignore it. If you call attention to it or even punish for it, the word becomes memorable, forbidden and tempting. But with Quinn's reaction, I knew he needed some explanation, or he was likely to keep repeating the word.

    I explained that some words are not nice to use, but sometimes grown-ups make mistakes and say them. I said Mommy and Daddy make mistakes, did you know that? (Ha.) What you said was one of those words. 

    I offered alternatives: Oh my gosh. Fiddlesticks. Heffalump. (Don't judge — we like Pooh.)

    Now, in the event that a curse word might seem warranted, my perceptive little dude instead says, “I don't want to say those other words, Mom.” I've asked what he means. He ticks off my list of alternatives. I can't blame him — I'd feel ridiculous spewing them in the heat of passion, too.

    So what's your most creative alternative “curse word”? Do you teach kids to avoid even the alternatives? If your child says a bad word, do you ignore it, explain why it's wrong or dole out punishment?

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    Posted on: Aug 1 2012 - 12:00:00 PM
    Even the Aurora killer has a mother. What's she going through?
    655 Views

    The horrendous killings in Aurora, Colo., have paralyzed me this week, consuming my thoughts and halting my ability to appreciate the lighter things in life. 

    I weeped for the victims and their families. For the survivors, forever marred by traumatic memories. I mourned the serenity of the movie theater, no longer an escape from reality but now a claustrophobic reminder of the worst humanity can offer. 

    I pictured the monster in a gas mask, attacking a defenseless, unsuspecting crowd and wondered: Does he have parents? 

    What kind of parents can produce a child like this? I thought. What if they're average, respectable people? What kind of guilt must they be enduring? 

    The vast majority of us can't understand what the families of victims are going through. Instead we sympathize. We pray for them. We hold vigils.

    But the shooter's mother. She is a person who society hardly considers. What is going through the mind of the woman who grew this man from scratch?

    The parents of James Eagan Holmes, who is accused of killing 12 people and wounding 58 others, have spoken little since the massacre, and then, only through an attorney and press statements. Their lawyer, Lisa Damiani, didn't say whether Holmes' parents were surprised by the charges against their son. They haven't said anything about him, except that they stand by him.

    “Yes they do,” Damiani said, according to the Huffington Post. “He's their son.” 

    Those simple words cut to a universal truth about mothers. We love our children unconditionally. Could I do the same for my children? The crime is horrific, but they're my children. I'd be devastated, but I don't think I could ever disown them. They came from me. 

    I say that now, when the worst the my oldest son has done is pretend to have pooped in his diaper so he can get attention and stall bedtime. But the bond between mother and child is hard to break.

    Holmes is someone's child. And he was nurtured, at least on paper. He graduated with high academic honors from the University of California-Riverside. He landed a federal grant for Ph.D coursework that included $26,000 in living expenses. His parents raised him in a suburban San Diego neighborhood that reports say is popular for having acclaimed schools. 

    Neighbors have told media that the Holmeses were a “very, very nice family.” They were Presbyterians who held Christmas parties in their garage for the neighbors. 

    I'm not trying to drum up sympathy. I'm only trying to emphasize that it appears the parents did everything right. That's what scares me and brings it all home. 

    What about those of us who toil our tails off to provide good lives for our children? Can this happen to anyone? Somebody had better figure out what went wrong so we can all learn something. Learn how an intelligent, upward-bound young man came to be accused of one of the most heinous civilian acts that most of us remember. 

    Holmes' mother must have loved him and held him up on a pedestal. I do that for my babies, and I suspect most other parents do for theirs. 

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    Posted on: Jul 25 2012 - 12:00:00 PM
    23 little moments of happiness
    498 Views

    So many of my blog topics have been about the difficulties of being a mother: 

    My night terrors about flying with the kids. 

    Confronting an unexpected birth defect. 

    POTTY TRAINING. 

    In between all these challenges are the lovely little moments of happiness that keep me fueled and ready for life's next hiccup. It's about time I appreciate those times, so I've compiled them into one big, fuzzy happy blog. 

    Every mom has a bounty of these. I hope you share some of yours in the comments.

    Without ado, happiness is …

    … a spontaneous, living-room dance party with the kids to Weezer's Blue album. It's nonstop shrieking, giggling, lap-running and outstretched arms begging to be picked up and swung around. Happiness is seeing them get as much joy from the music as I still do, 18 years after its release. Wow, I feel old.

    … that quiet moment when I lift my 1-year-old, Bennett, from his crib and he nuzzles his face, creased from the sheets, into my shoulder and sucks his thumb. His days as a baby are numbered, and I'm savoring every one.

    … watching my 2 ½-year-old, Quinn, share something. Anything. This is so rare. 

    … walking in the bathroom and encountering pee in the potty chair that my still-in-training son didn't have to tell me about.

    … listening to Quinn recite his books. We read a ton, so he has many of them memorized. His recitation of “Marcel the Shell with Shoes On” has got to be one of his cutest moments, particularly the section about Marcel's pet lint ball named Alan.

    … witnessing Quinn read for real. He recognizes a few words — go, stop, start, on, off, Eureka, Bissell, Dyson, Hoover. (If you're lost, his vacuum obsession is well-documented in this blog.)

    … responding to Quinn's requests to spell random words and phrases. “Grandma.” “Peas and carrots.” “Daddy's gray car.” “All the friends who like vacuums.” He's definitely my child if spelling is already his thing. 

    … hearing Quinn ask a playmate if he could have some milk, pwease.

    … hearing Quinn ask, upon being yelled at by another playmate, “Can we just use inside voices and talk, pwease?”

    … watching Bennett imitate his dad picking up balls of lint dredged up by the carpet steamer. And watching the absolute elation in Quinn that we're finally steaming the carpets. And not having to help.

    … watching Bennett “vacuum” like his brother. And listening to him say “vacuum,” which is  among his first 20 or so words. 

    … being interrupted mid-sentence by Bennett saying his favorite word, “on,” because he picked it out of the conversation and wanted to contribute.

    … watching Bennett spear food on his plate and get it in his mouth successfully. My hands are free to feed myself.

    … eating a meal while it's still warm.

    … going to bed early with a book. 

    … going on the first date I've had with my husband in, oh, eight months, and watching two old friends get married. And, holding Will's hand, finding inspiration in the vows. And frolicking on the dance floor like teenagers, then sharing a goofy moment in the photo booth. 

    … taking Quinn for his first tricycle ride in the street, and repeatedly having to remind him to steer while he gawks at the neighbors' houses. 

    … that moment when Bennett climbs in the backyard baby pool, fully clothed, his regular diaper ballooning and threatening to swallow him whole. And when Quinn joins in with his clothes on, too. 

    … watching Will climb into the baby pool with them. Fully prepared, wearing swim trunks. 

    … showing the boys where food comes from, whether it's eating cherry tomatoes and basil straight out of our backyard garden, or irrigating corn on the grandparents' Kansas farm. The latter almost always involves playing in the dirt and washing up in the frigid water that shoots from the pipe. 

    … pushing the kids in the swings. They get so much joy from this. And then swinging alongside them like a 12-year-old.

    … sitting in my living room, hours after the kids have gone to bed, and looking at four vacuums and a rocket-themed suitcase lined up meticulously by their pint-sized steward, waiting to be played with in the morning. 

    … watching our wedding video with the kids. Because Quinn wanted to.

    OK, that last one was especially cheesy, just like the video itself and the overdub of the song for our first dance. I'll stop here, lest the list become a vomit-inducing brag book.

    Now it's your turn. What are your little “happiness is” moments? Let's hear 'em! 

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    Posted on: Jul 18 2012 - 12:00:00 PM
    Get these mother-lovin' kids* off this mother-lovin' plane!
    515 Views

    We're about to be that family everyone hates when they fly. 

    You know the family. The one with a toddler who screams and flails and kicks the back of the seat in front of him. Or the one with a colicky baby who wails nonstop. Or just a baby who can't get comfortable enough to sleep. Or a child who is terrified that her ears haven't popped, thinking WHATISHAPPENINGTOMEWHYCAN'TIHEAR??

    The theme here is young children. And the nagging, irrational urge among passengers to pull the emergency exit hatch before those unruly kids suck all the oxygen out of the metal tube they're all sharing.

    In just a month my family will fly to the east coast to visit relatives. It will be our first major trip as a family of four, and the first flight for both boys, who will be 2 ½ and 15 months when we travel.

    It's a two-week trip — the longest ever for my husband and I. We're doing a week in New Hampshire, then driving 11 hours south to Virginia for the second leg. We're beyond excited. It'll be epic if we can survive the travel.

    Before we settled on flying, we gave almost equal consideration to driving the whole way. Broken into chunks the kids could handle, that would translate into about eight or nine days of traveling. We dread airplanes with these boys, but more than a week confined to a car sounded worse.  

    By flying, my husband and I are taking an Atlantic Ocean-sized leap of faith in our children's ability to sit still. The longest they've gone without moving is, oh, three minutes. I think they were sleeping at the time. 

    My only expectation for them is that they don't get us kicked off the plane. 

    That actually happened, you know. It's a horrifying story for parents of young children. An Alaska Airlines plane was taxiing in Seattle while a father struggled to seatbelt his flailing, screaming 3-year-old son. The father and the mother, who was sitting in first class, finally calmed him, but it was too late. The airline had them booted. (More here: http://www.csmonitor.com/The-Culture/Family/Modern-Parenthood/2012/0531/Three-year-old-kicked-off-Alaska-Airlines-for-being-fussy)

    That story has mobilized me into mom-on-a-mission mode. I need to make our journey as smooth as possible. I read that story and pictured my husband and Quinn. The same scenario is totally plausible for us, as it would be for many other parents of toddlers. 

    First up was choosing the flight. On the way out, we opted for a direct flight into a busy airport, rather than a layover into a quieter airport that's slightly closer to our destination. I figure the longer we're in an unfamiliar, public sphere with strict rules, the more opportunity for meltdown. 

    The next decision was whether to buy a ticket for Bennett, who can still fly for free in our laps. He just learned to walk about a month and a half ago. He's learning to run now. He wants his freedom. He won't sit still. 

    I was prepared to buy him a ticket so he could have a place to park and squirm on his own. Then I saw the price for a seat on the one-way flight for the first leg of our trip. Three hundred dollars! I'll deal with squirmy lap child for a few hours if it means saving that much.

    Now I'm trying to line up the details. Do we hassle with car seats? We'll be renting a car for the duration, so it makes sense. We could rent car seats, but those could have been in a wreck. I only trust my own. 

    Next up: Do we check the car seats? We have to check Bennett's now, unless I want to try to sit in it.  But Quinn's? If he can have a familiar buckle to fasten, that's one less opportunity for a tantrum. Now the trick is figuring out whether his seat is FAA compliant, and beyond that, whether it's slim enough to fit in an airplane seat. 

    So we're bringing car seats, but how do we lug them through the airport while managing our bags and the kids? It seems reasonable to invest in one of those contraptions that converts a car seat into a stroller. 

    Speaking of strollers, do we bring the full-sized double stroller? Strollers get checked for free on flights, mercifully. We'll probably go places that require a lot of walking, and although Quinn likes to walk, he still begs to be carried when he's tired. But the double might not fit in the rental car. 

    Speaking of which, we have to book a rental car. And figure out how much space our bags and gear will take up.

    Then there is the packing list. Add to the toothbrushes, bathing suits and Pull-Ups the copies of the kids' birth certificates, which apparently are required for check-in at the airport.

    Pull-Ups ... did I mention that Quinn is potty training? And he's terrified of using public toilets. How do we extend the success he's had at home on a two-week trip? Are we destined to find ourselves starting over when we get back? 

    The list in my head keeps churning and growing, and we're still more than a month out. And this is just the getting-there part. Traveling with kids is hard. When does the fun start?
     
    *Apologies for the cheap "Snakes on a Plane" joke. 

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    Posted on: Jul 11 2012 - 12:00:00 PM
    Awkward water cooler topic of the day: Germany's ban on circumcision
    540 Views

    Whether to circumcise was one of the hardest decisions my husband and I had to make as parents of boys. 

    I won't sell my kids out here and share our final decision. That's private. I don't want people to be able to find it when they Google my children 10 or 15 years from now. The most important point I will make is that it is a choice, and I hope it stays that way. 

    That's not the case in Germany. Last week a regional court ruled that circumcisions can't be performed until the child is able to consent. The "fundamental right of the child to bodily integrity outweighed the fundamental rights of the parents," the ruling said.

    A major Jewish hospital stopped doing them in response. So many people accused the court of anti-Semitism that the country's foreign minister said whoa, whoa, whoa, world — we're not Nazis anymore. 

    “The free exercise of religion is protected in Germany," Foreign Minister Guido Westerwelle's statement said. "That includes religious traditions. All our partners in the world should know that.”

    Even before Germany stepped into the debate about circumcision, the issue had been brewing among modern parents. It's one of those topics I hadn't really thought about until our ultrasound tech told us we were having a boy. Soon came the barrage of advice. Don't mutilate him! It's medically unnecessary! But circumcising makes it so much easier to clean! And most people do it! You don't want him to get teased, do you?

    When people started asking whether we were going to have our first son circumcised, usually I'd say we hadn't decided. That was mostly true. Will and I had talked about what we thought we'd do, but neither of us was firm in the choice. We needed time to research.

    I heard unsolicited stories about how wonderful an uncircumcised, um, experience is in the hallway at work. I heard detailed descriptions of boyfriends, husbands and children as watercooler fodder. The anti-circumcision crowd talked about how a boy should be kept intact. The pro crowd talked about cultural norms, locker rooms and family precedent — making the boy like Daddy. 

    I asked doctors for advice. None would tell me what to do, of course. They would cite the American Academy of Pediatricians' stance that the practice isn't recommended anymore, but it's not condemned, either. One pediatrician shrugged and said she'd come from California, where 22 percent of boys born in 2010 were circumcised, according to data from the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services. But here, she said, it's a cultural thing. In Kansas, it was 75 percent that year — 76 in Missouri. 

    I was conflicted. we're not Jewish or Muslim, so we didn't have religion pointing us toward cutting. I didn't want to hurt my son, of course. I didn't want him to be angry with the decision we made. I didn't want to rob him of any sensation. I didn't want him to be teased. 

    I read so many blogs and message boards on the topic. Lots of horror stories about bleeding and scarring from botched circumcisions. Lots of allegations that removing the foreskin does little to prevent disease, but then there's the World Health Organization's statistic that the practice reduces a man's risk of getting HIV by about 60 percent. I came across quite a few more haters than supporters. That didn't surprise me, because in my experience with newspapers, at least, the unhappy people generally speak louder than the content ones. I gaped at some of the stories. I'll never be able to un-read the first-person account of the man who is trying to replace his foreskin, for example. Shudder.

    Through all that, we came to a decision that we felt comfortable with. I gave my husband 60 or 70 percent influence, because, naturally, he's the one with all the experience in this realm.

    With son No. 2, my internal conflict welled up again. I leaned more the other way this time. I cried. My husband reassured me and convinced me that brothers should look alike. I began to agree when I started imagining their awkward questions, should we treat one differently than the other. Why did you circumcise him and not me? Do you care more about him? Is my way not good enough? 

    The decision we came to was the right one, because our sons are fine. And if we'd gone the other route, that would have been the right decision, too. The oldest boy is 2 1/2 and very interested in his anatomy -- so much that he's started to make up songs that parrot my decree that he not touch himself in the company of others. The point is, he's happy with himself, and if he's happy, so am I. 

    Let's open the floodgates of discussion. What does everyone here think of the German ruling? Should the U.S. do more to prevent infant circumcisions? Or should it be the parents' right to choose? How much weight should be given to thousands of years of religious precedent?

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    Posted on: Jul 4 2012 - 12:00:00 PM
    Born with one ear, my son will be just fine
    1004 Views

    I'm waiting for the day that my son discovers he's different. 

    Quinn was born with a deformed right ear. A cute little nubbin that has no canal and no hearing. You wouldn't know that he has a hearing impairment, though. He talks as much as any 2 ½-year-old. He constantly quotes “Milo and Otis.” He advises random Costco customers in the vacuum aisle about which one is the best (Electrolux, he says). And last winter when he was congested, I worried that his hearing was compromised. “Say 'yes' if you can hear me,” I said, standing behind him.

    “No,” he whispered back. 

    His left ear functions normally, but because he doesn't have stereo hearing, he can't pinpoint sounds whose source he can't see. It's also harder for him to hear in loud environments. Sometimes I can tell he's having trouble hearing because he becomes withdrawn. Busy restaurants and an Easter egg hunt in a gymnasium last spring come to mind. 

    We don't hide anything from him, but we haven't explained much yet. He doesn't know the extent that he's different, but recently, he began his journey of self-discovery. He has a skin tag on that ear and sometimes, he fiddles with it. This day, he was pulling and stretching it hard.

    “I need to take it off, Mommy,” he said. 

    I explained that the skin tag is part of him, just like his fingers or his nose. I asked if he wanted to see it in the mirror, and he nodded yes. We'd played mirror games a million times before, but every time I'd point out the ears, I never outlined the discrepancy. 

    He looked from side to side. 

    “They're different, Mommy,” he said matter-of-factly. 

    I told him his right ear is special, and he hopped down and resumed playing with the vacuums. I stood frozen and grateful as I glimpsed a future of a confident young man who doesn't know the word “disability.”

    One of my greatest hopes for Quinn is strong self esteem. Since his birth, I've been playing out scenarios of bullies at school who try to tear down my beautiful, quirky, loving, smart little boy. In those first confused days of Googling about Quinn's condition, I found so many stories of children whose parents had kept their hair long to hide the ear. Children who walked with their gazes to the ground.

    I try not to dwell on that kind of future. He's not even in preschool. But people notice his ear. Adults have pointed it out to one another behind his back. In those times the protective mother grizzly in me has trouble keeping her claws to herself. Children ask what is wrong with him. With them I'm more patient.

    Quinn surprised everyone with his ear when he was born. No one caught it on ultrasound, because microtia — the clinical name for his condition — is fairly rare. Technicians usually don't look for it. 

    We were stunned and confused. We didn't know immediately that the ear had no hearing. The pediatricians didn't even name a condition we could Google. We booked an appointment with a specialist but had to wait six weeks for answers. 

    In the meantime, I looked inward for someone to blame. Had I started the prenatal vitamin too late? Did I eat the wrong foods? What about the water — I drank from the tap in a very old building. Could something in the pipes have caused it? 

    No one — not the specialist, not the geneticist — has come up with a cause. Not that it matters for us, because the cards have been dealt. But the ear/nose/throat doctor gave us hope. Quinn may be a candidate for surgery to drill an ear canal, which could give him full hearing. The inner and outer ears develop at different times, the doctor said, and in many cases, the inner ear is fully functional. Cosmetic surgeons can construct an outer ear by harvesting cartilage from other parts of the body, perhaps a rib. The whole process will take multiple surgeries when Quinn is about 5.

    That's all scary. But if he's a candidate — we won't find out until he's older — it's optional. It would be done to increase his quality of life. If he chooses, he can continue without surgery and live a normal life.

    For that, we're grateful. We know he's healthy otherwise. We know this condition was never life-threatening, and for that, we're so very, very grateful. 

    Our family doesn't talk about this much anymore, because we don't need to. But we all think about it. My father-in-law's dying wish for us was to have the surgery if we can.

    I bring this up now because Quinn is growing up and discovering himself and his world. He's becoming a little man who can sit through a whole movie and eat popcorn with Mom and Dad, as he did the other night for "Finding Nemo." Neither Will or I had remembered Nemo's "lucky" tiny right fin, but what a perfect role model he is for Quinn. Nemo knows he's different, but he refuses to believe he's disabled.
     
    Another reason for writing this is that birth defects are so much more common than I ever knew: About 120,000 kids are born with defects every year in the U.S., according to the March of Dimes.

    Since Quinn was born, two other families we know have grappled with birth defects. It can throw a wrinkle in a parent's idyllic dream for the child. In many cases, though, doctors and modern medicine give hope for these precious little babies.
     
    Whichever route we go, surgery or not, Quinn probably will have to answer a lifetime of questions. May he be patient and understanding so that people can know him as we do. May my husband and I do our jobs and give him the confidence he needs to handle the cards he's been dealt, even when others try to shuffle them.

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    Posted on: Jun 27 2012 - 12:00:00 PM
    Dr. Jekyll, Mr. No-Pants and the potty chair of doom
    457 Views

    Potty training is turning us into a family of monsters. 

    After four days, it's going semi-well. So that's good. But it's STRESSING ME OUT. 

    ROAR!

    The boy is so proud every time he pees in the potty. Long ago I welcomed bribery as a valid parenting tactic: He gets two jelly beans for every successful No. 1, and four for every No. 2. I'm not sure how long we'll sustain the sweets, but it's only been a few days. The first time I offered them, the jelly beans were a hindrance. Quinn held the unopened bag as he sat on the chair and asked every three seconds whether it was time to dig in. He kept getting up to beg, crossing his legs and doing his little potty dance. The beans were too much pressure. He didn't pee in the potty again that night.

    But now that he's figuring out how to void himself without a diaper on, he walks a little taller. He cues me to help him get on the potty chair by asking me to put his diaper on. Usually, we're able to get him seated in time. 

    Sometimes it's as if he doesn't realize he's peed until he witnesses my shrieks of joy and ridiculous clapping. There are few things better than seeing his face, beaming, in that moment. "You're so proud of me, Mommy," Quinn says. 

    Yes, baby boy, I am. I'm so proud when I walk in to find that you've already gone in the potty, without me having to nag or even help. 

    And I'll be especially proud a year from now when I look back on this time and I can't feel the stress of having to hover over you constantly, letting the dishes pile up in the sink and the laundry in the hallway. This has to be like childbirth — you remember the pain, but you can't feel it. 

    Quinn seems to be all for this new step, but he's super stressed and acting out. Hitting his brother, talking back to his parents, disobeying way more than usual. He's a lot like his daddy: He needs his comfort zone to be happy. In this case, that's his diaper. 

    The little stressful moments multiply throughout the day and turn me into a Lindsay monster, an unrecognizable being who yells, counts to five repeatedly and has a bit of a potty mouth. (Sorry, had to.) The little moments like each time Quinn refuses to wash his hands, which are covered in thousands of invisible germs he doesn't believe in and that he received from, ahem, exploring himself. Moments like plunging his unwashed hand into a bag of Goldfish that his brother desperately wants but can no longer have. Moments like peeing at the kitchen table during snack time. Or peeing on the carpet six inches from Bennett, who is quietly reading a book. Or stepping onto the patio without my permission, coming back and announcing that he peed, leaving me to step unsuspectingly in a brown pile as I look for urine. All this time, I thought he knew the difference. 

    When Lindsay monster meets Mr. No-Pants, the stress boils. We're doing our best to persevere, and we're hanging out — him pants-less — at home for as long as we need to. But in Tuesday's case, we both struggled through the late-afternoon, no-nap meltdown that stemmed from his nap-hour energy surge after he pooped in the potty chair. I should emphasize that the meltdown wasn't just Quinn's.

    I've adopted the mobile potty philosophy, and it's worked so far. A couple people have suggested that I should require bathroom-only peeing, but when it takes an hour of up-and-down to finally go, and I have a 13-month-old who cannot be contained, that seems like a step we're not ready for. 

    I have no idea what I'm doing, and I have so many questions. How will he learn to pee standing up? Notwithwanding Cheerios in the toilet, he's still too short, and balancing on a step stool while trying to aim has been too precarious so far. How will I convince him it's OK to use a public toilet? Public restrooms intimidate him. This foot-flusher and life-longer hoverer isn't so fond of them, either.

    I'm not all negative Nancy about potty training, I promise. I see a future with only one child in diapers. (Cue angelic chorus: “Aaaahhhhh!”) We're rounding the home stretch of those alleged 7,000-9,000 diapers that Quinn will contribute to the landfill. And soon, my purse will look more like a purse than a diaper bag, with only one set of diapers and wipes instead of two.
     
    We'll get there. Everyone does eventually, right? Thanks be to all that is good and fresh-smelling.

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    Posted on: Jun 20 2012 - 12:00:00 PM
    Chasing babies: a workout plan
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    Several weeks ago I became motivated to start working out after a hiatus that's longer than I'm willing to admit in a public forum. I started going to yoga again (ahhhh) and inherited a treadmill that my parents weren't using. I cleared the cobwebs from our unfinished basement, stripped down to my sports bra and ran my first miles since high school. 

    I was pumped. Too bad my little running spree lasted only two weeks.
     
    Life got in the way again. On Monday, for example, between getting the kids to bed, cleaning up the house and completing some extra chores and commitments, I wouldn't have been able to run until 1 a.m. But an epiphany broke through my guilt: My kids are a built-in workout plan.

    Tuesday, for example, was full of aerobics, calisthenics, weight lifting and sprints. Non-parents may see my itinerary and wonder how a person could get all this from reading books, getting the kids dressed, cleaning up the kitchen and attending library story time. Here's a partial breakdown: 

    Drill No. 1: Get the kids dressed. 

    Props: Two boys, ages 2 ½ and 1. We'll call them Thing 1 and Thing 2. 

    Start by lifting Thing 2, who weighs 24 pounds, and sprinting up the half-flight of stairs to the bathroom. Sprint back down because Thing 1 has a question. Sprint back up to wet a toothbrush for Thing 2, balancing him on left hip. Brush, then let him follow up with the toothbrush himself. This stunts his run toward the stairs long enough for you to pick up the wayward bath letters, boats and towels that litter the floor. Use a quick but fluid up-down motion as you clean.

    Dash out the bathroom and scoop up Thing 2 just before he heads down the stairs. Run back into the bathroom, wet toothbrush for Thing 1. React quickly as Thing 2 tries to leap out of your arms and into the sink. Apply toothpaste while holding a wriggling Thing 2. Do not let him get brother's toothbrush in his mouth. Brother has a cold. 

    Jog downstairs, place Thing 2 in the center of the room with a toy and hand toothbrush to Thing 1. Smell foul odor. In a fluid motion, go to cabinet for replacement diaper and wipes. Neither is in its place, so pick up Thing 2, who cannot be trusted, and sprint upstairs to grab diaper and wipes. Dash downstairs again. You're on a schedule this morning: You have to get to the library by 11 a.m. It's 9. Better hustle. (Two hours in Thing time is like 10 minutes Central Standard Time.)

    Grab “My Little Polar Bear” book for Thing 1 and place it on the couch, where theoretically he can be entertained long enough to stand still for a diaper change. Flop on the floor, pull down Thing 1's pants. WHERE IS THING 2? Sprint to the stairs, pluck him off the third step. Place him in the center of the room with a different toy. 

    Flop on floor behind Thing 1, remove diaper straps. Wipe once, read one line of book. Sprint toward Thing 2, who is headed toward the stairs again. Scoop him up using forearms only because you're mid-diaper change. Place him next to Thing 1 standing at the couch. 
    Flop down again, MOVE THE POOPY DIAPER just before Thing 2 steps in it and grab another wipe.  Finish wiping, with Thing 2 providing extra weight and resistance on your right arm. Practice breathing control as you continue reading “My Little Polar Bear.” Do not inhale through your nose.

    While attempting to apply the new diaper, lift the 35-pound Thing 1 10 times and repeat, “Stand up, please.” Use increasing volume and urgency with each repetition.

    Once finished, bend over, kiss Thing 2 on the head and quickly pry yourself away, sprinting to the kitchen. Toss the diaper in the trash and wash hands. 

    Open dishwasher, begin emptying and put at least two clean plates away. Run to Thing 2, who is toddling toward the cat food with open hands and mouth. Bend down and pick him up. Put him in center of living room with a toy. Remember that you had set out to get everyone dressed. Pick up Thing 2, sprint upstairs. Bend down in Thing 1's room, open shorts drawer while balancing Thing 2 on hip. Search for shirt that matches your selection. Finding none, repeat previous step. Repeat again in Thing 2's room. Gather dirty laundry from both rooms and carry hamper in one hand while carrying Thing 2 downstairs in the other.

    Sprint downstairs because Thing 1 has pinched his finger and he wants you to kiss it. Go ahead, kiss it. Place Thing 2 on his feet and wrestle him out of his pajamas quickly enough that he won't run away. Walk across room, grab wipes. RUN back, break up fight over a toy vacuum. Place Thing 1 in timeout for pushing. Wipe Thing 2's face and hands, which you forgot to do earlier. Wrestle his shirt on. Wrangle him, kicking, as you get pants on. Move on to Thing 1. 

    Take a 10-second break as you negotiate with him to take off his too-small Buzz Lightyear PJ top. SPRINT toward stairs and grab Thing 2. Repeat previous step. Attempt to wrestle clothing onto Thing 1, a cross-country endurance drill that will take you through the kitchen, front room, up the stairs and into his bedroom. Sprint downstairs and grab Thing 2. Resume previous drill until you wrestle the clothing on. Repeat drill, but replace getting dressed with brushing teeth. Repeat drill again for putting on shoes. 

    ***
    I was sweating by the time we left for storytime, which also involved hoisting strollers in and out of the car. Once we got there, a sit-still setting, I had to get up and retrieve Thing 2 about 47 times as he explored and greeted his neighbors while the librarian read. 
     
    This routine is no P90X, but if you multiply those couple hours in the morning by the rest of the day, seven days a week, you have a solid, moderate workout plan. Other drills include washing dishes, getting yourself dressed, reading books in an upstairs bedroom and more. To confuse your muscles, toss in at least three vigorous, half-hour-long dance/tickle sessions in the living room. Add some tag in the backyard, a couple walks through the neighborhood and other assorted outings. Above all, enjoy!

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    Posted on: Jun 13 2012 - 12:00:00 PM
    A girl-crazy little boy, with mom as his accidental wingman
    805 Views

    My son wasn't due to notice girls until at least a few years from now. And I wasn't supposed to enable his girl-crazy ways.

    But here we are, and Quinn, who is 2 ½, talks about girls almost as much as he talks about vacuums. If you've been following my blog, you know that's a lot. 

    His girl radar pings whenever we're in public. We go to library story time, and he wants to see “the girls with the headbands.” 

    Once, at Target, a little girl wearing green caught his eye and he tried to get me to follow the “green girl” around the store. Now he begs to go to Target. 

    He told a friend of mine recently that she is a “beautiful girl.” He couldn't stop giggling and flitting his eyelashes. 

    This would be creepy if he were older. Say, potty-trained.

    But he's not, so I still think it's cute. I indulge his requests to tell made-up bedtime stories about these subjects, who usually help his alter-ego, Kaykado Kaykado, vacuum various locations with inventory from his pretend vacuum store.

    We first noticed the intrigue about girls this spring, during a challenging time for our family. We were spending a lot of time in a hospital waiting room as my father-in-law fought for his life. Quinn had trouble processing the reason for all of our trips to Topeka and all the time we spent sitting in a stuffy, cramped room with strangers. He honed in on a pony-tailed teen wearing athletic shorts and a numbered top. She rarely looked up from her phone and her bag of Bugles, but she soon became Basketball Girl — a bedtime story legend in the Metcalf household. 

    Quinn couldn't stop staring at her. He wanted his own bag of Bugles. After we left, he asked repeatedly, where is Basketball Girl? I didn't have a good answer, so she became part of our nightly imaginings. Sometimes she plays basketball with Kaykado Kaykado, who usually wins. Sometimes Kaykado Kaykado picks her up in the gray car, a silver 2002 Honda Accord just like Daddy's, and they go vacuum at the park. Sometimes, we add a second or even third girl to the story, depending on who has attracted Quinn's fancy that day.

    Quinn got brave-ish at the park recently. On our way out, he requested that we talk to a blond girl wearing pink — another teenager looking at her phone — who was sitting along the edge of the playground.

    “Mommy, should we go talk to da pink girl, pwease? Should we do dat?”

    How could I say no? As we approached, I said loud enough so she could hear, “I don't know if she'll want to talk, but we can try.”

    He clung to my leg as I prodded him to tell the now laughing girl his name. He wouldn't. He wouldn't say hi. I shrugged and said we should say goodbye and be on our way. Once we were out of earshot, he said, “ 'Bye.” All night he wanted to hear stories about her playing with him on the slides and swings. Then they vacuumed.

    I hadn't felt weird about any of this until the other day.

    We were on our first pool outing of the summer. It was after dinner, so a bit chilly in the water. Quinn, wearing water wings, blue lips and chattering teeth, piled into an inner tube with me for a float down the lazy river. Then he told me we had to go find “the girls.” 

    It just so happened that a pack of them was floating by. Teenagers again. He couldn't keep his eyes off them. Every time we'd lose sight, Quinn would get flustered and search all around for the one he'd zoned in on. I found myself trying to catch up to them while giggling involuntarily and telling him it's not nice to stare.

    We took a couple laps before the shivering became too intense to ignore. We got out and huddled with my husband, Will, and baby, Bennett, in our towels. Quinn broke the silence. 

    “I love you, Daddy. I love all the girls, too.”

    We shared a moment of laughter while we let that one marinate. Then we packed up to go home and ready the boys for bed. On the way out, a small disaster happened.

    Quinn tripped over his towel and face-planted on the concrete. There was blood. Lots of tears. A fat lip. I felt terrible as I rocked him and sang “Hush little baby, don't say a word...”

    The first words he spoke after the hysterics ended let us know he was going to be just fine. He stopped crying and looked all around.

    “Mommy, where is the girl?”

    My son has a strong reverence for women, so that's good, I guess. I'm the only woman he hangs out with most of the time, so I suppose I should be flattered. It doesn't hurt that he calls me a beautiful princess. 

    Now my challenge is to foster respect for women and make sure this reverent phase doesn't dive-bomb into objectivity. That, and begin to prepare myself for the dating years. They might be rough on me.

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    Posted on: Jun 6 2012 - 12:00:00 PM
    Am I a 'depressed' stay-at-home mom? Nah, I'm just tired
    777 Views

    A friend I hadn't seen for several months commented last week that I looked “radiant and stress-free.” I was at that moment. I was out of the house alone, drinking wine, eating a meal someone else had prepared and enjoying the company of friends. The friend pointed me to a recent Slate article about the overwhelming number of stay-at-home moms who are depressed and suggested I provide perspective. (http://slate.me/Mgn5qj)

    Am I part of the 28 percent of stay-at-home moms who report being depressed? No. Am I always “radiant and stress-free?” Of course not. But I am enjoying life and trying not to let the more challenging aspects of my job bring me down.

    Compared with the 17 percent of working women, including those with children, who have depression, that other number is enough to make me depressed. So was the language used in the supporting evidence: We're in the middle of a “war on moms” (I still don't get this), a political “firestorm” that seems to have united all stay-at-home mothers but me against the establishment and perhaps the rest of the world.

    The attention on stay-at-home moms began with a Democratic strategist's derision that Ann Romney, mother of five and wife of Mitt, had “never worked a day in her life.” Now, according to Slate, this job is “emotionally grueling, physically exhausting, tedious, and isolating, all of which could help account for the low morale of the people doing it full-time.”

    Well, yeah. But I don't resent being undervalued or “dumped upon” by society, as the article suggests I should. I realize that not everyone in my situation got to choose this path, so I can't speak for other stay-at-home mothers. But in my little bubble of diapers, tantrums, giggles and snuggles, I don't have the time or desire to worry about what everyone thinks.

    I'm not depressed. I'm just tired most of the time. All I need is a few moments of glory in an otherwise exhausting day to reaffirm that I'm doing the right thing for my family and myself. 

    Take Tuesday. Whoo, Tuesday was a tough one. I woke up and scheduled yet another doctor's appointment for Bennett, who at 1 year old is still throwing up at almost every meal. He has been diagnosed with reflux, but after a Memorial Day visit with family, their shock and concern assured me that I should press harder for answers and treatment. The appointment would be in the afternoon. 

    I also decided that Tuesday would be a good day to begin potty training Quinn. He tells me when he poops, grabs himself when he needs to pee and wakes up dry after most naps and even after sleeping through the night. He hadn't expressed much interest in ditching diapers, but I coaxed him by putting the potty chair in front of the TV and dangling jelly beans and M&Ms. 

    Fortunately, by the time we finished breakfast and were ready to begin, Bennett was ready for an early nap. He slept all morning while Quinn sat on the potty. 

    The older one I pumped full of juice, water and milk. The diaper came off, he folded his too-long legs and sat on the toddler toilet in my living room. About 45 minutes into Sesame Street, he stood up, crossed his legs uncomfortably and begged for the diaper. He had to go. 

    I put him back on the chair and finally he let go. I cheered way more than I ever imagined I would for urine, and a 100-watt grin emerged on Quinn's face. He requested his Elmo undies.

    The first accident came 10 minutes later. He told me right away that he'd peed on the floor. I reassured him that it was OK, cleaned up the mess and we went outside to play. 

    Soon he requested his diaper again. We rushed inside, only to sit on the pot for another 20 minutes. He got so excited when he peed again that he tipped the chair back and sloshed on the carpet. 

    Not too much later, he dribbled poop on the carpet in about six spots, then stepped in it. This was, of course, the moment that Bennett awoke from his nap. 

    Frantic, I tried to wipe Quinn and the carpet clean enough that he wouldn't spread the filth. Bennett was crying. The cats were sniffing. 

    After my poop triage, we headed upstairs to get brother. I still hadn't relinquished and put a diaper on Quinn. But he asked for it.  

    I've foreshadowed enough for you to guess what happens next. 

    I hoisted Bennett out of bed and noticed some brown I missed on Quinn's bottom. B and I skipped downstairs for wipes (why are they never in the right room?), and returned to find Quinn squatting over a fresh, steaming pile between Bennett's ottoman and his new train set. This was not my day.

    I tend to yell when I panic: Don't step in that! We can't play trains here right now! Don't push your brother! Bennett clung to me and cried as I scrubbed more Resolve into the carpet. I checked his diaper. Ohhh!! Poo on my finger. This really was not my day. 

    That was Tuesday's rock bottom. It could have been much worse. My outlook improved once the boys got new diapers and food in their bellies. After lunch we played in the kiddie pool, which Bennett hated but Quinn met with glee as he slid around the hard, green plastic on his belly and splashed in the summer sun. 

    That is the reason I'm not depressed. Despite all the hard work and times of panic, I still get to play with my kids. We find time each day to frolic. To wrestle. To giggle and tickle. And in the evenings, I keep my sense of self by writing this blog, gardening and going to yoga once a week. 

    What parent has time to worry about the so-called politics of raising kids? If you're like me, you just plod forward each day and keep your hands to yourself. My children tend to generate the only “firestorm” I worry about. 

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    Posted on: May 30 2012 - 12:00:00 PM
    Baby is 1! Now he can finally steal some attention from big brother
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    This week I celebrate my baby, Bennett, who turned 1 on Saturday. (Tear.)

    Bennett is growing up so fast, as all kids do. Until this weekend, he rarely got a glint of the limelight because big brother Quinn, 2 ½, usually steals the attention. Quinn also yells louder, so his needs often get met first. 

    Rather than go into all my mommy guilt over giving Bennett enough attention, I'm just going to give him my full attention for this blog. Mr. Beepers, this one's for you.

    Here are some things you should know about Bennett.

    He's content. From the get-go, he's been a happy, quiet baby. If his whimper reaches full cry, something is wrong. He has hit his head, thrown up, spiked a fever or something similar. In the crying department Bennett has been a breeze. That's such a blessing after dealing with Quinn's blue-in-the-face colic.

    When Bennett was born, he quickly accommodated the rest of us by adopting a two-nap-a-day schedule. That meant his long nap in the afternoon coincided with big brother's, which meant that I got to nap, too. Bennett has been agreeable to most everything ever since. 

    He is a mama's boy. He still nurses and probably will until I cut off his supply. I hope to do that as soon as I get him to like cow's milk (any suggestions?). This mama has been pregnant or nursing since February 2009, with only a 1-month break. I'm so ready to cut that cord. 

    I love that he reaches for me when he's tired or hungry. And if he wakes in the middle of the night, often I don't even have to nurse him to make him happy. Just a two-minute snuggle on my chest can be enough.

    Speaking of eating, the only foods he's refused have been baked beans and birthday cake. He seems to enjoy most fruits, vegetables and grains, plus cat food, lint, leaves and whatever else he finds on the ground. The line, “But Bennett likes it,” doesn't work on picky Quinn, because he knows that Bennett likes everything. My little over-achiever. 

    About the birthday cake: I went to two stores with two cranky kids in search of a jumbo cupcake pan. I screwed up the first version of the cake — ignored directions and under-baked it. I woke up at 6 a.m. on birthday morning and bought new ingredients so he'd have a smash cake at his party. I whipped my own frosting. I tried to be a good mom.

    When presented with the cake, Bennett stuck one finger in and licked it, then began to cry. He didn't want the cake. He wanted to nurse.
     
    It's another example that kids don't care about details. He would have been fine if I had just given him one of the cupcakes that everyone else got. He would have rejected it just the same, and I could have slept another hour.

    Bennett loves anything on wheels. He learned to push a car or tractor and say “brrrrmmm” by probably 8 months, and he's retained that as his favorite activity ever since. Maybe he genuinely likes vehicles, or maybe he's adapted to like them because he knows they are the only toys that big brother doesn't care about and won't yank away. 

    On that front, Bennett is learning to fight back. Ever since Bennett became mobile, army crawling at 6 months, Quinn's jealousy has been on high alert. Anything Bennett has, Quinn wants, so we constantly give Quinn time-outs for pushing, taking toys away and that whole bit. Poor Bennett was defenseless until about a week ago, when he realized that his razor-sharp front toofers doubled as a weapons.

    The incident happened while the boys were sharing a fire-engine cart in the grocery store. Quinn was up to his usual antics, smooshing Bennett so he could drive with both steering wheels or look at the floor on Bennett's side of the cart. Bennett got fed up. Instead of crying, he clamped down on Quinn's shoulder. By the time I calmed Quinn down enough for him to tell me what happened, it was too late to scold Bennett. All I could do was keep from laughing about Quinn's bad karma.

    I did feel bad for Quinn. B's bites hurt. He chomps on me when he's hungry, tired or sometimes when he's done nursing (yowza). He has discovered that biting gets him attention much better than his usual, quiet whimper. Despite the biting, he's a sweet boy.
     
    Bennett's biggest role around here, I now realize, has been as teacher. As a second-time mom, I have learned so much about parenting. 

    Baby boy, you've taught me that you know you're loved, even though sometimes I have to deal with your brother's tantrums while you play quietly by yourself. You've taught me that attention from me isn't the only attention you need — you need love from the whole family, including big brother. Which means I don't need to feel guilty when I leave you two to play together while I do chores. 

    You've taught me that reading to you doesn't have to mean reading to only you. I can read more advanced books to Quinn, and you can glean words and knowledge from them, too. You've taught me that obsessing over your development, following what the baby books say should be happening at what times, doesn't help you learn. With you, I didn't stress about milestones. And look: One day, we realized you should probably try sitting up, and you stayed up. You learned to crawl in your own way, first with your arms. You're learning to walk a few steps at a time, and you've said a handful of words — “done,” “shoe,” “book,” “eye,” “teeth,” and the letter “T” — by your first birthday. All that you did on your own, without me hovering or pressuring you. With each achievement, you surprised me with your resolve and persistence.

    So even though Quinn's baby book has volumes written about each month and your journal begins and ends with your birth story, I will try to release my guilt. You continue to remind me that you don't care about the details. It's taken me a whole year to learn that all you really need is my love. And that, baby boy, is yours forever.

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    Posted on: May 23 2012 - 12:00:00 PM
    What's the big deal about Time's breastfeeding cover?
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    Everyone is talking about Time magazine's breastfeeding cover story, which is less about breastfeeding than the phenomenon of attachment parenting. I never set out to subscribe to the philosophy of Dr. Sears, author of The Baby Book, but as the article points out, most modern parents have adopted some aspect of the method because it's become ingrained in our culture.

    The cover image of a woman breastfeeding her 3-year-old was unusual enough to lure me and countless others. But why does anyone care how that woman chooses to parent her child, as long as she's not abusing him or harming him in some way? As an accidental practitioner of attachment parenting — let's just call me a mom — I felt like I was under attack.

    These parents don't go on dates! And their children sleep in their beds! And they breastfeed! And — the horror — some of the moms don't work outside the home! And, and, and!

    All of that applies to me. This is the “model” that works for us. I'm fully attached to both my children, as I realized after reading the article Monday night. My two boys, ages (almost) 1 and 2 ½, had me up six times throughout the night. Here's how that went down. 

    10 p.m.: My mom is here, as she is many times when Will goes on business trips. Mom needs her white noise to sleep, so I fish a fan out of Bennett's closet, which I forgot to do at a more convenient, waking hour. He cries when my ankle pops, or something. 

    I pull him out of bed, put him on my chest for a minute and a half and he goes right back to sleep. I know I've just broken the first rule of sleep training — DON'T GET THE BABY OUT OF BED — but my way is easier. It keeps the crying to a minimum and keeps big brother asleep. 

    10:45 p.m.: I'm in bed, getting drowsy with the latest issue of Time, about attachment parenting. I am curious, mostly because I still breastfeed my almost 1-year-old, which pediatricians recommend but hardly anyone does. I need moral support.

    Speaking of nursing, Bennett's awake. If I top him off this time, maybe he'll sleep through the rest of the night. 

    Ha.

    He takes a little nip and falls asleep. I place him back in the crib, careful to avoid the squeaky board, and he rolls over and finds his thumb as I tuck him in. 

    12:30 a.m.: Crash! OK, family, you have my attention. I shoot up out of my slumber to see the two cats  chasing each other up the stairs. I'm sleeping on the air mattress in the office because I donated my bed to Mom.

    Cats! I will strangle you! Ugh. Back to sleep.

    2 a.m.: “Mama. Maaaama. Mom,” Bennett chirps over the baby monitor. I trudge up the stairs and retrieve him from the crib, sink into the comfy arm chair that takes up most of his room and attach him to his personal milk jug. He falls asleep, and so do I, as I realize when I wake about 20 minutes later. He's rolled over and is splayed out, content. Clumsily, I rise and put him back in bed, then stumble back into my own bed. 

    2:30 a.m.: Scratch, scratch. Thump! Thwump, thwump, thwump. It's Gertie the cat again, bouncing across the air mattress right next to my head. Must … sleep …

    4 a.m.: “Waaaaaa!!!!!!” Slam! Quinn's door hits the wall. “Waaaaaaaaaaaa!!!!!!!!” I crawl up the stairs to his door, which is blocked by the “night-night gate.” “We can't watch Elmo anymore, Mommy! Waaaaa!!!!!” Weird toddler nightmare. I invite Quinn to grab his blankie, stuffed dog and pillow and join me in bed. That's a cop-out, maybe, but there's plenty of room tonight, and it's way easier than trying to usher him back to sleep in his own bed. We spoon, and both of us are happy to be lying down again. 

    4:45 a.m.: “Maaaama.” Again? Bennett is standing up in his crib, and this time, the birds are the ones chirping. Mental note: Move the sound machine into B's room. Before tomorrow night. 

    He nurses again, even though he doesn't need to. But hell if I'm getting up at this hour, especially after the night I've had. He goes back down easily, and I tiptoe downstairs to grab my phone, which has a white noise app that I used a lot when the boys were newborns. I turn it on while I'm still in the hallway, a move that startles Quinn out of bed and sends him running around the living room crying, searching for me. I drop the phone into Bennett's room, race down the stairs and grab the loud one. He needs a sip of water. Then we snuggle. Thank heaven.

    Both of us stir. I'm thinking about the night, about the Time article, about this blog. I recall a dream I had at some point earlier in the night, where Quinn choked on a large hunk of zucchini and I had to perform CPR. Just a few pumps, and he spit out that loathsome vegetable and resumed breathing. What a horrifying experience, but without the context of my analysis, I didn't get excited about it in my dream. Mental note: Figure out what this means, but now, sleep. SLEEP!

    6:30 a.m.: Bennett is beginning to rouse. He's talking a bit, but he hasn't said the magic word, “Mama.” I let him lie while I attempt to pry my eyes open. The toddler is attached to my pillow, and about 3 centimeters separate me from the edge of the bed. Quinn hears Bennett over the monitor. 

    “It sounds like Bennett's awake. Should we go get him? Mommy, can we watch a vacuum video?”

    And thus begins another day of bliss with my attachments. Attachment parenting seems like a misnomer. I call it parenting. I call it finding whatever works to keep everyone happy. Because “Baby Book” or not, the old cliché is true: Children don't come with a manual. Each one is different. Parents should definitely stay informed about child development, but most of the time, they already know what's best for their kids.

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    Posted on: May 16 2012 - 12:00:00 PM
    My little introvert hates music class, but he loves people
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    I'm conflicted about what to do with my introverted child. 

    He seems to hate group activities with unfamiliar kids. I get that he wouldn't want to sing in a circle with 30 other people or have the teacher single him out during a song. I'm having flashbacks of introductions on the first day of any class I ever took. Shudder.

    But I want to expose him to new experiences and people. He's home with me and baby brother every day, and it's hard to coordinate with the few friends who are available for play dates during the week. So that leads us to group activities: Music class for preschoolers. Story time at the library. Etc. Etc. 

    Quinn's aversion to social situations hasn't been much of an issue until recently. I used to be able to declare that we were going out, wherever out may be, and he might put up a fight about getting dressed, but he wouldn't protest the activity. Now he's better at voicing his opinions. And he's built some sass into his vocabulary. 

    He gave me this on the way to music class Tuesday:

    “I don't want to go to music class. I just need to go home and play with my vacuums right NOW,” he snapped from the backseat. 

    We'd driven 20 minutes to get there. Bennett, our almost-1-year-old, had skipped his morning nap. We were a block away. I wasn't about to turn around. 

    As we loaded out of the car, Quinn's whining cut through the crisp morning air all the way to the door, where he dug in his heels and pitched the tantrum he'd been saving up. 

    Oh, child. Don't you know all the effort it took to get you and your brother here? Don't you know how tired I am from being up three times last night between you and your brother? Don't you remember how I let you come into bed with us at 4 a.m., only to have you take up all my space and make me sleep on the couch? Don't you know how fortunate you are to get to do things like this during the week?

    We'd gone to this class for the first time a week earlier. Bennett and I thought it was great — an hour of singing, dancing, clapping and instrument playing. Each kid got to play a kazoo. That was Bennett's favorite part, but possibly the most overwhelming one for Quinn.

    All that loud buzzing made Quinn shut down. He'd already been saying he wanted to go home. He sat out a few songs. He passive aggressively moved chairs around. Afterward, though, when I asked whether he'd had fun, he exclaimed, “Yes, I did!”

    So we went back.  

    We arrived about 10 minutes early, which I hoped would be enough time for him to explore the instrument bin and forget he'd ever protested.

    All 33 pounds of him clung to my leg with a death grip. Bennett detached and dove into the instruments, greeting the other children. Quinn broke into tears at least three times before class even started.

    So we left. When your kid's cries are the loudest instrument in music class, it's probably time to march on out the door. 

    We've been the ones who make a scene too many times. Apparently this happens with some frequency, because in the teacher's mass email after the first class, she noted that parents shouldn't force their children to stay in class if they're having a bad day. “We want this to be a fun experience for everyone!” she wrote. 

    I'm not so sure it was a bad day for him — just an overwhelming aspect in what turned out to be a decent day. We left music class, and Quinn said he wanted to go to story time, which also happens on Tuesdays. I was hell-bent on socializing these kids, so I yanked the steering wheel and headed south to the library.

    Within seconds, he changed his mind and said he wanted to go home. 

    Now this was getting ridiculous. By majority vote (I voted for Bennett), I said we were going to the library to check out books. We wouldn't go to story time, if that's what Quinn decided. 

    Here's where the plot changes. We got to the library, and he started to open up. The books excited him. Then he saw the other children arrive, holding hands with their mommies and heading toward the elevator that spits you into the story time room. 

    When we finished checking out books, the librarian asked if we were going to story time. He said yes. Surprised the heck out of me. 

    And he had fun. He participated in the songs, played his instruments vigorously, paid attention to the stories and even grabbed a handle for the parachute activity at the end. 

    Could it be because he was sitting next to a couple of cute little girls? Perhaps. He did spend a lot of time eyeing them. Or maybe it was that we'd been to story time enough that he'd used up all of his “I just want to go home” energy. Maybe story time and the other children who go have made it to familiar, welcome territory. 

    It's moments like these that encourage me to push Quinn even when he says he doesn't want to do something. I'm still figuring out when to pull back and let him decide.

    I know he's not anti-social. One-on-one, he can be the most loving, affectionate child. Take the time to get to know him — it takes five minutes or less — and he'll talk about you for months, name his toys after you and request made-up songs about you. 

    He's loyal. He's an introvert. That shouldn't surprise me, because I am, too.

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    Posted on: May 9 2012 - 12:00:00 PM
    The boy has an imagination! But now he calls me Guidu Guidu
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    We've crossed that imaginary barrier where toddler becomes little boy. My baby is using his imagination. 

    I know, it's not that exciting to most people. But I was worried that 2-year-old Quinn's vacuum obsession — which has only blossomed since I last wrote of it — might be a warning signal for autism. 

    His use of imagination was subtle at first. Mostly, he'd play with his Little People toys, name them after people he admires and send them to the park to swing. For some reason, the “Mommy People” always needed to go night-night. Amen, brother. I only wish I got that much sleep. 

    Then he started turning everything into a vacuum cleaner. The cord on a pair of earbuds became a Dyson DC 07 Animal. He turned his own body into a vacuum, complete with high-pitched whine and hose-hand. And the angry, unsuspecting Darth Vader alarm clock, with the legs bent, became a vessel of imaginary suction that could turn the dark side a cute pastel. 

    All of that was somewhat comforting to me, knowing that my boy was starting to think beyond the obvious uses for household items and toys and engineer some creativity. But because his first imaginary play was toy- and vacuum-based, it wasn't enough to tamp down my worries about autism. I know, I worry too much. Give the kid some credit. Touché. 

    Quinn has since allayed my fears. He has whipped out a lot of “pancakes” in his playhouse. He often “drives” to Topeka. In our backyard he searches for and "finds" Milo and Otis, the protagonists of the 1986 cat-dog bromance film of the same name. 

    None of that prepared me for the nicknames he gave every member of our family.  

    Bennett, the baby, got the first one: Bidu Bidu. It took me a few days to realize that Quinn was saying this purposely. I racked my brain to figure out where he'd heard anything that sounded like Bidu Bidu and came up with nothing. He must have generated it on his own. 

    Soon he crowned himself with a new title. While messing with a lamp in his room, he announced that Kaykado Kaykado was playing with the lamp.

    He said it so quickly, so nonchalantly, I had to ask him to repeat the name to make sure I understood. Yes, this child had just given himself an alter ego.

    In my excitement I slipped and addressed him by his birth name. 

    “Guidu Guidu, you need to say 'hi' to Kaykado Kaykado,” he said.

    Wait. There's a Guidu Guidu? And that's me? Flattering. Uh …

    “OK, hi, Kaykado Kaykado, what are you doing?” 

    “Kaykado Kaykado is playing with the lamp,” he said. 

    So the storyline wasn't exactly imaginative, but we're new at this. I pushed a little and asked what Daddy's name was. His answer: Oya Oya. 

    Oh, yeah. George Lucas, are you listening? You might want to hire my child.

    Anyway, Planet Metcalf is now in full orbit. An imaginary friend, Robbees Robbees, joined us for the first time the other day. She spent a few minutes sculpting Play-Doh — Quinn shared his — but she had to leave after a few minutes to drive back to Topeka. We waved goodbye from the front window. 

    I'm doing my best to play along, but my old, muddy memory has trouble with all these wacky names. While I was prodding Quinn to tell Daddy about the friend, I asked him to talk about Roseola Rosacea. Woops. I doubt his friend has a fever, rash or persistent redness. My mistake didn't trip him up, though. He got a bit indignant and corrected me. Come on, Mom. 

    It's been a few weeks since all the names first appeared, and they've been consistent but seem to be rotating out. Quinn interchanges my name as Guidu Guidu and Melissa, presumably to honor a high school friend of mine who stayed with us for a week last fall.

    I got a new name today. After working in the yard for a bit, I indulged Q's request to just hang out with him at the patio table. Red-cheeked and sweating from the warmth of the day, he sipped his water and grinned.

    “Hey, Queen,” he said. “You need to say hi to the Prince.”

    I was already melting a bit in the heat, but that comment sent me into a full-on pool on the cement beneath us. So I obliged.

    The sweaty queen, wearing her dorky wide-brimmed hat, brainstormed games to play with the prince, who took some convincing that he wasn't a princess. There in the courtyard of our suburban castle, he decided he just wanted to sit and talk. Because if you're royalty, you can do that.

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    Posted on: May 2 2012 - 12:00:00 PM
    Garden goofs: How a farm girl killed all her plants
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    I grew up on a farm, where I spent summers hauling irrigation pipe in the corn fields and walking rows upon rows of soybeans with a machete, chopping pigweeds. I thought I hated it, but as an adult living in the city, I still have this need to get dirt under my fingernails and grow something.

    Trouble is, my desire to garden and my ability to garden have never matched up. Like a Royals fan before opening day, I'm betting that this is the year.

    People are usually surprised when I tell them I have little knowledge about how to make plants grow and thrive. My poor houseplants. I've over-watered, under-watered and abused them to the point that the only one that's survived long-term, an eight-year-old philodendron from my grandmother's funeral, is hanging on with only four leaves. That's the kind you're not supposed to be able to kill. I'm trying here, Grandma.

    Grandma was always the one with the garden. It was beautiful. She had onions, potatoes, sweet corn, cucumbers, asparagus and much more. I remember helping her a little, but she stopped gardening when her health started failing, probably when I was about 11. 

    The first time I tried to garden on my own was the year after Will and I moved into our house. I bought a seed-starter tray for sprouting indoors. The best spot I could find for it was in my kitchen, with its large, south-facing windows. But to see sun, I had to have it up on the table. I lost patience with it spilling water as I moved it for meals and quickly and fell behind on watering. No matter: The cats ate most of the plants anyway. 

    The next year, I was pregnant and therefore more determined. One afternoon, I bought a shovel and tore up a small patch of daffodils and a couple roses. In their place I sowed seeds for lettuce, cucumber and a bunch of other plants I can't remember. I can't remember them because the only ones that survived were the lettuce. Once the weather heated up and I got big, I lost any urge to make friends with earthworms. That the lettuce later became salad was pure serendipity.

    Another year, another pregnancy. I had Bennett last May, so working in the yard — or pretty much anywhere besides the nursery — was out. My little garden patch went fallow. 

    With all that build-up, 2012 has to be the year. You might say I've been working toward this garden my whole life. 

    I settled on a plan to build a raised bed, because I had read that they make weeding easier, help keep pests out, make the plants more productive, etc. I cheerfully headed to the lumber store in my frilly hot pink shirt and picked out the boards for the frame. No fewer than three men offered to help. 

    I told the man cutting my lumber about my father's sprawling farm and my excitement about planting vegetables in a puny 8-foot-by-4-foot box. It didn't come out that way, but that's how it sounded when he laughed at me.

    I brought my lumber home, but with two little boys, I had to work piecemeal. I waited a week and sawed a few more pieces with a hand saw. Another week later and I hauled it outside and began assembling.

    My little helper, 2-year-old Quinn, pulled out his toy drill and hammer and set to work walking across the boards I wasn't using yet. I muscled the wood together and stripped almost as many screws as I drilled. Once the lumber formed an approximation of a rectangle, Quinn hopped inside and announced that he was going night-night in his garden bed. 

    I almost didn't want to drag it into place, he was so cute.

    But I did, then waited another week to fill it with soil. Which I had to buy and my family made fun of me for. We finally got the sucker planted this week. It's got lots of greens — kale, Swiss chard, arugula and two varieties of lettuce. For herbs, we have parsley, rosemary, oregano and basil. Two basil plants. Double-yum. 

    I'm also trying bush beans, sweet peppers, carrots, green and bulb onions, cucumber, squash, zucchini and a couple (probably futile) marigolds to keep bugs at bay. I made two PVC arches and draped them with bird netting. 

    The tomatoes are in a pot and a Topsy Turvy. I've also got one of those with strawberries. 

    None of the seedlings are dead on Day 3. Of course none of the seeds — or weeds — have sprouted.

    I know I'm probably doing a lot wrong. I can't tell you how many times I've called my dad for advice. If this project sounds overwhelming, it's actually relaxing for me to get outside. I also hope it teaches Quinn a little about our food supply. If my streak of failure continues, he'll learn the fragility of tending to another life, even if it is just a plant.

    So far, he seems invested in our project. He loved the shoveling part. He loved the finding-and-fondling-worms part. The digging-with-your-hands part. The pulling-weeds-that-weren't-weeds-but-potted-succulents part. He slept through the planting part. But he really digs the watering part. 

    If we make it to harvest, maybe he'll savor the eating-your-veggies part. 

    Nah. Let's not get too ambitious.

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    Posted on: Apr 25 2012 - 12:00:00 PM
    Pinterest, she's a taunting temptress
    850 Views

    I had to break up with Pinterest. 

    My relationship with the inspiration-board social network was brief and passionate, with long, lusty late-night trysts. I would salivate over her photos of beautiful decor, crafts, food and clever lists on how to entertain toddlers. I would wait until the kids went to bed, especially on nights when my husband had to work late, before I began the peepshow. Sometimes, when Will went out with friends  — oh, man — Pinterest and I had some bleary-eyed benders.

    She whispered the 5 Secrets to a No-Work Garden. Taught me to use vinegar, not Roundup, for killing weeds. She introduced me to some magical Nutella French Toast and shared decent recipes that encouraged me to try quinoa, Brussels sprouts, spaghetti squash and lentils. 

    She also nudged me toward making my 2011 Christmas gifts. She started nagging early enough that I believed I could do it. Repurposed sweater stockings for everyone. A fancy stick horse for Quinn. An adorable elephant lovey with ribbon tags for Bennett and a couple baby friends. Pumpkin-spice sugar scrub for the grandmas and others. A Will-sized T-shirt with a hand-drawn “map” of Metcalfville, for the boys to drive cars on and thereby scratch his back. A few smart black-and-white photo canvases for the grandparents. A plush monogrammed, fringed blanket for my mom.

    I'm exhausted just typing that list. Pinterest made me believe I could and should be everything to everyone. How deceptive of her.

    There were a few late nights in the run-up to Christmas when I toiled over crafts until after midnight. The cumulative effect of my sleeplessness showed up in the ballooning mass of fabric and craft supplies in my dining room and throughout the lower level of the house. Will went to bed without me quite a few times in that stretch. The pity and exasperation beneath one particular goodnight were obvious.

    "You've taken on too much," he said. "This affects all of us just as much as it does you."

    At the time, I barely looked up from my sewing machine. I had a blanket to finish. But in the weeks after the holiday, when I finally had time to breathe, Will's declaration resonated with me. He was right. I had been beating myself up.

    A few weeks ago, around the last time I logged into Pinterest, I checked my little offline inspiration board — a note on my desktop that contained a short list of New Year's resolutions. In just a few lines, I'd pressured myself to exercise, write a book, plant a garden, make a quilt and read more books. 

    The last item on the list was "Don't over-commit." Ha. 

    Most of the resolutions I've tossed by now. A garden might happen — I already built the raised bed, which Pinterest showed me how to do. But I'm striving to keep that last one.
    Pinterest sucked me in so hard that I would pin and repin into the wee hours sometimes. The emotional abuse comes through in the descriptions on some of my pins. "Wish I had the patience" to make felted holiday garland. "If only I had an occasion" to wear this wispy pink chiffon dress. And how dare she try to convince me that I could de-clutter and deep-clean every day in 2012.

    That's so not me.

    It wasn't until yesterday, when I read this inspiring post at Powerofmoms.com (http://powerofmoms.com/2012/04/your-children-want-you/), that I realized what Pinterest had done to me. The author's point is, rather than feel guilty or inferior for not having seasonal throw pillows (that sounds silly and vain now) or making grilled cheese sandwiches look like ice cream cones, we need to realize that our families DON'T CARE about any of that. I can believe her now that I've seen the passage of weeks without anyone using the gifts I made.

    I teared up when I read this: 

    "Can we remind each other that it is our uniqueness and love that our children long for? It is our voices. Our smiles. Our jiggly tummies. Of course we want to learn, improve, exercise, cook better, make our homes lovelier, and provide beautiful experiences for our children, but at the end of the day, our children don’t want a discouraged, stressed-out mom who is wishing she were someone else."

    Heck no, people don't need the handmade Christmas cards I pinned "for next year." And the empty bottles that have been cluttering my kitchen counter for months might just get de-cluttered before they become chalkboard paint-covered vases.

    I'm not going to delete my Pinterest account. In fact, I just logged in and drifted around the site for a good 15 minutes while I recalled the joy it brings me. The picture of the bearded knit hat made me smile again. As did the mud cupcakes and the jet packs made from soda bottles.  

    And look at that! Homemade body butter! And chocolate cobbler — I have the ingredients! And there's that Ryan Gosling meme saying, "Hey girl, look me in the eyes ..."

    Eek. This breakup isn't going to be clean. Someone slap me before I go all Pinterest on my son's upcoming first birthday party. 

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    Posted on: Apr 18 2012 - 12:00:00 PM
    Tags: PINTEREST
    Attack my babies, fleas, and I will hunt you
    731 Views

    My skin is crawling. My scalp itches.

    We. 

    Have. 

    Fleas. 

    This story disgusts me, but I'm sharing it in hopes that someone will be able to offer advice that works. Or just commiserate. 

    It started a few weeks ago. Sitting on the living room floor, I saw a tiny black speck on my arm or leg. I reached to pick it off and ping! It leaped away. 

    Oh, gross. That's not what it looks like, right? I thought. I couldn't name it out loud. I was in denial because we don't have outdoor pets. But the offending anthropod jumped so high, far and fast that I couldn't think of another bug that would be capable of such a feat. 

    The next day, we went to a friend's house for a play date. I pulled Quinn over to take off his shoes and noticed a dark piece of lint on his temple. Let me just grab that …

    Ping! 

    Ohhhhh, no. I froze. I couldn't tell our friends what had just happened. But I couldn't not tell them. 

    A bug, I stuttered. In Quinn's hair. It just jumped. Into the abyss of your lovely, shaggy carpet. We officially had a problem.

    We bought over-the-counter flea medication for our two cats. We vacuumed. We bug-bombed the unfinished basement and the attached garage. 

    Then yesterday happened. Black-Spot Tuesday.

    I had noticed red specks on the bathroom counter where the cats, one in particular, like to sit. 

    I knew subconsciously it was flea dirt. That horrible stuff looks like regular dirt until it gets wet, when it turns red and reveals its true identity as digested blood. Am I evil because I hoped that the cat, Meeko, had some other blood-related problem that didn't involve indestructible, crawly bugs? 

    Yes? OK. That's fair.

    I coaxed Meeko into the cat carrier and loaded her up for a trip to the vet, where I got a lecture for using the over-the-counter medicine that's “not guaranteed” and apparently unsafe for kitties. I was feeling defensive until Meeko shed some flea dirt on cue. The vet convinced me to buy three months worth of the $22-per-dose treatment for each cat. This crap had better work.

    On the way home, Meeko became so stressed that she peed in her carrier. Already determined to vacuum, I got baby Bennett up from his nap to get the whole family in on it.

    Then I saw it. The most heinous of fleas was wading cavalierly through my fair infant's blond hair. It was impossible to miss. Uh-uh, mister pock. You mock me, you DIE.

    I plucked it off, smashed it with the wrath of a threatened mother and marched to get the vacuum. I pointed that thing at every square inch I could think of. The carpets. The curtains. The baseboards. The couches, chairs and bookshelves. The dozens of plush toys. I even violated the innards of a few hand puppets. 

    The part that makes me grimace the most is the mental image of a larva crawling on a shirt embroidered with Bennett's name. The onesie had fallen behind a dresser in his closet. Part of my job today will be to wash every last item of exposed clothing in there.

    When I started my mission, Quinn was so happy he flailed his arms, spun in circles and kept repeating, “We can vacuum with the green vacuum for real, Mommy! For real!” He helped for about an hour — an eternity in toddler time — but even he got tired.

    Fortunately for my husband, he's out of state this week. Fortunately for me, my mom is here. Unfortunately for her, we're in the midst of Fleanocide 2012. 

    I couldn't have worked as much if she weren't here to referee the babies. I focused so hard on my new task that it dominoed into other issues. Vacuum Boy got a bad case of diaper rash, because in his excitement, he didn't tell me that he'd pooped, and I was too busy to check. Bennett couldn't sleep in the afternoon because I'd ripped down his curtains. 

    I worked until about 9:45 p.m. and finished all the rooms except my own, where Meeko sleeps on the bed. Mom always goes last, right? Ah, well. The living room couch is clean now. Guess I'll just crash there.

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    Posted on: Apr 11 2012 - 12:00:00 PM
    Tags: FLEAS VACUUM
    As my son might say, Rock Chalk Wildcat!
    641 Views

    To use a tired cliché, we live in a “house divided.” One of those homes where one member is a KU alum (me), and another (my husband) attended Kansas State with all of its purpleness. Ick.

    School pride is on my brain this week, of course, because of the KU basketball team's amazing national tournament run, which ended Monday in a loss to Kentucky. Rock Chalk, baby.

    Not that anyone should care about what school I favor. But our eternal argument over who has the superior alma mater has entangled our children, to amusing proportions. 

    My husband, Will, and I are not even loyal sports fans, except when it comes to me and basketball. But we love to tease each other about the rivalry, and we're in a tug-of-war over the kids' allegiance. 

    Our poor children. They're so confused.

    Or Quinn is, rather. Bennett, at 10 months, is too young even to label the schools' colors, let alone choose a side.
     
    Quinn, who's 2, says he loves both schools. He's been trained to sing the Rock Chalk chant and, thanks to my Wildcat-loving older brother, recite the phrase K-U-P-U. Lately he has been requesting bedtime stories about the origin of the Jayhawk (“Once upon a time, a lonely red-and-blue bird named Big Jay was walking along and came to a magical place called Allen Fieldhouse, where some really good basketball players knew something was missing and asked the strange bird to join their team.” You didn't know that story? You must not be a very good fan.)

    OK, I'm no super fan. I don't watch all the basketball games. (Shhh.) I haven't been to one in a few years, since B.Q., before Quinn. But I loved my time at KU, and that pride comes out in an ugly super fan-like way. When I still worked in an office, I hung an obnoxious KU banner over the front of my desk, facing several Mizzou alums. I made sure that "Jayhawk" was one of Quinn's first 10 or 20 words.

    My pull toward red and blue is countered by a pretty strong jerk toward purple by my husband and all members of my side of the family. My parents are huge K-State fans and supply the boys with more purple uniforms than any sane person should have. Being the good wife and daughter, I occasionally dress them in K-State gear while I silently cringe.

    I have to smile when Quinn asks to wear ”the blue one AND the purple one.” That's a battle I let him win, even when we have to appear in public that day.

    His allegiance is something that he'll have to work out on his own. All of our brainwashing probably means he'll choose another school entirely. We live in Missouri, so with in-state tuition … I can't even say it. But if that's what he wants, I'll be there on moving day and send the checks every month. That's what my parents did for me, even after I spent my youth attending K-State games and wearing lots and lots of purple. With my conversion, my mom even became a Jayhawk basketball fan.

    I recognize that allegiance to whatever school has little bearing on the rest of life. But aligning with a school is fun. It's a way to celebrate with the masses and relate to strangers. Case in point, while I was sitting in the dentist's chair on Monday, I was telling the hygienist how excited I was for the championship game and a guy on the other side of the partition yelled, “Rock Chalk.”

    We let Quinn stay up to watch the Final Four game against Ohio State (he had napped that day — hallelujah), and he got to watch the first half of the championship game. Because those are once-in-a-lifetime infrequent experiences if you're a Jayhawk fan. 

    He's nothing like this kid (LINK) yet, but Quinn was getting into the game. He sat in my lap and screamed and whooped and clapped when I did. He stopped paying attention when Kentucky extended its lead and my mood became less fun. He didn't want to go to sleep before he got to see the "Rock Chalk Jayhawk."

    So I win. For now. 

    And because this is all about fun, I leave you with the song “Red and Blue KU,” by local rapper B Double E (LINK). This got me pumped for Monday's national championship game when changing diapers and folding laundry wasn't cutting it. 

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    Posted on: Apr 4 2012 - 12:00:00 PM
    How do you explain to a 2-year-old that Grandpa is dead?
    945 Views

    Two glasses of wine haven't numbed me enough to write this without crying. 

    We lost my husband's father earlier this month. That's why I skipped writing my blog for two weeks. The whole thing has been heartbreaking, but one of the hardest parts for me has been explaining to my 2-year-old that he can't see Grandpa anymore.

    Grandpa had been sick for a long time. He had diabetes, and since he went on dialysis a couple years ago, complications had plagued him. We were prepared for the end at least once before, but somehow, he held on and got better. Enough that he could even drive an hour to visit us every month or so. He so loved those visits, and so did we. 

    This time, though, he was tired. Ready to be done. We were devastated, yes, but who could blame a man for wanting to end a losing battle? Throughout the week before his death, a staph infection led to stroke led to sepsis led to pneumonia led to heart failure. He wanted no extraordinary measures, only to say his goodbyes and turn off the machines. 

    Because he was on palliative care, the hospital staff let us break the no-children-under-16 rule and bring our babies in to see Grandpa. For so long these kids had been his joy and hope in a bleak situation. He'd built a sort of shrine to the boys where he sat for his dialysis treatments each day. He loved looking at their pictures, and when Quinn forgot a dollar-store stuffed shark at their house, that became part of the shrine, too. 

    When we walked in the hospital room, Grandpa was receiving an oxygen treatment with a scary mask. Of course Bennett, now 10 months, didn't understand. He giggled when we bounced him and delighted in reaching out and touching Grandpa's mustache. 

    Quinn, though, he's 2. He knew that something was amiss with Grandpa. Grandpa's in bed, he said. Grandpa's going night-night? No, Grandpa's sick, we told him.
     
    Grandpa didn't have much energy, but he kept repeating the most important phrase of Quinn's life: I love you, Quinn. I love you, Quinn. I love you, Quinn. 

    Quinn buried his head in our shoulders. He refused to reciprocate and tell Grandpa that he loved him, even though he had always been forthcoming with the phrase over the phone and in person before. This Grandpa, he was different. He was in a strange hospital bed. “Goodnight, Grandpa,” he said shortly before he left, not understanding the weight of his words.

    We had to explain so many things to Quinn that week. Grandpa's in the hospital. That's where sick people go. Remember when you didn't feel good and you didn't want to play, but watch cartoons instead? That's how Grandpa feels, but much worse. We go to the hospital every day because Grandpa needs us. 

    Quinn's stuffed dog, Scout, soon came down with a mysterious illness. Scout was in the hospital, Quinn said. Scout was sick. 

    Then one morning about a week into Grandpa's hospital stay, we got a call saying that his blood pressure was dropping. Get down here. 

    Daddy left in a flurry. I dressed and fed the kids as quickly as I could, but that took a half hour, maybe 45 minutes. We raced to the hospital in a separate car.

    By the time we got there, it was too late. He was gone.  

    Daddy met us in the waiting room. We had been going to see Grandpa and Grandma all week. Where's Grandma? Quinn asked. She's behind those doors, but we'll see her in a little bit, I said. 

    Where's Grandpa? Quinn asked. 

    I didn't know what to say. 

    I didn't have time nor did I want to Google strategies for explaining death to a toddler. I went with what was pure, in my heart. And that surprised even me, because I haven't gone to church in more than a decade. 

    Grandpa's in Heaven, I said, fighting tears. He's way up in the sky, doing all the things he loves. He's cooking. He's finally getting that hot dog and that taco he's talked about all week. He's up there with Great-Grandma. They're having a wonderful time, and looking down on us, loving us, protecting us. Grandpa's not with us anymore, but if you ever want to see him, all you have to do is close your eyes and think about him.

    I wasn't sure how Quinn would respond. Death is hard to accept even when you know what it means. I feared that this would be one of those pivotal moments when the world begins to chip away at a child's innocence.

    Quinn accepted my explanation with no tears or apparent sadness. It's not that he didn't love Grandpa. He did. He talks about him every day, just as he does all his grandparents and friends. But he's 2, and the world revolves around him. One of the most dramatic moments of this week so far was when we put ranch dressing on a tomato instead of off to the side.

    Now, when Quinn speaks of Grandpa, he recites our explanation, matter of factly. 

    “Grandpa's in Heaven,” he says. “Did you know where Heaven is? It's way up in the sky. And he loves you very, very much.”

    And then he moves on to another subject, like vacuums, the alphabet or where our cats might be hiding. Because he's still got every ounce of the innocence he had a few weeks ago. Grandpa would have loved to hear that. 

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    Posted on: Mar 28 2012 - 12:00:00 PM
    This mom still needs her mom sometimes
    714 Views

    Tuesday was my mother's 63rd birthday. What a wonderful woman, and what a blessing it is that my kids get to know her.

    We don't see her more than once every month or two, because she still lives in rural Kansas with my dad, a farmer. She's retired and loves to drive the four hours to Kansas City and see us whenever she gets the opportunity. This week, when my husband left town for business, we came to her.

    She's hardworking and prepared for anything (there are booger wipes in her car). The other day when we took the kids to Walmart, Mom even packed baby veggie puffs, which she happened to have on hand and which I happened to forget. Good thing she did, because I needed them to keep the baby happy so I could finish shopping. Did I mention that she volunteered to stay in the car while my 2-year-old son, Quinn, continued his spontaneous car nap?

    -- Hang on. Q is up, and he's unhappy. It's 6:15 a.m., and I've got to type this while watching the boys. My nine-month-old son, Bennett -- peekabo, baby! -- decided at 5:30 that he wanted to play.

    "No, no. No ... " Quinn whines. He often does this when he wakes up.

    "Quinn, honey, we're in the living room. It's OK if you want to go back to bed." No response. OK then. --

    Where was I? My mom is amazing. Known to my family as Gigi, she is so hands-on with the kids. She gets right down on the floor with them, indulges Quinn's requests for made-up songs about vacuums and happily spent her birthday at the Salina zoo, braving unrelenting prairie winds and some, shall we say, educational sights. She never complained as we got sprayed by a rhino (we were that close!), saw an orangutan pick his nose and eat it and witnessed prehistoric tortoise sex. (It was as slow as you'd think.)

    I wanted to make a nice meal for her birthday, because no one ever cooks for her.

    -- 6:26: Bennett, don't eat the TV Guide! --

    So I asked her what I should make, and it took about an hour of prodding to get this selfless woman to answer more specifically than, "I don't care, whatever you want." She finally decided on chicken tetrazzini and pumpkin maple pecan cheesecake. I threw in green beans with toasted almonds for good measure.

    -- 6:30: Where is Quinn? Better go check on him.

    He's back in bed, legs hanging off the inflatable toddler mattress that my mom thought to buy. It's in her bedroom, which she and my dad loaned us for the week. --

    So my mom

    ;awoiu

    Sorry, Bennett got the keyboard.7h,kl ,.;. Ouch, Bennett, don't bite! (Can I tell you that this kid has given me matching half-moon-shaped bruises on my upper arms?)

    6:36 a.m.: Baby is wailing and hanging on my leg, Lennon/Yoko-style, except fully clothed. Better get him some breakfast. No! Don't eat that plastic bag!

    7:16 a.m.: Ahhhh. Mom is up.

    And she made coffee. And took the baby. Isn't she wonderful? As I was saying, she's always been a great multitasker and the ultimate cheerleader for her kids. She stayed home with us until I was in middle school, and now I'm fortunate to be able to do the same for my kids. I aspire to be like her. It took me a long time to admit this, to her and to myself.

    Mom makes everything better. That's still true, even now that I'm 30. Happy birthday, Mom. Love you.

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    Posted on: Mar 7 2012 - 12:00:00 PM
    Tags: GRANDMA MOM
    I'm healthy, but I can't get insurance
    885 Views

    I knew our country had an imperfect health care system. Most people can agree on that. It's just that until a few weeks ago, my biggest complaint was rising insurance premiums. What a whiner I was.

    I'm not going to shill for Obama's health care plan or propose a solution. I'm just going to tell my little story about a fundamentally healthy adult being denied coverage.

    Will is preparing to start a new job at a start-up company with only four full-time, stateside employees. It's a wonderful opportunity for him: a management role in his exact, specialized field, doing work he believes in, with great benefits including health insurance. The company is too small for a group plan, so it will reimburse us for the individual plan of our choice. Sounds cushy, right? 

    We — especially Will — were pumped. We started shopping for insurance. One of the requirements we included was maternity insurance, which narrowed the list of available plans in Missouri to four, all from the same provider. FOUR. Not that I'm pregnant. We're not planning on that for at least another year or two, if ever. But, you know, babies be 'spensive. A person needs insurance. 

    So we spent three hours filling out a demoralizing questionnaire that made us recall every health issue and doctor's visit for all four of us in the decade. You have to know the name of every medication you've taken, the frequency you took it and the dosage. I finished the questionnaire feeling like an invalid, even though my two “preexisting conditions” aren't under treatment. One has never been treated, and apparently I've been living with it for a long time and only recently found out about it. The other hasn't been an issue for years.

    After waiting through an agonizing weekend for news, the provider informed us that I was denied. But they were happy to cover Will and the boys. Too bad we come as a unit.

    So our future as a family had come to this. Will thought he wouldn't be able to take his dream job, because if one company had rejected us, why wouldn't the others? And I couldn't shake the thought that even if we could find a plan to cover us, we wouldn't be able to have another baby. I never imagined that a health insurance company would have that kind of power over us. It felt like we were losing our freedom. 

    We didn't give up. We got a tip on a company whose underwriters were supposedly the most lenient. We had an emergency discussion about whether we might want a third child. Will filled out the questionnaire this time, because I might've gouged out my eyeballs if it had been me again. 

    A day passed, and we were accepted. With two big “buts.” 

    My two preexisting conditions won't be covered. And we won't have maternity insurance. Our deductible and co-pays are higher than we'd hoped, and they raised their quote about $100. We decided to go with the offer, though, because any plan is better than nothing. 

    We're rolling the dice, hoping that nothing serious happens to me on those preexisting fronts. The chances are low. Hoping, too, that Will's company grows big enough for a group plan that would cover me fully, as well as any future baby.

    I'm peeved that our family planning is no longer on our terms. I checked around, though, and found that Northland Women's Healthcare (nowhere near us) has a prepay plan, and insurance isn't required. Labs, ultrasounds, tests and hospital charges are separate. Having a baby would be another gamble, but at least we would have an option.

    I am grateful that children can no longer be denied for preexisting conditions. One of my boys has health issue that, while not life-threatening, will probably require several surgeries when he's a few years older. Pretty sure most health insurance companies would LOVE to reject him. Eat that, suckers. 

    So, who else has slogged through this mess of finding individual insurance coverage? I'm sure many of you have better stories than mine ...

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    Posted on: Feb 29 2012 - 12:00:00 PM
    Tags: INSURANCE
    A Dyson is a boy's best friend
    671 Views

    My son is obsessed.

    Possessed might be a better word. The object of my 2-year-old's fancy: vaccuums. And it's made my house much cleaner than ever. 

    He spends hours each day thinking about cleaning our carpets. He has turned an arsenal of push toys into vacuums, and he insists on keeping a real one out in the living room. He lines them all up and inspects them, crouching down and pointing at their imaginary attachments, hoses and brushes. He wakes up and darts down the stairs to "vacuum" as his first act of the day. He requests the "purple vacuum song," to the tune of "Jingle Bells," a la Elmo, as his nightly lullaby. And more than once, he has barged in on his father using the bathroom and said, "Vacuums don't need to go potty." 

    When Quinn first began assigning imaginary suction to all his push toys, we thought it was adorable. Back in May, I posted a picture of him on Facebook using his toy vacuum alongside his daddy using the real one. That was the beginning. 

    He was still in daycare at Miss Libby's house, where her purple Dyson was an appliance to revere and fear. It somehow captivated and terrified my son all at once, to the point that he personified it and would sometimes tell it goodbye, from a safe distance of several feet away. 

    He couldn't stop talking about it. "Meanie has a purple vacuum," he'd say dozens of times each day. (He couldn't say Miss Libby.) Now, almost three months since I began staying home with the boys, he gets just as excited about seeing the purple vacuum as he does seeing Libby and her family.

    All this was cute until I made the mistake of looking up a vacuum review on YouTube. Our baby, Bennett, was sleeping one morning, and Quinn kept begging me to vacuum. I thought I could appease him by finding the sound of a vacuum online, so I searched "purple Dyson vacuum" and found some random guy reviewing the vacuum's prowess in his dirty living room. "Get it ALL up," the man growls, as a box worth of Cheerios swirls into the vacuum's transparent vessel. 

    Mindless, yes. But that silly video is Quinn's zen. And he reminds me every time I get out the laptop.

    "Watch the purple vacuum video just one time that's o-kaaayyy," he says, batting his eyelashes. 

    I knew we had a problem the day I saw my son stand up his popper toy and act out the opening lines of the three-minute video. "It says Dyson here, it says Dyson up here, it says Dyson down dere and a couple other places," Quinn said. 

    What had been a cute fetish had become a full-blown obsession. But those aren't automatically bad, right? Even though Quinn needed help running the machine, he was inspiring us to clean our floors almost daily. He was learning new words ("carpet height adjustment," "eight Root Cyclone"). And he was engaging in vigorous pretend play, frequently dumping out a toy grocery cart that holds misfit foam letters and blocks and running over the mess with his popper.

    Around the time I was rationalizing Quinn's actions, an email titled "How to Tell if Your Toddler Has Autism" planted doubts.

    It was from Whattoexpect.com, the online sister to the popular pregnancy and child care books. The site's daily mailer had been shooting eerily timed advice to my inbox since Quinn's birth. I opened the email thinking I'd read it just to be safe, even though he's probably fine. He speaks very well for his age, and he's sweet, shyly social and snuggly. 

    I scanned the first dozen or so signs, and nothing alarmed me. Then I read this: "Becoming intensely preoccupied with household appliances like vacuum cleaners and fans." 

    Oh. 

    Don't freak out, I told myself. 

    But of course I did. I sent the link to my husband, who dismissed it. "He's fine, honey," he said. But if you're really worried about it, he said, take him to the doctor. 

    I stewed over that. Another doctor's visit? It seemed like we'd been going once a week for something or another. So instead, the next time our Parents as Teachers rep visited, I asked her about the autism checklist. She assured me that she'd never seen any cause for concern. But then she called me later that day and asked if I could please send her a link to the list. Just to be sure.

    I couldn't stop scrutinizing my child's favorite activity. I Googled signs of autism in toddlers and found a standardized quiz to take. I can't even remember the website now, but its conclusion that my son is at low risk for the disorder somehow eased my fears.

    Suddenly I remembered that he has a thing for the domestic arts in general, not just vacuuming. He's smitten with my "purple mop," a Shark steamer that doesn't so much steam anymore as spit a cold, watery soup onto the tile. He enjoys sweeping with a broom, feeding the cats, mixing dry ingredients for baking and running the salad spinner. So that's it then: He likes to help. Of course. 

    And what a blessing that is. I'll keep watching him, yes. And if it turns out that he has autism, he'll be the same wonderful, quirky, smart child he is now. I'll just have better tools to help him. 

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    Posted on: Feb 22 2012 - 12:00:00 PM
    There's a Booger on Your Laptop, and other love stories
    625 Views

    Valentine's Day has become an accidental holiday for my husband and I. We had always been part of that bitter crowd who didn't need to celebrate what we perceived to be an over-commercialized, manufactured event. How perfect for us, then, that we met on Valentine's Day and fell in love. And how funny it is to think back on that night we met — ahem, in a bar — in contrast with our lives now, as long-married parents of two young children. 

    Our lives collided in 2003, on "Singles Awareness Day," as my friends and I proclaimed. We would commiserate celebrate with shots and maybe a little jukebox dancing at a dark watering hole in downtown Lawrence. What else were we going to do? It was college, and it was Friday night. 

    Truthfully, I had dreaded the Hallmark-iday (see what I did there?), just as I had the previous ones. The only time I had ever come close to dating someone on Valentine's Day was in sixth grade. Buying him a gift proved to be too much pressure, and I broke up with him the day before. (A belated apology, Justin, if you're reading this.)

    So that night in 2003, as I deliberately straightened my hair and perfected my makeup, I practiced being happy in the mirror. I chose a buttoned-up boys' tuxedo shirt and red velvet jacket, topped with a pastel skinny tie. I would look cool, even if I didn't feel hot. It was 11 when I finally I moped out of the house. 

    I was quite a few drinks behind by the time I made it to the bar. One friend had lost her inhibitions enough to buy a round of shots for the first floor. I wandered upstairs, bought myself a Newcastle and scanned for any friends still sober enough to hold a conversation.

    And there was Will. Moussed hair, pearl-snap shirt and distressed leather jacket. Swoon. He was a friend of a friend and had driven down from Kansas City. Halfway to the bar, he blew a tire on I-70 and had to change it in the rain. He was, mercifully, as sober as I was. 

    We talked about music (Elliott Smith) and charity (I'd be volunteering with asylum-seekers in Detroit over spring break). We talked for hours, and when he left, he insisted on driving me home. Even though I had to walk farther to the car than I would have to my house. 

    We were both smitten. To our astonishment, it took only three months of dating to become comfortable enough to talk about marriage, although we waited two years to make it official. Will and Lindsay quickly became "us," an entity that evolved organically, without much effort. We just fit. All we had to do was surrender to the scary idea that we didn't have to be alone anymore.

    We were barely in our 20s when we met. Will had a full-time job, one where he often logged 80 hours a week. But he still had time to drink a lot of beer and buy pizza for his friends, most of whom were still in college and poor. I was balancing my studies with my role as managing editor of the campus newspaper. I was busy but still had time to consume a lot of beer and pizza.

    Now I laugh at how busy I thought I was. I was selfishly busy. Busy with things I wanted to do, as someone recently put it. Now we're busy with the demands of two young children. The idea of having a date on Valentine's Day doesn't even register.

    Tuesday was the ninth anniversary of the day we met. We're still the same people, fundamentally. But so much smarter, more mature. Some might say boring. 

    We woke at 6:30 a.m. I fed the baby, then finished to find Will getting out of bed. I attempted to hand Bennett off to him, so I could sleep a few more minutes. But Quinn, the toddler, was awake. And it was time to exchange Valentine's gifts with the kids! Get happy!

    We remembered to kiss, I think. That was our first gift of the day. And as we were presenting the boys with their new "Star Wars" plushies, we noticed that Quinn, the 2-year-old, was festively wearing splotches of red. In his eyes. Where they should have glowed white. 

    Pink eye*? Ugh. Another trip to the doctor.

    Thus came Will's big gift to me. He took an hour off in the afternoon to watch Bennett while I took Quinn for his exam. I could have brought the baby, yes, but he was supposed to be napping, and he wasn't sick. No need to expose him to the infirm, and Will, who works from home, graciously offered to step in, even though Bennett was giggling and nowhere near sleep when we left. 

    Later that evening, my gift to Will: Grilled tuna with jalapeño cream sauce, fingerling potatoes, a mixed-greens salad and unexpected stomach pains.

    I had forgotten to buy Lactaid, but my lactose-intolerant husband politely nibbled at the cream sauce on his tuna. Romantic indeed. But you know what? He loves me. And he still complimented me on the meal, never complaining about the dairy or his angry digestive tract.

    Our love has hit its stride. We're not perfect. We argue occasionally. But we're a good team, darn it, to the point that we divvy up chores on autopilot. (I'll happily scrub the George Foreman if you take out the trash, dear.) The best gift, to me, is eavesdropping on him with the boys, reading "The Three Bears" for the third time and watching their delight as he models packing foam on his head and transforms into a bleep-blooping robot. 

    After chores were finished Tuesday night, we did what we do every night. He laid down on the floor, I straddled him and ... popped his back. And then we pulled out our laptops, me on the couch, to write this blog, he on the floor, to do homework for a night class he's taking. And as we listened to Quinn sing himself to sleep in his off-key, toddler way, we exchanged a smile, knowing that this family we've made is the product of our love. Then he said the most romantic, self-assured words: 

    "There's a booger on the back of your laptop."

     
    *Quinn, it turns out, does not have pink eye, but a cold. Hooray!

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    Posted on: Feb 15 2012 - 12:00:00 PM
    Tags: LOVE
    Mourning the end of the nap
    647 Views

    I'm desperate for a nap. Not for me, although that would be nice. 

    No, I need Quinn to take a nap. NEED him to. In the two and a half weeks after he proudly switched to the big boy bed, he napped exactly four times. Once on purpose, twice by accident in the car and once with his dad, the same day of his second accidental nap. I don't count the time he fell asleep watching The Muppets perform "Bohemian Rhapsody" on YouTube. As soon as I tried to inch him into a supine position, he shot up, mad that I'd had the gall to try to help him stay asleep. 

    Quinn's barely 2-year-old body needs more rest. The poor child goes all Mr. Hyde in the late afternoon, and by the end of the night, the outside corners of his eyes become streaked red from exhaustion.

    WebMD.com says he needs 12-14 hours of sleep per day. He probably gets 11 without a nap. "They typically get only about 10," the site allows, patronizing me. Wonder if any of those children dropped three hours a day cold turkey like mine did.

    For almost two years, we had a dream sleeper. He would snooze after lunch each day for a monster three- or four-hour stretch in the afternoon. We used to be able to read to him and lay him down, and he would play and talk happily for only a few minutes before the quiet tick-tock of his clock would pierce through the baby monitor.

    Then we took away the binky. 

    He has struggled with sleep in the four months since. We would place him in his crib and he would cry and jump, then negotiate and stall. After we'd leave the room, he would calm down and play for an hour or more before he'd finally sail into Never Never Land.

    A few times he hoisted his foot over the crib rail, threatening to climb out. The rail only reaches mid-chest, so climbing (or falling) out would have been as smooth for him as soft serve ice cream.

    We finally swallowed our dread, dug out the Allen wrench and gave our boy his toddler bed. He was thrilled with his freedom. 

    Not complete freedom, of course. We bought a pressure gate for his doorway, which opens to a half-flight of stairs leading into our living area. The gate works because he's not potty trained and doesn't need to leave the room.

    But having the run of the room means that I have to be creative. At first, I thought that putting up the "night-night" gate during his regular naptime would be enough to entice him to sleep. I figured he'd play until he tired out and would crawl into bed. In reality, he stands at the gate and launches little missiles of cute through its diamond-shaped holes. 

    "Mommy! Mommy!" 

    "Go to bed, Quinn." 

    "I miss everybody," he said one recent afternoon, resting his head pathetically on the gate. "I miss my friends."

    His friends, a stuffed dog named Brown Puppy and a wooden duck push toy, were splayed as he left them in the purgatory of the living room. He may have also been talking about his baby brother, Bennett, who had the boring luck of being tired and actually falling asleep on time. 

    The missile exploded on target. I relented and went to him. Amateur.

    "I'm sure you miss us, but we'll be here when you wake up," I said, rubbing his back from the other side of the gate.

    "Mommy, just one minute. Ooooonnnne minute. I sweet." 

    Boom. Missile No. 2. OK, I'll tuck you in again. Dang.

    A couple minutes pass. Crash. Maybe I can ignore ... OK, he's crying now. Here I go.

    "Mommy — waaaa! — Mommy! You got the finger — sniff — in the drawer with the blocks. Sniff." (Translation: I pinched my finger — sniff — in the drawer that holds the blocks. Sniff.)

    This time, I consoled without crossing the gate. The door stayed open, and he continued to play and talk to himself. He must have been desperate to stay awake, because he even jingled the stick horse I made him for Christmas. Never before had he deigned to pick it up.

    I've tried napping with him, in my bed, where he thinks it's fun and only for pretend, and on his floor, where I dozed for about 20 minutes and awoke to him playing with his Little People school house. I've tried just letting him watch TV during what's now "rest time," in hopes that minimal brain function and sedentary behavior will help him recharge.

    One recent day, after he rose at 4:30 a.m., I knew I had to do better. So I tricked him.

    I told him we were going to run some errands, the drive-through kind. Both kids made it through the library book drop but slumped over before we got to the bank. I steered us straight into a parking lot, where we stayed, the boys alternating snores, for an hour and 45 minutes. I relished in the quiet and finally finished my book. 
     
    There is an advantage to missing naps: Bedtime becomes a breeze. Before the big boy bed, our energetic little man would resist every step of the routine that led to his banishment to the crib. In those days, we would conquer bathing, dressing and teeth-brushing by no earlier than 8:30. Now, he's eager to do all those things and crashes voluntarily between 7:30 and 8.
     
    Trouble is, now that the crib doesn't protect him, the dark has become a scary place. An exhausted kid who's still learning to speak has trouble articulating new concepts like that, so we spent a good two weeks enduring 3 a.m. screaming, soothing him and finally letting him in our bed before we figured out his problem. One morning at 5 a.m., after he'd awoken terrified, my husband was preparing to get up with him and start a mondo pot of coffee. Then, as soon as I turned on Quinn's bedroom light, he switched off the tantrum, climbed into bed and snuggled under the covers on his own. 
     
    So now he falls asleep with a mood lamp and the door open. At least we've solved that problem. But most mornings when he wakes, he still says, "I seepy."

    Yep. Me, too. Maybe someday soon we'll both realize that the simple act of sleeping can help with that. In fact, rather than come up with a better ending, I'm going to bed.

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    Posted on: Feb 8 2012 - 12:00:00 PM
    Reliving the ridiculousness through my teenage journal
    830 Views

    My parents visited last weekend, carting with them two tubs of my high school junk that had been collecting dust in their attic. 

    In one tub sat a perfectly preserved Five Star notebook that held my most dramatic and teenagery thoughts of 1998. The funniest is a 14-page tome about meeting the Hanson brothers on a Tulsa tour stop. Although typing this for all of you gives me hives, I was a Fanson. And amid the overwrought eye-rolls at my parents, a wholesale inability to self-edit and a generous helping of naivety, I reveled in reliving a piece of my history that I'd long shelved.

    I won't make you read the whole thing, as I did my patient, loving husband. Just a couple sections. 

    July 10, 1998

    I was slowly inching toward them, my heart fluttering. Before I knew it, Mom was pushing me toward Taylor, but a security guard was blocking my path. I really felt like a moron. Finally, the security dude moved and I stood face-to-face with Taylor Hanson. ... Better looking in person even! ... The boy had a good handshake. Firm, yet still gentle. It was almost perfect. He was wearing a short-sleeved button-front shirt of predominantly red material. It was either something like paisley or checkered. I'm not sure. White shirt underneath. Black pants. Silver Dr. Marten boots. The brother had it going on!

    This part had me rolling. I mean, that description of his clothes just doesn't end. I still obsess over a few things (health, eating well, etc.), but in my biased opinion, 30-year-old me makes her subjects more worthwhile than 16-year-old me did. Hearing all this helped my husband, Will, understand a little better how I've evolved. We didn't meet until 2003. 

    "The woman that I know and love now is not the woman in that journal," he said. 

    A little back story here: My maiden name is Hanson, and a towheaded trio of tweens had performed at a family reunion a few years before this journal entry. When the brothers became famous, I did some research and learned that we shared the same great-great grandparents. So naturally, I thought I had it in me to be a famous musician, too. Maybe even tour with them. How could they deny their cousin? Squeeeeee!

    That was the dream, anyway. And I latched onto one of their aunts, making her my pen pal and eventual conduit to backstage passes. Muahahaha.

    Anyway. The journal makes clear that I was too cool to be a fangirl, despite having driven five hours to meet the band: 

    I think the way common people treat the famous ones is senseless. As soon as the three guys hit the floor, they each had a following of 15 or more people! It looked like they were being worshiped. Meanwhile, I was still in line for punch. I wasn't going to rush over so I could kiss their feet first! ...

    I finally got my punch from the grouchy woman serving it & unintentionally guzzled it. Mom & Dad were still pestering (the brothers' aunt) for bits & pieces of Hanson trivia. They were all "content" to just stand there & admire the guys from 20 feet away! I couldn't believe their cowardly ways were doing this to them. 

    I decided, screw 'em. I strutted over to Isaac. 

    I did a dramatic reading of all this for my parents last weekend. Riotous laughter happened right about here. Now that I'm grown and have children of my own, I understand what a bossypants know-it-all I was and what my parents must have put up with. In a bigger context, I can appreciate the sacrifices my parents made (road trip for a boy band concert=awesome) and how loved I felt growing up.

    Reliving those moments was sort of magical for me, and I wish there were more. I've intended to keep journals for each of my boys, as a stand-in for the traditional baby book. But since my second son was born last spring, I haven't done much writing. Reading my old ramblings is great motivation to fill in some blank pages with new memories of our family.

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    Posted on: Jan 28 2012 - 06:00:00 AM
    Tantrum in Toddler Town
    1418 Views

    I'm about to have a tantrum over my son's tantrums. 

    So I'm writing this blog and counting to 10. One ... two ... three ...

    Our story starts at Toddler Town, a hilariously named haven in Independence for the short-legged set. On Friday I scooped up my 2-year-old son, Quinn, and 8-month-old baby, Bennett, for our first trip to the indoor playground. Quinn was stoked. Bennett was, well, oblivious.

    We arrived, paid our $2 and burst into the rubber-floored gymnasium where Toddler Town happens three times a week. Quinn's jaw dropped, and Bennett clapped with glee. There were dinos to climb on, a ball pit, a play kitchen, huge blocks, trikes, a slide, a playhouse ... Hellooooo, sensory overload.

    So the three of us started modestly and claimed the play mat where a Little People firehouse and a giant bead puzzle awaited. We were having a blast.

    More kids arrived. I was busy deflecting the balls from the ball pit out of B's mouth when another mother approached and cheerfully struck up a conversation. 

    I told her it was our first time at Toddler Town, explaining that I've only been staying home with the boys since December and we're just beginning to explore these kinds of outings. She said she's expecting her second child in June and asked what it's like with two as close in age as mine -- 17 months. (Yes, I'm a smidge crazy.)

    I told her we're just now finding our normal. Bennett has fallen into our routine nicely, and Quinn is finally a little more self-sufficient, I said, glancing at him fiddling with a cabinet in the playhouse several feet away. I said it's nice that I don't have to hover as much, now that I have my arms full of baby.

    She leaned in.

    "It's the other kids I worry about," she said. Apparently, a recent visit of theirs ended abruptly when another child slapped her son, the mother nowhere to be seen.

    I expressed an appropriate amount of shock and disgust, then noticed Quinn scaling a ladder twice his height on a playset halfway across the room. I dashed after him. 

    Play continued nicely, or so I thought. Bennett was stuck with me, and every time we'd find an appropriate toy for him, Quinn would run off. And I let him.

    Then I heard his familiar gimme-that-toy grunts. There he was playing tug-of-war with a girl over a play grocery basket. I marched over, intervened and lectured him about sharing. 

    A few minutes later, it happened again, this time with the play kitchen. He's a serious chef, you see, and there's only room for one while he's hoarding grapes and corn in the fridge and fanning the oven door. This time he was shoving a boy out of the way. The boy whose mother had just warned me about "the other kids." 

    Cue dramatic music, zoom in on frazzled mom, drop ton of bricks.

    My son is one of those kids. At least today.

    I flipped to helicopter-mom mode and resumed my lecture a little more harshly, balancing Bennett on my hip. I didn't have much time to dwell on my realization, because B started grunting and tugging at my shirt. Which means, Mom, it's time to EAT. Which means, boys, it's time to LEAVE. 

    Don't tell that to a 2-year-old who's just switched to the big-boy bed and who, in his freedom, has resisted naps for five days straight. And don't think that a puny two-minute warning will mitigate the inevitable screaming, kicking, rolling-on-the-floor alter-ego that will surely emerge.

    Emerge, he did. More like gnashed his way out of my beautiful child's abdomen, a la "Alien." After a brief, hysterical time-out while all the other mothers stared, I wrestled Quinn's coat on. Poor Bennett waited patiently in front of us on his belly, one shoe off, chewing on my purse strap. Geesh, I'm so much more put together now that I don't have to work.

    People say that other mothers stare because they've been there, and they're just glad it's not their kid. But you know in your heart that they're also thinking, lady, get a hold of him. 

    The thing is, when you're mid-tantrum and your arms are full with another baby, you can't just extract the culprit and drag him out. You have to take a minute to exorcise the demon that's taken hold of your child so he can walk out on his own. I used to be able to carry them both, but 54 pounds, 33 of them thrashing, just ain't happening.

    Q eventually followed me out, sniffling. Then he surprised me, as he often does. He climbed in his car seat, peered at me with weary eyes and said in his sweetest voice, "Mom, the playground is so fun." A couple minutes later, he was out.

    The rest of the day, Q was angelic (I swear!). He ate all his lunch, we snuggled, read books and colored -- even visited a friend's house in the afternoon. No more tantrums all day.

    I keep telling myself that he just needs more practice being in public, especially around other kids. And I need more practice being in public with him, with them both at once. But how do we get to the point where others can see the Looney Tunes singing frog, the sweet boy I know him to be?
     
    Here's hoping that what they say is true: that I'm really not the only one out there facing this conundrum.

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    Posted on: Jan 21 2012 - 06:00:00 AM
    Why I became a stay-at-home mom
    2268 Views

    I'm as new to blogging as I am to staying home with my two little boys.

    Since early November, when I announced to coworkers at Ink and The Kansas City Star that I was leaving for a new venture, I've had a front seat in the working mom/stay-at-home mom debate. Debate might be the wrong word, because comments about the topic are usually hushed and non-confrontational. But every mother, nay, woman, has an opinion. 

    Mine used to be that I could never stay home. H-to-the-L no, I told my husband, Will, when he asked me if I would want to. That was in 2009, with my first son, Quinn, on the way. I'd get bored, I said. I've worked too hard to throw my career away.

    I had spent most of my life working. First in school, working to get straight A's and scholarships. Working to get out of my small town. Working until 2 and 3 a.m. at my college newspaper, then working, working, working, once I finally found someone who would pay me a salary and benefits. 

    All my life, my goals had been career-centered. I landed my first full-time job out of college as a reporter at a major metropolitan daily. After a few years, I moved into editing. In 2008 I began helping to launch Ink magazine with a handful of dedicated, fun-loving staff. At that point, work no longer seemed like work most days. 

    After I scoffed at Will, he left his stable job to pursue his own dream, helping found a startup nonprofit that relied on government grants. It didn't pay benefits, so we switched to my insurance. The grants -- and his paychecks -- always came through, but they were often late. My income provided enough cushion that we rarely worried about the discrepancies. 

    But when Quinn was born, that proverbial shift in priorities happened. As soon as those postnatal hormones kicked in, so did the tears of dread about having to go back to work. Having to leave my baby with someone else.

    We were fortunate to find a wonderful woman who would care for him during the day. She lived only three blocks away, and she would watch only my son and hers. My job was still fun, too. We laughed until our bellies hurt, got paid to come up with goofy stories and even scored free tickets to hot Ink-sponsored events around town. Most importantly, my boss was flexible and understanding of the challenges of new motherhood. 

    All those points distracted me from missing my son much during the day. But the minute the long hand on the clock hit 5:30, my self-imposed quitting time, the guilt would wash up through my legs, slam into my torso and weigh down on me as my Honda Element crept along I-70 for the 30-minute commute home. 

    I would think about all the things I was missing with my child. Would he learn to walk today? Say mama for the first time? Call her mama instead? 

    But we dealt with it. Then I had son No. 2, Bennett, last spring.

    The morning and evening routines got even crazier. Wake at 7. Diaper baby, feed baby, diaper toddler, feed toddler, shower, dress, brush teeth, diaper toddler, feed self, diaper baby, put shoes and coats on, deal with toddler tantrum, wipe noses, diaper someone, feed baby again, round up snacks for work, assemble breast pump, buckle baby into the car seat. Getting out the door, breathless, I'd schlep three or four bags and a loaded baby carrier, all while holding my 2-year-old son's hand and navigating a half-flight of steps down into the garage.

    It took no less than two hours to complete that race. Work became my reprieve, even though I knew work was partly to blame.

    At night, I would pull into the garage, drop my bags and greet my children, whom Will had picked up from daycare. Someone would be crying, either Quinn, because that's what toddlers do, or Bennett, because he was hungry. Will would toss me the parenting baton and grudgingly retreat into the kitchen to start dinner.

    About a year ago, Will changed jobs again, to one with benefits and more stability. And on my birthday last fall, he presented me with a precious gift: You can stay home, if that's what you still want. 

    I couldn't believe it. I had left the decision in his hands long before, because he would become our family's sole earner. After almost two years, he was finally ready. 

    It took me another month to work out the timing and courage to turn in my resignation. I felt sick when I told our daycare provider, effectively laying her off. She was gracious, fortunately, and our families have remained friends. I was terrified when I told my boss. I was leaving a group that had become like family. I knew that resigning would likely make their lives more difficult. There would be no guarantee that my position would be filled.

    To my surprise, the reactions I got from coworkers and friends were mostly of joy. I received lots of congratulations, as if I'd gotten a promotion or landed a new, higher-paying job. 

    I knew I was blessed to be able to move into my new role, but it took all that to realize that my new job is coveted, not scorned. It may not pay — at all — but so many women told me they would do what I'm doing if they could. And several others, ones I respect greatly in my field, told me that they, too, took yearslong breaks from work to care for their children. 

    Now that I've left work, the Metcalf family is so much more relaxed. Without the pressure to leave the house, the morning race has become more of a piddle, with fewer tantrums and time for lots of extra giggles, hugs, kisses and rounds of peekaboo. The evening routine has changed completely. I can start dinner during what would have been my workday, which means we eat earlier, the babies are happier and Will gets to spend more time with them, rather than cooking. 

    But leaving work is about so much more than relaxing our routine. It's savoring every step in these boys' development. It's being the person to introduce them to their world. It's loading up on hugs and kisses and the "I love you soooo much, Mommy" moments. It's living in the moment, embracing what makes me happiest. 

    I've got a little time to myself now during afternoon naps. The same day I took down the Christmas tree, I decided to cleanse my overcrowded bookshelf of the titles I'll never get around to reading. (One sweet perk of working for The Star is the quarterly book sale, when review copies go for $1 and hardbacks go for $3, all of which benefits charity.) Into the donate pile went "The Feminine Mistake," whose top coverline reads, "Makes absolutely clear that abandoning the workplace is not good for women."

    I'm sure the book makes good points. I'd probably agree with many of them. But while I concur that women still have a ways to go to break through ye olde glass ceiling, I also believe it's pretty great that I have the freedom to choose whether I work or stay home. 

    Sure, the boys will grow up. I'll go back to work, and I will have lost time that others spent climbing the ladder. 

    I'm not worried about that, because I'm right where I need to be. This is just one stage — maybe the best stage — of what I hope is a long, fulfilled life with no regrets.

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    Posted on: Jan 14 2012 - 06:00:00 AM
    Tags: SAHM WORK