Slipcovers in Lieu of Champagne

Was it really over 3 years ago that I was completely obsessed with a gingham rocking chair? Yes. Yes, it was. And you know what they say: the more things change... So here I am, 3 years later, 7 mos. pregnant, in full-on nesting mode for Baby #2, obsessing about chairs again.

Only this time it’s for Miles’ “big boy” room—previously known as the guest room—which we officially moved him into the moment my parents vacated it after Christmas. (Again, I feel bad for this new baby, who’s getting nothing but hand-me-downs. He’ll be lucky if we get around to peeling the “Miles” letters off the nursery wall. Poor thing’s destined to suffer an inferiority complex.)

So anyway, since we’re leaving the nursery as is, we realized we needed a comfy reading chair in Miles’ new room. The cracked vinyl one we had in there won’t cut it. So being the thrifty sort that I am, I looked into getting it reupholstered. Do you know what it costs to get a chair reupholstered, people? Me neither, since I never actually got a quote, but some very reliable home decorating blogs suggested it could run $300 and up. Fine, maybe, if it’s your grandmother’s antique Louis the Something chair, but for a hand-me-down destined for the Goodwill? No way.

So then I launched a lengthy web search for slipcovers. Which led to flashbacks about my college apartments and messy roommates and furniture that came from and ended up God-knows-where and always smelled slightly ... off. Next I decided a pull-out sleeper chair would be just the thing. Only twin-size ones are hard to find and the ones I did find got abominable reviews. (I tell you, Internet reviews are a mixed blessing. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been on the verge of buying something, only to get sucked into that one review that says the product’s a piece of junk.)

But lo and behold, a chance trip to Homegoods this morning yielded the PERFECT chair: a denim upholstered rocker that’s the perfect color, perfect size, and perfect price, thanks to an extra 10% off for a near-invisible tear. Score!!

I swear, it’s literally unbelievable to me that I am the same person who, a scant 8 years ago, would be this excited about finding the perfect New Year’s Eve outfit. I would’ve been planning it for weeks, down to the bag and hair accessories. Right now I’d be resting up, hydrating, and primping for my Big Night Out, which I’d be looking forward to with giddy anticipation, even knowing it would end the same way New Year’s always did—with me standing shivering on a street corner in heels and bare legs, praying that just one damn cab would drive by already before our group of revelers died of hypothermia or an alcohol overdose. Good times!

But no, this New Year’s Eve I’m not polishing my nails or rehearsing the “beer before liquor” maxim. I’m thanking God my child is finally napping in his big boy bed and wondering what time Home Depot closes so I can run over there for the fifth time in 2 weeks to see whether they have 31” cordless light-blocking shades on sale. Yes, THAT, people, is what I get excited about these days. Happy New Year!!!

LINK O’ THE WEEK: Some friends, some patio furniture, and a baby monitor. Ingenious! Too bad it’s too cold for White Trash New Year’s here.

Seasonal Activity Disorder

This time of year, I am forced to admit that I am one of those people who suffers from SAD. No, not Seasonal Affective Disorder, though I do hate the shorter, darker days of winter. My problem is Seasonal Activity Disorder. Every year, I feel compelled to plan all sorts of fun holiday outings for friends and family—whether or not they actually want to participate. Yes, you WILL go see “The Nutcracker” for the 80 bazillionth time and freeze your cheeks off wobbling around on ice skates for the first time in 10 years! And you will LIKE IT!!

Trouble is, it usually backfires. Take last week, for instance. First some friends and I decided to take our kids to that holiday train garden I mentioned. Afterwards, we’d get pizza. What fun! How festive! Right. Cut to three frazzled moms darting around after their overstimulated offspring, trying to keep them from pushing in front of other kids, licking the glass windows, diving into the fountain in the middle of the food court, and swiping drinks from other people’s tables. Five kids, three moms, all going in different directions. That was Fun Seasonal Activity #1.

Fun Seasonal Activity #2 was my idea. My husband and I would take our son to a live holiday theatre performance. It was just one hour long, specifically geared towards little kids’ attention spans (or lack thereof). Just my luck the play happened to be on the same day as Miles’ school Christmas pageant. So after his classes’, um, “unique” rendition of Jingle Bells, followed by a juice and cookie party, we packed him into the car to go to yet another performance.

I guess it’s not so surprising that he couldn’t sit still through the musical interpretations of Christmas, Kwanzaa, and Hannukah tales. He was more interested in flipping the theatre seats up and down than in watching the actors. And this is the same kid who will sit with rapt attention through his 257th viewing of “Cars.” As for my husband? He fell asleep almost immediately. So much for culture.

Then there was the family outing to a local holiday lights display. We should’ve stayed in the car and done a drive-by. Battling the crush of revelers and flashbulbs while trying to keep a grip on a 3-foot-tall person’s mittened hand put me in a less than merry mood. Plus, it was damn cold out there!!

So did I learn my lesson and resolve to stay home, curled up on the couch with a mug of hot cocoa? I did not. My parents are visiting this week, and I have a list of activities ready. I can’t stand the idea of sitting around the house every day staring at each other.

Though even I have to admit, the grandparents seem pretty happy just sitting around staring at (or chasing after, or feeding, or reading to) their grandson. And Miles is perfectly happy with his usual non-seasonal activities of tormenting the dog, jumping on furniture, and acting out fairy tales with his stuffed animals. But how can I sit at home when I know there are Christmas concerts and holiday spectaculars and breakfasts with Santa going on out there? SAD is a real sickness, I tell you.

Happy Holidays, everyone!!

LINK O’ THE WEEK: Track Santa on his magical flight around the world on Christmas eve. And check out some more fun activities on this page.

Toddler Holiday Traditions

Watching holiday specials on TV. Am I the only parent who forgot that in the animated version of “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” there’s a scary Snow Monster who terrorizes the innocent woodland creatures? I’m afraid I inadvertently gave my son nightmares. I didn’t know! I thought it was a family-friendly movie. Though why Miles is afraid of a silly-looking monster and not Jim Carrey’s creepy version of the Grinch is beyond me.

Getting the Christmas tree. This year, Miles went with some friends of ours to cut down their tree at a farm in the country. He had a blast. But the next day when my husband took him to pick out a tree for us, instead of enjoying a fun day out with Dad, Miles threw a fit. “I just already did get a tree yesterday!!” Sor-RY.

Sitting on Santa’s lap. There’s a very authentic Santa (Real beard! Velvet suit!) who visits a mall near us. Too bad for Santa, this mall also does an amazing holiday train display -- much more of a draw for a 2-year-old boy. Just as well. I’m afraid a visit to Santa would’ve turned into the Pony Ride Debacle all over again. Last summer, we waited in a long line (twice!) for Miles to ride a pony (his idea), only to have him freak out at the last minute.

Making a gingerbread house. So maybe it wasn’t such a great idea to heap piles of candy, cookies & frosting in front of a toddler. I mean, what did I expect? I’m not proud to admit that this would-be enjoyable holiday project took a bad turn, with me shouting: “Don’t touch that wall, you’re knocking it over! NO MORE CANDY!! Stop it, Miles, it’s just to look at!!” Then after he went to bed, I spent hours piping frosting onto roof tiles & giving myself gestational diabetes eating the extra candy. Fun times.

Taking the Christmas card photo. My son can be a bit temperamental at times. He wasn’t into getting his photo taken at the Festival of Trees. Like I said, he had no interest in sitting on Santa’s lap. There’s no snow, and I haven’t finished putting up my decorations. All this adds up to a lack of seasonal photo ops. Meaning I just ended up picking some random photo and ordering our cards from Snapfish before the free shipping offer ended.

Participating in the Christmas pageant. OK, this one hasn’t happened yet, but I’m greatly looking forward to seeing Miles and his classmates march down the aisle singing “Jingle Bells” in the school pageant. He’s been practicing at home. The “... sleigh -- hey!” is his favorite part.

TIP O’ THE WEEK: Craft stores like Michael’s & A.C. Moore are the place to find unbelievable bargains this time of year. Gift bags for 30 cents? Ribbon for 59 cents? 50 yards of wrapping paper for $1.99? Cute ornaments for pennies apiece? Plus 50% off coupons in every day’s paper? I’ll take it!

What’s On My Mind

Sure, I could attempt to craft some thoughtful, eloquent post about the true meaning of the holidays or the childlike wonder that infuses us all at this time of year. But I won’t. Instead, I’ll give you a random, disjointed list of things that are currently on my mind. How’s that?

• Why do I always experience Internet connection problems when I’m the only one home to deal with them? And why does it always happen when I’m waiting for a Very Important E-mail? And why does it take Miles’ entire naptime for Comcast to resolve the issue over the phone?
  

• Does this baby in my belly hate me, or is its constant kicking and punching a reaction to what I’m eating? I’m sorry, kid, but when I’m stressed, I eat sugar!
  

• Are all the companies that are still in business run by Ebenezer Scrooge? How else do you explain laying off employees mere weeks before the holidays, or requiring remote workers to report to the (out-of-state) offices every single day through the end of the year? Also? What the hell’s up with 7:30 a.m. and 6-8 p.m. meetings? Unless there’s spiked eggnog involved, it’s just cruel.
  

• Is my toddler suffering from a split personality disorder? Because otherwise, I’m stymied by this increasingly prevalent behavior:
  Me: “Miles, would you like a bite of my grilled cheese?”
  Miles: “No, thank you.”
  Me: “Munch, munch, swallow.”
  Miles, tears appearing out of nowhere: “I DO want a bite, Mamaaaa!! Take it out of your mouf!!”
  

• Why is my husband the hardest person on earth to buy a present for? I’ve given him CD players, watches, clothes, all kinds of things he suggested and in some cases specifically picked out, and they almost always end up getting returned or going unused. The Nike watch of ’07 is still a sore subject.
  

• Are people really so obsessed with discounted merchandise that they will trample a Wal-Mart employee to DEATH?? Sadly, it looks like the answer to that is yes. Get a grip, people.
  

• Do I need to get a present for X? If not, what if they unexpectedly give ME one? Should I buy a generic backup present just in case?
  

• Is it too late to get a good photo for our family Christmas card?
  

• Why is Miles up all night with a cough the minute my husband goes out of town?
  

• Is the washing machine really broken, or just leaking?
  

THEME SONG O’ THE WEEK: Jem’s “And So I Pray.” Sample lyrics: “Storm is brewing in the air tonight/So many pressures on my mind/Want to escape just wanna run away/But it's not an option/I have to stay.”

PRAYER O’ THE WEEK: Please keep my neighbor in your thoughts. Her husband works (worked) for one of the aforementioned companies. Two kids, another on the way, Christmas in two weeks, and he gets laid off. Nice, huh?

Bumps and Scrapes and Falls, Oh My!

C. was working from home yesterday, and when he came up from the basement at dinnertime he said, “Did Miles fall? I heard a big thump.” And I said, “Which time?” Seriously, the kid falls so many times a day I’ve stopped noticing.

It’s not that I’m a careless parent, it’s just that it’s not that big a deal anymore. He falls, he cries, I kiss his boo-boo, and we move on. If made a big production out of every bump and scrape, we’d never have time for anything else. Plus, I fear I’d turn Miles into (more of) a drama queen.

I worry about those kids whose parents run after them anxiously at all times, as if their child was a piece of fine china in Crocs and they’d like nothing more than to swaddle him in bubble wrap and surround him with marshmallows and foam rubber. What happens when, inevitably, the parent can’t eliminate every potential risk in the child’s environment? What if the kid pinches his finger in a zipper or trips over a tree root? He’ll think the world is out to get him!

Besides, as another wise and witty mother (whose name I can’t remember right now) once said, “Toddlers can get a concussion from a cotton ball.” That’s Miles to a T. He rarely knowingly does anything dangerous, like stick his head in the oven, but he very, very often finds a way to make a harmless object hazardous.

Here’s a case in point: last week he was running around with this little plastic frog. Even though he’s past the age of putting everything in his mouth (except Play-doh), for some reason he decided to find out what the frog tasted like. So he’s running with a toy frog in his mouth and he slips on the wood floor and falls.

He happened to fall in just such a way that the frog became wedged between his upper and lower teeth, jamming his jaw open. I ask you, what are the chances?? What are the odds of him falling at the exact angle necessary to cause that kind of freak accident? Anyway, we quickly pried the frog from his mouth and he was fine. So we added another rule to the ever-growing list of household safety regulations: “No running with frogs in your mouth.”

I’m happy to say that Miles is a pretty resilient kid. His frequent minor accidents don’t get in the way of his enjoyment of life. And that bodes well for him if he ever faces seriously challenging or painful situations.

Take his friend Ollie, for instance. This poor child underwent a 4-hour surgery, after which he had to have all kinds of bandages and tubes attached and removed from him repeatedly. Full recovery will take weeks. His parents, like any I can imagine, are almost unable to bear the awfulness of it. But Ollie handled it. In the hospital, they say he played with his toy tractors and watched his videos, didn’t put up too much of a fight about being confined to bed, and now, back home, he’s already back to playing and preschool. God bless him.

The way I look at it, as a parent you can get yourself all in a tizzy about every scratch, or you can thank your lucky stars you’ve got a healthy, active kid with no serious health issues. Although I’m sure the long-term prognosis for repetitive frog jaw can’t be good.

MILESISMS O’ THE WEEK:
“Last morrow” = yesterday. A combination of “last time” and “tomorrow,” perhaps?
“Nickles” = those 2 things on our chests that serve no purpose in men but women find useful in breastfeeding.
“Pee-nember” = to remember or recall something that happened in the past.

Where Does the Time Go? Errands!

It’s so great when your child starts preschool. He’s having fun socializing with other kids and creating extremely messy seasonal artwork, and I have loads of free time to work out, meet friends for coffee, do my Christmas shopping, and work on my novel. At least that’s how I pictured it.

In reality, I usually spend those scant 2 mornings/5 hours a week driving to doctor’s appointments, sitting in waiting rooms, and getting weighed, pricked, and prodded. I am basically a full-time pregnant person. Sometimes I drive around to different labs to get my various prenatal tests done, in search of the least-surly employees, the newest magazines, and the nurses most skilled at finding a vein on the first try. I’m still searching.

Sometimes I try to squeeze in extra errands, only to panic when I encounter construction or the person in front of me in the grocery store line pulls out a sheaf of coupons and a personal check. Are you KIDDING me?! I don’t have time for that crap!

Of course, sometimes I do manage to do some actual work. But only if I carefully avoid checking e-mail first or answering the phone. Otherwise, I get lured into a time-sucking vortex of responding to chain e-mails, checking my bank balance, scheduling the next batch of doctor’s appointments, and seeing who’s offering free shipping.

Speaking of which, did anyone else get caught up in yesterday’s Cyber Monday craziness? Supposedly, it’s the equivalent of Black Friday for Internet retailers, who were offering all kinds of deals and promotions. But for me, that translated into hours spent trolling OldNavy.com and Toysrus.com, only to find out the items on my list were out of stock or unavailable in the sizes I need. So much for saving time by shopping online ...

I have to say, I actually like the newfound spirit of frugality this economy is bringing out in people. It’s like we’re all in it together, battling against overpriced licensed merchandise and seeing who can find the best deal on diapers. My friends and I regularly exchange tips and info on who’s having the best sales. (Bookmark this site: http://babycheapskate.blogspot.com/) I’ve had complete strangers in stores offer me coupons they can’t use, and been asked for them myself. You want 20% off an oil change? Sure, happy holidays!

My wallet is stuffed with coupons and cards for free gifts-with-purchase from such places as DSW, Ann Taylor, Babies R Us, Bath & Body Works, Victoria’s Secret, and Rite Aid. I never know for sure if I’ll use them, but when I get the opportunity to whip out a coupon, it’s almost as exciting as finding money on the street. And if you unexpectedly get a double coupon? Bonus!!

But with all the bargain-hunting and doctor’s appointments, the time Miles is in preschool barely amounts to anything. It’s like they say: time flies when you’re getting blood drawn or digging through your purse for your bonus card.

LINK O’ THE WEEK: Check out Dooneybug’s Cents & Sensibility blog. This woman is a master bargain-shopper. Read and learn, people.

Old Tom Turkey & Rusty the Snowman

We had snow flurries the other day here in Baltimore. I had no idea snow was even predicted, since I’m not allowed to watch the weather report anymore. My son thinks the TV is exclusively his, and if it is not tuned to PBS Kids or Sprout, he simply turns it off -- regardless of who else may be watching it at the time. So I was surprised to glance out the window and see what looked like a life-sized snow globe.

I pointed out the snow to Miles and he said, “Oh! Is it Christmas?” This struck me as both funny and brilliant. It’s not like we’ve been talking up the holidays in our house. We don’t go on and on about Santa and reindeer and sleighs. And yet somehow, this 2 ½ year old has already learned to associate snow with Christmas. Of course, we have been doing nightly readings of “The Grinch,” so maybe that’s where he got it.

Miles is a little confused about some of the other holidays, though. He still hasn’t grasped the fact that his birthday comes just once a year. And trick-or-treating made a big impact on him this year, so I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that every once in a while out of the blue he’ll say, “Is it Halloween time, Mommy?” Besides, he’s got a point: pumpkins and scarecrows are still everywhere.

Of course, lately we’ve been talking about Thanksgiving. We’re headed up to visit both families in New England for the holiday. So nearly every morning Miles will ask, “Is it Thanksgiving at Mamie and Pop’s house?” At school, he’s been making finger-painted turkeys and Indian headdresses. Today they had a Thanksgiving “feast,” to which I was asked to contribute cut-up grapes. Somehow, I doubt the Pilgrims and Native Americans worried about choking hazards; small pox was probably more of a concern, don't you think?

Miles often comes home from school singing bits and pieces of various songs he’s learned. The Thanksgiving one is about Old Tom Turkey, but the lyrics are a little unclear. From what I gather, Tom has a run-in with a duck and they both end up saying, “Gobble, gobble.”

I was thrown for a loop the other day when, following yet another reading of “The Grinch Who Stole Christmas,” Miles asked me to read Rusty.

“Rusty?” I asked, racking my brain to think of what book he might be referring to.

“The snowman!” he clarified. Ohhhh, that would be “Rusty” the Snowman. Of course.

So we’re off to start the holidays, with visions of turkeys and pumpkins and snowmen dancing in our heads. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

QUOTE O’ THE WEEK: “Kiwi makes me happy.” --Miles

RECIPE O’ THE WEEK: The hardest part of Emeril’s delicious, quick & easy cranberry sauce is zesting the orange. Tip: use any red wine if you don’t have port.

Events Beyond My Control

I quit. I’m done with potty training. For now, at least. Oh, the highs were so very high -- like the one and only time Miles pooped on the potty, right before we had to leave for church. Perfect timing, perfect execution. Choirs of angels sang from the heavens! Afterwards we got donuts, went to Target, and picked out his long-promised Lightning McQueen scooter as a reward.

But the lows were so very low. Because I can only take so much potty talk myself, I will spare you most of the gory details. Suffice it to say it was like having a newborn again in terms of wardrobe changes and laundry, only with an added degree of frustration because I’d thought we were past that point. Plus, there were sitters and teachers involved this time. It didn’t seem fair to them.

So we took away the scooter, packed up the big-boy underpants, and we’re setting aside the whole issue for awhile. So much for checking this task off my to-do list before the new baby arrives.

Really, this is just one more reminder of what I can’t control. I can’t control the fact that my husband, like so many other people we know, may be without a job come January. Just in time for the new baby. Perfect. I can’t control the fact that we live in an old house with drafts in some places strong enough to blow your hair back. I can’t control the fact that several nights lately I have had pregnancy-induced insomnia, Miles has a hacking cough, and we all get so little sleep we can barely function the next day.

But I CAN control which things I choose to stress out about. So I’m over the potty training for now. Done. I’m not even that worried about C.’s job. We’ve been through a job loss before, we’ll get through it again. It’s not like we have to keep up with our Hummer payments or the mortgage on a McMansion. And I’m not that worried about Christmas; I’m a smart shopper, and nobody on my list expects extravagant things. Fortunately, Miles is still too young to care about the quantity (or even quality) of presents under the tree. A couple of Matchbox cars and he’s set.

I’m actually becoming quite skilled at feeding a family on a budget. It helps that I, and therefore my family, eat mostly vegetarian. The Chik-fil-A near us offers free kids’ meals with an adult meal on Wednesdays, and all three of us can eat at Chipotle for about $10 or so. Plus, being pregnant dramatically reduces your household alcohol consumption. How’s that for looking on the bright side?

So at least I can control some things in these crazy times. Unlike, say, my son and his bowels.

RECIPE O’ THE WEEK: Who knew you could whip up a healthy gourmet meal with little more than some pancake mix, frozen veggies, and cheese? Thanks, Giada!

PRAYER O’ THE WEEK: Miles’ best friend Oliver is going into the hospital tomorrow for a major operation. Poor little guy. :( Please keep him in your prayers.

Diagnosis: Productivitis

I woke up one morning last week with a startling realization: I was caught up on everything I needed to do. I had turned in my latest writing assignments, sent the invoices, graded that week’s work for my writing class, bought a birthday gift for Miles’ friend, finally mailed that letter to my grandfather, and even remembered to send in the check to the class mom for the teachers’ Christmas gifts. Of course, there’s always more to do. But let’s just bask in the moment of caught-upedness for once, shall we?

One of my students wrote this great essay about buying a hammock for her backyard, only the seasons came and went and she would never “allow” herself to use it. Every time she thought about sinking into that hammock with a good book, she’d remember some bill she had to pay or some errand that needed to be done. Can you relate? I know I can.

So when I found myself all caught up, it was a strange and unsettling feeling. Yet I fought the urge to instantly go find something that needed to be done. Step away from the washing machine! I went to the gym. I bought some magazines. I got coffee. I sat and read my magazines and sipped my coffee in the car before preschool pickup, instead of madly trying to squeeze in a quick trip to the grocery store on the way there.

If you’ve been reading my blog for awhile, you know that finding time for oneself is a recurring theme. But perhaps the real issue is TAKING time for yourself, that is, allowing yourself to -- gasp! -- do nonproductive things on occasion.

My parents both retired recently. Lifelong teachers, they have always had somewhat workaholic tendencies, from my perspective. There were always papers to grade, recommendations to write, books to read, and committee meetings to attend. Now, it’s strange yet refreshing to hear them talk about taking hour-long walks, joining book clubs, watching movies, and making homemade animal crackers for their grandkids. (OK, that’s just my mom.) I feel happy for them, yet envious at the same time. Will I have to wait 30 more years before I can find and justify the time for an hour-long walk?

I fear that this “getting stuff done” obsession of mine will make a bad impression on Miles. Right now, he’s content to lie on the rug and play with his trucks all afternoon. (Not by himself, mind you.) Whereas I can take maybe 20 minutes of that before I’m itching to jump up and check e-mail, unload the dishwasher, get started on dinner, or return phone calls. If I feel I haven’t accomplished anything concrete by the end of the day, I get depressed.

For a couple of days, though, I was able to enjoy the feeling of being on top of things. Then, inevitably, things started to slide. This morning I woke up to find pee on the toilet seat (gross, I know, but inevitable with a potty trainer in the house), an empty roll of toilet paper, gobs of toothpaste in the sink, yesterday’s clothes all over the floor, soggy bath toys in the bottom of the tub, an overflowing laundry hamper -- and that was just the bathroom. Downstairs in the kitchen and family room, the scene was even worse.

So did I sigh, shrug, and skip off to find some coffee and magazines? I did not. I plunged right in, before I’d even been fully awake for 10 minutes. Then I started feeling guilty about not following up with a client I’d been meaning to for weeks, for not yet washing and replacing the shower curtain and bathmat (don’t ask), for forgetting to line up a sitter for next weekend, for not getting a jump on my Christmas shopping. Some say guilt is a useless emotion. Some say, live in the moment. Some say, forget the latte, wash the pee off the bathmat, and get back to work. I wonder who that could be?

DEAL O’ THE WEEK: I got this adorable Christmas outfit for Miles over the weekend, at Sears of all places. 3 pieces for $20 –- not bad, huh? And how about these tiny stuffed animals from IKEA for 49 cents apiece? You could stuff the stockings of every kid in the neighborhood for that price.

LAUGH O' THE WEEK: Miles and I were having a tickle fight on the couch. He tickled my belly and then asked, "Is the baby laughing?"

Kung Fu Toddler

“Kung Fu Panda” was a mistake. I realize this now. At the time I ordered it, however, I was thinking only about expanding my son’s film library beyond “Cars.” I have lost count of how many times he’s watched that movie. He’s memorized the dialogue, knows every character’s name, and owns a ridiculous amount of licensed merchandise from the movie. Personally, I would love nothing more than to smash the DVD into a million pieces and sink them to the bottom of the sea. That’s how sick I am of “Cars.”

So, anyway, there I was on Amazon.com browsing the new Family & Kid releases. A panda! Jack Black! Angelina Jolie! What could be wrong with that? We popped in the DVD as soon as it came in the mail. Well, guess what, people? It’s an entire movie about FIGHTING. It’s right there in the title, only I’d skipped over the “kung fu” part and zeroed in on the panda. So I could hardly be surprised when Miles started hurling himself around the living room, kicking and karate-chopping, shouting, “Let’s fight, Mama!” Good move, Mama.

Plus, the movie is scary. There’s this huge evil beast with fiery eyes -- a panther? A mutant cheetah? -- that busts out of prison and tries to kung-fu everyone to death. If Miles is afraid of the big tractor in “Cars,” then this character would surely scare the crap out of him. And I can hardly blame the little guy. He comes from a sensitive family. I was led out of the theater crying at my very first movie, “Cinderella,” because I couldn’t stand how the chubby mouse, Gus, was getting picked on. Have you ever seen it? It’s heart-breaking, people!

There’s a whole laundry list of questionable and/or totally inappropriate kids’ movies. Bambi’s mother dies, Mowgli is orphaned in a freak canoe accident in the jungle, Princess Fiona is forced into an arranged marriage and kidnapped by an ogre -- and don’t even get me started on Harry Potter. I was talking to a mom the other day who fears she scarred her daughter for life by letting her watch “Bridge to Terabithia.” I haven’t seen it, but apparently a kid falls off a swing and cracks their head open. Nice family programming, huh?

Now, I studied the Grimm Brothers’ fairy tales for an entire semester in college, and I can tell you there’s a reason lots of kids’ stories contain dark and disturbing themes. I mean, Snow White gets poisoned, Red Riding Hood’s grandma is devoured by a wolf, and poor Hansel and Gretel nearly meet their fiery death in a witch’s oven. These tales are supposed to validate the bad thoughts that all kids naturally have, as well as illustrate in black and white terms that good is rewarded and evil is punished. Then again, there are some tales in which someone is chopped up and made into stew for no apparent reason. Those Grimm Brothers were kind of messed up.

Anyway, I don’t think “Kung Fu Panda” will make into the regular rotation. Good thing I also ordered a Curious George movie and “101 Dalmations” (the animated version). Maybe when Miles is older. As for now, I’m still editing out the guns in his “Horton Hatches an Egg” book. The hunters try to “get” Horton (not “shoot” him). So far, Miles isn’t questioning it. Remember, this is the kid who thought a squirt gun was a hairdryer.

READ O’ THE WEEK: I just finished Keeper and Kid: A Novel by Edward Hardy. It’s about a 30-something guy who inherits a 3-year-old boy. The pop culture references to Bob the Builder, Thomas the Tank Engine, etc. are spot-on.

SHOUT OUT: To all my friendly commenters! It's so cool how many people find the time to leave thoughtful comments. It's great to know I'm not the only one going through something. It makes me feel like I'm connected to a larger community instead of isolated in my bathroom with a small person on a plastic potty, reading "Oh, the Places You'll Go!" for the 40 bazillionth time.

No, We Can't, Bob & Barack

If you’re the parent of a young child who’s a fan of Bob the Builder, like I am, you may have noticed that the animated handyman shares a slogan with President-elect Barack Obama: “Can we do it? Yes, we can!” While I admire Bob’s and Obama’s positive attitude, when it comes to home improvement tasks around here, our sad refrain is: “No, we can’t.”

See, we have a toddler whose favorite pastimes are emptying out the junk drawer and managing to find all the sharp and/or potentially dangerous implements in the house. He’s not one to quietly amuse himself while we, say, caulk the leaky skylights or strip wallpaper. Or if he does, he’s amusing himself by finger-painting the upholstery with diaper rash cream. That means one of us always has to be on kid duty while the other is tackling our lengthy to-do list.

Since I am on kid duty pretty much full-time during the week, you can understand why I might not be super-enthusiastic about taking over on Saturdays and Sundays, too. Yet even when I’m not 6 mos. pregnant, I’m not clamoring to get my hands on the caulking gun. I do my share of household tasks, but I’m no Babe the Builder. What this usually means is that Dad takes over with Miles on the weekends, nothing gets done around the house, and I stress out about it.

But, really, what are our options? We don’t live close enough to our families to drop him off at Grandma and Grandpa’s for the day. The kid is frustratingly incompetent with a paint roller. I guess we could hire a sitter to watch him while we paint or rake, but I’d rather spend that money on a night out.

So we’re forced to take a tag-team approach to home improvement tasks. I watch Miles while C. runs to Home Depot. Then he takes Miles to the gym while I shop for shelves. Or we’ll all go together to Target, which more often than not is a huge time- and money-waster for everyone involved. We go in for a rug and we leave with more Lightning McQueen paraphernalia.

But we’ve got another baby on the way, and the flowered wallpaper in the guest room is not going to strip itself. So I took matters into my own hands. For 4 consecutive days during naptime, I peeled and steamed and stripped and scraped wallpaper myself. I was proud of what I accomplished during those 90-120 minute blocks. And on school mornings, I even made 3 separate trips to the paint store to find just the right shade of light blue. (Sherwin Williams’ no-VOC Harmony paint in Rhythmic Blue, if you care.)

Then on the weekend, C. spackled and sanded but did not get to the actual painting since I was so fed-up with potty training that I fled the house for all of Sat. and Sun. afternoon. The paint cans and rollers are just sitting there unopened, mocking us. In the yard, the fence is slowly falling apart, slat by slat. The skylights are still leaking. The dining room still needs a new coat of paint. The shelves we bought over a year ago still need to be put up.

Bob? Barack? If you’ve got a minute, we could use your can-do attitude over here -- or at least an extra pair of hands.

LINK O’ THE WEEK: For home décor inspiration, check out what people with more time and talent have done at Rate My Space. You can search by baby nurseries and boys’ or girls’ rooms, among other things.

A Treat and a Trick

You know what’s fun? Watching your 2-year-old run around the neighborhood dressed like a skunk because this year, he’s finally old enough to understand the point of Halloween. By the third house, Miles had gotten the idea. He and his friends would tear up the walk and pound on each door and/or ring the doorbell repeatedly in their excitement to yell “Trick or treat!” and collect their loot. And the look on people’s faces when they opened their doors to find a 3-foot tall furry skunk… Hilarious!

You know what’s not fun at all? Watching your 2-year-old like a hawk for 9 hours straight and not leaving the house once because you’re potty training him. Why would I start this onerous task on Halloween, you might ask? Because four consecutive days when school was out and we had no obligations seemed like the perfect block of time to attempt it. Right.

So there I was on Friday morning, making a big deal about Miles’ new “big boy underpants” and how he was now going to go on the potty instead of in a diaper. And for a few hours, this worked. In fact, Miles went to the potty approximately every 18 minutes. And every time he’d leak out a few drops, I’d reward him with a small treat and lavish praise. I think the kid was playing me.

By 5 p.m., I was totally frazzled and had serious cabin fever. While Miles had peed more than a frat boy at a keg party, #2 was elusive. Screw this, I thought. It’s Halloween. So I threw a Pull-Up on him and we headed out to trick-or-treat.

The next day, Dad was on duty. Thank GOD. However, being a little less "vigilant" than I (though he might use a different word), C. did not hover over Miles every second of the day, looking for “warning signs.” In fact, C. cavalierly left Miles downstairs alone while he went off to change his clothes. Well, what do you think happened? Exactly. 9 a.m., and we were already down one clean pair of Cars underwear.

The next day, the accidents happened more frequently. Despite -– or perhaps, because of –- my repeated urgings for Miles to sit on the potty, he responded like most toddlers: by refusing. Not good. “Don’t push or punish” is the mantra of all the potty training literature I’ve crammed into my overtaxed mommy brain.

Then today, Monday, was the worst so far. In a bad mood because Dad’s back at work, there’s no school due to a mysterious “professional day,” and both Miles and I are suffering sugar hangovers from eating our weight in Halloween candy, I lost my patience. I swear, the kid PURPOSELY did a number (both #1 and #2, to be exact) in his pants mere minutes after a successful potty session. WTF?!? Not the way I prefer to start my day. And that was only the first of several accidents, none of which seemed to remotely concern him.

So we’re back to square one. Maybe I don’t have the patience or stamina for potty training. Maybe Miles just isn’t ready. Maybe everyone should just bite me and pass the Reese’s peanut butter cups.

NEWS O’ THE WEEK: Studies show mom bloggers, 78% of whom review products and services on their blogs, are fueling conversations about products and brands on the Internet. Who knew? Oh, right: all of us mom bloggers!

Pregnancy Butt

So last time I was pregnant, my idea of fun was faithfully documenting my growing belly on film. I had my husband take a photo at the same time, same place, and in the same clothes every month. But to my dismay, I soon realized the photos not only showed my burgeoning bump, but another part of me that was growing larger by the week as well—my butt. That was my ugly introduction to the dreaded Pregnancy Butt.

Now listen: Pregnancy Butt has nothing to do with a woman’s original size, shape, or weight. It doesn't discriminate; it happens to EVERYONE.

I can say this with conviction because I witnessed this phenomenon occur even in one of the tiniest, fittest people I know, one of my fitness instructors. When you’re in class day after day, week after week, with nothing to look at but the instructor in front of you, you notice things. It’s not that I was TRYING to stare at her butt, mind you, it was just right there in front of me! And sure enough, even her tiny, perfect, muscled rear-end began to get a little "fuller" each week as her pregnancy progressed.

I’m not ashamed to admit that this gave me a certain satisfaction. It wasn’t that my junk in the trunk was a result of being lazy and indulging my doughnut cravings for 9 mos.; it was BIOLOGY. In a way, it’s simple physics: your butt HAS to get bigger in order to balance out all that weight in front. Right?

So, anyway, now that I knew what to expect, I thought I wouldn’t care this time around. But Pregnancy Butt snuck up on me again. I was running around the mall one Saturday in my yoga pants, either coming from the gym or intending to go at some point between then and the following weekend, when I caught sight of my reflection in a store window. Oh my GOD! Was that MY butt? It was more puffed up than a baby’s in a diaper and tight pajamas! (Now THAT’S a cute look.)

I quickly tied my sweatshirt around my waist and vowed never to wear stretch pants in public again. I guess there’s a reason why most maternity tops are long enough to cover your rear.

But once again, I thought I’d made peace with the situation—mostly by sticking to one pair of flattering Motherhood Maternity jeans that I wear almost 24/7—until … I unsuspectingly walked past a Spinning class at the gym. I was feeling pretty good about myself for putting in 15 min. on the treadmill and 20 min. on the weights. So what if I was about to undo my efforts with a pumpkin spice latte and a muffin? At least I was making an effort, right?

And then I walked by this class, at the part where everyone stands up on their bikes, and spotted this woman with an inhumanly firm ass. I mean this thing looked like it was sculpted out of steel, people. It was shimmering in shiny black Spandex bike shorts, taunting me. It was a firm honeydew to my bowl of cottage cheese. It was a marble sculpture to my bag of wet cement. You get the picture.

Of course, Miss Buns of Steel wasn’t pregnant. I am. I must push past my unrealistic expectations and accept my burgeoning backside. But you won’t catch me capturing it on film this time. I don’t need to document this posterior for posterity!

RECIPE O’ THE WEEK: They won’t make your butt smaller, but these Pumpkin Butterscotch Muffins were a big hit at the school bake sale.

*ALERT* HALLOWEEN CANDY RECALLED: Sherwood brand Pirate's Gold Milk Chocolate coins are being recalled due to the fact that they contain Melamine, the ingredient in milk product that has caused many infant (and dog) deaths in China. These candies are sold at Costco, as well as many bulk and dollar stores.

Just the Socks

I’m a little sad about the socks. They are miniature white cotton ones, with pale-green scalloped trim and a tiny pink flamingo on each ankle. I bought them last year at a fancy kids’ boutique when I was shopping for a gift. I’m not unusually one to buy things for a future, unborn baby, but these socks were so cute I couldn’t help it. I suppose they’re proof that part of me was hoping I might one day have a baby girl. But no. I know now that I won’t.

We found out recently that Baby #2 is another little boy, and two kids are it for us. We’re done after this one. I have to say, going into the sonogram I didn’t have a strong desire one way or the other. At least I didn’t think I did. If anything, I thought I wanted what I already had, the only thing I knew—an adorable, energetic, perfect baby boy. What would I do with a girl? I don’t even like pink.

Other people, however, made their desires known. “Oh, I hope you have a girl,” said one of our sitters. “I’m going to pray that this baby’s a girl.” Even my mom, who usually withholds her opinion unless asked, expressed a wish for us to have a daughter. Of course, that’s what she had, a boy and a girl. In fact, that seems to be the image for the perfect family in our society—mom, dad, son, daughter. One of my friends, a mom of two boys, got so sick of having people say, “Are you trying for a girl?” and when she became pregnant again, “Maybe this time you’ll get your girl!” As if another boy would be second-rate, ho-hum, a letdown.

Part of me just assumed we would have a girl this time. Almost everyone I know with two kids has a boy and a girl. You have a 50/50 chance, why wouldn’t it be a girl this time? Plus, my pregnancy has been different this time around. More morning sickness, fewer cravings for salty and sour foods. If I had to guess, I would’ve guessed girl.

We weren’t even sure we wanted to find out. We didn’t last time; we didn’t care. But when Miles started going around telling people he was getting “a new baby brother,” we thought we’d better manage his expectations. Plus, I wanted to know for all those boring practical reasons – would we need new crib bedding and clothing? Should we save Miles’ outgrown stuff or give it away? Should we repaint the nursery?

So it was kind of a shock to me when the lab technician said, “There’s your boy,” pointing to what she claimed was the undeniable proof. (It looked like a blurry little nub, if you ask me.) For a few moments—OK a few days—I actually felt a little disappointed. And then I got over it.

My husband, one of 5 kids, grew up with a younger brother close in age. It was great, he said, like having a built-in best friend. Most of my girlfriends who have sisters are closer to their siblings than those who have brothers. And my friends who do have two boys rave about them. They play together, look out for one another, and you can put the younger one in all those cute clothes the older one outgrew so fast!

Yes, I may be the odd girl out in our house, but I was never really a girly-girl anyway. I’m kind of relieved to avoid the whole princess obsession and the house full of pink sparkly stuff, to be honest. As my SIL pointed out, it may be somewhat easier to find cute girls’ clothes, but you still have to wade through all the inappropriate, mini Jon-Benet Ramsey outfits to find them. And trust C. to look on the bright side: “At least we won’t have to pay for a wedding!”

I’m hoping this next little boy shares all of his older brother’s best features, with maybe a tad less, uh, energy and speed. Maybe he’ll like to sit quietly and read, or listen to music and do craft projects. Whatever he’s like, he’s sure to have his own, distinct personality. I can’t wait to get to know him.

In the meantime, those socks will make a good gift for the next newborn girl. Or maybe I’ll just hang onto them a little longer.

QUOTE O’ THE WEEK: My friend S., a busy mom of 3, said something the other day that made me laugh: “I’m grasping for the energy to give a crap.”

Here Comes the Potty Trainer

The way I see it, potty training is a lot like wedding planning. You’re utterly consumed with it for awhile, and then you want nothing to do with it ever again. Plus, both situations are rife with judgment. (Wedding: “I can’t BELIEVE she’s doing a bouquet toss!” and “What is UP with that chapel-length veil?!” Potty training: “I can’t BELIEVE she bribes her kid with candy!” and “What is UP with that 3 ½-year-old still wearing Pull-Ups?!”)

Plus, there’s a ton of misinformation. I was told by someone to buy two wedding dresses in case something happened to one at the last minute. Yeah, right. And the potty training books/DVDs claim that sticker charts work. Yeah, right. Look, to each her own, but my kid could care less about stickers. Same with big-boy undies or a fancy new potty. They sparked mild curiosity, but they were hardly the catalyst for overnight success.

What DID work? Candy. I’m not proud of it, and all the books tell you to never, ever, under any circumstances use food as a reward. But the only thing that compelled Miles to sit his little butt down on the potty was the promise of a “special treat,” aka, candy. So he’s been going faithfully every night before bedtime for a couple months and being rewarded with a lollipop or a couple pieces of candy corn. I suspect the Childhood Obesity Police are hunting me down as we speak. And that the Eating Disorders Emergency Squad and American Society of Dentists are hot on their heels. I give up; you caught me.

At any other time except bedtime, however, Miles could care less about the potty or the treat. “Do you need to go to the potty, sweetie?” “No.” “Do you want to just try?” “No.” Don’t make it a power struggle, all the books caution, leave it up to your child. Listen: if I left everything up to my toddler, he’d still be using a bottle and pacifier and wearing pajamas and Crocs everywhere we go. He needs a little push or he’s going to be wearing Pull-Ups till he’s 12. (This random thought occurred to me yesterday: Anna Nicole Smith managed to potty train her son. Anna Nicole Smith, people!!)

So the consensus among my friends seems to be, once the kid’s going regularly, just do it. Just switch them to underwear and never look back. Let’s examine this philosophy. First, what exactly constitutes “regularly”? Once a day? Once an hour? And once they’re in underwear, what then? Do you, like one of my friends, not leave the house for 2 weeks straight until they really “get it”? Do you, like another mom I know, confine the child only to areas of your house with hardwood floors? Do you cover every upholstered or carpeted surface with plastic wrap? Run after your child with a bucket? The most the books will say is, “Expect some accidents.” Helpful.

And, oh, the stories you will hear. I met one mom at a cocktail party who said her daughter was trained in a day. I wanted to punch her. Another dad said he thought things were all good until one morning his daughter said, “Couch wet,” and it was. I’ve heard stories about feces-covered cribs, kids dropping trou in the middle of a picnic, accidents in Target, accidents at school, accidents in the car. It’s terrifying, people.

And if your child’s in daycare or school or does anything that involves leaving the house, it’s not just your own family and furniture you’re inflicting them on. My sitter visibly flinched and asked warily, “No more diapers?” when I told her Miles was making progress on the potty. But, no, I’m still firmly embracing the diapers for now. I keep waiting for a better time to go full-steam ahead, like after our in-laws visit, during a school holiday, or when we move to a nudist colony in the woods.

All I know is, if Anna Nicole Smith could do it, so can I. And as soon as this stage is over, I will forget about signs of readiness, sticker charts, and character undies as fast as I forgot about personalized napkins, petticoats, and cake fillings. At least until the next toddler comes along. Sigh...

KID ART O’ THE WEEK: It’s a birthday cake, can’t you tell? Although using Play-Doh and dried pasta for a “pretend” food item is asking a little much. Miles promptly took a bite out of his.

Anniversary Antics

Last weekend, my husband and I celebrated 5 years of marriage. And by “celebrated,” I mean we actually arranged childcare, dressed up, and left the house -- at night! (More on that later.) I tell you, 5 years ago on that beautiful October day in Rhode Island, I could never have imagined the life we have today.

The day of my wedding, I woke up at 5:30 a.m. full of nervous excitement. Little did I know that 3 years later, I would become intimately familiar with that hour of day. I eagerly slipped into my gorgeous wedding dress, which I’d spent countless hours shopping for. I couldn’t conceive of a day when I might dress in shrunken, stained T-shirts, yet spend countless hours shopping for tiny seersucker blazer for my son to wear on Easter. I was obsessed with every detail of my wedding -- the flowers on the ends of the church pews, the handmade programs and favors, the music, the photos. Fast-forward to today, when I have a single wedding photo on display, but about 50 zillion snapshots of a certain brown-eyed baby boy around the house.

Yep, times change. Now, a night out involves intricate planning. Which is probably why we decided to bag it this year. Who needs a fancy anniversary celebration, right? Well, I do. Otherwise it’s just another day. So I was thrilled when my husband announced that he’d planned a surprise getaway for us. We’d drive to Washington, D.C., drop off Miles at my brother and SIL’s house, then go out to dinner and spend the night at a nice hotel. Woo hoo!

I couldn’t believe my brother and his wife had agreed to take on another busy toddler in addition to their own. But as they say, you don’t look a gift horse in the mouth! To make things as easy as possible on them, I packed up Miles’ clothes, PJs, books, stuffed animals, blankets, Pack & Play and potty seat, and wrote down his nightly routine. But I was plagued with doubt. Would he stay in the Pack & Play or jump out like he’d done the last time? Would he use the potty at someone else’s house, or did we risk derailing our progress so far? Would he keep my niece awake all night? Maybe it wasn’t worth the hassle.

Exasperated, C. huffed, “You’re making it more complicated than it needs to be! Let’s just GO. He’ll be fine.” And he was.

OK, so he didn’t go to bed until 9 p.m., after a drawn-out bedtime routine during which he roped my SIL into reading him book after book, claimed he needed to use the potty at the last minute, took his sweet ol’ time savoring his post-potty lollipop, insisted he needed a nightlight, and kept asking, “Where’s my family?” At the restaurant, we texted back and forth for updates. “Haven’t heard a peep in 15 min,” wrote my brother. Whew!

But what if he woke up at some ungodly hour, like 5:30 a.m.? Milk and PBS should buy you another hour or two, I assured them. Shockingly, Miles slept until 7:20 a.m. The kids got along great, the parents handled the two of them just fine, and everybody looked fairly happy and well-rested when we joined them the next morning.

As for C. and I, we enjoyed a fabulous, leisurely meal and clean, high-thread count sheets on a bed we didn’t have to make in the morning, as well as the rare experience of having entire conversations that weren’t interrupted to shout, “Two hands! Use two hands to drink your milk, please” and “Leave the dog alone!”

Maybe it’s a far cry from champagne and chocolates, but you know what? We appreciate life’s smaller luxuries now. And as fun as our wedding was, I doubt even one person noticed those damn pew bows! I’m happy to spend my time doing more important things, like hunting down Miles’ lost Lightning McQueen car.

LINK O’ THE WEEK: Why, Denis Leary, why? Why’d you have to go there? I mean, autism? Really? Now Jenny McCarthy’s going to kick your ass.

Baby Belly Bingo

I never thought it would happen to me, but it has: I have come down with a mild case of blogger’s block. Gasp! I have nothing profound or witty or even really mildly amusing to discuss. Except for an anecdote about Miles and his unborn baby sibling. This subject has become a bit of a comedy routine:

Me: Ouch! Miles, please be careful with your elbows. There’s a baby in Mommy’s belly.

Miles: No, I have a baby in MY belly.

Me: Really? Well, THIS baby is going to be your baby brother or sister.

Miles: Can I see it?

Me: Um, not yet. It’s still growing in there.

Miles: Then can I hold it?

Frankly, I would have put off the whole discussion until I had an actual newborn to present as evidence. But we knew the day had come to address it when we came home from a night out and asked the sitter how things went. “Fine. Miles told me he’s getting a new baby brother,” she said. Oh. This was news to us and to her. Guess our secret was out!

Sticking with the pregnancy theme, let’s move on to maternity fashions, shall we? Last time around, I was still squeezing myself into my regular clothes at this point. This time? No chance. Even with the purchase of the highly touted Bella Band, this stretchy piece of fabric you wear over the top of your unbuttoned pants to create a smooth line and keep your pants up. Except it does nothing for your thighs or butt, straining at the seams below that. Not pretty. And last time I mocked the Popper Stopper, but now that my belly button has already popped out again, it’s looking like a good idea.

I have this friend, S., who throughout 3 pregnancies managed to look sexy and voluptuous rather than fat and frumpy. Maybe this time I should borrow a page from her body-hugging maternity wear philosophy instead of masking my girth in enormous sweatshirts. So today I tried on a form-fitting mid-thigh length sweater dress over jeans, like I’ve seen on some of the celebrities. Only I looked like a giant cable-knit Teletubby. And the maxidress trend? Why would I want to hang yards of fabric from my outermost point (the belly), where it will drape down to my ankles, obscuring my perfectly OK-looking legs? Maybe Gwen and Angelina can pull it off, but not this lady.

Thank goodness for A-line and empire waist tops, flattering to prego and non-prego women alike. Those should get me through the next month or so, until they get too short and drafty, you know what I mean? As for the pants, I caved in to the elastic waist weeks ago. The Bella Band can only do so much.

Personally, I am looking forward to seeing how they camouflage Rebecca Romijn’s pregnancy (with TWINS!) on “Ugly Betty.” Since she’s supposed to be a transvestite, they can’t exactly easily work it into the script. This leads me to the ...

LINK O’ THE WEEK: Jerry O'Connell Apologizes for Calling Wife Rebecca Romijn 'Huge'

READ O’ THE WEEK: Thanks to fellow writer mom Kelli, for letting me know there’s a new David book out. Hooray! We’ll have to get our hands on this one. Kids adore these books and the used bookstore near us can’t keep them on the shelves.

"Just a Mom"

I read this interview with Sally Field recently where she talks about meeting women who say apologetically, “Oh, I’m just a mom.” When in fact, her Oscars and Emmys notwithstanding, Sally feels that being a mom is actually THE most important job in the world. Most of the time, I would agree. However, a couple things happened recently that shook my confidence.

First, I had an assignment to interview some doctors at one of the world’s top medical institutions. This one woman is working on a cure for a blinding eye disease that affects millions of people in Africa and worldwide. Several times a year she travels to remote villages and treats women and children who have to walk 4 hours to the medical clinic and don’t even have enough clean water to wash their faces daily. Damn. And I was feeling proud of organizing the toy box in the family room?!

And lest you think (as I wanted to), “Well, she probably doesn’t have a family of her own,” yes, she does. In fact, her daughter and her husband are working on AIDS and malaria research alongside her in Africa.

During the interview, I actually began to panic a little. What if I never get to go to Africa? What if I never have anything close to the amazing experiences this woman was describing? What if my biggest accomplishment is making homemade Play-Doh for my son's preschool class? I have a friend who joined the Peace Corps after college—wisely, BEFORE she married and had kids. It’s too late for me!! I almost have 2 kids!

It had been a monumental feat just to arrange childcare, get dressed, prepare for the interviews, and drive downtown to conduct them in person. By the end of the day, I was exhausted from being “on” all day and trying to process loads of complex medical information. I wouldn’t last a day in Africa! Who am I kidding?

But maybe when the kids are grown. I mean, I might still have a chance to go to Africa someday, right? What I will never again be able to do, however, is go strawberry picking and hiking and sailing with my fiancé with carefree, child-free abandon. What? Did I lose you?


Let me explain: We got a save-the-date for a friend’s wedding the other day. It’s out of state and a month after I’m due to give birth, so the odds of me attending are slim. Yet I was still intrigued enough to check out the wedding web site. And there, people, is where I saw them: dozens of snapshots of the happy couple in full-on outdoorsy, in-love mode, hiking in the mountains, sailing, running marathons, going to baseball games and, yes, even picking strawberries. You know the last time my husband and I spent a romantic date picking strawberries? Let me see, that would be … NEVER.

This web site depressed me. Didn’t these people ever just sit around in their sweats watching TV? (Which is, in fact, what C. and I were doing at that very moment.) Did they ever argue about where to spend the holidays or whose turn it was to brush the dog? Did they ever get bored or irritated with each other? It sure didn’t look like it.

Well, duh, you’re saying. It’s their wedding web site. I know, I know, but it’s what it REPRESENTS. I am genuinely afraid that C. and I will never again experience such carefree enjoyment of life. Those photos were a rude reminder that we have missed our opportunity to live it up before we have kids. We will probably never again go to a baseball game together because it would involve hiring a sitter for 4+ hours and I don’t even like the sport that much anyway. I will probably never train for a triathlon (J.Lo be damned!) And I seriously doubt my husband and I would ever spend a rare afternoon away from Miles picking strawberries. (If our lovebird friends had had a toddler with them, I bet they wouldn’t be looking so relaxed and happy -- and I GUARANTEE their clothes would not be so clean.)

Then I looked up from the computer and realized that for the first time all week the 2 guys I love most in the world, my husband and my son, were both in the same room with me. We were just hanging out, relaxing, laughing at Miles’ attempts to show off by dancing to The Gorillaz on top of the ottoman. And I realized, hey, it may not be Africa or a field of strawberries, but my life as “just a mom” is nothing to sneeze at.

READ O’ THE WEEK: This is Miles’ new favorite book: “I Love You, Stinky Face,” by Lisa McCourt and Cyd Moore. He seriously made me read it 6 times the day I gave it to him. I bought it at Daedalus Books, this bookstore in town that sells overstock books at huge discounts. I couldn’t find this book on their web site, though they do have lots of others.

Martha May Be On to Something

I’m not gonna lie, people. It’s been a crummy couple of weeks. Not Miles-wise. He’s great. Cracks me up on a daily basis. Except when he’s throwing a tantrum over not being able to watch “Cars” for the 50 bazillionth time. But all the adult stuff—job stress, long commutes, unexpected bills, the flooded basement—has been blecchhh. So to cheer myself up, I decided to make a list of the good things that are going on.

Do I feel like Martha Stewart without the starched sheets and homemade apple tarts? A little. (BTW, have any of you seen this show called “Whatever, Martha”? I was channel-surfing one night and came across it. Here’s the concept: Martha’s real-life daughter and her friend sit around making fun of video clips from the Martha Stewart Show. That’s it. The whole show. Who greenlighted this thing? And why would Martha agree to it? Bizarre. Yet kind of funny and a little bit addictive. Moving on…)

So back to my good things. Drumroll, please. And here they are:

* Both C. and I found money on the ground last week. Just a few bucks, but enough to cover dinner at Chipotle.

* We got 2 unexpected checks in the mail.

* I got a very lucrative assignment from a new client.

* Some other fun stuff came in the mail, including a jacket and book for Miles, some interesting newspaper articles from my mom, and several new magazines, one including my byline.

* I realized you can check out magazines from the library. Considering I loooove me some magazines, but that 4 or 5 cost the same as a hardcover book and don’t last nearly as long, this was a thrilling discovery.

* I remembered to record the season premiere of “Lipstick Jungle” and found time to watch it. I have to say, I really like Brooke Shields. Maybe since I read her book Down Came the Rain but also in interviews, she seems like a real mom and down to earth person. Call me, Brooke!

* I made an entire Sunday meal including a main course, salad and bread, and the whole family sat down at the table and ate it together. Miles not only ate the salad but asked for SECONDS.

* I went to the new Sephora store near us and got my makeup done. Since I have lately been feeling fat and gross and pregnant, this gave me a much-needed boost. Never mind that I walked out $135 poorer. I looked hot; It was worth it. The fact that my new dark purple—yes, purple!—eyeliner is called “Rockstar” doesn’t hurt.

Once I got started, I kept thinking of more and more good things. I read an article in one of my magazines that said by noticing the good stuff in your life more, you actually create more of it than when you just focus on the bad. Makes sense, I guess. Plus it’s a lot more fun to admire my new makeup than to obsess about what’s causing the funky smell in the laundry room, that’s for sure.

PICK O’ THE WEEK: I am loving the new Jem album, “Down to Earth,” I downloaded from iTunes. You can download a free song here.

READ O’ THE WEEK: I really enjoyed this unpredictable story of a happy SAHM who reluctantly goes back to work: Piece of Work by Laura Zigman.

Me Talk Funny One Day

It’s kind of sad when your baby starts talking like a regular person. Gone are the days when Miles called pumpkins “cuppies” and claimed every animal says “Moo.” The other day I asked him if he’d like a snack and he said, “No, thank you. I’m good.” He’s TWO!! Who talks like that when they’re 2?!

Sure, the stuff that comes out of his mouth lately is hilarious, but not in the same way the baby talk was. I used to love that he called any body of water a “pool,” including the Atlantic Ocean. Or when he’d look up at me pitifully and croon, “Mooore?” like a starving orphan boy when he wanted more food. Now he says, “Can I have some more grapes, please, Mommy?” Nice manners, sure, but lacking the “awwww” factor, don’t you think?

Thank goodness he stills calls oatmeal “eatmeal.” Which makes a lot of sense when you think about it. And toothpaste is still “tootaste” or perhaps “to taste,” since he seems more interested in licking the Spongebob bubblegum-flavored toothpaste off the brush than in actually cleaning his teeth.

Now, along with saying just about anything he darn well pleases, my son has started instructing me in what to say. We’ll be playing and he’ll say, “You say ‘Yay, blocks!’ OK, Mommy?” I dutifully recite my line. Then we’ll be going for a walk, Miles running a block ahead as usual, and he’ll stop, turn around and tell me, “You say, ‘Wait for me! You too fast.’” God forbid I forget my lines!

He also talks to himself sometimes, which is pretty funny. Over the baby monitor or in the next room, I’ll hear him recite passages from a favorite book or nursery rhyme: “I want you to help me smash! I want you to help me crash!” (From the aptly titled, “Smash! Crash!” by Jon Scieszka.) Or, “How are you today, sir? Very well, I thank you. Run and hide, run and hide” from the nursery rhyme “Where is Thumbkin?”

Of course, I think pretty much everything my son does and says is smart and clever and adorable. We moms are annoying that way. But seriously, a toddler in Thomas pajamas saying, “No thanks, I’m good”? I can’t stand it.

NEWS O’ THE WEEK: Calling all writers and would-be writers! The next session of my online class, “Personal Essays that Get Published,” starts Oct. 8. The 6-week e-mail class will teach you how to find ideas, craft catchy openings and solid endings, and submit your work for publication.

Several of my blog entries here have turned into essays published in such places as American Baby, Health magazine, the Baltimore Sun, and the Boston Globe. So if you’re interested in writing for fame and profit, sign up now before the class fills up! More info here. In the last session, I had a blog reader who’s never written professionally before, and she’s doing amazing.

Trucks and Candy

Who knew I was ahead of the curve last week when I blogged about “me time”? Well, lo and behold, I picked up the latest issue of Babytalk (free at Babies R Us, BTW) and right there on the cover it says: “Take Back Your Me-Time!” The article takes you through 5 “rules”:

1. Real “me” time leaves you feeling refreshed and regret-free.
2. Stake claim to your “me” time by scheduling it on your calendar -- in pen.
3. Include some other adults in your “me” time.
4. Adult-only “me” time is ideal, but if that’s too stressful, go to Plan B. (e.g., Turn on “Sesame Street” so you can enjoy your morning coffee in peace.)
5. Trust that you will get your “me” time -- eventually! (Really? Like in 16 years?)

Can I just complain a teeny bit here about “me-time” thieves? For instance, my toddler just started pre-school. It was supposed to be 2 mornings a week for 3 hours. Except the first week, you “transition” them by going with them for an hour, then dropping them off for 2 hours. Then the following week, the teachers decided that because half the kids were still having trouble adjusting (not MY kid, mind you!) they’d stick to the 2-hour days for the time being.

Now, I don’t want to be labeled the “problem mom” right off the bat, so I bit my tongue. But I’ll be honest: I’m not happy about this. Setting aside the issue of tuition and that half the school holidays happen to fall on one of the 2 days a week my son’s in school, there’s the issue of 2 hours being too damn short to accomplish anything.

I’ve already been late to pick-up twice because of doctor’s appointments. You can’t exactly hurry those along. And as another mom put it, “Two hours is barely enough to go grocery shopping and put all the food away!” Amen, sister. Then, they schedule things like parent’s coffees during the school hours. What’s a mom to do? It’s a me-time conspiracy, I tell you!

Then there’s the issue of filling the rest of the day. I must be the only mom to struggle with this, because I never hear other people complain about it. Most people complain that there aren’t enough hours in the day. But I’m sorry, when you’re on your own with an active toddler, the day’s just too damn long!

I love spending time with my son, but he jumps from one activity to the next so fast, I’ve run through a week’s worth of fun activities in a single morning! And you know I have a problem with the playground. I just can’t spend all afternoon there every day. I just can’t. So we go to the library, we go to story time, we have picnics in the yard, but it never seems to keep both of us busy and happy until dinnertime.

And now that Miles is in school, being home is too boring for him. Seriously. He’s the only kid who cries at PICK-UP because he doesn’t want to leave. Thanks, buddy. In the car he starts wailing, “I don’ WANNNA go home!!” I ask him, where do you want to go then? “To the store!” The store? What for? “Trucks and candy!” I can safely say we have never made a “trucks and candy” run to any store before, ever, so that must be wishful thinking on his part.

Speaking of candy, why for the love of God are they selling Halloween candy already?! You know a pregnant woman can’t resist that kind of temptation. So my baby’s now, what? About 5 oz. or the size of a turnip, according to Babycenter.com. And at this point, it’s half chocolate and half candy corn. Healthy, huh? What can I say, I only have 2 hours to get all my errands done. And since caffeine’s out, I’ve got to fuel up somehow. So sugar it is!

QUOTE O’ THE WEEK: “It’s not a bribe unless you’re trying to get someone to do something they shouldn’t be doing.” Sadly, I can’t remember where I read this. But I like it.