The End of an Era

I’ve been living a lie, people. It’s been bugging me for a while now, especially whenever I meet a mom-to-be, or when a new person finds my blog.

Because the fact is, I’m not a new mom anymore. Not by a longshot. My “baby” – the one depicted in the cartoon lady’s belly up there in my header – is starting KINDERGARTEN next fall, if you can believe that. And I’ve got another baby now, too. Heck, that one’s not even a baby anymore – he’s a full-on toddler!

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t have this motherhood stuff all figured out now. I don’t pretend to be any kind of expert on pregnancy, childbirth, breastfeeding, sleep, or ANYTHING baby-related, really. Although I have become an unwilling expert on diaper rash, unfortunately. E-mail me for the nitty-gritty on that one.

And the truth is, new motherhood is sort of like wedding planning, in a way. When you’re in the midst of it you’re literally OBSESSED. No detail is too small to warrant hours on message boards and endless polling of everyone you know. For a few delusional days as a bride-to-be, I was actually concerned with tussy-mussies, if you can believe that! And don’t get me started on centerpieces.

As a new mom, I filled notebooks with charts of my newborn’s sleep patterns and bowel movements. I pestered his pediatrician with endless questions about how many ounces to feed him and whether a stray encounter with a peanut was the end of life as we knew it. If anyone dared ask me, after enduring a half hour of baby photos and a soliloquy about nap schedules, “So, what else is going on with you?” I looked at them blankly. What ELSE? I’m a NEW MOM, you moron! There is no “what else”!!

But after I became a wife, not a bride, and a regular old mom, not a new mom, I wanted nothing more to do with my former obsessions. Nada. You couldn’t pay me to shop for veils now, nor could I muster up any enthusiasm whatsoever on the subject of diaper pails. I’m over it.

So the time has come to say bye-bye to Diary of a New Mom. BUT WAIT! Don’t cry, freak out, or rend your garments in distress. Because nursing tops aren’t cheap. And besides, I’ve got a NEW blog! I do! It’s right here. It will be the same hilarious, heartfelt musings about life and kids and writing and all the other stuff you’ve come to expect from me. Only this time I’m using my real name! My real identity! And my REAL FACE, even!! (Insert gasp here.) So come on over and join me at Abby Off the Record, won’t you?

P.S. Don’t worry, new moms who just found this blog and think it’s the answer to your prayers. ;) Diary of a New Mom isn’t going anywhere. So sit back and browse the archives to your heart’s content. You know, in all your free time when you’re not feeding, pumping, burping, washing, changing, or otherwise taking care of your new baby.

Raising 'Em Right

Pre-kids, I was the type of person who wouldn’t do anything if somebody cut in front of me in line. It would certainly irk me, but I’d tell myself that person must have somewhere really important to be and wasn’t just a big jerk. What good could come from confrontation, anyway?

But now it’s not so simple. That’s because I often have 2 little sponges with me who are observing and learning from every moment. (And also, commenting. “That lady has a mean face, Mommy.” *Blush!*)

It feels wrong to work so hard at teaching my kids to share and take turns and say please and thank you and then do nothing when someone flagrantly ignores the basic rules of human decency. Like, who spits out GUM on a SIDEWALK? Were you raised in a circus?! (Speaking of which, go see “Water for Elephants.” It’s good. And Reese Witherspoon looks so glamorous.)

Of course, most times these badly behaved people are adults, not kids. And I’m not THEIR mom. But still. It bugs me to see people -- especially fully grown people who should know better -- setting a bad example.

For instance: We share a driveway with 2 of our neighbors, which is common in our area. Over the many years we’ve lived here, one neighbor has claimed the driveway as her own, parking at the end so no one else could get in or out. For the most part, we don’t care. We park in front of our house, and it simply wasn’t something that affected us much. Until...

We were having some work done on our roof, and the contractor needed access to the driveway. A non-issue, right? We’d simply ask our neighbor nicely to park elsewhere for a few days, right? Any normal person would be happy to comply, right? Especially one we’ve been cordial with for years and allowed to use our shared driveway as she pleases.

Instead, we found our requests ignored. First, she “forgot.” Then she left town for 2 days, leaving her car blocking the driveway. Phone calls, knocks on the door, notes on the car – ignored. One morning I was so irate I called the police. They got her to move her car, but the next day it was back. Because the driveway is private property, the police said, there was nothing we could do. It wasn’t nice, but it wasn’t illegal.

It’s hard to overstate how much this incident has upset me. I prepared long speeches in my head, ranging from friendly concern to vicious threats. It’s not fair. It’s not right. Who DOES that?! Wasn’t this woman raised to be considerate of others? To know right from wrong? Were we supposed to ignore her from now on? Tell the kids not to talk to her?

Somehow, this relatively minor issue became for me a metaphor for the monumental importance of parenting. What I teach my boys, through words, actions -- and inaction -- will shape who they become as adults. And God forbid they grow up to be the kind of people who would block a neighbor’s driveway! (On the scale of parenting failures, that’s below serial killer and puppy-kicking but above spitting and not recycling.)

I don’t know, fellow parents. Am I overreacting? Should I go back to worrying about grass stains and who’s eating their vegetables and other things I can control? What would you do?

PIC O' THE WEEK: He finally learned to put the bubble wand in FRONT of his mouth instead of IN his mouth.

Look, Kids, a Backhoe!

“So we need to run to Target to get a birthday present, and don’t let me forget to – look, guys, an excavator! Ooh, and a big crane, you see it?”

It’s like I have a strange form of Tourette’s. I’ll be in the middle of a conversation and I’ll randomly shout out things like “Police car!” “Ambulance!” “Big red dump truck!”

As the mother of 2 boys, these sightings have become par for the course. Reflexively, I point out things of interest to them wherever we go, and they do the same.

“LOOK, MOM! A cement mixer!”

“Gah-bage tuck!”

I have to admit, I was almost excited as they were the time we passed a trailer on the highway that was carrying 2 tractors with wheels the size of a VW bug. You don’t see that every day. And while I find the endless readings of books about construction vehicles and farm equipment mind-numbingly boring, it IS sort of interesting to see them in action in real life.

What’s embarrassing is when my kids are not around and I lapse into truck-spotting-lady in front of other adults. My friends look at me like I’m crazy if we’re, say, having coffee on the patio at Starbucks and I go nuts pointing and waving when a helicopter flies overhead. Unless they have small boys, too, in which case they probably don’t even notice my weird tic.

Usually my random shout-outs are limited to large vehicles, but sometimes I like to point out wildlife, too. I was beside myself yesterday when I looked over at a stop sign and there was a family of little brown rabbits munching grass right next to me. And no one was in the car to share it with!!

Really, anything is worth pointing out to small kids, especially if they’re stuck in the car on a long trip or a round of boring errands. Look, kids! Balloons at the car dealership! A giant American flag on the roof of the bank! An electronic billboard advertising Hooter’s! Well, that’s just inappropriate...

So if you ever happen to be having a conversation with me and I cut you off to point out a dog wearing a sweater or one of those SmartCars that look like something Lowly Worm might drive, just ignore me. I’ll grow out of it eventually.

The Secret to a Long, Happy Marriage?

My parents just celebrated their 41st anniversary. Think about that for a second: 41 YEARS of being married! To the same person!! (Embarrassing side note: last year on my blog I congratulated them on their 30th anniversary. Soon after my mom asked me, “How old is your brother?” Um, 39? Why is she asking ME? Ohhhh… I get it. Sorry, I inadvertently shaved a decade off their marriage. Math was never my strong suit.)

Anyway, I think we can all agree that being married for several decades is a major feat. There are some days I marvel at staying married to MY husband for 7 years. Like on days he calls me at 4:30pm and the kids are screaming and fighting and starving and I’m counting down the minutes till their dad gets home and then he says, “Oh, by the way…” and mentions a work happy hour he’s supposed to go to that night.

I remember on our honeymoon, there were several other newlywed couples at our resort and we all ended up at the same restaurant with some older married folks one night. Someone asked one of the older couples what their secret was for a long and happy marriage and the wife said it was about letting the little stuff go.

I should have asked her to define “little stuff.” Does that mean not flying into a rage when -– for the millionth time -- he leaves his muddy, sedan-sized sneakers in the entryway for you to trip over? Or does it mean overlooking his ineptitude at dishwasher-loading? (Very funny post on that subject here.)

So obviously, I’m still working on the “letting stuff go” thing. But I will note that the husband of that long-married couple said the secret to a happy marriage was that his wife was always right. I would say MY husband is still working on THAT one.

Just today he coerced our boys into agreeing with him that it was totally my fault we missed the exit for my brother’s house on the way to Easter brunch. It’s not enough that we drove 20 minutes out of our way? He had to get our 4yo to chime in, “Yeah! It’s all Mama’s fault!” Obviously, C. didn’t get the “Yes, dear” memo. Good thing he’s cute and makes cute kids.

I like to imagine that 34 years from now, MY sons will be asking me what the secret is to our long and happy marriage. I’ll tell them, “It’s that I am always right.”

QUESTION O’ THE WEEK: Speaking of marriage, who’s looking forward to the royal wedding this weekend? I don’t think I need to wake up that early to see it live, but I’ll certainly DVR it.

‘Good Enough is the New Perfect’

I first started following Hollee Schwartz Temple (the one on the left) on Twitter mainly because she’s an author and I loved the title of her book: Good Enough Is the New Perfect: Finding Happiness and Success in Modern Motherhood

Then I heard her speak at a conference on a panel about work-life balance. Hollee began by asking the audience, “How many of you were raised to believe you could do anything and be anything?” Most hands went up. “And how many of you took that to mean you should DO EVERYTHING and BE EVERYTHING?” Everyone laughed -- and raised their hands.

Her talk really hit home for me, so I was thrilled when she sent me a copy of her book. (Can you tell by the picture I found a thing or 2 of interest?)

FINALLY, someone has addressed the real issues that plague me and most of my mom friends these days. Why, when we have so many choices, are most of us still struggling? When the real world isn’t as clear-cut as working or staying home with your kids, where are all the role models who are successfully navigating the in-between? And why do so many of us feel like we’re going it alone?

While Hollee and her co-author, journalist Becky Beaupre Gillespie, surveyed over 900 women and conducted in-depth interviews with 100 of them, it’s the authors’ personal stories that resonated deeply with me. When Hollee describes counting down the minutes until bedtime when her boys were small, then feeling guilty for not appreciating them, I thought, That is me. And when Becky describes how she didn’t want anyone to think she was “just a mom,” so when someone asked her what she did, she described what she’d done BEFORE becoming a mom? Yeah, that’s me, too.

I’ll be honest: at first, several of the high-achieving women interviewed in the book sparked envy in me. Prominent lawyers, a VP for Christie’s, successful entrepreneurs. But then I read on, and discovered all their worries and frustrations sounded eerily similar to mine. Also? The women who weren’t happy were longing not for more prestige or bigger paychecks, but for more time with their families, more fulfilling work, more connection with friends and neighbors – all stuff I have in spades. Hmmm, so if you look at “success” in THAT light...maybe it’s not just the moms with the impressive business cards who can claim it.

If there’s one common theme I’ve noticed among all the moms I’ve met over the last 5 years since I became one myself, it’s that nearly every one of them -- stay-at-home, working, or somewhere in between -- is WAY too hard on herself. I’ve heard moms apologize for letting their kids eat an occasional donut, for their child not being potty trained yet, for not enrolling their second or third child in enough enriching activities. I’ve heard moms beat themselves up for working too much, earning too little, and needing more help. It’s madness, people. MADNESS.

Not only that, but it’s a terrible example for our kids. You’re not successful unless you’re awesome at everything? Gwyneth Paltrow notwithstanding, that’s an impossible goal for most of us mere mortals. (BTW, even Gwyn admits she’s bad at math. Possibly the only thing we have in common.) Personally, I’d like my kids to have a broader definition of success -- and to learn that it’s OK to define it for themselves.

Buy the book. It’s $9.41 on Amazon. You probably spend that much at Starbucks on a latte and overpriced baked goods. I guarantee you will come away with a new perspective on success, motherhood, and what “having it all” really means to you.

QUOTE O’ THE WEEK: “We do not need to be perfect to be successful moms, professionals or women.” - Becky Beaupre Gillespie and Hollee Schwartz Temple

A Working Mom's Wakeup Call

Back when I was single and childless, I got into a heated discussion with my future brother-in-law (also single and childless) in a cab on the way home from a bar one night. I don’t remember how we got into it, but we were discussing whether mothers should work or stay home to raise their children.

With the self-righteous conviction that only clueless 20-somethings can have, we were both convinced that we were completely right. My BIL was firmly in the SAHM camp; I was staunchly in favor of working moms.

Boy, was it a cruel wakeup call when I found out the issue wasn’t that black-and-white. I suppose I could’ve looked around the global media company where I was working then and noticed not a single person I knew was a mother of young kids.

There was a pregnant woman (what ever happened to her?) and there was one with school-age kids who lasted less than a year. But that’s it. In fact, the 3 most senior women in my department were all childless.

Marriage and kids weren’t even on my radar at that point, so I didn’t give it much thought. Though I do remember thinking that the on-site daycare they bragged about in those “best places to work” articles was kind of a joke. I’d heard ours was pricey and had a year-long waiting list.

That job was a bad fit for me for many reasons, not least of which was that while I ostensibly was hired for my editorial experience, I wrote almost nothing. Just a lot of e-mails and memos. I was essentially a highly-paid meeting attendee.

So when I got married and had a baby, I wasn’t all gung-ho to be that corporate working mom I’d argued so strenuously for in my 20’s. I’d found a nice little niche as a freelance writer and I got to spend time with my baby. And then I encountered another round of wakeup calls. Like how hard it was to work around a baby’s schedule and drum up assignments I could do from home. Also hard? Finding part-time affordable childcare.

Even now, years later, when I’ve finally found some semblance of balance, I am shocked at:

a) how many people think I don’t “really” work because I’m self-employed, don’t go to an office, and have irregular hours;

b) ask when I plan to get a “real job” (as if I could just waltz out and command a lucrative, flexible staff position in my field whenever I felt like it);

c) how many people still think staying home with your children full-time or working outside the home full-time are the only 2 options for moms.

This is all a long wind-up to telling you about an amazing new book, Good Enough Is the New Perfect: Finding Happiness and Success in Modern Motherhood It delves into all these issues and more, backed up by new research and extensive interviews with all sorts of working moms -- doctors, lawyers, pretzel entrepreneurs, mom bloggers, web-TV hosts.

I devoured my advance copy in 3 days. In another post, I’ll tell you more about the book. But for now, I’m happy just to report that it assured me I’m not crazy, I’m not alone, and I don’t have to choose between 2 oversimplified options that don’t fit my life.

QUOTE O’ THE WEEK: “I don't believe the world owes me a living, although for the amount I make, an apology would be nice.” -- Unknown

Family Meals Made Easy

In theory, meal plans sound like a great idea for busy families. Plan out your meals for the week in advance, buy all the ingredients in one trip to the grocery store, and it’s smooth sailing, right? Only I’ve never quite been able to get the hang of it. Inevitably, I end up staring into the pantry at 5pm, night after night, a few ingredients shy of whatever dish I’m trying to make. Add in 2 picky, impatient kids, 1 vegetarian, 1 low-carbotarian, and it’s a recipe for failure.

So when a woman I met at Blissdom contacted me about trying out E-Mealz, a site that lets you customize a meal plan for your family, including vegetarian, low-carb, and meals based on sales at your local grocery store, I said “Heck, yeah, sign me up!”

Here’s how it works: you pay $1.25 a week for the service, or $15 for 3 mos. (No, seriously. That’s really how little it costs. I waste 5 times that much each week buying random ingredients I never end up using. Like mushrooms. And weird cheeses.) You can choose plans for 2 or 4-6 people, for a specific store (Walmart or Kroger, for example) or any store. I did the vegetarian 7-day family meal plan for any store.

So you log on to the site and pull up the weekly menu. (See sample menus here.) You also have access to the previous week’s menu if you want. Then you print out the recipes, along with a grocery list, which lists the ingredients you need, listed by aisle. The grocery list ALONE was worth it for me. No more losing scraps of paper on which I’d scribbled “2 bell peppers, froz. spinach, eggs.”

The pros of E-Mealz: how easy it was, how you only buy what you need, and how there are so many options. The cons: how much food the plan produced. I soon realized I couldn’t keep up – with the cooking or the leftovers. On a good week, I manage to cook dinner maybe 4 to 5 times, tops. Then I peter out and it’s takeout and Trader Joe’s frozen entrees. But it’s also because we don’t eat that much food. I soon began off-loading the leftovers to my neighbor. (She didn’t complain.)

The meal plan also highlighted how picky my family is. Unfortunately, there were lots of recipes I had to rule out right off the bat because I knew they’d never fly in my house. Like Walnut Cheddar Loaf. Not happening. But I did try a few new things like Quinoa- and Vegetable-Stuffed Peppers (good, but lots of chopping) and Greek Eggplant (easy and tasty!)

The bottom line: I think E-Mealz is a great idea and the price makes it a no-brainer. It could actually save you money if you’re prone to wasting food like us. For a family that eats pretty much the same thing every night, I say give it a try. For us? Until the kids get a little less picky, I’m better off cobbling together our own meal plan based on the limited recipes my whole family likes. But I sure will miss those print-out grocery lists.

DEAL O’ THE WEEK: E-Mealz is offering 15% off for new subscribers. Sign up here and use the code BLISS at checkout. (Note: this is an affiliate link.)

RECIPE O’ THE WEEK: Believe it or not, this Linguine with Shrimp Scampi was a crowd-pleaser in our house. I left out the hot pepper flakes for the kids.

A Place for (Almost) Everything

I don’t know if it’s the spring-cleaning articles in all the magazines or what, but getting organized has been on my mind a lot lately. A recent post on a friend’s blog reminded me that I, too, feel peaceful and happy when everything’s in order. May explain my feng shui phase in my 20’s. (Tip: Always close the toilet lid. Something to do with containing bad energy or allowing good chi to flow, I forget. And also, if you have flush-happy toddlers around, it just makes sense.)

Too bad my family could care less about being organized. I mean, what’s the point of having a coat rack, a shoe cubby, key hooks, and a change jar if everything gets dumped in a big pile the second everyone walks in the door? Work with me, people!!!

I’ve also realized that one person’s organized is another person’s OCD. For instance, did anyone see that article on Jamie Lee Curtis in Good Housekeeping a while back? The woman wears dust-rags on her feet, repackages everything in her house from cereal to CDs, and has only has 3 colors of clothes in her wardrobe. Um, OK, Jamie Lee. She does admit, though, that her husband and kids don’t maintain her organizational vision, so she sees it as her job to keep things in order.

I don’t need my environment to be THAT orderly. I’m fine with having a pile of mail on the counter, a pile of books on the table, and a pile of dirty clothes in the corner. Hey, Jamie Lee has her Tupperware, I have my piles, OK? And I do love those fabric bins. At one point I tried to keep my kids’ stuffed animals in one bin, toy cars in another, and blocks in another, but now I don’t care if everything’s all jumbled up together as long as it’s off the floor and out of sight.

The important thing is being able to find something when you need it, right? I may not be the neatest person in the world, I may not have clear systems for everything, but I can usually tell you where something is. The extension cords? They’re in the bottom kitchen drawer next to the disposable placemats and flavored drink mix that no one likes. (No matter what, we end up with bunches of random stuff that don’t fit neatly into a clear category.)

And yet, I alphabetize my spices. For some reason, this is a source of great hilarity among my family and friends. Why?! Are spices not arranged alphabetically in the grocery store? What’s so crazy or OCD about that? If you want to spend 15 minutes rooting around for the cumin, be my guest. I have better things to do with my time. Like put everybody else’s stuff back where it belongs.


PICK O’ THE WEEK: Miles talked me into buying these dust-mop slippers. At first I thought they were ridiculous but now I think they’re awesome. Especially because the kids will put them on and slide around the kitchen. Anything to get them to help clean!

A Weekend Away...With Kids

A big part of being a happy parent is learning to adjust your expectations. If you expect life after you give birth to be the same, just with an extra little person and lot more laundry, you’ll be sorely disappointed.

I say this, and yet here I am almost 5 years in and I still get bummed out when the weekend comes and there’s no happy hour, sleeping in till noon, or late-night dinners and dancing. Huh?! You mean I still have to change diapers and cut up grapes on Saturday AND Sunday? No more HGTV or E! marathons, flopped on the couch all day? No more leisurely brunches at restaurants without high chairs? Whose idea WAS this having-kids thing?! (See “Weekends: Then & Now” for more on this theme.)

Because I’m home all week with my boys, I sure as heck don’t want to spend my weekends the same way as my weekdays (mainly, breaking up fights over who had Doc Hudson first and cleaning up spilled milk and crushed Goldfish). Especially if Dad’s not around. So when C. had a weekend conference an hour away, we decided to join him at his hotel for the night. It would be fun! Or at least different. Let’s keep our expectations in check here.

So the boys and I piled into the car with the Pack ‘n’ Play, blankies, CDs, and enough snacks to fuel an Olympic rowing team. C. had showed me how to use the GPS on my smartphone. Good thing, because driving in DC/Northern Virginia is as confusing as trying to understand why Kanye West is invited to the royal wedding. (Seriously, WHY?)

We get most of the way there just fine, but disembodied GPS lady kept calling roads by their route numbers instead of the names I knew them by. So before I knew it, I had exited the Rock Creek Parkway and we were lost in downtown DC. (“Look kids, cherry blossoms!”) GPS lady kept spewing out nonsensical directions. (I said aloud, “What is she SAYING?!” and Miles chimed in, “Yeah! We don’t understand robot!”)

I kept my cool, though, even as we drove around in what seemed like circles. (“Look kids, a monument! Named after some president I can’t think of right now.”) Finally, I got my bearings. (“Look kids, Arlington National Cemetery!” Miles: “What’s a cemetery?” Me: “Uh, look! More cherry blossoms!”)

At last, we find the hotel, a pretty swanky place in Old Town Alexandria. As we pull up to the valet, C. is waiting for us. The kids tumble out of the family truckster in a shower of Goldfish crumbs, sippy cups, and coloring books shouting, “Daddy! Daddy!” Not 2 ft. away is a sleek black limousine, awaiting a bride in her flowing white gown and purple-silk-clad bridesmaids. Romper Room meets Modern Bride. Boy, I sure hope the photographer can crop us out of those shots.

When we get to our room, Miles – who loves to travel – immediately spreads out his blanket and plops on the bed, making himself at home. Riley, on the other hand, bursts into tears and starts wailing, “Ready a go! I ready a go!” Translation: get me the hell outta here, I wanna go home. We decided to hightail it out to dinner.

Even though the area was loaded with cute shops, there was no time for that. We had kids to feed, bathe, and put to bed. Dinner was spent gulping down our food while trying to keep Riley from knocking over drinks and peeking over the booth at the diners next to us. By 8:30 pm, all the boys were sound asleep back at the hotel – including my husband. Nope, weekends sure aren’t what they used to be. When will I finally learn not to expect anything different?

RECC O’ THE WEEK: I'm a big fan of Kimpton hotels, a chain of pet- and child-friendly boutique hotels in about 20 cities throughout the U.S. The décor is really cool and funky, and the staff at ours was super nice. They even had a wagon for the boys to ride in. The bride can have her limo!

Backseat Parenting

4yo: “Riley, if you go pee on the potty, you can have a special treat.”

2yo: “ ’Pecial teat!”

Me: “Miles! You are not his parent; *I* am. He just brushed his teeth and no one’s getting any more treats tonight, got it?”

You might see him as an encouraging big-brother. But I see a preschooler on a power trip. I have to remind my 4yo DAILY that he is not the one who makes the rules and calls the shots – especially for his little brother.

Every time I turn my back Miles is promising Riley treats and snacks, "helping" him open presents, and trying to bribe him into trading his best toys. He’ll even threaten, “Riley, stop bothering me or you’re going to bed early!” Wishful thinking.

I’ve heard other moms complain that their kids try to parent their siblings, too. Even funnier is when the LITTLE ones do it to the BIG ones. A friend’s 2yo was sternly lecturing her older brother, “No cookies! Mama said no.” Just what he needs, another mom.

Of course, I have to admit having a Mommy’s Little Helper DOES occasionally pay off. Like when I was getting ready the other morning and I heard Big Bro say to Little Bro: “Don’t throw your toys on the floor, Riley. Gram and Grandpa are coming today and we want to keep the house clean.” Wonder where he heard THAT?

And if I’m being honest, an extra little parent is quite helpful when it comes to that most odious of parenting tasks – potty training. Bribery with treats notwithstanding, my 4yo is quite an effective bathroom coach to his little brother. Not only do they have the same anatomy, but it was not so long ago that the older one was learning the drill himself.

However, Miles is what you might call an experimental educator. Some of his questionable toilet-training “techniques” include tickling his little brother on the potty. You know, to make him laugh so hard he’ll …? You get the idea. I can’t say it’s actually worked yet, but I give my eldest son props for trying. Funny, though. He has no interest in being the parent when it comes time to change his little brother’s diaper. Believe me, I’ve tried.

Writer’s Block and Silly Kid Pics

I’ve taught writing for a while now, and there’s one question that consistently crops up from my students: what do you do if you’re not feeling particularly inspired? What if you can’t figure out what to write about? What if you are faced with that dreaded scourge that’s crippled many a wordsmith -- writer’s block?

Answer: you sit down and start writing. Or, to put it another way, you just show up. As Woody Allen once said, “80% of success in life is just showing up.” (Note: I had to Google this to find out who said it. And there’s disagreement over whether it’s 80% or 90%. So I spent another 10 min. or so Googling some more. Then I popped onto Twitter for a bit. This is what happens when *I* have writer’s block.)

I used to not believe in writer’s block, BTW. I thought it was an excuse lazy writers cooked up to explain why they hadn’t finished their Great American Novel yet. But you have only to read a few dozen “Sorry I haven’t posted lately...” blogs to realize writer’s block can strike anyone. Even me.

When it happens, I just sit down and start typing. (After I’ve exhausted all my procrastination techniques, that is. E-mail, Twitter, cleaning, another cup or 3 of coffee.) Sometimes what comes out is boring, repetitive drivel, but usually something halfway decent emerges eventually.

And remember: we’re our own worst critics. I will never forget the time I forced myself to finish a paper in grad school even though I had just broken up with my boyfriend who I totally thought was The One and I could barely see straight, my eyes were so blurred by the bitter tears of disillusionment and shattered dreams. (How’s THAT for drivel?) Because even in the midst of soul-crushing heartbreak I was a perfectionistic teacher’s pet who could never miss a deadline.

Well, guess what? I got an A on that paper! It certainly wasn’t the best thing I’d ever written, but so what? Sometimes it’s enough to just show up.

It’s the same with parenting, I’ve realized. I’m not going to be the most happy, energetic, creative, super-present mother every day. (Or even MOST days, if I’m being honest.) But sometimes the kids and I end up having a pretty darn good day even when I’m not bringing my A-game. Or even my B+ game.

My final advice on writer’s block? Bloggers are lucky. Because if we ever get really stumped in the writing department, we can just post pics like this:

What? Doesn't EVERYONE eat pizza shirtless with goggles on?

My mommy makes me wear a helmet at all times and they STILL know me by name at the ER!

Baby Advice & Book Giveaway

If there’s anything I love as much as books and dispensing advice about motherhood, it’s a social media success story. So I was thrilled to discover someone who has combined all 3: meet Jennifer L. Cowart, author of “Baby Notes.”

A freelance writer and photographer and mother of 3 girls, Jen sat down to write up her best motherhood advice when her brother and his wife were expecting their first baby in 2009. She packaged it all up into a cute little homemade book and gave it to them for their baby shower.

As more of Jen’s friends began to have babies, she decided to share her list of advice on Facebook. “The response was overwhelming,” writes Jen. “Many of my friends wrote to me, asking if they could share my list with their daughters, granddaughters and nieces. The list had made them laugh and cry. They were happy to hear that other mothers felt the way they did, that they weren’t alone in the newness of motherhood.”

That list became “Baby Notes,” a pocket-sized book of tips, advice, and funny baby photos. (Many of which are Jen’s own family.) It’s like one of those Hallmark gift books people give you for Mother’s Day, only more realistic and not as sappy. A few of my favorite pieces of advice:

- Don’t be afraid to let Daddy be the favorite. That way, when they are crying in the middle of the night, they cry for Daddy, and Mommy can stay in bed.

- If you accidentally wake a sleeping baby, never make eye contact! [Seriously, people. It’s more dangerous than looking directly at the sun.]

- If something’s going to happen, it’ll always be on a night, a weekend, a major holiday, during a vacation or a natural disaster.

Throughout this blog, you can find hundreds of MY tips and observations, but I’ll list a few here:

- Don’t rush to change the baby’s diaper the minute it’s wet. He may not be “done” yet, and you’ll only waste a diaper.

- It’s a fact that if choosing between the newest award-winning educational toy and a random household object, the baby will always pick the measuring spoons or the toilet-paper tube.

- Most people who say their baby slept through the night from an early age are either flat-out lying or they’ve forgotten because it was so long ago.

So, moms, got any of your own advice to add? Leave a comment here by 5pm EST 4/3 for a chance to win a copy of “Baby Notes” signed by the author. (I’ll pick a winner at random.) If you want your advice to be considered for possible publication in the next book, you can submit your own baby note on Jen’s web site.

Happy Friday, everyone! Here’s hoping disaster doesn’t strike your house this weekend. ;)

Doing My Time: In the Pre-K Library

I’m as guilt-prone as the next mom, but there are some things I simply refuse to feel guilty about. Like hiring a pro to clean my house now and then and not volunteering at my son’s school. Look: I’ve got a 2yo, writing deadlines, and a mountain of laundry the size of Everest. So, sorry – I’m not using up my precious 2 hours and 45 min. a day that my older son’s in preschool to photocopy worksheets while I pay a babysitter to watch my toddler. If you do? Yay for you. You win.

The thing is, on Mondays the kids have library and almost ALL the parents have volunteered to read to the class. I know this because I’m cc’ed on e-mails listing the library schedule full of parents and caregivers more selfless than I. Although I tell myself if they’re on salary or have family to watch their other kids, what’s the big sacrifice?

ANYWAY... I could tell it would mean a lot to Miles if I volunteered to read. So on a day C. was off work to watch Riley, I did. My first mistake was getting all gussied up. I realized I needn’t have spent 20 min. flat-ironing my hair and choosing accessories when the other mom volunteer strolled in wearing workout gear. My second mistake was listening to my 4yo when he told me I didn’t have to bring in a book, because his class got to choose one for me to read.

So there I was, scrambling amidst the haphazardly organized books to find one I recognized. (Where is the Dewey decimal system when you need it?!) Aha! “Arthur Writes a Story.” Perfect, since, you know, I’m a writer. Just to be safe I picked a backup, some book about a hibernating bear. Lame.

The kids pile into the library, all bedhead and mismatched patterns. (So it’s not just MY kid. Whew!) Miles gives me a little smile, then slinks to the back, too cool for school. The girls start clamoring to show me their nail polish and sparkly shoes. I DO like a cute pair of Mary Janes...

I introduce myself as Mrs. So-and-So (even though the other parent said, “I usually just say ‘I’m Billy’s mom’”). Then I announce, all enthusiastically, “So, kids! I thought we could read this book about Arthur writing a story, because I’M actually a writer. Or, this book about a b—“

“The bear! The bear! Read that one! We have that book at home!”

Those kids could give a flying pig with a pancake that I’m a writer. Any ideas I had about impressing this crowd with my literary credentials went right out the flower-decaled window. Humph.

So I read the book about the dumb hibernating bear and they were enthralled. I did all the sound effects – I snored, I roared, I stomped my feet. I even threw in a fake burp. If I was giving up my morning to volunteer, I was damn sure gonna do it RIGHT.

And you know what? It was fun. I could tell the kids enjoyed it, even Miles. And it was a nice break from the laundry and my keyboard. In fact, I liked it so much...that I volunteered my husband to go in and read next week.

Tiny Tyrants

There’s a hilarious anecdote in Amy Wilson’s memoir –- “momoir,” if you prefer -- When Did I Get Like This?: The Screamer, the Worrier, the Dinosaur-Chicken-Nugget-Buyer, and Other Mothers I Swore I'd Never Be She’s describing how she figured out the one thing that calmed her colicky infant was bouncing on an exercise ball. So she did – 24/7. When her husband got home from work they’d trade off, not even stopping to eat: “I would shovel forkfuls of kung pao chicken into David’s mouth while he kept bouncing.”

Then there were 2 comments I read online on the same theme: one new mom said her 1yo doesn’t “allow” her to sit on the sofa. “She lets me know in no uncertain terms that she wants her mommy on the floor with her!” Another mom said her 2yo made her get up and sit on the other side of the room – and she did! (As would any mom not willing to risk a tantrum from an irrational toddler.)

Do you realize what this means, people? It means we are allowing ourselves to be ruled by the sticky iron fists of miniature dictators!! They’re despots in diapers! Bullies in bibs! Oppressors in overalls! (I could go all day; I have a thesaurus and I’m not afraid to use it.)

The sick part is, we willingly go along with this treatment to keep them happy. It’s like those mean girls in junior high you were desperate to have like you because they were popular. They’d be super-nice to your face but you were always afraid they’d go postal on you in the middle of the night at some slumber party.

Pissing off the people who determine whether you sleep through the night is NOT WORTH IT. Most parents will do anything to fend off that dinnertime tantrum, the meltdown in the candy aisle, the piercing air-raid siren that is their newborn’s wail. Even if it means risking indigestion, bad knees, or one’s own choice of seating.

Sometimes I’m ashamed that I, an intelligent, reasonably confident adult, allow myself to be bossed around by the shortest people in the house. Shouldn’t the person calling the shots at least be able to SAY “shots” without lisping?

However, what my children lack in articulation and height, they make up for in volume and stubbornness. I’m just not willing to launch World War III by taking a stand against the small stuff. So that means more often than not, when my kids say jump, I say, “Like a kangaroo or a bunny?”

Flashback Friday: I Hate the Playground

It's that time of year again. It's staying light outside longer, the weather's getting warmer, the playground is calling... Too bad I hate it. Here's why.

I Hate the Playground
(originally posted 5/08)

When we bought our house just before we got married, the postage stamp-sized yard was actually a plus. It was just big enough that we could enjoy a bit of the outdoors without being bogged down with yard work every weekend. ( I got my fill of that growing up -- thanks, Dad!) However, I have given birth to an outdoorsy type. Therein lies the problem.

Now that it’s nice out and gets dark later, Miles wants to be outside 24/7. The minute he wakes up he’s clamoring to go out: “Wanna go to da park, mama. Go to da playground.” I have decided that I hate the playground. Let me count the reasons:

1. It’s dirty. “Well, duh,” you might be saying. Listen, I’m not some neat-freak who irons her toddler’s play clothes and can’t stand for him to get dirty. But Miles takes it to a new level. He BATHES himself in the dirt, digging it under his fingernails and caking it on his cheeks. He gets wood chips in his hair and every crevice of his clothing. And don’t get me started on the sandbox, which I have on good authority serves as a gigantic litter box for every cat in the neighborhood. Grossed out yet?

2. It’s confusing. We live near a large community playground where there are tons of communal toys left there for anyone to play with. Which is great, except that then Miles doesn’t understand why he can’t hop on every tricycle or toy car he comes across in somebody’s yard.

3. It’s embarrassing. Every time we go to the playground, there’s always at least one super-enthusiastic parent. You know, the one who’s whizzing down the slide with her kid, whooping it up, yelling, “Wow, honey! Great job! Isn’t this FUN?!!” As opposed to me, who’s sitting on a bench looking at her watch.

Miles will home in on this über-parent and follow them around incessantly, even inserting himself between the parent and their child, desperate to get in on the fun, as if he’s some poor, attention-starved orphan. One time he was actually shouting, “Look at me! Look at me!” to this poor dad who was trying to have some quality time with his daughter. Miles, chill! Desperation is not an attractive quality. Honestly, you’d think we ignored him all day.

4. It’s stressful. Another problem with the playground is that you have to constantly break up kid scuffles. “No, sweetie, that’s his truck. You can play with that one.” (Cut to me prying the truck out of Miles’ ridiculously strong grip.)

And if the other kid’s parent isn’t watching? Then you’re left in the awkward position of trying to discipline a stranger. “Um, you there -- please don’t spit on the slide. We’d like to take a turn now, if that’s OK.” You never know how a situation like that’s going to play out. Will the kid flip out on you? Will his mom?

5. It’s so hard to say good-bye. Miles has never done well with transitions. That “we’re leaving in 5 minutes” spiel has zero effect. It always ends with me dragging him away kicking and screaming. Except for that one time he allowed himself to be bribed with a cereal bar.

So, there you have it -- 5 reasons why I try to keep my son confined to our tiny yard. Leave it to me to take the fun out of a wholesome childhood pastime, right? Next week: Why I Hate the Circus and Disney World, Too.

Lowest Mom on the Totem Pole

Let’s say you saw a very pregnant woman struggling to carry a bunch of heavy grocery bags. Over her shoulder she grunts, “I’m fine, I just wanted to save myself an extra trip.” Then she vacuums her entire house, skips lunch and her prenatal appointments because she doesn’t “have time,” wouldn’t dream of taking a nap even if she’s tired, and downs a double espresso so she can stay up late filling goody bags for her preschooler’s birthday party.

Be honest: you would judge this woman, wouldn’t you? I know I would. She’s putting the health of her poor, defenseless, unborn baby at risk because she can’t be bothered to take care of herself.

Only here’s the thing: except for the part about being pregnant, this (hypothetical) woman is me. And probably some of you. How many of us have powered through our days with barely enough nutrition to sustain a gnat, telling ourselves we don’t have time to eat a real meal? Or fueled our bodies primarily with junk food and caffeine because we “need it to get through the day”?

But this is not a rant about poor eating habits. It’s about – cliché alert – moms’ habit of making themselves the lowest person on the totem pole. Putting everyone else’s needs first. Putting ourselves last. Not even realizing we’re doing it.

You know how sometimes you hear the same advice over and over and one day for some reason it suddenly sinks in? That happened to me while reading “The Naked Mom.” Author Brooke Burke asks: “What if you applied even a fraction of the attention you pay to your child’s health and well-being to yourself?”

Being a fairly health-conscious person (Mini Egg and Starbucks binges notwithstanding), it’s shocking for me to consider this. I bend over backwards to make sure both my boys have some form of protein, a fruit or vegetable, and not too much sugar at every meal. Even if that means going to the grocery store for the third time that week to buy kiwi. (Which the baby calls “fiwi.” Adorable.)

I worry about them getting enough sleep, exercise, and fresh air, to the point where I will sit in a parked car to ensure they finish their nap, and force myself to kick a soccer ball in the mud when I would rather be sitting inside where it’s warm and dry.

But do I extend the same care and concern to my own health? No, I do not. I regularly skip breakfast (because I’m too busy being a short-order cook), miss spinning class (because I decide to throw in just one more load of laundry before I head to the gym), and forget to schedule my own doctors’ appointments. (Who has TIME for another appointment?!)

Burke writes, “Becoming a mother gave me a whole new respect for my body… it felt good to nurture myself in order to nurture that tiny life growing inside me. …Once you’ve left the delivery room, it’s a shame to discard the self-awareness that pregnancy provides.”

It’s true. I grew A PERSON inside my body. Two, in fact! I did prenatal yoga, forced myself to take vitamins the size of hub caps, and got plenty of rest. Don’t I deserve to treat myself better than a pack mule? (I bet even pack mules take regular water and snack breaks.)

Tell me: what do you do to take care of yourself? And when? For God’s sake, WHEN?!

Too Much Togetherness

I have a request: can everyone just please stop touching me? Stop poking me when I’m sleeping, stop head-butting me in the back of the knees when I’m making your toast, stop climbing up my leg when I’m trying to drink my coffee.

Look, I’m all for affection and togetherness. I love hugs, kisses, and snuggles. Lord knows I smooch my kids a million times a day. But enough’s enough! Sometimes I just want to sit on the couch and read a magazine without someone dive-bombing me, pinching me, or sitting pressed up so close to me that when he sneezes, we both need a tissue.

And honestly? Sometimes I don’t know if it’s storytime or a rugby scrum. Can’t we sit NEXT to each other and read a book? Does everyone really need to be on top of each other like a litter of newborn puppies? Because you guys are wiggly. And elbowy. We rarely get through an entire story without someone getting kneed in the face or another tender area.

There are some days when I feel like I’ve been probed by aliens from head to toe. From someone inspecting my nostrils when he’s squirming next to me in bed in footie PJs, to someone poking every freckle and spot while I’m getting dressed, to someone pulling on my arm to come turn on the TV, find the Spongebob toothpaste, or poke the straw into a juicebox. Today Riley was grabbing my toes to inspect my new pedicure. (It DOES look nice, but does he have to touch it?)

BTW, funny how both boys will jump on my back for a piggyback ride and fight over who gets to sit in my lap, but when it comes time to hold hands to cross the street, no one wants to come near me.

And if anyone’s tempted to leave me a comment about how someday I’ll be desperate to get eye contact from my kids, let alone a hug? Don’t. NOT THE TIME.

Right now I just want to be left alone. Keep your hands to yourself and walk away from Mommy. I love you just as much at arm’s length. Maybe more.

Stuff My Kids Say

He’s an Internet legend: the guy who started a Twitter page called “@#$& My Dad Says” to chronicle his curmudgeonly father’s salty sayings and promptly got a book deal and a sitcom starring William Shatner. Well, I think my kids could give him a run for his money. IMO, they’re funnier, more family-friendly, and way cuter, to boot.

One of the perks of having kids that I didn’t anticipate is how they provide constant entertainment. I thought it would be all peek-a-boo and knock-knock jokes, but no. My boys - who are barely as old as my newest pair of jeans - are laugh-out-loud funny on a daily basis. Good thing I have my Twitter page to keep track of their antics. Here’s a small sampling from the last 2 weeks:

Mar. 15: 4yo picks out random assortment of clothing. Me: "You're going to wear ALL that?" M: "You'll see how it all works out, Mom.” [How it worked out was lots and lots of layers. It was an eye-popping mishmash of Batman and Super Mario and Crocs, oh my!]

Mar. 14: Was getting Playdoh out of the jam-packed closet & the iron fell out. M: "That really hurts on Tom & Jerry."

Mar. 11: 2yo requested Glee Xmas album in the car. And by requested, I mean he yelled until I put it on.

Mar. 10: 4yo won't eat the bread on his sandwich because it's "undelicious."

Mar. 3: M. was trying to hitchhike on our street. He says he saw it on the Pink Panther. Had to explain it's a no-no in the non-cartoon world.

Mar. 3: I swear, my 2yo gets stuck in the kitchen chair about 4x a day - a leg, an arm, his HEAD. [Note: He’s totally doing it on purpose. I’ve tried ignoring him and letting him untangle himself, but then his big brother gets involved and things take a turn for the worse.]

It’s no surprise to anyone that kids say and do quirky things, of course, but somehow it’s even funnier when they’re your own. We were all lying in bed the other morning trying to get an extra few minutes sleep while my 2yo wandered around our room slamming closet doors and rummaging through drawers.

Riley picked up C.’s cellphone and announced, “Daddy want phone EVERY DAY.” We all busted out laughing. The kid’s barely 2 and he’s already picked up on his dad’s smartphone addiction! Now if he could only figure out how to get himself unstuck from the kitchen chairs...

The Naked Mom

That savvy Brooke Burke. How could a book by a gorgeous celebrity and former bikini model with “naked” in the title NOT be a hit? Sorry to disappoint, fellas, but here naked refers to being your authentic, true self as a woman and mother. Although Brooke does appear sans clothes on the cover.

It would be easy to write off Brooke Burke as just another perky, brunette celebrity. You might know her as the glamorous co-host of “Dancing with the Stars” (and Season 7 winner). She first got on my radar when she hosted “Rock Star: INXS,” a show about finding a new lead singer for one of C.’s and my favorite ‘80s bands. (RIP, Michael Hutchence.)

I didn’t give Brooke much thought, though, until she launched ModernMom.com and her own blog on the site. I read a few posts and darned if BB wasn’t just like the rest of us (except WAY better-looking, obviously). She’s sleep-deprived, pulled in a million different directions, wanting what’s best for her kids, struggling to find some me-time. Plus, she’s down-to-earth and pretty funny. For “Wordless Wednesday” one time she posted a pic of herself covered with baby spit-up. She's my people!

Her book is equally relatable and enjoyable. I found myself LOL’ing in recognition when she described the dinnertime craziness at her house, getting kung-fu kicked by squirmy little ones who’ve taken over your bed, and getting locked in a stairwell with a baby and a bloody foot. (Flip-flops and metal doors are a bad combo; I can attest to that.)

The book is best when it’s describing her day-to-day life as a working mom of 4 kids. She freely admits that her days are messy, chaotic, and far from perfect. She forgets her shoes, forgets her baby in the car, and falls on her butt during DWTS rehearsal. (BTW, she practiced the quickstep with her newborn son strapped to her chest.) My favorite quote is when she’s talking about how she’s always asked how she “balances it all.” Her answer: She doesn’t. “Balance is bullshit. End of story.”

Less successful are Brooke’s attempts to give advice on such topics as beauty and nutrition. I guess it’s interesting in a voyeuristic way to read about how she fits into those tiny costumes, but personally I flipped past her recipe for “Cleansing Veggie Soup” while plowing my way through a bag of Cadbury Mini Eggs. In fact, those chapters made me thank my lucky stars I don’t live in Hollywood, where implants rule, carbs drool, and there’s paparazzi on every corner waiting to snap a pic of “stars without makeup.” Nightmare!

I finished the book wishing that a) Brooke Burke was my real-life mommy friend (even though I’d never be able to borrow her clothes), and barring that, b) she’ll hire me to write for her website. (It's on my bucket list!) ‘Cause I’ve got some things to say about motherhood, chaos, me-time, and even being naked. Call me, Brooke!

LINK O' THE WEEK: You can buy her book here: The Naked Mom: A Modern Mom's Fearless Revelations, Savvy Advice, and Soulful Reflections If you do, I get like 2 cents or something. Woo hoo!

Post-Toddler Stress Disorder

Don’t you just love toddlers? Those adorable first words. That hilarious drunken-sailor gait. Their newfound independence. The endless tantrums...

I was telling somebody about how my second-born is so much more difficult than my first-born when it occurred to me that I am absolutely wrong. I blame Post-Toddler Stress Disorder for blocking it out, but Miles was just as much of a hellion as Riley is at age 2, if not more. The proof is in my archives.

First, there was the infamous “Carseat Kerfuffle,” also known as “The Subaru Showdown,” when my son and I were locked in combat in the backseat of our car and I had to call his dad to come intervene before I left him by the side of the road. Ah, memories...

And you know when toddlers contradict themselves and tell you what they want and then have a tantrum when you give it to them? Good times. Hope you enjoy this little gem from my archives:

Yes I Do, No I Don’t

Miles: “Peanut butter! Peanut butter!”
Me: “You want a peanut butter sandwich?”
Miles: “OK.”
Me (after making sandwich): “Here you go, sweetie.”
Miles: “No peanut butter! Yogurt! YO-GURRRT!!”

Good thing there was an article in this month’s Parenting magazine about why toddlers contradict themselves, or I would’ve thought Miles was just being a huge pain in the butt. Well, he is, but at least it’s developmental.

These days, EVERYTHING is a battle with him. He’ll say he wants to go for a walk in the stroller. Then he has a fit when I try to strap him in. Then when I let him out, he goes sprinting for the street. When I say, “You can either get in the stroller or hold my hand” he sits down on the sidewalk and cries. Can you see why we haven’t been leaving the house much?

Even at home, though, the struggles continue. Some days he won’t sit in his highchair or let me put his socks on, or he insists on having two spoons at mealtime. Some things, I let go. Fine. Go nuts with the plastic cutlery! But in other cases it’s not so easy.

Take his dairy addiction, for example. Miles loves nothing more than cheese, yogurt, and above all, milk. He starts asking for milk the moment he wakes up. If I dare, say, go to the bathroom before heading downstairs to get his milk, he pitches a fit. If I forget his milk at meals, he wails, “Milk! Miiiilk!” like someone who’s being torn from their lover’s arms.

And too much milk is not a good thing. First, it fills him up so he doesn’t eat any actual food. Second, it causes him, um, “gastrointestinal distress,” which leads to nasty diapers for Mom and nasty diaper rash for him. I have explained all this to him calmly and rationally. And yet he persists in demanding dairy products around the clock.

I once let him whine and cry for 30 straight minutes before I gave in. I’m not made of stone, people!! (His dad, on the other hand, has no problems tuning out his son. And what do you know, Miles stops whining around him. Why doesn’t that approach work for moms?!)

Miles isn’t the only walking contradiction around here lately, though. I also go back and forth daily, even hourly. On the one hand, I’m having a harder time than ever with my beloved offspring. (Not helped by the fact that C. is gone most of the week now. 7 a.m. to 7:30 p.m. is too damn long a day for one parent!) On the other hand, when he’s not having milk meltdowns, Miles is cuter and more fun than ever.

I try to remind myself of the cute stuff he does, such as: calling oatmeal “eat-meal”; saying “I love Mama, I love Dada, I love baths”; hugging the dog; pretending his pasta is a rocket ship; and laughing hysterically when someone jumps out from behind a door and startles him.

Yes, he’s a funny kid. No, he’s not easy. Yes, I love him dearly. No, I do not miss him when his dad takes him out on weekends. I just hope they’re not going to Dairy Queen.

LAUGH O’ THE WEEK: My SIL sent me a funny e-mail about a 15-step program to see if you’re ready to have kids. An excerpt: “Dressing small children is not as easy as it seems. 1) Buy an octopus and a small bag made out of loose mesh. 2) Attempt to put the octopus into the bag so that none of the arms hang out. Repeat all morning.”

The House of Calamity and Chaos

This is the phrase that popped into my head today. Can you picture it on a nice little plaque above our door? People would chuckle and assume it’s a joke -- until 5 min. into their visit, when they’d flee the premises in terror.

I frequently wonder if there are families out there who go about their days in relative calm and peace. Sure, maybe someone spills their milk or misplaces their favorite shirt now and then, but basically their daily routine is free from injury, strife, flooded basements, and raccoons. Just to use some “hypothetical” examples I plucked out of the air. (Riiiight.)

As if the carpet conundrum wasn’t enough for one week, we’ve encountered still more homeowner headaches. First, we had a torrential rainstorm that caused water to leak into our newly waterproofed basement. No, “leak” is the wrong word. That implies a slow trickle. When actually, I was stemming the tide inside with buckets and bath towels while C. got soaked attempting to divert the stream outside. Meanwhile, the kids were splashing in the puddles on the floor.

When I finally collapsed into bed, exhausted, I heard an all-too-familiar scratching and scuffling in the attic above me. Raccoons. Did I tell you we had an entire family of raccoons evicted from our attic last year? No? Well, then, it’s because I tried to block out that traumatic episode. (Either that, or I simply forgot to mention it since Every! Frigging! Week! brings some traumatic episode or another around here.)

The whole thing was a giant ordeal involving ladders, cages, interrupted naptimes, and confrontations with well-meaning but misguided animal-loving neighbors. (Look: I love animals as much as anyone, but NOT when they probably have rabies and are peeing through my son’s ceiling!!) The raccoon guy assured us when he was done that the furry varmints would never get back in.

Except they did. So the guy came back out with his ladders and cages and nap-interrupting. His exact words when he left: “I closed off every possible opening six ways from Sunday. If they bust through dat, I’d pack up and move.” Super. And guess what? I heard the raccoon again last night.

No time to worry about that, though, because the waterproofing guys came over today. It’s almost futile to have any contractor come over when my husband’s not home. Because when it’s just me and the kids? It goes like this:

- Contractor tries to show me something about the sump pump while the kids play nearby with a loud electronic toy. I take away the toy so I can hear the guy, and the baby throws himself on the floor and has a tantrum.

- Contractor takes me outside to show me something about the window wells. The kids run out the door behind me with no shoes on. I go back in, get them shoes, try to resume conversation with contractor. Toddler goes sprinting down the street while preschooler climbs on top of a parked car. Someone falls down and skins their knee. Contractor is alternately laughing, annoyed, and pitying me.

In between all this chaos, all I heard was: everything’s wrong, everything needs to be fixed, and good luck if you try to do it yourself. I jokingly said, “So basically, you’re telling us to move.” He didn’t laugh...or contradict me.

I’m afraid to go to bed tonight. Not because of the raccoon, but because I’m afraid of what tomorrow will bring. Just another day at the House of Calamity and Chaos...

It All Started with the Carpet

We have light-colored Berber carpet in our family room. It wasn’t in great shape when we moved in 7 years ago. We always meant to replace it, but then we got a dog who wasn’t housebroken. Then we had a baby, and carpet was the least of our worries. We also weathered several storms that caused the skylights to leak onto the rug.

Then, we had a second baby. This baby spit up all day, every day, all over every surface in the house. We spot-cleaned, steam-cleaned, and covered the carpet with area rugs. Clearly, there was no point replacing it until the barrage of bodily fluids ceased.

So here it is, 2 years later, and we finally decided to do something about the carpet. But first we have to remove the old, unused woodstove that sits on a raised brick platform in the middle of the family room. We used it once shortly after we moved in, before we had kids. The entire room filled with smoke, forcing us to open all the doors in the house, thereby reversing any warmth that the stove generated. That was the end of that.

Basically, this big black stove is a danger magnet. Kids are drawn to it. They climb on it, bang on it, draw on it with chalk. And the brick platform it sits on -- square, with raised, sharp corners -- is just high enough to trip over. And believe me, kids trip over it constantly. We covered the edges with foam, which my younger son promptly took big bites out of.

So this weekend we had a contractor come over to give us an estimate on removing the stove and bricks. This is how that went:

Contractor: “Sure, that’s no problem. Since we have to patch the ceiling where the chimney was, would you like us to go ahead and patch the drywall around the skylights where you have water damage?”

Us: “Yeah, that makes sense. Sure.”

Contractor: “How old are those skylights, anyway? At least 20 years old? They don’t even make those anymore. You’re losing a lot of heat out those windows, you know. I could put in some new ones for you.”

Us: “Um, well, if they’re THAT old… And they DO leak… Maybe just price them for us?”

Contractor: “The thing is, they make 'em smaller now. I’d have to build out new frames, and add some new shingles around the windows on the roof. They won’t match, though. But if the roof is also 20 years old, you might want to think about reshingling the whole thing. It’d be cheaper for me to do it now.”

Us: “Oh, boy, I don’t know…”

Contractor: “’Cause it could actually end up COSTING you money down the road if you don’t take care of it now. I’m just letting you know. It’s your decision.”

Us: “Sure. Yeah. Um, price that out for us too, OK?”

Contractor: “I notice you don’t have a vent in this bathroom over here. That’s probably why you’ve got some mold up there on the ceiling. I could put in a vent real easy for you, while I’m doing the roof.”

Us: “Vent? Huh?”

Contractor: “So what do you think about adding another skylight? Wouldn’t be that hard, since I’m already up there, you know.”

Us: “Uh, we’ve got this thing to go to soon, so we should probably let you go now… Yeah, just send us the estimate. We’ll call you! Thanks!” We closed the door behind him, dejected.

The carpet’s not THAT bad, I guess. I mean, with all the toys scattered around and unless it’s really bright sunlight, you can hardly see the spit-ups stains at all. Right? RIGHT?!

Even Charlie Sheen Knows Gross Does Not Equal Funny

So as I was watching Piers Morgan interview Charlie Sheen on CNN the other night with a mixture of horror and awe, I thought the beleaguered actor made a good point. Wait!! Bear with me, OK?

Morgan kept trying to insist that “Two and a Half Men” was a family show, and that Sheen was some kind of role model. Sheen replied (paraphrasing here) that the show’s writing was juvenile and crass (I believe he used the word “gross”), and besides, it’s about a womanizing boozer, so how is that a family show? Out of the mouths of Sheens… Since when is a sitcom that relies on hooker jokes and bathroom humor in the same category as “The Middle”?

But this is not a beef about the values being promoted on primetime television. (Though as the mother of 2 little boys, that is a concern.) MY problem is with what’s being fed to us as funny these days.

It’s no secret that I like to laugh, and that I enjoy watching, reading, and writing humor. Certainly, humor is subjective. I’d say I’m more aware of that than most. I can tell you from teaching many sessions of my essay-writing classes that there are tons of David Sedaris and Tina Fey fans out there, and that most of my students aspire to be funnier writers. (While there’s no formula, I have offered some advice about how to write humor in the past.)

It’s discouraging to me that so much of what claims to be humor nowadays just isn’t funny. I can vaguely remember when, in its early days, “Two and a Half Men” was actually clever and well-written, not formulaic and cringe-worthy. But I guess Hollywood sticks with what works. At the gym this morning, I read a funny article in the Feb. 25 issue of Entertainment Weekly about the formula for Adam Sandler movies. It went something like: equal parts middle-school humor, boobs, and immature man-boys who dress like college kids.

Look, I get it. I’m not the target audience for “Two and a Half Men” or Adam Sandler movies. But can we all agree it takes a little more brains and creativity to be truly funny? On TV, I’m currently enjoying the upbeat Amy Poehler and her quirky cast on “Parks and Recreation” and the way “Modern Family” captures the frustrations, sweetness, and yes, humor of family life. (See: the episode where Cameron cries, “It’s like Twilight around here!” when toddler Lily goes through a biting phase.)

In print, I laughed out loud at Colson Whitehead’s “I Scream,” an essay about one man’s hatred of ice cream that I recently read in the anthology Eat, Memory. And on a less cerebral level, I enjoyed Sophie Kinsella’s Mini Shopaholic. (Again: funny stuff about wild toddlers.)

So tell me, what do YOU find funny? And what are your thoughts on Charlie Sheen? (Kidding… although this post on the subject by a dad and ex-addict is worth a read.)

LAUGHS O’ THE WEEK: The other day my 4yo dropped something and shouted, “Oh, pickle juice!” Ha!

While watching the Academy Awards last Sunday, C. made a Freudian slip when he referred to the Oscars as “The Awkwards.”

NEWS O' THE WEEK: Next session of "Personal Essays that Get Published" starts next week! Prices go up next time, so don't miss out. Students from every single class are getting published and paid for their writing,even if they never have before. I'm so proud!

Happy Birthday to My Baby!

Dear Riley,

Today you are 2! Happy birthday, buddy! You’ve gotten to be such a big boy in the past few months, I can hardly believe it. You finally grew enough hair to get your first real haircut, and you sat in that barber chair like an old pro. Of course, the lollipop helped.

You talk ALL the time now, and we can even understand most of what you say. You must have excellent hearing, because you ask me about 10 times a day, “What noise, Mama?” It could be a leaf-blower, the blender, the smoke alarm, or someone crumpling a bag of chips a block away.

Which reminds me: you also have an uncanny sense for detecting food or drink. Even if you’re in the other room playing with your trains or trucks, you can hear me opening the fridge and pouring myself a glass of orange juice, or trying to sneak a cookie from the cabinet, and you will come running in demanding a bite or a sip.

This morning you were up at your usual 5:30 am, when you yell from your crib for Mommy or Daddy. Sometimes you switch off if one of us doesn’t respond fast enough. You’re not ready to get up then -– who IS at that hour?! -– you just want company. Or, you prefer the coziness of a queen-size down comforter. If we’re lucky, we can all get another hour of sleep. If we’re not, you pinch and kick us until we wake up and take you downstairs.

Daddy made you blueberry “pampakes” this morning, your favorite. Then you and Miles watched “Mee Mouse.” You know all the words to the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse theme song and love to “shake a booty” to the Hot Dog Dance.

Everyone who meets you says you’re Mr. Personality. You can be shy at first, but it doesn’t take you long to warm up and start running around like you own the place, wherever we are. Your babysitter calls you “energetic,” and you certainly are. Although I might use a different word to describe your spirited antics, which include climbing up on the toilet to reach the bathroom sink so you can turn on the faucet full blast and brush your teeth, which really means “flood the bathroom.”

Speaking of the bathroom, you have already gone pee in the potty twice! I refuse to get my hopes up too much, though, lest you follow in your brother’s very, VERY sluggish footsteps when it comes to potty training.

Your brother is your favorite person in the world, besides Mommy and Daddy. The minute you wake up from your nap you ask where Miles is. You love to wrestle with each other, tease the dog, and make each other laugh with silly knock-knock jokes or by blowing bubbles in your milk. Of course, sometimes you scream and hit and are mean to each other, too. Yesterday, you both left teeth marks on each other’s back. Ouch!

But mostly, you are a sweet, lovable, smart, funny little guy. We’ve only known you for 24 mos, but we can’t imagine our family or our lives without you.

Love, Mommy

PIC O’ THE WEEK: The Thomas cake was a family affair. I baked and decorated it, C. was the design consultant and custom-icing-color creator, and Miles presided over everything, offering his 2 cents and asking to lick the spoon.