Keeping Up With The Joneses

It's back to school time around here, the leaves are changing and the air is developing a crisp edge. It's time to put on the new fall clothes. It's time to pick out a new Spider-man backpack.

It's time to be judged.

When our oldest son was just 2, my husband and I enrolled him in a local preschool program. We thought it would be a great way to get him to interact with other kids his age and help prepare him for the inevitable sibling. D's class met once a week for one hour and a parent or guardian had to accompany him. When I call the class controlled chaos I am being generous.

We're talking about a dozen or so 2 year olds let loose in a large room. Now add a dozen or so neurotic parents. Mix well and garnish with judgement.

The first 45 minutes of the class was "free" time. There were tables with 2 or 3 projects for the children (parents) to complete and an activity table full of dried rice or corn and shelves full of toys.

During this time I am coaxing D to complete projects when all he wants to do is play with the toy cars. In the meantime little Olivia Over-Achiever completes her third project because she actually USES the glue stick instead of trying to EAT it. Say hello to the next Georgia O'Keefe.

The last 15 minutes of the class is "circle" time. A delightful torture for all the parents but especially if your child is Adam ADHD or Amanda Aspbergers. Here the kids play "Ring Around The Rosy" and sing other songs. You pray your child will participate and not behave like the next Ted Kaczinski.

The "teacher" takes "roll" by asking each child a question loosely related to the projects they were supposed to have completed. You know your child knows the answer. You know that your child is smart - smarter than Olivia Over-Achiever. You don't want your child pigeon-holed at such an early age for being shy. For a brief period you wish that you were Edgar Bergen and your child is Charlie McCarthy.

As time goes on, D becomes accustomed to the routine and the real fun (judging) begins. Let's meet the parents.

With only 1 or 2 exceptions I am the oldest parent. At this point I had not yet turned 30. The rest of the parents had graduated High School some time after I'd gotten married. For several of them the 2 year old in this class was not their FIRST child.

Their parenting styles cover the spectrum. There were the ones I couldn't help but envision sitting on the porch with a cigarette in one hand and a Pabst in the other screaming at Mikey Mullet to stop wasting ammo on squirrels because they were having coon for dinner. There were others who looked as if they'd walked out of an Abercrombie & Fitch ad with their co-ordinated child in tow. Toddlers are a better accessory than a Dooney & Bourke bag but they don't hold as much. Then there was the mom who sat and texted the entire HOUR while her poor son ran around trying to grasp a nanosecond of her attention by acting out and picking fights with the other 2 year olds. It's ONE hour of your day. Turn off your phone - you're not THAT important. Give your child what he needs most - YOU.

It all begins so early.

The end of October brought our first class party and the holiday bags that parents are asked to bring a treat for. I'm excited.

Then I get the 4 page list.

Nothing can be home-made for the party. No fresh-baked cookies. No cupcakes with tombstones made out of Milano cookies. No "dirt" pudding with a shovel to dish it out. Everything must be prepackaged.

But that's not all.

The treats for the treat bags cannot be anything that contains nuts or peanut butter. They cannot be anything that was made or processed or packaged in a facility that makes, processes or packages nuts or peanut butter. They cannot be anything that is made, processed or packaged in a facility where someone once said the word "nuts" or "peanut butter".

Have you ever read the backs of prepackaged foods? Finding something outside of the above mentioned list is an arduous task. It's a laugh-riot scavenger hunt. EVERYTHING is made, processed or packaged in a facility where someone at some point once whispered the word "nuts" or "peanut butter".

Pretzels, cheesy crackers, animal crackers, the list goes on. To be fair there are some brands that are nut and peanut butter free, but that list is short.

So after what seems like an eternity scanning all of the possibilities at my local price club I strike gold.

Kellogg's Rice Krispie Treats.

No one has ever thought the word "nuts" or "peanut butter" within a 10 mile radius of that facility. I am elated. Being only 2, D hadn't been exposed to many sweet, treaty things. I know he will love this and so will the other kids. Plus the mess factor is relatively low (slightly sticky fingers) as is the choke hazard.

With my prize in hand I take D to his first Halloween party at school. He happily sticks the shiny blue packages into the bags with the construction paper Jack O'Lanterns. We dine on cheese and crackers and Jell-O jigglers (all pre-packaged). At the end of the hour we take our over-stuffed treat bag home.

Tootsie rolls, Laffy Taffy, gummie bears, SweeTarts, every conceivable choking hazard is inside - but none manufactured in a nut or peanut butter facility. Plus spider rings, erasers and pencils. Over half of the bag is taken up by other, smaller treat bags stuffed full of this junk. All labeled "To my friend from Olivia Over-Achiever (or Shane Show-Off or even Mikey Mullet)".

They're 2!!!

They've finally gotten their teeth in and already we're trying to rot them out! The only thing D knows to do with the erasers and rings is to stick them in his mouth. He can't read the label that tells him who gave him this stuff. What is REALLY going on here?

Out of the entire bag the only thing that D can eat is the treat that we brought and a bag of cinnamon bear crackers. The rest sits in a bowl on the counter for my husband and I to loot.

As the next party rolls around the process begins again...with the same result.

And I torture myself. Do I keep up with the Joneses? Do I purchase meaningless crap that the children don't need and can't use just so my child won't be judged?

It's a delicate balance we have to walk. Trying to be a parent that isn't a social liability while still making sure your child won't compulsively follow the crowd isn't easy.

We make sure everything is labeled for the appropriate child - not to the generic "my friend". I can take 5 minutes out of my day to copy the names of the kids in his class from off of their lockers. We make sure we get something nice and useful, but not over the top.

We remember that this is about the kids and NOT the parents.

I am laying down arms because this is a war I cannot win. I can't please all the parents, all the time. I can only be the best parent I can be to MY children and ensure they have a happy childhood full of quality time with their parents and family. That doesn't mean I have to make origami gift baskets full of the "it" toys and candy for every kid in the elementary school.

I'll leave that job to the Joneses.

The Wizard of Mom - The Great and Powerful Fraud

Remember when you were a young child and every hurt and heartache could be mended by the judicious application of your mom's kiss?

My mom tells a story of me as a young toddler (maybe 18 months) running to her and begging her to "kiss my butt, Mommy". As mouthy as I was growing up (and still am, who am I kidding?), it did not begin this early. Apparently I had fallen quite hard on my tush and required immediate medical relief. Enter mom's kiss. (Thank you, Mom, for humoring me in my hour of need.) Pain was vanquished and all was again right in the world.

Flash forward 25 years or so. Now I'm the mom. Now my kiss can soothe any injury.

Or can it?

When my oldest son was just under a year old I had my first real experience with the helplessness a mom can truly feel. Since the early years of our marriage my husband and I have owned a travel trailer and enjoy camping in our state parks. The year D was born we upgraded to a slightly larger model to accommodate the requisite Pack-and-Play and the other child(ren) we were planning to have.

We were camping with our best friends, Joe, who is a nurse and Kris, who is a teacher. My husband and Joe decided to go golfing. I was tidying up the RV before venturing out with Kris and D. I was at the sink, next to the trailer door, washing the dishes. It was a beautiful summer morning so the the outer door was left open but the screen door was shut. D crawled up to the door and proceeded to stand up against the screen door.

My heart stopped because I knew what was going to happen. I also knew, that even though I was but one step away, I wasn't going to make it in time.

D's body weight was too much for the screen door latch and out the door he tumbled.

I arrived at the door in time to watch my son roll down the metal steps, off the concrete pad and onto the grass of our campsite.

I now know what my primal scream sounds like and frankly, I NEVER want to hear it again.

I hold my breath and wait for him to move or make a sound. Is he dead? Is his neck broken? Is he bleeding?

The wails begin.

I was never happier to hear that sound.

Then he begins to move.

Thank God, no broken neck.

I spring into action, scooping him into my arms and doing the only thing I can think of - I kiss him.

I grab my cell phone and hope to God that my husband's also has reception.

"Hello?"

"D-D-D-D just f-f-f-fell out of the t-t-t-trailer!"

"What?!?"

"D-D-D-D just f-f-f-fell out of the t-t-t-trailer!"

"We'll be right there."

I rock and kiss my child while crying hysterically. After what seems like a year (and in actuality was probably only a minute and a half) my husband and Joe arrive.

I'm sitting on the bed, still hysterical while D is content in my lap.

Joe gives D the once over, ensuring that D's pupils are functioning properly before he and my husband begin laughing at me.

Thankfully the event had more of an impact on me than on my son. It also had an impact on our trailer in the form of a shiny new gate.

And I wondered "what if?"

What if it had been worse? What if he had landed differently? What if it had been more than my kiss could handle?

This week I had another brush with my fallibility as a mother.

I took the kids to a play date with a couple of the other moms from D's preschool. We decided to try something new and met at a different playground than usual. There were more swings for the kids and new equipment to climb on.

D decides he wants to drive the "jeep" - a metal framework painted red that slightly resembles a Wrangler. I'm relegated to the backseat while one of the other moms gets to ride shotgun. G is toddling around right next to us.

Then I see it.

A yellow insect flying around my baby's face.

Those of you that know me, know that I have an inordinate fear of bees, wasps, yellow jackets, etc. This did not matter. It was flying around MY baby and it was going to be ON like Donkey-Kong. IF I could get there in time.

Before I can hop over the bar to rescue my progeny from the hymenopteran (thanks, Filecia!), G moves his head just right. He begins to cry.

My heart stops.

My brother is allergic to bee stings and when I was about 3 I was stung by some type of insect and became violently ill. In need of epinephrine ill. Can still remember the sensation of my insides feeling like they were climbing the walls ill. See where the fear comes from?

I swoop in to investigate the damage.

Thank God the other moms were there for support.

I see no stinger, but there is a tiny, rosy spec that looks like the size of a hypodermic needle injection site. I assume this is ground zero.

I cradle and kiss G while trying to keep my cool. If something bad is going to happen, it will most likely happen in the next 20 minutes or so. I apply a cold soda can to the offended area for as long as G will let me (about 2.4 seconds, unfortunately). Then I give him some milk.

And again I wondered "what if?"

What if he is allergic to whatever stung him? What if he goes into anaphylaxis? What if my kiss can't cure this?

My husband and I try not to react too much to minor bumps and bruises. We obviously care about our children's well-being but we also want our children to understand the difference between minor scrapes and major injuries. We have a "Is anything broken or bleeding?" philosophy. We try to put their hurts into perspective for them.

It also helps us too.

We know in the scope of their lives they're going to encounter pains and hurts. We know that we're not going to be there to fix all of them. We try to prepare them as we prepare ourselves for the inevitable.

Our kisses will not cure everything - no matter how much we may wish it so.

And then I started thinking about "The Wizard of Oz". That giant green head wreathed in flames with the booming voice. The one who could grant the scarecrow a brain, the tinman a heart and (my personal favorite, RIP Bert Lahr) the lion his courage. All roads led to his kingdom.

The great and powerful. The omnipotent and omnipresent. The fearsome and all mighty.

The fraud.

Remember when Toto discovers the pudgy old man behind the velvet curtain controlling the illusion?

When will that day come for me as a parent?

Will I be ready?

Even now, although I know she can't cure everything, there are still days when I crave my mom's comfort. When I want nothing more than to be wrapped in the cocoon of her unconditional love. When I want nothing more than to look up and see that giant green head wreathed in flames even though I know she's really just a pudgy old man behind a drape.

When will the day come that I am no longer the giant green head wreathed in flames for my own children? When will they realize that my kiss is not a panacea? When will they finally notice the pudgy old dude at the controls?

It is my hope that that day is long off. It is my hope that when they DO realize this that their troubles are easily solved by a degree, a watch or a kick-ass pair of shoes. It is my hope that the Wizard of Mom never has to take on the real wicked witches of this world - leukemia or brain tumors or incurable/inoperable diseases. It is my fervent hope that like Dorothy, my children will hold the power to cure their ailments within themselves. That their buckets of water are always full. That there somehow is power to my kiss and that they've stored it up inside of them for those rainy days.

It is my dream that I really am the Wizard of Mom and can place my kids in a balloon and take them over the rainbow and away from their troubles. That every yellow brick road my kids travel down is under my jurisdiction. That if the wicked witches do show up I can drop a house on them. That my power to heal is more than just my unending love and their belief.

That my kiss is not a fraud.

The Mom Mind - Meet Filecia and Filene

For some reason, I've always had this vision of my brain as a giant warehouse full of file cabinets. All my memories, thoughts, ideas, beliefs, etc. are put into neatly marked folders and filed in the appropriate cabinet. Obviously, there are folders that are used more than others and that are of more importance than others. These belong in the giant red file cabinet, so they do not get misplaced. A few of these files are left open because they are continually in use. Like breathing.

The retrieval of this information is performed by a teenaged girl on roller skates (think Sonic, or, more aptly, those drive-in restaurants in 50s movies). I call her Filecia and she, of course, has a pony tail and chews bubble gum. Since Filecia has to be working around the clock, everyday of the year, she has to have backup. I call the backup Filene.

I cannot tell them apart.

They're twins. I don't know who is working what shift, or for how long, and Heaven help me if one of them has recently broken up with a boyfriend because all sorts of folders get lost or the wrong one gets pulled out of the cabinet.

On good days I assume that all is well with Filecia (or Filene). She got a good night sleep and ate her Wheaties and is skating up and down those aisles like a champ. I am at status quo and everything is functioning on an acceptable level.

On those days when I am "ON" and can pluck the most arbitrary fact out of thin air, I assume that maybe Filene came to work a little early and I've got two skaters attempting to make the heat for the Olympic speedskating trials. It's like my recall borders on precognition. I really like those days, they make me think I wouldn't make a complete fool of myself on "Jeopardy".

Of course there are the days when Filecia oversleeps or Filene has a hangover or one of them got dumped by their doofus boyfriend. Then, files don't get pulled as quickly and too many things get stuck "on the tip of my tongue". I get really annoyed on those days because I know that file is in there and I have no way to get it out. I can't put on skates and chase down those little twits because even on bad days they skate better than I ever could.

Those days, however, are nothing in comparison to pregnancy.

As if Filecia (or Filene) didn't have enough to contend with, let's add some pregnancy hormones, shall we? Suddenly the aisles of the warehouse have become an obstacle course. At any time the route of the file from cabinet to processing center can be sidelined by Filecia (or Filene) slipping in a puddle of some pregnancy hormone. Down she goes on her keister and up in the air flies the file.

There's really nothing like sitting in a boardroom with the Vice-President of your company and completely forgetting what you're saying. In the middle of the sentence.

Thanks Filecia!

Now comes the hard part. People will tell you that once you become a mom and all the pregnancy hormones go away that things will go back to normal and your brain powers will return to their status quo.

THIS IS A LIE!

Filecia and Filene have done their best to keep the filing system in working order while dodging those pools of hormonal discord. They really should be commended. Instead their job has just gotten a whole lot more difficult.

Those hormones may have gone away but they have been replaced by a shiny, new, RED file cabinet.

Yes folks, now there are TWO red file cabinets in there. One with all my most important files and one with all the most important files pertaining to my child.

Filecia (or Filene) can usually keep up with the demands of the red file cabinets, after all, those are right up front and used all the time. Heaven help her if she has to access something in those files marked "Calculus" or "How the Kreb's Cycle Works". Those cabinets got shoved WAAAAAAAAY back. They may never been found again, unless I go back to college.

And the more children you have, the more red file cabinets are double parked at the front of the warehouse. Your brain is never the same. It does not belong to you anymore.

You now have the mind of a mom.

Say hello to Filecia and Filene for me.

G's Exploration of Dark Matter

Last year my husband and I welcomed our second child, G. G's big brother, D was a little reticent. I did my best to integrate G's activities into the routine that was already established for D. I thought this would help D view his brother in a more positive light, would reduce resentment and make things run smoothly. Consequently, there were days when I was really pressed for time, especially when D began attending the 3-year-old preschool program in our community. Twice a week I dropped D off at school and picked him up 2 hours later.

Sounds simple, right?

Now factor in that I was nursing an infant every 2 1/2 to 3 hours for about a 1/2 hour stretch each time. So on school days I would get D and myself up, dressed and fed and then wake G, get him dressed and nurse him just prior to walking out the door. This gave me just enough time to pick D back up from school and get him home before G started wailing in earnest for his lunch. Most days we ran pretty tight, but we managed.

One morning in the late fall I got D up, spent a little one on one time with him as he was getting ready then set him at the table with his breakfast. Most mornings G would start making his presence known but this particular morning he was quiet and I thanked my lucky stars for the chance to take things at a slightly slower pace. I think I may even have had time to sit down and actually ENJOY my cup of coffee (decaf of course).

Eventually I hit that time where I had to wake G up and get him ready or miss getting a decent parking spot and have to drag two kids a block or more in the crisp morning air. There still hadn't been a sound from G and I regretted having to wake him from such a peaceful sleep. I find that my kids do better if they wake up on their own, when I do it for them they can be a bit disagreeable.

I open the door to G's room. There he is sitting up in his crib, wide awake as happy as can be. He is content, joyous even. For a brief moment he smiles at me.

Then he sees the look of absolute horror and revulsion on my face and begins to cry.

I wanted to join him.

My beautiful, happy, baby boy had kicked out of the legs of his sleeper and pulled his diaper open. He had been spending those quiet moments in his crib reflecting on his existence and then immortalizing it all in art work upon his crib wall and bars, his sheet, his face and the Fisher Price Soothing Sounds Aquarium. I had but one thought in my head.

How much of it has he eaten?

I leave him in the crib and grab the phone. I call my mother-in-law who thankfully lives about 2 1/2 minutes away.

"I need you here. NOW."

I offer no explanations. There isn't time.

I spring to into action. I strip him inside his crib, doing my best to limit further contamination of what is around him. I plop him in the bath tub and turn on the tap. What is the correct temperature for removing excrement from your child? Somehow I don't think "Your Baby's First Year" covers that topic. I didn't have the luxury of stopping for a reference check anyway.

I decide on a two bath strategy.

Bath one to remove the solids - and there were a lot of them.

Since the tub and child were now completely contaminated. The naked baby got plopped on a towel while I used scalding water and disinfectant wipes to sterilize the tub. Thank God he wasn't crawling yet.

Bath two was the soap down and rinse.

By this time reinforcement has arrived. I hand the clean, sweet smelling baby to my mother-in-law and warn her not to enter the nursery. By this time, however, big brother has already chronicled the event for his grandmother with the typical tact of a 3-year old.

"G pooped all over his crib. It's yucky!"

With these words being repeated at thirty seconds intervals I load D in the car while my mother-in-law fed G some yummy wall paper paste - I mean rice cereal. Somehow I manage to get D to school on time and back home to nurse G and clean and disinfect the crib cleaned.

From that point on G only wore sleepers that zipped up.

The Penis Dialogues and Other Conversations with My Preschool Aged Son

The Original Note from Facebook:

Let me preface this by saying that as parents my husband and I want to raise our children in an environment where they are encouraged to ask questions and where their questions are answered as truthfully as possible. We also hope to raise our kids with healthy body images - everything is named appropriately for their age and the functions are explained in age appropriate terms. As a stay at home mom the majority of the questions are mine to answer and the functions are mine to explain. Here's a sampling, hope you enjoy...

The Penis Dialogues - Part 1
In the attempts to prepare D for the dreaded potty-training phase my husband and I would give him a narrative of what we were doing and why any time he happened to be in the bathroom when we were doing our business. Apparently he was paying attention.

One day D joins me in the bathroom.

"Mommy, why are you sitting down?"
Here we go. "Because girls and mommies have to sit down to go potty. Boys and daddies don't."
D has the inevitable follow up question. "Why?"
"Well, because boys and daddies have penises and girls and mommies do not."
"You don't have a penis?"
"Nope."
His little hand pats my knee, his voice full of compassion. "That's OK, Mommy, you'll get one when you're older."

The Penis Dialogues - Part 2
It's bath time in our household and D is happily splashing away in the tub.
"Mommy, my penis is BIG!"
Biting the inside of my lip to keep from laughing, I take a deep breath and get my mind in gear. It's not like I have the tackle, I just get to use it on occasion. "Sometimes that happens, buddy," I say, hopefully infusing my tone with the right amount of nonchalance. It's a normal biological function, it's no big deal.
"Yup, sometimes that happens." He reiterates.
Knowing that this will not be the only time in his life when he will experience this phenomenon, I decide it might be wise to lay the ground work for future discussions. "Sometimes when you're happy it will get big and sometimes when you're unhappy or scared it will get small."
D nods in agreement. I know that he understands what I'm saying, but not necessarily the concept. Still, I keep going.
"Sometimes when you're really warm it will get big and sometimes when you're really cold it will get small."
D contemplates all of this information for a moment and formulates his reply. "Mommy, I don't want a big penis!"

God, Jesus and Heaven - AKA Jesus is NOT a statue
We attend church on a regular basis and prayer is a fixture in our household. Many parishes in our area have combined recently and as a result we've been members of three different parishes within the last three years. For some reason the depictions of Christ have become more prominent and more graphic in each successive church. This has created all sorts of questions and misconceptions, like the big ones I had to answer and attempt to correct in the car last week.

As we're backing out of the driveway at our friends', Kevin and Maria's house, D repeats a concern that he's had for the day. "I'm worried about Emma."
Emma is the 4 year old daughter of our good friends Tony and Kristy. She had visited our house earlier in the day and D had been "worried" about her ever since she left our house. I repeated the stance I'd taken when he'd first voiced his concerns. "Do you think Uncle Tony and Aunt Kristy would let something bad happen to Emma?"
"No." There's a momentary pause. "I'm still worried about her."
Obviously, at this point, no matter what I say is going to allay his fears, however, I still try. I decide on new tactics. "You know D, when you're worried about your friends, you can say a prayer to Jesus."
"What?"
"You can say a prayer, like: 'Dear Jesus please watch over my friends and keep them happy and safe. Amen.'" Feeling a little proud of my ingenuity I continue, "Mommy and Daddy say prayers for you and G and our family and friends all the time. It's a nice thing to do."
"Mommy, who's Jesus?"
"D! You know who Jesus is."
"He's a statue."
What? "What? No, honey. Jesus is NOT a statue. Jesus was once a boy like you and then he grew up and now he is in Heaven with God."
"No! Jesus is not a guy. He's a statue. And he doesn't live in Heaven he lives at church."
Ah ha. Now I see where the misconception has come from. "The statue at church is of Jesus but it's NOT Jesus. We go to church to hear about Jesus and the good things that he did and that God wants us to do, but Jesus is in Heaven with God." I skip trying to explain that God is everywhere. He's a little too young. I would just be happy if he'd understand that Jesus isn't a statue.
"No! Jesus is a statue!"
Inspiration strikes. "You know that your Elmo doll at home isn't REALLY Elmo, right? He's just a toy. The real Elmo lives on Sesame Street. That's just like the statue of Jesus at church. That's not the real Jesus, the real Jesus lives in Heaven."
"Elmo lives on Sesame Street."
"That's right."
"Jesus lives in Heaven."
Yes! "Yes."
"Yup. He's a statue."
D'Oh!

Genesis - The Birth of the Blog

After the positive responses my note on Facebook concerning a few of my personal trials of parenthood received I decided that a blog may be in order. The more comments I read from friends and the more conversations I had with family convinced me that for the time being, I would probably not run short on material. So this blog will be devoted to the humor and horror of parenthood - because, let's face it, as wonderful and astounding as it is, there is a dark side (or at least a side that needs a baby wipe) to being a parent.

I am not blogging lessons on how to raise your kids - I'm learning each day just like you. I am just hoping to bring a smile to your face. Maybe you'll walk away with an idea to help with a situation or (what is more likely) you'll have an idea of what NOT to do.

Enjoy!