Teens & Tweens & Parenting Dreams

Dear Parents of Teenagers...and Future Parents of Teenagers,

We hear you.

You are not alone.

You have reached out to us and said, "I feel like I'm not doing enough. I feel like I'm failing. I need someone to tell me that this is all going to turn out okay."

For as scary as it was bringing that newborn baby home so many years ago, and worrying about things like SIDS, now you worry about how little sleep your kids get with a phone glued to their hands. And instead of fretting about pre-school and making friends, you just replace "pre-school" with "middle and high school." And instead of yourself constantly comparing your late walker or talker to the kids of your friends, you now worry about other kids judging your kid.

And posting those judgments online.

Often anonymously.

You can't scoop them up out of the crib and offer a "shhhhhhh" and a bottle and a little sway while humming your favorite lullaby.

Your sleep deprivation isn't in the form of an infant who wants to be held, but instead a teenager who wants some freedom...

...driving around on Saturday nights with friends.

You don't know if they're happy, because they don't talk to or respond to you in the ways that they used to. And if you don't know if they're happy, then you also don't know if they are afraid or alone or miserable or actually, completely fine.

You've reached out to us Honest Moms, and our experience reaches only so far--the age of five, to be exact--and really, we are clinging to these days of sweet cuddles and diapers (maybe not diapers), and play-dough and Saturday morning cartoons, and being the centers of our kids' worlds, because we know one day all too soon we will be in your shoes.

The best news is, we have found several parents willing to offer us this teenage perspective--to share your fears but also to let you know that you aren't alone and the kids turn out okay (we all did, right?) and what worked for them.

And most importantly, how much good there is in this phase of parenting. You can look for their posts coming in February and March.

For now, I offer you this:

I have worked with tweens and teens for the last decade and some change, and I want you to know one thing--your kids are great.

They are better than great, really, because what they don't offer up at home, they do at school. They are bright, and have incredible insight on how this world works. They try hard (most of the time), and for every time you hear about bullying and tearing kids down, I have two more stories to tell you about kids that stand up to such acts and play priceless positive roles in this community of raging hormones and mean girls and Snapchat.

My husband and I were recently watching the Saturday morning news segment in which they highlight the student athletes of the week. I turned to him and said, "How do we make our kids like that? Well-rounded and kind and smart and just plain awesome?"

"We lead by example," he responded.

And you are, dear parents and future parents.

You can't scoop up your tweenagers and shush them (and they certainly don't want anything to do with your singing), but you can show them what resiliency looks like, and you do. You show them what it is to stand up for themselves and others. You show them what it is to be kind, to keep trying, to work hard, to praise effort and success, to communicate, and love, and offer helping hands, and trust in powers greater than ourselves. And I'm telling you, it's enough.

You are doing enough.

-Kristin

My Kid Won't Effing Sleep

When we moved back to Ohio (about a year and a half ago), I remember my mother commenting, “You guys are so lucky that L goes to sleep so easily!  It’s amazing!” At two and a half, he went down easy and stayed down all night. Embarrassingly, I remember talking to a friend around the same time who was struggling with sleep issues in her son, and talking about my refusal to co-sleep, and how our awesome bedtime routine kept L in his bed at night. Sure, he occasionally woke up with the roosters, but that’s pretty normal, right?

At this point, I can’t remember exactly when things changed. I do remember that L got sick last winter. He had a fever--a high one--and was moaning and crying. Despite my (lengthy and expensive) medical training, I couldn’t figure out what was wrong with him. I can’t even remember how he got into our bed the first time. Did he wander in? Did we bring him into bed? But I remember thinking that it was okay because I wanted to keep a close eye on him. We woke up a lot during those feverish nights, but we would have anyway.  When you're giving Motrin, checking temps, and cuddling to soothe, nobody sleeps well when the kids are sick, amirite?

Then he got better. On the first night that he was “better," my husband and I toasted each other for a good night’s sleep over a glass of wine at bedtime. An hour after we fell asleep, the door creaked open and L wandered in. I was so tired, I barely noticed. Snuggling under my arm, I pulled him close and fell quickly back to sleep.

YOU GUYS.  THAT WAS A YEAR AGO. 

My kid is still wandering into my room. Crawling into my bed. Whining or crying. Nightly. 

When I say we’ve tried it all, I mean we’ve tried it all. We started nice and simple: walking him back to his bed, and tucking him in sweetly. That progressed to sitting on the floor next to his bed, or sitting in a chair in his room. This then escalated to sternly telling him he must stay in his room, bribing him with everything we could think of, taking away everything we could think of, closing the door, turning on the hall light, the closet lights. There were nights where he had nothing left in his room but the bed and dresser. We took away his lovey once and I remember thinking, “If this doesn’t work, I don’t know what we’ll do."

And since it didn't work we had to find something else to do, and we became even more serious. We put up a gate--he crawled over it. We put up two gates--he screamed and tantrumed. His brother, A, was still an infant at this point, with infant sleep patterns, and I was constantly afraid he would jack up the baby's sleep. We would set our limits, but one of us would wind up going in there to keep him quiet. And with the exhaustion, we only felt him crawl in to our bed half the time. 

Excuses? Sure, but we absolutely need at least four hours of sleep at night. Uninterrupted. Sometimes you have to just survive.

For awhile, we had a sleeping bag on the floor next to us, and told him he wasn’t allowed in our bed, but if he needed to be in the same room as us, he could crawl in the sleeping bag. It worked for a bit. 

But now we find ourselves smothered by winter, and the germs brought home from pre-school, and our ridiculous work schedules. The fact that no one is healthy is making this that much more difficult.

Last week, A screamed from 10 p.m. until midnight. And then L wandered in at 2 a.m., and whined and moaned and wouldn’t lay down in his sleeping bag. I was over it. Broken down. Exhausted.

At 3 a.m., I hissed, "Just go to sleep! Go to sleep right now! This isn’t a choice!” And then he started crying louder. I didn’t spank him, but only because the voice in my head was telling me, “He’ll just cry more." 

He still talks about that night. “Mommy, remember when you yelled at me about not sleeping? That made me feel really bad." Cue the guilt.

There are nights, I'll share, that L stays in bed, all night, no problem. Mind you, they are few and far between. Faaaaaaar between. 

And then there are nights when he literally beats the gates out of the woodwork around his door in a massive tantrum and I threaten to lock him in his room if he doesn't stay in bed and then he falls asleep and I think "Victory!" 

Sleep deprivation will make you think crazy things. 

Last night was a repeat of all of the above: work fatigue, everyone sick including myself, and my sweet L not having anything to do with staying in his bed. I tucked him back in bed, and he snuck back in, and my night time sleep was very much a horror movie on repeat. At 5:40 a.m., he came in for the third time, refused to lay down and declared, “Mommy, I hurt all over."

This brings us to now. Today. Five hours of broken sleep for the I don't even know how many days in a row now...392?...and no one in my house is an infant. Please note, I know what Ferber said about cry it out, and implemented it for both boys as infants (effectively, for a while!). The No-Cry solution is and was crap for us--my boys were never convinced by it. I actually worked with Dr. Weissbluth in Chicago, and he’s just a stricter version of Ferber. 

What do you do when the books and theories and advice don’t work? Real life kids don’t read the books--they don’t do what they are “supposed” to do.

Look, I’m not a softie. We’re pretty strict with our kids about expected behavior. That said, the last thing I want is to let a kid who’s truly scared, hurting, or sick feel like he’s alone in the middle of the night. But honestly? Nothing is working. And the reality is that I’m exhausted. 

I’ll read more of my sleep books…I'll find some new ideas…just as soon as I catch a quick nap…

Anyone have any suggestions for the kid who won’t stay in his own bed?

-Julia

The One Year Mark: A Very Happy Place

Right now, I’m in a funk.

One minute I’m excited, the next I’m anxious. Our house is waiting on some pretty big news, and quite honestly, I’m just not good at waiting.

I know you have been in a similar place in life... just waiting. And I know that you know it simply sucks. All we can do in these moments is surround ourselves with those we love, and have faith that the best outcome will happen. And pray, pray, pray.

And eat lots of chocolate chip muffins (my current weakness).

In the meantime, I want to share a brief piece I wrote but never posted to my personal blog this past summer. A time when it was scorching hot (I wonder what that feels like?) and my second (and last) child was turning one.

It was right after I spent all of my waking moments planning the fanfare surrounding his first birthday celebration. And I knoooooow you can relate to that. 

________________________________________________________________

Sept. 9, 2013

One year old! One year old! HOT DOG, one year old!

A lot of moms lament the one year mark. They “can’t believe” a year has passed since they birthed their sweet baby. They “can’t believe” their precious one is already so big. They “can’t believe” they are already done with the first year of sweet snuggles and coos and turtle-like movements.

Well, I can believe it. It’s been a little over 365 days since Graham-Man was born and it’s been a crazy year. Yes, a crazy awesome year filled with both tears of adoration and frustration. I love my second little man with every. single. fiber. of my being. I sometimes cry when I watch him sleep, I yearn to hug him in the afternoons when I’m at work, and when he looks at me with those big, beautiful, blue eyes, well... I just melt.

But I can’t explain how happy I am to be at the one year mark. No more bottles. No more runny, messy baby food. No more guilt over not being able to breastfeed. No more carrying him around everywhere and planning around nap times and bedtimes. (Well, that continues a bit depending on the day.) And soon he will be talking. Walking. Exploring and playing with his brother. Watching and listening and beginning to voice his opinion in our family.

And I can’t wait.

We are done with having kids. For sure. In fact, Brian will be a little incapacitated right around Halloween for a few days to seal that deal. We feel complete as a family of four. And we cannot wait to see what the next year holds in store. (Ah, poetry.)

Camping. Hiking. Biking. Hitting up every festival, family event, and community experience. Not that we couldn’t this past year, but it’s just so much harder to lug bottles and baby food and thirteen extra outfits and worry about blowouts and spit-ups and tantrums.

Oh wait. Yeah, not out of the woods on that last one, yet!

But you get the point. Things are going to be easier from this point forward. Some wouldn’t agree, but I wholeheartedly believe it to be true. I already love to go shopping with Mac. To watch his face light up at the zoo. To see how excited he gets for birthdays and parties and seeing his grandparents and going to Target. It’s fun. He has fun. We all have fun. Discussing silly things. Making silly faces. Singing silly songs.

Babies are unbelievable. They are blessings. They are amazing. And I had two, and now I’m ready to move on.

I am ready to toss the bouncy seat and baby swing and infant car carrier. Ready to never snap another onesie or buy another tub of Similac or have to ensure that absolutely nothing possible can come into contact with my child's face and impede proper breathing through the night.

I’m killing some of you, aren’t I? I promise I’m not heartless...just being HONEST!

Seriously, though, I’m excited. I can’t wait for this next chapter of life with my now non-baby boys.

Because I know this "party of four" party is just getting started.

Note: Due to scheduling conflicts, Brian has attempted to have that darn surgery three times now. Still hasn't happened...

Hulk Angry. Hulk Smash. Hulk Yell.

Confession: I yell at my kids.

Like, deep, throaty, angry voice yell at my kids.

Too often.

I have never not felt guilty about it, and it is made worse when I see parents at the park disciplining their children in calm monotone voices without so much a hint of spiked angry adrenaline, because that is just not how I react often enough.

But let's talk about something happier first, and we'll get to the latest anger episode.

I freaking L-O-V-E Kid President.

Have you met him yet?

I've introduced him to my students, my colleagues, my husband, and even my own kids.

I watch his videos and I want to be awesome, and I actually believe that I am so awesome that I try to dance like him.

And then the people in the room with me are like, "Ummmm."

It's only awkward for like, a minute.

So today I watched his latest video, which I'm posting here. Before you keep reading, take less than four minutes and eight seconds and watch it HERE.

He seems to know exactly what I need to hear.

Friday afternoon I brought home cupcakes to surprise my boys.

"You guys...I have a surprise for you!"

I revealed the cupcakes and Will instantly scowled and yelled, "No! I don't want that to be my surprise! I want toys to be my surprise and only toys!" And he ran to the counter, grabbed the cupcake, and smashed it. Completely.

Hulk angry. Hulk smash.

And then She-Hulk yelled.

(PS Have you actually seen She-Hulk? She's totally real. See below.)

Really what I did was Flip. Out. (Like She-Hulk, but with less ripped, rain-drenched muscles, and less green.) I sent him to timeout. I counted to ten. I still wasn't calm, and the only thing that was going to make me feel better was to just unleash.

I angry-mom-marched over to the couch and stood, legs about hip width apart and finger pointing and waving in his direction as though I were dicing carrots.

"You are the most ungrateful spoiled little brat I've ever met! When someone gives you a present, I don't care what it is, you say 'THANK YOU!'"

I repeated this same tirade in slightly different formats for a solid minute, and his only reaction was to stare at me.

After timeout was over, and I had calmed down, and apologies were exchanged and everyone was settled on the couch for a little Word Girl, I had the thought I've been having a lot lately:

He's only four.

The above Kid President video reminded me of two things.

1. No amount of yelling at him to be grateful was going to make him grateful. Oh sure, I had this thought mid-tirade, and I just kept on piping that steam right out of my lungs and into his ears anyway.

But that's the human in me. At the end of a very long day of a very long week he knew exactly what button to push (don't they always know?) and the part of me that's human (all of me, really) threw up her arms and declared that limits had been met and exceeded and the gasket blew.

All this taught him is that yelling explosively is okay.

And it's not.

It is my job to show him through my actions how to be everything. Including grateful. And calm. And reasonable. 

But Kid President reminded me of one other thing.

2. It's okay to need a reminder. A pep talk. It's okay to not use calm monotone discipline voice. It's okay to be human.

If I could repeat Friday's time out discussion...if I could count to a million instead of just ten...I would have said...

Well, it doesn't matter. I think Kid President summed it up nicely. He sends this message to all of our ears, better than any piped steam:

"Some days gross things will happen. Some days awesome things will happen. Some days you'll get ice cream. And some days you won't. Some days your kite will fly high. Some days it will get stuck in a tree. That's just how it is here. There's plenty of reasons to dance. You just gotta look for 'em...we all mess up sometimes. The biggest mess up? Not forgiving each other's mess ups." ~Kid President

My dear Will, I forgive your cupcake smashing, I forgive all of your future cupcake smashings, if you will please forgive my mom human mess ups.

-Kristin

An Elephant in the Sky

One of my earliest memories, and one of the handful I have of my father took place on a summer day when I was three or four. He called me outside to the front yard and pointed up. An airplane was soaring above us, leaving a trail of smoke. He helped me identify each letter as the plane twisted, turned, dove, and rose though the sky. We both laughed when we put it together, P-E-P-S-I.


As the smoke began to clear, we lay down on the grass. The lawn at our house on Parkview Avenue was so thick, that even in the middle of a heat wave, you felt cool laying on top of it. I picked blades of grass from the ground absentmindedly and we stared at the sky. He was the first to speak. "I think that's an elephant." I laughed in delight. It did look like an elephant, or maybe a tiger? And so it began. We spent (what felt like) hours staring at the clouds, carefully deciding what each resembled, from frogs to princess crowns and everything in between. It was simple. It was carefree.  It was the most perfect way to spend an afternoon when you're three (or thirty-three).


I’m not sure why that memory sticks out in my mind so vividly.  I have so few from my early childhood. But it does, just like it was yesterday. Whenever I look up to see a cloud-filled sky I'm immediately transported back to the front lawn of my childhood. And as for the Pepsi advertisement? It must have been effective, because I certainly do have an affinity for an ice cold Diet Pepsi...

In our house we have chicken nuggets shaped like dinosaurs (and Mickey Mouse), french fries that look like smiley faces, fruit snacks with Scooby Doo and Spider Man and sharks, macaroni in the shape of bunnies, and on and on. And on.


The thing is, my boys are immune to it.  They could care less if their Spaghetti-O’s are letters of the alphabet.  They’ve never commented on the shapes, colors, or other various ploys of savvy marketing executives focused on appealing to the toddler mind and pallet.

Instead, my boys embrace their creative spirit.

A few nights ago, Jack had tortilla chips with his dinner. He stared at them intently, turning them around in his chubby hands. He looked up at me, smiled slyly, held the chip victoriously above his head, and declared, "It's a...DUCK!". Colin squealed in excitement and agreed, affirming Jack's statement. With gained confidence, Jack picked up another chip, and this time it was a goat, then a scary dinosaur, and finally a boat.

Colin had a corn dog on his plate that was now a snail, a turtle in its shell, and a lightning bug.

Did any of those items actually resemble in the slightest their vivid descriptions? No. Of course not. But with each revelation, I enthusiastically agreed, and we talked about it. What is the snail doing? Why is he hiding in the corn dog? Is he scared? Is he going to surprise someone? Where is the boat sailing?

We make up stories, laugh loudly, and turn a simple dinner into an adventure.  Although, I will admit, when the boys start comparing my spaghetti to snakes, I  tend to lose my appetite.

We live in an era where toy and entertainment companies feed kids a slew of pre-fabricated characters, story-lines, and props--it’s almost as if imagination has been silenced, or at least muffled. Why imagine that a stick found in the yard is a sword, when you can grab your light saber (with sound effects) and pretend you’re a superhero?

My husband is the best at finding simple, ordinary, around the house items, and turning them into something special. An empty beer box turns into a robot costume. Discarded shoe boxes turn into a parking garage for the boys' matchbox car collection with a few careful snips. A finished paper towel roll? Bingo! A pirate looking glass. Or a telescope to see the moon. A box of noodles transforms into a musical instrument, suitable for a parade around the kitchen. And on and on.

To me, creativity is a skill, more than it is a talent. We are all born with the ability to be creative. It doesn't necessarily mean to be artistic, or musical. Case in point? My three year old can draw a better stick figure than me, and I was kindly asked to take Music Appreciation class in 8th grade over Choir, yet I consider myself to be a very creative individual...and I'm an accountant.  Last time I checked, accounting isn't a profession generally associated with creativity.

I learned a simple, yet important lesson on my front lawn: creativity is something that we can foster, develop, and nurture in our children, and can be done without piano, dance, trumpet, or art classes. Creativity can be part of our ordinary, everyday life.

So when my boys dump a basket of freshly folded laundry on the floor, jump in their "boat" and start searching for sharks, I'm right there with them, shrieking and jumping onto the couch to escape the dangerous waters of our family room.

- Laura 

Renovation Realities

If you follow my wife on her various social media accounts, you know we are a family of DIYers. The addiction started when we sodded and landscaped the tiny backyard of our first house.

And we were renters…

This love carried over to the next house we purchased, which I insisted be a fixer upper, and we ended up renovating the entire thing. Okay, HGTV did help us out with an amazing three-day whirlwind master suite makeover that showed viewers that I am incredibly awkward in front of a camera, and my wife prefers to describe everything as “awesome.”

Anyway, prior to having children, the most difficult part of each project tended to be the first five minutes. We had to have at least one disagreement over design or execution and then we worked like a well-oiled machine (for the most part).

As we had each of our two children, renovations became more and more difficult. It was hard enough negotiating time with animals, like when an 80-lb lab decided to walk on freshly stained hardwood floors…

…but with kids, it was damn near impossible to carve out the needed hours, let alone minutes, without waking someone up from a nap, feeding someone, changing diapers, breaking up fights…you get the idea.

Smash-cut to our winter break this year. About a week before Christmas, the shower pan in our new-to-us-lived-there-five-months-house decided it was time to crack and leak into the family room below. Chances are it had been leaking for years, but it was the hole I poked in a water spot on the family room ceiling below that caused the oldest to rush into the bathroom the next morning shouting “Daddy! Remember that hole you poked? There’s water coming out of it when you turn the shower on!”

Expletives.

This was to be our first major reno project in a house with two kids: a complete gut job of the shower, plumbing a new shower valve and installing additional lighting, followed by tile on the floor and walls.

Cue the Renvoation Realities theme song running through our heads. (You can hear it here. This isn't us, but it's funny.)

Not everyone likes to tackle the mess that a DIY project can make, but I’ve come up with a few keys to a successful family project should you decide one weekend you really are tired of how small your kitchen is and it has to go and you have more than one child tugging at your pant leg for a pack of fruit snacks:

1.        As with everything parenting, a team approach works best. Both partners need to be involved with the project, and that means finding things for everyone to do. Kristin is an expert painter. She’s also a lot better than me when it comes to detail work – like setting the tile. I am probably (read: absolutely and entirely) better suited at the heavy lifting things like demolition, framing and drywall, and electrical and plumbing. That said, one person can’t be the babysitter all of the time.

2.        Be patient. Whatever you budget for time or money for a project, double or even triple it. You aren’t going to remodel that kitchen over a long weekend!

3.         Expect to get messy. Kids, parents, animals. Everyone. Someone is going to sit in the paint tray or put their hands in the drywall mud, and it will inevitably end up on a surface you can’t clean easily. Like carpet. Or pillow cases.

4.         It’s not going to go smoothly. It’s never as easy as HGTV makes it look (we will never watch one of those programs the same again!). But you will have great stories to tell.

5.        If you can’t laugh at yourself, what can you laugh at? A flooded family room is funny. Eventually.

But for me, the DIY is more than just trying to save a buck. This DIY love is in my genes. My grandfather, Elmer, while painting the siding on his house, balanced himself precariously outside a third story window on a board.

Providing counterweight? My dad and his brother, sitting on the other end.

Growing up, I always helped my dad around the house with repair projects. He showed me how to build a sturdy workbench and properly use an expletive when you hit your thumb with a hammer. 

It’s a childhood experience I remember fondly, and now that I am a father myself, I can only hope that my boys look back and have the same memories (they've certainly picked up an expletive or two, unfortunately). Bonus if they carry on the family DIY traditions. 

My oldest has already shown his eagerness in wanting to help and learn, even if it is just climbing the stepladder and cleaning it furiously with an entire bottle of Windex.

Or handing me a wrench when I need a screw driver.

Or smearing thin-set all over his clothes.

Well, a dad can dream anyway.

(PS, here is our brand new shower...planned for one week of work...actually took three):

-Greg

Beyond Baby (but don't grow up too fast)

My first real, true experience with a kid I loved more than life itself was with my almost 12-year-old sister.

After college, she was just a few months old, and I lived with my dad and nannied for her while in grad school.

It was with her I made many mistakes (like when I forgot to buckle the car seat into the car and she rolled to the other side when I turned the corner), but it was also a time that I learned a lot about what it is to nurture and love and watch a little human being grow right before my eyes.

I learned how to do random things, too, like clip baby's nails, and thaw breast milk, and perfect airplane noises to deliver strained peas to her tummy, and that those toddler teething biscuits are like super glue once they dry.

This is also when I learned that when all else fails, drive the kid to Target and buy stuff.

Olivia (my sister) and I would get all kinds of looks of pity. I still look like I'm fifteen, so you can imagine that twelve years ago, other Target customers deemed me a perfect candidate for Teen Mom well before the show's existence.

When I would get Olivia to nap, I would rejoice...even if it was for three hours in my arms because it was the only place she would sleep, and my arm would be numb, and I couldn't quite reach the remote to change the channel without shifting her and I was stuck watching three hours of TLC's A Baby Story (which then made me terrified to have kids).

When she rolled over and smiled and learned words and learned to walk, I was there for it all, and my heart swelled with joy.

Naively, I truly wondered what parents had to look forward to past all the "firsts" of baby-dom.

I soon took my first student teaching placement and Olivia was a year and a half. Many of my high school students were performing in the school play and asked if I would go, and I absolutely did.

I made a night of it, took my (now husband) to dinner and then got comfy in those auditorium seats.

Only a few minutes in and I cried. It was really so silly, as I'd only known these kids a few months and yet I was so completely proud of what they were doing on that stage.

This is what parents look forward to past the age of two, I thought.

It was an important lesson for me to learn at twenty-two, because it's something I look forward to now.

Watching my boys as babies has been awesome--and all of the firsts that made me so excited with Olivia I got to relive with them and they were that much more special because they were mine.

And now Will is starting to read, and it makes me teary. And he is playing sports and excelling at what he chooses to do, and it makes me teary.

This past weekend at his first basketball game was another such moment, and it made me so stinkin' proud.

And full of tears.

I can't wait to see all of the awesome things you and your brother do, I thought.

I can, however, wait for that high school graduation (not to mention kindergarten, and middle school, and that first day of high school). At said graduation, I will be the sobbing, blubbering idiot in the balcony. Send tissues if you're there.

Oh, the place you'll go, I'll think. And then, When did you get so grown up?

-Kristin

I'm Bringin' Dirty Back (yeah)

So… this being my first real foray into social media and sharing any sort of information on the Internet… I thought I’d lay myself bare. I’m putting it on the table. People will attack me in the comments and dig up ugly pictures from my past and post them like they did to that one mom who said that stuff about that kid.

Here goes.

<deep breath>

I don’t wash my back. 

Wipe the spit-take coffee from your screen as I elaborate. I don’t even own a back scrubber.  I make zero effort to contort my elbows in the shower to try to reach the recesses of my spine.  I guess I figure the soap from my shoulders and the shampoo are doing the work for me?

If you’re still with me, let me assure you I scrub my kids’ backs just as well as, say, their arms and legs, so no need to bring the authorities into this. But I truly believe that no adult is really scrubbing his or her own back. Am I living in a fool’s paradise? Has my long-suffering husband just put up with me because, well, I’ve borne two children? Are his occasional attempts to shower with me in the morning not the poorly timed advances I’ve always assumed? Does he really just want to model proper mid-back scrubbing for me?  Am I going to have my little filthy bubble of ignorance popped one day:  “Oh wait, you’re all really doing that?!”

It’s like that meeting that occurred sometime in the fall of my fourth grade year. My invitation got lost I’m sure, but suddenly being a Brownie and playing with Barbies were deemed unendurable activities. I unexpectedly found myself on edge in the cafeteria― chest tight, eyes darting around the room. I had no idea what was acceptable. “Oh wait, what are we doing now?!” I immediately torched my Brownie uniform and begged my mom for a subscription to Teen magazine. Clearly, I was behind and needed to be reading bizarre gynecologic health advice and picking out my prom dress.

When I wait in line with Monkey to drop him off at preschool I overhear other mothers discussing all of the amazing things going on in their kids’ lives. Every time I hear a new one I get that fourth-grade tightness in my chest and think, “Oh crap! We’re doing that now?!”

You know that if you don’t feed your kids chard they won’t be able to pass pre-calculus, right?  I bake Austrian chard into his homemade Cheerios.  NO!  Never Swiss.  NEVER.

Well, you just have to try those amazing bilingual art classes.  We blue-ribboned in the uchongaji division last summer.  

There’s no way you can afford to skip family shriek therapy Tuesday nights… I’m a certified instructor.

Sometimes I feel the need to turn to Monkey and, holding tightly to his little three-year-old chubby hands, choke out,  “I am so sorry. No wonder you crayoned the carpet last Thursday- I’m a miserable bore! I didn’t know every other kid in your class was doing tai chi in the park. I didn’t know we were doing that!” 

I should start focusing on his little sister’s activities. Sassafras is just fifteen months, so I can get ahead with her. I have time to get her enrolled into binary jewelry making.  She’d probably eat all the beads and hog-tie her classmates with the yarn, but at least she won’t be destined to sell plasma to purchase cheap vodka for her college dorm. I haven’t failed her yet.

How many times have you stood in a group of mothers and fretted about your figurative dirty back? Moms are powerful. For example, I read an article arguing parents need to rethink how we talked to our kids about strangers. We need to stop telling our kids to never speak to strangers. If your kid is lost or needs help, they need to remember one simple rule: find a mom with kids. That woman will help you.  She will keep you safe and get you the help you need. Isn’t that amazing? You, and I, as moms, are just understood to be powerful protectors, champions to little ones.

But moms’ actions in relation to our fellow champions? We sometimes use our power for evil. With just the hint of a sneer or a glimmer of superiority, we reduce fellow moms to a pile of hyperventilating panic. We so desperately want to be doing right by our own kids we can be tempted to prove to everyone else that their way falls short.

I have wanted to share a laugh with the other preschool moms when one mentions their nightly flashcard sessions, a moment of solidarity that not all of us are there yet… but I just stay kneeling, trying to keep Sassafras from pinching the iPhone from the purse in front of us. I am terrified that the rest of you moms are doing nightly flashcard sessions. That you all stopped playing with Barbies. That you just got the new scented back scrub from Kiehl’s and it’s divine. That no one told me, “By the way, we’re all doing this now.”

I will fail my kids somehow. I will forget or never even know I was supposed to do something major for them. But we must give ourselves a break. Be kind to the mom next to you in line. That mom who takes a picture of her son next to the same, scientifically accurate stuffed animal every week artistically tracking his growth? She didn’t get her child into toddler Farsi. She <gasp> doesn’t have Tofu Tuesday at her house. She lets him watch an extra hour of television after kiddie Karate. And that’s okay. She’s doing her thing and she’s not judging the mom who makes a scrumptious tofu taco.

Oh, and lest you judge me too harshly for my less-than-stellar hygienic practices, just remember, there’s an entire continent of people who think our lack of bidets makes us foul.  But that’s okay.  Who are they to judge?

- Elizabeth

One Princess Tea Party At A Time

I love my job. Promise.

A big smile can always be seen on my face as I enter my classroom full of Francophone cultural images, Impressionist masterpieces and motivational posters. I love teaching French; sharing my passion for the language, literature and history by inspiring my students to take risks to produce the language on their own. All the while encouraging them to be little sponges who soak up the rich culture that hopefully entices them to visit France someday in the future.

Yes, I feel lucky to have a career that I adore and one that I look forward to driving to each morning. Even when Olivia, my two-year-old daughter, throws herself on the floor mid-tantrum, blocking the front door, because she wants Mommy to put her hair in a ponytail NOW. Even when my iPhone alarm is shrilling it's 6:40 with the screen reminder that actually reads: Must leave house NOW or else Madelyn, my five-year-old daughter, will miss her bus in front of my high school. Even then. Promise.

Fast forward to the month of December, when my motivation and positive attitude typically start sinking like the Titanic. I mean, one can only endure so many "YOLO, Madame!" and "I've got such swag!" from my teenage students who generally communicate using hash tags. Le sigh.

So, when the calendar finally read December 20th, I was like a kid sprinting up and down the Target toy aisles. (Wait. I'm thinking of my OWN two daughters' typical Target behavior. Sorry. Habit.) Two more classes of semester exams stood in the way of two weeks of amazing Mommy moments spent at home with my girls. So when the bell rang at 2:50 that afternoon, I may or may not have broken out a few awful dance moves in the privacy of my classroom. Cue Alice Cooper! "School's out...for...WINTER!"

The first week of break was jam-packed with last-minute holiday shopping, wrestling with wrapping paper, cooking/burning Christmas cookies, and too many viewings of Rudolph and Frosty on DVD to possibly count. That being said, there were plenty of snuggles, singing of Christmas songs (Rudolph, mainly), and fun family moments.

Watching the girls' faces light up in wonder on Christmas morning this year was a special Mom memory that I will always cherish. They were SO into everything. And they received SO many nice gifts, toys and games that I was certain would keep them entertained and happy until I returned to school January 6th.

Yep, we played A LOT of board games. Connect Four, Operation (Classic AND the ever-popular NEW Doc McStuffins version! Yippee!), Chutes and Ladders, Don't Spill the Beans, Cootie, Sorry, Memory, oh, mon Dieu. Somewhere, Milton Bradley is smiling.

We watched Despicable Me. The first one AND the sequel. Too much. As in, Madelyn has Dr. Gru's lines practically memorized, while Olivia continues to wake up at three a.m. on most nights screaming that the scary purple minions are chasing her. Ok, enough of this movie! I had to stash it away to make sure they wouldn't pop it in while I was busy reheating my stone-cold coffee for the third time on any given morning.

(Seriously? Even I am so scared of this crazy thing!)

We played princess tea party in their play room. Morning, noon, and night. The girls dressed up in their fanciest princess attire while I even adorned an old bridesmaid dress just to make them happy. (Nope. No photographic evidence of this event, folks!) I drank a lot of fancy tea poured by a singing Mrs. Potts while being accompanied by the figurine gang of Doc McStuffins. Our little table was quite the happenin' place. Until the girls started fighting over who pours the tea. And Olivia broke Madelyn's favorite crown. Then both girls were screaming, crying, and fighting, and I was wondering how much Shiraz would fit in my tea cup.

The above daytime activities continued every day until January 5th arrived. The day before routine returned. The day before my sanity would hopefully return. One day, while playing hide-and-seek with the girls in our tiny house (where I was crouched down in my minuscule closet praying to the real estate gods that our house sells in a few months), I was secretly thinking about January 6th. When I would go back to school, Madelyn would return to kindergarten, and Olivia would return to the sitter.

And then the Polar Vortex arrived that evening. "No school on January 6th," my superintendent's voice said on the voice mail.

NOOOOOO! Another day stuck at home since the wind chills were crazy dangerous.

"Sorry, girls, it's too cold to build a snowman," I replied to their endless inquiries.

"MOMMY! That's a song from FROZEN! Can we PUHLEASE watch another YouTube video of Anna and Elsa singing?!"

Dear Lord. Someone save me. January 7th. "No school today due to the weather," my superintendent's calm voice said on the voice mail. Awesome. Well played, Polar Vortex, well played. Another day trying my best to entertain the girls with the aforementioned play activities. At that moment, I felt like the worst mom on Earth.

What mother daydreams about being away from her children? I felt awful. I had been looking forward to all this quality time at home, and now, I was exhausted and longing to return to work. I tried to reassure myself that all moms experience these feelings, both working and stay-at-home moms. But I still felt a ton of Mom Guilt.

Luckily, on Tuesday, Janaury 7th, the eighteenth day of Winter Break, my firstborn and miracle daughter, Madelyn, gave me some much-needed Mom perspective that I'll always remember.

It was nap time for Olivia, right after lunch. The girls share a room, and Olivia always wants to nap with her big sis. Well, Madelyn gave up naps over two years ago. Thankfully, she is a good sport in that she always "goes to sleep" in her bed while waiting for Olivia to fall asleep. As soon as she knows Liv is asleep, she sneaks out of her room and quietly creeps down the noisy stairs.

On that afternoon, I had just made myself lunch, when Madelyn appeared on the steps and said "Mommy! Can we watch Project Runway together?" Clearly, she is my child. She understands my love for one of the only shows I DVR religiously.

To which I replied "Of course, honey. Come snuggle with me under the blanket."

Madelyn: "Mommy, what do you think Korto is going to design this week? I REALLY hope she makes it to the Final! She is the best." I couldn't stop smiling. I love this girl.

So we spent a lovely hour of quiet together, bonding and snuggling over our favorite show. And yes, Madelyn was SO excited when Korto made it to the Final! We have scheduled a date this week to watch the episode together.

Olivia's perspective would unexpectedly arrive later in the middle of the night.

Lunches were packed, clothes for school the next day were picked out, and I collapsed into bed. Utterly exhausted.

I couldn't sleep. Something was bothering me. In scanning my memory over the past 18 whirlwind days, it hit me: I already missed them.

That pang of Mom guilt suddenly hit my heart like an arrow. How could I have been counting down the days to go back to work, when I was creating memorable moments each day with my sweet girls?

My insomnia was interrupted at 3 am, when I heard Olivia crying. I got out of bed and walked to the girls' bedroom door.

She was standing at the gate, arms outstretched, calling out for me. "Mommy."

I picked her up, and asked her what was wrong. "Another nightmare, sweetheart?"

Olivia: "No, Mommy. I gonna miss you tomorrow. I want to give you hug and kiss. I love you."

Hot tears formed in my eyes. She had read my mind.

Me: "I love you too, baby. Mommy will miss you, too. But you'll get to see Melanie and all your friends."

Olivia: "Ok, Mommy. Can I please snuggle you?" (Sidenote: We NEVER co-sleep.)

Me: "Of course. Come sleep in between Daddy and me."

And for the next two hours, Olivia slept soundly between me and her dad. I stayed awake, listening to her soft breathing, and hugged her tightly.

When five a.m. rolled around, I quickly snuck out of bed to shower and get ready for school. And yes, the insanity of leaving the house on time was still in the air, but we made it to Madelyn's bus stop on time.

As I blew her a kiss goodbye and waved to her sweet face through the window as her bus was pulling away, I was longing for the next snow day or holiday off.

I was dreaming of our next princess tea party.

-Amber

I Want to Wear Tank Tops

Once we all got past the fact the Polar Vortex was a short-lived icy experience, we were still left with winter.

Blah blah blah blergh blargh.

Winter.

I just want to put on a tank top and flip flops and run around blowing bubbles and playing tree tag until the only light to keep us safe is that of the lightning bugs.

I want the lingering scent of sun screen and chlorine after bath time, the scraped knees and band-aids and dirt stains, the cook outs and tiki torches and iced tea and lemonade stands--I even want the bug spray.

Sad reality: that's a long way off.

I'm out of ideas...I've finger-painted, movie-watched, fort-built, dance-partied, libary-visited, indoor-bowled in the basement, play-dough scraped, and sanitized our way through every indoor play outfitter in the tri-state area including Chick-Fil-A.

And it's only the third week in January!

Help--what are you other parents doing to keep your kids entertained and yourself sane? Anyone else out there feel like they've never wanted summer so bad in their life?!

-Kristin

Showing Up is Most of The Battle

Just introduce yourself, she says.

It’ll be simple, she says.

Unless you’re me, and you’ve never written a blog post before. Who knows what you want to hear? I only get one chance to make my first impression!

Should I tell you about the time at the park that another boy was running into A (my almost 2 year old son) when L (my 4 year old son) ran over as fast as he could yelling “Don’t push my brother!!!” and how my heart just exploded all over the whole situation? Couldn’t be more proud of my oldest, defending his little brother at the drop of a hat, without even a moment of hesitation.

Or should I tell you about the time (last night, the night before that, the night before that), when L crawled into our bed whimpering that he was scared. Of what, he couldn’t say specifically, just that the only cure was inserting himself in between C (the hubby) and I and snuggling in. Have I mentioned that  the number of nights I’ve slept the entire night without L in my bed in the last year could probably be counted on my fingers? This from a woman who swore - swore! - to never co-sleep.

My boys switch moods like a postpartum mother:  A grabs a puzzle piece from the puzzle L is doing and races across the living room, followed quickly by L grabbing A by the arm and pulling - hard - until I hear screaming from both of them. I turn around from checking the clock (to see if it’s 5 o’clock yet) to find L pulling his brother into his lap to read the latest Mickey book from the library.

We don’t help any of this by our crazy schedules. C and I both work in emergency departments, meaning that our schedules look as if a newborn spit up all over a calendar. We work any and every time - days, evenings, overnights, weekends, holidays. The idea of consistency and routine - you know, those basics that all toddlers and preschoolers need - is lost in our house. We try hard to provide routine as much as possible, and our boys have proven to be quite adaptable, but our own chaos can’t help but introduce chaos into the house.

When L breaks down after school, a 4 year old throwing a 2 year old tantrum, I find myself questioning every decision: do I hug him, to give him the attention he clearly needs after a day of being a “big boy” all day at school? Do I ignore him, so that he learns that a tantrum isn't the path to get his way? Neither of these answers has worked consistently. And the truth is, I’m a pediatrician - I know what the textbooks say should work. But I also know that 4 year olds rarely read the textbook. And despite trying what my mother’s friend’s aunt said always worked for her son, that simple goal of consistency is lost oh-so-fast in my personal struggle to decide what is best for MY child, in MY house, at THIS moment.

I think the truth is that there is no right answer to all of these parenting dilemmas. We all make the decisions that we think are best, but the hardest part of parenting is to be consistent. And if you’re anything like me, it’s a heckuva lot easier to give in, order pizza, and turn on the TV after I’ve been at work all day and can only think about making it to bedtime.  Sometimes, we can’t be the pinterest-worthy parent, or even the parent our kids deserve, but the fact that we show up at all, that we wake up with them again the next morning (or in the middle of the night), that’s what makes us all great parents.

The triumphs, the struggles of every single day... that is parenthood. These are the things that we all share. It’s not so much good days and bad days, as it is good hours and bad minutes. Having one of the moments where you want to scream, or cry, or curse at your children?  Just take a deep breath and wait five minutes.

-Julia

The Lingering Holiday Hangover

We're well into January now. And that can only mean one, glorious thing — the holidays are officially O-VERRRRRR! (Belted out just like Oprah.)

Hip, hip freakin hooray... with a cartwheel and fireworks and silly string.

Call me Grinch. Call me heartless. Call me odd. But this past Christmas season just about knocked the sense, sanity and patience out of me.

Like most of you, my family didn’t stop moving since before Thanksgiving. We first held a baptism for Graham (16 months), and then my beautiful sister came into town for turkey day. Then more visitors and meals and gatherings and cutting down a tree all Clark Griswold-style, and then enjoying the lights at the zoo — all within one brief weekend. Then there was the shopping (mostly online), wrapping, eating, traveling, congregating, celebrating a baby shower, more eating, crying, whining, melting down, peeing on the couch. I think I accomplished the most crying myself.

Within 10 days alone, we celebrated Christmas six different times at six different homes. And stuffed our faces at every single one.  

During all the hoopla, no one really slept...and we drove for hours...and it snowed a lot and got really stupid cold. At one point someone forgot her purse after a family visit hours from home, so we had to turn around and drive back to get it. Oops. Brian (baby daddy) mightily refrained from making any snarky comments. Hey, at least I didn't forget a kid or an animal.

Really, it was a great Christmas. Honestly. Much better than last year when I was postpartum and wanted to smack each person for simply being alive and happy (hormones are very discriminating). But this year, we eagerly visited family we hadn’t seen in years, held new babies, learned of pregnancies and upcoming adoptions, and received the most adorable holiday photo cards in the mail. The “husky one” finally started to walk. And to watch Cormac “Mac” (3.5 years) and Graham (yes, the husky one) light up at every twinkling light and wrapped gift and sugar-filled, gluttonous treat was, well, pretty joyful.

And sometimes even tearful. It really does all go by so fast.

I tried to take it all in. To enjoy the brief moments of wonder and excitement and smiles, but it’s so hard when most moments are taken up with taking care of others. As moms, we first plan, prepare and pack, and then we drive to our destination or have everyone arrive at our own home, never with enough time to spare. And then we’re either stuck in the kitchen all day or we spend every moment ensuring the kids aren’t using makeshift weapons against each other.

Or in our case, aren’t tipping over one of Grandma Shirley’s 13 antique hutches full of vintage china. She and the Mister literally live in an historic home, and on Christmas Eve there were eight children, five and under, jumping on their beds, getting into their pill drawers and playing with glass collectibles from the early 1900s. The woman has six grown children of her own, so she barely batted an eye at the commotion and craziness. God bless her.

The fact is, it’s hard to find the time to truly enjoy the small moments. Because there is always something to do. Some disaster to avert. Some nasty foreign substance to wipe off a hand. Someone to pick up and carry into another room because they keep swirling their arm around in the toilet.

But I do try.

Although, there were some moments I didn’t mind rushing by quickly so I could forget them. Like Roxy dog (6 years) eating all of Mac’s Christmas lunch and subsequently puking it back up on the dining room floor. Or turning 35 years old, a week before Christmas, with a horrid cold and lost voice. Or Brian shattering a framed 5x7 of Grandma Jean during the most insane game of “link your arms and dive for the gift in the LA Gear box” I’ve ever witnessed.

Oh, and this past festive season Mac started to “cry wolf” by acting like he was sick with various ailments, from his stomach hurting to his back itching to his legs aching. He seriously acts like he is dying while laying in a heap on the floor. All in efforts to get out of whatever I ask him to do (or eat) so that he can go back to playing.

#hesagenius

#itworkedthefirstfewtimes
#imasucker

*Sigh*

But all is said and done now. It’s over. (Hallelujah.) We have a few blurry photos and dark videos from the past few months. There is some documentation on Facebook and Instagram, and of course we have our Christmas card to remind us of our mindset this past value-packed season:

“Let’s not take life too seriously... except for family and pizza.”

 And I definitely need a few more good pizzas to help me get over this lingering holiday hangover.  

-Melissa