Potty Assault, Day 15

Don't worry, this is the last potty assault update, because it's getting a little old. I just wanted to do one final shameless plug for the $40 piece of Fisher Price genius that changed our lives. True, it's overpriced. True, it's hideously ugly. True, the "I'm so big, look at me, I can use my own potty" song rings endlessly in my head. But I owe a big one to the Fisher Price gods because some combination of these things worked for Owen. Finally.

Now if I could only figure out what to do with all of these 4T Pull-Ups....

Potty Assault, Day 12

It's happening. It's really, truly happening.

We've gone from having a 4-year-old in diapers to having a 4-year-old so obsessed with his potty that he now uses it a dozen times a day, talks about it pretty frequently and even wanted to hold it in his lap in the car last week. (we didn't let him do that.)

For months now people have been saying that one day everything will just "click" and I didn't believe them. But in the past two weeks I've almost heard the noise as everything, piece by piece, has just started falling into place for Owen.

True, he still has a ways to go. We've had to toss a good number of Spiderman underpants after unfortunate, shall we say, Code Browns in public. But who cares. We haven't used a pull-up (during the day) in almost two weeks and I've never been prouder of my son.

Potty Assault, Day 5

I have had a lot of happy moments in my life, but none were quite as spectacular as the other day when Owen walked over to his potty, pulled down his pants, sat down and peed.

After months of not quite trying hard enough, Dave and I finally drew a line in the sand last week, marked a day on the calendar and began what can only be described as a full-on Potty Assault.

Owen hasn't worn a pull-up during the day since Friday (five days ago for those who are counting). Now, anyone who hasn't potty trained a child has my opinion to stop reading because this is going to get boring, but anyone who HAS accomplished this feat I yearn for has to understand how exciting that is! In truth I've never done so much laundry and had to throw out a pee-stained pair of shoes yesterday... but who cares??

I told a friend on Monday that we had spent the weekend inside, sitting poor Owen down on the potty every 30 minutes. Well accustomed to my potty training tales of woe, she gave me a big hug of encouragement and said she was proud of us. The trick, she said, is commitment. Once the parents are fully committed to making this happen, the kids catch on.

Well, we've never been so committed. Owen turned 4 in June and enough is enough. So keep your fingers crossed, dear readers. We've got sticker charts, a jar of M&Ms and a potty that sings when he pees. What more incentive could a little boy need?

When Your Kids' Schedules Are More Complex Than Your Own... What Then?

I often cringe when I hear one of the kids coughing through the monitors at night. In my head the questions begin: Is it the croup? Does one of them have the flu? Will Jake need a nebulizer treatment? Do they have fevers?

And last but not least: How many sick days do I have left?

Working full-time with two small kids is tough, but working full-time with two small kids when one or both of them is sick is even tougher. It means draining your sick time and begging and pleading with relatives (or in my case, my mother) to come babysit at a moment's notice.

What's most disturbing is that friends with older children keep warning me that it only gets worse. Once my boys get to school I'll have to contend with the school calendar, eight weeks off in the summer and countless holidays that aren't on my schedule. What will we do with them for a week in February and a week in April?

When parents only get two weeks of vacation time and about 10 sick days a year, how do you make it all work? To be honest, as much as I'm looking forward to the money we'll be saving once the boys get to public school, I'm terrified about the juggling act we'll have to master in order to keep our jobs.

A colleague of mine has found a way to make it work, but just barely: her seven year old son spends mornings with a neighbor, who walks him to school. When his kindergarten gets out at 1:30 he goes to an after school program until 4, and then to a babysitter until she or her husband gets home at 5:30. Good lord, what happens if one, two or three of those things don't work out on the same day??

My good friend is writing an article for the Boston Parent's Paper about this subject and is wondering how other moms handle it. Any advice? Any stories to share? Any words of wisdom? If you have anything you think either she or I could use, send me an email and I'll pass it on.

Hey, Where Is Everybody?

So let's be honest. I've been pretty lazy about this blogging thing lately. Well, lazy maybe isnt' the right word -- I just haven't had much to say or time to say it. So I've let this (and going to the gym but that's another story) slide in a serious way.

But when I was feeling guilty about being a lousy blogger the other day I remembered the reason I started this in the first place: to give all working moms a place to discuss, think about, revel in, and if necessary, complain about the ins, outs, complexities, irritations and joys of being a working mom.

Some days there's nothing better. Other days... well, let's just say that there are days when I would give just about anything to be alone on a beach with a good book, comfortable chair and a cooler full of snacks.

So that's me. Do you agree? Let me know. Write about it - the good days, the bad days, and the days that may have been better spent on the beach without your boss or your kids. Let's get this whole Guest Blog thing going again. Let's face it, I know a lot about being a working mom but not everything.

Send your submissions to heidi.guarino@gmail.com.

Lessons From a 4-Year-Old's Birthday Party

So, after four years I feel like I finally have this birthday party thing down. Well, sort of.

We had Owen's party about 2 weeks ago (I've been incredibly lazy about blogging) and aside from a few mishaps I think we got it just about right. Here's what we've learned:

1. Plan it early. Some kids this age still nap, so anything that starts after noontime doesn't work. Other kids this age - like Owen - no longer nap but need some quiet time by 2 p.m., making a noontime party a bad call. So we planned ours from 11a.m-2 p.m., giving the youngest guests time for a morning nap and the preschoolers plenty of time to rest in the afternoon.

2. Have a plan, but nothing too complicated. We wondered about games and activities, but in the end decided to pray for a nice day and turn it into a "bike party." Owen's big gift was a Thomas bike with training wheels, so we had all fo the other 4-year-olds bring their bikes so they could ride together. It was a good idea in theory, but in reality they probably rode them together for about 5 minutes before running back to the sandbox.

3. Don't invite too many people, and leave out anyone without kids (except for grandparents). For Owen's first birthday party we invited every friend we had, and most of them came. It was fun and social, mainly because we didn't have to spend much time entertaining a 1-year-old. At the time he could barely walk, didn't really talk, and napped through half of his party. At this age the party is truly about the kids. We had kid food, sat outside around the sandbox and slide, and entertained them. Hopefully our friends without kids weren't insulted that we didn't invite them - and to be honest, they're probably grateful. I can't imagine the party would have been much fun for them.

Oh, and one more tip: People really don't come to kids' birthday parties to eat. We forgot that and ordered 8 pizzas for 20 people. My mother made dozens of cookies and brownies and an enormous cake. We wound up with 3 unopened boxes of pizza and way more baked good than we could handle.

But that's OK - our neighbors and Owen's classmates were happy to take care of the leftovers.

Happy birthday Owen! (I still can't believe I have a 4-year-old)

I've Been Tagged

My friend Gina, who I've known since high school, has tagged me.

I wasn't sure what this meant initially. Until now the only game of "Tag" I've played has been the horrifying playground version, where good runners slap you on the back, yell "Tag, you're it!" and then run away, leaving me in their dust. Never much of a runner, I've always hated tag.

But the grown-up e-version appeals to me much more. From what I can gather, I now have to reveal seven (why 7? Why not 8 or 6?) things about myself and then tag someone else. So here goes…

1. I spend a good part of every work day waiting for someone to come into my office, tap me on the shoulder and say, "Heidi, seriously, we know you're faking it. Pack your things. You're out of here." Hasn't happened yet, but I'm sure it will someday.

2. Dave hates this about me, but I'm a little bit crazy when it comes to going to bed. I have to sleep on the same side, and have to make the bed before I get into it. I don't make it in the morning though, so each night I basically make it perfectly neat and then hop in, immediately destroying the hospital corners. Don't ask.

3. I'm a little obsessive about Grey's Anatomy, and frequently check the writer's blog to get the back story behind each episode. Check it out – it's really interesting.

4. The only time I've ever been fired from a job (so far) was when I was in high school. I was hired to work at Barney's Bagels when they first opened, and I loved it – at first. Then my work hours started to interfere with my social life. I called in sick a couple of times, called and said I couldn't make it because of school a couple of times, and showed up late a couple of times. A few months into the job I called because I wanted to go to a football game and was told to enjoy the game. And not come back.

5. As much as I try to be a healthy-ish eater, I cannot resist cookies. Or cake. Or brownies. Or pretty much any baked good. Especially if it's fresh from the oven. I've got a problem.

6. I've been wanting to do something drastically different with my hair for years, and every time I get my hair cut I discuss this with Candice, my stylist. She always smiles, nods her head and cuts my hair exactly the same way, but styles it a little bit different so I think it's a dramatic change. Apparently she knows what's best for me. Or at least for my hair.

7. Every night, before we go to bed, Dave and I sneak into Owen and Jake's room and "check the kids." I'm not sure what we're checking for really – sometimes we have to usher out one of the cats, or cover up one of the kids if they've kicked off their blankets. But really, for me at least, it's a chance to go in, see them at their most peaceful, fall in love with them a little bit more, and push the memory of the most recent tantrum back a little bit further.

So there you have it. Seven things about me. I'm only going to challenge one person, mainly because I know he's got a fountain of fascinating factoids about himself tucked away that I'm sure people in cyberspace would want to read. So Dave, you're it.

From Now On, Jake Gets His Own Seat

I've made a lot of mistakes in my life, but it's quite possible that I made my worst one yet last month when I decided not to buy Jake his own airline ticket. I made this decision on the fly (sorry for the bad pun) after learning how much it was going to cost to fly my whole family to North Carolina over Memorial Day weekend.

Incensed at the cost of the airfare I took an "I'll show them" attitude, declared Jake to be a lap baby and walked away pleased with the money I had just saved.

Turns out, it would have been worth spending the extra $300 on a seat for Jake. In fact, it would have been worth much, much more.

Cute as he may be when he's not being held for two straight hours, when he is forced to remain immobilized in your arms, he's no fun at all. In fact, he turns into "That Baby."

You know the one I mean. The baby who cries, screams, claws at his parents, pulls everyone's hair, throws food, toys, books and everything else within his reach on the floor, and occasionally peeks over his parent's seat to smile at the irritated passengers behind him.

The stewardess tried to woo him with pretzels. He threw them on the floor.

At one point I put him in the aisle and let him walk up and down the airplane. He touched the arms of everyone he passed, smiling up at them. Some smiled back, others yanked their arms away, still others just gave me dirty looks.

The moral of this sad tale? Spend the money. If your child is old enough to know that he doesn't want to held anymore, he's old enough to have a chair of his own. Your child will be happier, you'll be happier, and no one on the plane will be able to blame you for making a 2 hour flight feel as long as a trip around the world.

Chaos 1, Organization 0

Sometimes, on really, really bad days, when it seems like I'm just never going to get my shit together, never going to figure out where to put my keys, and never, ever get enough sleep, I look at pictures like these and realize that really, it's not all that bad.

Organization is likely going to elude me most of my life (and really I can't even blame that on my kids because I've never been organized) but if I had to choose between well organized closets and my current cluttered, disorganized and chaotic life, chaos would win every single time.

Why Jake Almost Didn't Make It Through Mother's Day

My Mother's Day started out a little more hectic than most: Dave was away for the weekend and I had the kids to myself until Sunday afternoon when he returned. So instead of trying to entertain the boys myself all day I made plans to drive to Providence to spend Mother's Day morning with my own mom.

In case you don't know, in my house mornings – even on weekends, and even on Mother's Day – mean actual morning. We're usually up, dressed, and almost done with breakfast by 6 a.m. So yesterday, even after lazing about a bit, we were dressed, fed, jacketed up and ready to go by 7:15 a.m.

Except one thing: I couldn't find my keys.

In fairness to Jake, I can almost never find my keys. I typically throw them in the crook by the front door, but sometimes put them in my purse, other times leave them in my coat, sometimes toss them on the counter, occasionally leave them in the door, and once even left them on the roof of my car. But even worse than my inability to keep track of my keys is Jake's sudden love of hiding things.

He takes magnets from the refrigerator, opens cabinets, places them inside pots, puts the covers back on the pots, closes the cabinets and then walks away. He takes one shoe and brings it to the complete other side of the house, only to toss it under something. I'm not sure he does it intentionally, but he does it all the time. Usually it's funny. On Sunday morning it was infuriating.

I knew I had seen him wandering with my keys earlier, so I looked around my bedroom, where I had seen him last. Nothing. I combed the likely locations. Nothing. Next I looked in some less likely – and less desirable - places: on the floor, in the cabinet in the bathroom, in the pots and pans in my cabinets, in the trash, by the cat's dish, in the toybox and even in the diaper pail. Again, nothing.

Next, I turned to Jake, who had been following me around the house eagerly.

"Where are my keys?" No reply. I asked Owen to help me look. He obliged and began to tear through his toy box, only to find a long-lost toy that quickly distracted him. Still, no keys.

After 30 minutes I called my mother, in tears.

"We're not coming," I said. "Not only can't we drive to Providence, we can't even leave the house."

I hung up, furious with Jake, with Owen, with karma, with my cluttered house, with Mother's Day, and with anything else that popped into my head. I walked through my house one final time, dumping out every box of toys, taking every pillow off every couch, lifting the corner of every rug, opening every cabinet and sorting through every drawer.

45 minutes into my search I opened the drawer of Owen's train table and shuffled through the mess of trains, tracks and little people. My keys were at the very bottom.

I'd like to say I've learned something from all of this, but I'm not sure I did. My house is still filled with a million little places for Jake to hide stuff, he still quietly steals things and squirrels them away, and I've already misplaced my keys twice since then.

But next time I go to Target I'm picking up a belated Mother's Day present for myself: a key rack, that I will hang well above Jake's reach.

The Sound of Silence

For the first time in nearly four years, I woke up Sunday morning to silence.

Well, not actual silence – Dave was snoring his happy little it's-Sunday-morning-please-don't-wake-me-yet snore, but for the first time since Owen was born I didn't hear crying, chattering, yelling, babbling, talking or even heavy sleep-breathing.

(A quick sidenote: Friends have been telling me for months to ditch the baby monitor, but I always find a reason to keep it – Jake's sick, Owen might be up playing all night, the two of them might be fighting, or a cat may be trapped in their bedroom. All likely scenarios, but the fact is simple: I like hearing them. I love the sound of their heavy breathing when they're sound asleep, I love waking up to the sound of Jake gurgling happily as he plays with his feet and I love when Owen's first words each morning are to say hello to Lightning McQueen or Buzz Lightyear.)

But on Sunday I heard none of that because the boys had their first-ever sleepover at my parent's house in Rhode Island.

I had initially called my mother to babysit Saturday night, thinking she'd spend the night on our couch as she has countless times while we went to Spiderman (which, by the way, was awesome). But when I asked she countered my offer with an even better one: Bring the kids down early Saturday, set up their beds, get them comfortable and then leave. She even offered to bring them back on Sunday so we wouldn't have to drive down to Providence again.

This is something we've considered before, but we've always been too anxious to follow through. True, they did raise me and my sister, but let's face it – the last time they were in charge of two kids under 4 for 24 hours was about 30 years ago.

But we took a leap of faith, bought ourselves some tickets on Fandango so we couldn't bail at the last minute, packed up the car early Saturday and were back in town eating popcorn and watching previews by the 4 p.m. show. We had a great dinner in the North End, picked up some dessert at Bova's and then came home.

When we went to bed we laughed about the quiet, and wondered aloud how the kids (and my parents) were faring. But it wasn't until morning when there were no little faces to greet me, no diapers to change, no chaotic breakfast to make at 6 a.m. and no bored kids to entertain by 6:30 a.m. that I really felt the difference.

My parents showed up around 11:30 a.m. with Owen and Jake, who both ran in excited and giggling. Mom and Dad, on the other hand, looked exhausted – but happy – and handed Dave the car keys and asked if he would go get the gear.

All in all, the night was a huge success. My mom was psyched that we had finally agreed to let her keep the kids overnight and encouraged us to do it again, soon. In fact, she suggested we do it every couple of weeks.

Dave and I looked at each other when she said that. Within the space of about 5 seconds I thought quickly about how adorable and cute our kids are, how much I missed them. Then I thought about the long, lazy breakfast we had enjoyed just a few hours before, and remembered that our fifth anniversary was just two weeks away.

"What are you doing the weekend of May 19th?" I asked, not skipping a beat.

Silence. And then a sudden jingle of keys from my father.

"We better get going," he said, pretending he didn't hear me. Within minutes they were out the door.

I'll give them a couple of days and then try again. A little bit of early morning silence every now and then? I could get used to that.

My Spidey Sense is Tingling

I've been taking some heat lately from folks who just can't quite believe I'm a Spider Man fan. And truthfully, it's very out of character for me. I'm about as much of a YUP-ie mom as you can get, what with my SUV, Ann Taylor credit card and condo in the suburbs. But damn, when it comes to superheroes, for some reason my heart has always been with Spiderman.

I remember when I was a kid I would grab the paper every day to read the comic strip, and scan the TV stations (all 4 of them) on Saturday mornings to find the cartoon. Something about his alter-ego as a journalist, his love for MaryJane the "regular" girl, and his tortured soul always captured my interest.

I admit, it doesn't make much sense. I was never a comic book geek and usually shriek when I see actual spiders. But I've already got my parents lined up to watch the kids Saturday night, and Dave has agreed be my date for opening weekend.

Let's face it: life is just too hard sometimes. There's too much to think about day to day, too much stress between work and home, and way too little time to lean back in a comfortable chair, hold hands with your husband, stare up at a screen three stories high and get lost in a completely improbably but absolutely enjoyable movie.

So we'll be at the 9 p.m. show in Danvers Saturday night. Feel free to join us if you want. The popcorn's on me.

Britney Spears, Paris Hilton... and me

If you're going to judge me, don't read this... but suddenly I can't get enough pop culture.

I can't wait to flip on Entertainment Tonight when Owen goes to bed, I pick the check out aisle with the latest People magazines and immediately flip to the Inside Track when I pick up the Herald.

Insanity, I know. And don't worry, I still read two newspapers a day, get Time and Newsweek in the mail, flip through the Times on Sundays and watch 60 Minutes each week. But if I have a minute to myself in the middle of the day and the TV is on I immediately flip to E! Because who knows whose True Hollywood Story might be on next?

There's something about these people that just fascinate me. How do you get to be a multi-millionaire in your early 20s? What do some of these talent-less people know that I don't?

Sure, they've got the fabulous bodies, impeccable skin and ridiculously expensive designer clothes. They're always smiling, their hair is always gleaming and there is never a run in their stockings.

That is, except when they're pictured in my favorite - albeit ridiculous - Us Magazine feature: Stars... They're Just Like Us! Page after page is dedicated to pictures of celebs doing "regular" stuff, urging readers to say "Oh my God! Britney's buying a lemonade, just like me!" or "I can't believe Cameron gets her coffee at Starbucks too!"

Let's face facts: these people are normal, and as much as we like to see them succeed in big-money movies, we also love to see them fail. We love the stories about Britney going nuts and shaving her head, eat up the details of Prince William's break-up and make bets on who might go into rehab next.

These magazines are thriving for a reason: people like me love to live vicariously through celebrities who are living the lives we can only dream of. I"ll never have a Bel Aire mansion, drive a convertible, have a private chef and yoga instructor or be able to drop a few grand each day at Nordstrom's.

And that's OK. I like my condo in Salem, my Toyota Rav 4 and my yoga class at the YMCA. I wouldn't trade it for a lifetime of being chased by the paparazzi...

... but the second People offers a deal on a subscription, I'm totally signing up.

Today's Dirty Little Secret

I almost sent Jake to school with a fever today. Almost.

Today marks the fifth workday that I have been home with a sick child in the last six. I was home with Owen and his pinkeye last Wednesday and Thursday, worked on Friday, Monday was a holiday, worked until lunchtime on Tuesday when I got the call that Jake had a fever (double ear infection), and stayed home with him that afternoon and all day Wednesday.

Last night I set the alarm for 5:30, ready to get up, put on some clean clothes and some heels and go back to work. But when I heard him crying at 4:30 I knew it just wasn't going to happen.

He went in and out of sleep for about an hour and I finally grabbed him at 5:30. Poor little guy. His forehead was really hot, his face was covered with ... well, who knows what, and he could barely keep his eyes open. He clearly had a fever again.

So we had a choice to make. Dave's day was non-negotiable, plus he has no sick time. We gave Jake some Tylenol, calmed him down and tried to figure out our next steps. The choices were pretty bleak: send him to daycare and await the call mid day (which would result in him having to stay home tomorrow) or suck it up and stay home one more day.

Seriously, I was close to sending him. My week's been shot to hell, I'm way behind on just about everything at work, and who knows if my boss even remembers my name anymore. I went back and forth in my head, trying to devise a plan that would keep him fever free until at least late afternoon...

... and then I just stopped myself. Because really, what the hell was I doing? Setting aside the fact that I'm climbing out of my skin from being in the house nonstop for the past week, giving Jake another day at home to get better is far more important than anything I had on my work schedule for today.

So that's today's dirty little secret. I almost sent a feverish 16-month-0ld to daycare, but thankfully realized what an idiot I was being before I dropped him off. As a result, he's sound asleep in his own crib right now, hopefully getting healthy enough to go back tomorrow.

If you haven't seen it yet, check the comments on my last post - Meredith left a secret of her own. Does anyone else have a good one?

Dirty Little Secrets

My husband recently gave me a fascinating book: "I Was A Really Good Mom Before I Had Kids." It's written by two moms my age who interviewed hundreds of other moms around the country to get the real story about whether or not motherhood is living up to Norman Rockwell's expectations.

Not surprisingly, it often isn't.

This book is really interesting. After initially saying how happy they all are, they later agreed that changing diapers, wiping runny noses, soothing croupy babies, cleaning up after their kids and playing chauffeur isn't all it's cracked up to be.

But my favorite part are the "dirty little secrets." Every few pages features another one from another mom - they're all horrifyingly awful, and incredibly relatable. A few of my favorites:

"If I find myself having a crazy day, and I find myself talking to someone on the cell phone, I"ll sometimes just hang up and pretend it was bad reception."

"I let my six-year-old watch Access Hollywood with me."

"I've locked my kids in the car not once, not twice, but three times."

"I like to go to Starbucks alone...I get to drink the whole coffee while it's hot without interruption. My "latte name" is Kim and in my mind she is still single and lives in the city with no kids."

Who doesn't have a dirty little secret about parenting? Here's mine:

One day I was so distracted from work that when I picked up Owen I just plunked him into his carseat and didn't buckle the straps. About 5 minutes later, stopped at a red light I looked in the rear view mirror and saw his face just inches from mine, grinning wildly. He had jumped down from his seat and was trying to climb in front. After a quick heart attack and near-miss with the car next to me, I pulled into the nearest driveway, jumped out of the car and strapped him in again. Mid-way through the strapping our eyes met and he kept smiling, quite proud of himself. Without meaning to, I smiled back. I didn't tell Dave for a few weeks.

OK, that's mine. Anyone else have a good one?

Desperately Seeking A 12-Step Program For "Cars"

Owen, for as long as he's been able to communicate with us, has been obsessed with something.

First, when he could just about hold his head up, it was spinning things -- he couldn't get enough of anything that spun around, like tops or balls or toys or really anything that spun. Next it was balls - every time we went to the store we came back with another ball, to the point where we had an entire toybox filled with them.

Next came his interest in TV. From there we had a brief stint with Baby Einstein videos, then Elmo's World, then Thomas the Tank Engine. Thomas lasted the longest, and is still a favorite, but in the last 6 months has been edged out by the Pixar movies. First came Toy Story, then Toy Story II, then A Bug's Life, and now Cars. Yup, pretty much any of the Pixar movies.

Now, everybody has their favorite things, and I love that he has interests. What drives me crazy is how highly interested he gets in something ... until he loses interest entirely. Case in point: our toybox filled with balls. It's now filled with both balls AND dust.

With the movies it's a whole other form of intense obsession. He wants to do nothing else but watch the movie of the moment -- it's been Cars for weeks now, so I'm hoping for a new one soon -- wear clothes with the characters on them, play with action figures from the movies and recreate the stories out loud. It's actually hilarious, because now that he's almost four and speaking pretty clearly, he's able to literally memorize a movie from start to finish and actually act it out.

Toddler obsessions are completely normal - I know that. But someone should really come up with a way for parents not to go completely batty in the meantime.

Because, seriously, I'm not sure I'm up for too many more showings of Cars . Poor Owen has been home with pink-eye for the past two days and has watched the damn thing about a dozen times. And, to be honest, that Mater is starting to really creep me out.

What the &@*$$@?!

I just learned another valuable lesson about the rules of swearing when you're a mom: words that don't even count as curses are suddenly off limits too.

Like "stupid." And "crap."

How did I find this out? By referring to something as "stupid crap" in a conversation with my husband this weekend. We were in the car at the time, the kids strapped safely into their car seats behind us. Owen was playing with his toys – seemingly oblivious to our conversation – and Jake was sound asleep.

As I said it I actually gave myself a little mental pat on the back for cleaning up my language and not swearing.

And then I heard the tiny little voice from behind me:

"Stupid crap."

My husband, who was driving, gave me his when-will-you-ever-learn look and choked back a laugh.

"No naughty words, Owen," he said sternly. "Do you want to go sit in Miss Amber's room?"

Come on, seriously?? Is nothing sacred? Am I going to have to start saying "oh fudge," and "Honest to Pete" and "Gosh Golly Gee" when I'm really pissed off?

I want to be a good parent, but I don't want to turn into Ned Flanders or find some secret hideaway to run to when I really need to curse. At the same time I don't want my kids to be the ones cursing their little friends out on the playground.

Guess that Miss Amber really does have a point.

No, I Do Not Want To Sit In Miss Amber's Room

One of the many skills I took away from my years in newsrooms was the ability to swear like a truck driver. Literally. Rile me up enough and I can curse out even the most foul-mouthed competitor, and I usually feel better when I'm through.

I've shocked more than a few co-workers with my F-bombs, and have taken steps to tone myself down since leaving journalism. But sometimes when things really go wrong, when I'm really late, or when someone really pisses me off, I just can't help myself.

Unfortunately, now I have a new audience: my nearly 4-year-old son, who listens to and repeats virtually every word I say. And – inadvertently - I've already taught him a couple of gems.

Much to Dave's horror I usually burst out laughing when he comes out with a "Damn it" or "Crap," or "Christ," but thankfully they seem to have this covered at school. Kindercare follows a strict No Naughty Words policy that comes with a severe penalty: sitting in Miss Amber's room.

Truthfully, I have no clue why this works. I've met Miss Amber, and she seems perfectly nice. She teaches the 5-year-olds and has a classroom filled with toys and books, not whips and needles. But for some reason that threat alone seems to have been enough to teach Owen not to swear (much).

I, on the other hand, am still struggling. This morning, for instance, I yelled "damn it" when I stepped on stray cat food and cursed again when I couldn't find any socks that matched. Dave, standing at the counter making breakfast, showed mock horror on his face and said, "Tell Mommy not to use naughty words, Owen."

Owen agreed and looked at me very seriously.

"Do you want to go sit in Miss Amber's room Mommy?" he asked.

I thought for a minute. Maybe it wasn't so bad there. I could curse up a storm and the worst thing that would happen is a stern look from this teacher who is about a half foot shorter than me. I could probably take her, I thought. Then I looked at Dave who had his this-is-a-teachable-moment look on his face, and shook my head.

"No, I don't," I said, looking remorseful.

"All right then," Owen said. "No naughty words."

Oh shit. What am I supposed to do now?

Why I Almost Hit Someone Else's Kid Yesterday

We spent most of this past weekend at the park, giving the kids some time to run, climb, be with other kids and just enjoy being outside again.

Jake is just learning the joys of the playground, but Owen is a full on playground enthusiast. He runs from the car to the nearest climbing structure, hops to the top of a slide, sends Lightning McQueen down first and then slides down after him, usually headfirst. He has an absolute ball and is even beginning to enjoy swings, which scared him last year.

But on Sunday the parks were packed, leading to lines at the slides and traffic jams on the wobbly bridge and overflow on the climbing structures. Undeterred, Owen flew to the top, racing for the slide, and was pushed down by a "big kid" who was probably 6.

Standing below the bridge I saw the whole thing, and I was furious.

"HEY!" I yelled. "You just pushed him down! Watch where you're going!"

The kid was in the midst of a game of chase with an older boy, and stopped when he heard me. He looked back at Owen, who was picking himself up and looking a little scared.

"Sorry," he called back to Owen, who ignored him. The kid looked at me to see if that was good enough, but I had my Mother/Teacher/Grown Up hat on and wanted more.

"He's a little kid," I said. "You could have really hurt him."

In my head I knew this little boy hadn't meant to hurt Owen, but my heart was racing and I wanted to smack him. How dare he push down my son?

Dave calmed me down later, reminding me that the rules of the playground are like the rules of the jungle: every kid for himself, and only the strong will survive. Maybe he's right, but this just made me feel worse. What if some bully picks on Owen at school and I'm not there to give him the hairy eyeball? What is some punk pushes Jake and takes his toys? What if the "cool kids" make fun of them when they hit elementary school? What will I do the day one or both of them come home with a black eye, or their lunch money missing?

Right now I feel like I can still intimidate the bullies but what happens in high school when the bad guys are bigger than me?

I know, I know, I can't keep him safe forever, and someday he's going to want to fight his own battles. But now, while he's still little enough to call me "Mommy" and want me to catch him at the bottom of the slide, all those little mini punks better keep their hands to themselves. Because I'm watching.

Creating a Kid-Friendly World

When I was a kid, the last thing I ever wanted to do was go to a museum. What was the appeal? They were big, airy buildings with pictures of people I didn't know on the wall. I was dragged kicking and screaming to the MFA a couple of times, and yawned my way through some of the great art museums in Spain when I went with my mother on a school trip in the eighth grade.

Too bad I didn't have a chance to experience some of the cool museums out there for kids today.

What kids need aren't pictures to look at or things to admire behind glass - they need stuff they can touch, twist, taste, paint, bounce, roll or explode. They need things to climb, crazy twisty slides to slide down, cameras pointed at them so they can see themselves TV, miniature stores and restaurants to play in and dress-up clothes to try on.

A children's museum should be for children, should have no "don't touch" signs, and nothing worth looking at should be more than 4 feet tall.

Thankfully Boston has one of these places, and it's about to get even better. The Children's Museum has been closed for months, undergoing a huge renovation, and it's reopening on April 14. The old Museum was always a little crowded, but even the older exhibits always caught Owen's eye. The new museum is going to be bigger, newer, and redesigned to make "visitor flow" (whatever that means) even better. The crowds may be a pain in the beginning, but next rainy Saturday we're totally going.

Luckily there are lots of places out there today that seem to get it. Even the North Shore Children's Museum in Salem -- it's small but wide open with toys everywhere, tubes you can shove stuff in, liquids you can mix and a big table filled with pieces of paper, glitter, little baubles and plenty of glue. What's not to like?

But unfortunately the best ones don't always last. That was the case with Brujitos, a fabulous find we discovered just weeks after moving to Salem. It was a small place in dowtown with toys and climbers for toddlers, a cafe with healthy-ish food for both kids and their parents, and the best chocolate chip cookies I think I've ever had. We were regulars for about 2 years, but they mysteriously went out of business last year.

Thankfully new places keep popping up. My sister works at an incredible place in Charlotte, NC - Imaginon took a children's library and children's theater and merged them into a fantastic kids haven filled with cool exhibits, little nooks for kids to hide in and an awesome area called the Story Lab that encourages kids to not only write,but to be creative. If you ever get down there, check it out.

I'm glad that society seems to have finally recognized the need for kid-friendly places that are actually geared toward kids. I'm not sure what changed -- maybe it's that the parents of the under-5 set have rolled up their sleeves and created places their own kids would like. Or maybe people have started listening to the research that shows that kids are just generally happier when they're busy.

I don't know which is true, and I don't really care. I'm just glad to know that when the kids start getting antsy on rainy Saturdays or cold Sundays, we have plenty of options. And none of them involve art museums.

I Think My Kids Are Cheating On Me

Both of my kids are deeply in love with their daycare teachers. Don't get me wrong – I'm thrilled that they have connected with these women, both of whom are young, energetic, and give them lots of attention. But truth be told, I am a little jealous.

Owen's love is Miss Katie. She's probably about 23, just out of college, full of energy and smiles and is all he talks about each day on the way to school. She's always in the breakfast room when he gets there, ready to take off his coat and give him a hug. If she's busy when he arrives he usually stands next to her with a hopeful look on his face, waiting for his morning high-five.

Jake's girlfriend is Miss Carlires. She's probably 20, and held him almost constantly until he turned 1. When I pick him up at the end of the day he usually smells like her perfume, proof that even though she claims she doesn't hold him anymore, she still does. There are days when I literally have to pry him away from her, and leave with him in tears, still reaching for her. And this is no one-sided affair: the other day she asked if she could bring him with her on a three-week trip to Dominica. And I think she was serious.

Again, I am very happy that they have connected with other adults who clearly love them back. But when Jake comes home smelling like perfume I've never worn, or when Owen says things like "wicked awesome" or "gimme five!" it reminds me once more that my children are spending more time with others than they are with me.

A coworker of mine recently brought up the same topic when talking about her 4-year-old daughter. The little girl burst into tears suddenly at home one night. When asked what was wrong she said she wanted to be with her teacher.

When will this parental guilt ever end? I am without question a proponent of daycare. I think my kids have gotten a huge benefit from it, and I shake my head in disgust at studies that try to link bad behavior to too much time in daycare.

In my experience, the opposite has been true. My kids will be more equipped to handle a full-day at school when they enter Kindergarten or First Grade. They will have social skills, be accustomed to a long day away from home, and adjust easily to new teachers and new children.

I just hope at least by the time they get there "wicked awesome" will be wiped from Owen's vocabulary and Jake will be far too heavy for anyone - regardless of their perfume - to carry around all day.

That's My Boy

Both of our kids were preemies. Owen was born 7 weeks early; Jake a full 2 months ahead of his due date. Now that Owen is nearing 4 it's hard imagine him when he was just under 5 pounds, but when I close my eyes I can still see Jake hooked up to tubes with a blood pressure gauge taped to his foot, locked in the incubator he lived in for his first two weeks.

We weren't ready for Owen's birth, but we were even less prepared for Jake's. Because Owen was a preemie I was labeled "high risk" with my second pregnancy, and saw the doctor at least twice a month for check ups. The day before he was born they gave me a test that was "supposed to" tell if I was at risk of going into labor in the next two weeks, and it came back negative. Dave and I were psyched – until I went into labor at 3 a.m. the next morning.

The doctors gave me magnesium to slow the contractions, but they kept coming, and by mid-day they gave up and told me to get ready to deliver. They warned us about the risks -- his lungs may not be fully developed, he may have medical issues and down the line he may wind up with developmental issues. These were the same warnings we were given just hours before Owen was born.

We were panicked. We had lucked out with Owen and felt certain our luck wouldn't hold out a second time. I begged the doctors to do something – anything – to push off the delivery another week, day or even hour, but they couldn't. Jake arrived at about 10 p.m. on Dec. 20, 2005 -- 19 hours after my first labor pain and exactly 8 weeks before he was expected.

It was hours before I could see him. By then he was locked tight in his incubator, already tangled in the thread-like wires connected to his chest. I scanned the monitors, trying to figure out what they all meant, listened for irregular beeps and quickly counted his fingers and toes. Everything seemed fine, but I didn't trust my instincts. Then the nurse came over and reassured me: "He's beautiful," she said. "And he's fine."

That's Jake. Today, 15 months later, he's still beautiful, and better than fine. In fact, he's great. He runs, he breaks into spontaneous giggles when he gets anywhere near his brother, he touches everything he can reach – and he can reach a lot. He's not much of an eater and has suffered bitterly through the growth of each of his seven teeth, but he is a feisty little kid who just makes you want to get down on the floor and play with him.

Why am I writing about him? Because my little guy is growing up. Even though he's still just a peanut today is his third day transitioning into the TODDLER ROOM at daycare. He is now spending half a day with kids up to 2 and a half, and the other half with kids under 15 months. He is sleeping on a cot, sitting at a table (on a chair) to eat lunch with the big kids, playing in the playground, climbing up the slide…. It's crazy.

Sometimes I still worry, and think that the impact of being a preemie is going to show up as some developmental delay we haven't noticed yet. But I'm starting to get over that. Early Intervention won't see him anymore because they say he isn't "delayed enough." And every time he runs up to Owen, grabs precisely the toy his older brother is playing with, and then runs in the other direction I have to smile and think, "that's my boy."

Manipulation, Part I

I like to think of myself as one of those women who can smell a con a mile away. I see right through salespeople who try to sell me on lousy deals, I see through guys who try to win me over with their "charm," and I don't take kindly to people who try cozy up to me in the hopes that they can get something out of me either professionally or personally.

In short, I don't like to be manipulated. Unfortunately it seems that for the past 18 months my son has been manipulating me on a daily basis.

Owen, all 3 1/2 years of him, has slept with a pacifier his whole life. I know, he's much too old for it, we should have trashed it by the time he was 2, it might screw up his teeth, etc. etc. We know all of that. But it's the last thing he asks for at night, it costs nothing to give it to him, and it makes him happy. So what's wrong with that?

But then last week, in a passing conversation Owen's teacher mentioned that he's a great napper at school. This shocked me because he never naps at home anymore, so I asked her if she gives him his pacifier each day. This shocked her, because apparently he hasn't used one at Kindercare since he started there. 18 months ago.

Huh? Seriously?

Admittedly, I am a major wimp when it comes to making big changes in the lives of my kids. They're happy the way things are, and if I had my way Jake would drink from a bottle and sleep in a crib his whole life, and Owen would bring his pacifier and a box of Pull Ups on his honeymoon. (OK, maybe that's a slight exaggeration, but you know what I mean.) Dave takes a much harder line on these things, so when change has to happen I insist that he comes home to assist with the fall out.

But the fact that he not only sleeps but is a "great sleeper" at school, with no pacifier needed, spurred us into action, and this weekend we took the plunge. Panicked, I made sure Dave got home early Friday night and was the one to put Owen to bed. I sat on the couch awaiting the tears and screams and anticipating a long night. But Dave just walked in, put him in bed, kissed him good-night, and walked out. No drama. In fact, Owen didn't even ask for it.

So tonight is Night 3, and Monday will be the first time I have to put him down myself. My guess is he'll ask me for it, but who knows. After two peaceful nights (someone please knock on wood here) I'm starting to think I was the one hooked on the pacifier, not him.

Friends Who Knew Us When

Every year around this time my husband packs the car with his sleeping bag, some T-shirts, jeans, sneakers, a pillow and a case of beer and heads to the Cape for a weekend away with his buddies. This year marked the 12 year of "Million Man Weekend," a tradition that preceded me by about 5 years, and one that I secretly envy.

He comes back battered from football, exhausted from two nights of sleeping on the floor and hung over from 48 hours of drinking, but also exuberant and peaceful after a couple of days of deep bonding with his closest friends.

I always tease him about how excited he gets months before his annual retreat, but I always talk longingly about how great it would be if the girls could do the same thing.

Last year we finally tried. A group of us packed our cars and took off for the anti-Million Man weekend: a spa weekend in Vermont with enough beds for everyone. We ate chocolate fondue, drank more mixed drinks than I can count and had massages and pedicures at a luxury spa. It was a blast, but not the same.

These guys have built a tradition that we could try to replicate, but will likely never match. Most of them have been friends since college, and they've seen each other gain weight, lose their hair, find their soul mates, get married – and in some cases, divorced – and have children. They've advised each other on grad school, reception halls, 401Ks, SUVs and car seats.

Their bond stretches well beyond their goofy fantasy football leagues or poker nights. These guys are friends for life and no matter how hard they try to shake each other off, or how far they move apart – either spiritually, mentally or physically – they always, inevitably, come back together for Million Man Weekend.

Dave is lucky to have this many friends who knew him so long before he was Somebody's Dad or Somebody's Husband. I have lots of friends, but only two close ones who have seen me grow from the insecure, naïve 18-year-old I was freshman year to the harried, slightly less naïve 36 year old I am now. Jen and Judy were both maids of honor at my wedding, and will without question be there to watch, help, advise and support me as I move into the next phase of my life -- as well as the one after that.

Like me, today both have children, jobs, and responsibilities. Jen drives an SUV, writes part-time for the Globe, has two kids about the same ages as mine and lives in a suburb of Boston. Judy lives in Vienna with her fiancé, has a 10-month-old son, works three days a week and no longer has the energy to spend her weeknights going to the theater or art exhibits.

But when I see them I see through this phase and right back to the days before we were Somebody's Mother or Somebody's Wife. I can still see Jen with her college boyfriend, lounging on the ugly orange couch I had in the apartment I shared with my ex-boyfriend, asking him to fetch her a pint of Ben and Jerry's at midnight. And I still see Judy juggling a couple of guys at once in high school, debating about which she would "allow" to take her to the Ball.

This year was Million Man 12, and plans are apparently already underway for next year.

The girls and I have yet to discuss our Spa Weekend II, but I'm sure it will happen sometime soon. In the meantime, I'm going to make some plans with Jen for next weekend and try to coax Judy across the Pond for a visit. It's been a while.

Entering the Next Phase of My Life

This morning, at 5:30 a.m., I began a new phase in my life which I firmly believe will either make me stronger ... or kill me.

I went to the gym.

It was pitch black outside, my bed was very warm, and the YMCA we joined last week was a whole half-mile away. But when the alarm went off at 5:15 I dragged my weary ass out of bad, put on my gym clothes, made as little noise as possible and left.

This whole "going to the gym thing" was all Dave's idea, and while I groused about it at first, I am now behind it 100 percent. The fact is that neither of us has done any actual "working out" since Owen was born. Why? We didn't have the time, the money, or quite honestly, the energy or motivation.

But then all of a sudden, Dave changed his mind, and began to change mine. It would be good for Owen, he said. And even more importantly, it would be good for us.

It's not like we never exercise. We run (translation: chase our kids), lift weights (translation: lift a 20-pounder and a 45-pounder) and do sprints (translation: run quickly a short distance to stop a child from swallowing something, stop, then run quickly in another direction to stop a different child from breaking something), but none of it is the same as a true nautilus workout.

So last week we took the plunge and joined the Salem YMCA. We even created a theoretical schedule:

Saturday: 9 a.m. Daddy and Me soccer class for Dave and Owen, yoga for me, babysitting for Jake.
Sunday: rest
Monday: 7 p.m. yoga for me.
Tuesday: 5:30 a.m. workout for Dave
Wednesday: 5:30 a.m. workout for me
Thursday: 7 p.m. workout for Dave
Friday: rest

I know what you're all thinking: slow it down. Don't overdo it. And for God's sake, don't burn out in the first week. And for all I know, this schedule is going to be out the window within a couple of weeks.

But for now we're committed. Dave went yesterday morning and inspired me to actually do it today. And even though that 2 minute drive was a little bit painful, the workout felt fantastic. I spent 20 minutes on the treadmill, about 10 minutes playing around with the nautilus machines, 5 minutes doing sit ups, another 5 on the treadmill, and then I hit the showers. I was showered, dressed and out the door by 6:45 a.m., a full 20 minutes before I usually even get in my car. I was at work about 40 minutes early, full of energy, a no-fat Chai from Starbucks in my hand.

Right now, about 13 hours later, the impact of my energetic workout is starting to set in. My shoulders hurt and my legs are a little sore, but overall I still feel pretty good.

It's very unlikely that 6 months from now I"ll be sporting a six-pack and winning strength training awards. But I do want to keep this going. Even if we pare this schedule down to a couple of workouts a week, we'll feel better, we'll look better, and when we sit on the couch to watch the pretty colors (translation: Tivo) at night, we'll know that we really, truly deserve it.

The Pretzel Diet

I am, without question, fully grown. In fact, I stopped growing somewhere around eighth grade when I suddenly sprouted up about a half foot above most of my class.

But given that, I'm left with one question: Why do I need still three meals a day when my children can seemingly get by on little more than fruit snacks, some cheese, a few crackers and milk?

I had almost forgotten this phase... but now it's all coming back. When Owen was just about Jake's age, he suddenly stopped eating. Almost entirely. Until then he had been such a good eater that his daycare teacher once told me she'd never seen a kid who liked vegetables as much as he did.

And then, almost overnight, he started to refuse almost everything. The phase seemed endless, and what he would eat each day was a guessing game. Some days it was pretzels, some days chicken nuggets, some days apples, some days yoghurt, some days cheese, and some days nothing. It was frustrating, and scary at times. But his doctor assured us that so long as he wasn't losing weight and so long as he kept drinking, it would work itself out.

Eventually he started eating again. And eventually, I forgot that whole miserable period.

Until now. Suddenly my young Jake has become as finicky as they get. When I do manage to squeeze his squirmy little body into his high chair, he usually gives me about two minutes to shove as much into his mouth as I can.... and then it closes. For good. He screams, he swivels back and forth, he jams his lips closed as tight as he can and he bats away spoons, forks, and throws what he can get his hands on as far as possible.

I keep meaning to chart out what he eats over the course of a day, but I'm a little afraid to find out. I can verify that he loves all things carbohydrate, like crackers, waffles and goldfish - but only sometimes. He loves macaroni and cheese, and ocassionally will eat cubes of cheese. I've seen him eat chicken, but not lately. Last week he liked carrots, but not anymore. A few weeks ago he liked peas, but now he squishes them. He once ate a grilled cheese sandwich, but never again.

The worst part is that Owen has followed suit, and now I have two kids who don't eat.

Most nights I do the buffet dance. I make a half dozen options, offer them each a little of this and a little of that, and hope in the end that they will have eaten enough to get them through the night. But in the end my efforts lately have been fruitless, they've eaten nothing and I've been left washing it all down the sink, giving Owen a waffle before bed, and offering Jake a full bottle of milk.

It's a phase, I know it is. And I'm sure that someday it will end. Until then, I'm going to stock up on macaroni and cheese. Oh, and pretzels, just in case Owen reverts even more.

If Nothing Else Works, Knock on Wood

I'm not sure when it started, but lately I can't help myself from knocking on wood.

It's weird, because I'm not that superstitious. Sure, I don't walk under ladders or do anything crazy like that, but I'm the first one to step on a crack and have never thought to throw salt over my shoulder. (In fact, I'm not even sure why people do that.)

But for some reason this brutal winter has left me a wood-knocker when anyone mentions anything that has anything to do with the health of my children or either me or Dave.

There is no question that the past few months have left us reeling and trying to steer clear fo anyone with the sniffles. Since the first of the year I think I've only worked a five day week once or twice, and have used up a ton of sick, vacation and personal time staying home with sick kids.

So, since I can't control the weather and really can't stop anyone from sneezing on one of my kids, I've decided to knock on wood whenever possible.

Dave thinks it's kind of nuts, but lately his optimistic statements have been the ones sending me off in search of a block of wood.

"Jake's cough seems to be going away."
"It seems like the boys are really starting to get along."
"We're pretty lucky the kids didn't get your pinkeye."

Those to me are three classic examples of asking-for-it statements that, if you said them in a movie, would cut immediately to scenes of either Jake having a coughing fit, Owen hitting his brother in the head, or both kids on the couch with oozing eyes.

OK, I know that life isn't like the movies, but it can't hurt, you know? Especially with health issues – the kids have been sick so many times this winter that I feel like I need all the help I can get … even the superstitious kind.

GUEST BLOG: Out Damn Spots ... Please!

Today's Guest Blog is from Maggie, who wrote earlier in the week about being her children's chauffeur. Today, unfortunately, she is taking on a new title: Nursemaid. Maggie, we all feel for you.

This is a tough time of year for all parents. Colds and other viruses abound, hand-washing and germex can’t keep up with all that a child picks up. Parents dread but expect their kids to get sick at some point in the winter, right?

Well, I got a new curveball thrown at me this week: CHICKEN POX.

Wait, don’t they get vaccinated for that? Yup. Therein lies the curveball aspect of the whole thing.

Two kids, 2 different schools, 2 grades, 2 vaccines in infancy .... and 2 cases of the chicken pox.

My daughter came into my classroom at the end of the day with this to say: "Mom, I have something to show you – I have itchy spots."

Spots? About 45 of them at last count an hour ago – no question at all, the chicken pox.

How does this happen? I am not an anti-vaccine mother – my kids even get the flu vaccine due to Joey’s asthma. They had the shots when they were supposed to. According to Google about 4% of kids who get the vaccination get what is called “Breakthrough Chicken Pox.” The good news is that it is mild, should clear up fairly quickly, and the spots and itching are really the only symptoms we will see. At least, I hope so.

Since she already has almost 50 spots, she has a moderate case. I am assured that this experience will be much easier than my own when I was in 6th grade.

I just returned from CVS (where they know me by name). I'm loaded up on Benadryl, oatmeal bath, itch cream, and Tylenol.

When my husband gets home I'll go out again to stock up on comfort food – both for her and for me. We will be spending a lot of quality time together over the next few days until her blisters scab over and she is readmitted to school.

This is an experience which I thought had gone by the wayside. So had my boss – she thought I was kidding when I went outside to find her at bus duty and told her I would be coming in on Saturday to write up my sub plans for Monday at the minimum. I will probably be out longer – it depends what my parents are doing.

The Department of Health can expect to hear about an outbreak occurring at Sacred Heart Elementary in Kingston. For that I am sorry. Sorry, parents of my daughter’s classmates! I swear, I thought the spot above her left eyebrow was a pimple…

I even gave her a lecture this morning about how she needed to do a better job washing her face on a regular basis. Yup – Mother of the Year, that’s me.

At least we get to spend some quality time together…I hope not too much!

GUEST BLOG: It'll Happen... When He's Ready

Today's Guest Blog is from Adam. He is a father of three potty-trained kids which makes him, in my mind at least, a bonified expert. And thankfully, he seems pretty convinced that Owen will figure it out some day.

If I may, some unsolicited advice on the potty problem from a stressed-out and blissfully happy father of three.

Owen's the oldest. The oldest takes the longest. My Oldest Son was definitely over three when he finally decided it was time to stop wearing diapers. Ultimately, he saw that his friends, some younger, were already potty trained, and he decided that enough was enough and he stopped torturing us. Incidentally, a lot of those kids who were younger were second children, not the oldest.

With my Middle Child, our day care lady did it. In about three days. He wanted to be like his big brother. He announced that he was ready for the potty one day. He was about 2 and a half. And just... done. Fast. Of course, this is also the kid who rearranged the entire garage at age six.

My Daughter just turned three and has been potty trained since a month or so before she turned two. Why? Because she's a girl, and she's the youngest, and she needed to be potty trained so she could manipulate us in other ways without fear of reprisals.

My point: It's a big deal to you guys because Owen's not there yet. But if you don't stress, then he has nothing to drive you nuts with (and the kids, as you are oh so aware, learn how to push the buttons really, really early). Of course, of course, easier said than done.

It's stressful because you guys see his advancing age and think he needs to be potty trained by now. But he's the oldest, and he's a boy, and those two factors never work well when you punch them into the potty training equation.

Stop worrying about it. You guys are normal, loving parents and he's a normal kid. None of you is doing anything wrong. There's no guidebook that you have to fit into. One of these days it'll happen. There's a lot of right ways to do it, and also a few wrong ways, but you guys ain't doing it the wrong way.

Sometimes I Can't Hold Them Close Enough

As a mother I've become hopelessly protective of my children. Not in a creepy, keep-them-locked-in-the-bathroom-until-they're-18 kind of way, but in a don't-look-at-my-kids-for-too-long-unless-you-have-a-good-reason kind of way.

I get furious when I see another kid push one of mine in daycare, (even though I know Owen almost certainly pushed the other kid first). I get defensive when someone criticizes their behavior, I cling fiercely to Owen's hand in crowded places and I over-prepare even my own mother before leaving her alone with them for even an hour or two.

I don't see any of this as overkill though. I think it's a parent's job to protect her kids from all of the potential dangers in the world, at least until they're old enough to protect themselves.

And then things like the horrific murder-suicide in Springfield happen.

For those who haven't read the stories, according to the reports, a guy picked his two kids (ages 2 and 6) up at daycare, drove to the parking lot of the factory where his ex-girlfriend works, and set the car on fire, killing himself and both kids. The woman saw the whole thing happen and was so distraught she is being treated at a local psychiatric facility.

Of course now the details are trickling out. The Herald says the guy had told his mother last month that he was overwhelmed with responsibility. The couple had apparently recently split and he had moved out. He says she wasn't letting him spend time with the kids. And so on.

Do any of these excuses really matter? Is there any justification for hurting your children at all, let alone burning them alive?

The story just makes me sick and the thought of what those children must have gone through makes me incredibly sad. We live in a world now where things are so unsafe that parents have to go through CORI checks to chaperone a field trip, schools are locking their doors and putting up metal detectors and you can't even bring a bottle of water on a plane. We have turned into a society focused on protecting ourselves and our families from everyone around us.

Unfortunately, in this terrible case, these poor children weren't even safe with their own father.

This story makes me want to grab my children and my husband and pull us all into a tight little huddle, and keep us there until this and all of the other horrific stories like it go away. But since I know I can't do that, I'm left instead with the unshakeable image of those two young kids.

Their lives were cut short in such an unimaginable way just so their father could have the last word with their mother. Well, he certainly showed her.

GUEST BLOG: The Juggling Act

Today's Guest Blog is from Maggie, whose kids are 10 and 7. She has entered a whole new phase in the working mom's life: Finding time to drive her kids from school to event to activity and back again.

I am a working mom, too, except my kids are 10 and 7. In some ways, although I remember what it was like to deal with diapers, potty training, feeding, daycare, etc..., some of it has passed me by. One of the benefits of reading your blog is that I am remembering some of the smaller details and funny stories from years past.

An issue I am having as a working mom is scheduling the kids - their activities. It is miserable to let them do anything, as it makes an already long day even longer! I don't think that I overschedule them; each child is in 1 sport/season, and my 7 year old has CCD. Fortunately, Catholic school takes care of CCD for my daughter...

Juggling 2 children and their activity schedules is miserable. I am a teacher, and even though my day ends officially at 3:15 PM, I don't get home to stay until 6 PM or later at least 3 nights a week. I feel selfish, but I want to cook a meal and have it with my family before 7 pm. I want the kids to go to bed at a decent time (7:45), because they have to get up at 6:30, so that 2 of us can go directly to school and my son can go to his before school program.

And this doesn't even cover the Saturday soccer games or the Sunday girl scout meetings I refuse to let my daughter attend because Sunday is family/dinner at my parents' day.

And I am the mean mom - they don't take a myriad of classes or participate in more than 1 activity at a time.

UGH.

Are you sure this is the kind of stuff you were looking for? It seems to me that you are inviting a lot of whining. Sorry about that. I figure both moms of younger and older children can relate - after all, dance classes, music lessons, sports, swimming lessons, religious classes, and social groups all take place at the only times available - evenings and weekends.

GUEST BLOG: Advice from Someone Who Knows

My friend Gina has 3 kids, and has managed to potty train two of them. In response to my posting about how damn hard it is to make Owen realize there really is life after diapers, she posted this comment. It made me laugh so hard I figured I'd post it for all to enjoy. I just can't get enough of this stuff.

I've no real advice . . . but lots of empathy. I hate potty training. LOATHE IT. DESPISE IT. If I could pay someone to do it for me, I would.

In fact, when Jack was a toddler I frequently offered babysitters generous bonuses if they could manage to potty train my stubborn child in my absence. It was such a frustrating experience, and I'll admit one that occasionally resulted in tears. (My tears.)

Like you, I'd tried everything, but nothing seemed to work. Stickers? He didn't care. Bribes of a trip to the toy store. "I've got enough toys already, Mom."

Once I bought this flashy child's watch with a bright blue plastic band and a digital race car in the face. It was cool. And Jack was intrigued. He wanted it. Bad. I kept it on the counter near the potty where he could see it. The deal was keep your pants dry for a day and it's yours.

One night at dinner, about a week into the whole "enticement with the watch ploy", I casually asked Jack if he wouldn't like to wear that watch one day soon. And he oh so casually responded that the watch no longer existed. Baffled I peered over my shoulder at the counter, and sure enough it was gone. Jack informed me that he "just wasn't ready to use the potty", so he'd thrown the watch in the garbage. Days ago.

So that was the end of the watch. Glad I only paid $5 for it at KMart.

Eventually he figured out the whole potty thing. But I'd be lying if I said it was easy. Chloe, on the other hand, potty trained herself at 2.5 years. I'm dreading introducing the potty to Casey. Maybe I can bribe Chloe to teach him.

A Lesson In Blogging

Before I started this blog I wasn't really sure what I was going to do with it. In truth I had thought about starting one for a while, but only got started after I saw how much fun my husband was having with his.

So I came up with a fairly mundane name, and started writing. A day or two later I decided to try and coax others to join in, hopeful this could evolve into a forum for mothers everywhere. I haven't gotten too many submissions yet, so my postings have been mainly about things in my world: my kids, my job, my husband, my concerns, my sleep issues, and so on.

So OK, that's what blogs are for. And it's been kind of cathartic to have this open forum of my own to use. It's given me a chance to write again, which I miss terribly, and it's given me a place to work out - in writing - some things that have been on my mind.

What I wasn't quite prepared for was just how closely people who know me would start to read it.

My mother in law called to check in on my pinkeye. (Thankfully, it's almost gone and my eye is just about back to normal) My co-workers keep asking how Owen's potty training is going. (not well) And a reporter I deal with regularly apologized profusely for calling me today because she "knows how much I have to deal with."

In a way it's kind of cool. I'm saving time by telling everyone the same story at once. It's also a little strange, and serves as a good reminder of just how unlike a journal a blog really is. Sure I can write what I want to write, but once it's posted it's "out there" for everyone to read.

As a former journalist I've always taken pride in having people read my writing. In fact just moments after I post to this blog I usually ask my husband to come read what I wrote. But in journalism I never wrote about my life, and never risked putting something on paper that would insult, upset or in any way disturb someone I cared about.

So I'm turning on my self-editor. No sordid details about my sex life will be posted here. (sorry folks.) No trash-talking about anyone I know. And now that my mom has bookmarked the site, no sad tales from my childhood either.

Instead I want to use this as a place to work out the many issues I face every day as I work to find a balance between my work life and home life. And don't worry, the potty training stories will continue too.

But I can't do this alone, so I'm asking again: If you're reading this then you're probably either my mother or just like me, and you've got stories to tell and issues to work out as well. So send me an email and I'll post them here.

Working moms - and dads - are a strange breed, but if we stick together and learn from each other's mistakes, I think we'll all be ok... and our kids will someday, hopefully, all be out of diapers for good.

The Yelling Question

Much as I hate to admit it, I tend to be full of shit. Not about everything, but there are definitely issues that I profess to care about but don't really follow my own advice.

I care about the environment but drive a gas guzzling SUV. I advise people against eating junk food but recently ordered a box of unbelieveable whoopie pies from a mail order place in Vermont. I urge people to read the newspapers, but seldom do more than skim the headlines on most days.

And as much as I say I don't raise my voice at our kids, when I can't take it anymore I do.

Neither one of us are screamers, and when our kids have meltdowns or just won't listen we try to reason with them, divert their attention or occasionally bribe them into doing the right thing. But sometimes the only thing that works is a quick, short burst of "Owen! On the couch! Right now!" or "Owen, stop hitting your brother!"

(Quick explainer: Jake is by no means an angel, but at 14 months it's usually Owen who gets blamed, although I'm sure that will change soon.)

When the meltdowns are in full swing, sometimes a raised voice is all that works. I think we do it so seldom that when one of us does it kind of shocks them into silence for at least a moment, and then they quickly do what we've asked.

So yes, it works, but I hate it. I don't want to be one of those parents you see shrieking at her kids at the supermarket or in the mall. And I try desperately not to do that -- but that was me today, racing after Owen at Stop & Shop as he dropped my hand and made a dash for the toy aisle. There I was, mother of the year, yelling, "Owen! Owen! Damn it Owen, Stop!"

And he did. Then he turned to me, all innocent eyes and said, "What's the matter, Mommy?" And I immediately felt like a jerk and would have bought him a case of Cadbury eggs if he asked.

All of the experts have different viewpoints on how much yelling is too much, and how best to navigate the treacherous toddler waters. I've read a lot of it but I just don't think there's right or wrong answer to this. Like so many other things I've learned as a parent, what works one day just doesn't work the next, leaving us to figure out what to do incident by incident, kid by kid.

And so long as yelling is our very last option - I always have a stash of fruit snacks in the cupboard for bribes - I'm OK with that too.

Putting Things In Perspective

So often in the midst of the chaos of an ordinary day it's easy to get stressed out. And why not? Kids are crying, phones are ringing, emails are flooding in, the dishes aren't washing themselves (yet), the cats are unfed, the house is a mess.... stress is hard to avoid. But my friend Gina put a link on her own blog to something that serves to put things in some serious perspective. Don't worry, I'm not going to get all After School Special on you, but she linked to a hilarious YouTube video of a woman surrounded by her quadruplets, who were all laughing hysterically.

Now, I love this for a couple of reasons. First, is there anything cuter than a laughing baby? Second, this woman is showing the world that while she may be raising four babies at once, she still has the time to lay around and have fun with them. And third, she looks pretty damn good. You'd think she'd have bags under her eyes and still be carrying around some baby weight, but she looks fabulous.

I think this woman -- and really anyone with more than one baby at a time -- deserves a hearty round of applause, a stack of take-out menus, a gift certificate to a weekend spa getaway and her very own brood of neighborhood kids willing to babysit at a moment's notice. This woman has a long road ahead of her, but if she ever feels low I hope she'll take a minute to revisit this video. I know I will.

So, Get This

Now I have pinkeye. And a sinus infection. Isn't that funny?

In the absolute, most absurd sense of the word, I guess it kind of is.

I spend so much time making sure my kids are healthy that I kind of disregard my own symptoms. Sure I complain about them to poor Dave, but that whole whole mother guilt thing keeps me going, unless I have vertigo, a high fever or something completely debilitating. I stuff my pockets with drugs and tissues, chew food I can't really taste and keep putting one foot in front of the other.

It's hard to argue that I should do anything else. I've taken so much time from work to stay home with sick kids that the idea of staying home because I'm sick has never crossed my mind.

Yet, here I am, armed with two prescriptions for antibiotics, and a doctor who just tsk-tsked me for not coming to see him sooner.

Yeah, it's kind of funny.

O Spring, Where Are You???

I have caller ID in my office, so I always know when daycare is calling.

And inevitably, they always do.

"Owen has a fever." "Jake has diarrhea." "Owen's throwing up." "Jake has pinkeye." "They both have (INSERT RANDOM ILLNESS HERE)."

I know the old saying: If you're going to send your kids to daycare, expect them to get sick. The fact is, kids get sick no matter what, but this winter it really seems like we've all had more than our share.

Jake's had about 5 ear infections and 3 bronchial issues that left him on a nebulizer indefinitely. Owen has had a string of random colds that ended in a debilitating fever that kept him home for almost a week. Dave has had 2 big ear infections and a string of colds; I had a cold so severe last week that I am just beginning to taste my food again.

With four of us in the house it's worse than ever. One of us gets something, gives it to someone else, and we pass it around and around. YOu might say we're generous with our germs.

But it usually starts with that phone call. It happened again this week. I got the call that Jake had pinkeye, and had been quarantined to a crib. I raced out of the office, leaving behind hours worth of follow up from a lengthy Board meeting. From the road I called the pediatrician to get a prescription called in, called my mother to see if she could watch him the next day since daycare rules stipulates that you can't come back until you've been on the eye goop for 24 hours, and called my husband to generally complain about the whole situation.

To make a ridiculously long story short, I brought him to the doctor (who for some reason, had pinkeye herself, which worried me a little) and he was declared perfectly healthy. Note in hand, I headed home, fuming.

So, in other words, I left my office mid-day to pick up my healthy child. Much as I love to hang with Jake, yesterday was not the day.

I'm torn about this whole thing. As a parent, I'm always annoyed when I bring in my kids and see their classrooms filled with sneezing, coughing children. As someone who works in education, I understand the need to have guidelines and policies dictating when the call has to be made (no call if the temp is 100.9, a guaranteed call and 24 hour stay at home when it hits 101). But as a working mother with a demanding job and a husband with limited sick time available, those calls drive me nuts.

Obviously, if one of my kids are truly sick, I want to know and I want them home. But yesterday Jake couldn't have been healthier, and being called to get him out of quarantine for no reason was incredibly frustrating.

Regardless, I'm certainly glad he's not sick. At least not today, that is.

Living the Alarm Clock Life

I often wish that I could expand my day to longer than 24 hours. We have so much that has to be crammed into each hour - in fact you wouldn't believe what we cram in just before 7 am., let alone the rest of the day -- it astounds me.

When we first got married, Dave and I thought we were "so busy" with our jobs. The alarm was set for 7:30 and we complained all the time about how hectic our lives were. We saw our friends on weekends, saw movies, went out to eat, saw some concerts and lived the twenty-something (yikes i think it was thirtysomething) life.

Then we had Owen. He quickly elbowed out most of our social lives. We adjusted to the change, set our alarm clocks back to 6:30 a.m. and made it work, with never more than a minute or two to spare. There were bottles to wash, toys to pick up, laundry to do, dishes to wash, clothes to buy as he grew out of wardrobe after wardrobe, games to dream up.... and of course, our day jobs to do in between.

Then we got pregnant with Jake and I panicked. How was another child - another human being - going to fit into our already overcrowded, overscheduled, overprogrammed lives? Where would we find the time to change more diapers, wash more bottles, play more games and buy more clothes, let alone feed, wash and love him?

The solution: the alarm clock is now set for 5:30. We are showered and dressed by 6, when we wake the kids, get them dressed, have breakfast together, and walk out the door by 7. I'm certain our neighbors hate us for making so much noise at the crack of dawn, but really, that's their problem.

Sure, our social lives have been converted into the occasional "date night," I haven't stayed up past 10 p.m. in a very long time, but after the kids go to bed at 7ish each night, Dave and I have a good couple of hours to curl up on the couch, ignore the toys scattered on the floor, have some dinner and relax....

... until the next morning when the marathon starts over again.

I'm Stumped

Anyone know any secrets to teaching your kid that it's time to stop wearing diapers? I don't.

This whole potty training experience has turned into a disaster. My son now shrieks every time we bring him near the commode, suggest he use the potty, or even talk about it in generalities.

In fairness we haven't been at this for long, but we've tried just about everything: bribes only lead to his affinity for M&Ms and Cadbury eggs but don't really work because we give in and give them to him anyway, soaking his hand in warm water was fun at first but now that he's figured out what we're doing he'll have none of it, and the "You're a big boy now," line falls flat on him.

And in case you're wondering, dragging him in kicking and screaming doesn't seem to work either. Believe me, I've tried.

A few people today have suggested we "hold off for while," and pick it back up in a couple of weeks. But while I'd like nothing more than to throw in the towel on this, quitting doesn't seem right either.

Doesn't that give my 3.5-year-old the upper hand? Won't the lesson from this be that if he shrieks loud enough he can his way and/or get out of anything? Won't the debate over vegetables and the disputes over sharing his toys turn into screamfests?

I'm completely stumped on this one. Anyone have any suggestions?

Please Don't Let Me Break My Kids

For as long as I've been a mother I've worried about breaking my kids.

They're born as these perfect little people, their feet uncalloused, their knees unskinned, their cheeks rosy, their chins unscarred. As parents it's up to us to keep them that way. But, as I am quickly learning, that is virtually impossible.

I'll never forget a dream I had just weeks after bringing Owen home from the hospital. In my dream I woke in the night to feed him, brought him into the kitchen and was standing at the sink when he slipped from my arms, fell on the floor and shattered into a million pieces. I sat straight up in bed that night, unable to shake the image. Today, more than 3 years later, it's still just as clear.

So far neither of my kids have shattered, but the scarring - physical only, thank goodness - has begun. Some kid threw a truck down the slide while Owen was sitting at the bottom last summer, leaving him with a half-inch scar right between his eyes. He has a mysterious scar on his knee from some injury I can't recall. Jake has a cut on his eye and another on his chin; both from incidents that happened at daycare.

As much as I always feel awful when one of my kids are injured at daycare, I always feel worse when something happens on my watch. Take today, for instance: I took Owen out for the afternoon. We got pizza and went to Chuck-E-Cheese (his favorite) to play. After about 2 hours I noticed he was was walking strangely, and it hit me that I couldn't remember the last time his diaper had been changed. Sure enough it had been long enough to leave him with the ugliest diaper rash either of us have ever seen.

I know it'll go away, and I know that these things happen. But it never fails that just when I start feeling cocky, like I've got this whole "mother of two thing" down to a science, I go and forget to change my kid's diaper and leave him walking around like he just got off a horse.

At least - thankfully - this won't leave a scar on him... just on me.

Thriller Idol

Up front, I have to be clear on one thing: I do not watch American Idol.

OK, I have been known to check it out once or twice during the corny nationwide search episodes, and I have been known to watch a few of the final episodes when they're close to announcing the winner. And yes, I have watched a few in the middle, but I am far from a fanatic.

Still, I always thought it was cool when they brought in true "superstars" to be mentors for the contestants, like Barry Manilow and Stevie Wonder and people like that. (Did I make up Stevie Wonder? It's possible. See? I told you I didn't watch it that often.)

However, I just read something I can't quite believe: Michael Jackson may be a guest judge/mentor this season.

What? So, in other words, you can be an accused child molester, admit on national television that you like to "sleep with children," nearly drop your own child over the balcony in a foreign country, have enough plastic surgery to truly look like you have no nose and no skintone, yet still be held up as a national model for young singers?

If my kids were old enough to watch Idol - which they're not - I don't know if I'd let them watch that episode. And as for my passing interest, I'm definitely changing the channel that night.

I'm all for reform, and giving people a second chance, but seriously, with the exception of his Thriller days, everything this guy has done in recent memory has given me the creeps.