My Favorite Holiday Photos

Did everybody have a good Christmas? I hope so. Ours was very nice, despite the baby coming down with a monster cold and both kids waking us up WAY too early on Christmas morning. (To my surprise, the toddler was the one chomping at the bit to get downstairs, not the 4 y.o.)

But there's no denying that kids make the holidays a lot more fun. We're heading to the in-laws' tomorrow for a few days -- where they're predicting 20 in. of snow tomorrow!! -- so I'll leave you with a few of my favorite shots from Christmas day:

Aw, they DO love each other.

Finally I can do something about that 5 o'clock shadow.

Thomas the Tank Engine was a big hit with Riley, while Miles treated us
to his musical stylings on his new keyboard.

I love how this picture captures my life perfectly: an adult beverage
sitting on a book about underpants.

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A Crafty Christmas

It’s been well-documented here that I am no Martha Stewart. I have my moments, but you will never find me self-embossing gift tags with stamps, glitter, and some sort of mini blow torch. (For real -- I watched her Christmas special the other night.)

But the holidays bring out my crafty side. Or maybe it’s all that SUPER-CUTE, SUPER-CHEAP stuff in all the craft stores this time of year. Or maybe it’s the fact that I have to entertain a 4-y.o. who’s out of school for a ridiculously long Christmas break.

The first project we attempted was making paper snowflakes. It bombed. Turns out safety scissors don’t cut through layers of folded paper very well. Plus, Miles soon lost sight of our “white Christmas” theme and began decorating the snowflakes with Batman colors. Because what says winter wonderland better than a bunch of yellow and black snowflakes, right?

Next, we attempted graham cracker gingerbread houses with the neighbor kids. The oldest ones got the hang of it pretty well, but the younger ones lost patience with having to hold the walls together until the icing hardened. Miles’ house soon became a teepee.

And the green sprinkles? Were a bad idea. “A little goes a long way” means squat to kids. Meanwhile, the babies screamed for M&Ms and everyone spit out the (partially chewed) gumdrops because they tasted “gross.”

I wised up by the next time, and bought a couple of foam gingerbread house kits from Michael’s (see photo). The interlocking foam pieces fit together easy enough and then the kids decorated them with the enclosed stickers. Easy-peasy. And the only clean-up was collecting the sticker backings. No sprinkle tsunamis. AND no sugar-shock.

Our final creative masterpiece was a snowman cake. When my MIL gave me the pan last year I remember thinking, “When the heck does she think I’m going to have time to make THIS?!” But then the baby started sleeping through the night and taking 2.5-hour naps and all of a sudden the possibilities were endless. Or at least baking a cake no longer seemed on par with writing a novel in Russian.

I’m proud to say I even let Miles help this year. I didn’t get all control-freakish and take all the fun out of it for him like last year. Even if he did put the snowman’s buttons a tad too close together and one of his eyes is on his forehead. HAHAHAHA, just kidding!! It didn’t bother me! Much.

I guess there’s a little Martha in me after all.

CRAFT O' THE WEEK: Keep it simple, and non-holiday-specific, with Anchormommy's Winter Mitten Garland.

VIDEO O’ THE WEEK: Check out Jen Singer’s “The 12 Days of Christmas Break” video on Mommasaid.net. Funny AND true.

Random Thoughts: Holiday Edition

Would people look at me funny if I swabbed down the entire holiday train garden with Purell before I let my kids near it?

Would those parents over there get offended if I handed their kid a tissue?

It’s pretty amazing how coughing and sneezing into your elbow has become common practice. Kind of like sitting “crisscross-applesauce” or “like a pretzel” have almost universally replaced “Indian-style.”

Why do some kids love mall Santas and my kids won’t go near them? I think they’d actually prefer going to the dentist.

Will my toddler's obsession with the Christmas tree ever wear off? Or will he not rest until he’s pulled every single ornament off the tree? (We’ve already lost at least 3 to his death grip. RIP, Rudolph.)

When did sending out Christmas cards with professional photos on 100-lb. cardstock become the norm? Some of the ones we’ve gotten are nicer than our wedding invitations.

Does every married couple give each other boring gifts for Christmas, like a new Dirt Devil or a wireless earpiece for their cell phone, or is it just us?

Why would anyone beyond my immediate family ever try to give me clothes? I don’t even let my husband buy me clothes unless it’s a specific item I’ve already picked out.

Why is my 4-year-old son so damn picky about his clothes? Would it kill him to wear a sweater vest and shoes that aren’t Crocs? Is he worried the wrong outfit will ruin his image at preschool?

Will the gifts my boys get when they’re young shape their future identities? My toddler’s getting a play kitchen and a toy stroller. Will he grow up to be a chef? A stay-at-home dad? Or just a regular guy who makes pancakes on Saturdays and takes his kids to the playground?

Is my 4yo old enough this year to notice or care how many presents he and his brother each get, and how big they are? I hope not. Because the toys seem to get smaller the older they get.

How far should we go to prove that Santa is real? Is eating the cookies enough? Or do we need to disguise the handwriting on the gift tags, too? (This is how I discovered my mom was Santa, BTW.)

Will I be able to get over my fear of germs, Christmas card envy, gift angst, and other assorted seasonal stresses and enjoy the holidays this year? I think so.

LINK O’ THE WEEK: Check out this slideshow of ugly Christmas sweaters. And you thought your mother-in-law’s was bad?

Life's a [Fill in the Blank]

I’m having an internal battle with my positive-thinking side and my life-is-hard-and-then-you-die side.

I’ve always envied natural optimists. (My 4-y.o. is one.) People whose default setting is happy, and who shake off setbacks and disappointments easier than the rest of us. People who embody the phrase “Don’t sweat the small stuff -- and it’s all small stuff.”

But try as I might -- and I do try – certain experiences just knock me off my shiny happy track. And then I veer over to the dark side. The “nobody said life was fair” and “life is full of disappointments” side. I don’t like it over there. Even though there’s lots of company.

I almost think that I’m succeeding at developing a sunny outlook because when they do come, disappointments are so much more disappointing these days. I guess if I was truly beaten down I’d just shrug and sigh, “Of course it didn’t work out. Again.”

I recently had a major work-related setback. A golden opportunity came floating down from heaven on angel’s wings. The stars aligned and pointed me toward my destiny at the exact moment I needed it most. Opportunity came knocking when I was showered, dressed, and my house was clean. Choose your own mixed metaphor.

And then, after loads of effort and phone calls and late nights and “finally my ship has come in” thoughts, it all fell through. Boom. Just like that, my ship sailed off into the star-crossed night and the angels lost their wings. (Sorry, I don’t know what’s going on with me today. Too many Christmas stories?)

I was devastated. I cried, I felt sorry for myself, I drank a lot of wine, and nothing anybody said made any difference. Interestingly, this is the same way my son reacted when a playdate he was really looking forward to was cancelled at the last minute because the other kid got sick. (Only substitute juice boxes for wine.)

It was awful to see my baby like that. He sobbed big, fat tears. He wailed and bemoaned the unfairness of it all. He was powerless to change things. His day was ruined. And there was nothing I could do or say to change it. Even though I knew that it wasn’t the end of the world, that we could reschedule the playdate, that we could find something else fun to distract him, I could see that for my son, it really did feel like the end of the world.

I know you’re probably thinking I’m going to end with a lesson here. Some sage advice about how I learned to take life’s hits in stride because of my son. But I’m not. I’m just going to say that, yes, sometimes life sucks. You don’t always get what you want. You can’t smile and force the world to smile with you at all times. A window doesn’t always open when a door closes. (Or whatever the heck’s the metaphor I’m mangling.)

So I’ll just say that it’s a lot easier to get past life’s disappointments when you have someone to hug and snuggle up with on the couch. So that’s what we did, my babies and me. And I thought maybe there’s someplace in between “life is a cabaret” and “life sucks.” Or maybe I should just leave the sayings alone. :)

READ O’ THE WEEK: Oh, jeez. Maybe it’s the time of year? I looked back in my archives and found this post I wrote almost a year ago to the day: “In All Honesty…” (On the upside, our tree didn’t fall down this year… yet.)

Modern Love Notes by Married People

I was going through the messages on my phone the other day when I noticed that these were the last 3 texts I sent my husband:

- I need u 2 come home. I just threw up. Sorry.

- I’m bleeding. When will u b home?

- Still no power. Supposed 2 b back on by now.

And they say romance is dead! Forget sexting and flirty e-mails when you’re married with kids. It’s all about what’s wrong, what to get at the store, and when will you be home. At least in my world. Aren’t you jealous you’re not married to me? ;)

The first text was sent on a Friday night when, unfortunately for all of us, I got hit suddenly with the stomach bug at the exact same time my husband was at a work happy hour and the boys needed to be bathed and put to bed.

The second text was sent while C. was on his way home from work and Riley had just dive-bombed me on the couch, cracking his rock-hard skull into my face and giving me a bloody nose. That was it for me that day. Done. Your turn, Daddy.

The third text was sent while Miles and I huddled inside the idling car in front of our house and Riley napped inside, so I could charge my cell phone during a freak 6-hour power outage on an 28-degree day.

I’m telling you, people, nobody prepares you for this stuff. When I pictured myself all grown up and married with kids, I certainly didn’t factor in these unsavory scenarios. I thought it was going to be all “Love you, sweetie!” and “Hi, honey, how was your day?” and “Let’s grab sushi on the way to the foreign film fest.” (OK, I just made that up. I don’t think we ever did that even in our single days.)

I certainly didn’t imagine that I would be away from my spouse 10+ hours a day, communicating about bodily fluids and grocery lists via text message. (Pls don’t forget 2 buy COFFEE!!) It would be nice if we could send each other sweet little love notes throughout the day, but come on. Who’s got the time? (I DO frequently send C. cute pics of the boys from my phone, however. I figure it makes him feel like he’s not missing out on everything that goes on while he’s at work. Like the bloody noses.)

And anyway, it’s not just me. Check out the latest text I got from my husband, who took Riley to the doctor the other morning:

- Double ear inf. On our way home.

One day we’ll collect these missives and bind them into a book with flower petals pressed between the pages, titled “Love Notes.” Or not.

LINK O' THE WEEK: If you haven't seen DamnYouAutoCorrect.com, what are you waiting for? Hilarious iPhone fails and auto-correct horror stories.

Dora, Glee, and a CD Giveaway

You know what gets my kids and me through the long, dark, dreary days of winter? Music! (You thought I was going to say TV and wine, didn’t you? Those help, too.) So when a lovely lady at Sony Music offered to send me review copies of some CDs, I said you betcha.

My 4-year-old and I opened the package together. The first CD he spied was Dora's Christmas He hasn’t let it out of his sight since. We listen to it at home and in the car. Here’s my review in a nutshell: it’s not as annoying as you’d think.

If, like me, you find Dora’s voice about as appealing as colic, rest assured that her upbeat chirping actually lends itself quite well to Christmas carols like “Holly Jolly Christmas,” “Here Comes Santa Claus,” and of course, “Feliz Navidad.” My 22-month-old chimed right in with the fa-la-las and ho-ho-hos. And he went NUTS for a track called “Wiggle Wiggle.”

As for me, I was FAR more excited about Glee: The Music, The Christmas Album
Woot! I can’t explain why I am such a Glee fan, since I was never a drama geek, hate American Idol, and have no desire to relive high school. Something about the music just makes me happy. If loving Glee is wrong, I don’t want to be right. My favorite track is Kurt and Blaine’s rendition of “Baby, It’s Cold Outside.” And Rachel covering Wham’s “Last Christmas” is fun, too.

The CD also includes “You’re a Mean One, Mr. Grinch,” which you may be disappointed to know is not sung by the evilly awesome Sue Sylvester. I guess she’s not much of a singer. Personally, I prefer the original version of that song, which is apparently sung by an artist named Thurl Ravenscroft. (Thank you, Google.)

The CD I’ll be listening to long past Dec. 25 is Glee: The Music, Volume 4
It includes “Empire State of Mind,” “Stronger” and “Toxic” from the Britney episode, “Teenage Dream,” and “Forget You” featuring Gwyneth Paltrow. (Is it just me, or is Gwynnie everywhere all of a sudden? Guess she has one heck of a nanny.)

Sorry, people, but these are mine -– hands off. Since it’s the season of giving, however, I am doing a giveaway for all you fans of The King. (As in Elvis, not the blue character from the animated movie, Cars.) So if you want to get your hands on a shiny, brand-new copy of Viva ELVIS- The Album leave a comment telling me Elvis’ middle name. The first person to guess AND SPELL it correctly, wins.

For the rest of you, check out this funny yet slightly disturbing video of one of the tracks, “Bossa Nova Baby.”

Clean House? Not So Much

I may have mentioned a time or 20 how I try to squeeze as much freelance work into as little kid-free time as possible, which necessitates arrangements so complex that pulling off a triple axel on dull ice skates seems easy in comparison.

So it was nothing short of a miracle when the mom of my son’s classmate offered to give him a ride home once a week. This meant Miles could stay an extra couple hours for the after-school program instead of being forced to come home and be quiet while his baby brother naps and I work. Plus, I wouldn’t have to cut the baby’s nap short to pick him up. Win-win, right?

The first time this other mom brought Miles home, however, her son needed to come in to use the bathroom. Terror shot through me.

You see, people, our bathroom is not what you’d call “guest ready.” Not only do we not have decorative hand towels and French-milled soaps, but you’re lucky if there’s toilet paper and no puddle on the floor. You might find a half-eaten banana in the bathtub, a sippy cup of milk in the sink, and a toothpaste self-portrait finger-painted on the mirror.

It’s disgusting. I know. But when you have 2 small, exceedingly messy boys and no time (or cleaning lady), that’s what you get. Certainly if we’re expecting guests I’ll run a Clorox wipe over the counters and toilet and chuck the mess behind the shower curtain. But if it’s just us, what’s the point? A clean bathroom lasts only until the first potty break.

So, disguising the panic in my voice, I said to this other mom, “Sure! Of course! Let me just run in there real quick and make sure we have hand soap.” (As if. That was used up long ago when the boys decided to give their action figures a bubble bath in the sink.)

The next week, I was prepared. The bathroom was passably clean. But this time she asked to fill up her kid’s water bottle in the kitchen. Where she encountered a sink full of dirty dishes from breakfast… and lunch. I was humiliated. I’m not striving to be Martha Stewart, but there are low standards and then there are frat-boy standards. We were probably violating several health codes in the kitchen and bathroom alone.

So the following week, my house was CLEAN. Really clean. (I mean, not under-the-couch clean, but come ON. Let’s be realistic here.) And you know what happened? The other mom was running late and drove off without stepping foot in our immaculate abode.

I took some small, sick comfort in the fact that when my son came home from a playdate at their house, he said the kid’s room was really messy.

READ O' THE WEEK: In case you missed it, here's my article on "The Truth About Kids and TV." You'd think I could clean while my kids are watching a show, but no.

Christmas Card Outtakes

Here are 3 reasons why you may not get a Christmas card from us this year:






Now, look. I’m not one of those people who has to have the perfect fairy-tale family photo on their Christmas card. (Though that does describe about 90% of the cards we receive, I'll point out. Not that I'm jealous or anything.)

But if I’m going to spend the time and money to print and mail dozens of these puppies -- which will adorn mantels and refrigerators all over the country -- I’m just not willing to go the ironic route, OK? My blog is FULL of those kinds of photos.

Is it too much to ask that one measly time a year I capture an image of my children in which they are both looking at the camera? In which no one is crying, pouting, or sitting on his brother? In which no one has a black eye, a visible booger, or marker on their face? In which both kids look cute and like they weren't raised by wolves?

Yeah, I thought so.

Guess we'll just have to work with what we've got.


LINK O' THE WEEK: For cards that may induce jealousy, make you laugh, or give you ideas, check out McMommy's annual McHoliday Card Spectacular. My fave's the one of the 3 kids in the leaves.

Being a WAHM Is All Fun & Games

Is your life lacking excitement? Dull, predictable, each day like the one before? Have I got a solution for you -- become a work-at-home mom! Your days will be FILLED with challenges and games, like:

Phone tag. Need to reach an important person ASAP? Call him first thing in the morning before your husband leaves for work; get his voicemail. Then HE calls YOU back while you’re in the preschool drop-off line; gets your voicemail. Then YOU call HIM back as soon as you get home, but he’s tied up until 12 – the exact worst time for you, doing the pick-up/lunchtime/naptime hustle. This game can go on for DAYS!

Extreme juggling. You’ve got a packed day filled with meetings, phone calls, and deadlines. Just as you’re leaving the house, the phone rings. It’s the school – surprise! School’s cancelled due to a power outage. OR, it’s the sitter calling in sick. Time to juggle!

Phone backup sitter; find out she can only take the baby. Phone classmate to line up playdate for your older kid; find out that mom can do it, but only for 2 hours. Beg your husband to go into work late; find out he has an important appointment he can’t reschedule. Don’t worry, you’ll figure it out. You always do! Isn’t this EXCITING?!?!

Pajama parties. OK, maybe working into the wee hours in your PJs isn’t exactly a party, but you always said you wanted to experience the thrill of those late nights again, didn’t you? Only now the excitement isn’t who will you meet or what new club will you get into, but will your computer crash before you back up that important file and will your printer run out of ink before you print out that crucial contract?

7 Minutes in Heaven. No, not the kissing game in the closet. Those 7 minutes of silence you may or may not get to make a phone call during that brief period when the baby’s nap overlaps with the preschooler’s TV show. Those precious few minutes when no one is wailing from their crib, pulling on your arm for a snack, or calling loudly from the bathroom for you to come wipe them.

The thing is, you never know if you’re going to get those 7 silent minutes or not. And that’s the fun of it!!

Musical childcare. Drop off son at school, drop off baby at sitter’s. Work. Pick up son at school, take him to friend’s house for a playdate. Pick up baby from sitter’s, take him home for a nap. Work. Ask neighbor to come over and sit with baby while you run to pick up son from playdate. Ask husband to come home early so you can finish up your work. If any piece of this puzzle falls through for any reason, see “Extreme juggling” above.

I’m telling you, it's nothing but nonstop fun and games around here. Also, coffee. Lots and LOTS of coffee. So what are you waiting for? Become a work-at-home mom today and join the party! But watch out -– all the excitement might kill you.

Mama Don’t Know Jack

Things are a little busy here this week (deadlines, playdates, and preschool obligations) so I’m re-running a post that I wrote when my first son was a toddler. Since my second is now approaching the Terrible 2’s, it seemed appropriate...

I know toddlerhood is all about kids asserting their independence and testing limits and all that, but my WORD, what a pain in the butt it can be! Some days Miles has to argue with me about EVERYTHING. Now it’s even infiltrated our previously pleasant reading time.

Here’s an example. I was reading him a counting book. It starts with “One ostrich playing the organ” and goes up to “10 tiny turtles playing trumpets.” Except my son adamantly began arguing with me from page one: “No. No, Mommy, dat’s NOT a organ. Dat’s a pee-no.”

“You’re right, it does look sort of like a piano, but it’s actually called an organ.”

“No, dat’s not a organ.”

Whatever. Moving on... Except he kept this up throughout the WHOLE BOOK!! Those 6 bees were not playing bongos, they were playing drums, he insisted. The 7 eagles were most certainly NOT playing electric bass, they were playing guitars. Duh, Mommy! And don’t even get me started on the newts -- excuse me, “lizards” -- playing flutes!! Finally I just threw down the book in frustration.

But that tricky little toddler of mine, sometimes he purposely baits me. “What’s dat, Mommy?” he’ll ask innocently, pointing at a guy on a ride-on lawn mower across the street.

“That’s a lawn mower,” I tell him.

“No! Not a lawn mower, dat’s a TRACTOR,” he crows, pleased with himself for outsmarting his dim-bulb mom.

My friend S. grew so irritated with her older son’s superiority complex that one day she blurted: “I am 34 years old! I have a college degree. You are 7. Do you really think you’re smarter than me??” His prompt reply: “Yes.”

But back to the toddlers. Have I mentioned the temper on this kid?? God forbid I walk up the stairs ahead of him when HE wanted to go first. Or if I dare take too long refilling his sippy cup.

The funniest thing I’ve read all week is from “Naptime is the New Happy Hour,” by Stefanie Wilder-Taylor. She’s describing her toddler daughter’s temper tantrum one morning:

"...because I committed the cardinal sin of starting the coffeemaker without giving her ample opportunity to push the button. Actually, as per our tradition, I’d asked her if she would like to push the button, but it seemed she and Elmo were having a private moment and I was intruding with my rude question …

But a minute later, when her bionic hearing picked up the sound of coffee brewing, she went completely mental. ‘You pushed the button! I wanted to push it! MAMA! PLEASE! I need to push the button!’ she screamed as if I wasn’t in the same room with her or even the same country."

Oh, I’ve been there, sister. You better believe I will never again choose what floor I want on an elevator as long as my toddler is around.

Guest Post: '9 Mos. and Counting'

Hi! I'm Lynn, longtime friend of Mom2Miles, wife and mom to a busy 3-year-old girl who's expecting a baby brother or sister very soon.

I am in the last month of my second (and last) pregnancy and boy, is it different from the first time around. My first pregnancy was focused on ME. If I was tired I would sit down and rest. If I felt sick in the morning I’d hit the snooze button and get to work 30 minutes late.

Now, I have a 3-year-old daughter who thinks the world revolves around her (and honestly, it does) and Mama’s aches and pains are secondary. Tired after a long day at work? Read me a book, Mama! Sick in the morning? Wake up, Mama, wake up! There is no snooze button on a 3-year-old.

I didn’t exactly make this last month easy on myself either. My husband and I embarked on a kitchen remodeling project this summer that resulted in our kitchen being rendered completely useless from weeks 33 to 36 of my pregnancy. Yes, I went three weeks without a kitchen at 8 months pregnant.

I don’t have much interest in dinner these days (most of what I eat after 6 pm comes back up in the wee hours of the morning anyway) but dealing with the inconvenience and clutter was more than my fragile mental state could handle. After dinner every night I’d immediately go upstairs in an attempt to avoid a nervous breakdown caused by the mess on the main living level.

My daughter and husband didn’t seem to mind that much. She thought it was an “adventure” to have frozen dinners and Chick-Fil-A most nights and my husband is just a very adaptable guy.

Our cats, however, got increasingly freaked out about having workmen in the house all day, their food moved to the basement, and dusty boxes in their favorite lounging places. They’d come upstairs with me after dinner and beg for attention by meowing loudly, licking my fingers while I was typing on the computer, or lying on my belly and looking up at me pathetically. So, I get a little ME time and it’s not even all about ME, it’s all about the cats!

With less than three weeks to go I’m in the homestretch now, and while each day becomes more and more uncomfortable the baby has a good heartbeat, is practicing breathing, and kicking the heck out of me. Every mom is grateful for a healthy baby, and I can’t wait to meet our little one, but this is my last pregnancy. Did I say that already?

Babies Around the World

Ever since I saw the movie “Babies” a little while ago, I can’t stop thinking about it. It’s a short, wordless documentary about 4 babies growing up in different parts of the world, from birth to age 1. It’s visually stunning, and of course the babies are cute, but that’s not what struck me most.

Rather, it’s how differently babies are raised in other cultures. There’s Ponijao in Namibia, who rolls around in the dirt naked and has to put up with livestock drinking his bathwater. Then there’s Bayar, a little moon-faced boy in Mongolia whose mother births him with little fanfare and then hops on the back of a motorbike for the bumpy ride back to their yurt. The life of Mari in Tokyo isn’t drastically different from her counterpart Hattie’s in San Francisco, with their diapers and strollers and baby music classes.

But the scene that had the most impact for me was one with Hattie and her mother. The baby has become a toddler, with all the behaviors that go along with that—namely, fussing and swatting at her mother. So the mom—obviously an educated, upper-middle class woman in her 30’s, I’d say—does what many moms I know would do. She turns and takes a book off the shelf, titled “No Hitting.”

Isn’t that so AMERICAN? We can fix any parenting problem with the right book! Let’s consult 6 experts and then mirror correct behaviors for our offspring! Better yet, let’s take our baby to a child psychologist so we can understand the emotional causes of her hitting! Perhaps it’s because our peaceful, lute-accompanied water birth went awry and we needed a C-section?

OK, I’m mocking. But you have to admit it’s a little funny, especially in comparison to the mother in Africa who, when her children are fighting, distracts them with a wild dog or her own hair. The Mongolian baby is left alone constantly, either swaddled up to his eyeballs in yards of fabric or tied to a bed post. (Yes! He was literally tied to a bed post by his waist while his mother was outside tending the sheep or something. And he seemed perfectly happy.)

We American moms pour so much time and energy and angst into parenting. We debate the pros and cons of disposable vs. cloth diapers and when and how to potty train, while in the rest of the world babies are crawling around bare-bummed. The African mom, when her newborn poops, WIPES HIS BUTT ON HER KNEE and then scrapes it off with an old corn cob! No organic wipes, no wipe warmer, no Diaper Genie, no antibacterial soap. Can you imagine??

Now, I’m not going to chuck all our educational toys and books and diapers and let my baby crawl shoeless all over a rusty metal drum in the middle of a field of horned cattle. (Not that that makes the Mongolian woman a bad mom; let’s not be judgy.) But it is a good reminder that maybe we don’t need all the stuff we think we do to raise a child. Little Ponijao in Africa seemed pretty darn happy to me.

So, tell me, readers in America and around the world, what parenting differences do you notice where you live?

Being a Grown-Up Is Overrated

Remember when you were a kid and you couldn’t wait to be a grown-up? You’d stay up late, watch TV 24/7, eat all the candy and junk food you wanted, and never brush your teeth. Yeah!

Newsflash: the grass isn’t exactly greener over here on the other side of 18. (Oh, who am I kidding? On the other side of 30!)

First of all, you have to mow the grass yourself. And maybe even hire a guy to fix those random brown patches all over the lawn. And don’t even get me started on raking the leaves, shoveling snow off the walk, and hiring another guy to get the raccoons out of your attic.

To be honest, all that stuff is usually my husband’s job because I’m too busy doing 17 loads of laundry, making nutritionally balanced meals that no one eats, and scrubbing the remains of those nutritionally balanced meals off the floor, walls, and highchair.

I DO eat all the candy I want, though. That’s because sugar and coffee are the main things that keep me going through my days, which are packed with completely not-fun grown-up activities. For instance, this week’s to-do list included:

-Write a letter to the city department of public works contesting our water bill, which was 5 times higher than usual. But not before calling the office, sitting on hold for ages, and pleading my case to a surly government employee, only to be told I had to put it in writing.

-Reschedule jury duty. Like the above item, this required more phone calls, more time on hold, and more discussions with government employees. I’m all for doing my civic duty (well, actually I’m not, but it’s a law. Bleh!).

But when you’re a stay-at-home mom and have to PAY someone so you can wait around all day in a dreary public building on the off chance you might be called for a worker’s comp trial, well, there are about 983 things I’d rather be doing. Including laundry.

-Call AAA. During our usual mad dash to get out of the house this morning and get to school on time, I discovered the car wouldn’t start. The culprit? A dead battery from the interior lights being left on overnight. Hmmm, I wonder which small people who love to push buttons (both literally and figuratively) could be responsible for THAT?!

-Cleaning. I am so anti-cleaning it takes me a year to go through a bottle of Windex. My idea of dusting is to run a sock over the TV screen when the layer of dust gets thick enough to write your name in. I only vacuum when the baby starts pointing at the balls of dog hair on the floor and crying because he thinks they’re spiders.

My 4 y.o. son said, “Looks like it’s foggy out today” when really, it was just that the kitchen windows were dirty. But even I can’t ignore the public bathroom smell that becomes noticeable after a few days. So clean I must.

This grown-up thing is overrated. Now, the idea of bathing regularly and going to bed early sounds like heaven. If it weren’t for the candy and TV, there would barely be any perks at all. Oh, wait. I forgot about wine.

TIP O' THE WEEK: Something only a grown-up would know -- you can often use manufacturers' coupons for a certain brand even if you're not buying the exact item on the coupon. Example: I have used coupons for Huggies wipes on diapers, and coupons for premium formula on the regular kind.

Police Report: “The Sink Incident”

Case Number: 06/08/2006/1234

Incident: Flooded Bathroom

Reporting Officer: Constable Lowman N. Totempole

At about 1830 hours on 15th November 2010, the DiaryofaNewMom family was having dinner in their home. After finishing his meal and hurling comestible projectiles from his highchair, the youngest child was excused from the table. His mother resumed her meal, aside from repeated interruptions from the elder child requesting alternate menu options and additional beverages.

Ms. Mom2Miles maintains that at that point the baby required a diaper change, the contents of which necessitated immediate bathing of the child. (The explicit details of said diaper are deemed inappropriate for description in this official document.) The mother wishes to state for the record that “this happens every single damn time I try to sit down to eat” and added, “It’s no wonder I subsist mainly on coffee and leftover Halloween candy.”

Ms. Mom2Miles began to bathe the youngest child. She urged the elder child to accompany his brother in the bath, as was customary. He refused. He then proceeded to remove his clothing anyway and play in the sink.

Ms. Mom2Miles reported that she heard a “gushing” noise and turned around to find her elder child sitting naked in the sink -- described as “smaller than a soup bowl” -- with a large quantity of water spilling out over the counter and onto the floor.

I conducted a survey of the crime scene and found several items of evidence, including approximately 1/4 inch of water on the bathroom floor; several wet towels; and an assortment of multicolored plastic playthings designed to squirt water.

I obtained a sworn statement from Ms. Mom2Miles and provided her with the case number and Information Leaflet 99/03 ("What to do when your preschooler infuriates you"). I attempted to help clean up the area and calm the minors but was unable to stand the noise and general level of chaos in the home and quickly vacated the premises.

The following police sketch illustrates the incident described in this report.

A – The suspect, the elder child known as “Miles,” standing at the sink.

B – The mother, aka Ms. Mom2Miles. The letters “ON” appearing to her left are thought to mean “Nooo!” which is what she yelled when she saw the waterfall cascading from the sink.

C – a fire truck, “because I like fire trucks,” said the suspect. (Who, it should be noted, is also the artist who rendered this sketch.)

A Baby Walks into a Bar...

Riley told his first joke yesterday. It went like this:

Riley: “Knock-knock!”

Us: “Who’s there?”

Riley: “Neena.” (His word for banana.)

Us: “Neena who?”

Riley: “Peena!”

Isn’t that hysterical? What? You don’t get it? Well, it’s sophisticated humor. It’ll come to you later.

It thrills me no end that my son is funny even at the tender age of 20 mos. (And before that, he was cracking us up without words. He was like a tiny, talented, not-scary mime.)

Do you know it’s a sad fact that millions of people are born each year without a sense of humor? I know, I’ve met some of them. It’s particularly unfortunate if you happen to be on a date with one of these people or are being interviewed by one.

Humor is hugely important to me. I don’t know if you can tell, but I like to laugh. Mostly at myself and my children. (I can’t help it; we provide an endless stream of material.) I don’t know where this came from, exactly, since it’s not like my family sat around the dinner table trading quips when I was growing up.

Though my grandmother was a master of dry humor. She would pronounce a dull Scrabble game or my grandfather’s golf scores “gripping” and have us all snorting with laughter with a single look. She once said to my grandfather when they were dating, “Excuse me, but I believe you’ve mistaken my knee for the gearshift.” LOL!

If anything, my sons’ humor comes from their dad’s side of the family. My husband famously once snuck up on his sister wearing a gorilla mask while she was writing in her diary. Hilarity ensued. He still cracks up just talking about it.

It’s a well-known fact that one of the most endearing sounds in the world is a baby’s laughter. There’s a reason baby-themed entries frequently win “America’s Funniest Home Videos.” (Followed closely by pets, old people, and rednecks getting kicked in the crotch.)

We do have a lot of laughter in our house. And thank god for that. Because when they’re not cracking me up, my kids can -- and do -- drive me “neenas.”

VIDEO O’ THE WEEK: Who knew a raccoon puppet in a trash can could be so funny?

Learning to Love It

I first went out on my own as a full-time freelance writer over 8 years ago. I was pushed to the brink by a soul-sucking corporate job and wanted nothing more than to be my own boss, be in charge of my own time. But the funny thing is, I would still show up to my office (which I rented with a few other self-employed people) every day at 8:30 or 9 a.m. and stay till 5 or 5:30. Regardless of whether I had 8 hours of work to do or not.

Sure, you could say I had a good work ethic, and certainly my time and effort in the beginning did pay off. But why was I still keeping the hours and the confining schedule I’d resisted so much as an employee?

Another freelancer acquaintance wondered why I didn’t take off on sunny days to go to the park or have lunch with a friend, or leave work early on Fridays just because I could. “I hope you eventually learn to enjoy the perks of self-employment,” she told me.

But I was afraid. Afraid of being labeled a slacker. Afraid of becoming a failure. Afraid of what other people would think. Afraid I’d slide down a slippery slope and find myself sitting on the couch eating Ben & Jerry’s in my bathrobe and watching reruns of “The Golden Girls” every day.

The same could be said of my transition to full-time stay-at-home mom/part-time work-at-home mom when my first child was born. (How I define myself depends on the week and my workload.) When I was a brand-new mom, I rarely allowed myself to lounge around in my PJs, watch daytime TV, or even go shopping or to the gym during the day. Everyone else was at work, I thought. And MY work was now taking care of this tiny person. I’m damn sure not going to treat this as an extended personal day. People will think I’m a slacker!

As if ANYONE would use the term “slacker” to define someone who devoted her time, energy, and breasts to her baby 24 hours a day. Nursing him around the clock, changing diapers, doing laundry, taking him to countless doctor’s appointments, CHARTING HIS BOWEL MOVEMENTS, for pete’s sake! I was working harder than I ever had in corporate America, that’s for sure. And with no lunch breaks or sick days!

It took me awhile -- 2 kids and 4 years, to be exact -- but I’ve loosened up. Some days I stay in my pajamas (or yoga pants) all day. Some days we have pancakes for lunch. I usually work while my (second) baby is napping, but if it’s been a rough day I may take a nap myself or zone out on the couch watching “Oprah.” I’ll take the kids to the mall on a Friday morning, spend my older son’s preschool time reading blogs, or have a picnic on a Tuesday simply because it’s nice out.

I’ve learned to enjoy the perks of the life I’ve chosen. I don’t worry so much about whether other people will think I’m a slacker. I wish I had TIME to be a slacker! What was the biggest adjustment to motherhood for you?

RILEYISMS:
"kidney" - the leftover loot from Halloween; apparently out of sight ISN'T out of mind

"ah-pane" - those things that fly overhead several times day; and every single plane has to be noticed and commented on

"fie" - what he calls his pacifier. Get it? Paci-FIE-r.

Daylight Savings Sucks

Warning: I’m in a bad mood. This is probably going to be a grumpy, whiny rant so if you’re looking for rainbows and sunshine, click away. I blame daylight savings time. I remember when I first discovered what a joke the supposed “extra hour” of sleep is for people with babies.

And when people say they wish there were more hours in the day, I’m guessing they do not mean the cold, pre-dawn, pre-coffee hours or the long, cold, now-dark hours between 4 and 7 p.m. At least not when you have to share those hours with 2 loud, whiny, and often damp children age 4 and under. (Some of whom like to eat crayons.)

My 20 m.o. is back to his newborn ways. He’s waking up at 4:30 a.m. wailing and thrashing. Only now he can talk, so his wailing sounds like this: “Mommeeeee! Daddeeeee! Mommeeeee! Daddeeeee!” and on and on until you go get him. And we do, if only so our 4 y.o. doesn’t wake up and come bounding out of his room to get in on the action.

Sometimes, Daddy can get the baby back to sleep in the rocking chair, and sometimes against my better judgment, I let him get into our bed. But usually he’s wet and frequently stinky. (What the HELL?! Huggies Overnite diapers worked like a charm with my firstborn.) And if you change his diaper, then he’s wide awake and up for a game of “Let’s turn Mommy’s nostrils inside out” or “Pinch the skin on Daddy’s neck really, really hard.”

Some nights it’s like musical beds. C. may fall asleep in Miles’ bed or in Riley’s chair. If Miles comes into our room because he had a bad dream, I might move to his room because C. is snoring and Miles tends to kick me in the ribs. You never know where you’re going to wake up, or with whom. It’s like college only everything smells like pee instead of beer.

(True story: in college my freshman roommate was on the soccer team. One night after a raging soccer party her teammate next door got up to go to the bathroom and mistook our room for hers when she came back. So I woke up to find a drunk girl trying to climb into bed with me. Of course my roommate, who was also drunk, found this hysterical.)

And the getting-dark-early part of daylight savings? Is a TERRIBLE thing. This means that after Riley wakes up from his nap and Miles has been forced to play quietly by himself while I work, we can’t go outside and play, but have to remain cooped up in the house. Or else brave the rush-hour traffic to kill time at Target or the mall or other germ-infested places where you’ll end up spending money for no reason. I hate this time of year.

Aren’t you glad you stopped by? ;)

LINK O’ THE WEEK: Speaking of drunk bed-hoppers, Stefanie Wilder-Taylor's "Open Letter to Charlie Sheen" is hilarious. I really do feel sorry for his 1-y.o. twins, though. Hopefully their extended family has a clue.

Top 5 Toys for Boys

Well, it’s that time of year again. The catalogs are arriving by the dozens, the relatives are asking for gift ideas, and my 4 y.o. son is adding items to his Christmas list daily. (The latest additions: a bathrobe and a lava lamp. Who is he, Hugh Hefner?!)

I don’t generally do gift guides or product reviews mainly because I think they’re completely subjective. Just because MY baby loves his toy toolbox and ignores Sophie the Giraffe doesn’t mean YOUR baby will.

And I can honestly say that just about every “award-winning” book and toy given to my kids has gone straight into the Bin of Neglect—that out-of-the-way toy box containing the stuff your kids don’t really play with but that you can’t bear to get rid of. Because it’s AWARD-WINNING!!

But I can tell you what my kids like. And isn’t word-of-mouth from other moms the best way to get the real scoop on anything? So behold: I present to you 5 toys that are winners in our house. These are toys that my boys and their friends go back to again and again. Toys that I’ve even replaced the batteries in, rather than claiming the toy was “broken.”

Please note that I bought exactly NONE of these, proving that complete strangers have better luck giving my kids gifts than their own mother. Enjoy! Only 48 more shopping days till Christmas...

Cool Tools Activity Set
Age: 18 mos. +
Amazon* Price: $18.99
Part shape-sorter, part toolbox, part catchy-tune player, this toy is a compact kit o’ fun. I love that it has just a handful of parts that click into place and can be closed up inside the box. Years later, we haven’t lost a single piece.

(*Because that's where I usually buy stuff.)


Nesting & Stacking Blocks
Age: 24 mos. – 6 years
Amazon Price: $9.99
These are great because they don’t take up a lot of space and they appeal to kids of almost any age. They can stack them, put things in them, and of course, knock them down. One caveat: they’re cardboard, so they’re not indestructible. But for $10, you can’t complain. We’re on our second set.


Interstar Rings
Age: 2+
Amazon Price: $16.77
Babies can use them as teethers, older kids can build things out of these star-shaped plastic thingies. The shape makes them easy to hold and connect together. We've made towers, spaceships, even silly hats and glasses out of them.





Winnie The Pooh Ride-On Car
Age: 12 mos. – 3 years
Toys R Us Price: $25.89
We have a slightly different one, with a keyboard and some other random stuff on it, but I think just about any ride-on toy would be as appealing. Toddlers can use it as a walker and bigger kids can push it with their feet. And every age likes pushing all the little buttons. Warning: ours plays especially annoying tunes and doesn’t have an off button. Though you could always “lose” the batteries and the car would still work.


Fisher-Price Imaginext DC Super Friends Batcave
Age: 3-7 years
Amazon Price: $37.99
Santa brought this for Miles last Christmas, and he’s been playing with it ever since. I think of it as the boy’s version of a dollhouse. (Though I’ve seen plenty of girls playing with it when they come over, too.) It comes with a whole bunch of little characters and plastic pieces, the smallest of which I confiscated so the baby wouldn’t eat them.

If you’re wondering why there aren’t any wooden toys on this list, it’s because the only wooden toys we own have broken. I can’t recommend any, because they simply don’t hold up in our house. Now off you go. Happy shopping!

And since I have such a terrible track record with my own offspring, please tell me: what toys do YOUR kids like best?

Crazy Baby Lady

I have become that crazy lady who grins like a maniac at pregnant strangers. I make faces at babies in the grocery store and squat down to talk to cute toddlers. I literally cannot pass a child without smiling at them and making big googly eyes. In short, I have become my mother.

I have distinct memories of being in the checkout line with my mom when there was a baby in front of us. Every time, she’d make these exaggerated, animated faces like she was Jim Carrey or something. Sometimes she’d throw in some high-pitched “peek-a-boo” for good measure.

As a surly teen who wanted nothing more than to disappear into the linoleum floor, I was mortified. What was WRONG with this woman?!

Fast-forward a couple decades and I’m thinking, “How psyched were the moms of those babies?” They were probably at the end of their rope after a long day of colic and spit-up, and were only at the grocery store in the first place because they were down to their last diaper. They must have been THRILLED that a kind stranger was entertaining their child so they could juggle their wallet and coupons and keys and then get the heck out of there. I know I would be.

In line to vote yesterday, I was behind a woman with a small baby in a sling. This mom was bouncing and swaying and jiggling so much I’m surprised she could even work the voting machine. Every time she’d stop, a tiny cry of protest would echo throughout the room. It was all I could do not to offer to hold the baby for her. But she might have been alarmed to see a complete stranger sniffing her baby’s head.

I can’t help it! You’d think I’d have my fill of babies, having spent nearly every waking hour (and much of the sleeping ones) with my own 2. But I’m drawn to tiny, sparsely-coiffed people in footy pajamas like the cast of “Jersey Shore” to a flashbulb.

I’ve been peed on, pooped on, puked on by other people’s babies. And I don’t care. I’ve spent far too much of my few years of motherhood worrying about what atrocities my babies might inflict on other people. I’m giving those moms a break. Don’t worry about it—I’ve lived through all this and worse. Your little angel can do no wrong in my eyes. And yes, I WILL look at all 207 pictures of her you have on your iPhone.

In fact, I am personally affronted whenever I see someone walk by a baby without a glance. Come ON, people! It’s a BABY! The freaking MIRACLE OF LIFE. At least be polite and feign some interest for 2 seconds, OK?

Unless you’re a teenager with your mom at the grocery store. Then, by all means, ignore the baby. But mark my words—in a couple decades, you’ll change your tune.

LINK O' THE WEEK: Speaking of crazy, apparently there's a new celeb parenting trend that "eschews the conventions of American infancy from baby strollers, high chairs and battery-operated toys to excessive praise, forced sharing, and even lullabies." Thoughts??

PIC O' THE WEEK: The most ill-conceived play area ever -- behold, the Playground of Death.

The Sugar Situation

Will you look at this loot? This (slightly blurry) photo shows the massive pile of candy my son collected trick-or-treating. And that doesn’t even include the haul his baby brother brought in, or the candy we had left over. (We don’t get many trick-or-treaters at our house.)

Oh, how times have changed. It seems like just yesterday he was having his first taste of sugar at his first birthday party. And I was still watering down his juice and mixing plain yogurt with strawberry jam because I thought store-bought yogurt had too much sugar. When we took him trick-or-treating his first Halloween, he didn’t even know what he was collecting because he’d never had candy before, aside from a Dum-Dum or two.

Fast-forward to my second child. One of his first words was “cookie.” He screams for ice cream, hoots for juice, and spits out fruit if it’s not sweet enough. He instantly understood the point of trick-or-treating right out of the gate.

He would toddle adorably up to each door in his Tigger costume, hold out his plastic pumpkin, then turn around and demand that we unwrap each piece of candy immediately. I had no choice but to feed him M&M’s one by one as we made our way through the neighborhood or risk screams that would frighten the pants off even the scariest Halloween ghouls and goblins.

So now we have 10 lbs. of candy in the house and because I’m such a good mom and am concerned about my children’s oral hygiene and nutrition, I will do the only conscionable thing: eat it all myself.

With the kids, it’s pretty much out of sight, out of mind. (Though I need to do a better job of “out of sight.” They spotted the candy on top of the fridge first thing this morning and started screeching for it.)

Not so for the adults in the house. My husband has stronger will power than I do. As for me, I hear those mini Butterfingers calling me from two floors away. The Starbursts tempting me with their tangy goodness. The Junior Mints with their creamy, refreshingly minty center. The crunchy Whoppers and the chewy Laffy Taffy. And Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, you’re the worst of all. I am powerless against your seductive sweetness.

BTW, my son just totally busted me as I was writing this. I thought he’d gone upstairs to bed, but he came sneaking up behind me and caught me red-handed in the plastic pumpkin. I was forced to buy his silence with a Milk Dud.

For the sake of my teeth and waistline, maybe I’d better send the candy into work with my husband. At least the kinds I like. Then again, my preschooler’s pretty smart. Even he would know if he looked at his stash and found only a half-dozen boxes of Dots and Almond Joys that something didn’t add up.

READ O’ THE WEEK: According to this article, “The average trick or treater brings home a haul of 3,500 to 7,000 calories in their bag.” Yowza! Can you guess the best and worst kinds of candy, calorie-wise?

Boo on the Halloween PJs

Sometimes as a parent, you make mistakes. You let your kid drink Gatorade and he bounces off the walls for 2 hours. You let him have one last cup of milk at night and he wets the bed. Or you buy him spider pajamas for Halloween and then discover he’s deathly afraid of arachnids. And you make him wear the PJs anyway.

I can’t get a handle on the random fears my kids have. When Miles was a baby, he was terrified of:
- Old people wearing Santa hats
- Mean ladies in cartoons
- The vacuum cleaner and the blender
- Monsters

Then he got older and became afraid of:
- The dark
- The poster of tropical fish on his wall (He says it looks like it’s moving)
- Different foods touching (I really thought we’d dodged this bullet and I’d never have to buy one of those divided plates. WRONG!)

My second-born, Riley, is terrified of:
- The vacuum cleaner and the blender
- Bugs

(Not including the first 12 mos. of his life when he was afraid of keeping food down, sleeping through the night, and just about everyone but his mom. Especially old people.)

The bug thing started when he spotted a giant, hairy spider one of our neighbors had hung on their porch for Halloween. I admit, an enormous black, 8-legged, red-eyed spider waving in the breeze is enough to scare anyone. But Riley would begin whining and shaking whenever he was within a few YARDS of this thing.

Then at home, he would point to every speck on the floor (and in our house, there are lots) and say, “Bug!” Even if it was a leaf, an old raisin or a clump of dog hair. (Actually, a bug might be LESS gross.)

Too bad for him I’d already bought his Halloween PJs at Old Navy. Luckily, he doesn’t seem to mind those spiders too much. Miles got skeleton PJs that glow in the dark. How cool is that? And he thought so, too, at least until 4 a.m. the first night he wore them and he woke up glowing and ran into our room. “I’m scared of my jammies,” he said. And they’ve been stuffed in the back of the drawer ever since. Sigh.

Looks like I’m 0-for-0 on the Halloween PJs. So what random things are YOUR kids afraid of?

Celebrity Nanny Tells All! So?

I have a guilty pleasure: I like to read trashy celebrity tabloids. I won’t deign to actually SUBSCRIBE to them, however, so I get my gossip fix at the gym. There’s no better feeling than walking up to the magazine rack and finding the brand-new People or Us Weekly or InTouch, its candy-colored headlines and boob-job photos crying out for my attention.

The other day the headline was: “Brad and Angie’s Nanny Tells All!” Who could pass THAT up? So I hopped on the treadmill, flipped to the page, and started to read. (You can get the highlights here.) Among the nanny’s SHOCKING allegations were -- are you ready?

- The kids (6 of them under age 9) fight and squabble.

- The older kids have potty mouths.

- The house is often chaotic and messy.

- Shiloh, the 4 y.o. tomboy, gets lots of bruises and scrapes.

- Knox, the 2 y.o. boy, has to be watched 24/7 or he’ll wander off and get into trouble.

- The parents are powerless to enforce “the simplest things, like making the kids sleep in their own beds.”

- Angelina once called Brad in tears, begging him to come home and help with the kids.

These astounding revelations left me with a single question: have the hard-hitting journalists who wrote this story ever actually MET a child before?

Even the more “insidious” claims, like that the kids drink wine, eat only junk food, and watch R-rated movies are questionable. Apparently Angelina let her 7 y.o. taste some wine. Shocker!! They live in Europe, people. And I’ve let my kids taste coffee and beer. (Well, “let” is the wrong word. I stood by as they grabbed my cup and took a swig. They learned their lesson, though.)

As for the junk food, well, people who live in cardboard Chick-fil-A houses shouldn’t cast stones, as they say. Really, the only thing that I found objectionable was the part about the R-rated movies. As I know from our “Toy Story 3” debacle with my 4 y.o., you never know what will traumatize a kid. Better stick to cartoons.

This story got me thinking. If I was a celebrity and one of our disgruntled household staffers wanted to tell all, what would they say?

- She lets her 4 y.o. wear only sweat pants and shorts. She’s unable to control his temper tantrums over collared shirts and corduroys.

- The kids regularly go to school with their underwear on backwards and oatmeal crusted on their face.

- She never, ever brushes her kids’ hair.

- The baby eats food off the floor.

- The parents are always fighting over whose turn it is to empty the dishwasher.

Are you shocked? Scandalized? Well, that’s not even the half of it, people. Good thing I’m not a celebrity, huh?

Babies and Beer Bottles Don’t Mix

If you’re squeamish about blood, stop reading now. But if you’re a mom, you’ve probably encountered more blood than Freddy Krueger. And if you haven’t yet, you will.

I hate to break it to you, but kids get hurt. If they’re anything like my boys, they get hurt A LOT.

The other day we were playing in our yard enjoying the beautiful fall weather. Riley, 20 mos., aka “Dr. Destructo,” went up on the porch to grab his toy lawnmower. Only he got distracted – by a broken beer bottle in the recycling bin which he promptly put in his mouth and took a swig from. Blood, hysterics, and panic ensued.

In case you’re thinking, “What kind of a dumb-a** leaves broken bottles around?” let me just say we had recently moved the recycling bin outside thinking it was safer there than in the kitchen. The porch isn’t a place where the boys play. Or so I thought.

And anyway, my sons have injured themselves on steps, doors, bookcases, bathtubs, and plenty of other nonthreatening household objects. So unless I want to outfit them with bubble-wrap coveralls and football helmets for the rest of their childhoods, they’re gonna get hurt.

ALL kids get hurt. It’s a fact of life. You can babyproof your house up to the rafters and your child will probably still manage to injure himself. (Remind me to tell you about the time Miles got his head stuck in a kitchen chair.) You can’t protect kids from every possible danger. (But you should totally try. Maybe if you start early enough, babies get used to wearing helmets and bubble-wrap.)

Believe it or not, I used to be so uncomfortable with blood, needles, and all things ER-related that I would pass out at the mere thought of it. I’m not kidding. I actually wrote an article about my condition, which is called “vasovagal syncope” and is more common than you’d think.

Needless to say, post-kids I’ve gotten used to the sight of blood. When your child’s bleeding from the mouth, you don’t have the luxury of fainting. You spring into action with washcloths, Popsicles, and calls to the pediatrician.

The first time my older son cut himself (on a doorframe), I rushed him to the ER, called my husband to leave work, and endured hours of X-rays and doctors. He was fine. Now that I’m on Kid #2, I’m no longer so quick to panic.

I know now, for example, that mouth injuries often look worse than they are because the blood mixes with saliva. I know that a split lip doesn’t necessarily need stitches unless the cut crosses the lip line or doesn’t stop bleeding after 30 min. I know that you have 5 hours to decide whether to get stitches or not. (After that, it’s too late.) And I know that Popsicles are a godsend for kids who scream at the sight of an icepack. (Although when blood mixes with a green Incredible Hulk Popsicle, it’s not pretty.)

It’s awful, it’s heartbreaking, it’s upsetting when your baby hurts himself. You feel like the worst mother ever. But it’ll be OK. Like they say, kids are resilient. And what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. And anything else people say in these situations that sounds wise.

All I know is, I should buy stock in Batman band-aids and Flavor-Ice. And at least I don’t have to worry about fainting at the doctor's anymore.

FLICK O' THE WEEK: I finally saw "Babies," the documentary about the first year of life for 4 babies around the world. Adorable and awe-inspiring. And I guess I can't get too worked about a beer bottle if moms in Africa are shaving their infants' heads with giant buck knives.

‘Don’t Leave Us with the Babies!’

Remember this AirTran commercial? Hilarious! I thought of it when C. and I went away recently to celebrate our 7th anniversary. This is the first time I’ve left my second-born overnight, and the first time we’ve gone away by ourselves since the last time, over 2.5 years ago when we only had one kid. (Can that be right?!)

Let me reiterate what I said then: IT IS SO WORTH IT. Do it! Go! Now!! Beg your friends, family, neighbors, really, anyone who passes a background check to babysit so you can go away with your sweetie for at least 24 consecutive hours.

You will need at least that long to progress through The 7 Stages of an Adults-Only Getaway:

Stage 1: Reluctance. I don’t know... Do you think your parents really want to watch the kids or are they just being polite? Can they really handle it? They haven’t been around a toddler in a while… We probably shouldn’t spend the money. I’m too tired to stay out late, anyway.

Stage 2: Acceptance. So THAT’S the hotel you booked? Wow! It looks amazing. And you got us a reservation at that new restaurant? I’ve been wanting to try that place. I’m sure your parents will be fine. The kids are really excited about them coming.

Stage 3: Preparation. I’ll just throw a couple things in a bag for myself. Now, I need to get out the diapers, the wipes, the diaper cream, the overnight diapers, the other diaper cream, his blanket and teddy bear, 2 sets of pajamas, a couple of outfits, a jacket, a hat, the diaper bag, sippy cups – and, oh, the stuff for bathtime… Then for the OTHER one, there’s his medicine and inhaler, his soccer stuff, his helmet in case he wants to ride his bike… and, oh yeah, what about meals?

Stage 4: Execution. OK, here we go. Bye, kids! Be good! I can’t believe we’re doing this. I’m sure I forgot something crucial. Did I show them where the pacifiers are? What about the toddler toothpaste? The neighbors’ number in case of emergency? I know, I know, I need to relax. They’ll be fine. It’s just for one night.

Stage 5: Adjustment. Oh, wow! Look at this room! Look at that BED! There must be 10 pillows on there. I can’t believe we get to sleep in tomorrow! No kids climbing into bed with us at 5 a.m. whining for breakfast. And did you see the bathroom?! I am SO taking a nice, long, hot shower – with the door closed and no rubber duckies underfoot. You brought wine? Well, OK, sure. I guess I’ll have a glass. Even if it is only 4 p.m.

Stage 6: Enjoyment. Oh, my god. This is SO relaxing. I can’t believe we can just lie here for as long as we want, drinking wine and listening to music. No diapers to change, no laundry to do. Is this what we used to do before we had kids? Man, this is the life. And when we get ready to go out I can take my time for once. No one rummaging through my make-up bag or scorching themselves on the flat-iron. Heaven!

Stage 7: Reacclimation. I don’t know what I liked best – the sleeping in, having someone else make the bed and clean the room, or being able to have a complete conversation without being interrupted to yell at someone or wipe their butt or cut up their food. Can you believe we’re actually sitting here calmly having breakfast and reading the paper?! I KNOW! I guess we should get back, though, huh? OK, after this next cup of coffee. Pass me the Style section, would you?

LINK O’ THE WEEK: We stayed at the Hotel Brexton in Baltimore, which is a newly renovated historic hotel that was once home to Duchess of Windsor Wallis Simpson. The rooms are really unique and beautifully decorated in hip, modern décor. My one quibble: some robes would have been nice to really amp up the relaxation quotient.