Mona's Blog- Navigating the Parenting World One Diaper At A Time

Yes, There Really IS a Santa Claus

2011-12-24T04:46:00.000-08:00

Dear Santa,

I know, I know- this is really last minute and I'm sure you're swamped right now. I realize that it is already Christmas in the Solomon Islands and you don't have a lot of time to check your messages, so I'll do my best to keep this brief.

First, I should begin with an apology. I know we haven't exactly been BFFs the past 30 or so years, so you're probably a little surprised to hear from me at all. It's nothing personal, Santa, and I don't think I ever stopped believing in you, but at some point I did stop believing in me.

You probably remember, I wasn't the happiest, most well-adjusted little girl on the block, and somehow I started thinking at a very young age that the whole "magical Christmas" thing was just for other people to enjoy. Sure, we had a tree and presents galore, and my parents certainly did the best they could as immigrants who were new to this whole western Christmas thing. They never dreamed of a white Christmas in Egypt and I'm pretty sure flying reindeer are not indigenous to the region. In fact, because Eastern Orthodox Christmas is January 7th and not December 25, the holiday always seemed like one more confusing bump on the road that first generation children tread: one more thing that separated "us" from "them."

But I'm not sure that's what put the North Pole-like chill in our relationship. Somewhere in years of watching those I love exhaust themselves with last minute shopping sprees for things we neither wanted nor needed, the giant cooking ordeals for food that is inhaled in 15 minutes flat, I seemed to acquire a rather sad tradition of my own: a knot in my stomach that showed up right after Halloween and wouldn't loosen up until early January. Great for avoiding those holidays pounds, but that's about it.

Then, Santa, you started bringing me these really cool gifts. A wonderful husband who loves me, holiday baggage and all. Three little miracles to deck our halls (and undeck them, and scribble on them with crayon, etc). The chance to create our own family traditions, and to approach the season with joy instead of dread.

So I just wanted to say thank you, Santa. I know I don't have this whole magical Christmas thing down just yet, but I think we're doing pretty well. We've been baking and singing and dancing and laughing by day, driving around looking at lights and snuggling on the couch watching Christmas movies by night. No doubt, it's exhausting being one of your helpers (and I certainly could have done without the Christmas virus currently moving through our house) but I'm loving every minute of it. Last night I went to bed in tears, and for the first time I was sad that Christmas was almost here instead of wishing it would just be over already.

So Santa, I really don't need you to bring me anything this year. You've given me ability to enjoy the holidays, so what more could I ask for? But since you do seem to be a very literal kind of guy, I'd just like to clarify a few things:

The whole "all I want for Christmas is my two front teeth" concept really need not apply to babies. If last night is any indication, we're going to need a whole lot more baby Tylenol in our stockings.

And just so we're clear, my kids do not actually want a hippopotamus for Christmas. It's just a song. One that they will not. stop. singing.

Ditto on the the partridge, the turtledoves, and the french hens. Our zoo runneth over.

Not to be picky, but if you're giving out five rings I'm really more of a platinum than a golden kind of girl.

And those maids-a-milking? I've pretty much got that department covered, but do they do windows?

Just some suggestions, Santa- I'll leave the details up to you because you really do know best.

Safe travels, and there's a good chance I'll see you later tonight (see above re: virus, teething baby).

Your (new) friend,

Mona

PS- you know that "I saw Mommy kissing Santa Claus" thing? I checked with my husband, and he says it's OK. So pucker up.

Thanksgiving Mornings

2011-11-24T03:53:00.000-08:00

I've always been a morning person, but never quite like this.

That's why it's 5:30 am on Thanksgiving and I'm wide awake.

My first day off since starting a new job, and I'm wide awake.

One husband and three children snoring away, and I'm wide awake.

There's nothing but the occasional sound of the furnace to disturb me as I sit writing by the glow of the baby monitor. It is by far my favorite time of day.

In the years B.C. (Before Children) the early mornings consisted of a cup of tea, a daily devotional with my breakfast, and a quick workout before heading to work.

One child only changed the routine a bit. Even before he was sleeping through the night, even when I was working crazy hours and only had a few to sleep, I almost always found a way to get up early and get that time to myself before getting to the rest of the day.

Two children made it tougher. Two children and a collection of part-time jobs that had to be stuffed into whatever free moments could be found made it next to impossible, but still, most days the morning routine remained in place.

Now, with three children and a new full-time job, mornings are a little bit different, but I cherish them all the more. Forget about "bright and early": two mornings each week the mere goal of getting to work by 9am requires a visit to the Dark Side. It goes something like this: get up at 5am, wolf down that tea and breakfast, gobble up a devotional, fly through the shower, throw on some clothes, nurse the baby, wake and dress and feed the two older ones, change clothes because inevitably baby's radar has detected the presence of dry clean only clothing and thus has spit-up, get everyone in the car, go back into the house to change a diaper because baby's radar has detected the need to leave the house and thus has pooped, drive 20 minutes in the wrong direction to preschool/daycare, give at least 4 rounds of goodbye hugs/kisses to each of 3 children, drive 45 miles to work, make milk for baby in the car, walk 3 city blocks to office carrying a laptop, a purse, a lunch bag and a breast pump to arrive at my desk and "start" my day. Phew.

But in the midst of what may seem like chaos, there are moments of bliss. Moments that make it all worthwhile, moments that I savor so deeply I actually wake up even earlier so as not to miss.

First, the baby. My sweet littlest little one is already five months old, and nine nights out of ten will sleep through the night. He no longer "needs" that early morning feeding, and would sleep right through it if I didn't get him up. Maybe he doesn't need it, but I'm just not quite ready to give it up. So on those mornings I creep into his room and take a few minutes to just stand watching in silent awe. As big as he seems the rest of the day, in the early morning hours he's just a tiny spot in the middle of his crib. A perfect little bundle of warmth and love, curled up on his belly with his arms tucked underneath. Every once in a while he lets out a little sigh or a tiny giggle and I pray that sweet dreams are filling up his little head. I pick him up and hold him close, trying to memorize the feeling of his fuzzy little head on my chest and his tiny fingers wrapped around my thumb. If I can just hold onto that feeling, I tell myself, it will get me through the day. Maybe if we both hold each other tightly enough, we can stock up on the love we need to weather the time apart.

Once he is fed and back asleep, it's on to the next child: my oldest, my four-going-on-12-year-old. He, too seems far too big for his age during the day, too grown up, too mature, but in the early morning hours the proportions seem to fall back in place. It's amazing to me that this big boy with his long, lean limbs that stretch across the bed was once a tiny bundle in the middle of his crib.

Sometimes when I come in he's all askew: arms on one side of the bed, legs in two different directions, head nowhere near the pillow and Thomas blanky tangled up in a heap on the floor. I can't help but laugh at the jumbled sight. But most of the time he's a bigger version of the boy in the room down the hall: flipped on his tummy, arms tucked underneath him, breathing slowly in and out. We share a special wake-up song, some silly tickle time, a few snuggles for good measure. I hug him close before he goes to brush his teeth, inhaling his sweet smell. Maybe if I hold him close enough he'll stay my little boy forever.

Last it's on to wake a tiny princess from her sleep. My 2-year-old ball of sass: she is funny, she is feisty and she is SO 2 years old. But in the mornings all I can see are her tiny little toes peeking out from the bottom of the blanket and a wild mane of hair sticking out the top. She sucks on one thumb and twists her hair around the other, never motionless, not even in her sleep. When I wake her, she smiles. Her sassy side doesn't get up this early, so she's still all cuddles and giggles and hugs and kisses. I pick her up and brush her hair out of her eyes while we rock together in her chair. Maybe if I hold her tightly enough she'll know how much I love her, sassiness and all.

The rest of the day is a blur. The new job is still so new, with so much to learn. Evenings are so busy, with meals to prepare, dishes to wash, laundry to do, baths to take and bedtime stories to read. By nighttime it's all too much for me: I'm too tired, too worn out, too worried. Worried about the kids, worried about the parents, worried about the job, worried I've forgotten something I should be worried about. Sometimes I just lie awake waiting for morning.

And so on this Thanksgiving I give thanks for mornings: the lazy ones, the crazy ones, the hazy ones.

Yes, I've always been a morning person, but never quite like this.

On feathers and letting go

2011-10-09T11:04:00.000-07:00

When October hits Michigan you can usually count on a sharp chill in the air, dragging out the sweatshirts, and maybe even some frost on the grass. But not this year. This year we've been blessed with nearly two straight weeks of sunshine, temperatures in the 70s and even 80s and extended time with our shorts and t-shirts. In the heat of the afternoon, if you ignore the changing leaves and close your eyes you can almost trick yourself into believing it's still July, so that's how we've been acting: going barefoot in the grass, soaking up the sun on the deck, and eating ice cream in the afternoon.... just because.

Late last week we decided to head to one of our favorite spots for people and duck watching: the Mill Pond in downtown Brighton. With the big kids back in school, we found we had the place virtually to ourselves (not counting the feathered population). We spent a glorious few hours there just watching the ducks go by, playing tag around the rocks and savoring sweet treats from a local shop. At one point, my 2-year-old became quite preoccupied with picking feathers out of the grass and throwing them into the pond.

"Here you go, Mama!" she said, holding a feather out for me. "This one for you!"

So I slipped it in, somewhere between the lollipop wrappers, my cell phone, a 4-year-old's pet rock and a kleenex of questionable cleanliness, fully expecting to throw it away when we got home.

But somehow that feather made its way out of my pocket and when I got in my car the next day, I found it sitting on my seat, waiting for me. And as silly as it may sound, I think that feather was trying to tell me something.

You see, I've been walking around with my head in a bit of a fog lately, and not just the usual sleep-deprived-mom-of-three variety. It's been a heavier, heartier fog, the kind that comes with a major life change.

Tomorrow I'll be starting a new job, a new career even. It's an unexpected opportunity that came along at the most unexpected time, the kind that makes you sit up from the couch where you were happily nursing your baby boy and say "Maybe I should turn my life upside down and figure out a way to make this work thing work!"

It's been two and a half years since I left the full-time work world, not completely by choice. Like many moms, I faced a situation where the financial and emotional cost of having children just didn't compute with anything I'd be bringing home. Since we're blessed to be able to make ends meet on one salary, I decided I'd give the whole stay-at-home-mom thing a try.

It lasted all of about two weeks. That's when I began accumulating part-time job after freelance gig, working nights, middle of the nights, weekends, and many places in between. I felt guilty when working, guilty when not working, guilty when thinking about how guilty I felt about working or not working. Guilty for secretly loving the times I left the house for work, guilty for not wanting to spend every waking moment with my kids, guilty for wanting more. Guilty for being more. Or not being more. Guilty for being me.

So when this opportunity came along I weighed all the options, considered the pros (including an arrangement to work two days/week from home) and cons (including dragging a breast pump around the rest of the time), and eventually decided to give it a try. But instead of alleviating the guilt, it seemed the decision has only intensified it. Now I feel guilty for pursuing my own passion, guilty for leaving my kids, guilty for the seismic change this decision, MY decision would bring about in our family routine.

And then there's the fear: fear of failing at this new venture, fear my kids won't love me anymore, fear my husband and I will become strangers, fear of forgetting that grown-ups close the door when they use the potty... er... bathroom in public, fear that maybe, just maybe, I'll end up with exactly what I've wanted and then what will I complain about?

Between the guilt and the fear and the stress and the thoughts and the decisions and the blah, blah, blah... I'm over it! I'm over myself. I'm over the over-analysis and resulting paralysis. It's time, in the words of my favorite running shoemaker, to Just Do It!

So as this new chapter begins, I will carry that feather with me to remind me of sweet, carefree days- the ones we've already had and the ones that lie ahead....

To remind me that our hearts and minds don't need to be so heavy....

That time does fly, but if we don't get so hung up on the clock it will take us on a pretty amazing ride...

And that we need to let go of the guilt and the fear and all the rest, because deep down, we're all meant to fly.

This too shall pass

2011-08-08T07:08:00.000-07:00

I made it almost eight weeks.

Eight weeks into life with a newborn, a toddler and a preschooler. (That's three kids ages four and under, if you're keeping score.)

Eight weeks which also included 3 birthdays, one anniversary, a large family wedding and a new job working from home.

Eight sleep-deprived weeks of nursing a baby on the playroom floor while refereeing a fight between two toddlers over a plastic caterpillar that neither one cared about until the other touched and it became the most important toy EVER....while working from home.

Eight socially-deprived weeks that lacked what had come to pass for stimulating adult conversation, as no one in the confines of my home cared to ask if I preferred paper or plastic. And did I mention I started a new job working from home?

Yes, I held it together for almost eight weeks before having a massive, Chernobyl-style meltdown. Or maybe it was more like a Category 5 hurricane: bands of tears gathered strength and eventually morphed into ugly sobs. Flailing arms and angry words carved a path of destruction through the house. I took shelter in the bathroom shower, where finally alone, I sank to the floor and curled up in a ball. Seconds later, I heard a gleeful giggle and looked up to find my 2 year old with her tiny button nose pressed against the glass door.

"Mama so silly!" she laughed. "Why you have you clothes in the bafftub???"

I opened the door and brought her into my cave, burying my head in her soft, wavy hair. I was just about to tell her something deep and meaningful about how sorry I was for the Mamapocalypse she just witnessed when she got very still, looked right into my eyes and yelled "BEEP BEEP!" as she pushed on my nose and ran away with a squeal.

I took a deep breath, gathered up my thoughts and my weary bones, and silently repeated the words that lately have become my mantra: "This too shall pass."

It's been comforting during these past eight weeks to remember that these tough times won't last forever. That there will come a time when my services are not quite so in demand at every moment of the day. A time when everyone in the house can wipe his/her own bottom. Now that's something to look forward to.

But later that night when I dragged my tired bones to bed for the four hours that currently constitute "nighttime" I stared at my sweet baby boy's tiny chest moving up and down as he slept in his bassinet and it hit me: this too shall pass. All of it.

This is most definitely our last child, so this time around when the baby phase is done, it's done for good. No more diapers and wipes, but also no more gummy, toothless grins or naps on the couch with a tiny little body swaddled against my chest.

I know that there will come a time, sooner than I might expect, that the little boy who begs for just one more, PLEEAASSSEEE one more hug at bedtime will be embarrassed by the very thought of embracing his mother in public....

That his constant stream of talk from the backseat of the car that never, ever seems to end (no, I do not know the name of the driver in the lane next to us on the highway, and I'm really not sure how many pieces of brick it took to build our house, or the name of the dinosaur with spiky things on his head) could someday be replaced by grunting and the sound of thumbs texting "OMG, my mom is sooooo annoying."

That the little girl who is right now attached to my side for 95% of her waking hours and can not seem to start a sentence without "Mommy!" will one day put her hands on her hips and roll those big blue eyes skyward with an exasperated "Moommmm!" because I have said/done/breathed the unthinkable.

That the kids who sob at the door on the rare occasion I leave the house to go somewhere very exciting like CVS will one day ask me to drop them off a block away from wherever their friends have gathered so that I do not risk contaminating their images with my inherent lack of cool.

That the baby boy who keeps me up all night with feeding and crying might one day keep me up all night with worrying and crying.

That I will no longer be able to pin my lack of muscle tone in the abdominal area on children unless I legally adopt Ben and Jerry.

That the boo boos will one day be too deep for bandaids and too painful for me to kiss away.

That the kids who right now seem to need me for everything one day won't.

Yes, all of "this" too shall pass, and when it does, there's no getting it back.

And as difficult, as demanding, as exhausting as it can be, I know that I shall miss it when it does.

An anniversary promise to my husband

2011-07-16T06:51:00.000-07:00

Recently some family friends told us they will be renewing their wedding vows in honor of their 10th anniversary. They are doing it up Las Vegas style, complete with the drive thru wedding chapel and all the essential Elvis accoutrements. That, and the fact that today my husband and I celebrate our 8th anniversary (and by "celebrate" I mean he is at work and I am at home with our 3 kids), got me thinking that maybe we could use a little renewal of our own.

"Renewal," however would not be the right word, as we never exchanged vows in the first place, at least not in the traditional Western World sense. We were married in a traditional Eastern Orthodox ceremony in which there is no exchange of vows. It is a ceremony rich in symbolism and packed with ancient traditions, none of which include the bride or groom speaking a single word. (But you do get to wear a very cool cape and a crown, which allowed my husband to finally live out his super hero fantasy.) There's no discussion of having or holding, we don't actually believe that death will do us part, and because the sacrament is considered to be between God and the couple, just showing up constitutes your "I do."

So we did, 8 wonderful years and 3 beautiful children ago. And we still do. But what relationship couldn't use some freshening up around the edges, a little spritz of marital Febreze if you will? So while they're not traditional vows, I thought I'd take this occasion to examine a few issues and make a few promises to the one I love.

So here we go. I, Mona Shand, being of sound mind (OK, I realize we're already off to a shaky start, given the toll that the 4 nonconsecutive hours of sleep I am currently getting each night is taking on my already tenuous grasp on sanity) and body (and 5 weeks after giving birth to baby #3, let's not even go there), do hereby promise:

To continue to stick it out in sickness (our own and that of others, which of course includes but is not limited to stuffy noses, earaches and heartaches, diapers of pooptastrophic proportions, boo boos and ouchies, bruised knees as well as egos, and that disgusting green gunk that showed up on the baby's sheets, and the exact source of which we're yet to identify), and in health (especially those 3 days in winter when everyone in the house is actually healthy at the same time), for richer (I think it's best if we just focus on being rich in love, because let's face it this economy stinks) or poorer (did I mention I stopped at Target today?)

And I promise that:

I will always be your wife,

I will love you all my life.

I will love you in the rain,

I will love you on a train.

I will love you at our house,

I will love you with a mouse.

I will forsake all others here and there,

I will forsake all others everywhere.

And I also promise that next time we're at the library, I will get myself some books that were not written by Dr. Seuss.

I promise to love (OK, how about "try to appreciate"), honor (OK, maybe "not mock so loudly"), and cherish (OK, that one's a stretch) your inexplicable fascination with UFC wrestling matches on pay-per-view.

I promise to try much harder to obey a Closed Door Policy when it comes to the bathroom, because as close as we are, there really are a few things that should be left to the imagination, and when I said I wanted to know what was going on "inside" I really meant your head and heart more than your intestines. And there's just no justifiable scenario in which a grown woman should ever turn to a grown man and say "Mama has to go potty." I'm also guessing my giant pink plastic shower cap doesn't exactly make you want to have or hold so maybe we should try to return that time in our lives when there was a tiny bit more mystery and a whole lot less hair removal cream between us.

And I hereby promise, before the dearly beloved gathered here today (which at 4am include one stuffed moose, 2 teddy bears, a naked baby doll and a basket of dirty laundry) in the warm glow of our love and my laptop, from this day forward, to do my best to focus on the better and not the worse, because my life is so much better and Lord knows I never dreamt I'd find someone to put up with the worst of my worse. So that means more listening and less talking over you. More days when I don't use up all the good, squeezy, super tender hugs and kisses on the kids and leave you with just the little pecks. More "Thank you for putting away the laundry" and less "Where the *&^) did you put my blue tank top?"

Because I couldn't and I shouldn't and I wouldn't imagine a life without you in it.

No I couldn't and I shouldn't and I wouldn't for a minute.

(But I can and I should and I will follow through on that whole "reading books that don't rhyme" thing, I promise once again.)

So, unless anyone gathered here has any objections (Zip it, Moose.) I'm going to go ahead and kiss the groom.

Just as soon as he comes out of the bathroom.

Happy anniversary, my love.

Bringing Home Baby

2011-06-26T07:59:00.000-07:00

There's nothing quite like having a baby to make you lose all track and all concept of time. I took my watch off in the delivery room, as per the nurse's orders, and haven't put it back on since. In fact it's still tucked in my purse, right alongside other things I haven't touched since the big arrival, like my favorite lipstick and one of the many rolls of Tums that got me through a whole lot of heartburn.

Partly the watch has stayed put because I fear it will scratch the baby in all the picking up, putting down, changing, rocking, bouncing, and cuddling my watch-wearing arm is once again engaged in. And partly it's because time, as measured by my watch, just doesn't seem to accurately reflect the current state our life.

By the clock and the calendar, our baby boy is two weeks old today. Two weeks? How can it be that I have soy milk in my refrigerator that has been with us longer than this sweet little creature? Maybe it's the 13 nights of sleep deprivation, but I already have trouble remembering a time he wasn't part of our family. His movements, those jerky arms and legs, the way he rests his left arm against his head... it all just seems so familiar. Granted, he and I did spend 40 weeks together in rather close confines, so technically this I guess this is week 42 of our lives together. But even that doesn't seem like long enough. No, there is definitely something about having a child that reaches beyond the weeks, months and years. Something that makes you say with absolute certainty, "I have always known you."

This is our third child and my husband and I are much more relaxed in our role as parents. The "baby" side of the equation, while still a physical and emotional ordeal, is infinitely easier than in the past. I no longer need my watch to count every minute baby's been nursing or to mark the exact time of the last poopy diaper. What I do need is a third arm to work a puzzle with a 4-year-old and a 4th arm to help a 2-year-old dress her doll while nursing said baby from the comfort of the playroom floor. And as long as I'm dreaming, how about a 5th arm to make dinner, a 6th to get that unidentifiable sticky gunk off the kitchen floor, a 7th to tackle various forms of DNA in the laundry basket and an 8th to type should a coherent thought actually enter my sleep deprived brain? Apparently I want to be the Octomom.

The weight of it all began to set in shortly after the euphoria of delivery (and that lovely epidural) wore off. I sat stoic in my hospital bed, listening to the doctor explain that for the next several weeks I should really just devote myself to caring for the baby and leave everything else to "everyone else." I double checked the painkiller prescription she scribbled out to see if by chance it included housekeeping and babysitting services. Seeing none, I tearfully turned my attention to the discharge instructions she handed me before saying goodbye. Surely they contained some words of wisdom to help navigate what would lie ahead?

"Resume your daily activities at home when you feel ready. Let comfort guide you." Really?? Comfort??? If that's going to be my "guide," we're in big trouble. We'll just skip that one.

"Avoid heavy lifting (anything weighing more than your baby) until you feel up to it." Once again, this could prove problematic, and not just due to the combined weight of roughly 56 pounds of children who have patiently (and not so patiently) waited several months for a bona fide Mommy cuddle. The burden of physically lifting the three of them is still far lighter than the weight of lifting of their little spirits, of carrying their hurt and shouldering their hearts. My arms, already weak from several months of gym neglect, nearly fell off at the thought.

"Nap when possible. Sleep when the baby sleeps." I'm not even going to go there.

"Keep baby away from second-hand smoke." Well finally, there's one I can do. Second-hand smoke, consider this fair warning: I am your arch enemy. Baby, since I seem to be incapable of doing much else, I will devote myself to shielding you from second-hand smoke. Now if only I could do the same for off-handed comments that leave a sting, split-second reactions that go wrong, and smoking hot tempers.

Feeling more terrified than ever, my husband wheeled me out of the hospital and into the bright sunshine of the outside world. Hands shaking, heart quaking, and head throbbing, we tucked the papers away and loaded this precious miracle into our car. And then, we did the only thing we could: we went home.

Back to our same house, but a whole new home.

The place where we'll have to make our own rules to get by.

The place where time now means nothing.

We'll just have to take it one day...one long, short, mixed-up, confusing, messy, exhausting, but wonderful day at a time.

"Look at me!"

2011-06-06T07:05:00.000-07:00

"Look at us, Mama!"

The first time it was cute. The fourth, fifth, and maybe even 18th time: still cute. But when your child yells out "Look at me, Mama!" for the 847th time- that morning alone- it becomes remarkably easy to overlook the cute factor and lose your temper. Or your mind. Or both.

It happens a lot when I'm cooking dinner. "Look at me, Mama!" he calls out excitedly. So I leave the pot on the stove, pop my head into the playroom and oblige him with the requested look. Usually he wants to show off a big accomplishment in Almost 4-year-old Land, like how high he can jump, or a particularly impressive bit of chalkboard art, or (unfortunately) something that came out of his nose. Or some other exit hole.

It happens when we're outside. "Look at me, Mama!" he yells with every slide down the slide and each bubble blown.

And it happens when we're driving in the car. "Look at me, Mama!" I hear from the backseat, despite numerous explanations of how Mama really needs to keep her eyes on the road. (Forget texting- I say parenting while driving is the ultimate distraction.)

Sometimes the verbiage differs; there's "Watch this, Mama!" and "Mom!!! COME SEEEEEE!!!!" Even his not quite 2-year-old sister gets in on the action, with her own version of the call to action. "Yook-ah-meee, Mama!" she yells, usually when she's just standing there sucking her thumb in her particularly adorable way. The words may differ slightly, but the underlying message is always the same: do you see me? Aren't you proud of me?

And yes, I absolutely am. I am so proud of the beautiful little spirits they possess, the amazing people they continue to grow into every day. I am humbled and amazed to think that I had any part in any of it. But honestly, there are times when I just can not muster up the excitement at the sight of a little boy who has just figured out how to stick three fingers into one ear.

"AND?????" I sometimes want to yell out of frustration over the fact that we did not buy a house with an open floor plan and so the journey from kitchen to playroom now means we will be eating The Black Substance Formerly Known As Marinara on our pasta.

Usually I bite my tongue and try to be pleasant and encouraging as I catch sight of his eager, expectant little face. "Nice job!" I tell him. "Now see if you can get your elbow in there while Mama finishes making dinner."

It's just part of being a good parent, I tell myself through clenched teeth. But sometimes I worry, am I creating little monsters? Applause junkies? Kids who desperately need approval to validate their very existence? Kids who are never told the cold, hard, truth about their performance until one day they show up on the audition episode of American Idol singing "Shebang, Shebang!" completely unable to grasp why the judges won't put them through to the next round?

I remember a time shortly after our first child was born when my husband and I spent most of our time shouting "Look at him!" to each other. As a new parent, everything, and I do mean everything your first child does, tends to amaze.

"Look at him! He sneezed!!!" (Translation- "He's a genius!")

"Look at him! He put a crayon in his mouth!" ("What a brilliant artist!")

"Look at him! He's sticking his fingers in his...!" (OK, that's just gross. But we still felt the need to ooh and ahh over it.)

And just "Look at me" now. Most days by the umpteenth shout-out I find myself wondering when the "Look at me, Mama!" phase will end.

And then one day I realized, it really never does.

I like to think of myself as pretty independent. My parents could not have been further from the "helicopter" model that hovers over many schools today. They had demanding careers and trusted that life would go on if they were not in attendance at every orchestra concert, school play and science fair. And they were right. Add to that a different cultural model of parenting that does not include heaping praise upon a child and "Look at me!" was not even an option.

But deep down, I know I've always yearned for, and not often known if I had, my parents' approval. Before getting married I lived on my own for many, many years, in many, many different parts of the country and the world. I'd like to think they watched with a mixture of fear and slight amusement as I continent and career-hopped across the globe. But most of the time I felt like the black sheep of the family. No focus, no direction. I was proud of myself for being willing to take risks, to push myself far beyond any physical or mental comfort zone, but always worried I was letting them down. It wasn't anything we ever talked about (see above re: cultural differences) but I always felt my lifestyle didn't scream "Look at me!" as much as "Don't look now!" If only I could have been a doctor or a nurse or a teacher or an engineer, or anything on the Parental Preferred List of Careers. Maybe then I could have shouted "Look at me!" and known for certain they were beaming with pride.

I convinced myself over the years that I didn't need anyone to look at me. I was confident in myself and told myself that was all that mattered. Put on a thick skin that has served me well in my chosen career (which doesn't even come close to the Preferred List, or even the Understood List). Look at me if you want, I told myself, but if not, I'm OK.

Eventually, I did settle down (with an engineer, no less) and had two...perhaps by the time you read this...three kids. And I've found that there's nothing quite like becoming a parent that makes you want to shout "Look at me!" to your own parents.

There are the lessons you learned from your parents that you consciously or unconsciously pass along to your own children. There are the things you choose to do differently. And then there are the things you swore you'd never do when you became a parent that you now realize just have to be done. It's hard not to want to show off this newfound wealth of information and understanding in the form of your little ones.

My own parents still lead busy lives and we don't see them nearly as often as we, or our children, would like. But when we do, and when I see my dad with his grandchildren, I see a look in his eyes that tells me all I need to know. Maybe I've finally become confident enough in myself to not need to hear it, or maybe I just know He sees what I see, and through those kids, I finally have no doubt, he sees me.

So the next time I hear my son yell out "Look at me, Mama!" I will do my best to respond appropriately. No, I can't drop everything and run to him every time he puts crayon to paper. And no, my little girl doesn't need a round of applause to know she's done well sticking the wooden cat in the designated puzzle slot. No one wants a child with skin that thin.

But there's got to be a balance, because I've been looking at myself a lot more lately and realizing that at some point, a thick skin becomes a barrier to keep others away. And that wanting to be seen doesn't necessarily make you weak.

As it turns out, sometimes it really does feel good to know that big brother, or Mama, or someone you love is watching.

Sometimes it just feels good to be seen.

Ice Cream Moments

2011-05-18T06:33:00.000-07:00

There's nothing quite like that first really warm day of the year, the first time you shed those layers and let your skin soak up the sun. And there's nothing like celebrating it with a cool, creamy treat: an ice cream cone.

We had just such a day a few weeks back. It wasn't exactly hot, maybe 72 degrees, but after the cold, snowy winter and virtually non-existent spring we've endured in the Midwest, it was enough to send us scurrying through drawers, desperately seeking shorts and t-shirts, before frantically running to the local ice cream parlor.

My husband, son and I all dug immediately into our treats, but in between greedy bites I noticed our little girl staring at her baby-sized cone somewhat quizzically. It occurred to me then that while she's tasted ice cream off a spoon before, this was her first ever cone, and she wasn't quite sure what do to with it. A little coaxing from her big brother (at almost 4 years old, an ice cream cone veteran), a few tastes of the sweetness and she was on her way. Big, sticky, drippy smiles all around. It was another "Ice Cream Moment" in progress.

The term came to me last summer while watching my little boy eat ice cream with my dad. He was staying with us for a few days while my mom was out of town, and we were enjoying a carefree, delicious moment together. It was probably past his bedtime, it was certainly not the healthiest choice, but WOW did it taste good, and I don't just mean the Moose Tracks.

There's just something about eating ice cream, particularly off a cone, that brings out the kid in all of us. It's hard to worry about much, if anything, other than slurping up each delicious bite before the dripping sets in. It's one of those rare moments we suspend our usual routines, forget about our typical rules and simply enjoy. They are moments so sweet and yet so fleeting, so deliciously simple and rich.

There's a large portion of being a parent that involves imposing structure and rules, and that's not a bad thing. Kids tend to thrive on a predictable routine and certainly need to learn right from wrong. Not to mention that between work and all our other responsibilities, our "free" time seems to consist of a whole lot of errand running on a parent's part and time spent in shopping carts for the kids. It's the Ice Cream Moments that help balance it all out. Every once in a while when we're playing together with abandon, when we're out for a walk, when we're in the middle of a major tickle session, I think to myself "This is an ice cream moment. Eat it up."

I don't remember having too many of those moments with my own parents, who remain so serious, so hard to break out of their routines. As immigrants who came to this country with nothing but their educations, the majority of their energy went toward building a future, which didn't seem to leave much time for eating ice cream. Even today, it's difficult to get them to just relax, to just come over and BE with their grandchildren. To savor a second chance at an Ice Cream Moment. Perhaps that's why seeing my little boy share such a rare instance with my dad was all the sweeter.

My aunt passed away last week at the very young age of 54 after a horrific (but blessedly brief) battle with cancer. In her final weeks one of the few things she could stomach and actually requested to eat was a milkshake. Melted ice cream. Rationally, I know the creamy texture was all her broken body could handle, but in my heart I like to believe she wanted to share a few more Ice Cream Moments with us before she left.

So as summer finally begins to arrive my wish is that we all savor the Ice Cream Moments we've been given and strive to create more delicious memories. Take off your shoes and walk barefoot in the grass. Blow bubbles just because. Ditch your dinner routine and have a picnic in the park. Just don't let the chance to savor an Ice Cream Moment pass you by, because just like the real thing those times will melt away far before we're ready.

Dancing my way through motherhood

2011-04-13T06:27:00.000-07:00

When I was 5 years old, my mom signed me up for ballet lessons. We bought the pink tutu, the tights, the shoes, the whole works, and I couldn't wait. I twirled around the kitchen in my finery, spun my way from room to room. The Big Day couldn't come quickly enough.

Then two days before the Big Day, disaster struck in the form of the chicken pox. I was covered from head to dancing feet in the ugly, itchy rash. Still, on the appointed day I donned my dancing gear (itch! scratch!) and optimistically informed my parents I was ready for class (ITCH!!!! SCRATCH!!!) When my dad calmly tried to explain there could be no dance lessons due to the highly contagious nature of my predicament, I did what any 5-year-old would do and called his decades of medical training into question, demanded a second opinion with a "real" doctor, and then burst into tears.

We missed that whole session of ballet, and somehow signing up for a new one got lost in the shuffle. I'm not sure if we just forgot to do it, or if like most kids, my interests changed, but I can thank the chicken pox in part for scratching Prima Ballerina off my future career list.

Now more than three decades later, despite my lack of formal training I've become a dancer of a very different sort. I find myself performing this dance with the kids, dancing alone, dancing even when I don't know that I'm dancing. At church, in the grocery store checkout line, you name the place, and I'm probably dancing. It's become a part of who I am, a physical manifestation of the movement and shift that's taken place in my life. The steps are simple- it's just a gentle back and forth, back and forth sway. I call it The Mom Dance.

There's no course to take to learn the dance- it happens on the job as soon as a child is placed in your arms. That's when seemingly endless days that blur into nights of rocking, cradling, bouncing and soothing eventually come together to form a recital of sorts and voila: The Mommy Dance is born. After that point, you'll often find yourself swaying whether the "music" is tears or laughter, whether you're holding a child or not. Back and forth, back and forth.

I've slipped into the habit of watching and listening to other moms with great interest these days, and many of them seem to move just as effortlessly back and forth through the journey of motherhood. Maybe it's all for show, but they seem to be capable of going from "Mom" to "Not Mom" mode with relative ease, while I've found myself pretty much stuck in one gear for the past four years.

I know, I know, the grass is often greener on the other side of the diaper bag, and we are definitely not among those blessed with a host of family/friends/help nearby to relieve us from the everyday-ness of everyday. Still, as I sit in a rare moment of solitude and catch myself swaying back and forth in my seat, I can't help but wonder what it will take for me to follow Stella's lead and get my groove back.

One of my favorite courses in graduate school was applied linguistics (I'm weird that way) where I first learned the term "code switching." It's usually applied to bilingual children who have the ability to seamlessly navigate their different languages. They almost never make the mistake of using one language with speakers of the other. They intrinsically grasp and efficiently use the phonology, syntax and mannerisms of each linguistic variety. I, on the other hand, forget that it us customary to close the bathroom door when in a group of adults.

Sure, my husband and I go out "sans enfants" from time to time (a 2-hour interlude during which we usually end up talking about the kids) and we even recently took our first child free trip. But I still feel clumsy when I'm away from my main post, fumbling through what has suddenly become unfamiliar territory, despite the fact it was my stomping grounds for nearly 34 pre-baby years. And when I am home with them, which is basically day after day after day, I still at times feel resentful of the times I must put on a happy face and dance whether I'm in the mood to boogie or not.

But despite my awkward dance steps, despite my occasional shock when realizing my current dancing shoes lean more toward sensible than strappy, the older I get (I'm still not so sure about "wiser") I am coming to realize that the dance is inherently unique. Every parent needs to find his/her own rhythm and pace. What works for the mom down the street, or the one down the Facebook status update list (you know, the one who hit the parent-teacher conference on the way to the Kid Rock concert, with an apparent wardrobe change in a telephone booth), may or may not work for me, and I'm working on being OK with that.

The important thing is to just keep moving, back and forth, back and forth. To keep trying to find a way to stay balanced, to find a chance to recharge, all while constantly in motion. The struggle to maintain an individual identity while maintaining devotion to children will always be there, and it may never get any easier.

My children, for all the tantrums, the tiny fingerprints on newly Windex-ed windows, and the mommy guilt that comes with them, have done the seemingly impossible- they've turned a not-so-graceful, not so sure-footed, untrained woman into a dancer. And for them, for their sweet smiles and their silly questions and their sticky fingers, I will throw my heart into this challenging, precarious, not-quite-ready-for-primetime performance.

Because the dance goes on.

And deep down I know I don't want to miss a step.

The manicure- a mom's weeklong experiment

2011-03-23T18:01:00.000-07:00

I think I can probably count the number of manicures I've had in my life on the unpolished fingers of both hands.

I have a vague memory of getting one right after I met the man who would one day become my husband, and I know I had one before our wedding, but other than that I can't really....er.... "nail" down specifics.

The few times I have gone, rather than find it relaxing, having all the attention focused on me feels stifling and uncomfortable. I actually feel guilty sitting still while someone else is working. I find it hard to resist the urge to jump out of the seat and fix the manicurist a sandwich or straighten up the magazine rack or something. I guess I'm just not a manicure kind of girl.

But lately I've been feeling that more that my whole life could use a little buff and shine, that my cuticles aren't the only ragged things around here. Perhaps it's motherhood taking its toll, perhaps it's the isolation of largely working from home, or perhaps I'm just getting freaking lazy. While I've never been a Glamourpuss, I used to manage a fairly decent impression of a semi-stylish, sufficiently groomed modern woman that at least didn't break anyone's TV when I showed up to report the news. But lately I seem to have taken up residence in a fleece-friendly comfort zone somewhere dangerously close to Frumpsville, and it's been driving me crazy.

Maybe if I started with a manicure, the rest would fall into place. Maybe Manicured Mona would be the kind of stylish, pulled together, mom I find myself ogling at the playground. The kind who wears yoga pants to actually practice yoga. Maybe I would remember how to converse with adults. Maybe I could manage to wear socks that match my outfit. Or each other. Maybe I could really...er... nail it.

So one Saturday afternoon after work, I walked into the nail shop and boldly requested a manicure. It was the launch of what will henceforth be known as Operation Polished Image (OPI*), a 7-day hands-on experiment.

* No sponsorship or promotional ties to the nail polish brand by the same name.

Day 1

First dilemma: picking a color. In my limited manicure experience I've always stuck with clear polish, not wanting to draw too much attention to my hands. But this was Operation OPI! New territory! I was turning over a new leaf! Manicured Mona needed a bold start. A color to convey my newfound togetherness. So I went with a very pale pink.

I survived the scrapity scrapity scrapity of the cuticle picker, sat still long enough for the polish to dry, and carefully loaded my lovely, soft, polished, elegant hands into my car. A small plastic Tigger fell off the dashboard and was heading right toward my polish, but miraculously seemed to change course in midair and move away from the heavily guarded Green Zone around my nails. All hail the power of OPI.

At home, my sweet, caring husband scored big points by spotting the change right away.

"It's a whole new me!" I explained.

"Hmmmm? OK?" (He is, after all, a man.)

Day 2

I've turned into Vanna White. I find myself wanting to show off my manicure to anyone who cares to look, which of course, is no one. At brunch after church, I dramatically gesture to my husband and children over the menu at our local diner.

"Would you like these lovely pancakes that come with your choice of either sausage OR bacon?" (Attempting to use my elegant hands to make air pictures of pork products.)

"Hmmm? OK?" says my 3-year-old, every bit his father's son.

"Want dip dip!" says my baby girl, which happens to be her word for ketchup, which happens to be what she squirted all over my dress. The cute one I wore to go with my new manicure. As I bend down to wipe it off, she sticks her ketchup hands into my hair. The hair I actually took the time to blow dry this morning to go with my new manicure.

I feel cracks forming in my new Polished Image. And is that a crack in my polish???? Deep breaths.

Day 3

It's a new day and Manicured Mona is ready to tackle the world. Another day of ditching the sweats for what the What Not To Wear crew often refer to as a "Cute Mommy On the Go" outfit. Except that we had nowhere to go.

Meanwhile the dishes had been piling up in the sink, as I had feared the damage they might inflict on my nails. I know I own some rubber kitchen gloves... but where are they?

45 minutes of searching in vain under the sink and in the closet (while mediating minor skirmishes on the toddler front) turned up nothing. Nothing except dust bunnies all over my Cute Mommy outfit and is that another freaking crack in my polish????

Day 4

And on the fourth day, the stomach bug hit. And there was much vomiting throughout the land. And much laundering and scrubbing and Lysol and Pedialyte and Motrin drops and popsicles. And much comforting of feverish little ones who just needed to be held by the hands that love them and didn't care at all about polish or image or anything else. And there was much anxious placing of big hands against hot little foreheads, followed by anxious hands pressed together with silent prayers of "Please, please, please just let them feel better."

Day 5

See Day 4.

Day 6

The 48-hour plague has lifted but we are all a little worse for the wear. The house is a mess, the cupboards are bare, the work is stacked up. I have frazzled nerves, frizzy hair, and yes, that is in fact a fleece sweatshirt. As I pulled my arms and my nails (which now have so many cracks they look like a relief map of the Grand Canyon) into those familiar sleeves I felt simultaneously at home and lost.

Day 7

The polish is gone, literally. I scrubbed it off this morning, with a bit of a heavy heart and some acetone that probably dates back to the Reagan administration. Sure, I could, and I probably should, invest in more regular manicures. It's not an expensive indulgence, I like the way it looked (for the first 2 days) and I know I need more "me time" than my semi-annual dental cleaning currently provides. But I also feel like OPI was a bit of a failure. Or more specifically, that I was a bit of a failure.

Couldn't I keep my act together for one stinking week? How naive was I to think that a little bit of color on my nails would somehow transform me into Super Mom. OPI didn't come with backup troops in the form of a cleaning lady, a nanny, a stylist, or even the promise of a nap. I was still the same Mona, still the same mom, still a little bit of a mess, now with smeared nail polish remnants to remind me of my shortcomings.

Later that night during a family get together I sat quietly away from the crowd, unable to shake the frustration, wringing my unpolished hands. I watched my sweet little boy put his arms around his sister to comfort her when she fell. I marveled at his thoughtfulness as he played with his cousins, aunts and uncles. I listened to a goofy giggle and felt it warm my heart. Then I held my baby girl's hand and walked her over to her grandfather's waiting, open arms.

For a brief moment, all three of our hands connected. One was small, unlined, smooth, and so much stronger than its tiny size implied. One was marked with deep grooves, the slight shaking of age and disease, and was far stronger than its condition implied. And one was caught somewhere in the middle. Not as smooth as it once had been, and certainly not as polished.

But, I realized with a smile, far stronger than I ever knew.

Building and Rebuilding

2011-03-03T12:20:00.000-08:00

I am not crafty, let's just be honest about that. I think after 37 years on this planet it's the least I can do in the name of self-awareness. Pots of glue, boxes of crayons, new sets of markers... I buy them, and then have no idea what to do with them. When I hear "craft" used as a verb I want to throw up a little bit. A mere trip to Michael's is enough to bring back painful memories of 6th grade art class and as a result, break out in hives. I've tried scrapbooking, stamping, painting classes and here's the unsweetened truth: I stink at them.

I'm trying very hard not to pass on my craftophobia to my children and to instead encourage their budding creative spirits. They both love to color, draw, paint, and squish Play Doh into whatever crevices they can find, and I think that's wonderful. I will happily set them up with their (gulp!) craft of choice and let the mess... er... magic happen. It's just not something I participate in. Which is all fine and good, but sometimes we need to do something together.

The last few weeks it's felt like one of the few things we've done together is bicker. My 3.5 year old son has been bent on asserting his independence. Loudly. My 1.5 year old daughter has been asserting her throwing arm. Now 25 weeks pregnant, my hormones have been asserting their domination over my life. Throw in a few snowstorms, stuffy noses and long nights at work and you've got the recipe for Frustrated Family.

So that's why I got out the blocks. They've been sitting on the shelf for the past few weeks, ignored in favor of other toys, as often happens with kids' varying preferences. But whether they are Mega Bloks, Legos or no name generic blocks, Noah loves to build towers, forts, houses, towns, you name it, and his sister loves to knock them down. And I've always found something therapeutic in the snapping and unsnapping of colorful plastic pieces. I didn't do much of it as a child, as I was afraid to compete (and fail yet again) against my Lego-obsessed champion builder of a big brother. Now, though I may curse the errant piece that impales the sole of my foot at 5:30am, I do find some strange comfort in those big bins of blocks.

We'd been getting on each other's nerves all morning and the mood was still tense as we plunked down on the playroom floor. Ceci was content to repeatedly make and unmake her stack of blocks, while Noah and I worked together on a garage for his fire truck. The tension was still evident as he dumped out the bin and I began snapping pieces a little too forcefully.

But then we both reached for the same piece at the same time. I smiled as our hands connected, his tiny smooth palm intertwined with mine. The smile became a giggle, the giggle turned into a laugh, which then turned into a 5-minute ticklefest that left us both out of breath. And then, with the fog lifted and our hearts happy, we got back to the business of blocks.

As I cleaned up the playroom that night I turned those pieces over in my hand and mentally ran through the day. And I said a silent prayer we would always work together to rebuild what might seem broken.

Confessions of a bad mom: I don't like ultrasounds

2011-02-23T07:15:00.000-08:00

When your OBGYN calls at 4pm on a Friday following your ultrasound and says "Don't worry, but..." the natural reaction is of course to worry. A lot.

From what I remember, the rest of the conversation came in whooshing bits and pieces. "We found a small issue"... "Nothing to be alarmed about".... "Just need to monitor."

It took a few seconds but when my brain stopped spinning enough to process those pieces it did in fact realize everything was more than likely going to be OK. Just a little hiccup on the last ultrasound, a very common issue called a "placental lake" that rarely, if ever turns out to be a true complication.

"And the good news is, you get to have lots more ultrasounds!" my doctor enthusiastically cheered into the phone.

"Oh, that's... uh... great," I lied, through clenched teeth.

Worried that I was still worried, she did her best to continue to reassure me about the growing baby's health. I finally had to interrupt. "I believe you, Dr.X., really I do. It's just that...." (deep breath) "You see I don't really..." (how do I put this so I don't sound like the worst mom in the world?) "Ummm...." (come on, just spit it out) "I don't actually enjoy ultrasounds. They really creep me out. The baby looks so waxy and see through and bony and then there are all those TEETH, I mean, who knew that fetuses have teeth? It's the stuff nightmares are made of. Really scary nightmares!!!" It was like a geyser erupted: I couldn't stop gushing about my neurotic, Bad Mommy feelings about a diagnostic exam.

And there was silence on the other end of the phone.

I steeled myself for the inevitable, certain she was about to call Protective Services to have my children removed from my custody, or at the very least refer me to a psychiatrist. But instead, she burst out laughing. While this was her first experience with Ultrasoundaphobia, she did seem to understand where I was coming from, and didn't judge. The same is not true for the rest of the Mommy Universe. I've tried explaining myself to my ultrasound-loving friends and I'm either greeted with blank stares or flat out hostility. Moms are a tough crowd.

This is now my third time round the pregnancy carousel and in my experience, ultrasounds are one of those things that moms-to-be are just "supposed" to love. The same way you're supposed to bring baby home to a fully-decked out nursery (oops) and you're definitely not supposed to ever have a sip of alcohol while pregnant (oops...hiccup).

I'm not sure when it happened but ultrasounds have become quite the cottage industry. The pictures you get from your appointment now come with instructions about proper care for scrapbooking purposes. I have seen those pictures used as cell phone screen savers, even Facebook profile pics. The test is available in 3 and even 4-D (I have no idea what the fourth "D" even is, but it still scares me). There is a whole chain of "drive-thru," non-medically ultrasound businesses that have popped up, including one in my town, to offer parents-in-waiting another opportunity to sneek a peak at baby in his/her cocoon, often set to music and available for your purchase. It's Glamour Shots: Fetal Edition.

And that's all fine and good. I'm thrilled for those of you out there who love your ultrasounds. Frame those pictures! Pop some popcorn and pop in that souvenir DVD one Saturday night, or every Saturday night if you so desire. Just don't judge me if I don't turn into a puddle of goo every time that goo is applied to my belly and the fuzzy images begin to appear.

With Baby #1, my husband took the morning off work so he could attend the ultrasound with me. The brochure from the office said we could bring up to three additional people with us. I remember thinking that was odd, since I couldn't think of one, much less three, other people for whom I would raise my shirt and show the outside of my belly, much less the inside. Maybe it was a Mardi Gras special?

After I was appropriately gooped up and the exam was underway, the technician turned to us and excitedly said, "Oh, the baby is staring right at you! Quick- take a look!"

I turned my head toward the screen, naively expecting to see a chubby, waving Gerber baby holding a sign that said "Hi, Mom!"

"AHHHHH!" I gasped, a little too loudly. It was Casper the Friendly(?) Ghost in fetal form. Since then I've typically gone solo to appointments, and have even endured questioning glances and what feels like scorn from the office staff.

"Are you sure there's nobody else coming?" one tech asked at my last appointment, as she looked behind me in surprise.

"Oh, I did bring this baby in my belly, is that OK? I couldn't find a sitter." I tried to joke. Silence.

Don't get me wrong, I am nothing but grateful for the advances in modern medicine and imaging that make ultrasounds possible. They are incredibly valuable diagnostic tests that provide a host of critical, often life-saving information on the health of both baby and mother. But so does a colonoscopy, and I don't happen to get mushy about that either. I believe that if God had intended ultrasound images to be a necessary part of the mother-child bonding process, He would have equipped the uterus with a partial window, much like the one on my oven.

I know many women say the ultrasound makes them feel more connected to the baby or makes the pregnancy finally feel "real," and again, I'm happy for you if that's the case. For me, the 9 straight months of nausea, fatigue and banging on my internal organs is about as real as it gets. Believe me when I say that not loving ultrasounds has nothing to do with how I feel about my children. There will be plenty of time for photos once this precious child is on the outside. I don't need to see an image of developing limbs to look forward to the day I'll one day hold tiny hands in mine, or play piggies with little toes. For now, I'll just close my eyes and rely on a combination of good old fashioned imagination and pure love to conjure up images of this growing piece of my heart.

Now that's my kind of picture.

In Defense of Valentine's Day

2011-02-09T07:25:00.000-08:00

Candy hearts, paper doilies and boxes of cards emblazoned with loving images of cartoon characters. It all used to turn my stomach. Yes, I was an anti-Valentinian for years. Make that decades.

In fact, I can't remember a time in childhood or young adulthood I actually liked the big red holiday. Even in elementary school when every child was required to give a Valentine to every other child in the classroom, I didn't get it. I had a few playmates but for the most part I was a loner, and while we didn't use the term back in the day, I endured more than my share of bullying. Was a little piece of paper with a picture of Strawberry Shortcake hastily signed "Love, X" or a chalk-flavored candy heart with the words "Be Mine" supposed to change that? Even a 6-year-old wasn't born yesterday.

It was never a big holiday at home, either. My Egyptian parents are probably the most generous, loving people you will ever know, but the particular expression of love in the form of balloons, cupcakes, cards and other assorted sundries is just not part of their cultural vernacular. It was a quiet day at our house, much like any other.

In high school, I remember the infamous flower deliveries that would take place on February 14th. At some point during Algebra II a student from the National Honor Society or Key Club would show up at the door bearing a bundle of red and pink carnations they'd been selling at a table outside the cafeteria. They'd call out the names of the lucky recipients, with the pretty, popular girls ending up with a veritable bouquet on their desks. That's when I'd start fumbling through my Trapper Keeper, trying to look busy in an attempt to hide the obvious fact that I wasn't getting any of those blossoms.

So I quickly learned to loathe the annual February love fest and began dreading it as soon as the Christmas merchandise hit 75% off and the store shelves turned red. In college and grad school I buried myself in my textbooks and did my best to pretend it didn't exist. One year, the pipes burst in my apartment on Valentine's Day (an appropriate homage to the gushing tears of loneliness?) Another time I arranged to have my wisdom teeth pulled on February 14th. It seemed like the perfect occasion for a painful procedure (in particular one accompanied by prescription drugs). But the year my neighbor's Valentine bouquet was accidentally delivered to me was the last straw. Stupid Hallmark holiday, I muttered to myself as I transported the giant blossoms back to their rightful owner.

So that's how I came to be a Valentine hater. By the time I was in my late 20s I was fully convinced the day was a commercial conspiracy designed largely to make me feel like a lonely, incompetent fool. Until one day I realized, it wasn't. I'm fuzzy on the exact date but I think it was around the time I lost a friend in a horrible accident. Or maybe it was when my mom was diagnosed with a horrible disease. Or when my dad was diagnosed with a horrible disease. It might have been the year I finally said "no more" to a relationship that was painful and unhealthy. No, I didn't have a boyfriend, I still didn't have anyone asking me to be their Valentine, but I did have love. Love for others, for life, and perhaps most importantly, for myself.

One husband and two little blessings (with a 3rd on the way) later and I'm a convert, a full-fledged Valentine-o-holic. Our house is decked out in red, we've baked heart-shaped cookies and gotten our fingers covered in pink glitter glue while making cards. Yes, it's a bit much, and yes it's a bit silly, but I don't care. I've finally learned what unconditional love means, and I'm not afraid to wear it (along with assorted other sticky things) on my sleeve.

Don't get me wrong, our love and our life are far from perfect. My two adorable little Valentines throw more than their fair share of tantrums and most days leave me feeling so completely drained I can barely drag my giant, pregnant self up to bed. And after 7 years of marriage I fear my husband and I have become a wee bit too comfortable, and more than a tad unromantic, as evidenced by a clear violation of bathroom etiquette in each other's presence. Our day to day life is hardly the stuff that fills a Lifetime for Women Valentine Movie Marathon. But I love it anyway.

If you still hate Valentine's Day and argue we don't need a special day set aside to show love, I can only hope you feel that way because your life is absolutely overflowing with love already. But even if that's the case, what's the harm? I refuse to believe this is a case of "less is more." But if on the other hand you are feeling like I did for several decades- that love hurts, that love is something for others to enjoy, and that Valentine's Day is just a chocolate-coated reminder of it all, I understand. And my Valentine's wish for you is that you find the love you're looking for inside yourself.

Because mate or no mate, kids or no kids, it really can be a happy day.

Cross my heart.

Maternity Clothes

2011-02-07T17:10:00.000-08:00

They're frumpy, they're stretchy, they're gigantically ugly. But there comes a time (or two, or three) in every woman's life when she has no choice but to put on those awful maternity clothes. Well, I suppose you do have a choice but that involves wearing your husband's t-shirts with your stretchiest sweat pants and hibernating in your home for 9 months. Like I said, no choice.

With my first child, I went a good 26 weeks without having to pull that panel over my burgeoning belly. With #2, it happened a teensy bit earlier. And now, with baby #3 cooking away, I find myself digging those dreaded clothes out of the closet and at least contemplating putting them on even sooner.

I still remember my first maternity shopping experience. I'm not a huge shopper to begin with and I don't own a lot of name brand clothing, so I wasn't exactly thrilled about the prospect. But I do value how I look (and was also going through pregnancy in front of a camera lens as a TV news reporter) and figured it wouldn't be too hard to find stylish, reasonably priced maternity clothes. HA! No matter what store I was at, what rack I searched, It seemed the merchandise came in two varieties: muumuu and muumuuer. Not to mention the giant, flowery prints. It was like everything was designed for the star of TLC's "Pregnant at 70." Bleccch. And then there was the cost. You want me to pay what??? To wear this garbage for maybe four months??? Talk about morning sickness!

Over the course of two (and now a half) pregnancies, I've realized there are ways to survive pregnancy in a somewhat stylish state without breaking the bank. A few stores like Target and Old Navy do carry affordable maternity wear, although I personally have found the fit of both brands to be a little... odd...if you happen to be on the petite side, and my tall friends have had similar complaints.

One of my favorite discoveries is the Bella Band, a stretchy piece of fabric that you can wear over your unbuttoned pre-pregnancy pants. At about $20, it will not only help you extend the life of your regular wardrobe but it will also allow you to get back into it faster post-baby. Because nothing says "baby blues" like having to wear maternity clothes when you're NOT pregnant.

I've also learned to put aside my slight OCD issues surrounding other people's clothing when it comes to maternity wear. Ebay, craigslist, consignment stores and Mom-to-Mom sales are all wonderful places to find great deals, as most women are more than happy to part with their lots when the baby-making is done.

And that brings me to what I hope will become a new tradition among women: paying it forward. When you find out a friend is pregnant, why wait until the baby is almost out to shower her with gifts? Go into your closet, dig out those elastic waistband pants and blousy blouses, call up your other friends and ask them to do the same, then throw her a maternity shower. I guarantee it will be one of the most useful, generous gifts you can give. Heck, throw in a pedicure for her giant swollen feet and your pregnant friend will be SO grateful she'll name the baby after you, no matter what the gender!

A personal look at the Egyptian crisis

2011-01-29T18:34:00.000-08:00

No I don't live in a pyramid, and no I don't have a pet camel.

These were the answers I sometimes wished I could tatoo on my forehead as a child, given the inevitable barrage of silly questions that came every time I told someone my parents were from Egypt. Sure, it was cool to bring in papyrus drawings and little alabaster sphinxes for Show-and-Tell, but for most of my childhood being Egyptian felt like an annoyance bordering on a burden. I secretly wished my parents were from the Upper MIdwest and not Upper Egypt. I didn't want to be "exotic" or "foreign." I didn't want to be different.

Most days, I didn't feel very Egyptian until my parents came home. While at school or playing with friends, I could convince myself I was just as American as they were. Sure, I didn't have that nice, shiny, straight hair, but I had Cabbage Patch Dolls and ate Twinkies just like everyone else.

Sundays, however, were a different story. We went to our Egyptian church for our hours (yes, plural!) long mass, then Sunday School, then out to lunch with our Egyptian friends, followed by and Egyptian dinner with our Egyptian family. I was torn between embracing the familiar sounds, smells and tastes of that world and craving the other. It was baklava vs. Barbies and the winner was unclear.

My mom was a university professor and since she had summers off we spent many of them in Egypt, with my brother and I complaining and whining most of the 10+ hour trip over. In our petulant tween and teenage years, we were simply not able to appreciate what an amazing opportunity it was. We wanted to swim in our backyard pool, not in the Red Sea. We preferred modern wonders (like Pong on the Atari) over ancient ruins. We just wanted to be like all our friends. We just wanted to be "normal."

Somewhere between college and grad school I finally came to the conclusion that hailing from Egypt was actually kind of cool. I was fortunate enough to live and work in Europe for a time and took advantage of the proximity to visit the Motherland on my own on several occasions. But it was still just that: my mother's (and father's) land. Not mine.

I guess it ultimately took 37 years and an international geopolitical crisis for me to fully embrace Egypt as a piece of myself. As the protests began last week, I found myself simultaneously unable to turn away and yet scared to watch. As I sit on my comfortable couch in my comfortable house watching the unrest (I love that word, it makes it sound like just a bad night's sleep) unfold, it occurs to me that one decision on the part of my parents, one lucky move is all that separates me from the desperate, frustrated masses. With eyes that look just like mine, they are crying for what I have been fortunate enough to enjoy my entire life. I fear for my family there, for their safety, for their very survival, for the survival of the entire country. Will I ever be able to take my children there? Will my parents ever return to the place they loved enough to leave? It comes down to this: if Egypt is in crisis, then so am I.

One member of my family in Cairo says he'll never leave. He says this is the moment to fight for his country, to fight for what he deserves. And he's right- I just can't wrap my brain around why I never had to fight. There but for the grace of God.

Egypt's next chapter is being written before our eyes. I hope that when we look back on this period, it will one day be the country's proudest hour. Until then, all I can do is pray in words from the Bible that have never made more sense:

"Blessed be Egypt, MY people."

A letter to welcome a new family member

2011-01-12T07:08:00.000-08:00

I knew you were there.

This isn't my first or even second time around this crazy, wonderful, unbelievable ride, and I certainly didn't need a little plus sign on a stick to tell me you were there. I knew it. It was that old familiar feeling, the uncomfortable queasiness that is definitely NOT from bad scallops or one glass of wine too many or anything else... no, it's a feeling all its own. And it's undeniable. But I did deny it, and I'm sorry for that.

For about 3 weeks, I knew you were there and pretended you weren't. It was all a little bit shocking, as we were still in the middle of that "Will we or won't we have three?" conversation (though we both knew the answer) and I don't think I handled it very well. Please don't be upset, it's not that I wasn't happy or excited or anything like that- I was just scared.

Scared of what? Pretty much everything. Scared I don't know what I'm doing, scared I'll scar you for life with something I did or didn't say or do, scared that 3 carseats won't fit in my backseat, scared of rocking the nicely sailing boat that is our current family life, scared I won't be able to give you and your siblings the time and attention you need and deserve, scared my going-to-work-in-a-fancy-suit days not to mention my going-to-the-beach-in-a-two-piece-bathing-suit days may be gone forever, scared I'll never get out of this house again. Just plain scared.

And then I heard it.

The unmistakable sound of your heart, that thump-thump-thump-thump beating so much faster than my own, and I realized maybe I'm not the only one who's scared. Maybe you're scared of what you've gotten yourself into. Scared of who you've gotten yourself into. Scared about those two lovable but loud little rugrats who seem to be in constant motion. Scared of what kind of life you'll find yourself in when you leave the cozy confines of your current inn. Just plain scared.

So let's be scared together. Let's face it, we're going to be doing pretty much everything together for the next few months, so we'd best team up. We can do this little one, that much I promise.

And I promise you that this time, I'll try not to complain quite as much about the swollen feet, the backaches and the other unmentionables. (If at all possible, I'd really appreciate it if you could not try to kick your way out via my ribs as was the case with your siblings, but I know your current floorplan is somewhat limited.) I promise to slow down a little bit and really try to savor what's happening when it's happening, instead of always reaching for what's ahead or dwelling on what's behind.

But most of all, I can promise you love. Love that is sometimes messy, never perfect but always unconditional.

I heard your heartbeat and I hope you can hear mine too, because I think we're both saying the same thing: Love me. Maybe I'm not what you expected, but love me anyway.

More than anything, it was that little thump-thump-thump-thump that I recognized right away. It's the song that's always been in my heart.

I knew you were there.

Baby #3 is due in mid June 2011.

Product Review- Kyocera Ceramic Knife

2011-01-03T18:24:00.001-08:00

This is the first of my new weekly segments with Marino and the Morning Crew on WHMI 93.5FM in Livingston County. This week we're talking about a product I got for Christmas and have become slightly obsessed with- the Kyocera Ceramic Knife (http://www.kyoceraadvancedceramics.com/).

In the months leading up to Christmas I saw the infomercial dozens of times... I admit, I got completely sucked in by the slicing and dicing action. Now, I know what you're thinking, this sounds a whole lot like the Ginsu knives of days past! But after reading several reviews, and then seeing that Oprah picked it as one of her "Favorite Things" this year I figured it must be legit. Santa clearly agreed, as I found the 5.5 inch "Santoku" and the 3 inch paring knife under the tree!''

I've been using them for about 2 weeks now and I can honestly say these are the best knives I've ever had. At first glance, they don't even look real- in fact, they look like the knife in my kids' play kitchen! When you pick it up it doesn't feel real- it's incredibly lightweight and easy to handle. But I'm telling you, that blade makes chopping even the toughest veggies (I used it on a raw butternut squash tonight) a cinch.

If your New Year's resolution involves healthier eating it's very likely you're going to be doing a lot more cooking, and a good knife will go a long way. Don't be afraid to use a very sharp knife- any chef will tell you it's far safer than a dull one. These ceramic knives are relatively inexpensive and if they last half as long as the infomercial claims you'll more than get your money's worth!

Happy chopping!

Starting 2011 on a sad note: coping with the loss of a pet

2011-01-01T04:38:00.000-08:00

Tigger and Pooh, December 1997

It was only supposed to be a weeklong fling.

It was the fall of 1997 and I was the new teacher on the block at a prestigious Southern private school. One day over lunch I happened to mention my affinity for the feline persuasion. Shortly after, a colleague asked if I'd mind cat sitting her two tabbies when her highly allergic boyfriend came to visit.

"Why not?" I told her. After all, I was feeling quite grownup those days. I had my first real job and my first real apartment (Look Ma, no roommates!). Surely I could handle the responsibility of a weekend with two furry friends. I expected they might scratch my furniture, and that was OK. I figured they might have an accident at some point, but that was not a problem. I bought food, litter boxes, toys and scratching posts. I was fully prepared for those cats. Just not prepared to fall in love with them.

But that's exactly what happened, and when they went back to their owner my "big girl" apartment suddenly felt hollow and empty. Fortunately, love was on our side and the owner's allergic boyfriend quickly became the allergic fiance. And Tigger, Pooh and I instantly became a family.

They were young, frisky, and eager to assert their independence, and so was I. Together we spent two years in Chattanooga, TN and I think we all helped each other grow up a bit. They gave me something to come home to in that unfamiliar, somewhat lonely town. I had a sense of belonging, or at least of someone(s) belonging to me. And while the three of us spent many a Saturday night curled up together on the couch watching movies (OK, it was figure skating), and I knew full well that I was just a few hairballs short of Crazy Cat Lady status, life with my girls was very good.

The next few years were tumultuous, bringing drastic changes in time zones, careers, relationships and more. Through it all, my girls stuck with me. At times they seemed restless, ornery, frustrated, and so was I. But when a tall, fair and handsome man walked into our lives, they fell instantly in love, and so did I.

Our family grew, and a few years later grew again. At first the cats, my original "babies," weren't quite sure what to make of the wriggling, noisy little bundle we brought home. They were confused, disoriented, out of their element, and so was I. But eventually we all let instinct take over and found our comfort zones. For me, that meant cuddling my baby boy most of the day and night. For the cats, that meant spending most of the day under my bed, then peeking out to see if the coast was clear for cuddling to make sure I didn't forget who they were.

We lost our sweet Tigger to kidney disease in the summer of 2008. Our little boy was about to turn one and was blissfully too young to have any idea what was happening. I envied his innocence and cried myself to sleep for weeks. Tigger had always been the outgoing, happy-go-lucky one, while her sister was the standoffish, silent diva. But in Tigger's absence, Pooh seemed to understand we needed a little more meow in our home and stepped up to the plate.

Pooh, December 2010

Pooh was with us until a just a few days ago, when heart disease took its toll. It just doesn't seem possible that both my girls are now gone- I keep expecting to see a furry head pop around the corner or feel a paw poke tentatively at my lap. It's hard to imagine that the loss of two such small creatures can create such an immense void in our home, in our lives, and in our hearts. Those cats helped usher in a new era in my life, so perhaps it's only fitting that I'm now beginning a new year, a new decade without them.

As is often the case with cats, the end came quickly with both our girls. One minute they were fine, the next clearly not. In those last moments, they gave out an unfamiliar, painful cry and could only be comforted by the touch of those they loved. And tonight, so will I.

A Tropical Christmas Gift

2010-12-21T11:18:00.000-08:00

For the past two years, my husband and I have given each other (and our kids) a very special early Christmas present: a few weeks before Christmas, we get the heck out of town.

Don't get me wrong, I love Christmas almost as much as our toddlers, but now that the Holiday Season seems to begin around Arbor Day even I start to feel the Holiday Spirit begin to turn into Holiday Overload bordering on Holiday AHHHHH! by about the second week of December. Leaving for a week removes us temporarily from the decked halls and we come back just in time to enjoy the final buildup to big day. And did I mention we escape to a beautiful tropical island?

We book the trip early in the spring and look forward to it as the seasons change from summer to fall and to the unspeakable horror that (in my book) is Michigan winter. This year in the weeks leading up to our trip, our 3-year-old was almost as excited as we were, as he's become quite a water lover and couldn't wait to suit up and get his little self soaking wet.

My husband, who happens to be a 3-year-old at heart, couldn't wait to get in there with him. The two of them spent the better part of the week running in and out of the surf, jumping in the waves and splashing through the resort's many pools. Even our baby girl got in on the action, dipping her tiny toes in the water with squeals of delight.

I, however, mostly stayed dry, either watching the action from a not too distant lounge chair or supervising the sandcastle building action on terra somewhat firma. It's not that I don't love to swim- in fact, quite the opposite. I grew up with a pool right in the backyard and spent entire summers in the water, practically growing fins by the time Labor Day rolled around. The ideal summer wardrobe alternated between only two articles of clothing: pajamas and a bathing suit, and sleeping in the latter was not out of the question.

But something's changed since the kids came along. For me, swimming with a 3-year-old and an 18-month-old bares very little resemblance to the carefree, easy going activity I've always loved. Between the gallons of sunscreen, the flotation devices, the swim diapers, the toys, the snacks, and the sippy cups, just getting to the pool practically requires a sherpa. Then there's the stress of it all. Maybe it's the news reporter in me, having covered a few tragedies too many, or maybe it's just the overprotective Mother Hen instinct, but I simply can not let my guard down enough to enjoy the experience. The weight of keeping those two precious bundles afloat is enough to sink my spirits completely. So right now I choose to sit it out, attempting to drown my guilty conscience with a fruity tropical drink.

When you love something dearly the way I've always loved to swim, you tend to assume you will love sharing it and doing it with your children as well, but I'm learning reality is not always on board with that plan. In time, I know the kids will learn to swim and that the family water experience won't always leave me feeling all washed up. But until that happens I'm also learning to be OK with keeping the enjoyment of some experiences all to myself without slapping the scarlet G for guilt on the front of my bathing suit.

The other night at dinner, my husband I were reminiscing about the trip. "What was your favorite moment?" he asked.

I hesitated and had to bite my tongue. I really wanted to tell him it involved family bonding on the beach, or holding hands and watching the sunset over the water, or sharing laughs with our dear friends over cocktails and dinner.

Sure, those were magical moments, memories I'll always cherish, but if I'm going to be completely honest, totally candid, they don't quite float to to the top of the list.

No, my favorite part of our family vacation was the gift I gave myself. One sunny, warm afternoon when everyone had slipped into a post-lunch buffet nap/coma, I suited up, grabbed my towel, snuck out of the room and headed over to the pool. As I slipped into the water I feared the feelings might be gone forever, but after a few awkward splashes it was as effortless as I remembered. Back and forth I swam, letting the cool water take over and do its thing. I don't know how long it lasted, but it was long enough. Because for a moment suspended in crystal clear water and now cemented in my mind, I remembered how it felt to be utterly weightless and wonderfully free.

Merry Christmas to me.

Packing for Vacation

2010-12-08T03:36:00.000-08:00

My dad always used to say that he knew he was on vacation when he could finally take off his watch and leave it off. A busy doctor accustomed to working long shifts and being paged back to the hospital at all hours of the day and night, it usually took him several days to shake the work world and really and truly unwind. But sure enough, after a few walks on the beach and a few meals by the pool (a few beers never hurt, either) we'd see it: the watch parked next to the hotel bathroom sink. He didn't need to look at his watch to know what time it was: relax o'clock.

For me, vacation is all about the things that never even make it into the suitcase. If you could see into my bedroom right now (which I'm hoping you can't, that's just creepy) you'd probably be wondering what exactly didn't make it in, given the giant, bulging bag we'll be hauling to the airport. Not surprisingly, since we are traveling with our two young kids, my own possessions possess very little of the space inside that bag. I've spent the better part of a week packing diapers, wipes, swim diapers, clothes, toys, books, sippy cups, toys, bibs, toys, snacks and toys for two tots to take to the beach. Did I mention the toys? I think they are actually multiplying in the bag at this moment... I'm pretty sure I saw Thomas the Tank Engine making eyes at a Beanie Baby Bear as I attempted to force the zipper shut.

Still, despite the voluminous nature of the bag there are a few deliberate omissions. My trusty blowdryer and flatiron will not be making the trip south. I'll be subjecting an entire island nation to my giant, frizzy, unruly curls, with a mind of their own, which may explain any strange weather patterns that move through over the next 7 days.

Also not joining us: the laptop. And given that my phone could not be less "smart" that means no internet access for a week (Facebook friends, please pray for me). The gadgets and gizmos will stay home, and hopefully after a week we'll all be recharged with enough juice to get through the hustle and bustle that's still to come.

Given the exorbitant luggage fees the airlines are now charging, I thought it would be wise to leave some of my emotional baggage at home as well. That means I'm not bringing my nearly ever-present Mommy Guilt (the large, slightly haggard bag nagging "Why haven't I done enough to feed their minds, bodies, and spirits today? Have I scarred them emotionally forever with whatever decision I did or didn't make?), the Wife Guilt ("Did I even talk to my husband today about anything that didn't come out of a child's mouth or other orifice?"), the Daughter Guilt ("Maybe if I had just skipped that nap, you know the only one I've had in the past month, I could have made time to go visit my parents before we left?") and the Holiday Guilt ("I'm sure I could make things MORE festive if I just tried a little harder...").

There's no space in our luggage for my ongoing frustration over the lack of Me Time ("All I wanted was 1 freaking hour to get a pedicure before we left, is that seriously too much too ask?"), my neurotic fears ("But we can't go because something bad might happen while we're gone!") and my never ending quest for the "perfect" job that will provide personal and professional satisfaction and a pleasing work-life balance ("HA HA HA HA HA!!!"- that's the sound of the universe laughing its head off at me, in case you were wondering). Nope, no room.

So pat me down and scan me up. It's time to vacate, time for a change of mental and physical scenery. Yes, it's just a week and at the end of it we'll have to return to reality, but I'm praying I'll come home with a bag full of energy and optimism, or at the very least a nice tan.

And maybe, just maybe while we're there I'll find the strength to let go of everything, including my watch.

Thanksgiving Confessions

2010-11-23T11:49:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving is upon us and the nation is preparing to loosen its collective belt. Yes, it's the holiday where friends and family gather to feast on heaping helpings of turkey with all the trimmings. They will stuff themselves with stuffing, mash as many mashed potatoes as possible into each mouthful, and slice up second (and third, maybe fourth in my family!) servings of the pie. And I will make myself a small, sensible plate.

People across the country see the day as the single biggest pigout of the year. A day to throw calorie counting caution to the wind and trade the skinny jeans for turkey pants. An all-you-can-eat extravaganza of the biggest kind. But for me, it's just another day to eat small, sensible portions.

Because that's just what I do.

Because I am a small, sensible person.

Which sometimes makes me feel like a big, huge bore.

Whether it's Thanksgiving, Christmas, Arbor Day, my birthday, or a fancy meal out I am not one to overindulge. Dressing on the side. Baked, not fried. Steamed veggies if available. One small, sensible glass of wine. A few small, sensible bites of dessert shared with my husband. BO-ring.

And it doesn't end there. I don't stay out past my bedtime. I rarely miss an early morning workout. (Have you crossed me off your party list yet?) Along with small and sensible, I am also sometimes described with terms like "dependable" and "reliable." Ooh, fun stuff.

It hasn't always been that way. I spent most of my childhood and adolescence neither small nor sensible. The child of Egyptian parents, I grew up in a culture where food is used as an expression of pretty much everything: gratitude, hospitality, guilt, sadness, you name it, we eat it on a big platter garnished with olives and a side of hummus. Add to that the loneliness of being a not particularly popular, latchkey kid, and I fed my late afternoon loneliness with a daily peanut butter and honey sandwich and whatever else I could find in the cupboard.

Never a slim child, by middle school I was pudgy. By high school, pudgier still. By college, my hair and my waistline had both expanded to ridiculous proportions. (A health condition and a year in France surrounded by the world's finest pastries were partly to blame.. at least for the pounds. There is no excuse for my hair.) But somewhere over the years that followed I started to take control.

First I tackled the food end of the scale (so to speak). I became a vegetarian and I'd be lying if I said the decision wasn't in part a reaction to the giant plates of meat shoved at me for the first two decades of my life. I started reading labels, cut out the junk, and discovered the joy of cooking with fresh, seasonal ingredients.

A passion for exercise came next. I got hooked on step aerobics in the early 90s, became a gym rat shortly after, and finally discovered running while searching out some much needed grad school stress relief. Through a combination of my two new loves, fitness and nutrition, I managed to drop the weight, get in shape, and aside from two pregnancies (where I gained a small, sensible 20-25 pounds) that's where I've stayed.

So what's the problem? Well, sometimes when you close a door, when you lock it tightly and barricade it shut, the effort of holding it closed begins to consume you. Though my weight has barely budged in over a decade (and I don't even own a scale) I devote enormous amounts of subconscious energy to thinking about gaining weight. I don't count calories or fat grams because I don't have to. There's an invisible line in the sand that my brain just won't let me cross. Not even on Thanksgiving. The little devil on one shoulder says "Go ahead, have some more!" but it falls on deaf ears. Though it's not realistic, in my mind, overindulging at Thanksgiving would just open up the floodgates and reverse everything I've worked so hard for. You can take the pudgy girl out of her husky pants, but you can't ever make her feel at home in a small, sensible shape.

Don't get me wrong, I'm proud of what I've achieved and the healthy lifestyle I'm working hard to maintain for our family. I know we're living in a time of skyrocketing obesity and diabetes rates and I want no part of that. My son could eat fruit until the end of time and one of my little girl's first words was actually "broccoli." Without being too militant about it (I hope) we're a whole grain, non-processed, no fast food, homecooked meals 6 out of 7 days/week kind of a household, and I want to keep it that way. I just wish I personally knew how to dial it back a little for a holiday.

I think there was a time when I was a lot of fun. Yes, that's me in the orange sequined dress, starring in a late night show at the Caribbean resort where I worked. Dare I say it, I was even a bit wild. I was also not a mom. And since that major life change, I've felt the lock in the door turn even more tightly. I feel like now that I have kids, I have a responsibility not just to myself but to them to keep the "bad stuff" away, to stay in control at all times.

But sometimes I wonder what it would feel like to let my hair down (which of course I cut into a short, sensible bob years ago) and just go a little bit crazy. I wonder if with all my sense and sensibility I've lost touch with my senses. I wonder if this Thanksgiving, I could dare to do something different. I wonder if I could show my kids another side, if I could teach them that letting go on special occasions can be... special.

Maybe this year I'll try. Maybe I'll surprise you. Maybe I'll surprise myself. In even just the smallest, most sensible way.

"The Sound Of Music"- The Soundtrack of Childhood

2010-11-17T16:53:00.000-08:00

It's funny how you can't wait for your kids to say "Mama." You coax them constantly to produce those two syllables, and then when they finally do and you eventually get to the point where you wish that every once in a while they'd say something else.

I have two little ones who seem to call out "Mama!" (or something similar like "Mom!" or "Mommy" or "I need YOOOOOUUUU!!") all day long, and often into the night, and right back into the early morning hours.

When I was their age, I was probably just as likely to call out "Teta" as "Mama." That's the Egyptian word for "Grandma," which may seem like an unusual thing to call the Polish nanny who lived with us when I was a child, but she was anything but usual. She was the widow of an Egyptian man, the mother of 5 (including a very close Egyptian family friend, which is how she came to be with us), real-life "teta" to 21 grandchildren and 9 great grandchildren. An amazing woman we were blessed to have in our home for several years and in our lives until her passing just a few months ago.

Teta was a marvel, to put it mildly. She spoke more languages than a diplomat and was as devout as any religious figure. Well into her 7th decade she sewed dresses for me and my brigade of dolls with fingers flying at lightning speed. She introduced me to the delicious crunch of steaming hot homemade potato pancakes topped with cool sour cream and applesauce. She taught me the simple power of praying the rosary. I didn't find out until after she died, but as a young girl she survived being held prisoner of war when the Germans invaded Austria, never to speak of the experience again.

One day circa 1978-ish, she decided to take me and my brother to the zoo, and nothing- not the lack of a driver's license or the scarcity of public transportation in the Motor City was going stop her from making it happen. We walked 2 miles before we found a bus stop, rode for over an hour, and on the way back she stopped to pick grapeleaves off a vine on the side of the road for dinner. It was classic Teta.

But there's one thing I remember most of all about our beloved Teta. Every year, around this time of year, she would pull her chair up close to the TV, closer each time as her eyesight faded. "Mon Mon!" she would call out in her deep, heavily accented voice, "Come see! The Zonc of Moosic!"

Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music

And there we'd sit watching what became my favorite movie- The Sound of Music. Together we'd see the hills come alive, laugh at the exploits of the Von Trapp children, hum "Edelweiss" along with the gang. In the scene where Maria and the Captain finally wed, Teta would turn to me and say "Mon Mon! One day you will have a bootiful wedding like this!" It took almost 30 years but I'm happy to say she was right, and she was there to see it happen (I'm also happy no one was singing "How do you solve a problem like Mona?" as I walked down the aisle.)

Around the time I started school full-time, Teta left us and went back to her own home. Though she still visited often, I missed her dearly and found little comfort in the string of college and high school babysitters who took her place. To curb the sadness I came up with a fantasy that stuck around for many years: I imagined that every time the doorbell rang, it was Maria Von Trapp from the Sound of Music (or perhaps a slightly more modern version) showing up to be our Governess. No, I didn't want her to fall in love with my dad or take my mom's place, I just wanted her around on a part-time basis to fill the lonely hours after school, someone to keep me company on the weekends when everyone in our house seemed so busy with their own pursuits.

Whenever the loneliness really started to take over, I'd slip into my little Austrian musical fantasy world to sing and dance the pain away. Sometimes I was Gretl, the baby of the family, too young to stay up for the fancy dinner party. Sometimes I was 16 going on 17, with a schoolgirl crush on a boy named Rolf (of course in my fantasy he didn't turn out to be a Nazi). If I could have, I would have crossed the Alps on foot to somehow make it come true. "The Zonc of Moosic" was always calling out to me, always with a heavy Polish accent. I watched the movie whenever it was on, but it just wasn't the same without Teta.

I spent my junior year in college living in Paris and couldn't pass up the opportunity to get that close to the Promised Land.

Salzburg, Austria 1992

Yes, I shelled out for the deluxe Sound of Music Tour in Austria. We danced around the famous gazebo, and ran around the fountain singing "Doe a deer" (you can stop laughing at my giant, triangular hair now, thank you very much). I wanted to stay forever, except that Maria was still nowhere to be found. It was a bittersweet delight.

This year The Sound of Music celebrates its 45th anniversary. I watched the cast reunite on Oprah with great anticipation. I admit to getting a bit misty eyed seeing the Von Trapp children all grown up, amazed that they dared to deviate from the fantasy frozen in my head. But as they showed clip after clip from the movie, I realized it no longer made me sad, no longer left me longing to escape my current life.

I'll always cherish that movie and will no doubt torture my kids into watching it with me. And I'll always hear a loving but firm Polish voice calling me towards it. But now, I've got a new "Sound of Music" in my life, a different song in my heart.

It calls out "Mama" all day long.

Falling Down And Getting Back Up

2010-11-03T07:24:00.000-07:00

She bends her legs, grunts, uses every bit of strength in her tiny body and pulls herself up to standing.

The grin that follows says it all: triumphant! So proud of herself, she looks around to see who might be watching. "Check me out! Look what I've done! Have you ever seen anything so impressive?" she seems to say.

As quickly as it happened, it's over. The little legs give out, she topples down onto her bottom, and giggles hysterically.

And then she does it all over again.

There's nothing much more entertaining than watching children learn to stand, or to be more exact, watching them fall. I marvel as I see my baby girl take those first tentative steps toward taking steps, and wish I could be more like her.

For a baby, not only is falling down not a big deal, it's downright enjoyable. In a baby's eyes, falling down is just part of the adventure, another part of the cycle. For babies, failure to stand doesn't translate to failure. Failure as we know it doesn't even exist. (It also doesn't hurt that everyone watching applauds the effort and encourages another attempt.)

At some point that changes. I can already see it beginning to happen with my 3-year-old, as frustration creeps in and tries to block his best efforts. He stacks his Legos into a tower but when it comes crashing down he no longer finds it funny, and needs to be reminded (through his tears and tantrums) that he can in fact put it back together, if he'll just try again.

I've had a few setbacks recently, I've taken a few falls both professionally and personally. There was the job that was offered that I couldn't take. Another job I dreamed of that was never even offered. The phone call I waited for that never came. Frustrations with a family member that don't seem to be easing up. Surprising behavior from someone I thought was a friend. With each stumble, it's been feeling harder and harder to get back up and start over again. I like to think of myself as a positive person, I like to believe I've learned how to pull myself back up when need be. But right now it's a struggle. I find myself thinking it's easier to just sit still rather than risk another fall.

As we get older, falling down seems to become so much more painful, and getting back up so much more of an effort. Is the ground really that much further away? Or do we just know too much about the risks of what lurks below?

I've never been one who suffered from a fear of failure, or someone who shied away from an opportunity. I don't want to start now- what message would that send to my kids? It's time to get back up, to focus on standing without overthinking the whole act.

So as I watch my little one on a seemingly endless loop of scrambling to her feet, tumbling down, laughing it off and starting over, I make a promise to that sweet baby girl:

I will hold your hand and help you to stand, I will try to always be there to cushion your fall, if you will keep teaching me how to get back up.

Routines

2010-10-27T17:42:00.000-07:00

The infamous cup.

It's just a cup. Now breathe.

That's what I tell myself four times a day, as I scrub out a certain little red sippy cup with flowers on the side. It's just a cup. Keep breathing.

It's not a symbol of what my life has become, it's not a force of evil in the world, it's not something I want to throw against the wall. Much. It's just a cup. So relax.

But I can't relax, because it's the only cup my little girl will drink her milk out of (yes, I realize I am indulging this particular bit of pickiness on her part but you pick your battles, and no, I can't find another cup like it because believe me, if I could I would buy 37 of them), so I have to keep it clean, I have to keep scrubbing it out. Over and over. All day long. Week after week. Which turns into months. And then I close my eyes and see myself 30 years from now, gray haired and wrinkly and still standing over the sink scrubbing out this stupid cup which is of course ridiculous because by then my baby girl will be 31 and if she's still living at home and drinking out of a sippy cup we have big issues and now I'm feeling dizzy so I really need to just breathe....

It's just a cup.

But it's also a constant reminder of the routine that has taken over my life. And just how routine that routine can sometimes feel.

Experts tell us that routines are good, even essential, for kids. The predicability of a routine (bath, bottle, bed for babies; dinner, homework, family time for older kids, etc) teaches kids about expectations and outcomes, and helps them build confidence and a sense of security while reducing anxiety. Routines are healthy, routines are important. And sometimes routines make me want to throw up.

Our two kids are now 3 years and 16 months old and it's hard to argue with the results of the structure and routines we've provided them with. They eat well, play well, and sleep well, and I'm sure much of that is due to the fact that those things happen on cue at the same time almost every day. Sure, there are exceptions and adjustments for special occasions, but for the most part we stick to the routine.

Routines are definitely not something that were part of my own childhood. With 2 busy, working parents my brother and I were often left to fend for ourselves with a teenage babysitter who occasionally glanced up from watching General Hospital to make sure we didn't climb out any windows. Aside from church on Sunday, our lives didn't have a whole lot of structure. And that was OK with me.

As it turned out, I never became a big planner or or one to stick to a firm routine, and working in TV news fed my unstructured side perfectly. From the sublime (helping bring injustices to light) to the ridiculous (I once covered the rescue of 7 ducks from a sewer), every day was different (often changing in the middle of the day), I never knew what to expect walking in the door. And that was more than OK with me.

But balancing that routine with family life proved untenable for me. I spent a difficult year after our first child was born trying to prove I really could have it all, really could do it all. In reality working weekend nights and swing shifts so we could afford a nanny, never having time off with my husband, prepping dinner in the dark at 6am, and trying to cram all my Mommy Moments into 48 hours (along with cleaning the house, visiting my parents, and going to the grocery store) was slowly sucking the life out of my life. It took a confession to my husband- that I sometimes fantasized about having to have my appendix removed or a minor car accident so I could get some rest- to make me realize this was not at all OK with me anymore.

Shortly before our second child was born I made the decision to leave the full-time work world. Over lunch with one of my stay at home mom neighbors I attempted to share my fears about the transition but found myself running into a mental wall. "But you'll be so busy running after two kids!" she insisted. I told her I honestly worried about the monotonous nature of life with two kids might turn my brain (what was left of it) to mush. I've barely heard a word from her since.

Now, I've been home for 17 months and life has never been more routine. Make breakfast, clean up breakfast. Make lunch, clean up lunch. Nap time. Laundry time. Snack time. Dinner time. Bed time. Fill the sippy cup, scrub the sippy cup. Lather, rinse, repeat. Yes, our days are filled with love and laughter, giggles and bubbles, trips to the park and the zoo and all sorts of different adventures. But there's also a whole lot of the same.

Something has to change, and I'm not just talking about the sippy cup. Somewhere between "footloose and fancy free" and "If it's Tuesday it must be time to clean the toilets" there must be a middle ground. I am finding myself bored and restless, in need of a challenge, but lacking the time or energy to even begin to figure out what that might be. The kids need their routine, and I'll do everything in my power to keep them in it, but I need more as well. Admitting that may make me less of a mom in the eyes of some, but it makes me more of myself in my own and that's all that matters.

I don't know what the solution is yet, but I'm committed to finding it. Somewhere there must be a routine that will work for all of us, at least most of the time. Somehow, the (sippy) cup can be half-full again.

Just One Of Those Days

2010-10-13T11:43:00.000-07:00

Noah and Cecilia in Non-Grump Mode

It was just one of those days.

One of those days when the occupants of the house included a grumpy preschooler, a grumpier baby and the grumpiest mom. It seemed we had all woken up on the wrong side of the bed (or crib). At least one of us was sleep-deprived (gotta love working nights), another was cutting a tooth, and the third, well, he's 3, so enough said. Together, our grumpy trio grumped through the day, feeding off each others negative energy like a child (at least my child) tears through Goldfish crackers. By mid-morning we could have hung a sign outside designating our house as Tears R Us. Most of lunch ended up being thrown under the table, which is also where I considered throwing myself at several points. By naptime it was all I could do not to scream "GO TO SLEEP, #$%& it!!!" but somehow managed to tuck them both in with a story, a kiss, and a weak, shaky "Sweet dreams."

Finally, a break.

It lasted about 6 minutes.

The little angel who naps 3 hours/day and sleeps 12 hours/night (yes, I know- we are spoiled) decided to Just Say No to naptime. Repeatedly. And loudly. I calmed her down and gently placed her back in the crib. Nap, Take 2.

This time, it lasted about 6 seconds.

After a seemingly interminable stretch of rocking, back rubbing, singing and shushing, we had a breakthrough. Nap, Take 3. I tiptoed backwards out of the room, quietly opened the door and was instantly greeted by shrieks of "MAMA!!!!! I HAVE TO GO POOPOO!!!!" from the room next door.

Scream went the baby! Scream went her brother! RUN FAR AWAY! went the little voice in my head.

Noah's current favorite nap location

Another 20 minutes and the screams had been calmed, the poop had been pooped, and the now relieved preschooler was tucked back on the floor. Yes, the floor- it's where he currently insists on napping. Like I said, he's 3.

Baby, however, was adhering to the "3 strikes and you're out of the crib" rule. In her mind, there was no going back.

I tearfully stood there holding her, unable to move. I was so very, very tired, so thoroughly in need of a little downtime, a few peaceful minutes with no one pulling at one of my appendages. Defeated, depressed, and downtrodden, I carried her to my room, crept into bed, and held that little one to my chest. Within 2 minutes we were both sound asleep.

Seems like only yesterday

My little baby girl is now almost 16 months old. Though I still call her a baby (and in my heart she will always remain my baby), I can see clearly that she no longer is. At some point I blinked and she turned into a talking, almost walking, highly opinionated little person. When awake, she's a constant ball of motion, but yesterday I got to once again feel her at rest. It had been months since I held her sleepy little form in my arms and felt her heartbeat next to mine, her little chest rising and falling against my own.

I only slept for a few minutes, as her jerky little sleepy twitches woke me with a start. But for a time I wished could have gone on and on I breathed in her sweet smell, ran my fingers through her hair, and just held on to that precious baby girl. It was the best non-nap I've ever had.

Every parent reaches his or her breaking point, and every parent deserves a break. The lucky ones have a network of grandparents, friends, and babysitters at the ready to provide that much needed pause. The rest of us find ourselves waiting (sometimes desperately) for that moment of solitude that with kids becomes so elusive (remember when going to the bathroom was a private affair?).

But sometimes when the unexpected happens (as it so often does), it helps to remember that what we so desperately crave can be found in places we might not usually think to look. It happened to me. I found peace, comfort and strength in a non-nap with a wriggly, wiggly non-baby.

It was just one of those days.

Parenting and social networking

2010-09-27T13:09:00.000-07:00

There's no use beating around the bush, so I'll just come right out and say it: I spend a lot of time on Facebook. This will not be shocking to most of you, who are my Facebook friends (Hi, by the way) and are reading this via an update on my Facebook page, since you also spend a lot of time on Facebook. Let's face it, social networking is slowly taking over the world. It has changed everything from pop culture to corporate culture and it's certainly having an influence on parenting. We're now sharing the scores of soccer games via mobile updates and posting our albums of memories online for all (of our friends, and potentially friends of our friends depending on our account settings) to share But I've noticed that not everyone Facebook parents in the same way, not even on the same day. So I've taken the liberty of putting together a list of some of the types and styles of parents you might find in your friend list:

1. Super Moms. They tend to post in the very early hours of the morning ("14 mile workout done, now on to whip up a fresh veggie strata before taking the kids to Japanese class! Growing my own hydroponic produce saves soooooo much time! Konichiwa, friends!") or very late at night ("What a day!!! Had to finish sanding and varnishing the scenery for the preschool play before work and was late for my big lunch meeting! Who knew 3 former presidents could get so snippy?") The Super Moms make me laugh, mostly because I'm completely certain life on the other side of the status update is not nearly as perfect as it may seem. Unfortunately, the Super Moms seem to be coming at parenthood from a competitive (albeit passive aggressive) place, which can bring out the insecurities (and the claws) in the best of us. I try to hold back, but sometimes I admit to firing back out of spite with a Slacker Mom comment of my own ("Baby is eating 3-day old peas coated with dirt off the floor. Bonus: extra fiber!" or "Someone remind me, is letting your child run with a staple gun also a no-no, or is it just scissors?").

2. Way TMI Moms. I'm pretty sure Mark Zuckerberg never imagined the level of sharing his social network would create, but for some reason this group feels the need to let it ALL out. "Send good thoughts our way- Hubby's finally having that hemorrhoid procedure today and that sucker is the size of a concord grape!" AHHHH! STOP! And for the love of all that is private, step away from the Mobile Uploads! Boundaries, my friends. We all need them, even on Facebook.

3. New Moms. As new of a parent as you might be, and as lost as you may feel someone out there is newer and lost-er. It's all a matter of perspective. So when New Mom posts that she's packing up to take her 8-week-old baby to the park for the first time and is terrified, go ahead comment. New Mom will benefit from your experience, and you will benefit from not feeling like such a clueless moron for 3 seconds of your day. And when New Mom complains about never being able to get anything done, despite the fact she has just 1 child... who naps... you will want to yell, "Seriously???" but hold back, because we have all been there, and done that. Which brings me to...

4. BTDT Moms. They have Been There, Done That, and the phrase tends to dominate their comments. Your post that your baby puked on your favorite suit as you were rushing to work. "Yup, been there, done that." Up all night with a feverish child. "Been there, done that, still doing that 10 years later!" Your toddler painted some lovely "artwork" on the bathroom wall while making a "deposit" on the potty? "Been there, done that, buy stock in Clorox ASAP." That's the amazing thing about parenthood: no matter how stressful, how disgusting, how difficult it gets (and it certainly does), all those who went before us are proof that it is completely survivable.

5. The Sanctimommies. They have a strong opinion on every aspect of raising a child, with supporting evidence and a citation from a parenting book to back it up. They are preachy, preachy, preachy and judgy, judgy, judgy. Most of the time they make me want to hurl, but occasionally they raise a valid point. Very occasionally.

6. Non-Moms. They will LOL at your funny child stories, they will OMG at your adorable baby pics. And bless their child-free hearts, they will remind you that there is in fact a world where everyone wipes his/her own butt and that "date" is not necessarily preceded by "play." You, in turn will be their best form of birth control.

7. Dads. It's 2010 and certainly we've made great strides toward equality of the sexes, but it's still amazing how little a man needs to do on the domestic front for us to ooh and ahhh over his accomplishments. "Took the kids to school today" will instantly generate at least 7 "likes." When Dad so much as hints that he is attempting to put in a barrette in his little girl's hair, the heavens open up. Just roll your eyes and hold your tongue. They're sensitive creatures who require lots of encouragement.

8. Your own mom. Yes, she will have trouble navigating the site (When my mom received a number of birthday greetings on her wall, she angrily accused me of letting the cat out of the bag, unaware that her friends all saw it on their news feeds) and yes, she will comment on all your pics in her own special way (THE KIDS ARE GETTING SO BIG WHY DON'T YOU EVER BRING THEM TO SEE ME I GOT SOME BANANAS FROM COSTCO FOR A VERY GOOD PRICE I WILL SAVE YOU SOME LOVE MOM), but there's something very circle-of-life-ish to having your mom in your social network. Enjoy it, be entertained by it, and be thankful she's still around to drive you crazy.

So what's my parenting profile pic? Maybe a little bit of each (aside from those which are genetically impossible) on any given day, in any given status or comment thread. For me, Facebook is about as social as I want to get about parenting. On Facebook, I have 717 friends, many of whom are moms. In the "real" world I don't (largely by choice) associate much with other moms. I don't do Moms' Groups, playgroups or support groups. I don't have any desire to do lunch with the ladies and dish about our kids. I know there are many women who crave and need that kind of interaction- I just don't happen to be one of them. Perhaps it will change as my kids get older, but right now I still feel like a novice in this parenting adventure, and I've always preferred to fly solo. Facebook allows me to have it my way. When I'm online and the judgy judgers start getting too judgy, I "hide" them. This is not so easily done over grilled cheese sandwiches. When it starts feeling like every mom is more accomplished, more productive, more everything than I am, their children so much more whatever than mine, I log off. In the real world I watched two moms nearly come to blows over a sign-up list outside the preschool classroom and wanted to run screaming and never return. Social networking gives me the outlet I need to vent, to laugh, and to share, but on my terms, and I think I'm a better parent as a result. Maybe that's not reality, but this is: parenting is hard work, and right now I get by with a little help (or maybe a lot, depending on my mood) from my (Facebook) friends.

But I don't want to be a Soccer Mom!

2010-09-22T07:45:00.000-07:00

Noah Shand at his 1st soccer practice

As a news reporter I've been called a lot of things, many of them not fit to print. Right now I answer to some kinder names, among them Mama, Mommy, Moooooommmm (said with hands on hips and eyes rolling- and he's only 3, Lord help me!), Meemee (when a certain 15-month-old really wants my attention), and on those very rare occasions when I'm able to converse with a bona fide adult, Mona. But there's one name I was called recently that made me shudder. It shook me up and made me stop in my tracks. It rocked me to my very core. That 4-letter word which actually contains 9 letters and comprises 2 words was none other than Soccer Mom.

Now you should know that we live in a soccer town. It's a place where every Saturday morning the town with no real traffic develops a major traffic jam, as hundreds of uniform-wearing, cleat-clad kids, their parents, and their parents vehicles descend upon the fields with one "goal" in mind: soccer. When we first toured our town with our realtor, it was yet another thing we loved. There was even a soccer supply store on Main St., for goodmess sakes! At the time I was pregnant with our first child, and my husband (a former soccer player) and I happily moved to Soccer Town with dreams of the day we'd join the Saturday herds.

A few weeks back we sealed the deal: I signed our 3-year-old son up with the local recreation league and picked up his uniform. "Congratulations, you're now officially a Soccer Mom!" the woman behind the desk called out cheerfully as we turned to leave. Frozen, my brain tried to put together the words "Thank you," but think it came out more like "Whabba wifup." Soccer Mom? Me? I think not.

I tried to brush it off but the frustration began to eat at me, so I took the issue to the modern day therapist's couch: Facebook. "Mona just picked up Noah's soccer uniform and his first practice is Saturday," I updated, "but so help me if you call me a Soccer Mom I will kick your teeth in."

So why does one term, one combination of sport and relationship evoke such a visceral response? At the suggestion of one of my therapists (OK, a Facebook friend), I decided to explore. Wikipedia defines the term as "a middle-class, suburban woman who spends a significant amount of time transporting her school-age children to their sporting events or other activities," (OK, I don't see anything terribly wrong with that) and goes on to talk about the rise of the Soccer Mom as a political force circa 1995 (still OK... power to the moms!), including various permutations like the post-9/11 Security Moms (now we might be pushing it) and the Sarah Palin-inspired Hockey Moms (not my cup of tea, and certainly not my kind of tea party, but OK).

Urban Dictionary is not quite as kind, including in its definitions of Soccer Mom "The downfall of human society," "a waste of body cells," and "usually seen screaming at people from behind the wheel of her SUV." Wow.

While that is certainly extreme, but to be completely honest the real issue for me is that Soccer Mom is a little too close, maybe even synonymous with another term I've been unable to accept: Stay At Home Mom. Believe me, I don't think there's anything wrong with staying at home, in fact quite the opposite. When I was working I convinced myself that I wasn't missing much at home, but now that I actually am home (and only working part-time, mostly at night and on weekends) I realize how wrong I was. It's simultaneously incredibly difficult and incredibly rewarding, but it just isn't how I ever pictured myself. Despite having lived and worked in 6 different countries and nearly every part of this one, the move to Soccer Town and Stay At Home Momville has been the most difficult so far. Try as I might to hang with the SAHM crew, a little voice inside keeps screaming "But I'm not like you!" I've playdated, pampered my inner chef and gone (book) clubbing with the ladies, but the voice is still there. And I'm pretty sure the other women have voices of their own screaming "But she's not like us!" Anyone who says the Mommy Wars are over needs to come spend a few days in my 'hood. But maybe if we stopped screaming at each other from inside our heads and started talking about it out loud, we'd make some progress toward a ceasefire.

As a coping mechanism, I think I've started to subconsciously reject anything that smells of that unfamiliar world. Baking cookies? Gross. (Even though I do in fact love to bake.) Driving an SUV? Disgusting. (Even though I drive the SUV's first cousin, the crossover.) Carting my kids around to activities in the hopes of enriching their minds and bodies? I don't have time! (That's of course because I have to drive my son to preschool and then go to Story Time at the library with my little girl.)

So does Mom + Soccer = Soccer Mom? Does Mom + Home = Stay At Home Mom? And even if that's the math, do the labels matter? In an ideal world, I'd say no, but that's not where we live. For now I'm working on accepting where I currently am, instead of dreaming of being somewhere else. And I don't want to be late for soccer.

Driving in a new direction

2010-09-13T03:51:00.000-07:00

When I first met my husband, he had 3 vehicles: one zippy little car he drove on a regular basis, a truck for when conditions called for a bit more zap, and a classic car (aka The Green Beast) that was in need of zip, zap, and ze other before it would even consider starting up. Early in our relationship I pointed out his car-to-human ratio seemed a bit askew, but he was quick to note that I was pushing the limits with the feline population of my household. So when Car Guy married Cat Girl, we vowed to love, honor, and not acquire anything else that purred or hummed.

7-19-2003

Groom's cake

At the time, I drove a dime-a-dozen silver SUV. Despite growing up on the outskirts of the Motor City, cars have just never been my thing, never anything more than a way to get from Point A to B. But when you say "I do" to an automotive engineer, you soon develop an appreciation for the finer points of the vehicular world (at least you try really, really hard not to let your eyes glaze over completely during car-related conversations), and eventually find yourself snapping photos of the parts your loved one designed like they are newborn family members, because they kind of are. You resign yourself to the fact that you are a Garage Widow on many weekend afternoons, but feel comforted knowing that if the new issue of Car and Driver magazine happens to arrive on the same day as the Victoria's Secret catalogue, those women might as well be wearing burqas for all he sees.

Fast forward 7 years and my how things have changed. The truck is gone, and sadly so is one of our feline family members. We traded in the SUV (with nearly 200,000 miles on it- thank you, Ford!) for a safe, reliable, family mobile, to which Car Guy insisted we add 20-inch wheels for a bit of style. And a few years back, the zippy little car was upgraded to a sleek, high performance piece of machinery affectionately dubbed "The Blue Rocket." It was the car of Car Guy's dreams, the one he'd always coveted, the one for which he had reserved one of the deepest tokens of modern day male admiration: he had made it his screensaver.

Though it was born to race on the Autobahn, the Blue Rocket adapted well to life in Metro Detroit, keeping Car Guy company on his short-in-distance but long-on-traffic commute. The two were inseparable and Car Guy spent many long hours just gazing at the Rocket's innards. It was not unusual to find two size-10 feet sticking out from underneath the vehicle, and I learned after my first panic attack that silence simply meant he was in awe. I even tried not to get too jealous of the caresses exchanged in the weekly sponge bath. Yes, for a time the Blue Rocket fit nicely into the Shand family fold.

And then one day, it didn't. Looking back, it wasn't really all that sudden, just something that happened over the course of one move to the 'burbs, two kids, and a few job changes. Turns out the back seat of the Blue Rocket isn't actually designed to comfortably hold a rear-facing baby and a front-facing preschooler in their respective car seats. Also turns out the orange, highly adhesive substance formed when child slobber meets goldfish cracker is not so easily removed from a Blue Rocket's pristine interior. With the move, Car Guy's commute to work was now a long distance haul, and the high performance, premium fuel only vehicle became a massive money suck. And speaking of sucking money, repairing one's high performance, premium fuel only vehicle will set your family budget back a pretty penny (and by that I really mean the cost of cruising the Caribbean...in a deluxe cabin...twice). It was time to sell.

In the meantime, Car Guy managed to get the old Green Beast (which was the first car he ever purchased) up and running, and decided to sell that, too. Though at one point he had dreamed of future tinkering with his son (aka Car Boy, who at age 3 can already name the make and model of most cars he sees), he realized he get more enjoyment out of being able to give a tricycle its very own parking spot in the garage. The Green Beast was just taking up space, both physical and emotional.

Buyers for both cars came quickly, and before we knew it we faced the possibility of being sans car for Car Guy, as his fuel-efficient, family friendly vehicle of choice wouldn't be available for a few months. Enter my dad's car, which is currently sitting unused in his driveway, as he is no longer physically able to drive. We arranged to borrow it and drove over to pick it up last week. As we returned home that evening, Car Guy in my dad's car, me and the kids in mine, I found myself feeling unexpectedly emotional. It started with a tear as we backed out the driveway and picked up speed to a sob nearly as fast as the car cruised down the highway.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not upset over the loss of these cars. While I do feel a little sad my husband is giving up something he worked for and loves, I'm proud of him for recognizing it's time to move on, and I know he wouldn't trade the life we have today for anything on 4 wheels. But much like a certain car company that will remain nameless, I think I'm having trouble with life's sudden acceleration. As I watched my husband drive away in my dad's car, I realized the person who has always sat in the driver's seat no longer can. As I looked in the rearview mirror at my sleepy babies, I suddenly felt completely unprepared to take the wheel. All I wanted to do was stop the car, crawl into the comfort and security of a rear-facing seat and fall fast asleep, dreaming of the way things once were. But it's my responsibility now to drive on, and so I did, tears and all.

I've seen firsthand that holding onto things when they no longer serve a purpose in your life doesn't do any good. My parents still insist on staying in the house we grew up in, even though it no longer physically suits their needs. It's now far too big, far too cluttered, far too much to maintain, and on the verge of needing massive repairs. As I watch them struggle to even walk up the stairs and see the patio where we use to play crumbling away, it no longer feels like a place that honors happy memories- it's become a sad reminder of what no longer is.

I remember when my dad taught me to drive, more than two decades ago. "Your main focus is what's in front of you," he said, pointing at the road. "But you need to keep glancing right here," he warned as he adjusted my rearview mirror, "or you will be hit from behind." Now I understand exactly what he meant.

In some ways we're currently driving through unfamiliar territory and sometimes I'm quite frankly terrified of the road ahead. There's no map that explains how to grow up, how to raise your kids, how to cope with the suffering of a parent. I don't know exactly where we're heading, but I do know it sure feels good to have a Car Guy by my side.

Noah's First Day of Preschool

2010-09-05T12:03:00.001-07:00

Once upon a time there was a sweet, towheaded little 3-year-old boy. By all accounts he was an exceptionally happy little guy, precocious and bright as they come. The little boy was adored by his family and spent many blissful hours at home with his trains and trucks. But then came the day that would begin to change and shape the little boy's world forever: his first day of preschool.

His mommy was told she was supposed to be sad. She was told she was even supposed to cry. She read many a post and saw many a picture on Facebook describing this tearful moment in detail. But the little boy's mommy felt a bit like the Wicked Witch because she was not sad, not at all.

The little boy's mommy was also told she was supposed to subject herself to much stress and consternation in selecting a preschool for the little boy, but she didn't do that either. The little boy's mommy has faith in the fine school district in the little boy's town, and thus feels confident the community education preschool program will be just fine. More than fine. The little boy's mommy was typically a major Type-A, overachiever personality, but found herself increasingly annoyed by the concept of parenting as a competitive sport that seemed to run rampant in this particular corner of the kingdom.

In fact, the little boy's mommy almost lost it at her book club when some other little boys' and girls' mommies gasped and insisted a certain preschool was "the BEST!" and that the little boy's mommy needed to put her little boy's name on the big long waiting list immediately. But when the little boy's mommy questioned them about what made it the best (curriculum? accreditation? student-teacher ratio?) the other little boys' and girls' mommies could not provide anything other than "because everyone knows it's the best." So the little boy's mommy waved her magic wand and poof! She made the book club disappear from her calendar.

So why wasn't the little boy's mommy sad about this momentous milestone? She was too excited, and so was he. Well, there was that slight misunderstanding when the little boy's mommy told him he would be in the "Bear Room" at preschool and the little boy cried and cried because he feared he would be the only little boy in a room full of bears. But the little boy's mommy dried his tears, explained the situation and whipped up a mystical, magical concoction of chocolate and dough and all was forgotten.

The little boy's mommy was excited because she just knew this was the start of something amazing. You see, the little boy's mommy still feels butterflies when she sees a brand new box of Crayola crayons, the one with 64 different colors and the built-in sharpener on the side. The little boy's mommy's toes still tingle when she remembers slipping her feet into a new pair of Stride Rite saddle shoes, carefully measured to ensure at least one thumb's room to grow. The little boy's mommy smells the exhaust of a passing school bus and is transported back to a faraway land where the coolest of the cool kids sat in the WAY back (the little boy's mommy sat in the front) on the ride to that other kingdom.

And though the little boy's mommy knows all too well that the other kingdom is not always ruled by the kindest of rulers, and though she dreads that moment the little boy bumps his head or skins his knee and she is not there to "fix" it with kisses, though she fears the loss of control that comes with sending him out of the confines of his stuffed animal filled room, the little boy's mommy remains so excited about what is to come.

That's because the little boy's mommy knows that school is where he needs to go. The little boy's mommy knows that the journey that begins with brightly colored blocks and little seeds growing in paper cups and line leaders will help build the little boy's future, nourish his mind, and direct his future.

And while the little boy's mommy hopes she will always be the little boy's primary teacher, she acknowledges that she herself has so much to learn. The little boy's mommy will always love being his playmate, but knows her job is not to be his best friend. As the little boy's mommy prays the other little boys and girls will be nice to her little boy, she knows the world is not always kind, and that is one of the most important lessons and difficult lessons the little boy will ever learn (aside from how to diagram a sentence, which the little boy's mommy really hopes is still taught because the little boy's mommy fears that the way things are going the little boy's first spelling word might be LOL or OMG). The little boy's mommy wants her little boy to fill his little head with as much information as it can hold, and still come back wanting more. Forever and ever, happily ever after school and before school and during school.

So the little boy's mommy will load up his Thomas the Tank Engine backpack and pack some kleenex for herself, just in case she changes her mind about the whole crying thing. And then, hand in hand, the little boy and his mommy will set forth on this grand adventure called school.

And thus this tale concludes without a typical ending, in fact with no ending at all.

Happy first day of school, little boy.

The Beginning.

Encountering Giraffes

2010-08-22T12:31:00.000-07:00

If you live in the metro Detroit area, you've probably seen some form of the ad campaign launched by the Detroit Zoo regarding its "Giraffe Encounter." The photos depict happy, smiley children standing face-to-face with nature's tallest creatures in the rare opportunity to feed a giraffe- who wouldn't want to do that? I pictured my children, 3-year-old Noah and 14-month-old Cecilia grinning brightly as they broke bread (or the giraffe equivalent) with their new giant friends. I could even picture the pictures I would take! Perhaps this would solve the annual Christmas photo card dilemma! What could be cuter than my two little monkeys happily feeding a giraffe? Perhaps I would caption the photo "Merry Christmas from our neck of the woods!" But first back to August, which is when my brother and 4-year-old niece decided to come to Michigan for a visit, and we knew what we had to do: Encounter Giraffes.

I had not yet taken my animals to the Detroit Zoo as it is quite large and I feared it might be too much for them (and me). But we had made several trips to the smaller, more manageable Potter Park Zoo in Lansing with varying levels of success. In general, Noah loves animals, as long as they don't get too close. Or make too much noise. Or sudden movements. So basically he likes pictures of animals in books. So he generally enjoys our trips to the zoo, but he's exactly begging for more. Cecilia on the other hand, would like to reach out and cover every animal she sees in copious amounts of baby slobber. She managed to maximize her budding vocabulary by efficiently dividing the animal kingdom into 2 categories: Bears and Ducks. Anything furry with a face (including, but not limited to bears, cats, dogs, bunnies, certain family members) is a "Bea," while hairless creatures (ducks, frogs, hippos, certain other family members) are in the Ducky species (pronounced with an emphasis on the second syllable: /duk-EE/). She really seems to love going to the zoo, except for the whole being trapped in the stroller thing. But of course they will love the Giraffe Encounter, I reassured myself.

Coordinating this excursion took slightly less advance planning than the invasion of Normandy. My brother and I exchanged a series of emails, mostly trying to decipher the vague information given on the zoo's website. Between the two of us we have over a dozen years of higher education, yet we were still unable to figure out how to have a Giraffe Encounter. You'll note that the website doesn't actually indicate when the giraffes actually eat, only that 50 people/session will be allowed to feed them the special $5 "giraffe food item." Urban legend (other moms) had led me to believe we had to be at the zoo promptly when the gates opened if we wanted to secure the highly coveted tickets to Encounter Giraffes. But what if it turned out the giraffes weren't hungry? What if they sold out? I spent 45 minutes listening to hold muzak trying unsuccessfully to get those answers. The more I dug for information, the less clear it became, and the more crazed I began to feel. It might as well have been a Tickle Me Elmo on Christmas Eve. Oh, you better believe we would Encounter Giraffes.

Eventually, my brother was able to get an actual human on the phone who explained that the giraffes are fed at 11am and 1pm, and thus our battle plan emerged: my brother and niece who had a much shorter commute to the zoo, would get there right as the gates opened and purchase our Giraffe Encounter tickets. Noah, Cecilia and I would join them just as quickly as I could pack up all our diapers, wipes, sunscreen, hats, spare clothes, water bottles, sippy cups, snacks on 3 hours of sleep, as I was working late the night prior. As I loaded up the car and rallied my mini-troops from their slumber, I was no longer sure if we were heading to the zoo for a few hours or on a 10-day trek through the Himalayas. But none of that mattered: we had a date with destiny. I mean a Giraffe Encounter.

Upon arriving at the zoo we found my brother standing next to the Giraffe Encounter ticket booth, which was inexplicably empty. I felt panic and rage surge through my body: had we missed it? But my brother explained that when he tried to purchase a ticket he was told that on this particular day you didn't actually buy the Giraffe Encounter tickets from the Giraffe Encounter ticket booth (because, I assume that would make far too much sense). No, you had to instead find the Giraffe Encounter ticket salesperson wandering through the zoo, and purchase tickets from him/her which I could only imagine requires knowing the secret Giraffe Encounter handshake and perhaps a digital thumbprint or a retinal scan. Next time I will know to check WikiLeaks for any classified Giraffe Encounter documents before leaving for the zoo. But none of that mattered: we had our tickets for the 11am feeding, so only 2 hours separated us from Encountering Giraffes!

2 hours is just about what it takes to push a double stroller from the entrance of the Detroit Zoo to the point where you actually see an animal. Don't get me wrong, it is a lovely, wonderful zoo but it is big. Really, really big. And it was hot. Really, really hot. And the stroller was heavy. Really... well, you get the point. Still, Noah and his cousin seemed to enjoy seeing the animals, as much as toddlers with toddler-sized attention spans are capable of enjoying seeing far away creatures that were for the most part, asleep. Cecilia occasionally popped her little head out of the stroller to yell "BEA!" or "DUCKY!!!" depending on the particular exhibit. But 2 zoo hours are just about all 3 kids ages 4 and under can handle, and as the clock ticked closer to our Encounter time I began to worry they wouldn't make it. Still, we pushed on....

Finally, the appointed time arrived! We hurried over to take our places and Encounter Giraffes.... where we were told to wait some more. Turns out we were just in the Pre-Giraffe Encounter Holding Area (PGEHA), where at least the view was better. "Giraffes!" yelled Noah and his cousin in tandem. "Ducky!" Cecilia exclaimed.

We stood in line for what felt like hours, but was really only about 30 minutes. 30 minutes under the hot sun with 2 children boisterously jumping up and down, crying out, "Is it time to feed the giraffes? NOW is it time to feed the giraffes???" and one baby now restlessly squirming against the stroller restraints and impatiently imploring, "Ducky!" In a classic move from the amusement park/attraction handbook, we found ourselves forced to stand directly opposite the Giraffe Encounter souvenir booth, where every color and size of stuffed giraffe dangles directly at toddler eye level. Well played, zoo folk.

About 15 minutes into our stay in the PGEHA, a kind zoo docent came through the line to educate us on the Encounter that awaited. She shared with us that giraffes have powerful jaws and very long, purple tongues. Noah shared with her that when he goes poo-poo on the potty he can have 4 M&Ms. Cecilia dozed in and out of a fitful stroller nap, occasionally waking to mumble, "Ducky?"

Then it was our turn. Our long awaited Giraffe Encounter. I half expected to hear the Hallejulah chorus as we stepped to the platform, but instead heard "NEXT!" as we were jostled into place. Now I don't know if the giraffes woke up with indigestion that morning, or if they had a really big dinner the night before, or if they're hoping to get into a cute outfit this weekend. But I do know that each child in our group was handed 2 scrawny little leaves. If you look at the photos on the website, you'll note that the happy, smiley kids are feeding the giraffes entire branches, which I'm guessing takes a little more time for a giraffe to eat than a leaf. No disrespect to the zoo folks, but it seemed a bit ridiculous. While the money we paid to feed the giraffes doesn't grow on trees, leaves in fact do.

I didn't get to see my niece feed the giraffe as I was unbuckling Cecilia from her stroller in the 2.5 seconds during which it happened. When it was Noah's turn, he walked tentatively up to the giraffe and just as he extended his arm toward the giant creature he turned back toward me and said, "Look, Mama! I'm going to feed the giraffe!" Of course, that's when the giraffe saw the leaf coming (and was probably thinking, "A leaf? Are you serious?") and snatched it up, oblivious to the fact that Noah's back was turned. And before he had finished turning back toward the giraffe again, it had already snatched the second leaf out of his other hand. Giraffe Encounter over. Good thing I had time to snap this lovely photo:

"NEXT!" boomed the Giraffe Encounter person.

"But I want to feed the giraffes MORE!!!!" Noah screamed as we were unceremoniously ushered off the feeding platform.

"DUCKEEEEEEEE!" Cecilia shrieked with her tiny arms outstretched toward the giant object of her affection.

My brother and I looked at each other in disbelief. I was torn between laughing at the ridiculousness of it all and joining my toddler in a tantrum. But we dried our tears, focused our thoughts and conversation on all the fun we had had, and waved goodbye to the Giraffes we had (very briefly) Encountered. Hot, tired, hungry and covered in zoo residue, it was definitely time to go home.

As we drove home I got to thinking about what had just happened. It wasn't quite how I envisioned it, but maybe that was part of the problem. It wasn't the Encounter of a lifetime, but maybe it wasn't supposed to be. The more I thought about it, the more frustrated I got. Which is why from now on I'll try to stick to what I call The ABC's of Young Child Encounters (with giraffes, museums, fairs, etc):

Accept the experience for what it is. If your toddler is happiest picking dandelions out of the grassy areas between the animal exhibits, do not label your outing as a failure.

Be realistic about what activity will be most appropriate, and thus most enjoyable for your children. You don't have to get in every educational, enriching experience before they hit age 4. You will have many, many years to expand their worlds, but a very small window during which you are the center of it. I'm pretty sure my kids are just as happy going with me to the pet store to buy cat food as they were going to the zoo.

Check your expectations, along with your grown-up cynicism at the door. The experience likely won't turn out exactly how you expect, but remember- your kids didn't have the same expectations.

Later that night I kissed Noah's smooth little cheek, tucked him in with his beloved Thomas the Tank Engine blanket, and told him I loved him. He hugged me tight and said "I love you too, Mama. And you know what? The giraffe licked me!!!" He broke into the sweetest giggle, which turned into a roar, which ended in the two of us laughing so hard I cried. What a day. To borrow a word from his sister, it was all just ducky.

Rethinking the family shopping experience at Costco

2010-08-12T10:41:00.000-07:00

There's a place we often go on Sundays. A place so big it seems to hold the entire world between its walls. A place that's so vast, you can't help be awed in its presence. A place so overwhelming that some believe miracles can be found. A place I'm simultaneously drawn to and yet fear. I'm talking of course about Costco.

Ah, Costco. Where else can you pick up a lawnmower, a new couch, and a rotisserie chicken all in one visit? Only at Costco do you find a tank of live lobsters just a stone's throw away from a 12-pack of men's boxer briefs. (I'm guessing that's as close as most men would like live lobsters to get to their underwear.) Costco, the place where you can supersize your entire life.

3 years ago when we left the mean streets of Royal Oak, MI behind for the tree-lined, idyllic looking enclave 40 miles to the west called Brighton, I never imagined warehouse shopping would become part of my life. Probably because I was too busy fantasizing about the Brighton Woman I would become. (Keep in mind, I was 7 months pregnant with our first child, so hormones no doubt played a role in these delusions). I imagined myself pushing the stroller down the city's quaint Main Street, joyfully combining errands with playdates at the park with all my new Brighton Mom Friends and their children. Yes, Brighton Mona would shop local to supplement the vast harvest of produce Brighton Mona would grow in her backyard garden (I'm not sure what Brighton Mona's plans were for winter?). Brighton Mona would tiptoe lightly down Brighton's streets, ever conscious of her carbon footprint. That was before Brighton Mona knew there was a Brighton Costco.

Fast forward 3 years and our actual Brighton Life is somewhat different from my prenatal fantasies. We're now a family of four and as for shopping on Main Street, I've learned that man, woman and toddlers really can not live on bread alone, not even if it's that delicious High-5 Fiber stuff from Great Harvest Bread Company, and not even when topped with an artisanal gouda from the local cheese market. We do in fact have a backyard garden which provides delicious summer produce for many of Brighton's finest bunnies, chipmunks and squirrels, who are kind enough to leave us the occasional shriveled zucchini or half-chewed tomato. And we shop at Costco.

To get to our local Costco you must first drive around the nation's first double roundabout, two treacherous traffic circles placed back-to-back which I usually refer to as "The Ring of Fire." Local city planners claim it moves traffic efficiently, but I believe it might be God's way of setting up a final pre-Costco roadblock, His way of asking "Do you REALLY want to go there?"

If the answer turns out to be "yes" and you survive your go around the 'bouts, you will gain access to the Promised Land (assuming you've paid your $45 membership dues) and blink several times as your eyes adjust to the environment. I find myself drawn like a moth to a flame by the dozens of giant, flashing, flashy, flat-panel TV screens right at the entrance. They are enormous but in the enormity that is Costco, it's easy to lose perspective when it comes to size. Inside Costco, a 72-inch flat panel doesn't appear all that big. Just wait until you get it home and it turns out to be larger than any wall, or any room, in your house. Same goes for the 50-pound bag of cat litter, the 2-gallon tub of hummus, the muffins that are the size of my head, and the oversize bottle of laundry detergent which nearly causes a dislocated shoulder every time I attempt to pour into the machine. Those "Take and Bake" pizzas sure look delicious, don't they? Too bad they don't fit into my oven. I think Costco needs a giant rearview mirror-like warning: "Objects in store are larger than they appear."

If warehouse shopping is hereditary I'm in big trouble because my mom is Costco-obsessed. My Egyptian parents, who live alone, have turned their 2-car garage into a mini-version of Costco itself. There is enough Gatorade to rehydrate the entire USA Track and Field team (all the more odd given the fact that my parents are in their 70s and not exactly exercise enthusiasts) and enough toilet paper to build a full-scale replica of the Great Pyramid of Giza.

And they're not alone- Costco-philia runs rampant in their social circle (translation: other Egyptians). The Egyptian men often go to Costco together or meet up there after church. There's a running joke that goes: "Why did (fill in the name of the Egyptian woman) cross the road?" "Because Costco was on the other side." Maybe it's an immigrant thing: they came to this country with nothing and thus are drawn toward a place that allows them to stockpile. Or maybe they just really like the free samples.

Last month we threw a double party for our kids whose birthdays are about 2 weeks apart. Having heard great things about Costco's bakery, we decided to give it a try for the cake. As I've mentioned before, our 3-year-old is a tad obsessed with Thomas the Tank Engine, and wanted a train on his cake. But Costco is not in the business of making a 3-year-old's dreams come true, so their cake designs are somewhat limited. We settled on a happy sun and flowers, which was probably appreciated by my 1-year-old daughter, who does not necessarily share her brothers railway passions.

Then there was the size: at Costco you have a choice of Giant, Gigantic, or Ginormous. We chose the smallest possible, which feeds 50 and costs $17.99. That is far cheaper than any other cake, we reasoned, even as we knew we only needed cake for about 25 people, several of whom have fewer than 4 teeth.

At the last minute, I felt bad about the lack of trains on the cake and stuck a ridiculous cardboard cutout into the frosting to assuage my personal guilt. Then, once the candles were extinguished and the party was over, we pawned off cake on everyone we knew. We ate leftover cake until cavities formed (does Costco offer a dental plan?) and we still ended up throwing out nearly half of it. Happy disposable birthday. Our "cheap" cake left me feeling... cheap.

Yes, we've made all the requisite financial calculations, and yes, we do indeed save money buy buying certain items in bulk, but I'm beginning to feel like we're selling a piece of our souls in the process.

Buying in bulk was supposed to free up all this time and money for us to spend on the things that really matter to us, but has it really? When we get back from Costco (a trip guaranteed to take at least 2 hours and $200) we spend at least another hour unloading the loot and dividing it into real people portions, which we still often find ourselves unable to use. I fear we are teaching our kids that more is better, just because it's more.

Once upon a time, families of four (and five, six, seven) got by just fine without 10-pound bags of Goldfish crackers. I'm all for saving a little money especially given the current state of the economy, but sometimes shopping Costco's crude, cold aisles, stripped of every consumer comfort leaves me feeling empty. We're a family, not a business venture and we don't need to "cut out the middle man" on every transaction.

I'm not quite ready to give up the membership for good (at least not until we're out of the diapers and wipes phase, since bulk is the ONLY way to go on those) but I think it's time we gave our Costco purchases more careful thought. No more blind devotion, no more bowing down before the altar of the almighty dollar. And maybe from now one we should go on Saturdays instead.

Thoughts on attending my 20 year high school reunion

2010-07-25T11:23:00.000-07:00

Hair straight or curly? Dress or pants? Or blouse and skirt? Which one best says "I'm not the awkward geek you might remember" and "I've got my act together now" with a touch of "I just threw this fabulousness together without trying too hard" and of course does not make my butt look fat? These are the questions I ponder as the clock ticks down to Saturday night, a date that will definitely go down on my permanent record: my 20 year high school reunion.

This will be my first reunion. I think there was a 5-year but I missed it. 5 years just didn't seem like long enough apart to merit getting back together. Also, I was living on a Caribbean island, working for a resort company, putting my degrees in French and International Relations to very good use leading relay races on the beach in multiple languages. I'm pretty sure there was a 10 year reunion but I missed that one too, probably because I was living on yet another island (Kauai). But life takes funny turns and one of them took me away from the islands back to the Michigan's lower peninsula, so I have no geographic excuse not to go. We don't have any other plans and we do have a babysitter. We bought the tickets, put it on the calendar, so I guess it's now official: when the Lahser High School Class of 1990 reunites Saturday night, I will be there.

I still find it ironic that I'm attending, much less even had a minor role in planning this event, since I have spent much of the past two decades trying to distance myself both mentally and physically (hence the islands) from my 1-12 experience. No "K," as I skipped kindergarten, which is the equivalent of having a scarlet G for "Geek" branded on one's forehead at age 5. Maybe that was the reason, or maybe it was my mass of frizzy, dark curly hair in a sea of shiny blondes, or maybe it was just my bad luck, but from the early days of elementary school when the Great Divide opened up between the Cool Kids and the Others, I was on the wrong side. At least it felt wrong at the time.

I don't have the happiest memories from those early school years. I had a few close friends (who remain close today) but for the most part, was a bit of a loner. I remember being teased- the painful name calling at the playground, the even more painful name calling I suspect happened behind my back. I remember the loneliness of lunchtime in the cafeteria, and the sinking feeling every time a teacher said it was time to pick teams. I remember burying myself in books, befriending the likes of Laura Ingalls Wilder, making my own playdates with Encyclopedia Brown, Ramona Quimby and the Judy Blume crew. I remember the kindness of teachers, their sympathetic looks as I'd drag my feet on the way to the playground.

And I remember the Cool Kids. They seemed so very, very cool. They were the trend setters, the style mavens, and I was always a few steps behind. They had mothers who ran the PTA, lead the Girl Scout troop and baked cookies for class parties. My mother was a university professor, but at age 8 I failed to realize how truly impressive that was. I was too busy watching the Cool Kids go running off the school bus into the waiting arms of their mothers as I sulked away to a babysitter waiting at home.

A few weeks ago my all-American, captain of his high school soccer team, Cool Kid of a husband and I were at my parents' house and dug out my old middle school yearbook. He got a kick out of reading the loopy, dot-your-i-with-a-heart cursive signatures in the back until he came across the spots I'd gone over with thick, permanent marker. "What's that about?" he asked. "Oh, that's just where the mean kids wrote nasty things that I crossed out." His pitying look reminded me that my experience was not exactly normal.

High School was not much better. I fancied myself quite the thespian, so I tried out for the lead in the school play, and was instead cast as Nurse #2. I tried to follow in my star swimmer of a brother's footsteps and suffered through a miserable season of ear infections just hoping not to drown. Academically I excelled, but AP Calculus is not exactly the express train to Coolsville. In perhaps a nod to a future career in broadcasting, I won a speech contest to deliver the Commencement Address to my fellow graduates of the Class of 1990. The crowd was large, the applause was polite, and the looks on their faces seemed to say, "Umm, OK. Who are you?" I was glad to be done.

As a defense mechanism, I began in childhood to coat myself in nearly iron-clad armor: a giant smile (a decoy to ward off the appearance of unhappiness), a sarcastic, self-deprecating sense of humor (why not beat them to the punch and make fun of myself), and a mental strategy I'll call "When-Then." As in, "I may feel like a nobody right now, but one day when I'm older, things will be different and then I'll show them. I'll show them I'm somebody." It's a philosophy I've clung to through much of my adult life: When I lose 5 pounds, then I'll be satisfied. When I land that dream job, then I'll feel fulfilled. It's a sneaky method of delaying happiness in the present, always envisioning a happier (thinner, richer, etc.) future. But it doesn't work, because "then" never happens, it's always pushed aside by another "when."

A few years back the idea of attending this reunion would have terrified me, as I was still living in that When-Then world. But 20 years does wonders when it comes to perspective. I know I'm not the timid, awkward girl I once was, and I'm no longer trying to prove anything- not to myself, and certainly not to the Cool Kids. I know that the labels we carry as children (and sometimes assign ourselves) don't have to follow us the rest of our lives. I've come to realize that the Homecoming King and Queen don't actually wield any political power. The prom date who dumped me before the last song even played with the "It's not you, it's me" speech? Turns out he was telling the truth: he's not so into girls.

Thanks to the wonders of social networking, I've already "reunited" with dozens of high school classmates. Online we've shared everything from the joys of new jobs, new babies, to the painful losses of jobs and loved ones. In cyberspace we've established something we may not have had in person: a friendship. As nice as that is, I have found myself replacing my "When-Then" thinking with "If Only." As in "If only we had been friends back in the day, just think how different things would have been!" I find myself imagining walking down those high school halls with my head held high, greeting friends right and left, making plans for weekend parties and late night phone calls. Maybe I could have skipped all that angst-ridden, finding myself stuff in my 20s and gone right for the well-adjusted 30s? Maybe I could have been happier.

But that sort of "If Only" thinking is just as toxic and counterproductive as "When Then." While "When Then" allows us to live in the future, "If Only" is a way to reinvent the past. Neither one deals with the here and now, or gives credit for where we've been. I am who I am today because of what's happened, good and bad. And that includes high school.

So come Saturday night I will head to the reunion with just a few butterflies in my stomach. I'll do my best to enjoy the chance to reconnect not with the kids that we were, but with the people we've become. We will eat, we will drink, we might even dance. I will put away my "When-Thens" for good and I will raise a glass to the Lahser High School Class of 1990 with this final "If Only": If only I had known it would all be OK.

When is enough enough? The challenge of deciding whether or not to add to the family

2010-07-07T11:58:00.000-07:00

***AUTHOR'S NOTE (ESPECIALLY IF AUTHOR'S EXTENDED FAMILY IS READING): The author is *not* pregnant. This is merely an article exploring the possibility of another child, and should not be considered grounds for any sort of celebration.***

It happened while I was out, and that's probably a good thing. I came back from Target to find my husband had removed the Pack 'N Play that has occupied a prime location in our family room for the better part of 3 years. It's now all pack and no play, stuffed into a canvas sack and stuck in the basement alongside the baby bathtub and the Jumperoo. Earlier this week, we lent the bassinet and swing to a friend with a newborn. So plastic piece by plastic piece, our house is slowly becoming de-baby-fied. The baby phase is quickly being extinguished, much like the flame on my little girl's first birthday cake. I know there are many people who would celebrate this milestone and gladly reclaim the space for more adult purposes, but I can't help feeling a little bit sad and a lot bit conflicted. You see, I don't know if the Pack 'N Play will ever come back to stay. You see, I'm just not sure if we're done with the baby phase for now, or if we're done with it for good.

It's been just over 3 years since we were blessed with baby #1. He kept us waiting more than 2 weeks past his due date but then one hot July day, like a firework in the sky he blinked up at us with those big blue eyes and boom! Just like that we went from couple to trio. From Mona and Mark to Mom and Dad.

Adding baby #2 required very little discussion. We both knew we wanted another baby, and almost 2 years to the date after #1, there she was. A tiny, thoughtful little bundle blinking up at us with those same big blue eyes. We retained our previous titles while our little boy proudly added a new one: Big Brother.

But will there be a #3? That's not so automatic. If it were only up to my husband, I think he'd be perfectly content to call it quits at 2. He's an only child with a very small extended family that rarely, if ever, comes together. They are exceptionally loving but seem to have clear boundaries around each separate family unit. I on the other hand come from a Big Fat Egyptian Family. It's parenting with an Etch-a-Sketch, a place where the lines between siblings, cousins, and close friends are blurry at best. The difference was never more evident than on our wedding day.

Here we are with Mark's family:

And with mine:

So I always envisioned myself with a large family, but I got started on this whole baby-making thing kind of late. Now, the idea of adding a third child feels daunting and yet tempting all at once. Scary, but safe. Thrilling, but maybe too thrilling? The rational part of me says "Why rock the boat? Life is just starting to get a teensy bit easier." After all, we're down to 1 diaper wearer. We're a household that sleeps through the night, pretty much every night. We fit comfortably into our current vehicles and our favorite booth at Red Robin.

But then then there's the emotional side of me, the one that says "BABY!" As difficult as parenting two young children can be, as tiring as it gets, as long as the days (and nights) often feel, motherhood is a transformative experience. So much that there are moments when I look into those two sets of big blue eyes and think, "Now I understand. This is what I was born to do." In those moments, it's hard not to want to do it again.

Not to mention the fact that the whole deal seems so much more enjoyable the second time around. It's a bit like making pancakes. The first one is certainly delicious, but sometimes the because it's the first one you worry whether the pan is too hot or too cold; you're quite never sure if you've added enough of this or too much of that. With baby #2 I've found myself feeling so much more confident as a parent, more relaxed, more able to enjoy the rid. If she does turn out to be our last I can only hope I've enjoyed it enough, savored each "first" along with each "last."

If you ask our little boy, the answer would be a resounding "Yes!" In fact, you don't even have to ask him- he's already told everyone we know that he wants 6 more babies. He adores his baby sister and in just the 12 short months of her existence he has become more loving, more gentle, and is even learning to share his toys. He is her protector, her favorite toy, her giggle partner. And she sees stars when she looks at him. Most of the time, the two of them are a walking, talking advertisement for procreation.

My giant extended family doesn't make the decision any easier. There's nothing that would make them happier than word that the family is going to get giant-er. In fact, they love babies so much they've developed a highly sensitive pregnancy detector capable of sniffing out the earliest signs of baby. My husband doesn't understand why I agonize over what to wear to family functions, but I've learned the hard way that one overly blousy blouse is all it takes to get the rumors flying. Sometime after the construction of the Great Pyramids but well before the advent of the internet, Egyptian women invented and perfected the concept of social networking. Before you can say "But it was just a blousy blouse!" you've received 5 congratulatory phone calls from Cairo and 6 pairs of knitted booties from Troy, aka Little Cairo. No pressure there.

My no-nonsense, engineer of a husband would appreciate some sort of formula for calculating the ideal number of children, preferably one with lots of supporting data and analytic models. But family math is already a strange equation. It begins when you get married and two hearts defy arithmetic to somehow become one. It continues when, with the addition of each child, you subtract lots of sleep and most of your cash, yet some how end up feeling more alive and infinitely richer. Still, is there a tipping point for that delicate thing called sanity?

So would three be company or would three be a crowd? Would we have three amigos or a not-so-holy trinity on our hands? Could we handle the extra blessings/stresses, or are we better off just quitting while we're ahead? Those are three questions I'm just not ready to answer. So for now three will have remain an idea, one I'll hold onto in the basement of my mind. Right next to the Pack 'N Play, which isn't going anywhere just yet.

Mona Shand is a radio and TV news reporter and the mother of 2. *** Author's note: Hear that everyone? TWO.***

Joining the Sandwich Generation

2010-06-13T09:56:00.000-07:00

There's an extra place setting at our table, another pair of shoes by the door. One more cup in the sink, another towel draped over the bathroom rack. But for me, the most telling sign that my dad is staying with us is the light at the top of the stairs. From my room, it's barely visible, just a faint glow coming through the crack under the door. But when it catches my eye in the middle of the night it feels like the brightest, warmest light I've seen in a long time. It feels like home.

As far back as I can remember, my dad has always kept a light on at night. Usually, it was the light in his walk-in closet, gently beaming out from behind wooden slats. Just a little something to take the edge off total darkness, always visible from the crack under the door. I remember searching for it as a child, when bad dreams or thunderstorms chased me out of my own bedroom and into the safe zone that was my parents'. I remember avoiding it as a teenager, when I'd creep up the stairs after curfew (avoiding the super creaky step #8) hoping there wasn't anyone awake under that light, but knowing there probably was. Now it's mostly comforting but somehow a tiny bit sad.

While we couldn't be more thrilled to have him, the circumstances of my dad's visit aren't the best. A death in the family sent my mom overseas, so it seems somehow inappropriate to be too happy about our special guest. But you'd have a hard time explaining that to two tiny people who just know they've never in their little lives had the chance to spend so much uninterrupted, continuous time with their "Gido."

Under normal circumstances we see each other every few weeks, usually at family gatherings at our house or theirs, at church, or my least favorite venue: at a restaurant. The crowd is typically too large, the volume level too high, the food too slow to arrive, and by the time it does the 20-30 minute window of toddler patience has snapped shut and both kids begin melting into a thick mush of tantrum, crayons and buttered rolls. It's not exactly quality time.

Now Gido has been picked up and planted right in the middle of our daily routine, and as such he gets to experience so much more: the critical importance of starting the morning with both milk and muppets, the subtle but perceptible difference between a baby's first attempts at speech (buh-bee= puppy, but bih-bee= piggy) the randomly sweet, silly innocence of an almost 3-year-old boy ("Look at this, Gido! My arms are covered with SKIN!"). My heart swells as I watch him teach his grandson to make the letter "H," and see him pat down a little girl's tangled hair after her nap. And every night I'm reminded of how good it feels to see a light on at the top of the stairs.

Still, it's not easy to coordinate the movements of three generations under one roof. Between us, we span nearly 80 years. The little ones operate in only two modes: either constant motion or asleep. All day long, I race back and forth after them, trying not to trip over the giant mess of stuffed animals, household chores, and work responsibilities. My dad moves slowly and deliberately, constantly aware that he is not in his own home. When navigating through such a complex maze, it only seems logical to turn on a light at the top of the stairs.

I find myself worrying almost constantly about my parents these days, especially my dad. But in the hectic-ness that is life with two small children, I'm not always able (or let's be honest- willing) to give him the time and attention I know I should. It's all too easy to get caught in our own routines, to stay isolated in our little world. Now we're together under one roof and the worries are different. Am I doing enough to make him comfortable? Did I accidentally wipe his face with my napkin after dinner? Why do I find myself lying in bed after everyone is tucked in, unable to sleep myself? I feel a constant struggle between wanting to prove I'm an adult and can take care of him, and wanting to curl up in his lap and sleep for days. Blame it on the light at the top of the stairs.

It's been called the Sandwich Generation- a delicious sounding name for a not so tasty dilemma: those caught between caring for growing little ones and aging older ones. Personally, I'm finding this sandwich difficult to chew and somewhat hard to keep down.

In a few days my dad will return to his own home and our table will not feel the same. Our home will be marked by the absence of his shoes by the door, his cup in the sink, his towel on the rack. But I think I'll leave the light on at the top of the stairs because a life without it seems far too dark to imagine.

What I Wish I Had Known....

2010-05-29T09:38:00.000-07:00

It was the kind of news so good it brings a tear to your eye: word that a childhood friend and her husband were expecting their first child. We've shared so many special times, from middle school sleepovers to European adventures, from caps and gowns to wedding veils and gowns. Now we'd share this as well. Given that our 20th high school reunion is right around the corner, we also share the fact that we both waited until a wee bit later in life to take this step. But despite advanced degrees and successful careers, nothing makes you feel like an imbecile like your first child. So in honor of my dear friend, here are the Top Nine Things I Wish I Had Known Before Having Kids (feel free to add your own #10).

1. Leaving the hospital will be awful. When you're surrounded by a round-the-clock staff of doctors and nurses, caring for that wriggly, needy creature seems almost doable. But without them? At home? It hardly seems legal, much less possible. But just remember: you have everything you need. And...

2. You don't need much. Babies R Us is a terrifying place, filled with 8,000 varieties of sippy cups and strollers with more options than my first car. Or my current car. You really don't need every gadget and gizmo that happens to be branded "baby." Save your money for diapers because...

3. Poop will consume you. And I don't just mean quantity-wise. Who knew that when color, consistency and frequency all align it could be such a truly beautiful thing? You will likely find yourself obsessing over the contents of each diaper, and if things stray from the gold standard of mustard yellow, cottage cheese, 6-8 times/day it can be panic-inducing. You may even find yourself Googling "7-week old baby poop brown with flecks of green" at 4am. And you may find comfort in the 3,095,726 results that match your search.

4. You'll want to unpack your baggage. Do what you can to check your emotional past at the door and start fresh. So you weren't hugged enough as a child? Heal yourself by doing better for your own children. Make peace where you can, including with yourself. Forgive and be forgiving. Your kids deserve it, and so do you.

5. Time doesn't always fly. Sometimes it drags, sometimes it leaps out of control. Take for instance the 27 minutes of an episode of Thomas and Friends which seem to last 8 years. But then one day you will look down and all of a sudden that floppy little head will be holding itself upright and before you know it the head is yelling "Look at me, Mom!" as it attempts to cannonball off the couch and then you're signing it up for preschool. It's probably best to just take off your watch and go with it.

6. Not all help is created equal. My extended family greeted our first child with a huge vegetable tray, 6 pounds of apricots and a 4-pack of pita chips with a giant tub of hummus. As I clumsily tried to nurse my son, hormones surging, I looked out over his fuzzy little head at a hospital picnic. The subsequent offers of "help" I received all came in edible form, usually on gigantic platters, which for someone with a history of disordered eating is not particularly helpful. Food is their love language, but it isn't mine. I am a confessed control freak, and getting back in the kitchen after the baby was born was one of the few things that made me feel like myself. Real help should make your life better, not someone else's. It's taken 3 years but I now know what I most need help with: the ability to go for an early morning run, to drink a cup of tea in peace, and one hour, once a week to lie in bed and watch The Real Housewives of New Jersey.

7. You will pray. If you're a person of faith, nothing will strengthen it more than that tiny, innocent, baby-shaped blessing. And nothing will test it like taking that blessing to church when that blessing hits about 18 months old and runs up and down the pews, shouting "YAY!!!!" at the end of each solemn hymn.

8. You will find your own voice. Cloth vs. disposable? Breast vs. bottle? Pacifier vs. thumb? Everyone (family, friends, strangers) will have an opinion, but ultimately yours is the only one that matters.

9. Everything really does change. My shoe size increased to 7.5, and we won't discuss my waist size. That much I expected, but I didn't know how much my capacity to love would grow as well. The night before my son was born I stayed up all night, worrying about what was about to happen. Did I really have the ability to nurture another human being? Could I possibly offer him the emotional nourishment he needed to grow, to develop, to thrive? And then before his sister was born I worried once again: could I ever love another child as much as I'd come to adore that little boy? Was there room in our hearts for someone else? I still don't know much when it comes to raising children, but this I am sure of: the heart is so very, very flexible. It is everything you need.

Tornado Season

2010-05-24T11:41:00.000-07:00

The year: 1979.

The season: late spring/early summer.

The location: my family's basement.

The reason: a tornado warning.

The feeling: bliss. At least that was my feeling, as a 6-year-old who didn't know enough to be worried about the storm raging outside. And that's OK, because my parents did enough worrying for all of us. Severe weather was not something they experienced much of in their native Egypt unless you count the occasional sandstorm, so whenever the forecast indicated the slightest chance of a twister heading our way, we headed down to the basement.

Under normal conditions, I did not like the basement at all. It was dark and dreary, all corners and no comfort. This was well before the age of basement-chic, prior to the dawn of "man caves," media rooms or tripped out playrooms. In the late 70s the basement was more like hospice for old, beat-up furniture. In ours, a faux-leather sofa was living out its last days alongside a ping-pong table with no net. On shag carpet. And if that wasn't scary enough, there was the terrifying back room, where only a thin wood door separated us from giant machines that hummed and whirred at random. It was not a place to go alone.

But when severe weather threatened and my dad said "Let's go downstairs," I was the first to head south. I'd boldly lead the way down the 12 steps into that otherwise frightening place, and make sure our Storm Survival Kit was in place.

Candles? Check. Battery-powered radio? Check. Secret prayer that this time we'd be able to spend a long, long time in the basement... Amen. Bring it on, Mother Nature. Because it was then and there, in the basement, during a storm, that I knew I'd have my dad's full, undivided attention. No distractions, no diversions. No chores, no work. Confined to the basement until that undetermined time the weatherman gave the "all clear," we would sit in semi-darkness and play game after game of Chutes and Ladders and Candyland. The AM radio hummed, the lights flickered, and we sat and played. And when it was over, when we had the green light to climb back up to that other world, the place where phones rang and other forms of duty called, I'd see the worry leave his grown-up eyes and I'd play along, pretending to be relieved as well. But secretly I wished for more. Tornado season was my favorite time.

Fortunately, we never experienced the devastation of an actual tornado. Just watches and warnings, each one sending us to that isolated world down below. Today, more than three decades later when I see the skies darken and the winds start blowing I can close my eyes and go back to that spot. Booming thunder and flashes of lightning will forever bring back the smell of the room where we spent so many hours- the dampness of the basement and the earthy scent of rain mixed with Dad's Old Spice and Brylcreem.

Recently I opened up a brand new Candyland game, my little boy's first board game, and I held those familiar plastic pieces in my hands. He reached up to grab one with his smooth, chunky toddler fingers and when I looked down and saw our hands intertwined, I could have sworn I heard a tornado siren blare.

Parenting little ones is challenging on multiple levels, but I find one of the toughest parts is staying present. Life pulls us in so many directions and we've all become masters of multi-tasking. I can feed 2 kids breakfast while folding a load of laundry, texting my husband, listening to a podcast and reading online reviews of summer vacation destinations. But to sit down and play a game? That's a whole lot tougher. And it shouldn't be that way.

The older I get the more I've come to fear tornados. Not necessarily the ones outside, but the ones that blow through our lives and threaten to take us down. The winds that whip around us now carry names of diseases like cancer, diabetes, Parkinson's. We know they could rob us of what we've been given and yet we still don't always heed the warnings. We don't always take cover and hold on dearly to what we have until it's too late. Sometimes we choose to bury ourselves in our work and other responsibilities and ignore the storms brewing just outside. Sometimes we choose to simply pretend the storms aren't there, that maybe if we don't talk about them, they'll go away. But they won't.

It shouldn't take a tornado to get us to slow down and focus. All day long I feel my kids pulling at me, and yet I admit I don't always stop to give them what they need and crave most: my undivided attention. No, we can't play games all day, and yes, there are things around the house that need to get done. But there's has to be time that's all their own. No storm required.

And so it came to be that on a bright and sunny, picture-perfect day I sat inside with my little boy, tears occasionally gathering in the corners of my eyes, playing game after game of Candyland. We can't afford to wait for the tornado because this time, it might come without warning and when it does, even the shelter of the basement may not be enough.

Crocs: Why I hate them and bought them anyway

2010-05-10T12:55:00.000-07:00

Hate is an ugly word. It's a nasty, 4-letter word I strive to keep out of my vocabulary and out of my house. But I warn you, I am about to use the "h" word as there's just no other way to express how I feel about this particular topic. Because I hate Crocs. Really and truly I do. And it's that time of year when sure as dandelions are popping up on my lawn, those ugly, clunky plastic shoes are popping up. Everywhere.

I remember when Crocs first hit the mainstream several years back. "Shoes with holes?" I thought. Who would wear these? What kind of person would purposely make their foot resemble a duck-billed platypus? This trend won't last, I predicted. You probably shouldn't take my stock tips, either.

Today Crocs are everywhere, they've become as acceptable in our sloppy new world as PJ pants at the grocery store. Men wear them, women wear them (a red flag right there- unisex shoes?), and it seems like every child in America wears them. And of course they must be accessorized with those little knick-knacky "Jibbitz" things. And if that wasn't enough personalization for you, the folks at Crocs have come up with an assortment of products to fit every facet of your life. Holiday-themed Crocs for those festive celebrations. College logo Crocs to honor your alma mater. Nice warm fur-lined Crocs for winter. Hey Crocs people, I have news for you: shoes for winter already exist, and we call them boots.

A few years back my Croc-wearing in-laws gave my husband a pair for his birthday. I'm not sure if this was intended to be a gag gift or not, but it did certainly make me want to gag. The offensive footwear was quickly removed to an undisclosed location.

Recently a Croc-o-philic relative (who also happens to be a lawyer) argued in defense of the plastic shoes that they should be considered a sandal alternative, and thus should be tolerated if worn to places where sandals would be appropriate. Perhaps if Crocs had stayed at the park and the playground I wouldn't have such an issue with them. But those nasty plastic things have shown up in offices, at "nicer" restaurants, and even (may the good Lord have mercy on your soles) at church.

Given my strong feelings about Crocs you might find it odd, perhaps even hypocritical, to hear that I recently purchased a pair for my son.

Not actual Crocs, as I am far too cheap for that, but Target's in-house brand of Colorful, Ridiculous And Plastic Slip-On Shoes (we'll call them CRAPSS for short).

It was partly a move born out of potty training, which has made me see the potential merits of a hose-friendly shoe. It was partly because my almost 3-year-old son has entered the "I Can Do It ALL BY MYSELF" phase, and while he can in fact put on regular shoes by himself, it requires setting aside 45 minutes to accomplish. But it was mostly because while walking past the rack of CRAPSS my sweet little boy yelled out "Mommy! Look at those shoes!!" and rattled off the names of all his CRAPSS-wearing friends. "Aidan has those shoes and Carter has those shoes and James has those shoes and Sophie has those shoes and Nicholas has those shoes!" Yes, at the tender age of 2.5 I found myself dealing with my child's first case of "I want what everyone else has" and I caved.

I have memories of waging this war with my own parents (remember Jelly Shoes?), having grown up in a brand-obsessed suburb of Detroit. As a result I can't stand the sight of anything with an obvious logo emblazoned upon it. Burberry plaid makes me dizzy. Louis Vitton emblem-covered bags? Gross. I've spent 3 years trying to convince a well-meaning grandparent that the designer clothes she insists on buying for my toddler (hint: they feature a man on horseback playing a game with a stick) are neither well-made, well-fitting, nor well-worth the ridiculous cost.

Now I'm staring at these silly shoes and wondering what happened to my resolve. It's just one pair of bright blue shoes but with that $9.99 purchase I know we've entered new territory: a minefield where peer pressure threatens to explode with every step. How do you know where to draw the line? Of course we all want our children to be happy and well-adjusted. But how do we teach them in an increasingly consumer-driven, materialistic world to value what truly matters? Which battles are worth fighting and which ones don't hold water any better than a plastic shoe with holes?

Parenting is full of tough decisions and every single one, no matter how big or small, whether a matter of the heart or the foot, comes with consequences. If anyone tells you otherwise... well, it's a crock.

Not Fitting In: A lesson from the kitchen table

2010-04-27T11:23:00.000-07:00

Step into my kitchen and you will always find fresh flowers on the table. If not fresh flowers, then a seasonally appropriate piece of decor. As Oprah says, your home should "rise up and meet you" and that's just the sort of person I am : a Fresh Flowers Or Seasonal Decor On The Kitchen Table kind of girl.

Oh, who am I kidding? I have to stick something on the table because there's a hole in the middle of it. It's a big, round hole that's intended to hold an umbrella. Because you see, my kitchen table is not actually a kitchen table. It was designed to live out its life on a patio (hence the umbrella hole) but we saw it in the store and thought it was too pretty to brave the elements, so we rescued it and brought it inside. Hole and all.

The hole isn't the only issue. We weren't quite as exacting as we should have been with measurements, so the table is a tad bit too large for the space. Once you sit down you'd better make yourself comfortable because you're pretty much trapped. And of course, because it's an outdoor table of an irregular size, no standard tablecloth will ever fit. But despite its flaws, I love my outdoor table brought inside. It's sturdy, durable, and different, hole and all. And somehow, it reminds me of myself.

Not fitting in has fit me perfectly for most of my life. I think it's a feeling most children of immigrants can relate to: you grow up with one foot in each world, never feeling completely steady in your stance. As a child I felt out of place among the blue-eyed, peanut butter eating masses at school, but still never completely at home in my own home. I was too young, too immature to embrace what made our family different, and though I loved the familiarity of my parents' native tongue, the customs and traditions they brought from Egypt, I feared fully embracing them would separate me even further from the seemingly perfect American experience I thought I craved. Who was I, anyway? An outdoor table brought inside.

And that was just the beginning. In an uber-successful family of doctors, nurses, lawyers, I was the one with Career ADD, flitting from one profession to the next every few years, searching for that perfect fit. And once I finally found the work I loved doing, I still couldn't find a way to make it work for my life. You can bring an outdoor table inside, but you can't always make it fit.

Now we find ourselves living in a sea of manicured lawns and pedicured toes. A place where candle parties are a way of life and stay at home moms rule the roost. At times I love the serenity and peace of our tranquil neighborhood, and at times it makes me want to put on a multi-colored wig and run screaming down the cul-de-sac at 3am. In this neighborhood of freshly starched tablecloths and perfect place settings, I sometimes find myself feeling like the outdoor table that was left uncovered all winter and finally brought inside only to make a big, muddy mess all over the floor. Yet another place I don't quite fit in, but the good news is, I don't really care.

Because somewhere along the way something happened. Somewhere between all the years in school, the different jobs, the different cities, the different countries, I filled up that hole in my table. Filled it up with a mixture of equal parts self-awareness, pride and inner strength. And not long after that I met the sweetest man with floppy brown hair. Together we made two beautiful children who remind me every day with their goofy giggles and joyful souls that we fit together perfectly as a family. And that maybe, just maybe, I did something right.

Now as I watch them grow, part of me hopes they will have an easier time fitting in than I did, because I hate the thought of them going through even a moment of angst. But I also know there's tremendous power in being able to stand out from the herd, and that the path of greater resistance is well worth the effort. So as we sit somewhat awkwardly around our too-big, too bulky, outside table brought inside, I run my fingers over every crack and bump and give thanks, knowing there's no place I'd rather be. And I say a silent prayer that my children will always know that this is where they fit. That they are lovely, that they are loved. Holes and all. Inside and out.

Cupcakes and jobs: facing tough decisions as a parent

2010-04-06T12:31:00.000-07:00

Funny how life can turn on a dime. Or a word. Or a cupcake.

In my last post I wrote about embracing the here and now. I had one of those breakthrough moments where I realized I was shortchanging myself and my family by living in the past, I was wasting too much energy lamenting over where I wasn't in my life. I pledged to accept the hand that life had dealt, to cherish the opportunity I've been given to be home with my two young children. I vowed to look for possibilities instead of problems. I tried to think about all I could accomplish during this hiatus from full-time work: I'd try one new recipe every week. I'd become the sort of person who used "scrapbook" as a verb. Maybe I would even learn the secret ways of the Local Ladies Who Lunch and not feel like such an outcast in my own neighborhood. I walked around repeating a new mantra to myself: Now is my friend. Now is good. Now can be great!

It lasted about a week.

Then along came the cupcakes. They were my idea, so I take the blame. You see, I was just trying to fill that time of day I've come to know as the witching hour: the post-afternoon nap, pre-dinner, dad's not home from yet, I can't get a (*&^ thing done stretch from roughly 4-6pm. My little boy was restless, bored with his vast array of toys and the weather was lousy. A teething baby had been using me as a chew toy and my aching arms (as well as other body parts) just needed a break. So I put her in the highchair with some Cheerios and said the magic words to my son: "Let's make cupcakes!"

So we measured and we mixed and 22 minutes later it was a beautiful thing to behold: frosted deliciousness wrapped in a tiny paper liner. My sweet little boy turned to me with sprinkles still clinging to his chunky fingers and asked the magic question: "Mama, can I eat one?"

"Not now," I told him. "You can have one after dinner."

Even before I finished saying it, I could see his little chin start to quiver, the tears welling up in those blue-green eyes. Cue the massive meltdown in 3, 2, 1....

What was I thinking? "Not now?" A toddler's whole world is now. Later, tomorrow, 3 weeks from Tuesday... these are concepts that don't quite register with a 2.5 year old. I might as well have told him "Not ever," because all he could wrap his mind around was the fact there was a cupcake on the counter, a cupcake he had slaved over (OK, Betty Crocker slaved over it, but he had helped), so close he could drool over it (and probably did) and it was somehow forbidden?

So there I stood in the kitchen, faced with a tough choice: stand my ground and preserve some hope that dinner would be eaten, or let him eat the cupcake and put an end to the tantrum. Maybe it wasn't the best decision, but I chose the path of least resistance, the one covered in sprinkles. He grinned, grabbed the cupcake and buried his face in the frosting. Crisis averted.

But it's never that simple, because who wants to stop with just one cupcake? So of course he turned to me with frosting still oozing from his mouth, cheeks still stuffed, looking like a rabid chipmunk and begged for another. But this time, I stood firm: "No. Not now." Back came the tears, the balled up fists, the stomping feet. "Not now" is not fun.

Later that same night I came to know exactly how he felt. Once both kids were asleep I settled in to do a little bit of writing. OK, maybe just a quick hello to my 635 Facebook friends, then a little writing. Right after just the teensiest little bit of email, I'll do some writing.

Except that someone had sent me a cupcake. Not an actual cupcake (although if there is a way to receive baked goods via email, someone please tell me how to make it happen), but my very own seemingly forbidden fruit. It was a job posting for the one position I wanted, at the one place I'd always hoped to work. Here I was, trying so hard to commit myself to staying home with my kids, a decision I'm pretty sure is the right one right now, and along comes a cupcake. What to do?

Eating the cupcake (applying for the job) would mean a potentially huge stomachache: daycare, commuting, a demanding schedule, being away from my husband and kids, missing out on so much personally. Is it worth the pain? I have a good situation "sans" cupcake: I recognize that we are blessed to be in a position where financially I don't have to work full-time. And working a few nights/week at a local radio station helps bring some escape from 24-7 Mommyville. Could I really handle an entire cupcake at this point?

But not being able to eat the cupcake is, pardon the pun, no piece of cake: I crave the life I left behind, feel like I'm missing out on so much professionally. A cupcake like this doesn't come along very often. My stimulation-challenged brain shouted "Eat the cupcake, already!" while my heart screamed "Not now!"

Not now is definitely not fun.

So what's a girl to do? Eat the cupcake or put it back on the shelf? It's times like these I wish I had someone to make the decisions for me. Someone to tame my internal tantrum and set me straight. Someone to help me sort out "now" from "not now." But I'm a big girl, and this is part of growing up. I'll just have to think it over, pray for clarity, and figure out if this is my time to take a bite.

Mona Shand is the mother of 2 and a local news reporter who loves cupcakes.

How a tea kettle changed my view of motherhood

2010-03-11T13:13:00.000-08:00

Must. Have. Tea. These are the only 3 words my sleep-deprived, mommy-fied brain can process in the morning. For the record, it's decaf, and it's also in my genes. Because if there's one thing Egyptians know really well, it's the importance a good cup of tea. It's a culture where tea begins and ends the day. Tea is the only civilized way to greet a guest, begin a friendship or end a meal. I'm pretty sure there are hieroglyphs that depict our pyramid-building ancestors taking daily tea breaks around 10am. Stomachache? Try tea with mint. Rough day at work? Tea with milk. Really rough day at work? Tea with whatever you have in the liquor cabinet.

It's the one beverage that's thicker than blood or water. Just ask my completely non-Egyptian husband who knew he'd been granted the green light to propose when my dad, after a long silent pause, finally turned toward him and popped the ultimate question:

"Mark, would you like a cup of tea?"

So it's only fitting I got a major wake up call from my morning tea. Or my tea kettle, to be exact.

Electric tea kettle #1 was a wedding shower gift and after nearly 7 years of speedily brewing my morning, afternoon and evening delight it one day died a peaceful death. So I invested in a new shiny stainless steel number. So shiny you can see yourself in it. And that's exactly what happened.

I came downstairs that first morning of the New Kettle Era and began my usual routine, which mainly involves impatiently watching water boil. But somewhere between the Lipton bag and the Splenda packet I caught a glimpse of myself in the side of the kettle and here's what I saw: an angry face. A tense face. A face that looked defeated. It wasn't so much the dark circles under the eyes but the sadness inside them that took me most by surprise. Was that really me? Was that the face that greeted my family each morning?

It's been nearly 10 months since I left my job to stay home with my kids. It was the decision so many women before me have faced: the emotional and financial cost of putting two kids in daycare was just too much to pay. And don't get me wrong, I adore my children. I love the sight, love the sound, want to inhale the sweet smell of their skin. But there is a loneliness and isolation to daily life with little ones that can at times feel suffocating. The constant doing and undoing of laundry, the making and unmaking of messes. By the time my husband comes home the best I have to offer is a brief State of the Household address: an exciting summary of who did and did not poop.

"Just make friends with other moms," I've been told. Well here's a newsflash- not every mom out there wants to be your friend, by mere virtue of the fact that you both have children. Sometimes the mean girls from middle school grow up and grow out of it, and sometimes they just grow up and host Bunco night. So (partly by choice) most days the only adult I interact with is the Target cashier, and even she seems a little bored with me. I miss my old life, I miss my old self.

It's enough to make a person angry, even if that person doesn't realize it until she sees it reflected back in a tea kettle. But it's slowly become clear: I've been fighting the Mommy Wars with myself, and I'm losing the battle.

So it's time to lay down my weapons; I am officially giving up the internal fight. It's high time I accept where I am, accept that this is who I am right now. It is often difficult, it is frequently lonely, but it's also what I know deep down to be right. These are my current circumstances, and I can't change them until I fully acknowledge what they are. My family doesn't deserve angry eyes, and neither do I.

So please join me and my morning tea for a toast: Here's to drinking in what life offers us in the here and now. Here's to sipping on what we've been given, and savoring what it is instead of wishing it were something else. Let's stop worrying about whether the tea cup is half-empty or half-full and just taste what's inside.

Cheers to now.

A Travel Adventure

2010-02-23T18:31:00.000-08:00

My first mistake was thinking it would be easy.

A long weekend in Chicago- how tough could that be? Yes, we'd be traveling with 2 kids under age 3, but this is Chicago we're talking about! We've taken them across international waters. Surely we can take them round the corner of Lake Michigan. Chicago is familiar territory- home (well, Evanston anyway) to my alma mater Northwestern University, not to mention home to my brother and his family. Chicago is close! Chicago is fun! Chicago is my kind of town.

And we'd be taking the train! A dream come true for my sweet little boy, who counts Thomas (and Percy and Edward and Henry and James et al.) among his nearest and dearest friends. His first train ride! We talked about it for weeks; how he'd hear the engine's whistle, feel the rattle of the rails. How not only would he be riding on a bona fide, actual train, he'd be riding it with his grandparents! My mom and dad would be joining us for the trip, as my little boy frequently told anyone who would listen. He had it all planned out: he'd sit on Gido's (translation: Grandpa's) lap and Teta (my mom) would read him stories. What fun!

Except that my parents missed the train.

Never mind, time to regroup, dry one disappointed little boy's eyes and move on. My parents promised they'd find a way to make it to Chicago, and we were still on a train- a TRAIN! What fun! My little Choo Choo was hot with excitement. A little too hot. Like feverish. And maybe just a tiny bit stuffy...

Time for travel triage. From the depths of the diaper bag we dug out the Children's Tylenol and the digital thermometer (yes, I travel with one) and prayed for the best.

By Kalamazoo his temperature hit triple digits.

The Indiana state line brought us to 104. It's a nice number if Willard Scott is wishing you happy birthday, but a very ugly one when it comes off your child's forehead. I held him tight and prayed for cool.

And so the child who never sits still and is obsessed with trains spent his very first train ride dozing in and out of a fitful sleep, fever raging inside.

We arrived in Chicago, did not pass go, and went directly to Urgent Care. 4 hours later ("Urgent" is apparently a relative term) we had a not surprising but comforting diagnosis: a bad cold. And thanks to the miraculous healing power of the waiting room (and a dose of Motrin) he was already feeling a bit better. Back to our regularly scheduled family visit! Time to introduce Noah and his sister to their cousin! Family bonding time! What fun!

Except that it turns out my son is terrified of dogs. Namely my brother's sweet, docile, slightly dopey French bulldog. To Noah she was Terror Wrapped In Fur. He shrieked like a madman the minute she approached and didn't stop until.... well, he just didn't stop.

Surely he'd feel better in the morning. A nice warm bath, comfy jammies and bed would do the trick. I'd tuck him in with his beloved Thomas the Tank Engine blanket and his stuffed bunnies and pray for morning.

Except that I forgot to pack his bunnies.

And when he raised his hot little head off the mattress to ask for them, he wasn't the only one with tears in his eyes.

We were both exhausted and I had failed. Failed to expect the unexpected, failed to prepare for the worst, failed to provide the security and comfort he needed.

I made up a story about the bunnies watching over our house, offered a stuffed penguin as a surrogate, skulked out of the room and prayed for forgiveness.

The weekend definitely improved after that; the fever broke, we all enjoyed our together, Noah and the dog negotiated a temporary truce.

Traveling with little ones will never be easy, but it is almost always worth the effort. Even a quick trip reminds us and teaches our kids that the world is bigger than the small circle we tend to travel in, that our way of life isn't the only one. My kids got their first glimpse at a big city, played with cousins they'd never met, brought smiles to grandparents, uncles and aunts.

We got back on the train, weary from the experience and glad to be homeward bound. Just an easy ride and we'd be there. I kissed my little boy as he gazed wide-eyed out the window, calling "Toot Toot" each time the engine whistled, finally feeling the rattle of the rails. For the first time in 3 days I felt myself relax, and dared to exhale as I held my baby girl in my lap.

A baby who felt a little warm, and maybe just a tiny bit stuffy....

Finding myself on an airplane

2010-01-26T10:32:00.000-08:00

"Flight attendants prepare for takeoff."

They're not exactly the most poignant words, and I've never had a fear of flying, so why was I sitting on the runway with tears streaming down my cheeks?

It had little to do with sadness at the thought of leaving my husband and little boy at home. I was only going for a long weekend and though I'd miss them dearly, a few days away can go a long way toward recharging the batteries. Especially when the batteries are constantly being drained by an extremely energetic (is there any other kind?) toddler with a penchant for being chased in circles. All day long. So it wasn't that.

It wasn't really the fear of traveling solo with a baby. By the time the pilot uttered those words, the hardest part was over. We had arrived at the airport the recommended 3 hours in advance, lugged the suitcase, stroller and diaper bag from the parking lot to the gate, paid all the necessary and unnecessary fees, stripped down as requested by the TSA (did you know even a 7-month old baby must take off her shoes?), and made it onto the plane. So it wasn't that, either.

It took me a few minutes to figure it out, but when I did I realized I wasn't sad at all. They were tears of happiness. Because for the first time in nearly three years, I finally felt like myself.

Travel has always been a huge part of my life, especially solo travel. There's just always been something so satisfying about throwing clothes in a bag and taking off...alone. Backpacking through Europe? You bet. Crossing the Australian Outback? Absolutely. I even made travel my career for several years, working for both Air France and Club Med resorts.

But then along came baby... and another baby... and it's never quite been the same. It's not that we stopped traveling. Both kids have passports and have already logged their share of frequent flier miles. But we've always traveled together as an entire family. And with so much luggage. Strollers, diapers, toys, bags of this and that. Even up at 35,000 feet, I felt so heavy, so weighed down. So afraid that I might not make it through the day, much less an entire trip, without the essential gear. Like my tenuous grasp on motherhood might somehow fly right out the window the moment we left solid ground.

Becoming a mother isn't an instant process, it doesn't just "happen" the minute the doctor puts that wriggling mass in your arms. It happens slowly, while rocking a sick baby back to sleep at 3am. It happens boldly, when you snap open a stroller with one hand while balancing a baby, a bag of groceries and a stuffed cow in the other. It happens silently, when you and your child exchange a knowing glance that turns to giggles in the rearview mirror. Sometimes it even happens on an airplane.

I didn't accomplish any great task, I just got on a plane and took a flight. But it was enough. Enough to make me realize the things that used to make me happy still can. I can be a parent and I can still be me. It's all part of the new person I'm becoming. It's beginning to happen.

And one day, I know I'll fly again.

Questions in the aftermath of the earthquake

2010-01-17T10:42:00.000-08:00

It's hard to believe, but one month ago today we were standing just a few hundred miles from Port-au-Prince, Haiti. We spent a blissful week vacationing in the Dominican Republic, enjoying sun, sand and surf at the beautiful Club Med Punta Cana. Now, much of the Haiti has become a makeshift refugee camp. Dominican hospitals and hotels are packed to the brim with the injured from the disastrous earthquake in neighboring Haiti, and like so many, I find it hard to look away.

Any decent (and even not-so-decent) news reporter must quickly acquire the ability to separate his/herself from the story, as it's the only way to survive witnessing the countless tragedies the job entails. But sadly, I have found that separation often continues when I am not covering, but merely watching news unfold. It's hard to admit, but in the immediate aftermath of the earthquake I found myself watching through somewhat callous news eyes. Instead of really "seeing" what was happening, I was focused on analyzing the coverage. "How many reporters are heading down there?" I wondered? Where were they staying? How hard was it to edit and feed back a story in those conditions?

And then I saw her.

I don't know her name or her age, or really anything about her. I only saw a glimpse as a camera panned across one of countless villages now reduced to rubble. She stood on top of what once was a roof, perhaps her own, her back to the camera. On her hip she held an infant, a baby covered in dust, wearing tattered clothes and sucking his thumb, his face poking out over her shoulder. Another child pulled at her hand- a toddler, perhaps 2 or 3 years old, kicking stones with his bare, dirty feet. It took that simple image: two young children doing what all children do, doing what MY children do, their mother holding them like all mothers do, holding them like I do, to jar me out of news reporter mode and back into humanity. The tears haven't stopped coming ever since.

The feelings of helplessness in the wake of such suffering can be paralyzing. My oldest child is just 2.5, far too young to understand what is happening in Haiti. In his little world, a "disaster" occurs when his Thomas the Tank Engine has disappeared (which is really not cause for concern in my little world). So before bedtime we just try to help him say a prayer for those who lost their homes ("But Mama, why can't they find them?") and those who are hurt ("Do they need a kiss to make it better?"). We will do what we can to support the relief effort through the Red Cross. Thursday night a local family originally from Haiti will hold a fundraiser (you'll find more information here) to support the George Stines Foundation, which operates medical and dental clinics in Haiti. For those with older children, ABC news has compiled this list of resources for talking to kids about the earthquake. But it's my own questions

It's hard not to wonder why this particular disaster had to happen on that particular island given the already near desperate conditions prior to the earthquake. At night when I close my eyes I see that woman holding her two children and can't help but wonder why, despite the threads of humanity that make us similar, our lives turned out so differently. How is it fair that I sit with my two kids in my too nice house full of too much stuff, a spectator to her suffering? What will happen to her and the rest of the people of Haiti when the news crews pack up and leave, off to chase the next breaking story? Will our hearts and wallets remain open once the headlines fade? What more can we do to help, what should we have been doing before this even happened? There are no easy answers, but I'll start by holding my kids a little closer, and give thanks the only trembling in our lives is that of my own hands.

On Dads and Daughters

2009-12-31T04:58:00.000-08:00

It really was the most wonderful time of the year. And by that I mean the week between Christmas and New Year when Ford Motor Co. shuts down, forcing all its employees, including my husband to retreat to their homes.

The first few days, I must admit, were a bit odd. Though the loneliness of being at home with two little ones is at times palpable, we have settled into our own routine, and having someone else plop into the middle of it was at first a bit awkward. But once we got over that hurdle it

quickly became clear: love was in the air.

Hey now, this is not that kind of post. Sure, it was great to reconnect with my husband, blah blah blah. We don't get nearly enough quality time together yadda yadda yadda. But this is not about us, not exactly. In fact, it's about my husband and another woman. I have good reason to suspect he's got a thing for a certain gorgeous, dark-haired, blue-eyed babe. She's had her eye on him for months now, but it's taken him a while to come around. I've seen the tell-tale signs: stolen glances, soft giggles from behind closed doors, the sparkle in his eyes. You'd think I'd be jealous but in fact I'm thrilled. Because over the past few weeks I watched my husband start to fall in love with his little girl.

With Baby #1, those loving feelings seemed to come more naturally for my husband. While the arrival of every child is guaranteed to take your breath away, there's just no word to describe the awe that comes with that first special delivery. Everything is so new, so remarkable, so incredibly lovable. Baby's first bath! Baby's first spit up! Baby's first Arbor Day (celebrated of course with a matching bib and onesie)!

It also helped that Baby #1 was a boy, making the bonding process a bit more obvious. With Noah's arrival my husband could see deep into the future, envisioning the two of them tinkering together on the old car in the garage, watching football games on the couch, making armpit noises and other such manly endeavors. And 2.5 years later, it's not difficult for a man to connect with a little creature who is 34 pounds of pure boy. Wrestling! Trains! Boogers!

Then along came a certain sweet baby girl. Sure, my husband loved her from the start in the way all parents love their children. He just didn't seem to know quite what to *do* with her. She was so delicate, so feminine, so soft, this little creature. So different from that solid mass of a brother. Her clothes, aside from being so tiny, were so frilly, so very....pink. And they came with a whole new world called "accessories." Matching socks, diaper covers, headbands and bows... it's enough to scare any red-blooded man away. And I think it did.

In my husband's defense, the early stages of a baby's life (especially a breastfed baby) don't provide the most accessible opportunities for bonding. Between his work schedule and her seemingly incessant feeding and diaper schedule, he spent the first few months either looking at the back of her head or the bottom of her... well, bottom. And let's be honest- until they hit about the 3-month mark, babies are basically blobs. Lovely, wonderful, magical blobs, but blobs. But then out of the darkness of sleepless nights and explosive diapers comes... a personality! Mix that with a long stretch off work spent at home, add in the magic of the holidays, sprinkle with the world's sweetest giggle and a gurgle that sounds remarkably like

"Da-da," and you've got the recipe for magic.

So I think it's time we make this relationship official. Since this is a topic I know a thing or two about (my own love affair going strong nearly 4 decades later), I'll perform the ceremony.

Do you, sweet baby girl, take this man to be your lifelong hero? Do you promise to keep him wrapped securely around your little finger, to hold his heart in your tiny hands? Do you take him in sickness (including, but not limited to stuffy noses, ear infections, croupy coughs) and in health (and I know his seems great right now, but trust me one day far into the future it may start to fail and it will break your heart but that's when he'll need you more than ever)? Will you obey him most of the time until you're a teenager and even then try to go easy on him because he really does want what's best for you even though you might not see it at the time but eventually you'll come to understand this when you're much, much older?

And you, Daddy... do you promise to love, honor and cherish her even when the drama sets in? Will you take her for richer (which she will make your life) and for poorer (which she will make your wallet)? Do you promise to have and to hold her even when some dumb boy breaks her heart (without actually blaming her for falling for a dumb boy no matter how dumb he clearly is because she needs to figure that part out for herself even though it can take a long time, like potentially years which I'm sure will feel like decades for you)? For as long as you both shall live (which I'm sure will seem like not very long when she stays out past her curfew and you feel like you're going to die of worry)?

Congratulations.

You may kiss the girl. Over and over and over again.

Unusual Resolutions for an Unusual New Year

2009-12-27T08:34:00.001-08:00

I'm having trouble wrapping my mind around 2010. It sounds like a prescription from the optometrist, or a verse from a song designed to teach kids to count by tens. Backwards. But maybe I'm saying it wrong? Is it "Twenty-Ten" or "Two Thousand Ten?" Or maybe "Two-oh-one-oh?" Just hours into the new year and I'm already confused.

Maybe it's because I don't really want to let go of 2009. The sparkle of the holidays still lingers in our house, and I mean that quite literally because those glitter snowflakes I put up have shed all over basically every flat surface. But I'm still not quite ready to take them down. Though the Christmas tree is beginning to look a bit pathetic, I can't bring myself to separate it from the little boy who races down the stairs each morning and yells "1...2...3!" as I turn on the lights. Christmas 2009 was certainly a memorable one: the first ever for a sweet baby girl who arrived 6 months and 2 days before Santa; the first time a certain 2-year-old boy really understood what was going on. And I, for one, just don't want it to end.

"It will only get better," my been-there, done-that friends say, and I'm sure that's true. Because as wonderful as this past holiday season, and the year as a whole have been, there are definitely areas that could use some improvement. Which is why, like most people, I'm working on a list of New Year's Resolutions. But this year I resolve to not resolve anything involving weight loss or exercise. And let's face it, I will not likely write the Great American Novel in 2010, so I resolve not to resolve to do that either. In fact, in honor of this nonsensical sounding year, I'll think I'll try some non-resolutions.

1. I will change fewer diapers. No, I'm not going to leave my children to sit in filth, but I will allow others to help more when it comes to diaper duty and all the rest. And I suppose it's also time we get going on the Great Potty Training Adventure.

2. I will sit down more. Yes, I know all about the obesity epidemic and the lazy-fication of America. But in my corner of the world, I too often find myself hovering over the table at meal time, slicing grilled cheese sandwiches with one hand, mixing baby purees with the other, eating my own food with.... well, there's the problem. Even prisoners sit down to eat.

3. I will break traditions. At least the ones that no longer work for anyone involved. Like the giant family holiday get-together that takes place too late at night with too much food, too much drink, and too little quality time. "That's the way we've always done it" isn't a good enough reason to continue. New traditions have to start somewhere, and somewhere is now.

4. I will not always focus on the present. I'm pretty sure the moments that seem so incredibly stressful, so draining, so intolerable right now will look and feel very different 10, 20, or 30 years from now. When my son is 12 and is too cool to acknowledge me in public I'm sure I'll long for the days he begged me to sing "Frosty the Snowman" for the 27th time. Staying up all night with a coughing baby girl won't seem so bad when I'm staying up all night waiting for her to come home.

Sure, there are other areas of life that could use some work, but I'm just going to start with these four. I'm hoping that working on what matters most in my life will bring more inner nourishment than any new diet, more strength than any gym membership could provide. I'm still not sure what to call the year, but I pray that 365 days from now I'll be looking back, holding onto each last moment, and just calling it unforgettable.

Mona Shand is a TV and radio news reporter and a contributor to annarbor.com who lives in Brighton.

The Christmas Rush

2009-12-24T05:38:00.000-08:00

'Twas the morning before Christmas and all through my house, the only sound to be heard was the click of my mouse. The children were sleeping all snug in their beds, but visions of Target kept dancing through my head. What time do they open, how crowded would it be? I need one more package to put under the tree! I threw on a sweatshirt, grabbed the keys to my sleigh, I was headed out the door until a small voice inside yelled "NO WAY!" No more toys, no more food, no more gifts no more bling. The voice said "NO" to the Christmas Eve urge to run out for "just one more thing."

It's a powerful urge, one I'm convinced has genetic links. My mom, a very busy career woman, always did the the bulk of her Christmas shopping on December 24th, closing out the stores and barely beating Santa home. Still mall-weary from the extreme effort, she'd then spend most of Christmas Day in the kitchen, cooking up a feast for the many relatives who poured in. Yes, our tree was piled high with gifts, and yes, our table did runneth over, but even as a child I felt uncomfortable and unhappy with the excess. I craved her presence more than the presents, I was hungry for something that couldn't be baked or sauteed.

The trend continued into my adult years, because let's face it, old habits are tough to change. But one year, they did. Unexpectedly, my mom had major surgery just days before Christmas and all thoughts of presents, wrapping, or food went straight out the wreath-free window. My aunt and cousin flew in from Egypt to be with us, and when we woke on Christmas morning I think it took a while to even remember what day it was. In a last minute decision we dragged the tree up from the basement and rummaged the cupboard for something to eat. The only gift we unwrapped was a project I had been working on for months- finally organizing the scattered, tattered photos from my parents' wedding into an album. We sat around the kitchen table together sipping mint tea, nibbling on whatever we found, pouring over those black-and-white photos from so long ago. I remember my mom looking at my dad with happy tears in her eyes, remembering that day 4 decades ago when their lives became one. I remember my aunt telling stories of the eight siblings whose faces peered back from those pages. You can call it relief from passing through a medical emergency, you can call it the spirit of simplicity. I just call it the best Christmas ever.

Sadly, the lessons of that Christmas were short-lived and faster than you can say "Holiday Excess" we've all returned to our usual ways. Now that I have my own children I understand the irony of Christmas: how the desire to give them the most wonderful holiday can be exactly what prevents us from doing just that. But this year more than ever, I'm also coming to understand that the holidays as we know them will not last forever. No one knows how many more Christmases my babies will be blessed with the gift of four living grandparents. Not even Santa can bring us promises of job security or good health.

So this year (and hopefully many more to come) I'm just saying no to any last minute holiday economic stimulus. The stockings could surely be more stuffed, and there won't be as many cookies to feast on. There are even some last-minute additions to our Christmas gathering who will not find gifts from us under the tree. To them I apologize, but if they truly love us I know they'll understand. There's nothing left on any store shelf that's worth losing time with the ones that I love.

If you need me, don't search the malls or the stores- look no further than the couch. That's where I'll be gazing at my semi-decorated tree with two wide-eyed little elves. I'll do my best from this Christmas Eve on to give them my full attention, time and love. And "just one more thing": Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.

PS- Mom, please stop shopping now!

Fear of the Dark: It's not Just for Kids

2009-11-11T11:21:00.000-08:00

I'm not sure exactly when it happened, I can't quite put my finger on the night. But sometime between the long, lazy days of summer and falling back to Daylight Savings, my 2-year-old son became acutely aware of the dark. And he doesn't like it, not one bit.

It's never been an issue, perhaps because "dark" didn't really exist in his little world. Noah's first word was "light," and his ensuing fascination with switches has ensured both the illumination of our home and the profitability of DTE. And with an 8pm bedtime he just hasn't spent much time in natural darkness. But all of a sudden when he wakes in the morning and I go to raise his blinds, he asks me in a quivering voice, "Is the dark all gone, Mama?" as if he's been worried all night about what lurked outside. He wants his nightlight on all day, as if to guard against any sneak attack or unscheduled dark visit. And every once in a while he'll wake up in the middle of the night crying and call out for me.

I try to comfort him, holding him close as he wraps his jammie-clad arms and legs around me. We'll sit and rock as I whisper to him that everything's OK, that the dark is nothing to be scared of. Then I lay him gently back down in his bed, kiss his forehead, and tiptoe guiltily back to my room, knowing all the while I am nothing but a big, fat liar. Because here's the thing: I'm just as scared.

It's not the same fear I had as a child, when monsters lurked behind closet doors and shifting shapes and shadows on the floors were most certainly up to no good. No, my fears have grown-up over the years but still induce the same child-like panic.

Much like with my little Noah, I manage to dodge the dark fears during most of the day. Between a 2-year-old, a 4-month-old, a job, a house to take care of and a partridge in a pear tree (that reminds me, Christmas is coming), the daylight hours pass in a blur. I also avoid make a point to avoid dusting in corners, the bottom of the laundry basket, trips to the basement and anywhere else dark might dare hide. But late at night when I finally stop moving long enough to think, dark and fear come creeping in, swirling all around my bed in question form. What if I'm not doing this right? What if my babies don't grow up to be happy? How will I protect them from everything that hurts? How will I nourish their little minds, their souls, their beautiful spirits? What if something happens to me, to my husband, to my parents? What? How? What? How? It's my very own version of Fear Factor.

Eventually, sleep takes over and the monsters retreat. They leave without a trace before dawn, just as silently as they appeared and the world returns to "normal." But I know they'll be back.

That's why lately, I've begun arming myself with a secret weapon. Once both kids are tucked securely into bed I peek into each of their rooms and lean down close enough to smell their still-damp hair, feel their warm breath and hear those tiny heartbeats I once carried inside. Then I kneel down beside their cribs and pray. I pray for strength, for peace, for light in the dark. I know our fears are normal, I know they'll subside in time. Until then, we'll just have to hold each other tight and try to shine as brightly as we can.

On Toddlers and Tantrums

2009-11-10T12:28:00.000-08:00

I'd like to offer an open apology to countless people I have unknowingly wronged over the years. They are a group that suffers in silence, but it's high time they had a voice. I'm sure you know them, you've seen them, you may even be them. They are the parents of toddlers in the throes of a tantrum.

For years, I have seen them at the grocery store, on the sidewalk, at the mall, and God forbid, on airplanes. I have watched and listened as their little ones reach ear-piercing decibels, turn increasingly darker shades of red, jump up and down and twist their bodies into Cirque de Soleil worthy contortions. And I have judged them.

"Why can't they control their kids?" I would wonder, sometimes not so wordlessly. "I will never allow MY children to act like that in public." Of course, this is easy to say when you don't actually have any children. Now I find myself eating those words and they taste like... ketchup.

It all began at some point over the summer, a season which is somewhat of a blur of sleepless nights and very, very messy diapers. We brought home our baby girl at the end of June, swaddled in receiving blankets and cautionary tales from everyone around us. Beware, they said. Your sweet, angelic toddler is about to explode in jealous fits. But nothing happened. A few weeks later he turned 2, a birthday that comes with a warning label: life is about to get Terrible. But it didn't. He was the same energetic, loving little boy he had always been.

And then one day the dictator showed up, staging a coup de tantrum in the middle of the kitchen. "I WANT KETCHUP!!!!" this unfamiliar creature screamed. "KETCHUP!!!!!!" This "request" came complete with flailing arms, stomping legs, and a very red face. So I did what any good parent would: I burst out laughing.

This, as it turns out, was not the right response. My giggles were met with tears, screams, and eventually a wriggling mess of a child on the floor. And counterintuitive as it might seem, ketchup was not the right answer, either. In a panic I ran to grab the so desired bottle from the fridge, which he promptly threw at the wall. "I DON'T WANT KETCHUP!!!!!" my towheaded dictator screamed. Really? What kind of alternate condiment universe had we entered?

Time to pull out those handy parenting books. Let's see, 3 Easy Steps to Taming a Tantrum.

1) "Ignore the tantrum." Great. I'm not exactly the tantrum's biggest fan, but unfortunately, the tantrum will not be ignored, and I am now covered in ketchup. Moving on.

2) "Try reasoning with your child." Sounds good. "Noah, you and I both know that ketchup is for eating, not throwing." Now I just need to reason with the folks at Heinz, who designed and manufactured a highly aerodynamic ketchup bottle.

3) "Empathize with your child." All right. "Noah, I realize it is very frustrating for you to not be able to throw the ketchup. I understand, and I am here for you." And by "here" I mean right next to a pile of Legos, which I now know will stick to ketchup.

4) Hold your child tightly until the tantrum passes. Fabulous, now we're both covered in ketchup, I'm on the verge of a tantrum of my own, and the baby is screaming in her bouncy seat. Turns out tantrums are highly contagious.

Over the past few months I've tried different approaches, experimented with different techniques, and what I've found is that the storm will pass when it's good and ready, usually as quickly as it arrived. Still, I've put together my own list for dealing with the inevitable.

1) Try not to laugh, no matter how funny your child looks.

2) Remember how much you love your child, despite how much you may not actually like him/her in the moment.

3) Hold the ketchup.

Mona Shand is a TV and radio news reporter who no longer enjoys ketchup. You can read more on her blog.

Strangers Say the Darndest Things!

2009-10-28T05:04:00.001-07:00

So there I was, minding my own business, pushing my way through the Target parking lot. My cart was heavy, packed with 14.5 pounds of baby and at least a dozen bags. Halloween treats, diapers, picture frames- your basic assortment of Target goodness. The rain was just beginning to fall, the baby was just beginning to fuss, so my car was a welcome sight. Welcome that is, until I noticed a small, angry woman standing next to my car, peering into my back window (which I should mention is tinted), waving her cell phone wildly through the air.

"Umm.... can I help you?" I asked cautiously, noting the steam pouring from her ears. I silently searched my brain for what could be the cause. Did I accidentally bang the baby carrier into her car when we got out? Did the dirty diaper I changed on the seat somehow fall out when I opened the door?

"You left the kid inside!!!!" she blurted out, pointing frantically at my backseat.

That's when my heart stopped, my blood ran cold, my hair stood on end, and every other cliche combining body parts and sheer terror. Fortunately, at the same moment my baby let out one of her loudest gurgles to yank me out of my temporary paralysis and back to reality, reminding me she was not in fact trapped in my car, but secure in my shopping cart.

But then my heart stopped again. Where was my other child? Could I have actually left my 2-year-old strapped in his car seat while I wandered the houseware aisles, oblivious to his cries as I strolled the store sipping my decaf skinny chai tea latte?

The answer is no. Noah was perfectly safe and happy right where I had dropped him off: at his daycare, probably coated in a thin layer of paint, or ketchup, or both. But I think every parent has had that momentary feeling of panic when reality blurs around the edges. It's a condition brought on by exhaustion, confusion, and in this case, an irate stranger standing next to my car, screaming something about calling the police.

So what the (*&^ was she talking about?

With still shaking hands I assured her there was no child inside, and kindly asked her to step away as I unlocked the doors. With as much calm dignity as I could muster given the level of adrenaline pumping through my veins, I reached into the backseat and showed the woman the "child" she was so concerned about being "trapped" inside was in fact a large, fuzzy teddy bear. Yes, this woman was, by her own accounts "this close" to bringing in some of Brighton's finest to investigate a shocking case of Stuffed Animal Neglect.

You see, my son will not leave the house without an entourage. Every morning we pile into the car with at least two toy trains, the occasional light-up rubber duck, a musical caterpillar and on this particular day, a large brown teddy bear. I am certainly guilty of encouraging his pack rat tendencies, because it's easier than fighting with him. You pick your battles, right? So while you can charge me with harboring a small zoo in my backseat and driving while disorganized, I'm fairly confident that's the extent of my criminal activity.

My accuser left without an apology, without even so much as a "Gee, what a funny misunderstanding!" over which we could have (maybe) shared a laugh. In fact if anything, she seemed disappointed to see there wasn't a child trapped in the backseat. She didn't get to be a hero after all. She didn't get to be right.

Over the past two plus years I've come to appreciate that having children opens the door to all sorts of unsolicited advice and comments, which for the most part, I welcome. I actually get a kick out of hearing the older, grandfatherly man at the grocery store who tells me my baby will catch pneumonia if I don't put socks on her little feet on a 65 degree day. I love it when the waitress plays peek-a-boo with my toddler and asks him the name of his toy train. Just this morning, the man at the UPS store reminded me I should read to my little boy every night to encourage his brain to grow. I don't need to tell him I've been doing that for the past 2 years- I can just appreciate his interest and willingness to share. Maybe he's speaking from experience, maybe it's the voice of regret. Either way, I'd like to believe there's something about the presence of a child that makes us all want to share what we know, in the hopes that their world might be a little bit better. So is a little common sense too much to ask for?

As we've heard so many times, as it is written on the mug from which I sip my morning tea: It really does take a village to raise a child. We all want that village: a caring, supportive, nurturing community. A village where friends, families, and yes even strangers look out for one another out of true concern and compassion. Now that's my kind of village. It's the village idiot I can do without.

Color Confusion

2009-10-13T11:44:00.000-07:00

Lovely Lavender or Lace Cap? Seafoam Spray or Mint Hint? These are the choices before me, and given my current level of inner turmoil, you'd think I was negotiating an international treaty, not picking what color to paint my 4-month-old baby's room.

This is not a problem that stems from some need to have my sleeping angel enveloped in a perfectly accessorized nursery ripped from the pages of Pottery Barn Kids (she's our 2nd child, after all). Martha Stewart, I am not. No, the longer this goes on and the more I stare at these silly swatches, the more I realize my indecision over colors is completely color-blind. It's less about what shade or purple or green will go with her sheets or quilt, and much more about what will cover up my confusion and guilt.

We've been sharing sleeping quarters for quite some time now, me and my tiny roommate. For 39 weeks and 3 days she was close enough to use my internal organs as a punching bag, and for the past 17 weeks we haven't been that much farther apart. She lies next to me in her little bassinet, within a fatigued arm's reach at all times. In the middle of the night I can easily comfort her when she wakes, and I'm equally comforted by the sight of her tiny chest moving up and down, the sweet little noises she makes with every third or fourth exhale, the smell of her freshly washed hair. But my baby is rapidly outgrowing her little nocturnal starter home. I know she needs more room to stretch her arms, kick her legs, and roll around. I just can't seem to bring myself to evict her.

We're not shipping her off to boarding school, my very level-headed husband tries to explain. She'll only be moving about 30 feet down the hall. Still, It just seems so far. Far too great a distance for any electronic monitor to bridge.

Up until recently, our sleeping arrangement has made sense. For the first few months she spent nearly as much time eating as sleeping during the overnight hours, and I certainly didn't want to add a commute to our already exhausting schedule. But in a blissful turn of events, she's recently begun sleeping through the night. So it's not like she really needs me on the overnight shift anymore. And therein lies the problem: she's already beginning to not need me.

It's much like the scene in When Harry Met Sally (not THAT scene!) when Sally has a near breakdown about her age.

Sally: And I'm going to be FORTY!

Harry: When?

Sally: Someday.

Harry: In eight years!

Sally: But it's there, it's just sitting there.

It's just sitting there: my baby's burgeoning independence, a bittersweet, sometimes painful reality, and I can't help but press fast forward on the mental movie racing through my head. If I move her into her own room then that means one day she's going to move out of the house and move far away and leave me FOREVER! It's there, it's just sitting there, in different shades of purple and green paint swatches from Home Depot.

I know there are many out there who advocate for cosleeping, touting the joys of the family bed. I have heard how certain cultures view the landscape of the bedroom with the parents as a mountain range, protecting the sleeping baby who lies between them. But I've always been more of a beach person myself. Much as I love my little sleepyhead, I also know I need my space, I need my fluffy down comforter and pillows, I need to be able to watch the Real Housewives of Atlanta from the comfort of my bed. Selfish, perhaps. But I spend most of my days covered in all things child. I wake up with the theme song from Thomas and Friends running through my head. My formal dining room is now used for Play-Doh picnics. The line between "burp cloth" and "my shirt" has blurred beyond distinction. For the sake of my own health and well-being, I'd like a few minutes to feel like a grown-up at night.

So why not just move her? I don't recall having this trouble with her older brother. At 3-months he was happily snoozing in his own crib, in his own room. Maybe it's because she's a little girl, and seems so delicate, so in need of protection. Maybe I'm so tired, so bone tired I don't want to take a chance her newfound sleep routine will be thrown off by a change of venue. Or maybe it's that this time I don't know if there will be another child, and this may be my last chance to lie next to a sleeping angel.

So here I sit with my swatches, unable to pin down the exact shade of my love for this amazing little girl. What color says "Joy With a Touch of Sadness?" Why does this paint come in every hue except "Growing Pains Green?" One day soon, I'll find the perfect color, and the perfect time to end this very special lease. But not tonight. Let's sleep on it, my little angel, and we'll see how things look in the morning.

2009-10-06T05:22:00.000-07:00

Whoever said "There's no use crying over spilled milk" probably didn't own a breast pump, and definitely didn't knock it and its hard-earned contents onto the living room carpet while attempting to sidestep an errant toy train at 6am. There may not be any "use" for my tears, as they will certainly not replace a single drop of that milk, but it's my dairy party, I'll cry if I want to, and you'd better believe I want to.

I'm now on my second little nursling baby, my second go around with the adventure that is breastfeeding, pumping, and all things milky white. This time I'm a little bit older and a teeny bit wiser, and I'm not afraid to make a true confession: I don't love it.

It sure feels good to get that off my chest, because trust me when say I am currently carrying more than enough in that region. Enough to require a custom-made bra, because apparently 30DD is too big of a secret for even Victoria (or anyone outside of the greater LA area) to keep in stock.

Of course, I love the benefits of nursing. I want my kids to have every advantage in life, from the physical to the emotional and intellectual. Losing basically all the baby weight in 3 months time isn't too shabby, either. And let's face it, breastfeeding sure is cheap. For all those reasons and more, I nursed my son right up until his first birthday. (Can I get a round of applause from the American Academy of Pediatrics?)

While home on maternity leave this was not a major challenge. Nourishing that sweet child was really my only responsibility, and I did find it somewhat relaxing to sit, tune out the world, and gaze at my sweet baby boy. Or watch all the episodes of Top Chef that had accumulated on my DVR.

Once back at work, the nursing life was not nearly so idyllic. Contrary to what the manufacturers of the breast pump had led me to believe, making milk and making a living do not seamlessly mesh. I dragged that unattractive accessory to press conferences, crime scenes, courthouses and the Capitol. I even tried this ridiculous hands-free pumping get-up. But the more difficult pumping became, the more determined I became to do it. It was the only way I knew how to atone for what often felt like a sin: being a working mom. It was my way of saying yes, dear child I've been away from you all day, but look what I've brought you: an unpasteurized piece of my heart! 32 ounces of freshly squeezed Guilt Juice.

Family pressures didn't make matters any easier. My parents, being both Old World immigrants and medical professionals would no sooner give an infant food out of a can than they would rat poison. "Nurse, nurse, nurse!" they seemed to scream. Then there's my mother-in-law, a product of the formula era. "We'll just come back when he's taking bottles," she announced shortly after my son was born and I took him upstairs for a feeding.

Let's not forget the "joy" of nursing in public. Don't get me wrong, I am all for a woman's right to feed her baby whenever and wherever necessary. And to those women who will effortlessly whip open their shirts in the middle of the mall, a family function or a miniature golf course, I say hats (or perhaps blouses) off. I salute you, but I will never be you. I'll be the first to admit- I'm shy. If I'm going to be feeding someone off any body part, be it my breast, my belly button or my big toe, I'd like to do it in private, but that's just me.

Nursing Baby #2 comes with its own set of challenges, namely what to do with a very active Child #1 while a very hungry Baby #2 demands to be fed, and fed, and fed. We tried reading stories until my voice was hoarse, we played with toy trains until the Boppy pillow and the baby's head became an extension of the railroad tracks. Now we've come to settle on watching recorded episodes of Thomas the Tank Engine so Mom can have an approximation of a peaceful moment. I wonder if this is the origin of the phrase "boob tube?"

I see women who look so content nursing their babies and it makes me wonder, am I doing something wrong, or are they still in some sort of hormonal fog? Because for me, it's more than a little uncomfortable (and no, it's not a latch issue) and more than a little draining. I don't feel like some tranquil Madonna with a child suckling gently at my breast. It may be natural, but it certainly isn't easy. I don't want to stop yet, I don't plan to stop yet, but I do need to stop thinking I'm a horrible mother if at some point I do. In the big picture, my kids will have my milk for a short time, but they'll have my heart forever and I know that's more than enough.

Mona Shand is a TV and radio news reporter and the author of the blog And Baby Makes Pee.

Digital Revolution?

2009-09-29T08:39:00.000-07:00

Ok, today's the day. It's got to be today. If not today, then when? Because one of these days the whole system is going to crash and then it will too late. Everything will be lost and we'll be left with nothing. Do you hear me, digital camera? Because I'm talking to you. And today is the day I will finally do whatever is necessary to get the pictures out of your silver-plated claws and into my hands.

I'm tired of seeing the highlights of my life on your 3-inch LCD screen. I've had it with memories frozen inside your steely interior. I'm even annoyed when I hear that little fake chirping sound when I push the "On" button. You mock me with your little tweet tweet.

Don't get me wrong, I appreciate the amazing technological advance that is the digital camera. But it's hardly a perfect system, and sometimes it's the biggest steps forward that leave us yearning for the past.

I don't think my parents ever owned a camera of their own, but if they did, they certainly didn't get much use out of it. As a result, their basement contains a few drawers stuffed with a very odd assortment of old photos. It's a place where my first birthday party mingles with a visit from the Pope, and my brother is standing next to a stuffed giraffe. We don't have baby books, family photo albums or scrapbooks that document the past in any sort of an organized fashion. Just some tattered pictures, many now smeared with fingerprints and frayed around the edges. I used to spend hours combing through those random treasures, staring at the faces from decades past, making up my own stories to go along with them. There's my mom with her Jackie O. hairdo, watching my brother bat at a pinata on his birthday. The photo is a little blurry as she's never been able to stand still and focus on a camera. "Mom in Motion," the caption might read. And then there's my dad in his bright yellow "Maid of the Mist" raincoat at Niagara Falls. He's so serious, not smiling at all, but in my mind I knew he was thinking "It hasn't been easy but it's worth it. We left our home country behind, but look at what we get to show our family. What other wonders await?"

Sadly, I don't think either of these pictures would have made the cut in today's digital world. Back in the days of film we'd take our shot, capture the moment the best we could, then move on to enjoy it. Days, or even weeks later our photos would return from the lab and we'd relive the experience all over again, warts and all. The results weren't always perfect; sometimes eyes were closed, sometimes hair was out of place, sometimes heads were cut out. But the moment was there, and it was honest.

Today, we have instant gratification. Just point, click, and bing! There's your memory. Don't like it? Just erase it and try again. It's a luxury that's sure to improve the radiance of our smiles, but don't we risk editing too much out of our lives? No experience is perfect, no matter how many times we reshoot it. So why not capture it the first time, be happy with what appears and get back to actually experiencing the moment?

Our digital cameras allow us to instantly send our memories all around the world with just one click, but then what? I doubt my children will one day flip longingly through my Mobile Upload folder on Facebook, or spend a rainy day sorting through old Twitter updates. Yes, the digital photo frame on the coffee table is lovely and my son giggles with delight as it flips through its magic slide show. But it's still no substitute for flipping through the pages of an actual album, holding those memories in human hands, running fingers over the faces and the places tucked inside.

So here we go, digital camera. You and I have a date today, one that's long overdue. I'm taking back what belongs to me- you don't get to hold my memories any more. And I'm taking my finger off the "delete" button, because I want to remember life as it is, even if it isn't always picture perfect.

From the Mouths of Babies

2009-09-21T11:23:00.000-07:00

My 3-month-old baby girl laughed for the first time this week. It was a delicious gurgle of a giggle that started somewhere deep in her belly, worked its way through all 23 of her inches, and made its way out those sweet little pink lips. It's the latest in a string of amazing sounds she makes, one that began with "ahh-goo," will eventually progress to "Mama" and one day lead to the lyrics of High School Musical 24. But despite all these wonderful noises she makes on her own, my husband and I feel compelled to do that really annoying parent thing where we put words in her mouth.

"Hey Dad- I'm flying!" I'll say in a high-pitched voice, holding Cecilia's tiny arms out wide. "Wheee! Look at meeeeee! I'm Super Baby!"

But I'm quite certain my sweet angel would never say anything so ridiculous. Though you can't tell from the above exchange, she does in fact come from a pretty decent gene pool.

So that got me thinking, what exactly would she say if opportunity and vocabulary were to present themselves? What secrets is she hiding under that thick head of dark hair? I looked deep into her sparkling grey-blue eyes, listened carefully to every gurgle and compiled the following list of the Top 10 Things My Baby Might Say (Or Things I Just Really Need To Hear).

10. We can do this. I know the whole Mother-Daughter has you a bit freaked out, but I promise Mom, we're going to be fine. Better than fine. We're going to be happy. When you get scared, just reach for me. I'll wrap my whole hand around your index finger and squeeze; it will be our secret signal that everything is OK. And if we're apart, just close your eyes and think about the way my head fits perfectly in the crook of your neck when you hold me tight. We were made for each other.

9. If you insist on having that Thai takeout on Friday nights, any chance you could ask for "mild"?

8. Sorry about the whole not sleeping through the night thing. I'm doing the best I can. One day I promise you'll look back on this time fondly. Did you ever consider that maybe I just miss you, and this is the only time of day I can have you all to myself? Why do you think I flash you those big, gummy grins at 4am? Besides, this is excellent practice for when I'm a teenager and you will have to stay up all night worrying about me.

7. What's up with all the guilt? You feel guilty when you're working, guilty about not working when you're home, guilty about not spending enough time with me when you're playing with my brother, guilty about neglecting him when you're with me... it never ends, and we're not even Catholic! You are doing the best you can. And it's more than enough.

6. I don't need to hear about your "flabby belly" or your "jiggly thighs." I'm young and highly susceptible, and I'd much rather inherit your sense of humor than your body image issues. Everyone says I'm adorable, and clearly I didn't get all this cuteness from Dad (no offense). And don't forget, I came out of that belly which you have to admit makes it pretty darn amazing.

5. That last diaper was really gross. Better you than me on the changing end.

4. I appreciate everything you do for me. You'll probably never hear this come out of my mouth, because that's unfortunately kind of the way things go between kids and parents.

3. Where's your confidence when you need it, Mom? How is it you can stand in front of a camera and report live without batting an eye, grill politicians and police at press conferences, and yet certain words like "High School Reunion" make you break out in a cold sweat? You're not that geeky, awkward girl with the frizzy hair and bad glasses anymore. Look at what you've accomplished, myself included. Again, pretty amazing stuff.

2. I know that if you could, you would shield me from every future heartbreak, every ounce of pain and take them on yourself. Don't think I didn't see you crying when you packed away my "newborn" size clothes. I have to grow up, but the good news is I'll always be your baby girl.

1. Wheeeee! Look at meeeeee, I'm Super Baby! It's no fun to be so serious all the time, Mom. You taught me that. Oh, and I love you.

What time is it?

2009-09-15T09:02:00.000-07:00

I found my watch this morning. It was right where I left it 3 or 4 days ago: on my nightstand, underneath a burp cloth and partially obscured by a yellow rubber duck with sunglasses. This is significant for a few reasons. First, it illustrates that I officially suffer from Mommy Brain (a nice way of saying I'm no longer playing with a full mental deck), because the nightstand is where I have put my watch every night for approximately the last two decades, and yet it didn't occur to me to look there until this morning. What's more disturbing is that I didn't really miss it, proof positive of just how much life has changed since the period B.C. (Before Children).

In the TV news world where I lived until very recently, the clock is king. Everything is timed and executed to the second. The 6:00 news will not be delayed until 6:02, regardless of how badly you need to use the potty. It's a place where a deadline is always looming, stories must be filed, video must be edited, scripts must approved before the clock ticks down. I would never have survived a day without constantly checking my watch, the clock on my computer, or the one on my cell phone. OK, both cell phones.

But now that I'm home with the little ones more than not, I'm finding that life moves at a very different pace, watches and clocks be darned. Simple tasks I used to accomplish in minutes (like leaving the house) can take upwards of an hour. And certain parts of life over which I once lingered now must be accomplished in a flash. Get in, get it done, get out is a mantra applied to showers, meals in restaurants, and most unfortunately, sleep. Time, it sometimes seems, is not on my side.

There are the days, hours, even minutes that seem to drag. The ones where I think if I have to play with one more toy, wipe one more nose, or change one more diaper I will lose whatever is left of my mind. And then there are the moments I want to stretch into years, the ones time steals far before I'm ready to let them go. The clumsy cuddles of a toddler boy as he drifts off to sleep. How could two years have passed so quickly? As I watch his eyelids flutter I find myself begging time to leave us alone. And my baby girl, the one who saves her best gummy grins and delicious gurgles for me and me alone in the middle of the night. When I look into her eyes I'm sure time is playing some sort of a joke- how is it possible she's just 12 weeks old? Surely we've known each other forever. Was there really a time without her?

Last night my exhausted little boy tried his usual pre-bedtime pleading, fighting off sleep even as it forced his eyelids to droop. "Mama, don't go!" he begged.

"Sleep tight my love, and I'll see you in your dreams," I told him as I tip-toed out of the room. Just let me throw away this watch and I'll be right there. I promise, we'll have all the time in the world.

Q and A, Toddler Style

2009-09-08T04:55:00.001-07:00

Who? What? Where? When? As a news reporter, these are questions I'm used to asking. But as the mother of a very curious 2-year-old, the tables have turned and now I'm the one doing the

answering. All. Day. Long.

Noah started talking early, and by 9 months he already had dozens of words. "Light!" "Mama!" "Ball!" he'd point out excitedly, as we applauded and cheered the identification of every object. Then his first birthday rolled around and he started putting words together. "Hat off!" he'd tell me as I struggled to keep the UV rays away. "More grapes!" he'd say after wolfing down an entire bowl. How cute (and yet slightly bossy) I thought, as he commanded his way through the day.

With the passing months his phrases grew more complex, as he searched for meaning in those blocks of words, taking pronouns, adjectives verbs out for test drives. "Where is them?" he'd ask when his beloved toy trains were out of sight. "What name is that doggie name?" he wondered about the puppy we encountered on our walk. But hands down, his favorite question is just three words long, uttered at least 100 times per day. "What's that, Mama?"

At first the answers came easy. What's that you ask (over and over and over)? "That's a bumblebee, my love." Or, "That's a garbage truck." Bring on the questions, I thought, donning my Super Mom cape. I have all the answers!

Not so fast, caped crusader. The cuteness of the constant questioning soon began to wear on my nerves. Before long our days and nights rivaled an episode of Jeopardy; everything was phrased in the form of a question. The grocery store (a place that is daunting enough with a 2-year-old and an infant in tow) was now a place that held as many questions as brands of orange juice.

"What's that, Mama?"

"That's a can of peaches, my love."

"Can I have that pea-sis?"

And then there is our nightly story time, which slowly morphed into something more closely resembling a press conference.

"Corduroy is a bear who lived in the..."

"What's that Mama???" he interrupted, pointing to a stuffed giraffe on page one.

"That's a giraffe, my love. Ahem. Corduroy is a bear who lived in the toy..."

"What's he doing, Mama?"

"Umm... he's just sitting. Now then: Corduroy is a bear who lived in the toy department...."

"But what's that, Mama? What's that on the giraffe arm?"

"That's a spot, my love. Giraffes have spots."

"Do I have a spot, Mama?"

"No, you don't have spots. Corduroy is a bear who lived in the toy department of...."

"Can I have spots too, Mama?"

It's moments like that when I'm torn between laughter and tears. While it's hard to begrudge a child's growing curiosity about the world, I have to admit there's a side of me that screams "Why can't we just READ this *&^% book? There's laundry to do, there's a baby who needs to be fed, and a mom who's desperate for some down time!" I'm well aware that under that sweet head of inexplicably straight, sandy blond hair (rather odd for a child who is after all 1/2 Egyptian) lurks a sponge of a brain, with a scream of its own- one that cries out "Feed me!" But I couldn't help but wonder, is there something wrong with my child? He can't seem to pay attention to ANYTHING!"

Then yesterday it hit me. We were walking to the park, another task that used to be straight-forward back in the day when Noah was content to just sit in his stroller and ride. Now, it's about as direct as roller coaster, and takes roughly as long as the wait for Space Mountain on a summer Saturday.

"What's that, Mama?" he said, pointing to few blades of grass scattered on the curb by a neighbor's lawnmower. But before I could even answer, he pointed skyward and gasped with delight, "Look, Mama- a hey-yo-copter! Just like Harold the Hey-yo-copter on Thomas! And just like an airplane!"

That's when I got it: it's not that he can't pay attention to anything, it's that he's paying attention to EVERYTHING. Every rock, every tree, every blade of grass, every ant on the ground. To a toddler, there are great discoveries everywhere they look, connections to make and yes, questions to ask about every chapter of daily life, especially the pages we as adults no longer bother to turn.

So I sucked up my sarcasm, tucked my frustrations away and did my best to answer his questions.

"What's that, Mama?" he queried, pointing to the remains of a woodland creature's lunch.

"Those are acorns, my love. They're for the squirrels to eat."

That's when he looked up at me with those sweet blue eyes and asked, "Why, Mama?"

Uh-oh.

Running on Empty

2009-08-29T12:07:00.001-07:00

"Father forgive me for I have sinned. It's been 8 months and 4 days since my last run." So begins my prayer of penitence to Adidas and the other Gods of my favorite form of exercise. For years I have faithfully laced up my shoes, but now they sit dejected, rejected on a lonely closet shelf. And it's time for me to do some serious sole searching.

We're not the most likely trio, me and those shoes. At just barely 5 foot 2, I lack the long, lithe limbs of a true runner, and I spent much of my childhood in either proper patent leather, scholarly saddle shoes, or stark white summer sandals. And then there was the food. Like most middle easterners, Egyptians tend to show their love on a platter, garnished with fresh parsley and a side of hummus. We celebrate, mourn, laugh, and cry with heaping helpings of kebabs, kofta, and baklava. So for decades I struggled with my weight (The year I spent studying in Paris and my friendship with an aspiring pastry chef didn't help matters), carrying "baby fat" and all the baggage that went with it well into my teens and young adult years.

Then sometime in the grad school era I finally hit my stride. Maybe it was the fresh California air, maybe it was living where no one from my "fat past" knew me, or maybe it was just my time to run. But a few tentative steps down the path eventually turned into miles at a time.. and I was hooked. In the nearly 15 years since, my shoes and I have logged thousands of miles together, partners both literal and emotional journeys. When love blossomed and when they failed, I ran. When cancer came calling close to home, I ran. In sun, rain and wind (but not snow- I am Egyptian, after all) I ran. Down foreign and domestic streets, across 5K, 10K and even marathon finish lines, I ran. Even through pregnancy, I ran.... OK, I waddled, but in my mind, I was still running!

Less than 4 weeks after our first child's arrival I was back to my pavement pounding ways. The road was slow and painful at first, but within a few months my shoes and I right back where we left off. Unfortunately, I was not so lucky the second time around. Baby Cecilia is now two and a half months old and every night I go to bed thinking "Maybe tomorrow will be the day," but when I wake up those shoes still stare at me from their corner of the closet, and I stare back, neither of us willing or able to make the first move.

"Just do it!" says my husband, unaware that this makes a far better marketing slogan than motivational speech.

"Get a jogging stroller or a treadmill!" says a well-meaning but non-running friend. We have a treadmill in the basement, but since I already feel like I spend my days running in circles, running in place is not exactly an enticing option. And I have a jogging stroller as well. Noah and I logged countless miles with it, but I can't say I ever truly enjoyed the feeling of pushing it down the street and over the hills. Or the tether the manufacturer installed, just to make sure I don't let go of my grasp on motherhood. Besides, I'd need a double jogging stroller now and there's just no room in the garage, or in my life, for such a contraption.

I can't pinpoint exactly what's holding me back, aside from the obvious lack of time or energy. With one child I was able to run right over those hurdles, but now I feel paralyzed. Is it the fear of failure? The demons of a chubby childhood returning to haunt? Or is it the deep, dark irrational fear that creeps in late at night- that feeling of being trapped in a life I still don't quite recognize, the fleeting feeling that if given the chance I may start running and never come back?

As much as I love my babies, I'm learning that motherhood is no easy road, especially when it means taking an abrupt detour from the life and the self you spent years building. Much like finding the right pair of running shoes, until I find that elusive balance between Mom and Not Mom there are bound to be painful blisters along the way. So please forgive me, merciful Gods of the Run. I promise to say 10 Hail Nike's and drink a gallon of Holy Gatorade if you'll just give me the strength to put those shoes back on, and give me back this one small part of what makes me feel like me. I just wish it was as easy as putting one foot in front of the other.

Northern Exposure

2009-08-26T09:07:00.000-07:00

"We're heading up north for the weekend." If I had a dime for every time I've heard a Michigander say that I'd probably have enough money to buy myself a place up north. But growing up in this fair state I often felt like I was the only one who didn't head for that geographically vague location as soon as the sand dunes or ski slopes started calling. The trend was especially prevalent in the summer. My friends and I would play together all week and then suddenly around 3pm on Friday they would vanish into this northerly void, only to reappear (usually a few shades darker) on Monday. They tossed around names that sounded so unfamiliar, so exotic. Charlevoix. Leelenau. Benzonia. What was this "up north" place, and why couldn't I go there, too?

In no way do I mean to imply that I was deprived of fabulous summer experiences. My parents came to this country from Egypt in the 1960's, and that meant our summers typically fell into three categories: church camp with other Egyptians, long road trips to explore the USA with other Egyptians, or going back to Egypt to be with, you guessed it, other Egyptians. At the time I didn't appreciate it, but looking back I know what a privilege it was to have seen so many wonders of both the ancient and modern worlds (that big ball of twine in rural Ohio really did make me wonder) before I even hit puberty. So while I had sailed down the Suez Canal I had never so much as dipped my toes in Lake Michigan. But Egyptians are not exactly "lake people" (not surprising, considering they grew up in the middle of the world's largest desert) and I don't believe the thought of vacationing right in our own state ever crossed their minds. So that quintessential Michigan experience: packing up the family car and jumping on I-75, leaving for the cottage or the lake or the campground is one we never had.

So now that I have my own family, we own a Michigan home, we pay Michigan taxes, I figured it was high time we partake in this most Michigan of family endeavors. With a toddler and a newborn in tow we knew there probably wouldn't be much "vacation" for us, but there was one place we could go. That's right kids: jump in your car seats, fasten those 5-point harnesses, and pack up the Pack and Play, because the Shands are going "Up North!"

We rented a condo between Petoskey and Harbor Springs for one week at the end of August. With visions of cascading waterfalls and shimmering sand dunes running through my head I frantically packed for our Pure Michigan vacation. And then I packed some more. Then just a few more things. We might as well have been heading for Cairo (or for a nuclear fallout shelter) given the amount of gear I felt compelled to take. There's something about traveling with kids that brings out my inner pack rat. Even though I was really certain the great unknown Up North land did in fact have stores, everything in the house suddenly seemed essential. How could Noah survive the week without his favorite book? Or these other 12 books? If Cecilia goes through an average of 3 onesies/day, then for 1 week I should probably pack.... 247. Math was never my strong suit. Still, we managed to cram it all in the car and point ourselves in a northerly direction.

Whoever said life is a journey not a destination clearly did not travel with kids. My vision of a luxurious travel nap was rudely interrupted by reality: active 2-year-olds do NOT enjoy being strapped into car seat purgatory for hundreds of miles at a time. After 4 hours of appeasing him with games, snacks, toys, and songs, Noah finally fell asleep. Of course this was about 5 miles from our final destination. But no matter, we had arrived Up North! And it was.... raining.

Aside from one, beautiful sunny day, it rained the vast majority of our week Up North. Not a nice gentle rain but a cold, angry downpour. 60 degrees in August cold. We did our best to get out during the breaks in the deluge, strolling the streets of Charlevoix, gazing at the boats in Harbor Springs, savoring Polish goodies at the odd but charming Legs Inn. And Mark and I even had one "grown-up" date alone together at Chandler's in Petoskey, thanks to a visit from Grandma and Grandpa Shand (wouldn't you know it, I married into a family that regularly goes "Up North"). Perhaps the most memorable moment was the first time Noah set eyes on the beach at Petoskey State Park. While he traveled to Florida and South Carolina beaches as an infant, this was the first time he really understood what he was seeing. I knew the trip was worthwhile when he grabbed my hand, those blue eyes big as saucers and said "Look, Mama! A sandbox!"

Mostly though, we spent the week in our condo. With a newborn who still only sleeps a few hours at a time, dinner to cook and laundry to do (turns out we probably needed 485 onesies) I can't say it truly felt like a vacation, at least not the kind I was used to. I won't hold it against Up North, given the unseasonable weather and the fact that it was our first major foray with both kids. We had a lovely time and made plenty of memories, but most of them were within the walls of the condo. From building Lego towers on the floor with Noah (of course I packed them!) and hearing him giggle every time he knocked them down, to seeing Cecilia's first tentative smiles (maybe that was just gas?) turn into all out gleeful, gummy grins, those are the moments I'll cherish.

Watching my kids grow and seeing the world through their eyes is by far the best trip I've ever taken. Despite the baggage (emotional and physical) I may drag along, it continues to take my breath away. The road certainly isn't easy, but whether it leads "Up North" or any other direction, I feel blessed to be along for the ride.

Growing Pains

2009-08-09T05:27:00.000-07:00

I'll never forget the day: April 4, 2008. He was about nine months old and after weeks, maybe months of coaxing, pleading and prodding, Noah finally looked right at me and said it: Mama. Is there any sweeter music to a new mother's ears? It was his first "real" word and just like every other milestone in a child's life, with the obvious joy came the bittersweet, undeniable fact: my baby was growing up.

He's said it at least a million times since that morning. When he runs into my arms after a long day, they are the two most joyous syllables I've ever heard. Mama. When he's crying and needs comfort after falling down and scraping his knee, there's a raw vulnerability that nearly brings me to tears. Mama. At 6am when he decides he's ready to jump start the day, there's an innocent eagerness that makes me smile in spite of the fog of fatigue clouding my brain. Mama!

But out of the blue this past week, 2-year-old Noah changed the tune of my favorite maternal melody. As I dropped him off at daycare, he wriggled out of my arms, bolted for his waiting group of friends, and called out "Bye, Mom!" with a cursory wave in my general direction. "Mom?" I thought? Where did that come from? Surely not out of my baby's mouth?

And that isn't the only change. Over the past several weeks, my sweet little boy has gone from stringing five or six words together to keeping up his end of a full-on, all-out conversation. His clothing size is no longer measured in months, but years. He's gone from eating crayons to actually coloring with them. And we're even inching close to the Holy Grail of toddler milestones: ditching diapers for big boy pants. Has anyone seen my baby boy?

Doctors say when children go through growth spurts it puts pressure on the joints that can cause a great deal of pain, but most medical textbooks don't address the issue of parental growing pains. They are the aches that come as you realize your child has reached a new level of independence and will never need you in the same way again. It's the game of tug-of-war that pulls at your heart: pride in the accomplishment and a twinge of sadness as you welcome a new stage while simultaneously knowing there's no going back.

This past weekend my baby boy spent his first ever night away from home- a trip to Grandma and Grandpa's house. It's an experience I never got to have as a child so while I was thrilled for him, I still couldn't hold back the tears as I packed up his little Elmo suitcase. And once he left, once the unfamiliar sound of silence took over the house, I was more than a little bit lost.

I realize now that for the past two years I've subconsciously defined myself through my children. New Mom. Working Mom. Busy Mom. Mom of Two. Somewhat reluctant Stay at Home Mom? But as our children grow ever more independent we're forced to confront ourselves as ourselves. When you strip away the "Mom" or "Mommy" or "Mama" what remains? In my case, it's loneliness.

With the hectic noise of daily life it's been all too easy to drown out the truth, but somewhere between leaving my job, moving away from friends and family and a series of seemingly endless sleepless nights I've found myself isolated from pretty much everyone and everything I once knew. I haven't had the time or the inclination to make new friends (not the easiest task when you're in your mid-30s and one of the only "Career Women" on the block) and my husband and I have forgotten what it's like to talk about anything other than the kids. As difficult as it is to constantly be Mom, right now it's even harder to be Mona, and that's not healthy. So as my children slowly develop their independence, I'll have to find time to work on my own. No one ever said growing up was easy.

Games We Play

2009-08-02T06:05:00.001-07:00

Inside my son's toybox lies a world of fantasy. There are the blocks that transform into skyscrapers, toy airplanes just waiting to be flown to far off imaginary lands, dinosaurs ready to belt out prehistoric roars. Noah is only 2, so he's just starting to discover the wonderful world of make-believe. It's undeniably one of the best parts of childhood: escaping the confines of reality to be and do amazing things.

I can remember hours spent in my parents' backyard, digging for "fossils" in their rock garden. My childhood friend and I were no longer typical 7-year-olds, but paleontologists on a very important dig. Or all the rainy days we devoted to building "castles" out of pillows and couch cushions, donning our "princess gear" of blankets and sheets, only to have my older brother and his gang of guys bulldoze the entire village. As I now watch my son begin to explore his own imagination (he goes to "work" every morning. I'm not sure what his occupation is, but part of the job description appears to entail repeatedly opening and closing every door in the house.) it makes me nostalgic for those days of wonder, and makes me wonder why growing up means the end of make-believe. Or does it?

The more I think about it, the more I realize being a new parent involves a whole lot of playing pretend. Take sleep. On a good night my 6-week-old baby girl will go 3 hours between feedings. Of course it takes 30 minutes to feed her and another 30 for her to fall back asleep, then another 30 for me to fall back asleep so if I'm really lucky I can get a few 90 minute blocks of slumber. But after each sleep deprived night, when morning shows its not so lovely face, I pretend I actually have the desire to get out of bed. It's clearly a game all parents play, because when I'm asked "How's she sleeping these days?" and I answer honestly, I'm congratulated on this wonderful accomplishment. "Wow, 3 hours! That's great!" they say, slipping on their make believe masks. Yes, and in other fabulous news I may need a root canal, and it looks like we could have black mold in the basement! Oh, happy days!

When 2-year-old Noah drops his breakfast toast on the ground, I pretend the cleaning fairy has recently mopped, making a "5-second rule" feasible. When we watch Sesame Street, I pretend to not be totally creeped out by that bizarro Mr. Noodle, because of course my son adores him. And I accidentally drop a member of the Really Useful Crew who has wandered off the Island of Sodor and onto my kitchen island, I pretend to actually be able to differentiate between two seemingly identical talking, grinning tank engines. Of course that one is Gordon!! He thinks it's funny when I call him Thomas!

The fun and games don't stop there. There's the grown-up game of "Dress Up" which doesn't require a single sparkly tutu or fireman costume. Just close your eyes and pretend there's something in the closet that actually fits and doesn't have shoulder patches of spit-up. And then pretend that a t-shirt and sweat pants constitute real clothing! I find this is best played after pretending a quick swipe with a fresh diaper wipe is just as good as an actual shower, or that bouncing a colicky infant for an hour is comparable to a 6-mile run. The Samsonite-sized bags under my eyes? No problem-I just pretend I am half raccoon. And when I'm really in the mood to stretch my imaginary muscles, I pretend to actually recognize the woman in the mirror when I dare to glance that way.

But there's one thing I'll never have to pretend: I know for certain that as weary as I may feel and as dreary as I certainly look, my life is infinitely better for having these two tiny creatures in it. Even at the height of my make believe days, while playing "house" with Barbie and Ken and their imaginary offspring, I never could have imagined the kind of pure love my own children would one day bring to my real home. In all the games of "school" I played with my stuffed animals as students, I never dreamed that one day the little ones would lead the class, teaching me lessons about myself I never knew I needed to learn. So a big thank you to the world of make believe for allowing the dreams to begin, but the real world is where they truly come alive.

Confessions of a Late Night Mom

2009-07-27T12:26:00.000-07:00

I think it's time I came clean. After six years of marriage I really need to fess up. I have been living a secret life, and the burden of carrying it alone is just too much to bear. It's a secret that unfolds under the cover of night, when (almost) no one else in the house is awake. It's not something I'm proud of, but I need to get this off my chest because I'm pretty sure I've got a problem. Yes, it's high time I confess that while my loving husband and son snore the night away, I prop myself up and slip into the waiting arms... of the Huxtable family. That's right, my name is Mona and I'm addicted to watching late night reruns of The Cosby Show.

It all began innocently enough. Having learned my lesson after baby #1, as soon as #2 came home I kicked my husband out of our bedroom. Despite his willingness to "help out" with middle of the night feedings, he clearly lacks the necessary equipment, and also lacks the ability to function on less than 6 hours of uninterrupted sleep. Plus, I have to admit- it just plain makes me mad to watch him sleep while I'm forced to stay awake! So out he went to the guest room, and out came the remote control.

At first my channel surfing was predictable and safe. CNN, Food Network... I knew my dependable daytime friends would be there for me at any hour. But one night, one particularly hungry night for my little girl, I ventured out of my comfort zone, checked the channel guide and found... bliss. Cliff! Claire! Rudy! Vanessa! The whole gang- where had you been hiding? Like a reunion with a cherished friend, we were right back where we left off those many years ago without missing a beat. And I was hooked.

Maybe it's just a distraction from the harried days and endless nights that come with being a mom of two kids two and under. After all, the Cosbys had FIVE kids and still managed to make us laugh through 28 minutes and two commercial breaks. But I think there might be more to my late night love affair. You see, growing up in my house Thursday night, aka Cosby Night, was sacred. As any first-generation immigrant child can tell you, not all American humor translates as "funny" for Old World parents. But my dad- a brilliant doctor, a soft-spoken but authoritative Egyptian, a man of both science and religion was magnetically drawn to the Cos. Nothing, and no one could make him laugh like Cliff Huxtable, and every week my whole family sat down to tune in together. I don't remember many of the episodes, but I do remember my dad. The permanent grin spreading across his normally serious face. The way he'd remove his glasses to wipe tears of laughter from his soulful brown eyes.

My children are so blessed to have all four grandparents alive, but age and disease have taken a major toll on my dad. It breaks my heart to watch him struggle to pick up his grandson, or climb the three steps leading into our home. Even his laugh (which does come often thanks to my little boy's antics) lacks the strength it had back in the Cosby days. I guess in a way those episodes are my way of rewinding time, pressing pause on reality. I wish my kids could go back to that place with me- to see their grandfather, their beloved "Gido" as he once was. So at 2:30am when the house is dark and quiet, I nurse my sweet baby girl and slip into my secret world, courtesy of The Cosby Show. It's a place where it will always be Thursday night, and we will always be laughing.

The Closet Monster

2009-07-23T10:10:00.000-07:00

"There's a monster in my closet!" My poor parents probably heard that come out of my childhood mouth a million times, most often between the hours of 10pm and 6am. That's when shifty shadows and creepy noises seemed to radiate from that most frightful corner of the room, the hours when that flimsy door seemed to offer little protection between me and the creature that surely lurked within. Fortunately, my son shows no signs of having inherited my closet-o-phobia; it's actually one of his favorite places to hide (particularly when it's time to get dressed, take a bath, go downstairs, or do basically anything aside from play). But unfortunately, I'm yet to outgrow my own fears. In fact, at age 36 I've discovered a whole new monster in my closet, a terrifying beast that taunts me not just at night, but round the clock. It's a monster called "Identity Crisis."

It's not hard to spot my monster. A quick peek inside my closet and you'll find an entire rack of dry clean only tailored suits, dozens of crisp blazers, 16 pairs of brightly colored running shorts and one lonely, ill-fitting, slightly frumpy pair of blue jeans. Sure, there are a few knit shirts, some half-hearted attempts at khaki, but overall the mood does not exactly scream "Casual Friday," much less "stay at home mom." And neither do I.

Even as a child, I didn't really "do" casual. I guess you can blame it on my mom, an Egyptian immigrant and university professor with one elegant shoe firmly planted in the Old World. She believed strongly that little girls should look the part and provided a full wardrobe of frilly dresses, skirts in appropriate lengths, matching hair bows and barrettes. I don't think she's ever owned anything denim and certainly did not provide any for her little girl. Today I no longer wear pigtails or knee socks, but I have to admit my mother's approach to getting dressed is one I haven't completely thrown in the wash.

I also inherited her Type A personality, and started working full-time before graduating from Northwestern at age 20. My first "real" job was at Chicago's O'Hare Airport working as a customer service representative for Air France, and I'll never forget the feeling of leaving my college sweatshirt behind, and slipping into a pair of high heeled shoes, a straight black skirt and a freshly pressed white shirt. Strange as it may sound, I had found my comfort zone. The professional world was where I belonged, both in dress and in mind. And it's where I've happily spent the better part of the past two decades... until now.

With my baby girl just four weeks old it's not surprising those suits don't fit right now, but that's not what really worries me. Assuming I do eventually step away from the ice cream carton, I'm relatively certain my waistline will one day make a reappearance (Ben, Jerry and I have a really good thing going, and I'm not quite ready to call things off). But will they ever fit my life again? Will my life ever fit them? After my first child was born there was no question- I knew I would return to work and I did just that, 12 weeks later. But now with two it's a much harder decision. Between the cost of daycare, the struggle of getting two kids out of the house, the double guilt of leaving them all day, and the decidedly un-family-friendly career I chose, I can feel my former life slipping farther and farther away. As I sit here with unwashed hair and a t-shirt that apparently double as a burp cloth I find it hard to even remember the stylish news reporter with TV-ready makeup who once occupied this space. Is she gone forever, or just on hiatus? It's not a question I can answer right now, and until I can I think it's time to try and push the monster onto a back shelf and do some shopping. Identity Crisis is bad enough- I don't need to add Fashion Disaster to my closet as well.

Hero to Zero

2009-07-15T10:58:00.000-07:00

Everyone talks about how pregnant women have these massive mood swings, but I'm finding the rollercoaster to be much more intense (not to mention terrifying!) on the other side of labor and delivery. I'm not talking about your basic postpartum hormone craziness- that's bad enough- but on top of that there are the every day worries, fears, triumphs and occasional successes that have you feeling like a hero one minute and a zero (or below) the next.

Last week was a perfect example. My 3-week-old baby girl has only been sleeping about an hour at a time overnight, leaving me feeling like a grumpy, groggy, one-woman dairy farm. In other words, a zero. Aside from her ravenous appetite (earning her the nickname Little Miss Eats-a-Lot), if she's not swaddled tighter than a mummy, Houdini Baby will wriggle her tiny arms out, start flailing like a crazy person, and wake herself up. Now I'm not always the world's greatest swaddler, but a few nights ago all the stars aligned and she delivered not one but TWO blissful slumber blocks of two and a half hours each. While I probably slept just two of those, I still woke up feeling like I could conquer the world, or at least make it out of bed without passing out. "I am good, really good!" I thought proudly, ignoring the fact that I played very little role in the whole sleep production. Hero!

Still patting myself on the back, I got 2-year-old Noah up, dressed, and downstairs in record time. Where's my cape? Clearly I am a Super Hero! I sat my heroic self down on the couch to nurse The Hungry One yet again, with Noah content to sit by the fireplace, watch a little bit of Elmo, and drink his sippy cup of milk. Yes, I truly am getting the hang of this parenting two kids thing, I thought. That was right before Noah grabbed the fireplace screen which sent it crashing down on top of his little head. Screams all around! Noah is now lying on the floor under the screen, Cecilia is shrieking loudly due to Breakfast Interruptus, and if I had time to listen I would have surely heard my own cries were the loudest of all. Thankfully, Noah received only a big scare- no injuries whatsoever. But I am now officially the Worst Mom in the World. A Zero. Could someone please do the honor of branding the scarlet "Z" on my chest? All day I replayed the scene in my head. The crash! The cries! How could I not have secured that screen to the wall? What if it had landed just 1 inch higher and those scalloped edges had skewered my sweet baby boy's eyes? This is Babyproofing 101, and clearly I had FAILED. What other dangers lurked in this House of Horrors? Hands still shaking, I drove Noah to his daycare, convinced I was unable to provide for his safety myself.

We managed to survive the rest of the day unscathed (physically, anyway) and over the course of a few days the scene began to fade from my memory. Right around that time, Noah came home with a tiny cut on his foot. Since boys will be boys, he had taken a little fall on the playground which produced a tiny boo-boo.. and a huge need to show it off. As I got him into his jammies after bath time he wouldn't stop crying over that microscopic cut (despite the obligatory gigantic bandaid that had been applied). I looked over at his dump truck pajamas and had a rare stroke of genius. "Noah- look at these jammies! If you put these on, the trucks will drive your boo-boo away while you sleep!" His wide-eyed expression and eagerness to jump into those PJs was all I needed to reclaim the title: welcome back, Hero.

So back and forth it goes all day long, every day. Not just an uphill battle, but an up and down hike through the many emotions and pitfalls on the parent trail. I'm starting to realize the labels we give ourself are just unnecessary baggage. I need to stay confident in the fact I'm doing the best I can, and drop the things that don't make the journey any easier, or any better. No cape, no super hero, and no scarlet letter here. Just one tired mom hoping to tuck everyone, including herself, safely into bed each and every night.

Falling in Love Again

2009-07-09T11:12:00.000-07:00

Ours was a delicious love affair that began two years ago today. I'll be the first to admit, this wasn't exactly a case of love at first sight. When the doctor put you in my arms I didn't know quite what to think. There you were: 7 pounds 10 ounces of wriggling, shrieking, wrinkly need. And there I was: many more pounds of exhaustion, hormones, and confusion. But we bundled you up, wrapping our first-time parent worries and fears in a soft blue blanket, took you home, and slowly but surely our love affair began to blossom.

For months, you and I were inseparable. You needed nourishment; I could provide. You needed comfort; I did my best to offer it. And one day, about six weeks into this grand adventure, you smiled at me. "He LIKES me!" I remember thinking with amazement. Until that moment I actually believed you might feel like you were stuck with me, I swear I saw you gaze longingly at the other strollers and car seats and wonder why you couldn't have gone home with someone who actually knew what they were doing. But with that first true smile you seemed to be reassuring me- "We're going to be OK, you and I. We were made for each other."

Our love continued to grow with every day, every milestone. My heart swelled when I heard your sweet little giggle for the first time, and even those middle of the night feedings didn't seem quite so brutal when you gazed up at me with those big blue eyes. I cried for 45 straight miles my first day back at work, and raced home to be with you every night. I mock-complained about your "clinginess" but secretly relished the way only I could calm you down, the way you cried out for "Mama" when you needed comfort, the damp spot your freshly washed head left on my shoulder as I rocked you to sleep. Private smiles shared across the dinner table, the jokes only the two of us would ever understand.

But a few months back things began to change. We were both getting bigger- you all around, and me in the belly. Both of our moods took a turn for the worse as you became prone to temper tantrums and I barely had the energy to get through the day. I could see the struggle for independence raging in your 3-foot-high body, spilling over into an almost constant chorus of "NOs!". I could feel some of the joy slipping away as the most simple tasks became a battle of wills. Then to complicate matters even further, along came your baby sister and with her, a massive shift in your universe. You turned away from me, and I was forced to turn even further to tend to her constant needs. She cried, you cried, and I cried.

Then one night Cecilia blissfully slept through the early evening and you and I found our way back to each other. We joked through dinner, tentative giggles at first, then the all out gut-busting laughter only you can bring out. As we cuddled after your bath you nestled your head in that familiar place, looked up at me, and took my breath away as you said "Mama came back!" And just like that, we did.

So happy birthday, sweet angel. I can't promise you our relationship will always be perfect- in fact I promise you it won't. But you have my word we'll always find our way back together, and you will always be my baby boy. Because ours is a love affair destined to last forever.

Peekaboo!!!

2009-07-08T09:13:00.001-07:00

It's always been one of my son's favorite games: Peekaboo! Like most parents, we started playing when he was just days old, living for the day he would laugh as we popped out from behind our hands. Even now at nearly 2 years old, that old standby hasn't lost its thrill. Start up a game of Peekaboo and Noah still giggles with delight and calls out "I see you, Mama!" And he's not kidding about that. It's been said that mothers have eyes in the back of their heads, and while I'm sure that's true, I believe children have an even more powerful tool at their disposal: Kadar. That's kiddie radar.

Kadar refers to the incredible ability of a child to sense the exact moment at which his/her parent has begun to relax/sleep/eat/do anything other than devote full attention to him/her, and since my 2-week-old daughter clearly has it, I'm convinced it develops in the womb. Just this morning, her kadar was working overtime. It was 5:30am and we had been up for over an hour nursing, burping, changing and the like. Finally, after what felt like endless rocking, swaying, pleading and praying, those big, almond-shaped eyes began to droop shut. Swaddled tightly in her blanket I laid her down (for roughly the 38th time) in her bassinet. And this time..... silence! Doing my best Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible impersonation, I slid into bed without a sound, carefully removed my eyeglasses (heaven forbid even the sound of that tiny hinge wake her up!), shimmied into the covers and at last, at long LAST let my own weary eyes fall shut. It was of course at that very instant that Cecilia's kadar began sending out "CODE RED" messages to her brain, which resulted in immediate kicking, grunting, unswaddling and general "not sleeping" behaviors. So much for flying under the radar, or kadar!

An almost identical scenario played out just a few hours later, but this time I was a victim of the dreaded double kadar attack. First up: Cecilia. It was 8am and a carbon copy of the above, with the addition of a few extra bags under my eyes. This time I decided not to try and outsmart the kadar (never a good idea) and NOT even attempt to go back to sleep. Perhaps it's because I lived alone for so long before getting married, but I absolutely thrive on "alone time" in the mornings. I desperately need 15 minutes to myself to drink a cup of steaming hot tea, gather my thoughts (assuming I'm actually having any aside from "Man am I tired!") and a peanut butter slathered English muffin, and just be with myself (and occasionally Matt Lauer). Even in my current sleep deprived state I'll gladly sacrifice a few minutes of snoozing for my morning time; it's by far the most restful option out there. So "Take that, kadar!" I thought to myself as I crept down the stairs alone, savoring the impending taste of tea and solitude. Noah wasn't due up for nearly an hour, and Ceci would surely sleep another 15 minutes. Teacup in hand, PB and J in the other, I made my way to the couch which seemed to rise up and greet my weary bones. Enveloped in its comfort I took one bite, washed it down with a few piping hot sips and almost exhaled. Of course, that's the exact moment I heard a shrill, "MAMA!!!!! Bunny went BOOOOOOOM!!!!!" from up above. It was the plight of that little stuffed rabbit played out at top volume that must have registered on Cecilia's kadar screen, because she soon joined the chorus of cries. Drat, foiled again.

Kadar presents itself in many ways, including the uncanny ability of a baby to emit an explosive poop just as you prepare to leave the house (this feature seems especially sensitive to cold weather and increases exponentially with the number of layers of clothing that must be removed), or the way a toddler in church waits until the exact moment the entire congregation is bowed in silent prayer to throw his tantrum. Maybe it's just pure coincidence, or maybe it's nature's way of letting us know who the boss really is (not that there was ever any doubt). All I know is that the eyes in the front of my head could really use a break, so I'll have to work harder to outsmart the kadar. And maybe I won't be quite as eager to teach Cecilia how to play "Peekaboo."

Wide Open Spaces

2009-06-30T07:05:00.000-07:00

You may not have noticed but something very dramatic happened around 9:12pm on Tuesday, June 23. A few things, to be exact. First came the grand finale of a project 40 weeks in the making: our beautiful baby girl Cecilia Joy came into the world. 7 pounds 8 ounces of pure innocence, 20 inches of amazement. And at the exact same moment, the world doubled, tripled, perhaps even quadrupled in size.

I didn't feel any shift in the earth's atmosphere, or even notice the change until we prepared to leave the cozy confines of our hospital room on Thursday morning. As we loaded Cecilia into her car seat (the same one that brought big brother Noah home just 2 short years ago) I did a double take- did someone steal our infant seat and replace it with this giant contraption? It felt like we were attempting to strap a jelly bean into a 5-point harness. Her tiny little head seemed to flop back and forth like a flag in the wind, the straps seemed wider than her entire torso. Shaking from the experience (not to mention pure exhaustion, extreme pain and raging hormones!) I stepped tentatively out into the hallway, only to realize that it was now roughly the size and carried the same traffic volume as I-75. And the actual highway was no better. Why do the lanes seem so wide? Why are those cars going so FAST? How can this possibly be safe? I could have sworn my husband was channeling NASCAR until I peeked at the speedometer and saw he was well below the speed limit (with white knuckles, I might add). The scenery flying past us at warp speed looked familiar, but the world as I had known it pre-Cecilia had morphed into one giant danger zone, and I was quite frankly terrified.

I don't remember feeling this way when my son was born, but perhaps the changes were lost in the fog that accompanies your first child. When we brought him home we had no idea what we were in for, and looking back I realize that wasn't such a bad thing. With Baby #1 the main focus is survival: you stumble through the days (or nights? Who can really tell the difference?) doing what you can to keep your head (or at least one nostril) above water. You rush to meet the new baby's needs, trying out soothing techniques from the 18 different parenting books you diligently read while pregnant. There's no time and certainly no energy to take a very close look at the world around you. If anything, that world shrinks to baby size because that's all you see.

It's been said that size is relative, and as a corollary to that I'd add that our relatives also affect our notion of size. The morning before Cecilia was born, Noah still looked like a baby to me. Sure, I saw how fast he was growing, and at 9 months pregnant I could barely lift his 30 pounds or fit him on my non-existent lap. But I still marveled over his sweet little toes with every round of "This Little Piggy," and the way his tiny palm fit into mine as we walk down the stairs hand in hand. Now all of a sudden he's a Big Brother in every sense of the word. Did he age a few years in those 44 hours we spent at the hospital? Did Grandma give him some sort of growth hormone while we were gone? In my heart he'll always be my baby, but sitting next to his newborn sister I see him for what he is- a growing, thriving boy who has changed so much in such a short time. I'm now completely overwhelmed by a desire to slow down time to bring back my baby boy, along with the need to shrink the world to protect my baby girl.

In my heart I know it's neither the pace of the clock nor the cars on the road that frighten me. As I pause with fear at the top of the stairs (which of course now appear to tower several stories) I know I'm not really afraid I'll drop the baby on the way down. What scares me is that I'll drop the ball on this whole endeavor. That somehow I'll let these sweet babies down, that I won't adequately lead the way down the gigantic lanes of life so they have an example to follow. What if it's just dumb luck that got us all through the first two years of Noah's life (relatively) unscathed, and my personal supply has run out? These are not the questions we're meant to answer on 4 hours of broken sleep. I find myself praying harder than ever, praying my faith will keep pace with the changes in the world around me. And with that, I'll just have to put one foot in front of the other and descend one step at a time into this giant miracle.

Who's on first?

2009-06-18T09:18:00.000-07:00

I always swore I would never be one of those moms who resorted to baby talk and referred to herself and her children in the third person. "Mommy doesn't like it when little Jackie-poo bites!" "Does baby want a chippy-wippy?" To my former teacher's ears, it all sounded so.... wrong. Not to mention silly. So I vowed from early on to speak plainly and normally with my child. For the most part, it's worked pretty well- at least on the vocabulary front. Noah may not be able to completely enunciate "elephant" or "spaghetti," but he does a darn good job of trying. I admit, I caved with regards to pee-pee and poo-poo, but that's probably a reaction against growing up in a highly medically inclined family where everything was known by its clinical name. Do you really need your 2-year-old to talk about "urine"?

The grammatical side has proven trickier. I realized early on that "I" could no longer be "I" or "me" around Noah. "I'll help you" would get a blank stare (one that said "who the heck is 'I?'"), but "Let Mama help you" was easy to understand. After all, we'd just spent the past umpteenth months coaxing, pleading and begging for him to say "Mama." So Mama it was destined to be. When he needs comfort, it's "Come see Mama." Hungry? "Mama will get you a snack." Injured? Tired? Broken crayon? "Mama will fix it." Grammatically, I still can't get used to referring to myself that way, but emotionally it warms my heart.

Now comes the sticky part... Noah thinks he is "you." Not YOU the reader, but "you" the pronoun. When he needs a hand he asks "Mama help you?" For a shortcut up the stairs he'll plead to "Get you up?" And when he falls down he'll come crying about how "I hurt you knee!" I know intrinsically it's simple imitation- the way kids learn much about the world. If I say "Can Mama help you?" it's only natural he'll turn it around... becoming "you" in the process. But again, there's an emotional side as well. Despite the big blue eyes and fair complexion, this child is part of me in ways I never knew possible, and the malfunction at pronoun junction only highlights the matter. I really do feel the pain when he hurts "you" knee or bumps "you" head.n On a particularly frustrating day, his tears can meld with my own, just like his joy is mine when the sunshine in life shines bright. But there's also a part of me that yearns to be separate, to not be completely defined by "Mama" or to have my individuality trampled on the road to You-ville. I'm still me, right? I know we'll sort out this in time- Noah will learn his pronouns and we'll both learn our individual boundaries. It will probably happen right around the time Baby #2 starts asking for Mama to "Get you up?"