MOTHER LOAD

Pink Mollie

2010-01-06T09:37:00.000-05:00

As I mentioned earlier this month, my 2 yr old daughter is obsessed with all things pink, to a perhaps unhealthy degree. But the horse has left the stable, or whatever it is they say, and it's a little too late for me to do much about it now. I am waving the white flag. Fighting her is hard, pleasing her is easy: she will gladly wear winter boots, as long as they are pink, so just get her the pink boots already, Mama.

Maggie loves pink so much that she is starting to use the word "pink" as a generally enhancing sort of word, whether or not it actually applies. She insists that it was a "Pink Santa" who brought her toys, despite the more popular representation of St. Nick as a red-wearing sort of fellow. She goes to "pink playschool." And when she picks up her pink cell phone, it is nearly always to have a lengthy (and imaginary) conversation with "Pink Mollie," her aunt. "I don't even LIKE pink," Aunt Mollie admitted to me, "but I like being a Pink Mollie. Sounds like a swanky cocktail."

Last night, I put Maggie in her crib and was at the door turning the light out when she said, "Mommy, you come back?"

I went back to the side of her crib. She stood up.

"I give you pink hug," she said. And she did. A pink hug, for those of you who haven't had one, isn't just ANY hug. A pink hug takes your breath away that this little creature could really be yours.

I'm going with the pink love.

airport delays and other unexpected delights

2010-01-04T14:21:00.000-05:00

We all headed to the airport yesterday morning with about 85 million other Americans, ready to pack planes and get home to Real Life, which started up again this morning at 8:25. Yesterday morning at 8:25, I was using rather extreme exhortations to get our family into the rental car so that we could all get to the airport on time for our flight. With the new security guidelines changing by the minute-- plus the fact that those traveling with small children get segregated into an even slower line-- I figured we had to hurry. We had a 90 minute drive ahead of us.

Five minutes before we arrived at the airport, I checked our flight status on my phone and saw that it had suddenly acquired a delay of an hour and fifteen minutes. My heart sank; Iam a cranky traveler and my husband is even worse. "We'll have time to get the kids a good breakfast," I told him, and we took some comfort there.

While we waited at Sam Snead's Tavern near the security checkpoint for our French toast to arrive, an ominous sign: our departure time on the screen changed from "12:30" to the much more vague "DELAYED." We worked our 21st century smart phones and deduced that our plane had not yet left the NYC area, and would have to do so-- and fly to Florida-- before we could board.

"We'll definitely get on by like, 2," David said, as we let the kids stay in the gift shop for as LONG AS THEY WANTED. They couldn't believe their good luck. Can I have a Cinnabon Mommy? Sure! Can I buy a treat at this tragically overpriced gift shop, something I will certainly lose well before we reach our final destination? Why, yes!

The kids were having a really good time. This was a revelation. They did not know that a long (and increasing) delay was supposed to be their worst nightmare. They were enjoying themselves thoroughly. As I begin 2010, the year I get happier, it was wonderful to be reminded that even an airport delay can be pleasant, with the right mindset.

Then our flight got pushed back to 3 p.m. Then 4:30. Then 5:15. "When are we going to AIRPORT?" Maggie said, wondering just how long we were going to hang out at this lame mall. The boys lay on the filthy carpet near gate C-12, watching a movie on my laptop till its battery went dead. Even their good humor began to show some signs of wear, starting when Connor gave his brother a good kick in the frank n beans for no particular reason.

My resolution changed. I was no longer going to pretend that any of us were having a good time. I was going to get home, no matter how long it took, without yelling at any of my children OR MY HUSBAND. Since none of this was their fault, either.

We finally landed at Newark Airport at 8 p.m., somehow managing to elude the lockdown that had occurred while we were in the air. All three children fell asleep on the hard metal chairs, designed expressly to prevent comfort or sleeping, while we waited 40 minutes for our checked bags. And then we were home, just a short 13 hours after we left.

Days like that suck. But the next day, they're kind of awesome. I survived, and now, I have a good story. AND I didn't yell at the kids. See? It was a day of making memories. My happiness project is working out so far.

my 2010 resolution: The Happiness Project

2010-01-01T16:16:00.000-05:00

Here's how I'm going to create a happier mother/wife/self in 2010:

I'm going to start a Happiness Project.

My friend Gretchen Rubin's new book "The Happiness Project" just hit shelves this week, and while I admittedly have not read it yet, I have my pre-ordered copy waiting for me when I get home on Sunday because, knowing Gretchen and her energy, I know it's going to be awesome.

Gretchen spent a year test-driving all the happiness advice out there, from the ancient sages to the Oprah guests of today. This book shares the wisdom she learned along the way, and on her excellent blog, she lays out her 2010 "Happiness Challenge," her toolbox of approaches, and what she is continuing to learn on her own happiness journey.

I have officially signed up for the Happiness Challenge. I resolve to be a happier person in 2010, and this thunderstormy New Year's afternoon, with three cabin-feverish children, is not giving me an easy start, but I am going to DO IT. By signing off now and giving them my undivided, loving attention. Buy Gretchen's book and let's all get happy!

a look back at 2009, and forward to 2010

2009-12-31T17:13:00.000-05:00

So, how'd you do in 2009? Did you make resolutions, and did you meet them?

My 2009 resolutions were:

-work on the muffin top, while being resigned to its probable eternal presence about my midsection

-get down on the floor and play with the kids once in a while

-stop finishing the kids' dinners

-spend more time interacting with friends in the real world than I do on Facebook

-get Maggie to sleep through the night

-take my vitamins

-more books, less DVR's

-do five Kegels. (not daily, just at some point in 2009)

Talk about setting the bar high.

Maggie sleeps through, I take vitamins regularly (now that I have switched to the kids' gummy vitamins), and I have done better at playing with the kids. The muffin top, my virtual vs. real world friend interaction, and number of books read continue to be not what I would hope.

I really could make all of these resolutions over again, year after year, but I'm going to resolve something else this time:

I resolve to be happier in 2010. Not that I'm an unhappy person. My life is full of blessings and I am grateful for them daily. But I spend more time being stressed and worried and harried than I do enjoying the moment. I'd like that to change this year.

I resolve to have greater reserves of patience and calm, to be the mother my kids deserve.

I resolve to have a sense of humor, enabling me to see the unbelievably good man that is my husband, rather than the roommate who throws his dirty socks around.

How am I going to do all that? I do have a plan. Part two tomorrow.

reader mail

2009-12-28T16:00:00.000-05:00

Today, an inquiry from a reader: "Please tell me it's normal to have to scream JUST DON'T TOUCH HIM! several times a day at reasonably full volume."

Yes, Virginia, it is.

At least I hope so, since just this morning, I announced to my two boys that 2010 was going to be the Year of Not Touching Maggie and Just Leaving Her ALONE.

I then had to explain to the boys the whole concept of New Year's resolutions. I have, through this experience, discovered it is much more rewarding to impose resolutions on others than on oneself. For Maggie, 2010 will be the Year of the Potty. The boys, as seen above. David will find 2010 the Year of Payback for Having Given Me a PajamaGram. And so on.

Keep those letters coming!

Only 364 days left

2009-12-26T14:38:00.003-05:00

As soon as Maggie woke up this morning, she asked, "Santa coming today?"
"Um, NO," I said, "he's definitely not."
"Cwistmas comin' soon?" she asked again, still hoping we had entered some new, magical reality where presents dropped from the sky by the dozen each morning.
"That's right, honey," I answered her, as we took in the scene of wrapping paper and toy chaos that is our living room. "Just 364 more days."

Christmas seems more exhausting every year, although I really do love it. The kids were all up by 6 a.m. to open their presents, and Maggie was especially taken with her "sock bag" full of candy, Fisher Price Little People, and Chap Stick (also known as "makeup.") David and I have taken oaths in the past not to buy each other anything; I think I was first to float that balloon, because he is seriously impossible to buy for. Even so, we still get each other ONE gift, just in case the other spouse does, and that seems to be how it is settling out.

Like I said, David is impossible to buy for; if you ask him what he wants, he says Gold Toe socks, which is just too depressing for me to consider. Instead, I got him a pair of Bose noise-reducing headphones, since he flies overnight to London five or six times a year. I gave them to him the weekend before Christmas this year, since we were spending that time with our extended family on his side. He seemed moderately psyched; to be honest, my brother-in-law was more excited about them, but what can you do? David then announced to all those gathered that he was "still working" on my present, which I knew, in this particular context, meant "have not begun to consider."

I told him he really didn't have to bother, that I could just get something at the post-Christmas sales for myself with a clear conscience and that would be a nice present. "I'm on it," he insisted, sneaking away to access the World Wide Web.

OK. At least I'm easy to buy for. Cute earrings, spa certificate, cashmere sweater, leather gloves. Can't go wrong with any of those, and in the past, he hasn't.

Last night, after the children were in bed, he presented me with his Christmas gift...

a PajamaGram.

I opened the purple box (as in, when I am an old lady I shall wear) and took out a pair of black and white pajamas so roomy I could have worn them 38 weeks pregnant with twins.

"I took the hint you dropped," David said, smiling.

Said "hint" was when I asked him, a few days ago, if a friend of ours had ever invested in the company. David said he didn't think so. I said that was good, since I couldn't really imagine they were selling many PajamaGrams, had he ever seen their website?

So then I'm holding the pajamas and wondering whether I should be madder at David because he 1) bought me the lamest Christmas present ever, or 2) is clearly never listening to me AT ALL.

I picked neither. I think he is still under the impression he chose well for me this holiday season, and he hardly ever reads this blog, so it will stay that way. Hey, it's not like he bought me something from the As We Change catalog. Though I must say their washable walking sneakers look both comfy and practical.

does pink stink?

2009-12-23T10:39:00.004-05:00

Lisa Belkin wrote an interesting essay this week on the nascent Pink Stinks movement in the UK. Pink Stink calls itself a "social enterprise which challenges the culture of pink which invades every aspect of girls' lives."

Before I had a daughter, I was an eye-roller at all things pink, and laughed when my sons did the same. Once I put that in print, some commenters pointed out that that was the wrong message to send: that I was telling them girls were inferior.

Oh, come on, I started to respond-- if I had two daughters instead, we'd all be snorting derisively at dinosaurs and Thomas the Tank Engine. Upon further reflection, though, I had to admit these commenters had a point. No one gets a laugh out of making fun of high school football players; cheerleaders, on the other hand, will be an easy laugh as long as SNL is on the air. "Girly girls" and the things they like are viewed as trivial, and when you pigeonhole a girly girl's interests as lame, is that not a slippery slope to saying she is lame herself? There's no such term as "boys-y boys." Even if someone says, "Boys will be boys," they are usually talking about a boy's activity level, his strength. What pink represents, what the Disney Princess represents, is the opposite of that. Which by the way was why I was such an eye-roller at the stuff in the first place. My third child, my girl, was going to be interested in none of those things.

Smash cut to two years and two months later. Maggie has never heard of Barbie or Bratz, and whenever she sees a Disney Princess, she says "Mommy dat YOU!" because she has no idea who any of them are, either. But Maggie loves pink. She LOVES pink. To the exclusion of all else. To wit:

--Maggie's favorite food is "pink bacon," which some of you may know as ham.

--Upon awaking, Maggie tells me in her two-year-old excited stammer of nightmares in which she was pursued by a "pink monster" in a pink car.

--Pajamas must be pink. Socks must be pink. Clothes have to be pink. I managed to get her red and green Christmas dress on her this week to go see Santa Claus, but only because I allowed her to complement it with her hot pink (and none-too-clean) sneakers.

--She claims that Santa will be bringing her a "pink cake" and "pink big girl underwears."

I have no idea where this came from. I have not overdone the pink in her life (her doll stroller is navy, her two coats are white and red), and we have a house full of boy toys. But Maggie thinks pink, and it is, admittedly, adorable. Santa will be bringing her a pile of presents but I suspect none will top the pink Disney Princess cell phone her babysitter gave her for Christmas last week. Maggie has been marching around with it to her ear ever since. "Yeah... you come over?... I busy. I see you yater," she says into it, rolling her eyes up and to the right as she must see me do. "She's really something," one of our neighbors said, a mother of four boys. I couldn't tell if that meant my neighbor thought my daughter, dressed in cloying, Pepto-Bismol pink with her Disney Princess cell phone, was cute, or vaguely nauseating. Before I had a daughter of my own, I would probably have been in the latter camp.

Personally I would not have bought a pink Disney Princess cell phone for my daughter. It's not the toy cell phone part I have a problem with (since my kids have broke my iphone twice), but couldn't it be black or white? Why does it have to be princess-ified? The problem is that, even if my babysitter had set out to find Maggie a toy phone that wasn't pink and sparkly, it's not like it would have been easy. As Pamela Paul pointed out in her excellent book Parenting Inc., everything marketed to children these days is overwhelmingly gender-specified, so that we will buy more stuff. (Of course Maggie can't play with Shea's old Bob the Builder cell phone; that's for boys.) Other than the obvious damage these marketing ploys do to every parent's wallet, though, I haven't been convinced that there was something wrong with Maggie loving everything pink. It was cute! I got my girl after all! See, boys and girls really are different!

But part of me now wonders if Maggie has noticed the huge reaction she gets for preferring pink, and that is what has reinforced her preference. Maybe Maggie has gotten the message that she's supposed to prefer pink above all else by some sort of advertising osmosis, and now she's going to buy into all the "girly girl" things that go along with it as the way she is ideally supposed to behave. That really would be a shame-- not if she loved pink, but if she said so because she thought she was supposed to.

What about you? Have you tried to keep the pink creep out of your daughters' toy chests and closets? Have you been successful? Do you think it even matters?

Restless Husband Syndrome

2009-12-21T11:49:00.003-05:00

I am currently suffering from RHS. Not the Tiger Woods kind of restless husband, thankfully; I have the kind who doesn't lie still in bed at night.

Around 5:30 this morning, Maggie was awake and calling down the hall, "Mommy, want to get cozy wif yoooo... in yoo bed Mommy..." Usually she makes it until after 6. But once a week or so-- and always on a morning there is no particular reason for us to be awake-- she doesn't. I can tell her "it's not light out yet," but the days are so short right now, it's also not light out when it really IS okay for her to be awake, so that's kind of confusing for a two-year-old. Even so, I am probably supposed to leave her in bed so she'll get the idea that it's not time to be awake, but this morning she was yelling loud enough to wake the neighbors (let alone her two brothers), so I brought her into bed with us.

To my pleasant surprise, she lay down right on top of me and within a few minutes was doing that tell-tale audible breathing that meant she was asleep again, or very close to it.

Then, to my left, it started.

Rustle rustle rustle.

Rustle.

Cough rustle yank covers. Roll over. Rustle.

Heavy sigh. Rustle, rustle.

I swat David with my left hand. "Shhh!" I say in the dark.
He lies still for thirty seconds or so. Then starts up again, and this time, wakes our sweetly slumbering daughter.

This has been going on in our bed for seven years now, as long as there has been a child to have in bed with us. The other morning at 4:30 a.m. it was Connor snoring on my chest. I lay there like Giles Corey, being slowly crushed by my 50-pound-plus child, but NOT MOVING, because he was asleep. My falling asleep again was out of the question, but that was all right, because my son was out. All David had to do was lie still WITHOUT a child on top of him, and we would all be fine. But he couldn't do it, and we were all up for the day at 4:50.

"I can't help it," he said this morning in the dark, sheepishly, with Maggie sitting up between us, chattering at full volume about how Santa was going to bring her a "weal" pink tiger. "I can't get back to sleep."

"How would the tossing and turning help with that?" I answered. "I don't think it's POSSIBLE to fall asleep while actually in motion."

He didn't have an answer for that. I have seen ads on TV for restless leg syndrome, but David's got more than that-- he's got a full-body case of St. Vitus' Dance.

Do you think I could still get leeches shipped Amazon Prime in time for Christmas?

women writers: take heart from Jane Austen

2009-12-15T10:25:00.005-05:00

Last week I caught A Woman's Wit: Jane Austen's Life and Legacy, an amazing exhibit on Jane Austen's life and work at the Morgan Library. If you are a writer, or an avid reader, and are in New York City between now and March, don't miss it.

I hope you will find it only a little depressing that Miss Austen died at 41 with five of the greatest novels in the English language to her name. Not that anyone really understood that then. During Austen's lifetime, the novel was a relatively new form of writing, one often dismissed as not real writing, not worth one's time. Sound familiar? In this age when any novel by a woman is in danger of being dismissed as "chick lit;" when Publishers Weekly can name its top ten books of 2009 including several books no one has heard of but without including a single female author (like, say, Byatt, or Atwood); and when the New Yorker has Jill Lepore dismissing writing about motherhood, by anyone, as "getting old," I think we women writers and mommy bloggers can take heart in Jane Austen's defense to her own contemporary critics. Thanks to The Morgan Library, which prominently posted this selection from Austen's novel Northanger Abbey:

Let us leave it to the reviewers to abuse such effusions of fancy at their leisure, and over every new novel
to talk in threadbare strains of the trash with which the press now groans. Let us not desert one another; we are an injured body. Although our productions have afforded more extensive and unaffected pleasure than those of any other literary corporation in the world, no species of composition has been so much decried. Our foes are almost as many as our readers. And while the abilities of the nine-hundredth abridger of the History of England, or of the man who collects and publishes in a volume some dozen lines of Milton, Pope, and Prior... are eulogized by a thousand pens--there seems almost a general wish of decrying the capacity and undervaluing the labour of the novelist, and of slighting the performances which have only genius, wit, and taste to recommend them. "I am no novel-reader--I seldom look into novels--Do not imagine that I often read novels--It is really very well for a novel." Such is the common cant. "And what are you reading, Miss--?" "Oh! It is only a novel!" replies the young lady, while she lays down her book with affected indifference, or momentary shame. "It is only Cecilia, or Camilla, or Belinda"; or, in short, only some work in which the greatest powers of the mind are displayed, in which the most thorough knowledge of human nature, the happiest delineation of its varieties, the liveliest effusions of wit and humour, are conveyed to the world in the best-chosen language.

Pen and ink drawing by Isabel Bishop (1902–1988) of a scene from Pride and Prejudice. Taken from Morgan Library's website.

hug your toddlers today

2009-12-15T09:39:00.002-05:00

Sad news to report this morning: fellow mother/writer Shellie Ross has lost her 2 yr old son, Bryson, after he drowned in their backyard pool.

Shellie's family had lived in this home for less than three weeks. She turned her back for one moment. He was gone.

I don't know Shellie, but Twitter is lit up this morning about her and her family's tragedy. A few Twitter users saw fit to tell her she should not have turned her back on him, she should not have left him alone, this was her fault. As if that were what she needed to hear. As if this couldn't have happened to any of us. As a result, many (thousands) more are writing her to offer her words of support and sympathy.

If you would like to send Shellie a message, you can find her on Twitter at @military_mom. You can also send her a note to this address:

Shellie Ross
c/o Trisha Haas
5359 cimaron court
theodore, al 36582

To make all of this worse, her husband is away right now (serving in the miltary). She needs all the support she can get, especially from other mothers. We are the only ones who can begin to understand how quickly something like this could happen, and the depths of pain she must feel today.

Hug your kids. Life is precious.

Christmas carols, of a sort

2009-12-14T11:50:00.002-05:00

My kids are fully into the holiday season and are belting out Christmas carols day and night. I have been requesting "The Friendly Beasts," which they will sing at their school's pageant this year for the fourth year in a row. It's the perfect song for angelic children's voices.

Jesus, our brother, kind and good,
Was humbly born in a stable rude,
And the friendly beasts around Him stood,
Jesus, our brother, kind and good.

It's even cuter when, as during the pageant, the kids are wearing white socks on their hands and little fleecy sheep ears.

But the boys' favorite song for Christmas 2009 is

I'm Mister Heat Miser!
I'm Mister Sun!
I'm Mister Green Christmas!
I'm Mister Hundred and One!

and so on.

The Heat Miser, of course, first made his appearance in the 1974 Christmas special "The Year Without a Santa Claus," but you may have missed the remake from last year, "A Miser Brothers' Christmas." If you in fact did miss it, please feel free to continue doing so, since it pales in comparison to the original. While the boys thorougly enjoyed it, the only part I can recommend is when Mrs. Claus sings to the Miser Brothers that "brothers should respect each other/ brothers should be friends." "Hear THAT?" their father said. "Mrs. Claus says you two have to get along," and then he and I giggled for ten minutes at the utter ridiculousness of that idea.

Maggie's favorite song is "Jingle Bells," a classic anyone can get behind. Unfortunately, because she has two other brothers, she has learned the alternate version of the lyrics first, in which the Batmobile loses a wheel and the Joker gets away; and no matter how many times I attempt to gently redirect her, she likes to get in enclosed spaces like elevators and waiting rooms and then belt out, for strangers,

Jingle Bells!
Batman smells!
Robin laid an egg!

and so on, in her little, angelic Christmas voice. Ah, well. It's memorable.

But Honey, I Really DIDN'T Hear The Baby Cry

2009-12-12T15:56:00.004-05:00

My mother calls it "father's ear." I used to call it a big lie. Turns out my husband really was asleep. According to a new study of sleep patterns commissioned by a British maker of cold medicines for the MindLab Institution, "while a baby's sobbing is the number one sound most likely to wake up a woman, it doesn't even figure in the male top ten."

The study set out to measure how many people are woken up by a partner's coughing or sneezing. To their amazement, they found that a man would probably be woken up by both of those things, as well as a car alarm, howling wind, chirping crickets, sirens, the ticking of a clock, or the buzzing of a fly, well before he would be woken up by the midnight howls of his own flesh and blood.

I first heard this news on my favorite podcast, NPR's Wait Wait... Don't Tell Me!, where the host, Peter Sagal, concluded, "This study will come as no surprise to women with babies. Or babies. Or men." He did have a solution for mothers, however:

Here is some advice for mothers who want their husbands, for once, to get up with the baby: attach the child to a car alarm. Or a cricket. That works.

2009-12-10T10:57:00.001-05:00

Shop here today for your Christmas gifts and support the Mayhew family!

why Twitter is worth your time

2009-12-09T19:14:00.004-05:00

I sincerely apologize for my recent absence from this blog. My copyedited manuscript was due back to the publisher today, and I spent the last week hunkered down with it and hiding from all my obligations, including a couple hundred Christmas cards and ten little cousins to buy gifts for.

And so I abandoned my work here for the moment, but managed to check in once or twice a day on my nascent Twitter account. I've only been tweeting for a month or two, and I'm still trying to figure out the jargon and how to talk like the cool kids. For a while, I was one of the Twitter Eye Rollers (as in, way too busy for THAT time suck), and now that I have dipped my toes in its waters, I find I am already an ambassador for it, explaining to my husband's work acquaintances or the other moms at pre-K dropoff what it's all about. Trust me, I don't really know. But I have already come to understand that Twitter can be a first-line source of most useful information, and a way to be part of something larger than yourself.

Some of the mother/writers that I follow on Twitter started ending all their tweets with "#prayersforanissa" last week. My first instinct was: I don't know who Anissa is, I don't need to, following this clique is not a good use of my time. But eventually, my curiosity got the better of me. I clicked on Anissa's name, and found there a story that could stop your heart.

Anissa Mayhew is a 35-year-old mother of three, a funny cool and bad-ass woman who blogs about her family life and in particular her daughter Peyton's battle with leukemia as a toddler. Anissa's family just celebrated the one-year anniversary of Peyton's last chemo.

On November 17th, Anissa called her husband from a restaurant to say she wasn't feeling right and they were calling an ambulance. She then suffered two severe strokes, and considerable bleeding in her brain.

Since then, her husband has taken over her blog, at hope4peyton.org, and is posting updates about Anissa and her progress. There are small, but real, reasons to be hopeful: a squeezed hand; a raised eyebrow when the nurse asks Anissa how she's feeling today. For this Anissa's husband, Peter, thanks the thousands of people around the world who do not know Anissa, but because they read about her on Twitter, are praying for her.

It does not seem fair, my own husband says, that all of that shittiness should be heaped on one family. I do agree. It's hard to know what God is thinking here. But you can help by praying for Anissa, and even better, you can do your Christmas shopping on December 10th at aiminglow.com, where sixty plus stores are offering their wares for the day with up to thirty percent of the proceeds going to the Mayhew family.

You can follow Anissa Mayhew's progress on Twitter at anissamayhew. You can follow me at amywilsonwriter. My point: Twitter just may be worth your time.

wordle: wow.

2009-11-30T20:00:00.002-05:00

How have I not known about Wordle until today?

I just visited the blog of someone who has found me here, a woman who goes by "Patois" and blogs at Whee! All the Way Home (check it out) and who has finished a 50,000 word novel in one month. Not bad. Anyway, thanks, Patois, for turning me on to this awesome site, which will take any block of text that you submit- a term paper, a blog, a Dear John letter- and turn it into art.

I Wordled the first chapter of my book, at left, and I think the results are frame-worthy. And illuminating. Good thing I didn't know about Wordle when I was actually writing, though, or I may never have finished.

flying the less friendly skies

2009-11-30T10:48:00.003-05:00

After flying solo with the three kids last week, I think Lynn Harris may have gotten it right in Salon: Everyone Hates Mommy.

I have flown with the kids on my own a bunch of times, and I must say they are excellent and seasoned travelers. The boys know they want Channel 42 on JetBlue as soon as they sit down; Maggie is ready with her pink-frosted animal crackers order as soon as she sees the flight attendant coming. It has been about six months since I flew with the kids, though, and I noticed a definite chill in the air compared to trips past.

The first sign of trouble was the new dedicated "family line" at security. Ostensibly, this is for travelers who need "extra assistance," although none is provided. OK, I know some traveling families are clueless, and need "extra time" (read: a clue). But not us. My kids and I are pros: as we approach the security checkpoint, even the two-year-old gets her own shoes off while I whip out my laptop and Ziploc bags. We slow no one down. This time, though, we had to stand there holding our shoes for ten minutes while the dad in front of us tried repeatedly to push his son, in his stroller, through the metal detector. Repeated exhortations from the TSA agent that the stroller would have to be folded went ignored, since, well, neither of the child's parents knew how to do that. Were I not herding three increasingly impatient young children, I would have just done it myself, but since I could not, I watched the people behind me when they presented their photo ID far, far in the distance, breezing off to their gates.

Putting all the families in one line, and doing nothing to help expedite that line, just stinks, in my opinion. Far better to have a dedicated line for "I Have Not Flown Since 9/11," and another, express line, reading "I (and my children) Do This All the Time." The way it stands now, despite our extreme efficiency, we had to run for our plane.

My kids were great on the plane, as always, and the only real problem was when we were all getting ready to deplane and I realized that I could not carry my laptop/backpack, our enormous carryon of books, toys, diapers, and snacks, Maggie's car seat/stroller (that cannot fit down the newly narrowed airplane aisles), AND Maggie. I used to stick Maggie in the sling and manage it all, but she's two now. And a nice flight attendant helped me carry one of these bags on, but she wasn't around. Maggie had to walk off the plane herself, behind her brothers, me bringing up the rear. At first she was, understandably, hesitant. "Go ahead, sweetie!" I coaxed, a little desperately, so we wouldn't piss off the people behind us. At that, she broke into a sudden run for the jetway doors.

Two flight attendants watched her run toward the large-ish gap between the airplane and the jetway, large enough for her to fall partially into. "Watch your step," they said. She, being TWO, did not understand what they were getting at. "Watch your step," the other said, about five percent louder, at which point I did one of those superhuman mom things and found a third hand to grab her by the scruff of the neck just as she was about to fall into the hole.

Maybe this isn't mother-hate, exactly, but I ask you this:

1) If this were a dad struggling off the plane with his kids' stuff, would these same flight attendants not be falling all over themselves to help?

2) If this were an elderly person about to trip and fall over the same step, would the flight attendants have kept filing their nails, or would they have quickly rendered assistance?

3) If there is a chance of a child injuring herself by falling partially into that hole-- or God forbid, all the way through-- would not the airline want to prevent that, if there was an easy step they could take to assist?

The snarky trolls out there, fanning the flames, could well see this post and say "Who asked you to breed? Stay home if you can't handle them!" To which I would say, actually, I did handle them, without any assistance, actually, and will continue to do so. I just wonder if this slackening of courtesy means anything.

Santa is watching

2009-11-26T20:11:00.002-05:00

As soon as Thanksgiving week arrives, I call open season on the whole "I think I just saw an elf peeking in the window!" thing. I will use this tactic to improve my children's behavior shamelessly, and endlessly, from now until Christmas Day. I only wish that I could hold the whole "Santa is watching" trope, and his imminent arrival, over my kids' heads for the other eleven months a year.

I have been a little sad this November because Santa is on the endangered list in our house. Connor is in first grade, and I swear to God, if I hear one more of his classmates at the bus stop mouthing off to the other youngsters that there's no such thing as Santa, I'm going to lose it. I figured it out by the time I was 6, so I have been accepting that Connor has moved beyond it. But Seamus is TOO YOUNG to overhear this bus stop gossip, and I am too dependent on the Santa threat to lose it just yet. Plus, this is the first year Maggie understands the whole Santa thing in the first place.

Anyway. We are in Florida this week, on a little Thanksgiving getaway, and hanging out by the pool while the turkey browns inside is a pretty nice way to do things, I must say. Maggie was really cranky about something or other yesterday morning, though, and I was not feeling the holiday spirit; she was working my last nerve. That was when I looked out the back window and saw a man with a white beard putting bug spray all over the bushes.

"Oh my goodness, is that Santa outside?" I squealed.

The three kids ran out on the back porch to investigate. "Mom. Is that REALLY Santa?" Connor whispered to me, and I gave him a wink and a smile and a mouthed "No." Silly. He was an exterminator, obviously. This was just to get Maggie off topic.

Connor peered at him through the deck railings, then nodded to himself. "His belly is a little small. But I'm pretty sure it's really him," he said.

This was a shocker. I was certain Connor had stopped believing, and was just keeping up appearances on the off chance it WASN'T me buying all the presents under the tree. I had to spin my own opinion back to the side of plausibility. "Well, if it WERE Santa," I hedged, "it would sure be a good disguise. No one would ever expect to see him looking like that. Plus, it's a good way to peek inside all the houses in this neighborhood."

The man finished, and saw us all watching him intently as he turned to leave. "Y'all have a good Thanksgiving," he said, and departed with his spraying tool. It was not until he turned to go that I saw his yellow-ish ponytail, hanging halfway down his back. It had about fifteen ponytail holders on it, at closely-spaced intervals. It was not, shall we say, a Santa look.

"That was DEFINITELY him," Connor breathed. "Bye, Santa!" Maggie called after him, and I was only moderately embarrassed. Hey, I've gotten two relatively blissful days of good behavior ever since. Thanks, Santa!

symptoms chart: H1N1 vs flu vs plain old cold

2009-11-23T19:56:00.002-05:00

Saw this on twitter. No idea if it's factual but I hope it is, because if so it's extremely useful.

why the mother hate?

2009-11-23T13:40:00.005-05:00

There's a great article up on salon.com by Lynn Harris (an old college friend): Everybody Hates Mommy. Lynn's POV is that there's an increasing intolerance-- OK, hate-- towards mothers, and mothering, and all the "space" we are supposedly taking up that belongs to other people. Oy, Lynn, I am with you, though for me, it's more about the eye-rolling. I attended a book launch party last week, hosted by a parenting website, and this guy turns to me at the bar and says, "So, what're you? A mommy blogger?" Mere italics cannot really get across the dripping-with-revulsion vibe he gave this particular term. I said, "Um, yes, actually, and I'm very good at it."

I mean, are you kidding me? This was for a parenting book, hosted by a parenting website. Parenting websites would have nothing to print if they dismissed all "mommy bloggers" out of hand. If you don't like mom blogs, don't read them, but seriously, don't give me attitude in a room that was crawling with mothers who write. Why did this guy think that was OK?

Read Lynn's article. I hear the hate baiters are out in full force on the comments section, so I'm skipping that part... I can't enjoy them anymore ever since the crazy hose was turned on me full blast back in April. (I mean I read YOUR comments, of course, but usually, no one is telling me that my children-- then 6, 4, and 1-- should put me in a home.)

How about you? Do you think there is increasing disdain and impatience for mothers? Is it merely a backlash to our increasing volume on the internet, or is there more going on?

(photo taken from salon.com article)

house rules

2009-11-21T13:18:00.010-05:00

A few weeks ago, at utter wits' end with my squabbling children, I sentenced them to sit down and write some house rules which we would post in our kitchen, to peruse at mealtimes. To my surprise, this was not really a punishment. The boys have taken to this idea with great gusto, add to it freely, and at this point, the rules have taken over half our kitchen.

Here, now, our House Rules.

No Teasing. Note the sad face of the person being teased, at bottom.

No Biting. Note the blood.

No Pulling on Shirts. Too many stretched-out collars around here. And, oh yeah, the possibility of strangulation.

No TV till 6:30. This is counterintuitive, but if the kids can't put the TV on while it's still dark outside, they might actually stay in bed. Note the cable box reading "6:02" and the large NO.

Do Not Take Things Out of Maggie's Hand. We're getting a little specific here, but if that rule were followed there'd be a lot less bloodcurdling screaming around here.

Really, though, if you're going to follow any rule at all, stick with this one.

No Drilling Your Sister.

Words to live by.

another milestone in Seamus' life

2009-11-20T15:40:00.004-05:00

I suppose there are two ways you know your son is a man: one, when he comes home married; and two, when his training wheels come off.

Please excuse me while I sniffle a bit at how grown up my baby boy is.

The sad part is, in my rush to post Seamus' marriage updates, I totally forgot about this significant- and actual- milestone in his little life. Aunt Mollie just came over, and when she asked Shea if he had news (still trying to pump him for more wedding details), he said "Oh yeah! I can wide my bike wifout twaining wheels now!"

His wife? The wedding? Hello, two DAYS ago.

an arranged marriage, part two

2009-11-19T12:12:00.002-05:00

I have at least one reader who has begged me for more information on Seamus' wedding and just how it went down. My five year old came home from pre-K yesterday and told me he was "married to Elizabeth." He showed me one of my ponytail holders around his upper arm, as proof of his pledged fidelity. And then refused to give me a single other detail.

I kept trying different angles, all through bath and dinner and teeth-brushing, and have managed to glean the following additional information:

Q: Whose idea was it?

A: Seamus' idea, because his friend Colin had a wife too, Sophia, and Seamus wanted in on the action.

Q: Did you have a wedding?

A: No.

Q: Did you ask Elizabeth to marry you?

A: No.

Q: So how do you know that you're married?

A: Because during free play I said to her, "What're you doing, wife," and she answered, "Cleaning."

Seamus decided he would take a wife, and when he called Elizabeth "wife" in his mumbly, shy voice, she didn't expressly contradict him, so that means they're married. Plus, she likes to clean.

It's all very caveman. Or Mormon splinter sect. Or something.

I was anxious to see them together at dropoff this morning, but Seamus assiduously avoided eye contact and stuck to the Play-Doh table.

That's all I have for now... if there's an afternoon update I will be sure to post it!

an arranged marriage

2009-11-18T16:27:00.004-05:00

This afternoon my son told me, after much giggling with his friend who is over to play, that he had news. I was a mother-in-law.

SEAMUS: Mommy, I am married to Elizabeth!

He and his friend fell into a pit of giggles.

Seamus is five. Elizabeth is in his class. Some of the faster girls in pre-K talk about boyfriends and stuff, but from Seamus, a boy, this announcement was a little unexpected.

MOMMY: How did you get married to Elizabeth, Shea?

SEAMUS: At school.

MOMMY: Does Elizabeth know that you're married?

SEAMUS: Um. I don't know. Want to see my married arm band?

He pushed up his sleeve to show me one of my black hair elastics, which my kids all call "Mommy's bracelets" because I am rarely without one around my wrist. It was around his bicep, and come to think of it, had been there since last night.

I have been pushing for a few more details, but am not having success. In typical Seamus fashion, my son has dropped a total bomb on me and refuses to discuss it further. Long time readers will recall that this has been going on ever since he told me that he touched a poop at camp two summers ago, and then blew a gasket whenever I tried a follow-up question. I'm still up at night sometimes thinking about that one.

Seamus' bombshells without details will be a real problem for me down the road. I can just picture him as a sullen teenager, walking in from school and saying something, oh, like

SEAMUS: Mom. I'm married to Elizabeth.

or even

SEAMUS: Mom. I touched a poop at school.

and then walking away, leaving me to piece the story together. It will be even more unsettling coming from a 17-year-old, I imagine.

Elizabeth's mother was Seamus' nursery school teacher, so I can say my son has chosen well. Maybe Elizabeth is less stingy with the color commentary. I'll let you know what her mom says.

wild toddler: future criminal?

2009-11-17T11:02:00.003-05:00

This morning, via The University of Pennsylvania, something new for us to worry about: toddlers who are afraid of nothing are more likely to be wearing orange jumpsuits as grownups.

According to the results of this study, published in HealthDay, "poor fear conditioning" in a small child may be due to a dysfunction of the amygdala in the brain, which, if left untreated, can lead "to an inherent intrepidness and disregard for the law."

I had never considered that my boys' chandelier-swinging might be the result of a brain dysfunction. I just figured, when Seamus had stitches four times before his fourth birthday, that he was being a typical boy. This study makes total sense, when I stop and think about it: of course fearless kids become fearless adults. I just never knew fearlessness was something, in itself, for me to fear.

Parents should "enhance the amygdala," this study recommends, with nutrition, exercise, and cognitive stimulation. No need for us to, you know, worry needlessly. As psychiatrist Dr. Elissa P. Benedek pointed out:

Addressing parental concerns, Benedek added: "Don't be discouraged if your child has early brain dysfunction. It doesn't mean that he or she is going to grow up and be a criminal."

Thanks, Dr. Benedek, for trying to make us feel better. But I'm a little stuck on the "early brain dysfunction" part. Off to enhance some amygdalae.

OK, one more Maclaren post

2009-11-17T10:55:00.002-05:00

Interesting article here on why the Maclaren recall has hit us NYC moms harder than most. I am quoted within:

Finger-Chopping Stroller Frazzles City Moms

By the way, I haven't received my hinge covers yet. Have you?