Tag Archives: World’s Best Mom

How Do You Want to be Remembered?

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I do a lot of yelling. In fact, I often wonder if the neighbors who don’t know me well assume I’m an abusive parent. Whenever I’m outside, I seem to be bellowing at least one of my children’s names and threatening everything from time outs and revoked toys to cancelled trips to Dairy Queen. Whether or not I mean it (it’s often the latter), I think I sound pretty serious.

Of course, my yelling is rarely angry. If anything it’s just a necessary evil. When I’m quiet, no one listens to me. But when I yell, I have a much better chance of moving their attention away from the earth worms they’re torturing and getting all sets of eyes on me.

Unfortunately, the result is everyone in a three block radius being made aware that OLIVER! or GEORGE! or ELEANOR! is NOT LISTENING! or needs to GET OUT OF THE STREET! or BETTER CLIMB OFF THAT CAR!

God – I’m loud.

And I was never like this before – so loud and angry-sounding…. In general, I’m a rather reserved person and I have always been kind and patient with children. In fact, as a babysitter, I was the biggest pushover around. A second helping of ice cream? Of course sweetie. Hmmm – it’s bedtime, but you’re really enjoying this movie…let’s wait until it’s over. What – they’re not allowed to slide down the stairs in laundry baskets?

I wouldn’t say that I was particularly fun myself…but I never got in the way of their good time. And aside from all of that, it would never have occurred to me to raise my voice to any of them. No matter how naughty they were – or how dangerous the situation, they weren’t my children and yelling at them would have seemed unthinkable.

But now I do have children. And I’m not just the easy going babysitter who can be coerced in to allowing pretty much anything that doesn’t involve water and electrical appliances. I’m supposed to make rules and set limits. And then actually enforce them.

So I do a lot of yelling. And I worry about how my children will remember me. Will they look back and see themselves playing happily outside as I scream admonishments at them. Or will they look back and think, “yeah, I guess I really shouldn’t have been throwing dirt at that car…”

As much as I’d like to think they’ll remember the cozier, Rockwellian family scenes of cuddling in bed, reading books or building forts with the couch cushions, who is to say which memories will rise to the surface first. Who knows which will have the stronger resonance. Though I’m pretty sure that laissez faire babysitter I used to be would have a better chance at my preference.

But the truth is – as much as I yell to get their attention outside, I’m also pretty bad about consistent rules and consequences. Until recently, I regarded this as another parenting fail on my part. But in light of this new concern that I’ll be remembered as a mean mommy – that might be a good thing.

Letting children eat leftover birthday cake for breakfast (because they caught me doing it) would be reminisced about with fondness, right? And my tendency to diffuse melt downs with hugs and jokes (and possibly cookies) is a far better image than hours of banishment to naughty steps… So really, I could put a different spin on this lingering shade from my babysitting days if I wanted to. I’m not a poor disciplinarian, I’m just fun (or “not mean”).

I know I’ve made myself sound like a terrible parent with all of the yelling and double desserts…but it goes without saying that I am a responsible mother and I do make sure that we don’t live in complete chaos (notice the disclaimer of “complete”). In the end – like everyone else, I’m just doing the best I can. And I have both hits and misses – sometimes so close together that it’s a wash.

My own mother has often lamented all of the yelling she did when we were little. But the truth is, I have no recollection of this. I only remember her as being the soft, safe place in my world. The true source of unconditional love. And the role model for how much parents should try to understand before passing judgement.

So maybe my worrying is a waste of time. I can’t predict what my kids will remember from their childhood. It may be very little – or it may be every detail. But as long as I keep coming back to my love for them and pride in their every accomplishment, it can’t be that bad.

And I hope that they do remember me sitting around with them eating chocolate cake for breakfast. Because that is far closer to how I feel about them than my displeasure with their dirt focused activities. “Let them eat cake – but don’t let them throw dirt.” That’s how I’d like to be remembered.

Ten Things I Love About You

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I love how you convince your brothers to carry your scooter up the stairs for you, because “it’s too heavy for me.”

I love how you insist on wearing dresses because “ballerinas don’t wear pants.”

I love that when you have the sniffles you say you have “sniffers.”

I love how you call your brothers, “my boys.”

I love how you always call George, “Georgie.”

I love how you want to put on makeup with me and call blush “pink cheeks.”

I love how you somehow tricked George into thinking makeup is cool.

I love how this culminated in a purchase of Tinkerbell lip gloss for both of you and a five minute video of George throwing a tantrum because he wanted his make up.

I love how the video ends with him applying it in the mirror and saying “so beautiful!“

Because this will be really fun to show his friends when he’s in high school.

I love that everything that drives me crazy about you simultaneously charms me.

Because you are a charmer…


How I could I only pick ten things that I love about you when the options are infinite?

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Coach Kate’s Play Book – the Good News and the Bad News…

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My week’s experience in the world of sports has certainly lived up to “the agony and the ecstasy,” as described by some famous person I would know if I wasn’t completely clueless. There have been some very promising days and some disheartening ones…

So I’ll start with the good. Last we left off, Oliver’s first Blast Ball practice was “okay” and he only hated it about 90% of the time. So I was feeling positive about the future.

I thought it would be a good idea to get him used to the field by having some of our own practices each day. I was only able to fit in two before the first game last Saturday, but that seemed to be adequate.

Our first practice was Wednesday morning and after a brief hesitation, Oliver saw the empty field and was thrilled to play with his new batting equipment. The twins were too since they are three years old and get excited about everything from lady bugs to Target runs. Everyone was happy.

I set up our tee and used an old magna doodle for the base (there is only one base in Blast Ball). First I tried to get the twins to stand in the “outfield” while Oliver was at bat. But they were having none of that. Everyone wanted to hit the ball, so I gave up and just had them focus on that. I could teach fielding another day.

Getting them to run to the base and back was easy once I established some terminology they could understand. Hit the ball! Now drop the bat! Run to the base! Now stomp on it! Now come back come back come back! No this way! Over here! Run over here! Good – you’ve got it! Now stop! Stop! Stop! N0 – seriously, come back! I yelled the entire time we were there. To anyone passing by, I must have sounded like one of those hard core sports moms. I’m not kidding – I was hoarse by the end.

They improved very quickly, but once the novelty wore off, some new distractions complicated things. Oliver discovered that he could climb a tree about ten feet away from where we were playing, and insisted on doing that whenever it wasn’t his turn. Then Eleanor kept wanting to play with the base and George was terrorized by the cloud of gnats that descended upon our shady spot.

Things degenerated after about 20 minutes, but then I did some ball chasing with them like Coach Keys’ drill and figured that we had a great first practice. It was time to quit while we were ahead.

The next practice a couple of days later was less successful – but it was all George’s fault. He had a melt down because I didn’t bring the bat he preferred and during this hysteria, his gnat phobia took on epic proportions. He screamed and swatted at the air as if he were in submerged in piranha infested waters. I had to pick him up to calm him down and this interfered with my ability to help the other two with their batting form. So after a few runs to the base, Oliver played in the tree, Eleanor had a snack and I talked George off the ledge.

At this point, I was a little anxious about Saturday’s game. While Oliver enjoyed playing with his small family, I knew that he would be intimidated by the bigger group of strangers and all of the cheering noise. Pushing him up to the tee would be much like sitting him on Santa’s knee at the mall – depending on his mood and the crowd, it could go either way.

And here is where the bad news comes in. The game was a complete disaster. Instead of taking place on the patch of grass that was now so familiar, we were on a different, more official playing field. And it was ten times more loud and crowded than I had expected. Oliver was terrified.

He didn’t mind sitting and watching – but the suggestion that he join his team sent him into a panic. He wanted nothing to do with it and refused to wear his new shirt and hat. There was crying and even a little screaming when I tried to bring him over to bat. Even Coach Keys’ adorable older son wasn’t able to get Oliver to come out of his shell. He had pretty much shut down.

All parents know their child’s limits and this went far beyond what I knew he could handle. Between his sensory issues that amplified the din of the crowd, to his inability to make sense of the rapid fire directions from the coaches, the entire situation was a recipe for failure.

And while I want to encourage Oliver to try, I’ll never set him up to fail.

So a decision now needs to be made. Do we push through and hope that he warms up to it? Or do we remember that we embarked on this adventure with the attitude that if he wasn’t ready, we’d just drop it? If we quit Blast Ball, does that make us quitters? Or people who do what is best for their kids regardless of personal feelings? And what is the “best” thing for him?

Coach Keys offered to let Oliver just come to practices since that seemed a bit more doable for him. But when I tried to get him to wear his Rattlers shirt yesterday, he ran in fear – like I was trying to drape an actual rattle snake around his shoulders. I have little hope of getting him to put it on for practice today.

Then of course, there is the more practical complication of who will watch the twins while I take Oliver to practice at 5:30. Chris’ injury makes it impossible for him to do public transportation and his driving commute is twice as long. Even if he left early, he’d never be here in time. While I had originally thought I’d be able to bring them with me at this point and just sit with them on the sidelines, that’s not looking possible.

So maybe the universe is trying to tell me something. Maybe it was a good idea, but ultimately not going to work out right now. Maybe our very limited experience was enough. It gave me some incentive to put aside my own distaste for games and put on my coach’s hat. It’s provided me with inspiration for games I should be playing with my kids this summer – ones that will help get them ready for the sports that will be part of their school experience.

As much as I hate the idea of quitting just when I was feeling so committed, I have to remember why I was doing it. This was for Oliver, not me. And it’s looking like he may not be ready. He’s come so far, and I know that he could do this if we went out with his team every day and really worked at it. But practice only takes place once a week – and even with our family practices, that’s not enough.

So unless I can find someone to watch George and Eleanor this evening, I think that we may be leaving this Blast Ball season before it really even started. And for what it’s worth, I’m proud of everything we achieved. Both Oliver and me. We faced some demons, we had some fun and we learned a new game.

Personally, I realized that coaching my child in sports is no different from every day parenting. You provide them with rules and guidelines. You encourage them and praise them. You teach them what you know and learn from them in the process. And you put your own fears and hang ups aside to help them succeed.

And at the end of the day, you throw away the play book. Every child, every family and every day is different. And the old sayings don’t always apply. You often hear that quitters never win, and winners never quit. This is usually a good motto, but I don’t think that’s true for us today. Because I know my team better than anyone else. And a good coach always knows when it’s time to take a player out of the game.

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Taking One for the Team

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Have I ever mentioned that I hate sports? And it’s not even just athletic competition – I really don’t like games of any kind. Family board game commercials give me hives. Gambling in Vegas? No thank you. I would rather spend the afternoon at the dentist office than sit through an hour of poker.

This tends to put people off. How can I not like FUN? But you have to realize that from my perspective, fun rarely involves a my team-your team smack down. I can usually get away with my aversion to gambling since many people prefer not to trust Lady Luck with their wallet. And I’m certainly not the first person to have little attention span for rolling dice and moving game pieces. But sports! What could be more wholesome and character building than sports? Running down a field with your opponent hot on your heels pumps your body full of endorphins and makes you feel young again. It’s not normal to dislike sports. It’s unhealthy. It’s UNAmerican.

But I really just don’t. And I’m totally okay with this. I lived through years of school P.E. classes and feel perfectly confident in my preference to sit on the sidelines with a book. Don’t bother inviting me to join your weekend kickball team. I understand that it’s just fun and no one cares how bad you are. At this point, it’s beyond me not being good at sports. They just bore me to tears. I exercise for my health and leave competition out of it.

So you may find it surprising to hear that I actually did join a sports team recently. I just had my first practice on Tuesday and tomorrow will be our first game. I have to admit that I’m a little nervous. There will be people watching and I dread all of that time standing around in the sun, but I just try to focus on the ice cream that Coach Keys promised we’d get after the game.

Oh yeah – did I mention that I’m playing tee ball?

Actually – it’s “Blast Ball,” which is kind of pre tee ball. I wasn’t quite sure we were ready for tee ball yet. And I say “we” because both Oliver and I are Rattlers. That’s our team name – we’re The Rattlers.

Initially, only Oliver was going to play. I thought it might help prepare him for Kindergarten P.E. next year if he got some exposure to team sports. This would be the first year he’d be old enough for tee ball, but I was thrilled to hear that a new team for four year olds was being introduced to the league. Blast Ball is similar to tee ball but even less complicated. The idea of an “easy” game accompanied by the bonus of younger children who might be a bit more on Oliver’s wave length seemed perfect for him.

Unfortunately, Oliver gets nervous about new situations, and I experienced my own fair share of anxiety over this foray into the world of little league. But Chris LOVED team sports and has ALWAYS wanted to be a little league coach for his kids. So he was very enthusiastic about the idea. Like me, he had little concern for Oliver’s performance, but looked forward to sharing this great personal joy with his son. Awesome. I could sit on the sidelines. Maybe not with a book…can’t do that with my kids… But at least I could close my eyes and la la la in my happy place when things got tense.

Then, Chris tried to build a new deck.

More specifically, he and his friend were unloading lumber for the new deck, and tragedy struck. His foot to be exact. As they were opening the truck gate the wood came shooting out and landed on Chris’ left foot. It also took out his right arm and left leg in the process, but the serious injury was the big hole in his foot that would require eleven stitches and two weeks on crutches.

So the first practice day did not find me making dinner and entertaining the twins while wondering how things were going at Blast Ball. Instead it found me calling encouragement to a terrified five year old who has trouble understanding what people say to him and responding in full sentences. Even the simple directions being explained to the six other team members (ranging from age three and a half to four and a half) went completely over his head.

My heart broke with each pleading look threw in my direction. And toward the end of practice, when the sun was in everyone’s eyes and he was dying of thirst because his stupid mother forgot to bring a bottle of water (I remembered to bring the coach’s cell phone number – just in case – but obvious necessities like water and a baseball hat? Not so much…), I saw that he had a few tears running down his cheeks.

He was exhausted. Not from the physical exertion though. He was working so hard to understand what was expected of him and he was so worried that I would suddenly disappear, that he had finally reached a breaking point.

The kind coach, who had no idea what was going on with Oliver did know that something needed to be done. So he suggested that maybe Mommy could play too! Maybe that would be more fun.

Neither Oliver nor I had much hope of achieving “fun” at this juncture, but I would be damned if we didn’t get through that practice. Oliver just needs to know what is going to happen next. After a few practices and games, he would understand the itinerary and feel much more secure. Would he love it? Who knows. Would he at least have a little fun? I certainly hoped so. But the first step was to survive that first time. I knew that going in, and I was ready to do pretty much anything to make it happen.

So with 15 minutes left in the practice, I ran with Oliver to the base and back. I stood with him in the “outfield” and dragged him toward the ball with the other kids. And just as it looked like we might be seeing a light at the end of the tunnel, Coach Keys announced that we were going to finish up with a drill.

I don’t know if he actually said “drill” – he might have called it a game – but I spent enough time in P.E. class to recognize a drill when I saw one. And of course this one involved my two favorite things: running and competition.

We had to line up and then on the word go, run after the ball that the coach threw for us. The distance was long enough to provide time for scrappers to gain the lead from the back, but not so long that anyone would drop off to examine an interesting bug or pick dandelions. Whoever got to the ball first would then sit down while the rest lined up for another run.

Oliver had little understanding of what we were doing at first, and sort of trotted aimlessly behind the rest. But I ran with him and yelled, “come on – let’s get the ball – go go go!” And other horrifying cheerleader-like encouragement of that nature.

Suddenly, I had a flashback of being six years old and running a relay race at one of my cousins’ backyard birthday parties. My Uncle Dick ran alongside me as I tried to keep my egg on a spoon while keeping one eye on the finish line. He yelled, “come on, Kate! You can do it! Just keep your arm straight – hold it steady…you’re almost there!” I doubt a six year old could actually identify feelings like humiliation or despair, but my 38 year old brain conjured up the self loathing that I know continued to rise as I saw the other party dress sashes moving further and further ahead of me and my slow egg balancing progress.

I knew exactly how Oliver felt at that moment. Maybe he was more physically able to win than I ever was, but he couldn’t understand why the boys were running so fast to try to get the ball. Where I couldn’t keep up, he purposely lagged behind. But we both watched others pass us by. And we could both feel the failure in that.

As we lined up for one of three more throws (and at this point, I was actually saying to Oliver, “just three more times, and then we can sit down.“), I heard one of the boys who were watching say, “I wonder who will be last.” It was innocent and artless, without a hint of derision – but still made me want to sag with defeat.

Then something amazing happened. With fewer kids around him, Oliver started to try. Maybe it was fewer people and less confusion. Or maybe it was just having four other practice runs. But he actually tried to get the ball. Not hard…but at least he was looking at the ball and moved in that direction. And he smiled.

So when I got back into line with my son and that one other boy, I felt a weight lift from my shoulders. Oliver smiled and he understood. And when the coach yelled “go!” Oliver actually ran. AND he caught the ball. He wasn’t last. And I jumped up and down, clapping my hands like I just won an all expense paid trip to Europe. Because when you’re a mother, that’s exactly how exciting your child’s happiness is to you.

At the end of practice, we huddled up for a quick pep talk and put our hand in for a “go Rattlers!” Then Oliver and I ran for the car. I’m generally one to stay a bit too long at the party, but at that moment I wanted to get while the gettin’ was good. And Oliver was holding me to my many promises of ice cream at Dairy Queen.

We made one other stop first. We had a tee ball set at our house from Summers past, but the bat and ball disappeared a while ago. I suggested that we stop by Target to purchase new ones, and I held my breath as we approached the sports equipment aisle. I was worried that when he saw the bats he’d run screaming out of the store. But instead, he enthusiastically selected a red one.

So we survived our very first sports team experience. And again, I say “we” because this is my first official team too. I’m sure that my apathy for competition has roots in my early performance anxiety and feelings of failure – but don’t diagnose me just yet. I don’t worry about losing anymore. I feel no pressure to be any good at games. I’m an almost 40 year old woman with three children and more every day responsibilities than I can count. Whether I cross the finish line last is the least of my concerns. But I do intend to finish the Blast Ball season with Oliver no matter what level of participation he needs from me. Tedious or not, I’ll be an assistant coach and run next to him during drills and wear shorts outside of the gym. I’ll do everything I hate to make sure he has fun.

As much as I’d rather be sitting on the sidelines of games, I’ll never forfeit my responsibility to Oliver. I’ll wear my Rattlers hat with pride (I’d better get one…) And really – it’s just a couple of months. If I was able to handle those grueling years of working mom commutes and divided priorities, I think can withstand a little humiliation at Blast Ball. And truth be told, I just may be the best one on the team!


Next up: Coach Kate’s exclusive practice sessions. Oh yes – we’ve already had a couple of those. More to come on that…

No One Mentioned Having to Repeat Kindergarten…

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…and first grade…and second grade…and high school…

Today, I visited the school that my five year old will be attending in the Fall when he starts Kindergarten. And as I observed the excitement of the children with their little can’t-be-still -for-more-than-five seconds bodies, their colorful art projects adorning the walls and the competent teacher running the show, I was struck by one very powerful memory. I really hated school.

Okay – hate is a strong word. And I did enjoy certain aspects of school…but the tedious work of studying, memorizing and sitting for hours on end? I was never a fan. And while I suppose Kindergarten was kind of a cake walk, looking back, I can see how it foreshadowed the pressure and responsibility of the higher grades and higher education.

To this day, my math skills are pathetic. All of those hours with the algebra tutor? Wasted! I can barely remember how to multiply fractions. And while I always loved reading and plowed through far more of the Summer reading list than was actually required, I dreaded writing the reports. Memorizing definitions for tests? Pure torture.

So while I sat there listening to a story about Frog and Toad and their garden and then watched the kids puzzle out the answers to various questions regarding plot, their bright shiny faces began to blur. While they were jumping out of their seats to scream “seeds!” “soil!” and “water!” – I was thinking “blood!” “sweat!” and “tears!“

School for me was a grind. It was a necessary evil and at best, an excellent way to meet friends and learn how to French braid hair. I got good grades in the subjects I liked and mediocre grades in the ones I didn’t, and I lived for the Summer when my time was finally my own again.

As much as I am thrilled that my kids will be starting school and beginning to learn how to navigate the world outside of our cul de sac, I’m also dreading all of that homework to be monitored. I didn’t enjoy doing my own. I seriously doubt that I’ll like doing my children’s science fair projects for them.

But then there is another part of me that thinks a Social Studies text book is just what I need. After forgetting about 80% of what I learned in school, it might be a good idea to have some refreshers on world explorers (what did Ponce de Leon do again?), North American Indian tribes, and the states’ capitals (I’m always stumped by Bismark). It might improve my cocktail party small talk – you’d be surprised how often cuneiform comes up as a topic. Seriously though – I’m often shocked by the things that I really should know, but just don’t remember. So quizzing my children on the difference between a genus and a species may not be such a bad thing.

But all of those years… I look at the Kindergartners and think, “this is just the beginning…armed felons get shorter prison sentences…” So no, I don’t have any desire to go back. I really didn’t hate school – but man, I’m SO glad it’s over.

You often hear people talk about children keeping us young. That we relive our own youth in watching theirs. And that works for me as far as the tree climbing and tea parties go – but I’ll happily skip the P.E. class indignities thank you very much.

Next up: sitting around watching little league games! Damn kids, with their contagious youth.

Sound Bytes from the Hood Kids

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The Communicator

Eleanor: Mom – can you get me a favor? [translation: can you DO me a favor?]

Me: Sure honey – what’s that?

Eleanor: Well…a favor means…

Me: Yeah – I know what “a favor” means, Eleanor. What do you want?

We’ve been re-enacting this same conversation over and over for the past couple of weeks. Like we both have amnesia until she attempts a definition for “favor.” It’s starting to feel like Groundhog Day.

The Anthropologist

George: Only MommiesDaddies do dat!

George is so often being told that he is not allowed to do whatever it is he is doing: brandishing cleaning spray…climbing closet shelves…turning on the garden hose… And much of the time, it’s something that only grownups are allowed to do. So “only mommies and daddies” has become a bit of a mantra in his life.

As he’s puzzled out the various responsibilities and amenities of each family member’s role, it has apparently become clear to him that ANYTHING he can’t to is something that “only mommies and daddies” can do:

No climbing on furniture – only MommiesDaddies!

No eating boogers – only MommiesDaddies!

No running around outside naked – only MommiesDaddies!

Yes – Chris and I have quite the life…

The Reason that I Look About 10 Years Older Than I Actually Am

My oldest (just turned FIVE) son Oliver has many speech and communication delays/issues/what have you – so as a result, he has always been more of a man of action than words.

He does his fair share of chattering throughout the day, intelligible or not – but it’s when he goes radio silent that things get really interesting.

The other day, Eleanor came running downstairs saying, “mommy – look at Oliver’s hair – it’s CRAZY!” And since I had heard the water running for a while (yes – I ignore things like kids playing in the sink so I can get some work done without interruptions) I pretty much knew what to expect.

Sure enough, when Oliver appeared seconds later – his wet hair was swirled into an arresting version of a shiny faux hawk. I smiled and started with my ever-indulgent “OH – Oliver…” but stopped mid-OH. His hair wasn’t wet. It was slick. And after a quick reconnaissance mission to the kids’ bathroom – I found just what I had feared: an empty jar of Vaseline.

This is exactly the kind of thing that makes it impossible for me to place full blame on my husband for the kids using swear words.

Even after scrubbing Oliver’s head with real shampoo (which was a huge hit once the eye stinging set in), I still couldn’t get all of it out. And for the next several days he looked like he over did it a bit on product.

A post for another day will be about how I have to lock all the doors in our house and hide common household products in strange places so my childproof lock foiling children can’t get to them. They especially love anything that can be sprayed. This has triggered a Pavlovian response in me to become wary whenever I enter a room and notice that it smells particularly good.

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When is it time to stop picking your child’s nose?

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Because I do it all the time. Like every day – several times a day.

Sometimes with cooperation from the “pickee,” and sometimes with resistance that requires a full nelson and lightning fast reflexes for success. But pick that nose I will. Because I cannot abide boogers.

It all started with Oliver. He was one of those snorty newborns. The first night he was home from the hospital, I had to use that suction bulb thing that I found by his head in the hospital isolette. Shortly after his birth, a nurse demonstrated the mouth suctioning I was supposed to perform on him periodically. But after the first day, I decided that he was in little danger of choking on his own saliva. I almost didn’t keep the suction thing, but all the books said to steal everything in the room that wasn’t nailed down since I (i.e. my insurance company) had paid for it. So along with several boxes of cheap tissues and as many panty liners as I could grab, the suction thing traveled home with me via a bulging bag of hospital contraband.

And thank god – because I was beside myself trying to figure out how to stop the first night home snorting that must surely have been a precursor to something requiring a call to 911. I believe it was my aunt who woke up and suggested the suction thing. And I supposed that after climbing over her to reach the baby supplies drawer on the other side of the pull out couch, it was the least I could do to take her advice.

Worked like a charm. His little nostrils were unplugged with two quick squeezes and my long standing career as an expert nose cleaner was born.

Saline drops were another tool in my booger fighting arsenal, and I had the entire process down to a science. After a brief rookie period in which I actually sprayed the solution instead of letting it drip – the first of many occasions upon which I unwittingly caused my children mild to severe discomfort – I had a seamless technique for maximum results with minimal crying.

And I used it frequently since for the first year of his life, Oliver had a perpetually stuffy nose. Other mothers make sure they don’t forget the pacifier when they leave the house – I double and triple checked for my snot supplies.

One of my favorite booger-related memories happened on a trip to visit my in laws in Phoenix. Halfway through the long flight I noticed that seven month old Oliver had an airway obstruction. And the size of what I extracted was unreal. I actually held it up for my husband to see, “oh my god – look how big this is!” His response? “Is that Oliver’s?!” I was scandalized into sarcasm, “no, it’s mine – OF COURSE it’s his!” I mean, really…

Anyway – once the twins came along, I had three victims upon which to hone my skills. I’ve even been called by neighbors for assistance with their newborns’ clogged nostrils long after the Hood children outgrew the suction bulb thing. As someone who birthed three babies in 18 months, I’ve gained a bit of a reputation as a parenting guru. One that isn’t in the least bit deserved with the exception of this one area. No one matches my booger removal mojo.

But years have passed, and while my three and five year olds do know how to use a tissue, I still feel the need to forcibly extract anything from their noses that might resemble something in the mucus family. It’s not quite an obsession…but it’s not far off.

In recent weeks though, I’ve wondered if it’s time to pass the torch. Those kicking feet and flailing fists can hurt. And really – where does it end? When someone breaks my arm? When my teenagers run away from home because living on the street sounds preferable to frequent sneak attacks from a booger obsessed mother?

I’m thinking that it’s time to stop the madness. But it’s going to be hard. You know, it’s allergy season, and the twins appear to have inherited their father’s Spring hay fever. I may have to find distractions – focus my attentions elsewhere.

I have to say, their ears can get very waxy. I wonder if it affects their hearing… Someone call Child Protective Services, I’m breaking out the Q-Tips.

All in the Name of Liberty

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*This is technically “part three” in a series of Liberty of London for Target posts I’m doing today. If you’re interested, part one is on Wishing True and part two is on Style Key West.

Long before I had my own daughter, I would marvel at some of the truly hideous outfits I saw little girls wearing. Especially when the parents accompanying them were dressed so tastefully. Where was the disconnect? Why did they put their daughters in hot pink bedazzled Barbie halter tops? What possessed them to think shiny polyester dresses in Easter colors made for appropriate “fancy” clothes?

Now that three year old Eleanor has taken an interest in her own wardrobe, the pieces are starting to fall together.

Bottom line: little girls have atrocious taste.

When Eleanor was just a newborn, I combed Ebay for Janie and Jack’s London Town line. It came out a year before I knew I would have a daughter, so I didn’t buy any of it. I have fond memories of pressing my nose up against the store window while I clutched my first born boy, tears running down my face, as I admired those darling plaid jumpers and embroidered cardigans… But Ebay delivered! I found every piece in the collection from the red rosebud embroidered top to the plaid gaucho pants. I couldn’t wait to play dress up with my new doll. But wait I would, since I knew better than to dress an infant in such finery. I only purchased the 3T sizes.

And this was our year! She turned three in October and as soon as the weather began to cool, I gleefully showed her the rich wool and soft cotton.

Her response? “That is not for me.”

Excuse me? Since when did she have a say in what she wore? Didn’t I have time until the inevitable teenage girl battles over low rise jeans and bra-less tube top ensembles?

Apparently not. And after copious tears over the gaucho pants (on both sides), I had to admit defeat. Look for my Ebay listings next Fall.

Sadly, this was not an isolated incident. Every shopping trip involves at least one conversation where I ask her what she thinks about something adorable and she tells me, “it’s terrible.” Seriously – that’s the word she uses. Where do they get this stuff?

I recently wrote about our children developing their own personalities and how they should be free to choose “who” they want to be. That? Was a load of crap. Eleanor’s fashion sense isn’t developing well. And I really wish I could just enforce tasteful clothing, like I enforce good nutrition and bedtime schedules. Oh – who am I kidding, my kids won’t eat anything but cheese sandwiches. Why would I think their wardrobes would be any different?

The most recent of our mother-daughter debates took place yesterday when we drove to Target to see the new Liberty of London line. I had already viewed most of it on the Target website and was enchanted by the dresses for little girls. One of each please!

Eleanor did not agree. She looked at this…


…and promptly sniffed her disapproval. She then pointed at this:


Out of EVERYTHING in the girls’ section, she picked the shiniest, sleaziest polyester. In sunset colors with a rosette AND a bubble skirt.


And she meant business.


She really wanted that dress.


Luckily for me, there weren’t any in her size and I didn’t have to lie. Crisis averted. But it’s just a taste of the years to come…

But I’m smart. And I have a plan.

Eleanor is madly in love with our six year old neighbor Jonas. She begs for him to come over and play, and when he leaves she dissolves into tears. When he is here, she spends half her time asking me why he’s not talking to her and insisting that I come tell him to pay attention to her

What am I? Her wing man? Seriously Eleanor – he’s just not that into you.

But it does kind of break my heart when she gets all excited about showing him her pretty dress and he could care less. She smiles and flourishes, “LOOK Jonas!” And he just gazes at her blankly, obviously thinking, “what am I looking at.” Oh Eleanor…get used to it…you’ll be dressing up for men for years and it will never change… (Barring the low rise jeans and bra-less tube top of course, but that’s another conversation for another time.)

So here’s my plan. I’m going to ask Jonas’ mom (a good friend of mine) to bring over the Liberty of London dresses one day and say they’re from Jonas. I may even pay Jonas to tell her he loves them on her. And I totally think it will work.

But what about the future you ask? What about the more important disputes over indecent apparel? Well – I have a plan for that too. I have no intention of being the bad guy. When she walks downstairs wearing a skirt that barely covers her bottom and a challenging glare, I’ll just smile. Then I’ll say, “you look nice honey. Just go say goodbye to Dad before you leave.”

Inside Out and Backwards

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Oliver is turning five at the end of March, and I kind of can’t believe it. Maybe it’s because he was my first baby, but I still think of him as a little guy. Well – little in spirit, since he’s roughly the size of a very short middle school child…


And truly, he’s so far from toddlerdom, I can’t even pretend anymore. He doesn’t need me nearly as much as he used to. He can get himself a snack – typically not the kind I would have selected for him…but still. He can turn on lights (yeah – electric bill!) and the television. He can even dress himself although his apathy for wearing clothes makes for some rather incomplete outfits – usually missing pants.


And he never ceases to amaze me with his talent for putting on any shirt inside out and backwards.

Anyway – I can’t help but think about how the apron strings still firmly knotted through his belt loops just keep getting longer and longer. Now, when we play outside, he’ll often disappear from my line of sight. Something that would once have been the source of a panicked sprint in the direction I last saw him and possibly some pre-hysterical yelling of his name. Now I lean toward a much calmer mosey and unconcerned yoo-hooing for his return to the fold. Of course, that’s typically followed by some bellowing about notdoingthatnottouchingthatnoteatingthat… But that’s another issue altogether.


When he was a newborn, we lived in a third floor condo apartment. The trash chute was only four doors down from ours, but for the life of me, I could not bring myself to leave my tiny baby alone for five seconds to take out the garbage. I was convinced that I would one day lock myself out while my son lay trapped in the apartment, wailing from fear and hunger.


So I did what any other concerned mother would do – I took him with me. And holding Oliver in one arm while I used my other hand to carry that one trash bag was pretty easy. Even opening the door to the trash room was simple enough. The complications began when I had to open the chute.

It opened in much the same way that a mailbox does, but there was a latch that needed to be held down in order to pull the handle. Most definitely a two hand job. While I could open the chute with one hand, I still needed to hold it open so I could lift the bag into it. And this presented an entirely new venue for my mania.

Since my other hand was already in use for baby detail, I had to look to other body parts for assistance. Unfortunately, the chute was located too high on the wall for me to secure it with my foot or my hip. So left with waist up options, the only feasible candidate was my elbow.

The process was that I would first open the chute with my right hand. Then, holding that down, I’d press Oliver to my chest with my left arm and rest that elbow on the open door. Then, as I cut off his oxygen supply, I would say approximately five Hail Marys while I let go with my right hand and used it to pick up the trash bag, even thought I’m technically not Catholic and hadn’t been to Mass in years. Then I dropped it in the chute, and the minute it left my grasp I would wrap both arms tightly around Oliver and say prayers of thanks to God for not letting me drop my baby with the trash.

Every day.

You would think I’d pull out the stroller for this – but what can I say? A mother’s love and paranoia go far beyond reason.

As the year went on, I took the CA-RAY-ZEE down a notch and relaxed a bit. I could watch my toddler run around on the grass and not worry about every stumble and scraped knee. While I hated the idea of him being hurt in any way, I knew that the falls were inevitable and all part of learning to stand, walk, run…grow. Like all other mothers, I knew that I had to let go a little. And the apron strings lengthened.


Having the twins when Oliver was still a baby himself probably helped. I simply didn’t have the luxury of time for unnecessary worry. I embraced the old adage that children bounce and just held my breath (and said a few Hail Marys) when I saw him doing something perfectly normal that still made me nervous.

But I’d be lying if I claimed to take everything in stride. There was always a resonance deep below my love and pride for my children that screamed, “DON’T…STOP…DANGER!” And sometimes it was pretty hard to ignore. I could turn myself inside out from the fear that anything could happen. That every step they took away from me could lead them into forces beyond my control. What if Oliver tripped on the stairs and broke his neck? What if a rabid squirrel attacked him? What if a big crack opened up in the ground? The possibilities were endless.

Fortunately, I am not a complete psychopath and never take this beyond ordinary watchful wariness. But the irony of the situation is that my big beautiful boy who has never been seriously ill or hurt in his life continues be a constant source of worry for me.

No – not just worry…fear. Bone chilling, stomach churning fear of the far more possible what ifs. What if he still can’t hold real conversations by the time he starts Kindergarten in the Fall? What if he’s so awkward that the other kids are cruel to him? What if he starts to realize that he’s different…an outsider…?

I put up this strong front of not caring what anyone else thinks, and I actually don’t – for myself. But I do care for him. I care so much – too much, and it tears me up inside to imagine him feeling any less than a bright, sensitive boy so full of potential.


But those apron strings aren’t retractable. I can’t stop him from falling. All I can do is be at the ready with bandaids and open arms. They’ll always be there as long as he’ll have them. Which won’t be forever…but again, that’s another issue altogether…

Please don’t comment with the “you’re such a good mom” pats on the back, because the truth is – I’m not. Or at least, I could be so much better when it comes to this oldest child of my heart. I hate research…I’m terrible at schedules and structure…I have of yet to discover effective punishment for bad behavior… This doesn’t come naturally to me – this mothering of a special needs child. I’m good at the love, patience and acceptance part – but not so good at the “work” involved.

But I’m trying. I sit with Oliver and help him practice his pencil grip. I encourage him to work on the things that would be easy for him if he just tried. I wheedle him into trying the things that don’t come so easily with baby steps and little pressure. And I watch as he dresses, no matter how long it takes, reminding him to stay focused. I show him how to make sure his shirt isn’t inside out and correct him when he starts to put in on backwards.

And he’s learning. His shirt is now rarely inside out and backwards.

For a few years now, my heart has felt inside out and backwards. But I’m learning too. And with a little time, I think I’ll get it right.

****************************************************************************************************

ELSEWHERE:

On Wishing True…

Interiors in Art from Mariska Meijers


Beautiful Bangles from Kate Spade

On Style Key West…

Outdoor Living

Sometimes I Really Do Put Some Thought into Parenting…

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So what if there are a few mornings here and there that find my children eating Goldfish crackers for breakfast. And ice cream isn’t the worst snack in the world – it is full of calcium for growing bones. And a little vacuum dirt never hurt anyone (like your kids don’t put their mouths on everything in the house at some point or another!). And if my oldest wants to wear Cars underwear with his brother and sister because it’s fun and he doesn’t care if he looks like an exploding sausage in them? So be it.





I allow myself those lapses in judgement because I do make up for it in others ways. Visit me at DC Metro Moms to read more[DC Metro Moms closed up shop as of July 2010 – this post can now be found HERE] (and seriously – PLEASE read this since it’s the only “real” post that I’ve written in weeks).

Did you catch that? This is not a real post – it’s a sign post for the one over at DC Metro Moms. Where I tend to publish material that doesn’t involve pictures of bald My Little ponies or yet another pretty picture from a decor blog. So yeah – I kind of want you to read it…