Click-y moms at the park. Write about that.
Oh, interesting new store opened. Write about that.
A new assignment from Newsday. Write about that.
Skipping Stroller Strides. Losing the last 6 pds of baby weight. Binging on crap. Write about that.
A trip home. The importance of family. Kids are growing up too fast. Write about that.
Hot cup of coffee. Check. Quiet house of napping children. Check. Brain bursting to blog faster than my purple colored finger tips can type. Check.
"With long straight black hair sweeping past their shoulders, tan swirls casted against black leggings, and yogurt granola they just found for a steal at Cosco, the moms at Magnolia playground..."
Shit, the phone.
Hang up. Regroup. Re-read. Pick up.
"..clung together tigher than the grape jelly stuck on Nugget's cheek. Prepared for more than the single child lunch, this group of four had snacks, toys and..."
Crap, someone's up.
Ah, Meatball poops more than a bear who's just confiscated a bowl of chili. Where was I....ah, okay, jump back in.
".....extra pairs of socks for each other's children. The world around them seemed invisible. Just the four of them, pushing their children insync on the swings, clapping together as they watched their children go down the slide, go up the slide, go through the tunnel, hold on to the monkey bars, let go of the money bars. They knew each others names, their husband's names, their mother-in-law's names, their dog's names. They strolled in stride, dotting along....."
Sigh. Their all up. Meatball's poop was enough to wake the room of three.
Close computer. Blog later.
Later.........
Three days later, tossing and turning over the list of to-do's that have been un-do's thanks to the sunny days that have engulfed my schedule with walks, playground trips, beachy afternoons, evening dog walks, I open the computer.
Today I'll set aside the Newsday article plans and finish my last blog.
"...hmmm..hmmm."
Click-y moms? What click-y moms? What was I even blogging about again?
Crap, the phone.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
The Purpose Of The Blog
On Sunday the Times ran a piece on blogs, mom's who blog, and 39,000 mom's who attended a blogging conference in California to find out how to get more revenue on their blogs. Some of these women were making an insane amount of money, and companies such as Tupperware are currently looking for other bloggers to hire for their company.
We've all heard the story of Julie&Julia and how her blog went from blog, to an article in the Times, to a book and then a movie. Then there's the mom who cooked in a crock pot for a year and sent readers pounding their computer every morning to check out her newly tested recipes, a year later it became a book. Stories like these are all over, but the amount of bloggers are ten fold. This got me to thinking, what was I hoping to get from my blog, and more importantly why was I using my half hour coffee time to type instead of read?
I had to think back to answer this. Of course when I started my blog in September of 2008 the recession hadn't exactly hit yet, or at least I hadn't realized it did. I walked from Monroe to Georgia playground and met my friend who I've refered on here as Baby Guru. After months of us both staying home, our babies now 9 months old, we'd begun walking the boardwalk and discussing what our next move would be. My maternity money was running out, and if another writing assignment didn't come through I'd have to find an out of the house job and a daycare for my son. I remember running idea after idea off my friend, "What about an article on how to get your kid on Sesamee Street or into the top notch preschool," (actually maybe I'll use that Sesame Street article after all-it's interesting don't you think?)and trust me when I tell you I contacted editor after editor pitching idea after idea. No one was biting. My friend had an idea, she was starting a day care. Mondays were going to be her busiest, five kids at once, "I'll help you," I exclaimed. "I'll walk down every Monday, as long as it isn't raining, and hang out." So on this Monday, with the kids at the park, I proposed my idea.
"You know how I said it was really hard to find a mom group here and how I searched to make mom friends when I had Nugget? What if I made a blog that would allow moms in LB to connect. We could plan meet-up dates and parties and all kind of events through it."
My friend thought it sounded great. So I got started. I figured out how to set up a blog, created a first meet-up date, a walk on the boardwalk that never happened due to a major rainstorm, and slowly began to write.
As editors slowly began to write back, "Sorry, we're not taking any out-house projects at this time," (aka, the economy was crashing and magazines were folding faster than I could keep up with), and I found out I was pregnant (Nugget only 9 months old and I was eight weeks, gulp!)the idea of a blog and meet up events grew less appealing. I was to busy puking, running after Nugget and worrying about money.
A year and a half later my husband and I managed to pull through. I've taken over one of the children from my friends day care and I've begun to use my blog as an outlet. I still wish this to be a place where LB moms can get together and connect. But, I'm now hoping for more opportunties to come from this.
I'd like to be able to pull two resources from one outlet and let the LB moms enjoy some of the spotlight. Magazines are slowly beginning to give away small assignment, my first one in over a year will be appearing in Parenting next month, and as I jump in, feet first, I'd like to bring my moms with me. Using this blog as a LB connection, I'd like to float my ideas on here, gather the opinion and turn the moms into interviews in the magazine, and possibly some photo shoots (for the magazines that hire me as their photographer too).
I'm not sure of the logistics and how well this would work, I can only use the same two moms so many times before editors complain (I giggle at how famous I've made my friend Megan, she's been my photograph ginuea pig for a yoga, surfing, speed dating, and other numerous articles), but I'm slowly going to test it out.
My first step, getting LB moms on my site to comment. I'm not sure how to go about this, besides a giveaway to lure them in, though so far that's no gaining much success, but maybe soon, through word of mouth, this will spread and a year from now my hopes of writing and connecting the moms will be concrete.
But what about my randon blogs, you ask. They're not articles. True. To that I say, I have random thoughts that I think are funny (to myself I'm very humourous), I guess I'm just vain enough to think that others will think so too and enough reading them. Hey, if I can't write for the magazines at this moment, why not blog about it. Right?
We've all heard the story of Julie&Julia and how her blog went from blog, to an article in the Times, to a book and then a movie. Then there's the mom who cooked in a crock pot for a year and sent readers pounding their computer every morning to check out her newly tested recipes, a year later it became a book. Stories like these are all over, but the amount of bloggers are ten fold. This got me to thinking, what was I hoping to get from my blog, and more importantly why was I using my half hour coffee time to type instead of read?
I had to think back to answer this. Of course when I started my blog in September of 2008 the recession hadn't exactly hit yet, or at least I hadn't realized it did. I walked from Monroe to Georgia playground and met my friend who I've refered on here as Baby Guru. After months of us both staying home, our babies now 9 months old, we'd begun walking the boardwalk and discussing what our next move would be. My maternity money was running out, and if another writing assignment didn't come through I'd have to find an out of the house job and a daycare for my son. I remember running idea after idea off my friend, "What about an article on how to get your kid on Sesamee Street or into the top notch preschool," (actually maybe I'll use that Sesame Street article after all-it's interesting don't you think?)and trust me when I tell you I contacted editor after editor pitching idea after idea. No one was biting. My friend had an idea, she was starting a day care. Mondays were going to be her busiest, five kids at once, "I'll help you," I exclaimed. "I'll walk down every Monday, as long as it isn't raining, and hang out." So on this Monday, with the kids at the park, I proposed my idea.
"You know how I said it was really hard to find a mom group here and how I searched to make mom friends when I had Nugget? What if I made a blog that would allow moms in LB to connect. We could plan meet-up dates and parties and all kind of events through it."
My friend thought it sounded great. So I got started. I figured out how to set up a blog, created a first meet-up date, a walk on the boardwalk that never happened due to a major rainstorm, and slowly began to write.
As editors slowly began to write back, "Sorry, we're not taking any out-house projects at this time," (aka, the economy was crashing and magazines were folding faster than I could keep up with), and I found out I was pregnant (Nugget only 9 months old and I was eight weeks, gulp!)the idea of a blog and meet up events grew less appealing. I was to busy puking, running after Nugget and worrying about money.
A year and a half later my husband and I managed to pull through. I've taken over one of the children from my friends day care and I've begun to use my blog as an outlet. I still wish this to be a place where LB moms can get together and connect. But, I'm now hoping for more opportunties to come from this.
I'd like to be able to pull two resources from one outlet and let the LB moms enjoy some of the spotlight. Magazines are slowly beginning to give away small assignment, my first one in over a year will be appearing in Parenting next month, and as I jump in, feet first, I'd like to bring my moms with me. Using this blog as a LB connection, I'd like to float my ideas on here, gather the opinion and turn the moms into interviews in the magazine, and possibly some photo shoots (for the magazines that hire me as their photographer too).
I'm not sure of the logistics and how well this would work, I can only use the same two moms so many times before editors complain (I giggle at how famous I've made my friend Megan, she's been my photograph ginuea pig for a yoga, surfing, speed dating, and other numerous articles), but I'm slowly going to test it out.
My first step, getting LB moms on my site to comment. I'm not sure how to go about this, besides a giveaway to lure them in, though so far that's no gaining much success, but maybe soon, through word of mouth, this will spread and a year from now my hopes of writing and connecting the moms will be concrete.
But what about my randon blogs, you ask. They're not articles. True. To that I say, I have random thoughts that I think are funny (to myself I'm very humourous), I guess I'm just vain enough to think that others will think so too and enough reading them. Hey, if I can't write for the magazines at this moment, why not blog about it. Right?
Friday, March 12, 2010
Crazy Friday Giveaway
Alright Moms, this week we're giving away something extrodinary....a free session with Elyse Pollack's Stroller Strides class. What better way to get your mom bod as cute as your kids then to try her out..for FREE. (I've crossed the Island Park bridge just to PAY her to kick my butt. She's that good!)
The catch..answer the question of the day and on Wednesday we'll announce the winner.
So, best of luck and I hope to see you in class. Who knows, there might be an interview and picture in it for you...if you desire that is =)
The question: In reflection of this weekend's upcoming typhoon like rainstorm, What's your favorite rainy day activity?
The catch..answer the question of the day and on Wednesday we'll announce the winner.
So, best of luck and I hope to see you in class. Who knows, there might be an interview and picture in it for you...if you desire that is =)
The question: In reflection of this weekend's upcoming typhoon like rainstorm, What's your favorite rainy day activity?
Should A Nap Compare With Crack
"If you were my mentor what advice would you give me today?"
This was the question I asked my husband as he scrambled off to work yesterday. Hoping for some type of inspiration, some words that would lead to a writing assignment, a completed pitch, a completed page of my play, he uttered the un-inspirational.
"Take a nap when the kids nap."
Take a nap? No, I wanted something more concrete. I wanted to be ordered, challenged, to get something done.
"You're running around like a mad woman. Take a nap."
And so, heeding my husband's advice, I helped the kids hang Easter decorations in the windows, cut colorful eggs out of construction paper that they painted and colored, brought them outside to play, made them a non-healthy lunch of macaroni and cheese (ate my salad along side them-do you even know how much I wanted to stick my face in the pot and swallow the entire serving for 4), changed pants, diapers and dirt covered clothes from outside, and finally put all three and then myself down for a nap. At first I laid there, thinking of all the things I should be doing, the dirty house that wasn't getting cleaned, the laundry that wasn't being folded and put away, the Real Housewives of Orange County Reunion that was waiting for me in the DVR, at this rate I'll never fall asleep, I told myself. But somehow I woke, two hours later, drool covering my pillow and cheek, to the sound of the boys waking up from their nap. But did I feel better? Rested?.....Hell No! If anything I felt irratated, more tired and did I say irratated? I wanted nothing more than to crawl back in that bed and be done for the day, and what was worse, I had no desire to wash the dirty dishes that were piled in the sink from breakfast and lunch, to start preparing dinner, or to fold the laundry that was still sitting in the dryer, so I didn't. Everything went on hold as I sat on the floor watching Sesamee Street with the kids.
Needless to say left over chili was served for dinner, the kids went to bed without a bath (I never had a chance to clean the tub that still had pieces of mud in it from their afternoon excursion outside)and my husband was on my nerves so bad that I retired to the bedroom at 7 o'clock to watch tv and read my magazine in peace.
So, was the afternoon nap worth it? In my opinion...hell no!
But, before my 6:30 alarm rang this morning I found myself up, and in the shower. By 7:30 the kids had breakfast, were dressed, and ready for the day. By 8:00 my bed was stripped, the dishes in the sink were half way finished (there were so many that I have to wait for the others to dry so I can put them away and start another load-the next apartment I have WILL have a dishwasher), there was a load a laundry going in the machine and my bills were laid out and organized on the bed.
I felt, feel, fantastic, as if I've had three cups of espresso, when I've only had one cup of coffee so far.
"Are you going to ask my advice again this morning," my husband asked as he returned from his walk with the dog.
"Bring it on," I said.
"Take another nap."
"Another nap?"
"Just like yesterday, go down when the kids go down. Catch up."
"What's the face for," he laughed.
"I was really hoping to watch the Real Housewives Reunion. I have both the reunions and the next episode of the NYC Housewives waiting for me!"
He smiled, shaking his head back and forth, and walked out the door.
"Take a nap," he echoed in the hallway.
This was the question I asked my husband as he scrambled off to work yesterday. Hoping for some type of inspiration, some words that would lead to a writing assignment, a completed pitch, a completed page of my play, he uttered the un-inspirational.
"Take a nap when the kids nap."
Take a nap? No, I wanted something more concrete. I wanted to be ordered, challenged, to get something done.
"You're running around like a mad woman. Take a nap."
And so, heeding my husband's advice, I helped the kids hang Easter decorations in the windows, cut colorful eggs out of construction paper that they painted and colored, brought them outside to play, made them a non-healthy lunch of macaroni and cheese (ate my salad along side them-do you even know how much I wanted to stick my face in the pot and swallow the entire serving for 4), changed pants, diapers and dirt covered clothes from outside, and finally put all three and then myself down for a nap. At first I laid there, thinking of all the things I should be doing, the dirty house that wasn't getting cleaned, the laundry that wasn't being folded and put away, the Real Housewives of Orange County Reunion that was waiting for me in the DVR, at this rate I'll never fall asleep, I told myself. But somehow I woke, two hours later, drool covering my pillow and cheek, to the sound of the boys waking up from their nap. But did I feel better? Rested?.....Hell No! If anything I felt irratated, more tired and did I say irratated? I wanted nothing more than to crawl back in that bed and be done for the day, and what was worse, I had no desire to wash the dirty dishes that were piled in the sink from breakfast and lunch, to start preparing dinner, or to fold the laundry that was still sitting in the dryer, so I didn't. Everything went on hold as I sat on the floor watching Sesamee Street with the kids.
Needless to say left over chili was served for dinner, the kids went to bed without a bath (I never had a chance to clean the tub that still had pieces of mud in it from their afternoon excursion outside)and my husband was on my nerves so bad that I retired to the bedroom at 7 o'clock to watch tv and read my magazine in peace.
So, was the afternoon nap worth it? In my opinion...hell no!
But, before my 6:30 alarm rang this morning I found myself up, and in the shower. By 7:30 the kids had breakfast, were dressed, and ready for the day. By 8:00 my bed was stripped, the dishes in the sink were half way finished (there were so many that I have to wait for the others to dry so I can put them away and start another load-the next apartment I have WILL have a dishwasher), there was a load a laundry going in the machine and my bills were laid out and organized on the bed.
I felt, feel, fantastic, as if I've had three cups of espresso, when I've only had one cup of coffee so far.
"Are you going to ask my advice again this morning," my husband asked as he returned from his walk with the dog.
"Bring it on," I said.
"Take another nap."
"Another nap?"
"Just like yesterday, go down when the kids go down. Catch up."
"What's the face for," he laughed.
"I was really hoping to watch the Real Housewives Reunion. I have both the reunions and the next episode of the NYC Housewives waiting for me!"
He smiled, shaking his head back and forth, and walked out the door.
"Take a nap," he echoed in the hallway.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Shhhh...It's A Secret
Yesterday myself and two other moms crashed a toddler class at the Island Park Library. Though we weren't the only ones, the class was literally over flowing with moms and toddlers, and though we may have never signed up, one of the other moms and I have been attending on an every other week basis, aka, when the class is held, so we knew the regulars from the non. Any how, five minutes into the class the head librarian walked in and scolded all the unregistered moms for attending, of course the three of us looked around like we weren't one of the unregistered. She did let everyone stay, but encouraged us to fill out forms suggesting more toddler classes.
But I'm getting off course. Though I want to tell you about the anxiety I experienced, still experiencing, as we pushed our strollers over the drawbridge from LB to IP, (if this opens and we go down my children are strapped in to their strollers, there's no way I'll be able to unbuckle them, I'll swim to the top, the stroller will sink to the bottom and my kids will drown), let me tell you when I say I pushed that triple stroller as hard as I could over that see through bridge I'm not kidding, my lungs were heaving by the time I reached McDonald's and waited for the two other moms who were far behind me. But again, I'm getting off track.
What I want to tell you will probably now seem boring in comparison. As I walked into the library, waiting amongst the line of moms in from of the elevator, another mom caught my attention. Standing behind me with her double stroller, suspiciously peering into my triple stroller, I ignited the conversation.
"He's not mine," I told her, pointing to my daycare boy.
"I was about to say," she giggled.
Her double held two girls.
"How far apart," I gestured.
"Fifteen months."
"Seventeen," I said, pointed to Nugget and Meatball.
"It's not as hard as everyone thinks is it," she whispered.
"Shhh," I smiled, placing my fingers in front of my lips. "Don't give it away."
"I know," she laughed as we shoved ourselves into the elevator together.
We peered at each other across the room, exchanging eye glances towards other moms who seemed frazzled with one child and smiled. Another mom knew the secret. I wasn't the only one thinking this was easier than it once sounded, nor was I the only one not regretting the closeness of the children, and liked it.
But in all my secret sharing I do have to admit one more. This morning, as I fed, dressed and got my boys ready for the day I remembered....THIS is what's hard. Timing two boys together, dressing one while the other escapes or screams or gets into something he's not supposed to, getting their food ready and on the table at the same time..and the stroller (or car, though I'm rarely in that)getting them all in, strapped in, snacks, and pushing. I guess hard isn't the right term, because is it HARD, no, but is it a struggle, yes. Having the patience and balance and repetition to do it all together, day after day, is definitely not the bee's knee's, it's somewhere in between.
But I'm getting off course. Though I want to tell you about the anxiety I experienced, still experiencing, as we pushed our strollers over the drawbridge from LB to IP, (if this opens and we go down my children are strapped in to their strollers, there's no way I'll be able to unbuckle them, I'll swim to the top, the stroller will sink to the bottom and my kids will drown), let me tell you when I say I pushed that triple stroller as hard as I could over that see through bridge I'm not kidding, my lungs were heaving by the time I reached McDonald's and waited for the two other moms who were far behind me. But again, I'm getting off track.
What I want to tell you will probably now seem boring in comparison. As I walked into the library, waiting amongst the line of moms in from of the elevator, another mom caught my attention. Standing behind me with her double stroller, suspiciously peering into my triple stroller, I ignited the conversation.
"He's not mine," I told her, pointing to my daycare boy.
"I was about to say," she giggled.
Her double held two girls.
"How far apart," I gestured.
"Fifteen months."
"Seventeen," I said, pointed to Nugget and Meatball.
"It's not as hard as everyone thinks is it," she whispered.
"Shhh," I smiled, placing my fingers in front of my lips. "Don't give it away."
"I know," she laughed as we shoved ourselves into the elevator together.
We peered at each other across the room, exchanging eye glances towards other moms who seemed frazzled with one child and smiled. Another mom knew the secret. I wasn't the only one thinking this was easier than it once sounded, nor was I the only one not regretting the closeness of the children, and liked it.
But in all my secret sharing I do have to admit one more. This morning, as I fed, dressed and got my boys ready for the day I remembered....THIS is what's hard. Timing two boys together, dressing one while the other escapes or screams or gets into something he's not supposed to, getting their food ready and on the table at the same time..and the stroller (or car, though I'm rarely in that)getting them all in, strapped in, snacks, and pushing. I guess hard isn't the right term, because is it HARD, no, but is it a struggle, yes. Having the patience and balance and repetition to do it all together, day after day, is definitely not the bee's knee's, it's somewhere in between.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
His Two Words Made Me Run
After a weekend in Philadelphia, celebrating my father-in-law's 60th, it felt good to come home. So good in fact, that I pulled out my double stroller, plopped the kids in and headed for the boardwalk.
"You're going for a walk," my husband exclaimed. "Aren't you exhausted?"
"Do you see that sun out there? I'm not sitting in the house when it's that nice."
And off I went, rehashing the weekend in my head, the laughs, the stories, the look of surprise on my f.i.l's face when he walked through the door, as my husband crawled into our bed to rehash via a nap.
Like any LB knows, a burst of sunshine gets the Boardwalk packed, and boy was it ever. As I strolled up the ramp, breathing in the ocean air, realize now how much I missed that smell, I had to dodge a quick right. Runners pounded the boards, bikers peddled them, and walkers weren't leaving much room between. But I found my grove and began trekking amongst them.
One ramp later I ran into my old boss from C&R. Big embraces lead to big talk about the old days, what we and everyone else were up to, and our up coming plans. Forty minutes into the non-stop chatter, my kids restless and his cell phone beeping with messages from unanswered calls, we said our good-bye's.
I walked away, and just as I was about to put my ipod on, he called back out to me. I quickly turned, hand shielding my eyes from the sun.
"Nice ass," he said.
I smiled. In honestly it was more than a smile, it was an ear to ear glow that has yet to leave.
"You made my week," I yelled back, wondering if other people were now checking out my ass too.
Walking away, I felt good. In my twenties, when my ass was nice, tight and high, I wouldn't have thought twice about someone talking about it. I would have taken that statement for granted. Now, as a mother of two kids, who's recently joined a kickboxing class, begun to eat healthy, and fit a stroller strides class in at least once a week, 'Nice Ass' means more than 'Nice Ass.' It's a recognition to the fact that I still exist. Though I've forgotten about me, other people haven't. I'm still relevant in this world, other than as a mom. And some people might even find me hot!
Hot.
The thought alone got me going. Nice Ass, my mind repeated, and I began to strut. Nice Ass, and I swayed my hips more. Nice Ass, and I walked faster. Nice Ass, and I picked up my feet and I ran. Nice Ass, and I sprinted from one building, stop, breath, strut, to the next building, run, stop, strut.
Two words. Two words took me from a woman who, four weeks ago, made a commitment to herself to eat right and join an exercise class, to a woman who lifted her feet high off the boardwalk and ran, something I haven't done in two years.
And by the end of the boardwalk, my accomplishment felt even better than the two words still repeating in my head.
Though I will repeat them again and again.
Nice Ass!
"You're going for a walk," my husband exclaimed. "Aren't you exhausted?"
"Do you see that sun out there? I'm not sitting in the house when it's that nice."
And off I went, rehashing the weekend in my head, the laughs, the stories, the look of surprise on my f.i.l's face when he walked through the door, as my husband crawled into our bed to rehash via a nap.
Like any LB knows, a burst of sunshine gets the Boardwalk packed, and boy was it ever. As I strolled up the ramp, breathing in the ocean air, realize now how much I missed that smell, I had to dodge a quick right. Runners pounded the boards, bikers peddled them, and walkers weren't leaving much room between. But I found my grove and began trekking amongst them.
One ramp later I ran into my old boss from C&R. Big embraces lead to big talk about the old days, what we and everyone else were up to, and our up coming plans. Forty minutes into the non-stop chatter, my kids restless and his cell phone beeping with messages from unanswered calls, we said our good-bye's.
I walked away, and just as I was about to put my ipod on, he called back out to me. I quickly turned, hand shielding my eyes from the sun.
"Nice ass," he said.
I smiled. In honestly it was more than a smile, it was an ear to ear glow that has yet to leave.
"You made my week," I yelled back, wondering if other people were now checking out my ass too.
Walking away, I felt good. In my twenties, when my ass was nice, tight and high, I wouldn't have thought twice about someone talking about it. I would have taken that statement for granted. Now, as a mother of two kids, who's recently joined a kickboxing class, begun to eat healthy, and fit a stroller strides class in at least once a week, 'Nice Ass' means more than 'Nice Ass.' It's a recognition to the fact that I still exist. Though I've forgotten about me, other people haven't. I'm still relevant in this world, other than as a mom. And some people might even find me hot!
Hot.
The thought alone got me going. Nice Ass, my mind repeated, and I began to strut. Nice Ass, and I swayed my hips more. Nice Ass, and I walked faster. Nice Ass, and I picked up my feet and I ran. Nice Ass, and I sprinted from one building, stop, breath, strut, to the next building, run, stop, strut.
Two words. Two words took me from a woman who, four weeks ago, made a commitment to herself to eat right and join an exercise class, to a woman who lifted her feet high off the boardwalk and ran, something I haven't done in two years.
And by the end of the boardwalk, my accomplishment felt even better than the two words still repeating in my head.
Though I will repeat them again and again.
Nice Ass!
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Everyone Thinks I'm A Bad Mom
Somedays are good days. I push my triple stroller to the library, bring the boys to as class, and have a mom approach me at the end.
"Three boys, wow! And they're so well behaved. I don't know how you do it."
A statement to which I quickly respond that Nugget and Meatball are mine, but the three year old I watch.
"Still, I couldn't do that. And they're just so good!"
And then there are the bad days. Meatball screams his head off, not letting anything I do appease him, Nugget and daycare boy get into a fight over a toy yelling "MINE" in the library, and no matter what I do I can't get a balance and end up a frenzied mess.
It is days like these that leave me doing the stroll of shame. The stroll of shame is the long walk home from our destination where I replay all the events in my head and imagine all the bad things onlookers and other mothers said, or were currently saying, about me.
That's why you don't have three kids.
Did you see her, she doesn't even pay attention to them. Her baby was eating crayons while she was reading a book to the older one and it took her a few minutes before she even noticed.
Such a terrible mother. I'd never let her watch my kids.
These are the statements that swarm my head. I go to bed at night, analyzing what I did with the kids, was it enough, should I have planned another craft, should I have read to them more during the day, is Meatball lacking for attention, is Nugget, am I on top of them as much as I should be, do others think I push them to much, should Nugget know his colors yet, should I be teaching them words, how to spell, how to read, how........
"Go to bed," my husband will usually yell after I've tossed and turned for the fifth time. I've learned not to talk to him about these concerns. It always results in a fight. He tells me I'm doing a great job and that my thought and worries are ludicrous and that I just need to let the kids be kids. I read into that statement to much, "What do you mean they don't need structure? Do you think that they are so well behaved because it comes natural? That's me. That's my hard work. When people give you a compliment about your children, you should stop and tell them that you don't believe in structure, you believe in letting them be, so the compliment actually belongs to your wife and you will pass it along." At this point he ends the conversation, I'm heated up and he's walked away leaving me to stew in my ridiculous thoughts.
Last night was filled with those thoughts. I woke up tired, wondering how I was even going to pull through. It was beautiful outside. The kids would want to go out, I should want them to get out, but my heart and body wanted to sit on the living room floor catching up on my weekend newspaper, not cleaning a thing or lifting a finger besides to change a diaper and make lunch, and even that sounded exhausting. But twenty minutes into my morning my friend and Stroller Strides instructor badgered me into coming to her class. Swearing at her with every step there I half hearted walked into class, only to find out that she was planning on punishing everyone for the warm weather.
"Bathing suit season is coming, lets run five million laps around the building moms!"
If that wasn't bad enough, Nugget and daycare boy were itching to get out of the stroller.
Beaten up, and ready for the class to end, I let the boys out of the stroller when we stopped running and began our floor exercises. Nugget and daycare boy ran around the room like a bunch of uncaged hyenas and Meatball sat next to me laughing and crawling all over me. Seconds later there were screams. Loud, horrific screams. Nugget had ran straight into a table. His eye was immediately red, swollen and forming a larger lump by the minute. The other moms looked on in horror. Though they had followed my lead and released their children from the strollers, there's were quietly sitting beside them playing with appropriate toys, not running around the room. Nugget was fine. His crying lasted less than two minutes, and was more the result of tiredness, and I was back on the floor, Meatball crawling next to me, the two boys running around again. Hey, I've been to the Emergency Room, twice with Nugget for stitches already, a bump on the head was nothing. (But as I write this statement I again wonder if that makes me a bad mother, should I be more nurturing and soothing to him? Is letting him go play after he gets hurt, instead of holding him and rubbing his back, though he wouldn't let me do that if I wanted, snuggling only happens when there is no playing to be done, the wrong thing?)
I watch the boys run around, knowing that other eyes are on me, and my head is spinning with the words that other moms are saying in their head. I could only imagine what would be said as I left. And just as my mind spins, Meatball crawls by my side, and the instructor tells us to bring down our right foot and bring out our left foot, injury, aka bad mother incident, number two begins. Without thinking about the left leg stretch and the woman beside me, Meatball's coos turn to wails as the left-sided woman stretches her leg straight into his head.
I packed up the kids as fast as I could and got out of there, and in case your thinking I'm exaggerating about the thoughts and looks from moms like my friend Carney, "No one thinks your a bad mom, will you stop," she always laughs as I tell her one of my 'I think people think I'm a bad mom' story, I have to end the exercise story by telling you that no one, NO ONE, said good-bye to me as I waved and said "Good-bye Moms."
They hate me. They think I'm terrible. I know they do.
That night I repeated the story to my mother. Her horrified gasps were enough to reinforce the morning feelings.
"Did you ice his eye?"
"It's not that bad mom."
"Oh my god, go put some ice on his eye right now and give him some Tylenol."
"Mom it was hours ago."
The conversation went on. I appeased her by promising to ice his eye and give him medicine as soon as I hung up, and yes, to keep my eye on Meatball more. And the mom guilt was back. Not only were fellow LB moms probably home talking to their husbands or fellow mom friends about me, my mom was now hanging up, shaking her head and stressing out about what I'd just told her.
"Maybe I should come down there and watch the kids for you. Maybe I should take care of them so you can go to exercise class without them."
These words ran over and over in my mind last night. Not only did my mom think I was a bad mom, she was considering taking time off of work and driving five and a half hours to take care of my children for me. It's officially I apparently suck.
"Three boys, wow! And they're so well behaved. I don't know how you do it."
A statement to which I quickly respond that Nugget and Meatball are mine, but the three year old I watch.
"Still, I couldn't do that. And they're just so good!"
And then there are the bad days. Meatball screams his head off, not letting anything I do appease him, Nugget and daycare boy get into a fight over a toy yelling "MINE" in the library, and no matter what I do I can't get a balance and end up a frenzied mess.
It is days like these that leave me doing the stroll of shame. The stroll of shame is the long walk home from our destination where I replay all the events in my head and imagine all the bad things onlookers and other mothers said, or were currently saying, about me.
That's why you don't have three kids.
Did you see her, she doesn't even pay attention to them. Her baby was eating crayons while she was reading a book to the older one and it took her a few minutes before she even noticed.
Such a terrible mother. I'd never let her watch my kids.
These are the statements that swarm my head. I go to bed at night, analyzing what I did with the kids, was it enough, should I have planned another craft, should I have read to them more during the day, is Meatball lacking for attention, is Nugget, am I on top of them as much as I should be, do others think I push them to much, should Nugget know his colors yet, should I be teaching them words, how to spell, how to read, how........
"Go to bed," my husband will usually yell after I've tossed and turned for the fifth time. I've learned not to talk to him about these concerns. It always results in a fight. He tells me I'm doing a great job and that my thought and worries are ludicrous and that I just need to let the kids be kids. I read into that statement to much, "What do you mean they don't need structure? Do you think that they are so well behaved because it comes natural? That's me. That's my hard work. When people give you a compliment about your children, you should stop and tell them that you don't believe in structure, you believe in letting them be, so the compliment actually belongs to your wife and you will pass it along." At this point he ends the conversation, I'm heated up and he's walked away leaving me to stew in my ridiculous thoughts.
Last night was filled with those thoughts. I woke up tired, wondering how I was even going to pull through. It was beautiful outside. The kids would want to go out, I should want them to get out, but my heart and body wanted to sit on the living room floor catching up on my weekend newspaper, not cleaning a thing or lifting a finger besides to change a diaper and make lunch, and even that sounded exhausting. But twenty minutes into my morning my friend and Stroller Strides instructor badgered me into coming to her class. Swearing at her with every step there I half hearted walked into class, only to find out that she was planning on punishing everyone for the warm weather.
"Bathing suit season is coming, lets run five million laps around the building moms!"
If that wasn't bad enough, Nugget and daycare boy were itching to get out of the stroller.
Beaten up, and ready for the class to end, I let the boys out of the stroller when we stopped running and began our floor exercises. Nugget and daycare boy ran around the room like a bunch of uncaged hyenas and Meatball sat next to me laughing and crawling all over me. Seconds later there were screams. Loud, horrific screams. Nugget had ran straight into a table. His eye was immediately red, swollen and forming a larger lump by the minute. The other moms looked on in horror. Though they had followed my lead and released their children from the strollers, there's were quietly sitting beside them playing with appropriate toys, not running around the room. Nugget was fine. His crying lasted less than two minutes, and was more the result of tiredness, and I was back on the floor, Meatball crawling next to me, the two boys running around again. Hey, I've been to the Emergency Room, twice with Nugget for stitches already, a bump on the head was nothing. (But as I write this statement I again wonder if that makes me a bad mother, should I be more nurturing and soothing to him? Is letting him go play after he gets hurt, instead of holding him and rubbing his back, though he wouldn't let me do that if I wanted, snuggling only happens when there is no playing to be done, the wrong thing?)
I watch the boys run around, knowing that other eyes are on me, and my head is spinning with the words that other moms are saying in their head. I could only imagine what would be said as I left. And just as my mind spins, Meatball crawls by my side, and the instructor tells us to bring down our right foot and bring out our left foot, injury, aka bad mother incident, number two begins. Without thinking about the left leg stretch and the woman beside me, Meatball's coos turn to wails as the left-sided woman stretches her leg straight into his head.
I packed up the kids as fast as I could and got out of there, and in case your thinking I'm exaggerating about the thoughts and looks from moms like my friend Carney, "No one thinks your a bad mom, will you stop," she always laughs as I tell her one of my 'I think people think I'm a bad mom' story, I have to end the exercise story by telling you that no one, NO ONE, said good-bye to me as I waved and said "Good-bye Moms."
They hate me. They think I'm terrible. I know they do.
That night I repeated the story to my mother. Her horrified gasps were enough to reinforce the morning feelings.
"Did you ice his eye?"
"It's not that bad mom."
"Oh my god, go put some ice on his eye right now and give him some Tylenol."
"Mom it was hours ago."
The conversation went on. I appeased her by promising to ice his eye and give him medicine as soon as I hung up, and yes, to keep my eye on Meatball more. And the mom guilt was back. Not only were fellow LB moms probably home talking to their husbands or fellow mom friends about me, my mom was now hanging up, shaking her head and stressing out about what I'd just told her.
"Maybe I should come down there and watch the kids for you. Maybe I should take care of them so you can go to exercise class without them."
These words ran over and over in my mind last night. Not only did my mom think I was a bad mom, she was considering taking time off of work and driving five and a half hours to take care of my children for me. It's officially I apparently suck.
Monday, March 1, 2010
The Happiness Project
Is it me or is EVERYONE coming out with a book on what they did to make themselves happy, or what they did to find their purpose?
The Happiness Project, a book about a woman (who was a lawyer, comes from money, has a happy marriage, two daughters and family next door to her, that she likes)who spends a year figuring out what she, and you, can do to make happiness exist everyday. One of the examples she gives, "Make your bed every morning."
This got me thinking, I should pay attention to my made bed. If there's a day that the morning gets to hectic and runs into the afternoon/evening and I find myself walking into my bedroom at night, haggard and preparing to plummet my body under the sheets, I should write it down. Day 1=bad day. Bed not made. And if there's a day where everything goes perfect, the kids are happy, I get my writing done, the house is spotless, my husband does the dinner dishes (well at least puts his plate in the sink), I should write that down. Day 2=Mary Poppins like day. Bed made.
I know, I'm a bit grumpy this morning. Truthfully I do get the message about starting the day off with a made bed, my grandmother embedded this in my head years ago. Even after long hard days the one good thing that makes me relax is walking into my nice clean bedroom (my haven as said in Feng Shu)pulling back my crisp sheets and settling down with a book, instead of looking around, worrying about all the things I didn't do along with all the things I need to do. I guess I'm just bitter about the self-help trend that seems to be taking over the book shelves, and my New York Times Book Review section. The Julie&Julia Project, the book about the woman who lived a year of her life doing what Oprah said, and so many more haunt me. What happened to my lovely chick flick books? The ones that made you giggle, smile and read through it in less than a week. The one's you couldn't wait to talk about with your girlfriends and pass along.
I'm sorry, but after a long day taking care of children, a dog, and a husband, the last thing I want to do is read a book that attempts to cover why I have spats of unhappiness, or sit down with my cup of tea and frozen grapes, excited to read the last section of my favorite Sunday section, and find out that The Happiness Project took up the front and middle section. You want to know why I'm happy about your project lady? Maybe because your telling me to start my day off by making my bed, meanwhile you have a housekeeper and nanny taking care of yours. If I'm about to take happiness advice from a happiness writer it certainly isn't going to be from someone telling me to do something she's not.
Ah, now I feel better.
The Happiness Project, a book about a woman (who was a lawyer, comes from money, has a happy marriage, two daughters and family next door to her, that she likes)who spends a year figuring out what she, and you, can do to make happiness exist everyday. One of the examples she gives, "Make your bed every morning."
This got me thinking, I should pay attention to my made bed. If there's a day that the morning gets to hectic and runs into the afternoon/evening and I find myself walking into my bedroom at night, haggard and preparing to plummet my body under the sheets, I should write it down. Day 1=bad day. Bed not made. And if there's a day where everything goes perfect, the kids are happy, I get my writing done, the house is spotless, my husband does the dinner dishes (well at least puts his plate in the sink), I should write that down. Day 2=Mary Poppins like day. Bed made.
I know, I'm a bit grumpy this morning. Truthfully I do get the message about starting the day off with a made bed, my grandmother embedded this in my head years ago. Even after long hard days the one good thing that makes me relax is walking into my nice clean bedroom (my haven as said in Feng Shu)pulling back my crisp sheets and settling down with a book, instead of looking around, worrying about all the things I didn't do along with all the things I need to do. I guess I'm just bitter about the self-help trend that seems to be taking over the book shelves, and my New York Times Book Review section. The Julie&Julia Project, the book about the woman who lived a year of her life doing what Oprah said, and so many more haunt me. What happened to my lovely chick flick books? The ones that made you giggle, smile and read through it in less than a week. The one's you couldn't wait to talk about with your girlfriends and pass along.
I'm sorry, but after a long day taking care of children, a dog, and a husband, the last thing I want to do is read a book that attempts to cover why I have spats of unhappiness, or sit down with my cup of tea and frozen grapes, excited to read the last section of my favorite Sunday section, and find out that The Happiness Project took up the front and middle section. You want to know why I'm happy about your project lady? Maybe because your telling me to start my day off by making my bed, meanwhile you have a housekeeper and nanny taking care of yours. If I'm about to take happiness advice from a happiness writer it certainly isn't going to be from someone telling me to do something she's not.
Ah, now I feel better.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
My Achilles Heel..The Bathroom
I clean it, it gets dirty.
I scrub the tub, the children have pasta for dinner and leave an orange ring. I scrub again.
I mop the floor, Nugget has a pee-pee spill that looms out of the toilet. I mop again.
I sweep the floor, Nugget and Meatball walk into the room after lunch or dinner trekking the cheerios or mac-n-cheese that stuck to their shirt. I sweep again.
I hang a hand towel, the children wipe their hands and it falls on the floor. I hang it again.
I clean the sink, my husband brushes his teeth and leaves spit marks around the bowl. I scrub again.
I clean the toilet, my husband seems to miss and leaves drops around the ring. I clean it again, Nugget leaves drops around the ring. I clean it again, daycare boy misses and spreads pee around the seat. I clean it again.
I change a diaper, the dog pulls it out of the waste bin and pulls it apart. I clean, sweep and mop again. By the time that's done, someone has pooped again.
Repeat the above steps.....every day of the week. I ask the bathroom gods, "Will my hosue ever be clean?"
I scrub the tub, the children have pasta for dinner and leave an orange ring. I scrub again.
I mop the floor, Nugget has a pee-pee spill that looms out of the toilet. I mop again.
I sweep the floor, Nugget and Meatball walk into the room after lunch or dinner trekking the cheerios or mac-n-cheese that stuck to their shirt. I sweep again.
I hang a hand towel, the children wipe their hands and it falls on the floor. I hang it again.
I clean the sink, my husband brushes his teeth and leaves spit marks around the bowl. I scrub again.
I clean the toilet, my husband seems to miss and leaves drops around the ring. I clean it again, Nugget leaves drops around the ring. I clean it again, daycare boy misses and spreads pee around the seat. I clean it again.
I change a diaper, the dog pulls it out of the waste bin and pulls it apart. I clean, sweep and mop again. By the time that's done, someone has pooped again.
Repeat the above steps.....every day of the week. I ask the bathroom gods, "Will my hosue ever be clean?"
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
To Cute For Words
So, I have to gloat, not about my 2 pd weight loss that I've been working hard on (no diet secret here, just exercise and eating right, yuck), or the perfect check-up my two sons got at Dr. Cohen's, or the fact that Nugget is officially, that's right officially, a diaper-free potty trained toddler, =), but about how cute my little one looks in his new underwear. To on lookers it might seem strange that I'm talking about my son in underwear and not about the successful potty training that I spend two weeks blogging about, but I can't help it. Seeing his cute little butt in underwear that are just a tad to big, they don't make 24 month old underwear, unless I'm not looking in the right spot, is more gratifying than seeing his pee-pee in the potty.
Due to my husband's desperation, and harsh threats, I've opted not to post a picture of his cute booty in his Handy Manny and Mickey Mouse underwear. But I can't tell you how much I wish I could. If you could see his little toosh you'd want to bite it. Seriously. And, up until yesterday's talking to, I'd shown all of Dr.Cohen's staff, my mom friends at the library, the woman upstairs, everyone who can receive a picture message in my address book, and of course a few pictures on my camera to which I plan on sending to my family and my husbands. Today, so I can blame the time on happening before my husband put his foot down on not exposing our son, I'm uploading the camera pictures and sending them off to my in-laws. I can just see my mother-in-laws face, not amused. Inside it makes me giggle. I can't help it, after all I've spent several blogs just talking about my immaturity, so she can't be that surprised.
For Nuggets first Christmas card, I chose a delicate, yet characteristic photo of my little man baring all. Trust me, I'd spent weeks finding the perfect Christmas photo outfit, gone down to the beach for the perfect 'we live on the beach' Christmas shot, listened to a neighbors instructions and drove to Fortunoff to take a picture of him in every display possible, and even ruined my friends antique irreplaceable ornament taking pictures of him in front of her picturesque tree. But ultimately I favored the side of immaturity and chose a favorite picture of mine, Nugget standing next to the tub, flinging his towel into the water. His little dimply butt exposed to the world, and his face revealing a devilish side. I loved it! 100 of my friends and relatives opened their holiday mail to my son's bare-all pre-Chippendale photo. My mother-in-laws response, "They're going to arrest you."
So now, as I prepare to send her my son's new covered Handy Manny bottom, I can't help but smile and wonder what she'll say when she calls. But more importantly I can't wait for my husband to loosen his hold so I can drop my sons pants to the floor, sharing with everyone my son's cute new butt covered underwear. Ahh, its the little things that make you proud to be a mom. Man how I wish I could show you!
Due to my husband's desperation, and harsh threats, I've opted not to post a picture of his cute booty in his Handy Manny and Mickey Mouse underwear. But I can't tell you how much I wish I could. If you could see his little toosh you'd want to bite it. Seriously. And, up until yesterday's talking to, I'd shown all of Dr.Cohen's staff, my mom friends at the library, the woman upstairs, everyone who can receive a picture message in my address book, and of course a few pictures on my camera to which I plan on sending to my family and my husbands. Today, so I can blame the time on happening before my husband put his foot down on not exposing our son, I'm uploading the camera pictures and sending them off to my in-laws. I can just see my mother-in-laws face, not amused. Inside it makes me giggle. I can't help it, after all I've spent several blogs just talking about my immaturity, so she can't be that surprised.
For Nuggets first Christmas card, I chose a delicate, yet characteristic photo of my little man baring all. Trust me, I'd spent weeks finding the perfect Christmas photo outfit, gone down to the beach for the perfect 'we live on the beach' Christmas shot, listened to a neighbors instructions and drove to Fortunoff to take a picture of him in every display possible, and even ruined my friends antique irreplaceable ornament taking pictures of him in front of her picturesque tree. But ultimately I favored the side of immaturity and chose a favorite picture of mine, Nugget standing next to the tub, flinging his towel into the water. His little dimply butt exposed to the world, and his face revealing a devilish side. I loved it! 100 of my friends and relatives opened their holiday mail to my son's bare-all pre-Chippendale photo. My mother-in-laws response, "They're going to arrest you."
So now, as I prepare to send her my son's new covered Handy Manny bottom, I can't help but smile and wonder what she'll say when she calls. But more importantly I can't wait for my husband to loosen his hold so I can drop my sons pants to the floor, sharing with everyone my son's cute new butt covered underwear. Ahh, its the little things that make you proud to be a mom. Man how I wish I could show you!
Monday, February 22, 2010
Mom-stincs
Being a mom has taught me may things, but I think one of the most important things is that I have the power to follow my own instincts and know what to do (something I need to remind myself the next time I talk to a billion moms in the library or spend hours googling something).
Last week I slipped on everything. I have to tell myself it's okay, otherwise the rest of the week will go downhill from guilt. Diet, negative, Movies, negative, Reading, negative, Writing, negative, Potty training, negative. I could give myself the excuse of the monthly visit that wiped me out, made me binge on Nutella and pretzels, caused me to be short and irritable with my husband, and slacked on encouraging my son to use the potty. But as of Saturday morning I was going to put it all behind me.
When Nugget was 5 months old I decided to switch him from a bottle to a sippy cup. I put water in it and let him play with it. I added formula from hoping to entice him. And, when all of the frustration of trying hit me, I got it. Why am I playing games with a bottle and sippy cup? If I want him to learn something shouldn't I just do it? Wasn't all the switching confusing him? How was he supposed to learn what I wanted him to do if I wasn't consistent with what I wanted him to do? So one morning I woke up, but my breast milk in his cup and sat patiently on the couch while he played with the sippy cup spout and figured it out. By the end of that day, he'd gotten the concept and I packed up the bottles for good. It was as easy as that. Done in a day.
The same theory hit me Saturday. If I'm telling Nugget to use the potty, bringing him back and forth, and screaming and yelling when he goes, but then I'm putting him in Pull Ups and Diapers from time to time how was I showing him what I wanted him to learn? So, just like I learned with the sippy cup, I whipped the diaper off his bottom the second he woke up and kept him 'naked under his pants' (that's what my horrified mother calls it)and let him figure it out on his own. Was there accidents? Sure. But by Sunday, the next day, we had not one. Not only did I leave him without any protection I let him feel for himself when he needed to go and when he didn't. I no longer asked if he had to use the potty. I no longer set a timer and remind him when to go, though I did tell him when I was using the potty to see if he wanted to go with, which he did, I let him tell me when he had to go, and I let him go by himself. I no longer went in with him and stood watching him go. He did his business and tell me to come 'look' when he finished. The independence seemed to inspire him more, and by the end of the day I was confident, just like with the bottles, that I'd done what I needed and Nugget 'had' the concept.
If we're finished with accidents and potty setbacks I'm not sure, but today we're on our way to but underwear and diaper free days. And all because I trusted my instincts and took the enabler mom routine away. If only getting myself in this routine could be that easy. I'd have me play finished in no time.
Last week I slipped on everything. I have to tell myself it's okay, otherwise the rest of the week will go downhill from guilt. Diet, negative, Movies, negative, Reading, negative, Writing, negative, Potty training, negative. I could give myself the excuse of the monthly visit that wiped me out, made me binge on Nutella and pretzels, caused me to be short and irritable with my husband, and slacked on encouraging my son to use the potty. But as of Saturday morning I was going to put it all behind me.
When Nugget was 5 months old I decided to switch him from a bottle to a sippy cup. I put water in it and let him play with it. I added formula from hoping to entice him. And, when all of the frustration of trying hit me, I got it. Why am I playing games with a bottle and sippy cup? If I want him to learn something shouldn't I just do it? Wasn't all the switching confusing him? How was he supposed to learn what I wanted him to do if I wasn't consistent with what I wanted him to do? So one morning I woke up, but my breast milk in his cup and sat patiently on the couch while he played with the sippy cup spout and figured it out. By the end of that day, he'd gotten the concept and I packed up the bottles for good. It was as easy as that. Done in a day.
The same theory hit me Saturday. If I'm telling Nugget to use the potty, bringing him back and forth, and screaming and yelling when he goes, but then I'm putting him in Pull Ups and Diapers from time to time how was I showing him what I wanted him to learn? So, just like I learned with the sippy cup, I whipped the diaper off his bottom the second he woke up and kept him 'naked under his pants' (that's what my horrified mother calls it)and let him figure it out on his own. Was there accidents? Sure. But by Sunday, the next day, we had not one. Not only did I leave him without any protection I let him feel for himself when he needed to go and when he didn't. I no longer asked if he had to use the potty. I no longer set a timer and remind him when to go, though I did tell him when I was using the potty to see if he wanted to go with, which he did, I let him tell me when he had to go, and I let him go by himself. I no longer went in with him and stood watching him go. He did his business and tell me to come 'look' when he finished. The independence seemed to inspire him more, and by the end of the day I was confident, just like with the bottles, that I'd done what I needed and Nugget 'had' the concept.
If we're finished with accidents and potty setbacks I'm not sure, but today we're on our way to but underwear and diaper free days. And all because I trusted my instincts and took the enabler mom routine away. If only getting myself in this routine could be that easy. I'd have me play finished in no time.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
A Sticker In And Out Of The Diaper
As a potty reward Nugget and my daycare boy get a sticker and an M&M. This is a great incentive for them.
And as of this morning I realized its a great incentive for Meatball, my 8 month old, as well. Changing his dirty diaper I noticed something on his bottom. I wiped, but it stuck. I wiped again, still stuck. I touched it, pulled it, and then peeled it off. What was it? Oh, just a dog sticker that Nugget had received yesterday and proudly placed on his shirt.
Apparently my little man got hold of it and decided he could use a reward as well.Funny how the acids in his stomach didn't damage it at all.
And as of this morning I realized its a great incentive for Meatball, my 8 month old, as well. Changing his dirty diaper I noticed something on his bottom. I wiped, but it stuck. I wiped again, still stuck. I touched it, pulled it, and then peeled it off. What was it? Oh, just a dog sticker that Nugget had received yesterday and proudly placed on his shirt.
Apparently my little man got hold of it and decided he could use a reward as well.Funny how the acids in his stomach didn't damage it at all.
All You Need Is Pee
"Mommy, I poop on potty."
These five glorious words were the first ones my son utter this morning.
"You have to use the potty!"
"Yeah," he smiled, proudly running to the bathroom to sit on his throne.
And sure enough, there was pee. A lot of pee!
"I'm so proud of you," I beamed.
Inside I thought, this is it. This was my boost to get me back on track after a non-consistent potty day, due to my exhaustion and lack of motivation, yesterday. We're back on track, and taking one day off didn't impact my child as much as I worried it would.
I still never got around to looking into any of my potty training books, donated from authors who I've written articles on, or searching the Internet for potty training tips, and I still don't have much energy to tackle the potty again today. But I did find out why potty training for me might be a little harder than others, despite training two kids at once and dealing with an 8 month old who screams and carries on every time I put him down to put his brother on the potty, I've kept the potty in the bathroom, have gotten both boys to use the adult potty (easier clean up)but I have to pick them up to put them on and off every time, and taken all diapers and pull ups off leaving them "naked under their clothes," as my mother referred to it in horror yesterday.
"Your crazy," Baby Guru told me. "Put the potties in the living room, keep their pants off and let them go when they need to go."
In theory this sounds much easier. No trips carrying them over the living room gate, no on and off the potty, no on and off of pants, and extra laundry trips for the accidents, and no work on my part at all really, besides a little motivation, reminders and treats trips. But there's something about a potty on my living room rug, kids peeing beside their toys and my eight month old crawling around it that makes me think twice about the luxury and label myself a glutton for punishment. Besides, wouldn't the possible accidents on the carpet and little tinkles of the floor equal just as much work in the long run?
Going on Day #9 and feeling declined.
These five glorious words were the first ones my son utter this morning.
"You have to use the potty!"
"Yeah," he smiled, proudly running to the bathroom to sit on his throne.
And sure enough, there was pee. A lot of pee!
"I'm so proud of you," I beamed.
Inside I thought, this is it. This was my boost to get me back on track after a non-consistent potty day, due to my exhaustion and lack of motivation, yesterday. We're back on track, and taking one day off didn't impact my child as much as I worried it would.
I still never got around to looking into any of my potty training books, donated from authors who I've written articles on, or searching the Internet for potty training tips, and I still don't have much energy to tackle the potty again today. But I did find out why potty training for me might be a little harder than others, despite training two kids at once and dealing with an 8 month old who screams and carries on every time I put him down to put his brother on the potty, I've kept the potty in the bathroom, have gotten both boys to use the adult potty (easier clean up)but I have to pick them up to put them on and off every time, and taken all diapers and pull ups off leaving them "naked under their clothes," as my mother referred to it in horror yesterday.
"Your crazy," Baby Guru told me. "Put the potties in the living room, keep their pants off and let them go when they need to go."
In theory this sounds much easier. No trips carrying them over the living room gate, no on and off the potty, no on and off of pants, and extra laundry trips for the accidents, and no work on my part at all really, besides a little motivation, reminders and treats trips. But there's something about a potty on my living room rug, kids peeing beside their toys and my eight month old crawling around it that makes me think twice about the luxury and label myself a glutton for punishment. Besides, wouldn't the possible accidents on the carpet and little tinkles of the floor equal just as much work in the long run?
Going on Day #9 and feeling declined.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Can I Take A Day OFF? PTD # 8
I woke up tired, sore, and in the beginning stages of my period. Though I went to bed at nine my body feels as if I haven't slept in days. I'm dragging, two cups of coffee have yet to help me, the kids are cranky (probably because I'm not up to speed, and I'm trying to think of something to do to get the kids out of the house so that my husband can catch up on a little sleep since he worked til 1 am. All in all, I don't want to potty train today. I just want to put a pull up on my son and little daycare boy and let them go in them. Is that detrimental? Could one day of slacking demise my weeks worth of training? And how do I know when they're potty trained anyway? Is there a sign, a hidden clue, a motherly instinct that will tell me? Does simply asking to use the potty mean they're trained? How about dry pull ups after nap time or an afternoon out? Lack of accidents? Repulsion to diapers? Ability to flush? How will I know?
Do these questions mean I need to read the book? Or...maybe I could work my way through it again and do it on my own....hmmm...lets search the Internet and see what it says.
Do these questions mean I need to read the book? Or...maybe I could work my way through it again and do it on my own....hmmm...lets search the Internet and see what it says.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Have I Really Done It?..Potty Training Day 5
From the start of the week, tackling potty training on the morning after Superbowl (note to self: next time begin potty training after a full nights rest), I thought about giving up, putting it off, and breaking my promise to myself that I would not by another pack of diapers.
Yet, here I am, at the end of my work week, aka Day 5 of training both kids (mine and the little boy I watch)going through all the emotions in my mind. The lows, the highs, and the confidence that I can drop the twenty minute and wait for those words.
"Potty mommy."
At first these words were more of a manipulation. A manipulation to get out of time out, to get another treat, another sticker, another hug, and some time away from his little brother when he was acting up. But now, to my surprise, they're truthful. He speaks and we run, he sits, does his business, puts his seat away, flushes the toilet, and puts the top seat down. That's more than my husband!
It's been only 5 days and we've come so far. It wasn't easy, for me that is, my two year old seemed to think it was a joy (the treats and stickers, and I think his age, helped), and I know we're not at the end of our rope yet but at least I know we're close and that, just as I promised myself at my last trip to Waldbaums, I'm not going to buy another pack of diapers for my 2 year old again.
Now, if I could just say the same for my 8 month old who seems to go through a pack a day.
Yet, here I am, at the end of my work week, aka Day 5 of training both kids (mine and the little boy I watch)going through all the emotions in my mind. The lows, the highs, and the confidence that I can drop the twenty minute and wait for those words.
"Potty mommy."
At first these words were more of a manipulation. A manipulation to get out of time out, to get another treat, another sticker, another hug, and some time away from his little brother when he was acting up. But now, to my surprise, they're truthful. He speaks and we run, he sits, does his business, puts his seat away, flushes the toilet, and puts the top seat down. That's more than my husband!
It's been only 5 days and we've come so far. It wasn't easy, for me that is, my two year old seemed to think it was a joy (the treats and stickers, and I think his age, helped), and I know we're not at the end of our rope yet but at least I know we're close and that, just as I promised myself at my last trip to Waldbaums, I'm not going to buy another pack of diapers for my 2 year old again.
Now, if I could just say the same for my 8 month old who seems to go through a pack a day.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
The Blizzard of '10 Really Did Hit
So, I've given Long Island a hard time. I've made fun of it's snow ways, told it to "Pull up its panties" as it closed the gym and other things around town for a dusting of snow last Saturday, and stated that "Upstate wouldn't have even closed it's schools for what they're calling a massive snow storm." In fairness I am from Upstate, real Upstate, like Syracuse Upstate, not Westchester. And in Upstate we know snow. I've spent winters waking up to a dark sky filled with snow, spending all work day looking out the classroom window at the dark sky filled with snow, and went home, tucking myself in the couch with a warm blanket and bowl of beef stew, and looked out the window at the dark sky filled with snow. I've went days, sometimes months, without sunshine, and I've driven through streets whose snow piles were so high it felt like driving through a tunnel. So when my friends cancel a date because snow has grazed Beech Street and Waldbaum's lines take an hour just to reach the check out I tend to get a little bitter, and alright...maybe I feel a little superior. "Look at these people, are they serious," my husband and I laugh.
But yesterday Long Island gained my respect. The Blizzard of 2010, Snow-pocalypse, hit with a vengeance.
"I have to go to the beach," I said to my husband. "I want to see the waves. I want to take pictures."
"Have a blast," he sarcastically stated, wrapped under a warm, blanket with the kids.
My 16 year old dog, who turns into a young pup in the snow, got a special treat as I strapped on her leash and took her to the 'dog banned' beach.
I snapped pictures of the desolate streets of Park Avenue. I trudged through the unshovled sidewalks, snapped pictures of the now masked stop signs, snow covered hanging tree branches, snow capped fences, and finally, through the sting of the snow, and the 40 minute trek that normally 5, I reached the boardwalk and saw....the beach. At least that's what I know I saw. For anyone else who didn't live here it would have been a blur. The snow was so thick I could barely make out the waves that were crashing high above the jetties (is that how you spell jetties?). Surprisingly there where four other people on the beach with me. One man in a yellow jacket who strolled along, another woman who sat on a snow covered bench and look out on to the water, and another couple, with their dog, building snow men. I snapped and snapped, until my fingers grew numb and my eyes balls began to sting from the snow flakes that seemed to gravitate into my eyes. It took me another 40 minutes to walk home and another 20 to warm up.
And my pictures...well lets just say, the memories of what I saw turned out better than my pictures. Between all the snow flakes you can't make out anything. Guess I'll just have to go back down today and get some "after the storm" pictures. They'll probably be more pretty anyway.
But yesterday Long Island gained my respect. The Blizzard of 2010, Snow-pocalypse, hit with a vengeance.
"I have to go to the beach," I said to my husband. "I want to see the waves. I want to take pictures."
"Have a blast," he sarcastically stated, wrapped under a warm, blanket with the kids.
My 16 year old dog, who turns into a young pup in the snow, got a special treat as I strapped on her leash and took her to the 'dog banned' beach.
I snapped pictures of the desolate streets of Park Avenue. I trudged through the unshovled sidewalks, snapped pictures of the now masked stop signs, snow covered hanging tree branches, snow capped fences, and finally, through the sting of the snow, and the 40 minute trek that normally 5, I reached the boardwalk and saw....the beach. At least that's what I know I saw. For anyone else who didn't live here it would have been a blur. The snow was so thick I could barely make out the waves that were crashing high above the jetties (is that how you spell jetties?). Surprisingly there where four other people on the beach with me. One man in a yellow jacket who strolled along, another woman who sat on a snow covered bench and look out on to the water, and another couple, with their dog, building snow men. I snapped and snapped, until my fingers grew numb and my eyes balls began to sting from the snow flakes that seemed to gravitate into my eyes. It took me another 40 minutes to walk home and another 20 to warm up.
And my pictures...well lets just say, the memories of what I saw turned out better than my pictures. Between all the snow flakes you can't make out anything. Guess I'll just have to go back down today and get some "after the storm" pictures. They'll probably be more pretty anyway.
Potty Training Isn't Overnight
Maybe it's his age. Nugget just turned two in December and I'm potty training. Controversial I know. But this potty training isn't happening overnight. Is it his age, my method, or something else?
I know it will come in time, but I honestly don't want to do them steps things. You know, step one switch him to pull ups and practice, step two let him get the hang of the potty at home but keep him in pull ups when we go out, step three break the pull up cycle when we go out but keep them on at night, step four tackle the pull ups at night and prepare to go commando.
In an article I just wrote for Parenting, due our in the May issue, I interviewed Potty Training Expert and author of "Potty Train Your Child In Just One Day," Teri Crane. Her method was a one day diaper swoop, offering a 98% guarantee. In fairness to myself the article I wrote was on planning a potty party, an idea she recommends to successful training that works the first time. I interviewed and wrote about HOW to get your mommy friends together and throw a potty party together. (For my own vanity issues I needed to reiterate this fact in case you're wondering why I'm writing articles about potty training, yet struggling with questions about potty training my own son and day care boy). And now, as I'm in the thick of potty training I'm wondering how her idea would work on my two boys. Would throwing a potty party with their friends, and, okay, an excuse to get some moms to come over and entertain me. Hmmmm, maybe this should be a follow up for the magazines.
Moms, if this peeks your interest, and you'd be willing for you and your child's picture to be in a magazine, send me your info and I'll get back to you.
I know it will come in time, but I honestly don't want to do them steps things. You know, step one switch him to pull ups and practice, step two let him get the hang of the potty at home but keep him in pull ups when we go out, step three break the pull up cycle when we go out but keep them on at night, step four tackle the pull ups at night and prepare to go commando.
In an article I just wrote for Parenting, due our in the May issue, I interviewed Potty Training Expert and author of "Potty Train Your Child In Just One Day," Teri Crane. Her method was a one day diaper swoop, offering a 98% guarantee. In fairness to myself the article I wrote was on planning a potty party, an idea she recommends to successful training that works the first time. I interviewed and wrote about HOW to get your mommy friends together and throw a potty party together. (For my own vanity issues I needed to reiterate this fact in case you're wondering why I'm writing articles about potty training, yet struggling with questions about potty training my own son and day care boy). And now, as I'm in the thick of potty training I'm wondering how her idea would work on my two boys. Would throwing a potty party with their friends, and, okay, an excuse to get some moms to come over and entertain me. Hmmmm, maybe this should be a follow up for the magazines.
Moms, if this peeks your interest, and you'd be willing for you and your child's picture to be in a magazine, send me your info and I'll get back to you.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Asking Questions on Day 3
Obviously overjoyed at my progress last night I went to bed feeling fulfilled, only to wake up at 4 am with questions.
Potty training has turned out easy enough so far, but is that because we've been bound to the house. The cold air and, what Long Island calls, blizzards (I'm from Syracuse, school doesn't even close for these storms)have prevented us from taking any outside destinations. So, since I sign up for every library class they'll let me, and I find any means of getting these kids out of the house, how do I handle the potty training when we're out? Suddenly it seems that diapers might actually be easier.
"What about the trip to Philly in three weeks? Do we keep stopping?"
"No, we put a diaper on him for those," my husband replies, head buried in his pillow.
"But isn't that detrimental? Isn't that confusing him? I think once we're done, we're done."
"Stop. Stop where you are going and worry about it when it gets closer."
"Well, what about the stroller? The walks I take on the boardwalk." Keep in mind I haven't walked the boardwalk in over a year.
"They pee before and then after."
Sure to my husband this sounds easy, but for some reason I can't wrap my finger around it. It's like baby food. No one else seemed to have a problem with the simplicity of introducing rice cereal and baby food, but I did. I struggled over times. Should I give him rice cereal right after his bottle or should I wait? Should I give him baby food and then his bottle for lunch or vice verse?
Regardless, today I'm struggling with questions. Do I take the diaper off him at night too? Do I drive to the store and let him pick out his big boy underwear and toss away all pull ups by the end of the week? Would putting him in a pull up when we went to library class confuse him? Do I need to carry the potty seat with me when I do take them out? And what about these 20 minute intervals? How long until I can start spanning them out of waiting for him to tell me he has to go? Is this what I should be doing now?
Sigh. My head is full of questions that I could probably find in a book, but who has time to read a book? This coming from an author of two potty training articles. If my editor ever read this they'd probably kill me.
Potty training has turned out easy enough so far, but is that because we've been bound to the house. The cold air and, what Long Island calls, blizzards (I'm from Syracuse, school doesn't even close for these storms)have prevented us from taking any outside destinations. So, since I sign up for every library class they'll let me, and I find any means of getting these kids out of the house, how do I handle the potty training when we're out? Suddenly it seems that diapers might actually be easier.
"What about the trip to Philly in three weeks? Do we keep stopping?"
"No, we put a diaper on him for those," my husband replies, head buried in his pillow.
"But isn't that detrimental? Isn't that confusing him? I think once we're done, we're done."
"Stop. Stop where you are going and worry about it when it gets closer."
"Well, what about the stroller? The walks I take on the boardwalk." Keep in mind I haven't walked the boardwalk in over a year.
"They pee before and then after."
Sure to my husband this sounds easy, but for some reason I can't wrap my finger around it. It's like baby food. No one else seemed to have a problem with the simplicity of introducing rice cereal and baby food, but I did. I struggled over times. Should I give him rice cereal right after his bottle or should I wait? Should I give him baby food and then his bottle for lunch or vice verse?
Regardless, today I'm struggling with questions. Do I take the diaper off him at night too? Do I drive to the store and let him pick out his big boy underwear and toss away all pull ups by the end of the week? Would putting him in a pull up when we went to library class confuse him? Do I need to carry the potty seat with me when I do take them out? And what about these 20 minute intervals? How long until I can start spanning them out of waiting for him to tell me he has to go? Is this what I should be doing now?
Sigh. My head is full of questions that I could probably find in a book, but who has time to read a book? This coming from an author of two potty training articles. If my editor ever read this they'd probably kill me.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
I'm Doing It...I'm Doing It...Day 2 of Potty Training
Rewards in life come in all different forms; your first job, your first raise, first promotion, the honeymoon after your wedding, your body after a successful diet, and watching your child start using the potty.
I did this. I'm doing this. Though the morning started off rocky, I wasn't sure I wanted to do it again, afraid of having to bad days in a row, and I procrastinated another hour by creating a potty chart that needed to be hung before I could get started, I ended up pulling it together and having, what I would call, a successful day 2 on the potty.
I set my timer for every 20 minutes, trekked them back to the potty (remember I'm training my son and the 3 year old I do daycare for) and set another timer for 5 minutes, the length of which they had to sit and try.
All in all, I put on my best face, screamed like a lunatic when they went, danced my way to the potty every time, and best of all, I didn't have to fake any of it. Once I saw that what I was doing was working the energy became contagious and I became the kids and my own cheerleader. Yes they were going to the potty, but I was teaching them. I was teaching them. Seems like such a small thing to get excited about, or to say what I'm about to say, but this has honestly been one of the most rewarding things in my life. Trumping my article assignments, career as a writer, being a mother, etc., teaching my son to go on the potty has almost become a liberating experience that has me wanted to jump from the rafters and call my mom.
'Mom, can you believe I did this?' I want to say. "I taught my son how to use the potty." In my mind she'll be so proud.
"Good for you," she'll say when I call her tomorrow morning. "It's not easy honey, but you're doing it."
And she's right. I am doing it. And, frankly, I'm damn good at it. At least I was today.
I did this. I'm doing this. Though the morning started off rocky, I wasn't sure I wanted to do it again, afraid of having to bad days in a row, and I procrastinated another hour by creating a potty chart that needed to be hung before I could get started, I ended up pulling it together and having, what I would call, a successful day 2 on the potty.
I set my timer for every 20 minutes, trekked them back to the potty (remember I'm training my son and the 3 year old I do daycare for) and set another timer for 5 minutes, the length of which they had to sit and try.
All in all, I put on my best face, screamed like a lunatic when they went, danced my way to the potty every time, and best of all, I didn't have to fake any of it. Once I saw that what I was doing was working the energy became contagious and I became the kids and my own cheerleader. Yes they were going to the potty, but I was teaching them. I was teaching them. Seems like such a small thing to get excited about, or to say what I'm about to say, but this has honestly been one of the most rewarding things in my life. Trumping my article assignments, career as a writer, being a mother, etc., teaching my son to go on the potty has almost become a liberating experience that has me wanted to jump from the rafters and call my mom.
'Mom, can you believe I did this?' I want to say. "I taught my son how to use the potty." In my mind she'll be so proud.
"Good for you," she'll say when I call her tomorrow morning. "It's not easy honey, but you're doing it."
And she's right. I am doing it. And, frankly, I'm damn good at it. At least I was today.
I Don't Want To Potty Train....I Don't Want To Potty Train
"This is it. This is the last pack of diapers."
At least that's what I told myself when I made a quick trip to Waldbaum's last week for an extra box of diapers.
"Nugget eats fruit faster than it can grow on trees, Meatball's formula hasn't been on sale since before he was born, and I can't seem to get my grocery bill under $250.00"
So if X equals Y and Y says Nugget loves to sit on the potty and could probably be potty trained if I took the time, than Z means....it's time to potty train.
"Monday," I told myself. "I'll conquer Nugget and the little boy I watch together. It will be a Valentine's present for my little boys mom and me."
So there it was, laid out all nice and neat, and then yesterday, Monday, came. I was toast. I may have written two articles on potty training for magazines, but actually DOING the job was a lot different than writing about it. And when I say different I mean....motivating.
The first morning pee in the potty was a success. An M&M was given as a reward. I talked about putting up a chart in the bathroom, stickers, treats, and all the fun things that would motivate them, but slowly, as I struggled with a crying baby on my hip and two boys who would rather run around and bounce off each other than sit down for two minutes, I realized it wasn't the boys who required so much motivation or enthusiasm, it was me. Without my energy, to which I had none since I the day before was the Superbowl and we hosted a Polar Bear/Superbowl party that began at 9 am and ended at 11:30, potty training wasn't going to be much of a success. It wasn't the boys who needed a cheerleader, it was me.
Before lunch I had three successful potties, five attempts and two accidents. By the time they went down for their nap I was spent.
"Alright boys, after your snack We're going to sit on the potty again," I said after their nap.
But that plan was disrupted by an unexpected play date visitor for the kids, and for mommy of course, to which I spent inhaling coffee and complaining about how tired I was from potty training.
Maybe today I'll have more luck. Maybe I should start by making them a chart. Or is this just another excuse to delay my potty training process?
At least that's what I told myself when I made a quick trip to Waldbaum's last week for an extra box of diapers.
"Nugget eats fruit faster than it can grow on trees, Meatball's formula hasn't been on sale since before he was born, and I can't seem to get my grocery bill under $250.00"
So if X equals Y and Y says Nugget loves to sit on the potty and could probably be potty trained if I took the time, than Z means....it's time to potty train.
"Monday," I told myself. "I'll conquer Nugget and the little boy I watch together. It will be a Valentine's present for my little boys mom and me."
So there it was, laid out all nice and neat, and then yesterday, Monday, came. I was toast. I may have written two articles on potty training for magazines, but actually DOING the job was a lot different than writing about it. And when I say different I mean....motivating.
The first morning pee in the potty was a success. An M&M was given as a reward. I talked about putting up a chart in the bathroom, stickers, treats, and all the fun things that would motivate them, but slowly, as I struggled with a crying baby on my hip and two boys who would rather run around and bounce off each other than sit down for two minutes, I realized it wasn't the boys who required so much motivation or enthusiasm, it was me. Without my energy, to which I had none since I the day before was the Superbowl and we hosted a Polar Bear/Superbowl party that began at 9 am and ended at 11:30, potty training wasn't going to be much of a success. It wasn't the boys who needed a cheerleader, it was me.
Before lunch I had three successful potties, five attempts and two accidents. By the time they went down for their nap I was spent.
"Alright boys, after your snack We're going to sit on the potty again," I said after their nap.
But that plan was disrupted by an unexpected play date visitor for the kids, and for mommy of course, to which I spent inhaling coffee and complaining about how tired I was from potty training.
Maybe today I'll have more luck. Maybe I should start by making them a chart. Or is this just another excuse to delay my potty training process?
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