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.