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-the Honest Moms

Operation Buh-Bye Diapers

Summer is officially here!

Last Friday, I said au revoir to my students, finished grading the last of Le Petit Prince essays and the final exams, and cleaned up my classroom until I greet it again in August.

As I exited school on that sunny, gorgeous day, a smile was plastered across my tired face. Thoughts of picnics at the park, melting ice cream cones, sidewalk chalk and sun-kissed skin danced in my head. I cherish summer for all the fun moments that await with the girls.

Suddenly, one summer activity fired in my brain as if to say "Hey, don't forget about ME! You've put me on the back burner for way too long!"

Ugh. Not you again. 

No parent wants this activity on their much-anticipated Summer Bucket List.

These two words can instill more fear in a parent than any of the following two words in Parenthood:

• High fever
• Lost sippy (of milk)
• Test results
• Sugar overload

Coming in at number ONE on our summer to-do list and bringing the MOST FEAR is...

POTTY TRAINING.

Oh, the horror.

Olivia is three years and two months old, which is the same age that our older daughter, Madelyn, finally potty trained. Three years ago this summer, I was on month two as a mom of two, and I was prying my eyeballs open on a daily basis just to keep both girls alive due to severe sleep deprivation. Oh, and Olivia was nursing every two hours, so yeah, why not throw potty training for Madelyn into the insanity.

But as soon as Madelyn decided she was ready to ditch her diapers for good, it only took her three days to "get it." Of course, like many parents, we tried to encourage force Madelyn to potty train on Winter Break, when she was three months shy of turning three. Our endeavor was selfishly planned to try to avoid having two kiddos in diapers. She did not mince words. "NO, mommy! I wear diapers! Change me! I POOPED!"

We tried the same, futile attempt to potty train Olivia this past Winter Break, and she honestly laughed in our faces. She peed anywhere and everywhere except the little potty. She could care less that her coveted big-girl panties* were soaked. (*These were even her sister's big-girl panties, which we talked up for weeks, even making a spectacle of "releasing them" from the Rubbermaid storage bin in the basement for extra theatrical effect--you know, kinda like how people completely FREAK out when Disney releases a classic movie from "the vault" as a Diamond Edition Blu-Ray in order to make a few millions. We were hoping for that same reaction.)

Oh, and I am still trying to get used to uttering the word PANTIES without shuddering.

I'm an Honest Mom. I should be honest. The word panties is up there with the word moist as the worst words in the world. Oh, and rural. Because I can't pronounce it correctly.

I only got up enough courage to say "panties" because I have two girls, so I have to learn to accept and embrace this hideous word.

Turns out, the word undies just doesn't register with them. Sheesh.

Now, I am not going to say there is an end-all, be-all, fool-proof way to potty train. If any mom tries to tell you so, run away in the opposite direction. For real. I was recently at Target buying yet another box of Cruisers with Olivia in the cart, when a random woman thought it was her chance to befriend me in order to tell me the agonizingly awkward story about how she successfully potty trained her now 42-year-old-son. In 1975.

I know Amazon has a ton of appropriate books, DVDs, sticker charts, reinforcement tools, and even personalized rewards where you can embroider your child's name on a t-shirt to tell the world that "___(insert child's name here)____ peed/pooped on the POTTY!!"

Seriously. Go Google it. I can't make up this stuff.

The important thing to remember is that every child is different, so every child will decide when they are ready to potty train. Ignore that Mom at gymnastics who won't stop boasting about how her 15-month-old has been potty trained since his first birthday. Mom and Dad can't make this milestone occur any faster, unfortunately. Olivia stays dry during the day for hours, so we decided to take the plunge as soon as school was out and I could devote time to helping her.

The potty training method that has worked for us looks like this:

• Stay home for 3 days. 
• Child wears t-shirt and underwear. (We don't waste money on Pull Ups. They only confused Madelyn.)
• Set a timer and every 30 minutes, ask child to sit on the potty.
• Clean up accidents, but be persistent. Stick to the routine.
• Encourage child for doing something on the potty. (And hell, give 'em an M&M or five for her troubles.)
• Gently remind her what to do if an accident occurs. Don't punish, just redirect. Be positive!

So yesterday morning, on day one of summer vacay, I apprehensively greeted Olivia with a hug and kiss upon awakening, and I asked her if she'd like to pick out a cool pair of panties (EEEEK) to wear for the day.

"Because today, you're going to be a BIG GIRL!" 

"Sure, Mommy. Let's go! I want the princess Rapunzel panties that Sissy used to wear."

Um, what just happened? She's really on board. She's ready to do this.

Upon putting on the Rapunzel panties (Oh, GOSH), Olivia strutted over to the mirror to admire her cushy tush that was freaking CUTE. I couldn't stop laughing. She was turning around, hands on hips like a regular Victoria's Secret model.

"Look at me, Mommy! I love my panties!" (Get a GRIP, Amber.) 

She happily ran into the bathroom and plopped down on the little potty. She requested a book, and why was I not surprised? I fully anticipated her sitting there for 15 minutes without any pee or poop to show for it. After a few minutes of leafing through a Llama Llama book, she cried out,

"Mommy! Listen! I am going to make the Tinkle Song!"

I scampered in just in time to catch the last few notes of that little ditty. She was grinning from ear to ear, and sure enough, she had peed on the little potty, and she couldn't wait to show me the evidence. So much so that the Swiffer Wet Jet had to make an appearance.

After I finished cleaning both Olivia and the floor, and we had pulled up pants, washed hands with the new special foamy soap she had specifically chosen, and cleaned out the potty, I gave her a huge hug and kiss. I was so proud of her. In that moment, I realized how fast she is growing up... how much I want to bottle her up in order to freeze time.

Day one of summer vacay and potty training were both huge successes. She didn't have one single accident, and she said she was excited to keep trying tomorrow. We can do this.

Potty training can be a huge pain in the arse, but I'm trying to look at this necessary parenting endeavor through a different lens this time. The more positive encouragement I give, the better results Olivia gives. The more patience I model, a calmer Olivia arrives to the little potty, ready for business.  She is clearly ready to say "buh-bye, diapers," but she just needs a little guidance from us to be successful. It's amazing how much your kids can surprise you when you expect the worst outcome.

I'm looking forward to a summer where the "Tinkle Song" is the chart-topper in our house. 

I'm NOT looking forward to saying "panties" every 30 minutes. 

-Amber

Summer Bucket List

"Hope today goes okay," Greg whispered as he kissed my forehead goodbye this morning.

"It's day one," I said. "In the bag."

Summer break officially began today, and we hit the ground running--barber shop at 8:30 this morning was smooth sailing and things were going so well I just kept pushing that luck--Target AND Kroger. We made it home long enough to unload before what I assumed would be a quick trip to the vet with our newest kitty who is annoyingly peeing in baskets of clean laundry.

"Oh we will totally just run there and then eat lunch when we get home," I thought.

Only when we got there, sitting in the waiting room was an old couple with red-rimmed eyes and a pile of crumpled kleenex surrounding their very old cocker spaniel, and my boys immediately began using the dog scale as their own mini trampoline/body building pose stage and I knew we were doomed.

Doomed.

An hour later, we were home (and the old cocker spaniel was not) and since it was too early for wine, I made lunch.

Table ready, I wrangled the boys and then I put this in front of them:

We filled this little "summer bucket" a few weeks back on a Sunday evening when Greg asked me what I was going to do with them all summer.

So as a family of four we brainstormed a few ideas and they were horrific.

Like, seriously, am I really going to successfully do any of these?

Let's be honest: no. No I am not. Because the key word is "successfully." I am going to attempt the heck out of them, that I promise.

So on that brainstorming night, I asked Greg to go get me a piece of paper to write these awesome ideas down.

Generally, when you ask someone to get you a piece of paper, they return with a clean piece of paper that has space for which you can put words.

He returned with this:

I took it as an omen, that it was not only the crazed minion, but a drawing that Will had taken aggression out on and scribbled on angrily.

"Seriously?" I asked.

"Why can't you use the back?" he replied.

Yeah no.

So I retrieved paper on my own and wrote down those (mostly) far-fetched summer bucket list ideas.

The idea is this: every Monday, the boys and I will select an idea to be completed at some point that week (most of the ideas are sort of a day-long adventure), and then each Monday, you can read about our adventure right here, all summer long.

Maybe we will inspire you to create a bucket list of your own.

Or not.

Maybe you have a bucket list full of ideas that are far easier than ours--do share in the comments below!

Let the summer begin!

-Kristin

Summer Safety by Doctor Mom

As someone who sees summer’s worst, it’s sometimes hard to celebrate Memorial Day--or, as we know it in the Emergency Department, the kick off of Trauma Season.

Here’s the thing about injuries: they happen all the time. Everywhere. When mom and dad aren’t paying attention…and when they are. I’m a pretty laissez-faire parent most of the time, as evidenced by the bruises and scrapes seen on my boys. That said, we have a few hard and fast rules in my house, and some of them revolve around summertime activities.

       1. If it has wheels, you better have a helmet on.

Listen, I don’t want to be Debbie Downer, but seriously, you guys: the number of kids with head injuries that I see is astounding. At best, they have a concussion. At worst, serious bad news. Current research is showing that concussions are bad on their own, but the cumulative concern? Lifelong cognitive problems. I’ve seen so many head injuries from bike/scooter/skateboard falls. And while we certainly can’t prevent all head injuries, I can tell you that the little annoyance of a helmet literally saves lives. And making it a habit means that my boys know not to even leave the garage without a helmet on. And if they leave it on when they run around back to play on the playset? Well, I’m not pointing it out. 

      2. Going outside? Slather on the sunscreen.

Admitting kids to the burn unit after a nasty sunburn makes me much more aware of this. The younger they are, the thinner their skin, and the more susceptible to sunburn. Earlier sunburns have been shown to be associated with significant skin cancer risk. Take away the future risk of skin cancer (clearly not enough to deter most of us), and insert the image of the six-week-old with burns bad enough to require admission to the burn unit. The drama of a whining four-year-old with red shoulders makes the sunscreen well worth it. Just like anything, do it for 30 days and it will be the new routine. 

       3. Pools, hot tubs, lakes, ponds--never alone, and always with tons of help and eyes.

Have you guys seen the video about what drowning looks like? It’s not the person waving their arms above water, screaming for help. Instead, it’s the six-year-old slipping under the water quietly at the family reunion, or the toddler sneaking outside and getting caught in the hot tub under the cover. It’s the teenager who dives into water to impress his friends, or the preschooler who trips while playing in the creek. Someone might realize it within a minute - if you're lucky. But say it takes two more minutes to mobilize help, two more minutes to find the child. Five minutes under water leaves me trying to force the water out of the kid’s lungs while hoping the brain hasn’t been compromised. 

Drowning happens SO commonly, especially in the summer. If there’s one thing that really scares me at my children’s current ages, it’s the risk of drowning. Swim lessons are the only activity that I’ll force my kids to do--I’m not looking for Micheal Phelps here, but my kids will learn to swim, even if they do it kicking and screaming (literally). Constant vigilance is absolutely necessary. This might be my soapbox, you guys, but please--make sure you have an eye on your kid, and are within a few steps of them. Drowning happens wicked fast. And by the time they get to me, it’s often too late.

As for "secondary drowning" and the terror that is making its way across the internet? It's certainly a real phenomenon, and it's something you don't want to miss. That said, it's not common. The story is scary: the child seems okay immediately after a submersion, but then becomes increasingly sleepy, sometimes with an odd, constant cough. Many parents chalk it up to a busy and stressful day, but the truth is the lungs are reacting to the injury by putting more fluid in to the lungs. This is why, if a kid comes into my emergency room after having gone under water during a swim that day, I'm going to observe him for awhile to watch for more symptoms. As a parent, you are key to catching this early.

Bottom line? Prevention is key for all of these injuries. Yes, we can offer some treatments and hopefully help with recovery, but prevention is SO much better than treatment.

Those are my rules, already in place before this year but just reinforced again after working yet another Memorial Day weekend and seeing it start not so fun for too many families. 

Wishing you all a summer of warm days at the pool and lazy evenings in the backyard--stay safe!

-Julia

The Garden of Weedin'

In my grandpa's backyard, beyond two pear trees where a garage should have stood, was a garden. The Garden of Weedin' to be more specific. I remember him chuckling at the small black sign with all capital white letters. I also remember laughing along, even though I didn't get the pun at the time, because I desperately wanted to be in on the joke. The garden was massive, row after row of neatly organized plants and flowers. And not a weed in sight. 

Rhubarb, pears, and dandelions were picked and turned into strawberry-rhubarb pies, dried pears, and dandelion wine. I remember walking through the garden, plants towering over my three foot frame, mesmerized. At that time, I felt as though I could get lost wandering through each section.

In actuality, the garden was the size of a very large two-car garage--the one that my grandpa had built when he realized his gardening and weeding days were winding down.

When we bought our home five years ago, the backyard had a garden. During our first summer we grew more tomatoes than we knew what to do with (especially since only one person in our house actually likes them...and it's not me).  We patted ourselves on the back for the successful season, and vowed to make next year's garden bigger and better. And...that's when kids came along. For the next four summers the garden took the back burner. Sure, we planted the obligatory tomatoes, even attempting to grow seeds indoors one winter. But life got in the way. Daily watering, weeding, and general tending was not a priority, so the deer that roam through our backyard were treated to a vegetable buffet several summers in a row.

Earlier this spring, over casual dinner conversation, Colin, my four-year-old, declared that this would be the summer to get that garden going again. He started rattling off the various outdoor chores we'd each be responsible for: he would be in charge of the garden, and most importantly, the hose, which undoubtedly will be turned from the garden and aimed at his little brother on more than one occasion this summer; Jack will need to mow the lawn, which certainly seems like a logical chore for a two-year-old; and me? My job, he said, will be to bring them both juice boxes and popsicles. He concluded that we'd be a team, and the backyard would look beautiful. How could I argue with that arrangement?

So over a very warm Memorial Day weekend we got to work: weeding, digging, and mulching our way through four years of neglect. What I thought would be a quick couple of hours turned into a full day's project--alright, it took two days. We planted tomatoes, cucumbers, strawberries, beans, peas, basil, parsley, and peas, along with some very high netting to keep the deer from getting anywhere near OUR vegetable buffet.

I know this garden will be a huge undertaking. I have a black thumb, and am  notorious for planting shade plants in the full sun and vice versa...but maybe this year, this garden of weedin' will be different. 

While I'm not sure the corn will be "knee high by the 4th of July," I'm determined to make this garden a success--to honor my grandpa, to get my boys to eat more vegetables, and most importantly, to finish something I start, black thumb and all. 

-Laura

Right Where We Need To Be

Last week on the Honest Mom Instagram feed I posted a photo about not wanting to wallow in anymore sadness from the bad news that seems to be hitting our family from every angle. We unplugged from everything that night and drank orangeritas--heavy on the tequila--and made a dinner that we typically reserved for December holidays that made our house smell like home and familiar while a thunderstorm rocked the trees outside our house and I hoped that this little life storm would pass quickly. Reid put on goggles and danced his pants-less self around the family room with a pirate sword in hand and I let myself laugh from a place that wasn't anticipating the next piece of sadness.

But like this year has been, it found us again on Friday, and I began to wonder if this house we moved into not even a year ago was cursed. Did we pick a house that was full of rotten karma? Did we pick a spot in the world with a permanent gray cloud over it? And yeah, I blamed the house, because...Because!!

I spent the weekend with our neighbors--yard working, happy houring, brunching, laughing, crying, hugging; and I spent it with my momma friends--birthday partying, snow cone eating, nose wiping, band-aid applying; and I spent it with those extra special twenty-plus-year-long friends--coffee drinking, belly laughing, reminiscing, story-telling--and I had the most wonderful epiphany that I so desperately needed:

We are exactly where we need to be, bad year or not, placed just so because of the people that are nearby, that we share the life with.

I'm getting a lot of comfort from that.

Life and storms and dancing in the rain and blah blah blah--that's all grand to do by yourself, but who's going to hold your hand and do it with you? Who hands you the umbrella and the Wellies and finds the biggest puddles and brings the wireless Bose speaker with the pre-made iTunes thunderstorm soundtrack?

I need these people, and I'm feeling oh-so-grateful not just for them, but for this new mindset of weathering the storm with them.

-Kristin

Get Me Out of This Beehive

So I’m just over here in Pittsburgh, living the dream.

You know: Working three days a week from home, enjoying two days home alone with my boys and then partying up the weekends with the hubby and kids in the new city where we just settled.

Poppin’ bubbly every night, yo.

Six months ago, I would have told you that the situation I’m currently in would be perfect. A golden opportunity to embrace a fine balance of career, time with my kids, home management and exploration of our new town. I thought this was exactly what I wanted…and I got it!

But I’m lonely. My heart aches. I miss SO much. And I want things to be different.

Call me nuts, but I yearn to be in a workplace setting with other people. I want to have a time I have to should be at work so I’m forced to get up and (gasp!) take a shower and fix my stringy hair. I want to wear my cute summer work dresses and pink peep-toe pumps. I actually want to converse with strangers in the elevator about the stupid, mundane weather.

I miss my coworkers and — dare I say it? — MEETINGS. I miss knowing everything that is going on in our department and being part of a team and ‘getting stuff done.’ And feeling that sense of accomplishment at the end of the day when, although I undoubtedly didn’t get to everything, I at least chipped away at the mounting heap of never-ending projects.

I miss impromptu lunches, ‘Ah-ha!’ moments, walking amidst the hustle and bustle on the city streets and feeling that surge of I’m really good at what I do when someone calls or stops by my office to say, “We need you.”

Trust me, I know that working outside the home is not always peachy. I’ve done it for 13 years, since three months after college graduation. I don’t miss the crappy days when I royally screw up something, or a coworker is annoyed with me and talks behind my back, or there are a dozen fire drills thrown in my face before 10 a.m. (not literal fire drills — those only happen once per year and require us to walk down 32 flights of steps.)

No, I’m talking about the fire drills where someone bursts into your office with smoke coming out of their ears and their hands are all shaky, and they don’t know what needs to be done, but SOMETHING better be done within the hour to fix SOMETHING seemingly more important than the conversation I was just having with a coworker about the next season of Downton Abby.

And I don’t miss deadlines. And I don’t miss those people who wear ungodly amounts of perfume. Or those women who wear white sneakers all day because getting up from their desk to go to the bathroom apparently requires superior athletic skills. And I don’t miss office cattiness.

...or do I?

I think what this move with my family has taught me…well let’s be honest, I could go on for WEEKS about what this move has taught me about myself, my kids, my marriage, my priorities, my sanity…but in regards to my career, I’ve realized just how important it is to me. Yes, I’m currently still working — for the same company and people, just from afar and at reduced hours. But it’s so different not being there.

So at this point in my life, I know for certain that I love to work, and I want to work and I will choose to work. Outside of the home. With a scanner down the hallway, and humans walking down the hallway, and the need to sometimes yell profanity down the hallway.

And enjoy free Diet Coke whenever I want.*

*Please note that it is a prerequisite for any job I have. Each place I’ve ever worked has provided free soda. And I drink it. Not gallons of it like Rita downstairs, but it serves as my afternoon pick-me-up. (And I totally made up 'Rita,' but I know you know someone like her where you work. I think it’s Wal-Mart that sells those coolers cups the size of Graham’s head…which is about the same size as my adult head.)

What’s so freaking awesome about being a mom in 2014 is that there isn’t just one way to do it. Because that would be horribly, detrimentally boring. Whether we work inside or outside the home, with or without a pint-size crew in tow, we should own what we are doing and why we are doing it — and be darn tootin’ proud of it.

Because God knows wherever we are and whatever we’re doing — and if the kids are there or not — we’re all working. We’re always working. It’s a slight issue all of us moms have.

We’re worker bees.

And this little worker bee just can’t wait to buzzzzz around an office again. With a cold, sweet D.C. in hand.

-Melissa  

Puddles, Popsicles, and the "New" Bike

As parents, we have the best intentions. We do things with and for our children to create happy, magical, exciting experiences and memories. However, it always seems like things work out differently than planned. I’d wager to say that’s the case about 95 to 99.9% of the time when you’re dealing with the four-and-under crowd. 

Case in point: The last time we went out to eat at a “fancy” restaurant (and I’m using the term “fancy” very loosely here) my boys ignored the rather overpriced kids meals I carefully ordered for them and declared that the (free) crackers that came with my soup were “delicious!” For the next week they requested crackers for dinner.

The toys I spent weeks researching, price comparing, and standing in line for at Christmas? Discarded after one, maybe two uses for the last minute, five dollar random purchase from Walgreen's on Christmas Eve.

A sighting of the elusive snow leopard at the zoo? That’s right…my kids weren’t watching the animal in awe (like I was). No. They found a puddle a few feet away and were happily splashing in it. It’s a daily reminder that as much as we try to control their reactions, they march to the beat of their own drum, and find joy in, well, what they want to find joy in. 

Last week my co-worker mentioned she was going to sell one of her son's old bikes. I jumped on the opportunity--I’m cheap--how could I pass up a $30 bike? My youngest son, Jack, is definitely the typical younger brother. He has few (if any?) toys of his own that aren’t his older brother’s beat up hand-me-downs. And huge confession here--I didn’t even buy Jack a present for his second birthday. It’s two days after Christmas and there were still piles of toys that hadn’t been completely unwrapped strewn around our house. (Before you completely write me off as a terrible mom, I baked him a chocolate cake from scratch-- alright a box--covered in M&M’s. The kid was in heaven, and I’m sure the sugar rush distracted him from the fact that he didn't have any gifts to open.)  

I was so pleased with my bike purchase, and couldn’t wait to get home to show Jack his “new to him” shiny green bike. The second he leaped into the minivan after I picked him up from daycare he spotted the bike, which I thought I’d carefully hidden in the way back. Eyes widening, he started jabbering away, “Bike? Green Bike? MY Green Bike? Green like my Turtle?” I explained that yes, it was all his, and he could ride it when we got home. But first, we had to pick up Colin. Colin also immediately spotted the bike when he clamored into the minivan, and exclaimed, “Yeeeeeeeessssssss! A Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle Bike! Just what I always wanted!”

Then I had to break the news. 

It wasn’t his.  It was Jack's.

And as you can imagine...it didn’t go over well.

Our drive home is about ten minutes, but when a four-year-old is crying at the top of his lungs in hysterics, it feels like ten hours. Maybe ten days. As Colin cried, Jack had a smug smile on his face as he kept turning his head to look at the new bike. 

The crying continued after we pulled into the driveway and I got the bike out of the van. Jack’s eyes lit up like Christmas morning and he grabbed his helmet, squeezed it on his head and climbed aboard, grinning ear to ear. He posed for the obligatory picture, and then ordered the bike to “Go!”

It only took him a few seconds to realize that he had absolutely no idea how to actually get his bike to “Go!” Then the tables turned and the waterworks started. As Jack began to wail, Colin perked up, and a slow smile spread across his face. Discouraged, Jack dismounted and Colin immediately took the opportunity to hop on the bike and ride into the sunset...okay, down the driveway.

One characteristic I’ve always admired about Jack is his quiet determination. Unlike me or Colin, he doesn’t fly off the handle. He’s dedicated, strong-willed, and says out loud “Try again” as he tackles a new task, like climbing up the ropes at the playground, or hitting the ball off the tee in the backyard.

Today was the exception. Maybe it was the unseasonable 94 degree heat paired with the hunger pangs that hit around 5:30, but he was just over it. Over the bike. Over Colin. And me? I was upset too. Here I had planned this awesome surprise, and instead I endured almost 90 minutes of tears, sobs, and tantrums.

I sat down in the driveway and felt like crying too, and I probably would have if my neighbors across the street weren't outside peering into our yard trying to figure out what all the commotion was about.

And then I snapped out of my self-pity-party and realized that even though the bike was a disaster, the night didn't have to be. I went inside, and re-appeared a minute later with Popsicles. Yes, before dinner. But at that moment, it's what we all needed.

Over red and purple Popsicles we forgot about the bike, and the tears, and the heat, and even though the evening didn't play out as I had planned, it was one of those nights I'll always remember. 

And as for the bike?  It's been a few days, the temperature has dropped about 30 degrees, and my determined Jack is back. While he still hasn't gotten the hang of peddling, he's made an effort every night, and I'm confident he will figure it out soon. And if he doesn't? I have a freezer stocked full of red and purple Popsicles waiting for us. 


-Laura

Glennon, Momastery, and Baes

As is usually the case in the middle of May every year, I am furiously cramming present tense verbs and vocabulary phrases from October in preparation for final exams.

To keep things interesting when reviewing adjectives, I pull up photos of celebrities and we take turns professing undying love and adoration for people like Justin Timberlake and crying foul and declaring hatred against such poor souls like Justin Bieber.

While reviewing today, I pulled up a photo of Jennifer Lawrence, and my female students declared (in English) that she was “bae.” (Pronounced bay.)

I consider myself pretty “hip” to the “lingo” (and using those words right there makes me so.not.cool at all) and I was stumped.

“Use it in a sentence,” I said.

“You know, like, she’s bae,” they replied.

“Can you spell it? Like, is she a body of water?” I asked.

“Bae is an acronym, Mrs. Kauffman. It means ‘Before Anyone Else.’ Jennifer Lawrence is someone you would pick before anyone else. She’s bae. Your bestie is someone you would pick before anyone else. She’s bae.”

“Got it.” I said. “It’s the most important people in your life--the ones who mean the most to you.”

“Totes,” they said.

(They really talk like that. They do.)

Yesterday afternoon, I got to sit with 500 baes. We all came together to hear Glennon Melton from momastery speak (recall our collaboration on her Messy, Beautiful Warrior Project here, here, and here).

For two hours I sat snuggled among three of my favorites, friends from forever ago and friends from now.

My baes.

So many things Glennon said came to me again and again throughout the rest of the evening and through today--so many one-liners and quotes and words of wisdom, not only on parenting but on marriage, and family, and faith, and being good and kind and love.

"We belong to each other," Glennon said.

I have processed and I am sure I will continue to do so as I read and re-read her words and contemplate what aspects of me I should apply them to in this moment, but there’s a story I’ve been wanting to share for a few weeks, and now seems appropriate.

Last week, momastery launched another Love Flash Mob, in which they tell people’s stories and then the momastery community gives--monetarily--to support the cause.

This Love Flash Mob in particular went to families with cancer--families who lost, families still fighting, but above all, families who need.

I gave--I had to--and I did so because two weeks ago, our next door neighbor (who also happens to have two boys and I don’t know about you but I have a really hard time these days not putting myself into someone else’s shoes--Elizabeth tackled that topic last week) was diagnosed with breast cancer.

She called me in the middle of a school day and I thought our house was on fire so I answered and there she was and even though I haven’t even known her for a year, I’ve mulled decorating choices with her and laughed with her at happy hours and a christmas party and launched things from a catapult in her front yard and borrowed a thermometer from her and drank more bottles of wine with her than I would even be able to count and so I let those silent tears roll down my cheeks as her voice said all it needed to say.

That night, our little cul-de-sac of women, we stood in someone’s driveway in a circle--six of us little motherhens protecting our bae.

As women do, we laughed and we cried and we shook it out Flo and the Machine style and we sort of silently declared in this circle of power that she would beat it. There really isn’t any other option in our minds or hers and so that is what it will be and as she begins treatment next week, and for as long as she needs us to be, she will be Before Anyone Else.

Among the many things Glennon said yesterday and has said since she began momastery: We belong to each other. So whether it’s cancer, or pre-school car pool, or the PTA, or five-year-old soccer, or yoga class, or running groups, or after-prom committee, or a blog that we set up so that people feel a little less alone, we are the community that we create.

We are each other’s baes.

-Kristin

See Daddy. See Daddy Travel.

I have been extremely lucky in my career as an engineer to avoid extensive travel. Apart from a 24-month stretch before Kristin and I were married, I was rarely on the road for work more than two or three times a year. During those 24 months, however, I was gone at least once a month for two or three days at a time. There was even a two-week trip to China that coincided with an inland hurricane (remember Ike in 2008?) that hit Cincinnati and knocked power out for four days (during which Kristin decided to redecorate our bedroom with paint color and accessories bought at various stores running on back up generators--she probably single-handedly kept those businesses open that week).

During that time, I'd visit breweries around Michigan (back before you had to wear thick rimmed glasses and beards and ironic t-shirts to such places, I wore New Balance running shoes and Merona khakis after spending all day in a factory. Come to think of it, I still wear these things), and although I missed my wife and my dogs, we were still just a couple who could do his or her own thing without disrupting the system too much. 

And then we had kids.

(I feel like a lot of stories in life on the side of thirty and up can start with "And then we had kids.")

As I changed jobs a few times, I'd always ask up front about travel. “Nothing serious” was usually the response from HR or my new manager, and for the most part, it has been the case. Things have been so routine in our house that I've been home by five o'clock for the better part of a couple of years and we've been able to get to the gym, make dinner, bathe kids, read books, and collapse in a heap of exhaustion for fifteen minutes and a beer and a brief recap of our days. 

Routine, yes, but more than most get, I realize, and for that I feel lucky. 

#blessed

Six weeks ago, I started a new position in my company in which I inherited a mess. Since then, I have traveled every week. I've been across the United States and back again to fix the problems, literally, with wrench and screw driver in the back of a semi truck or 30. While the physical toll on me required a trip to the chiropractor for an adjustment, it also stretched the fabric of our family and support system to the seams.

If my in-laws had not moved back to Cincinnati from New Jersey a year ago, I am not sure where we’d be right now (probably with a few more grey hairs in my beard for starters). Grandma and Grandpa have been there for us every week I was away to come over and eat dinner (distract the boys), take them to school in the morning or have impromptu spend the nights to easily facilitate school drop offs and allowing Kristin to get to work on time (I mean, when I'm gone, she has to get special permission to be late. Crazy). 

She has been absolutely amazing during this stretch as well. She has done her best to lay off the guilt trips as my own trips kept piling up. Usually on the third day of a scheduled three-day trip, I’d call or text with good news and bad news, the bad news being an additional day required. And she'd be the first to say, "It's okay. This is your job. It's okay." 

Emotionally, I missed my kids, my wife, our family. We attempted a few FaceTime chats, but they ended with the kids in tears crying for me and grimy fingers reaching out to touch my face and inadvertently hanging up and, well, that wasn't easy. 

Gone were the days of sipping craft brews til 1 a.m. on these trips. Sure, I got a romantic seaside dinner in Malibu out of it--party of four burly men--but I'll take ketchup flinging, pea chucking, "I don't WANT CHICKEN" whining, milk spilling, please-just-eat-one-more-bite pleading any day over that fantasy. 

However, like all things, nothing lasts forever, and that goes for these trips (thank goodness!).

Coming home from the trips has been the best (and as this posts, it's the first week in six that I haven't traveled!)--I've been able to surprise the kids at day care and walk in to get them. 

No matter how long you're gone, those hugs are the best.

I'm eager to hear their stories, build Lego trucks for them, watch their shows (okay, I could do without Sheriff Callie), push them on the swings...as hard as it is, distance has made this dad's heart fonder.

#cliche

And enough time has passed since I last played him, that I can give mommy a break on Darth Vader.

-Greg

Bumpy Hot Dogs

Did you lock the front door?! I don’t know, DID YOU?!

Did I unplug my hair straightener? Oh God. I’m just turning the car around now.

Did you fill the dog’s water? I THOUGHT YOU DID!

My dad once pronounced that he had never met anyone as uptight and nervous as me…until he met my husband. “My god, I think he makes you look a little laid back!” When we moved into our first house my nervousness and paranoia fed his, and vice versa. Gone were the carefree days of dating and early love. We had responsibilities now. People had expectations.

It.was.exhausting. We were like MiracleGro to the other’s crab grass. It wasn’t just leaving the house. We’d freak out about financial decisions, wardrobe decisions, whether the chicken was thoroughly cooked―just about everything could cause us to wring our hands. We made each other nervous wrecks. Two people with mild anxiety issues met, fell deeply in love…and went mad. We both probably should have been medicated but we would have just passed out from hyperventilating, trying to remember if we had remembered to take our pills.

I was destined to be a terribly nervous and fearful parent. I even tried to joke about my anxiety issues at my first obstetrician appointment. Aaaaand that’s how I learned that certain healthcare professionals are not amused by wisecracks about mental health disorders.

Then Monkey was born. I will not spin you my delivery yarn, but suffice it to say it did not go smoothly. I was left recovering from a C-Section in a home alternately referred to as a ‘60s back-split, a quad-level or, as my dad once barked, “The stairs that never end!”  If you haven’t had the pleasure of a C-section, one of the discharge instructions from the hospital is to, “Take the stairs only once a day.” I also couldn’t lay flat for a couple of weeks, so that complicated sleeping a bit, and all of this meant I would have to choose between sleeping, eating, and using the bathroom. Pick one and stick with it all day. So I slept, sitting up, on the couch on the level that put me just four stairs from a bathroom but two flights away from my newborn. It was the best I could do. Even if I’d wanted to violate the “no stairs” rule it would have taken me 15 minutes to go anywhere.

I was in pain, exhausted, and a scared new mom…but I couldn’t go check on Monkey every five minutes. I couldn’t make sure he was breathing or that he hadn’t somehow hoisted himself up and out of the crib, rolled down the hall and up into the knife drawer two sets of stairs away. Somehow I found a little peace. “Eh. I guess he’s fine?” 

The pain that kept me from moving freely through my house was a blessing. It was a baptism by fire. I had to let the fear go. He’d be fine and I needed to get some sleep. Unlike when I babysat as a teenager and would actually wake up the poor babies to make sure they were still breathing (crying at that point), I developed a calmer demeanor. He was fine and I physically couldn’t live in a constant state of fear.  Now, there were flare-ups of course. No one quits hysteria without a few episodes of sobbing whilst sloshing a bucket of bleach around the house and shrieking about people who bring germs around newborns. But, overall? Having a baby had settled the nerves that once scratched the edges of my brain.

Luckily, we also have a great pediatrician who is all tough love and calm. I once let my mom freak me out about Sassafras’ wonky toe. She was born with a bit of a crinkled toe and it has yet to fall in line. My mom refused to just wait and see what happened (as prescribed) and she hounded me out of my more relaxed approach and told me I needed to ask our pediatrician again.

Um, <tentative and scuffing my toe against the floor> my mom wants to know if there is anything we can do about her toe?

Does your mom want her to wear a big shoe?!  She’s 11 months!  It will be fine. But ask her―does she want her to wear a big shoe?

I returned to not worrying about what was certainly out of my control.

In four years nothing terrible befell my family and I had moments of the blissful sense of entitlement I think so many parents feel:  “Well, I must be doing something right―we’re fine!”

As a young public defender, I learned that when selecting a jury you had to overcome the general public’s belief that “they must have done something because they are sitting in the defendant’s chair.”  Potential jurors need to believe, like the greater population, that bad things don’t happen to good people. We don’t say it out loud because it sounds awful, but I see it as a different way of living in fear. I believe that at their core, many people are so terrified of pain and suffering that they believe “others” have done something to deserve their misfortune.

I have always loathed when people say things like, “She loved her husband too much to let cancer win,” or, “He loved his kids too much to give in.” Bullshit. Those words gnash my teeth. That person was fortunate to survive, yes, but that doesn’t mean those who did not survive are any less deserving. Bad things happens to good people and there is nothing you can do to avoid that.

People who succumb to cancer or serious injury or depression?  They loved their family just as much. Don’t get me wrong―I do believe a positive attitude and deep love can sustain people through so much―but it isn’t a magic cure and it’s not a force field. As a recovering catastrophe-enthusiast and worrywart I appreciate where people are coming from when they utter such platitudes. I appreciate it because I recognize it for what it really is: fear. It is too scary and awful to think no one is safe and that death and destruction encircle all of us like a pod of hungry shark.

We have close friends who are going through parent hell. One month ago everything was fine. Today they are living your worst nightmare as a parent. In a moment they could not see coming, they were forced to stare into the face of their child’s mortality. I sit in stunned sadness just thinking about what they must be going through.  I grieve for the way of life they lost and the new one they have to fight through. They did everything “right.” Their child is sweet and kind and beautiful and they are loving and conscientious. But awful shit happens.

And so I let the fear creep back in. As I shed endless tears for our friends I begin to see illness and danger as guaranteed if I do not stay vigilant. All the work my pediatrician had done in convincing me not to overreact was nearly completely undone. I began to interrogate Monkey about his little complaints of minor physical ailments. I started obsessing over Sass’ fussiness that was obviously just teething.

The other night Monkey called us into his room.

My foot <sniffle> weawwy weawwy huuuuuurts.

He was teary and rubbing the top of his right foot.  He had been mentioning that his foot hurt on and off for a few days. I had been writing it off as growing pains but our friend’s terrible diagnosis was dominating my mind.

Where does it hurt? How long has it hurt? Does anything else hurt?

My mind was racing. I ran my hands over his foot and took shallow breaths. It was bone cancer. Muscular Dystrophy. He had some disorder that caused his muscles to disintegrate.  We were going to have to find a Dr. House-like specialist.

What does it feel like?

Well, Mom, <big sigh> it feels like a bumpy hot dog. It’s weawwy bad <sniff>.

Aaaaaaaand that’s how your nearly-four-year-old brings you back to reality. For some unknown reason, when he’s faking illness because he needs a little more attention, he complains that his ailment feels like a hot dog. E.g. My head feels like a hot dog. Sometimes it’s bumpy, sometimes it’s big, sometimes it’s jumping. I find him marvelously quirky.

Monkey gave me what I needed―a big dose of get-over-yourself. Other people’s suffering is not a reflection of me.  Other people’s tragedy is not a reason to take stock or change my behavior or make it personal. Other people’s pain is theirs. There is no blame. There is no avoiding it. Such is life. Such is being a mom. 

I need to get back to that “Eh, it’s going to be fine” mentality. The shark will never stop circling, but it’s going to be okay. Sadness and suffering finds us all, but we will persevere. Worrying about Monkey and Sassafras isn’t what has kept them well, but they are healthy. We are lucky. It is going to be fine. And I am grateful. 

-Elizabeth

The Class of 2027

After our great Kindergarten debate a few months ago, last Monday I found myself listening to Will's future kindergarten teachers coo at me (literally--they were cooing--those voices!) about making sure my kid knows how to button and zip his own pants, and about how he has to know his letters and sounds by Halloween because kindergarten isn't about play kitchens and dress up anymore. I attended the meeting with another mom who introduced me to some "veteran" parents--this meeting was for their last kid, their baby, and they were so NOT apprehensive or nervous that one might even call them "Cool as a cucumber."

Then they played this

and the entire room was full of mascara-stained cheeks and sniffles--the veteran parents more than anyone!--so much so that the next person to speak was the school's guidance counselor and even she was having a hard time composing herself. I had this sudden realization that sending Will to kindergarten is only the beginning of hard things, I think, especially when they promised us we could follow the buses to the building and they would have extra boxes of Kleenex available on that first day.

They suggested we practice those must-know letters and sounds on plates of rice or sand, "Or you can find plenty more ideas on Pinterest," as though every mother in the room spent daily naptimes on there anyway (and they probably do), and I began to frantically plan out our rapidly approaching summer: breakfast, immediately followed by thirty minutes of "school" and then rewarded with a show, and I'd better dust off that Pinterest account and start finding literacy ideas because come November 1st, there would be intervention groups for kids who don't know their lower case letters and sounds and to my teacher's brain, that sounded horrifying.

Satisfied with my plan (which also included memorizing our home address, adding numbers one through ten, and being able to spell "Kauffman"--all things the teachers recommended!), my thoughts moved ahead in time, in no particular order to:

• transition meetings from elementary to junior high and junior high to high school
• college prep meetings
• college visits
• prom photos
• driver's license
• graduations
• moving in to college

and before long I had bawled my way through milestones that are literally a decade or longer away. 

I mean, he's the class of 2027. Is that even a year?!

Now would be a good time for me to say something appropriate about savoring the moments of him being so small, but those moments are past, friends. I don't even have to bend over to kiss the top of his head, and he'd much rather fly through the sky jumping off a swing then sit in a stroller and take in the sights. Oh sure--he's still young, and he loves a good hug and a snuggle during Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and he needs me and Greg, and he cries when we take away the sword for hitting his little brother or when we serve green vegetables for dinner--but my little whispers to "Stay small!" aren't audible at all. 

Instead I will keep gawking and exclaiming every time I buy another shoe size up, or notice his pants are too short; I will marvel at his vocabulary (and ability to spell his last name because we will get that, too, dammit!); I will clutch that bus pass in some adorable cartoon animal shape with yarn attached on August 25th and think, "No freaking WAY are you big enough to do this!" in much the same way I will clutch car keys and Algebra tests and acceptance letters and diplomas (I'm being assuming here, but I'll just call it "positive" and "optimistic").  

And there in front of me will be my big kid, whispering, "But I am." 

And that will inspire 987 more blog posts. 

-Kristin