My Best Parenting Advice

I talk the big talk, but really most of my advice is a little weak.  So dear Violinist, you have a week, and I hope you’re more prepared then I was because I was so damn sure I was NOT having that kid today.  And the kid disagreed.  So I figured I sum up my best jewels in one post.

 

 

The Diaper Bag: Have two.  One that you take with you, and an emergency one with wipes, diapers, a blanket, and a change of clothes in the trunk.  You’ll be amazed how many times you’ll need it.  In the bag you carry, never forget zip lock bags, in case you can’t find a trash, and a small tube of diaper cream because it’ll saves asses, yours and hers.  If you do pacifiers, ALWAYS have two.  Always carry toys.

 

Toys: The best toy EVER is a set of measuring spoons.  They’re shiny; they’re loud; they’re cold to put into a teething mouth.  I learned this from my grandma.  They’re also super easy to clean.

 

Chores: In the next few months, you need to sleep when she sleeps.  Enjoy this because it won’t happen again.  Make sure your sweet husband pitches in.  Failing that, “dishes, your new home is now the dishwasher.”  Use the dishwasher like a new cabinet.  It helps.

 

Naps: When you decide not to sleep when she does, don’t turn off the phone or put off vacuuming.  The kid has got to learn to sleep through distractions, or you’re going to have a hard time with naps when she’s a toddler.

 

Colic: Most kids get some form of it.  It’s normal.  Both my boys had it due to gas.  If it’s gas, Mylocon drops and baby reverse crunches.  Every one told me to cut out things from my diet, broccoli, cucumbers, caffeine, chocolate.  When they got to chocolate, I freaked out and called the doctor, who said don’t change your diet because the baby has to learn to deal with those foods eventually.

 

Random Weirdness: Babies do weird things, like turn purple, shit ALL THE TIME, make choking sounds.  If you have a doubt, talk to your pediatrician before you become Dr. Mom.  This will keep you from freaking out and doing something stupid.

 

Stupid: You’re going to do something stupid.  You’re a first time mom, and she’ll survive.  You’re going to have this crazy irrational fear that won’t make any sense to any one but you.  My mom was worried someone was going to microwave me, and I, well, it still seems rational to me, so I don’t know.

 

Phases: Always remember “This too shall pass.”  This applies to those horrible nights of colic and teething because she won’t do it forever.  This applies to those cute sweet moments because she won’t do it forever.

 

 

Well, I think that covers all my advice, but then I’m aiming low and hope to get my boys out of diapers and out of juvy.  So, ladies, does anyone else have anything to add?

 

 

Hello, it’s 5am. This is your wake up call.

Sean is my early riser.  When he was in his crib, he would chill out, playing his aquarium, reading the book he insisted on taking with him to bed the night before, and I was able to sleep longer than he.  And the Mom said it was good.  Now that Sean is in a real bed, he can get up when he wants, but he’s lonely and wants to be with the person he loves most in the world.  And the Mom said it was not good.  So for your amusement, and because I’m sleep-deprived and this sounds f-ing hilarious to me, the many wake up calls of Sean.

 

 

The “Hell-oooo, are you awake now; how about now” call – Sean stands next to me and waves his hand in front of my face until I open my eyes and acknowledge him.

 

 

The “I’m up and it’s dark and where are you if I’m up” call – Holding a blankie in each hand, Sean stands in his door way yelling “MMMMMOOOOOOMMMMMMYYYYYYYY!   MMMMMMOOOOOOOOOMMMMMYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!” until I come because he can’t follow the night lights into our room.

 

 

The “Hi, MOMMY, IT’S A BEAUTUFUL DAY; ARE YOU UP?” call – Sean stands next to my head staring, where I can only see his big brown eyes and his nose peaking over the mattress.  (I’ll admit it’s probably my favorite, and I can’t get too upset.)

 

 

The “Evan’s in bed with you; can I join you and can I hit him and Daddy awake” call – Sean stands at my side of the bed, holding his blankets, saying “uh-uh, uh-uh” as he reaches towards me.

 

 

The “I’m hungry; come make me breakfast, woman” call – Sean takes my hand and tries to drag me out of bed.

 

 

The “I’m thirsty; where’s my juice, woman?” call – Sean takes my hand and tries to drag me out of bed, saying “Pease, juice, pease.”

 

 

 

 

Gimme head with hair

When I was a little girl, my mom encouraged me to grow my hair long.  While she enjoyed brushing it, my mom never knew what to do with it.  Until my middle school years, my mom would throw it up into a pony tail EVERY DAY.  Sometimes when we had extra time or my brothers were actually getting ready by themselves, I could convince her of doing something different.  But when my mom went off to work, leaving my dad with the hair care duties, I learned to do my own hair and vowed never to throw it into a pony tail unless I absolutely needed to.

 

For years, as my hair went to knee-length, to waist-length, to finally mid back length, I kept my hair flowing free unless I was swimming.  When puberty changed my straight locks to wavy, I thought I can deal with this.  I loved my hair down.  It wasn’t until I started cashiering that I had to throw it up into a pony tail for hours and hours, and then the minute I clocked out, I pulled out my pony tail.  I was happy.

 

Then I had a baby.  Then that baby liked to touch my hair.  Then that baby liked to pull on my hair.  Then that baby would get his fingers wrapped in hair, trying to desperately remove that hair from my scalp.  I have a hard head, but I still felt like throwing that brat to the floor.  So I did the only sensible thing, I threw my hair into a pony tail.  Forever and ever.  Amen.

 

As I sat there in story time, watching Sean throw his famous silent temper tantrum, half-listening to the story, congratulating myself on Evan’s perfect behavior, I realized that all but one mom had her hair in a pony tail.   It galled that fiercely independent, individualistic side of me, as I realized I was once again wearing a uniform.  Instead of a plaid skirt with a white blouse and knee high socks, I was wearing the Stay-At-Home-Mom-Official-Haircut. 

 

Now I know there are two official haircuts.  There is the short hair cut that many moms prefer as it is easy to care for, and there is the pony tail.  Some of us can do both with our hair cut.  Now no one send me angry emails.

 

But the pony tail just screams that I don’t have any time to do my hair.  Which I don’t.  It yells that I don’t put out the effort any more to look polished.  Which I rarely did before.  It shouts that I don’t care about my appearance.  Which I never cared at about to begin with. It looks like every one else’s hair cut.  As though no one else wore their hair down.

 

But the pony tail just symbolizes the different stage in life.  I have a pony tail because my boys like to pull my hair.  I wear a pony tail so my hair doesn’t get covered in paint, ink, or ketchup.  I throw my hair into a pony tail because I would prefer not to have someone find a piece in their meal.  I tie my hair up so that I can get chores done faster.  It’s practical. And I hate being practical.

 

I guess I wouldn’t feel so weird if I felt I was just as cool as I used to be.  Not that I was cool by pop standards, but I thought I was cool, and for most of my life that was enough for me. 

 

Maybe I should just dye it blue.

 

Just let’s not talk about the lack of nail polish and make-up.

 

 

We are the Champions!

 

Before I had kids, there were MANY things about motherhood I did not believe.  I was sure I wouldn’t have enough patience.  But I found it came from the same bottomless well as my love.  I thought I would have to be addicted to some kind of upper to have the energy I needed to take care of many children, much less one single toddler.  It turned out that youthful energy I channeled to play pranks and stay up all night writing, diverted nicely to parenting.  I knew for a fact pacifiers would never be used in my house.  Evan had it in his mouth two minutes after we left the hospital as I panicked over his crying.  While I would be happy over their victories, I would never be ecstatic, jumping for joy, victory dancing over their victories, much less something so insignificant as pooping in the potty.  I’m just glad my husband has no idea where are video camera is.

 

That’s right.  This weekend Evan pooped in his potty ALL BY HIMSELF. 

 

For months now, after Evan would run to the potty and pee, pull up his pants, wash his hands, he never would attempt pooping.  He demanded a diaper.  The mere suggestion of using the potty would send him into hysterics.  I consulted books, shows, internet resources, and even the blogosphere.  (Thanks again for everyone’s advice on that.)  Eventually I settled for the classic mantra of all toddler habits, “He won’t be doing this when he’s in school.”  While I seriously doubted the mantra, my mother assured me that if he still needed a diaper in first grade, he would just hold it until he was home to ask.  I feared she might just be right, and all I asked from Evan was that he did his business in the bathroom, near the potty, since I couldn’t even get him to sit on the potty with his diaper.

 

But last week after a stomach bug, Evan had a horrible case of the runs that just exploded out of his diaper.  The poor kid was so upset over the mess.  I didn’t blame him.  If I was disgusted looking at it, how would I feel with it on me?  Evan’s answer was to not poop. 

 

After two days, Evan’s body decided to mutiny, and Evan refused a diaper.  All day we kept going back to the potty, sitting, reading, trying to teach him to push.  (Do you know how hard it is to teach someone to push?)  Mid-way through the afternoon, my husband thought enough was enough and got out a diaper.  Evan panicked, refusing the diaper in the same manner as he had once refused the potty.  As dinner rolled around, I began to wonder if there were any laxatives for preschoolers.  Though I knew if Evan would just eat some damn vegetables, we wouldn’t have this problem.

 

As I washed the dinner dishes, Evan came running into the kitchen.  “I WENT POOP IN MY POTTY!”  I ran with him to look, and now I understood why Kate Gosselin (from Jon and Kate Plus 8) took a picture of the first bowel movement of all her kids.  He was excited.  I was excited.  Daddy was excited.  Evan reminded me of all the promises of the day.  The Happy Meal.  The Grandma Candy.  Uncle M was actually on his way for movie night, bringing with him Grandma Candy or otherwise known as Cinnamon Jolly Rangers.  The proud Daddy buckled Evan in to get the Happy Meal with chicken nuggets, instead of the corn beef I had made.  It was a beautiful moment.

 

Later that evening, Evan’s body reminded him that it had been TWO DAYS.  This time Evan wanted a diaper; this time we refused.  I was exiled from the bathroom, but Daddy was allowed to stay.  A few minutes later, Evan rushed out to tell us the good news; while my husband returned to ask what to do with the waste.  I thought it was obvious.  Poor Uncle M was dragged into the bathroom to see Evan’s excellent work.  I squeezed around to see why it was so hard to dump in the toilet.

 

Holy Crap!  How did one tiny body make that much?  One tiny body that doesn’t even eat that much.  Yuck!

 

Now I have to just convince Evan that if he would just eat some fruit and vegetables, pooping wouldn’t be so damn hard.  V is for Victory.  V is for Vegetables.  Now eat them!

 

 

More Easter and Spring Crafts for Kids, Preschoolers, and Toddlers

Here are a few more Easter crafts because I’m sure everyone wants more, or maybe I’m just running out of things to do with the boys.  I was waiting for one last craft, which we did today, but unfortunately, it didn’t turn out right.  I have been debating doing those confetti eggs that you bop on someone’s head, but I don’t know how my mom and their moms would feel when I arm all the little cousins with such eggs. . . though I haven’t caused trouble in quite some time.

 

Lambs

(We did a similar craft a year ago when I was taking the boys to a toddler class, but as I figured I’d make it easier than cutting out a sheep head, ears, eyes and nose, and just print out a template.  The boys thought this was pretty cool.  They love anything with glue.)

 

Things you need:

·         Lamb template

·         Glue

·         Cotton balls (lots of them)

Have the child color the lamb if he or she prefers.  Then have the child spread glue all over the lamb’s body.  Have the child put cotton balls on the glue.

 

 

Bunny Tails

(Evan liked this so much he wants to do another bunny, but one with a face.  I’m working on it.  This was easy and the boys enjoyed it.)

Things you need:

·         Circle template (I used two different Tupperware lids)

·         White paper

·         Colored construction paper

·         Scissors

·         Glue

·         Cotton ball

·         Pen

Using the circle templates, trace two different circles on the white paper, one of the head and one for the body.  Draw two bunny years.  Cut out the shapes.  Have the child glue the shapes on to the colored construction paper to create a bunny facing away from you.  Glue on the cotton ball for a tail.

 

 

Daffodils

(The craft calls for a white and a yellow cupcake holder.  My cupcake holders only come in blue, yellow, and pink, so our daffodils are blue, yellow, and pink.  Sean really enjoyed this craft.)

Things you need:

·         Cupcake holders

·         Construction paper

·         Glue

·         Heavy books

·         Green construction paper, scissors (optional)

·         Green marker, paint, or crayon (optional)

Using some of the cupcake holders, place them under some heavy books to flatten them.  After a couple of house, they should be flat.  Have the child glue the flat cupcake holder on the construction paper.  In the center of the flatten cupcake holder, have the child glue a regular cupcake holder.  Have the child add stems and leaves by either gluing green paper or drawing them.

Keep those colored egg shells after you ate your hard-boiled Easter eggs.  I have a great craft for them.

It looks like . . .

Evan: Mommy!  Mommy!  Mooooooommmmmmyyyyyyyyyyy!

 

Me: Evan, what?

 

Evan: Can you help me find my toy?

 

Me:  Which toy?

 

Evan: The green one that looks like a gun with an orange thing and it all looks like a bone.

 

Me: What?

 

Does any one know what he’s talking about?  Any one?

Please Hold Due to Technical Problems: Or what the f-

When my husband is home, he takes over the computer, as is only right as he is working.  But where does that leave a blog-writing-blog-reading addict as myself?  It leaves me pacing the damn house, reading blogs from my Blackberry Storm, and wondering if it took me two hours to type a post would it be worth it.  Due to my insanely slow texting abilities, I have said no.  I do have laptop with supposed internet capabilities, which is only letting me get “limited connectivity.”  Saying there is limited connectivity is like saying you’re only a little pregnant.  It’s you are or you’re not.  So during naptime, I shall discuss my connectivity with my internet provider and find out what the bleep is going on.  I hope to read and write soon.  I miss you all.

Sharing is Caring

Leftover night happens once a week at the Faemom’s house, usually the night before trash day.  Evan had a hotdog, and Sean had cheese tortellini smeared with butter and parmesan cheese.  Evan pointed out that I forgot the ketchup, and Sean, seeing Evan got ketchup HAD to have ketchup too.  Eww.  We were all enjoying our separate meals.  As I was taking a bite of cashew chicken, Sean dipped his tortellini into the ketchup and ate it.

 

Sean:  Peeeeease!

 

I turned to look at Sean who was stretching out a piece of ketchup-dipped tortellini towards me.

 

Sean:  Peeease!  Mommy!

 

Me: Oh, no, baby.  That’s your tortellini.  You eat it.  I have my chicken.  Eat your tortellini.

 

Sean: (stretching out of his booster seat until he almost fell) Peeeease!  Mommy!  Bite!  Peeease!

 

I stared at those big brown eyes filled with hope, love, and the need to share.  Eat the tortellini, ketchup and all.  Sean smiled and clapped. 

 

Eww.

Do you Hear what I Hear?

Before I go into my blog, I should set the scene.  Remember how I mentioned we moved into small house in a gated community.  As is typical to gated communities, every house looks the same.  Have you ever seen The Big Hit with Mark Wahlberg?   The running gag through the movie is that every time he comes home to his little house in the ‘burbs, he pulls into the wrong driveway because all the houses look the same.  That’s my neighborhood with Southwestern houses, which makes me a little ill to think about it.  Among these houses are five-foot tall walls, separating the small back yards.  Add that most of the residents are retires, and you now know everyone.

 

The other day, my neighbor stopped me as I was ushering the boys out of the house to go get the mail.  This nice woman was telling me how sweet and charming my boys were which I couldn’t help but agree.  Then she told me how she and her husband prefer to keep the windows open and sliding glass door open for the cool air, which everyone does here.  She told me how she enjoyed hearing the voices of my sons playing and how it brought back the days when her own sons were young.  That terrified me.

 

It dawned on me that she and the rest of the two blocks had heard my family at our best and at our worst.

 

I am by no means a quiet person.  I get excited; I get loud.  I get talkative; I get loud.  I get happy; I get loud.  I get angry; I get loud.  You get the picture.  It’s really a shame that we don’t live somewhere where I can holler my boys’ names across hills and woods.  In tight quarters, I am a bit obnoxious, and I started to wonder how we sounded.

 

Did we sound like a happy family?  Did I sound like a happy mother?  Did I sound like I was in control?  Do my boys sound happy and uncrazy?  Do I nag all the time?  Do I yell all the time?  Can they hear how much TV my boys watch?  Is it too much?  Am I a good mother?  Are my boys good boys?  Lord, help me, do I sound like I belong on the show “Cops?”

 

Now I know I’m not an uptight, control-freak mother.  I only need total creative control. (And yes, I did have someone, mention that I needed all control back in my college days and the guy had only two classes with me, go fig.)  But I’m not uptight.  My husband and my mom agree on few things, and one of them is my utter lack of discipline or in other words, not as much as they want me to have.  But I think I’m a pretty good mom because my boys are happy and smart.  Sure, I’m not perfect nor do I want to be.  I’m still trying to do this all by trial and error while reading and listening to the experts.  I just want to be the best mom, the best person I can be for my kids.

 

But I have to wonder in those bad mommy moments {;-)}, who is listening and who is judging.  

 

And I have to remember to close the window at night.

 

 

Horray for Poetry

It’s National Poetry Month, which I learned from reading Inktopia and Evenshine.  As a show of solidarity, I thought I would post one of my favorite poems.  This one haunts me.  It never seems to let me go, and I would like to learn to write like that.

 

Siren

By Amy Gerstler

 

I have a fish’s tail, so I’m not qualified to love you.

But I do. Pale as an August sky, pale as flour milled

a thousand times, pale as the icebergs I have never seen,

and twice as numb- my skin is such a contrast to the rough

rocks I lie on, that from far away it looks like I’m a baby

riding a dinosaur. The turn of centuries or the turn

of a page means the same to me, little or nothing.

I have teeth in places you’d never suspect. Come. Kiss me

and die soon. I slap my tail in the shallows- which is to say

I appreciate nature. You see my sisters and me perched

on rocks and tiny islands here and there for miles:

untangling our hair with our fingers, eating seaweed.