Independence Day

This week the dreaded day arrived: baby ventured out into the world on her own. Now that her father and I are busy with work, we've decided to enroll baby in a daycare program two afternoons a week. It was not a decision we arrived at easily, and as I walked into the YMCA with my precious baby girl in my arms, knowing that I would walk out without her, I felt my heart breaking. And I felt panicked for her: Would she feel abandoned when I left? Would she burst into tears and be completely inconsolable? Would I be letting her down as a mother?

All Washed Up (Or Not)

After 16 months of stress-free bathing, my daughter has developed a rather sudden phobia of the bathtub. And I don't mean a mild distaste for it, but rather full-fledged terror at the very prospect of coming within 10 feet of the tub--the way some people have a phobia of spiders, or of heights, or of Heidi Montag's solo album. It's like nothing I've seen before, and my heart goes out to my poor baby, who really seems to be suffering.

At first we tried forcing her into the tub, only to have her stand and scream at the top of lungs for the entire ritual...when she wasn't desperately trying to climb out. The whole thing felt a little cruel. Sure, I want her to get clean, but not at the expense of losing her trust in us and developing a full-on phobia of water. And so I called my panel of experts: women in my family who have raised kids that bathe on a semi-regular basis without hysterics and drama. I got some great suggestions: ideas for bath toys and games, bathing together, switching up the routine.

But when I look into baby's eyes, I think it's more than just making the tub seem like the place to be. She's overwhelmed and maybe even traumatized. And so I'm trying something a little different. Today I undressed her, put her down, and promised her I would not force her into the tub. And I didn't. She began sobbing and ran away. I sat in the bathroom and waited. She eventually came and stood in the doorway and looked at me imploringly. I held out my arms and kept repeating "It's just Mommy." While she wouldn't get in the tub, she eventually let me carry her into the bathroom and give her a sponge bath next to the tub. I filled a measuring cup with water and held it near her. She was scared of it at first, but eventually began dipping her washcloth in it and "helping" me bathe her.

No, I didn't get her into the tub, and no, I don't know if this is going to work. But maybe I can't solve this for her. Maybe it's a fear she needs to conquer on her own. All I can do right now is let her know that she needs to work through this, and that I'm here to help. I think sometimes we need to force our will upon our children, such as ensuring they don't play in the road. Other times we need to treat them as people with their own wills and minds. I'm giving the latter a try.

My sister-in-law told me a story about a client who is afraid of rattlesnakes. When this client one day discovered one in her yard, she picked up a stick and decided to battle her fear. "Sometimes it's important to face your fears," my sister-in-law said. I agree. But it's one thing to pick up a stick and hunt that rattlesnake--and quite another to have someone demand you conquer your fear by throwing the rattlesnake in your face.

I'm hoping that, with my support, baby will pick up the stick and battle her demons. If not, it's going to be very close quarters around here for a while.

Have Baby, Will Travel

We recently returned from a trip to Martha's Vineyard, where we've vacationed for the last nine summers. This trip was a little different from those of the past. For years it was just the two of us. We'd wake up at 10 a.m., head off to the beach, indulge in an overpriced meal of calamari and clam chowder, and then go dancing until what constitutes the "wee hours" on the island. Even last summer wasn't a radical departure from the norm. Baby was only four months old; we'd throw her in a carrier and tote her along to our beach or dining establishment of choice. Granted, we had to curtail our nighttime activities, but for the most part it was leisure as usual.

Things are different now. Whereas we used to worry there wouldn't be time to pick up some Mike's Hard Lemonade before catching the ferry, we now go into into a panic if we forget a favorite toy. (How could we possibly depart for the beach without My Pal Violet, the singing dog?) But it's not just the packing...the function of the vacation itself has changed. Vacations no longer allow us to feel carefree, relaxed and rested. There's no longer a sense that this is "my time," where I don't have to do anything or answer to anyone. Because we always have to answer to a two-foot redhead with her own set of demands. Yes, they are small demands--food, water, the ability to climb up and down the steps twenty times in a row--but they are demands nonetheless.

Instead, the family vacation offers a series of moments. Watching baby frolic in the ocean for the first time. Waking up to a set of brown eyes peeking out curiously from above the wall of her pack 'n play, thrilled to see Mommy and Daddy first thing in the morning. Chasing after baby as she dashes unsteadily down the streets of Vineyard Haven, greeting every passerby with a joyful "hi!" as she wobbles along with unshakable determination. Explaining to baby about boats, and oceans, and galleries, and watching her world grow a tiny bit bigger as she takes in every new detail.

Years from now I won't remember how mellow I used to feel when I returned to work after a trip to the Vineyard. But I will remember my baby's smile as she ran toward me on the beach, both of us ecstatic to be reunited after her swim with her dad. Or her giggles as she sat on her father's lap and played a racing game at the arcade. Or the unexpected tranquility of the three us lying side by side on a beach blanket, quietly basking in the sun like old companions lost in individual reverie. And, most of all, I'll remember the way it felt for the three of us to be together all day, without the constant interruptions of work and email and cell phones.

Yes, our trips to the Vineyard are certainly different these days. But I wouldn't trade this patchwork of memories for all the Mike's Hard Lemonade-inspired nights and late mornings in the world. Compared to family bonding, relaxation is highly overrated.

A Failure to Communicate

My daughter is starting to learn words, and she's quite proud of her linguistic achievements. She squeals "DOG-gie" with delight as she chases a dog around the room; she proclaims "BAY-bee" when asked if there's a baby present; she answers "no!" to every question because she has figured out that this particular syllable, paired with an enthusiastic head shake, communicates something--even if she's not quite sure what. She's thrilled to be able to communicate, finally, with her adult counterparts...and for our part, we are delighted to hear her finally utter sounds we recognize.

The process doesn't always go so smoothly, however. Sometimes she tries to communicate something using a string of nonsensical syllables and sounds...only to have us look at her quizzically and respond with an enthusiastic "You don't say!" But baby wasn't born yesterday (not quite)...she's not fooled, and her frustration is palpable.

I've tried to imagine this scenario from her point of view. What if I were in a foreign country where nobody spoke my language or understood me? And, to make the situation more dire, what if I were largely dependent on others to meet all my needs? I envision a scene like this, between me and my foreign-exchange host:

Me: Excuse me, but I'm quite hungry. Can you strap me into a chair, choose something that you think I might like, and then stare at me while I eat it?
Host: Awww..You look hungry. Do you want something yummy and delicious?
Me: Well, yes, I'd prefer that to disgusting and inedible. Watcha got?
Host: Ooh, here's a treat! Bread with a side of peas!
Me (indignant): Be prepared for me to throw it on the floor, lady...

Or, perhaps a scene on a foreign street:

Me (running up to a stranger): Help! My house is on fire!
Stranger: Well, aren't you cute! What are you saying, dear?
Me: I SAID MY HOUSE IS ON FIRE!
Stranger: You don't say!
Me: What's wrong with you? Send for help! Call 9-1-1! Do something!
Stranger (patting my head): That's right! Good for you!
Me (Grabbing the stranger's collar and pulling it desperately): FLAMES! COMPLETE AND UTTER DEVASTATION! HELL ON EARTH!
Stranger: Are you hungry? Do you want some yummy food? Yum-Yum-YUM?!
I depart, preparing to hurl myself into the flaming embers.

Yes, when you envision things from this perspective, it's not a pretty sight. The frustration is understandable. But it's not all bad. On the flip-side, you have this happier encounter:

Baby: GAW BAW DEE DOP. (Translation: I made a big poop.)
Mommy: You don't say! Good job, baby!
Baby: AAH DEE BOP BOH. (Translation: I like throwing things on the floor.)
Mommy: Really? That's fascinating, honey. Way to go!
Baby: GOO GAA BAA MA MA. (Translation: I love you, Mommy.)
Mommy: I love you too, baby. (Because some sentiments are understood between Mommy and Baby in any language.)

I know it's a start, and the rest will come in its own time (and when she's 16 the dialog won't be quite so adorable). Until then, I'll continue to respond to her attempts at communication with praises, kisses, and cuddles...for the same reason she says "no" to everything. Because I can.

Thinking Outside the Triangle

Recently two events occurred that made me stop and think. The first transpired during an innocent walk down a sunny street in Westchester. My mother-in-law and I were walking with my daughter, who was sucking her fingers while we pushed her in her stroller. A rather benign older couple walked by and suddenly stopped us with pleasant smiles. (All exchanges between strangers in Westchester tend to be pleasant and mildly uninteresting, albeit in a deliberately unoffensive and polite way.)

"Your daughter sucks her fingers the same way our daughter did," the wife exclaimed, referring to my daughter's somewhat unusual habit of sucking her pointer and middle fingers with her palm turned upward.

"And she turned out to be a talented musician," the husband interjected proudly. "You'll see. That one's going to be creative."

I smiled and thanked them, but something was troubling me. However, it was a beautiful day, so I chose to repress the storm clouds that were beginning to form in my mind.

But then, the other day, something else occurred. My daughter and I were playing with her shape sorter. I gave her a circular block, and she pushed it through the circular hole. I, of course, was quite proud of my progeny. Then I gave her the triangle block. She attempted to stick it through the round hole; when that failed, she tried to stick it through the triangle-shaped hole, but she couldn't quite get it in. Undaunted, she turned the shape sorter over until she found the toy's general opening, where you can remove blocks from inside or insert them for storage. She shoved the triangle block through the opening and then, without a second thought, promptly moved on to her next task: emptying her sock basket onto the floor.

I was somewhat taken aback. My daughter had found a creative solution to the problem that wasn't expected or traditional, but worked just as well. She had thought outside of the triangle.

And that got me thinking. What if the pleasant couple was right? What if my daughter is indeed destined to be an artist, or a musician, or a writer? The prospect made me wonder: Do I want that life for her? Sure, I want her to be creative in her approach to problems, and have a creative outlet like writing or art that brings her joy and reduces her stress. But, in all honesty, might I have been happier if that couple's daughter had grown up to be a doctor or an accountant? As a writer myself, I hate to admit it...but, well, maybe.

When most parents dream of what they want for their children, they think big: an astronaut, a basketball star, the president of the United States. No mother dreams of her child growing up to be a middle manager. But middle managers have some nice perks...health benefits, vacation time, salaries and relative stability. They also, in general, tend to avoid some of the drama that accompanies more artistic pursuits: constant rejection, unstable income, the inability to qualify for a mortgage or a lease on a car. As a book editor, I've seen many an author struggle to pay his bills while waiting for his meager advance check to arrive. Yes, I know the greatest things in life are those things you work to achieve. I guess I just don't want my daughter to have to work so, well, hard.

Ultimately, of course, I will support my daughter in whatever it is she wants to do, whether she wants to be a computer programmer or a world-famous composer. I want her to be happy and fulfilled. I guess I just hope, right or wrong, that she'll prefer to use that creativity to be the next Steve Jobs rather than the next Vincent Van Gogh. And in the meantime, I think we'll move on to Mega Blocks. You never hear about architects cutting off their ears.

Let's Hear It for the Boys

So, it's Father's Day, and I've been thinking about how incredible fathers are. I normally write about the trials and tribulations of motherhood. But this week I want to express my gratitude to all of the wonderful fathers out there whose feats of love, daring and agility continue to amaze us moms and delight our little ones. We moms are eternally grateful to those dads who can:

• Swing a 20-plus pound baby through the air without breaking a sweat, while baby squeals with delight as she defies gravity, safe and secure in the arms of her superhero.
• Walk into a room and bring an instant smile to the face of a baby who was just howling in pain after hitting her head on the table for the tenth time that day.
• Babyproof the entire house...and then babyproof it all again after baby has figured out how to circumvent all of those so-called safety devices that somehow only manage to keep Mom out of the drawers and cabinets.
• Wipe away baby's tears and keep everyone calm when baby gets a cut or bruise, kissing the boo-boo and making everyone (including Mom) feel better.
• Go to the grocery store and pick up every item on the list...and a few extra treats to reward everyone for working so hard all week.
• Go to baby's checkups and hold her while she gets her shots, because Mom can't watch without crying (although we suspect you're holding back a manly tear or two).
• Still find Mom attractive after she's been changing diapers, wiping runny noses, and cleaning spit-up all day (even on those days she doesn't quite make it to the shower...)
• Work hard to provide the necessities of life...and even harder to leave those worries behind and laugh, play, and love with your family.
  

Happy Father's Day to all the hard-working, always-loving, and impossibly dedicated dads out there!

The Party of No

It's happened. My daughter has achieved that Holy Grail of toddlerhood, dreaded by parents everywhere: she has learned how to say no. And suddenly there is very little that fails to elicit a negative response. Baby, do you want a banana? NO! Baby, do you want to go to the playground? NO! Baby, do you want to tear up some books and bang on the computer? NO! Baby, do you want to take a nap? NO! NO! NO!

At first I thought that her interest in that particular word had more to do with mechanics than meaning: the word is easy to say and the head shaking apparently pleases her to no end. However, I'm starting to think that she enjoys saying no because she hears the word so much. There is no limit to the amount of times we say no during the day. Here is a partial list of acts that elicit a NO! from Mom and Dad:

• No hitting.
• No chewing on the iPhone.
• No chewing on the DVDs.
• No chewing on the week-old piece of cheese you found behind the kitchen table.
• No touching the computer.
• No touching the dirty diaper.
  
• No touching the remote (unless you're attempting to block ESPN...in that case, carry on).
• No walking on the road.
• No walking with the dirty tissue you found on the road.
• No walking with the cigarette butt you found under the dirty tissue you found on the road.
• No eating sand.
• No eating rocks.
• No eating Mommy's right shoe.
• No eating Mommy's left shoe.
• No eating food out of the garbage can.
• No eating paper towels out of the garbage can.
• No eating last week's mail out of the garbage can.
• NO EATING ANYTHING OUT OF THE GARBAGE CAN!

You get the idea. But maybe we could be more positive with baby. Perhaps we could give her a list of Yesses she can apply to her daily life:

• Yes, eat your broccoli.
• Yes, give Mommy a great, big kiss.
• Yes, try out your new walking feet all around town.
• Yes, squeal with delight when Dad reads your favorite board book.
• Yes, giggle uncontrollably when Mommy tickles you.
• Yes, give your stuffed animals lots of cuddles and kisses.
• Yes, learn something new about the world each day.
• Yes, always remember how much we love you!
  

Now that's a party line baby can appreciate. Even without all that fun head-shaking...

Moms & The City

Last week I went with a group of moms to see Sex & The City. While the plot and the dialogue weren't nearly as impressive as the outfits and the handbags, there was one scene that resonated with me. (And I hope I'm not giving away too much here for those readers who haven't yet seen the film.) It was a scene between Charlotte and Miranda, where, over cocktails, they admit their deep, dark secrets about motherhood. For Charlotte, it's her guilt over sometimes needing a break from the family she tried so hard to have. For Miranda, it's her realization that motherhood "isn't enough." She loves her son but also loves and needs her career.

There's nothing necessarily new or shocking in these revelations. Most of the mothers I know have struggled with the work-versus-career decision, and we all know how difficult a mother's job can be. You know, those days when you're scrubbing some funky-smelling bodily fluid off the carpet for the third time that day, or you discover that your phone isn't working because your baby has used it as a teething ring, or your normally darling toddler bursts into a screaming fit that is so loud you swear she's snuck in some of her friends to join in the Disgruntled Baby Chorus. (They're probably hiding under the giant piles of talking stuffed animals, sippy cups, and shape sorters that have declared squatter's rights on the carpet.)

Yes, we all know these things. But it's hard to talk about motherhood in tones that aren't overtly sentimental and joyous. Many of us shun any conversation that even suggests we might be struggling; after all, to fail at being a mother is unthinkable. And that includes the journey into motherhood. I always loved Charlotte's storyline, as she brought out of the darkness the fact that for so many women, starting a family is more than just deciding you're ready, lighting some candles and buying a pregnancy test--but rather a difficult journey that can break your heart and test your deepest bonds. I didn't understand how harrowing this process could be, until I experienced my own ups and downs trying to conceive. My road wasn't as long or difficult as that of Charlotte, or many other women I have met, but it was an emotional journey nonetheless. Suddenly women (and men) started coming out of the woodwork to share their own struggles. I realize now that while the baby pictures and the school projects are easy to share, what goes on behind closed doors is often off-limits--even to those who love us most. Even Miranda and Charlotte had to get drunk to share their feelings.

We all need a support group--whether we're trying to conceive or conceiving ways to save our sanity. Maybe motherhood would be easier if we could open up to each other more about what we're really feeling. I'll start: The truth is I didn't love Sex & The City 2. I found it all a bit silly and hated the ridiculous caricature that used to be my dear, brave Charlotte.

You know, that felt pretty good. And I didn't even need a cocktail.

We Have a Walker!

It's finally happened: my little baby has started walking. I've never been prouder of my baby--now a toddler, I suppose--but I've noticed that walking brings with it some side effects I wasn't prepared for:

• Have hands, will carry. Now that baby's hands are no longer required for movement, they are free to pick up and transport everything in sight--remote controls, cell phones, rocks, three-day-old crumbs of food on the floor. This "stuff relocation program" is certain to be an adjustment. But I'm sure I'll eventually see the wisdom of storing the TV remote in the Tupperware cabinet.
  
• Falls. Yes, I read the books warning me of this phenomenon and, yes, I saw other people's toddlers become intimate friends with the floor. But watching baby's repeated spills is tough on my motherly heart. And yet there is no shortage of things to trip baby up: feet, toys, pots, pans, gravity, a cool breeze. But each time, she gets back up, eager to try again. No adult I know has such resilience. Or so much padding.
  
• My shadow: Now that baby can walk, she can follow Mommy around the apartment with ease...into the bedroom when Mommy is dressing, into the bathroom when Mommy is brushing her teeth, into the office when Mommy checks the computer. It's like having a two-foot bodyguard. A bodyguard in a onesie...I've never felt safer!
  

And so, the next stage of our adventure begins, as baby explores the world from a vertical perspective. And I prepare to leave behind her infancy, those days when she saw the world from her back, from her bottom, from her knees. Every step she takes is another step toward the person she's becoming, and another stride in my journey as a mother. And as we take this journey together, she knows that each time she falls, I will be there to pick her up. And I know that eventually, much sooner than I would like, she won't need me to. But that's OK. Eventually we will walk side-by-side. I couldn't ask for a better companion.

Diapering: The Art of Negotiation

Lately getting my 13-month-old daughter to lie still for a diaper change has become a challenge. The second we even approach the changing table, she begins plotting an escape that makes the jailbreak from Shawshank Redemption seem like an amateur operation. Rather than get frustrated with the situation, I prefer to view it as our simply having conflicting goals. As such, we should be able to resolve the problem using the fine art of negotiation:

Step 1. Understand each party's motivation. This can be accomplished by clear, open communication:
Mom: Baby, I know you want to wander around naked, but until you learn to use the toilet, you need to wear a diaper.
Baby: Mother, you fail to understand my inherent need to assert my individuality and achieve the most basic of human rights, freedom. It's incumbent on me to...Wait! (spotting a previously unseen piece of plastic) What's that over there? Why is it not in my mouth? Who's responsible for this oversight?!

Step 2. Make an offer.
Mom: Look, it's Mr. Mouse doll! (Wiggling doll in Baby's face while making a ridiculous squeaking sound.) Isn't he INTERESTING? Isn't he FUN? Isn't he the best mouse in the entire world?
Baby: Well, as far as rodents go, I'm sure this one is acceptable. And since you're making such a valiant effort, I'll give you 30 seconds to do your business...but then all bets are off.

Mom frantically removes baby's diaper and begins cleaning the mess. Midway through the operation time runs out...

Step 3. Up the ante.
Mom: Look, it's a paper towel roll! What could be more interesting than a paper towel roll? It's all yours...but remember, no eating paper.
Baby (grabbing the paper towel roll with glee): A paper towel roll! Sweet, beautiful paper! First, I'm going to make confetti and throw it all over the floor. Then I'm going to see how much paper I can unroll. And then, the very best part of all...

Baby begins stuffing pieces of paper in her mouth and chewing with noisy contentment.

Step 4. Bring in the heavy.
The last resort, but always a winner. In comes Dad, the ultimate distraction. Perhaps he'll rationally explain to Baby why diaper changing is so important. Perhaps he'll distract her with a discussion of the ramifications of credit default swaps. Perhaps he'll stand on his head. It really doesn't matter what he does; he's Dad. Face it ladies: nine months of pregnancy, many more months of nursing...and nothing is more exciting than an impromptu appearance by Dad. But that's OK, because two minutes later, and Baby is diapered, dressed, and ready to tackle her next mission, rearranging the Tupperware cabinet. The negotiation has concluded, and everyone is a winner. Now go clean up that paper towel confetti!

My Wheels: Now and Then

After living in cities for many years, I'm back behind the wheel of a Honda, driving to the mall, the gas station, the supermarket, the gas station, McDonald's, the gas station, my parents' house, the gas station. Looking around my car, I can't help but notice that the clutter filling the interior has changed somewhat since the last time I had a car in the suburbs, 1994. Here is a comparison of the junk inside my home-away-from-home, now and then:

1994: Crushed tape cover for Ini Kamoze's epic single, "Here Comes the Hotstepper," covered with ink stains and splatterings of Diet Dr. Pepper.

2010: Wrinkled Babies R Us coupons, splattered with Diet Dr. Pepper and baby drool.

1994: A dozen empty water bottles.

2010: A dozen empty water bottles.

1994: A copy of Sassy magazine, opened to an editorial on the joys of creating a mix tape about the joys of vegetarianism.

2010: A copy of What to Expect: The Toddler Years, opened to a section on how to discourage your child from using the dish full of gourmet food you painstakingly prepared as a Frisbee.

1994: A flannel shirt left in the back seat by someone who apparently didn't shower very often.

2010: One size 2 sandal for which I just spent a half hour searching the apartment, finally building up the courage to look under the couch, where I uncovered a teething ring, a long-lost sock, a finger puppet, and a Tic Tac.

1994: A copy of an essay comparing the themes of Camus' existential classic The Stranger with the alienation and angst of Nirvana's "Smells Like Teen Spirit."

2010: A stuffed animal that, after connecting it to my laptop, can recite my daughter's name, favorite animal, social security number, some stock recommendations, and five more Leapfrog products she should convince Mommy to buy her.

Of course, nothing compares to the biggest change of all...the passengers inhabiting the back seat:

1994: Whichever BFF failed to call "shotgun" quickly enough to grab the passenger seat...or some friend of a friend in need of a ride to the mall.

2010: The most adorable BFF I've ever had, who accompanies me everywhere, never complains about my playing the same Journey song three times in a row, and never fails to pipe in with a unique insight or the best word in the English language: "mama."

Here's to my favorite back-seat driver!

The Woes of Weaning

This week I ended a very special ritual with my daughter. I've finally weaned her from the breast and onto the cup. According to my baby book, it's an optimal time to do it. (And if the book says so, I believe it...I haven't followed anything so precisely since the instructions for assembling my IKEA dresser.) And so, we've been weaning for weeks, dropping one feeding at a time. Mother's Day was to be the final nursing session. I chose that day partly for its symbolism, and partly because it always seemed so far away.

And then it wasn't.

And now this relationship has ended. The first of many endings to come in our mother-daughter relationship, and realistically, probably not the most dramatic. I imagine other endings will hit me harder: the first time she doesn't want to hold my hand in public, the first time she spends a night away from home, the day when she stops finding my Poison CDs cool and "retro." But this is the first time I've had to let go, to grant her some independence. And for me it's a glimpse into part of what motherhood is: putting what's right for your child ahead of what's necessarily comfortable for yourself. I have to be honest: she likes her cup. She likes her new source of milk. She doesn't seem to notice that anything's changed.

But I've noticed. I miss that moment, after I've nursed her and she looks up at me with those drowsy, contented little eyes, and radiates with a smile that no one else sees. In that moment of silent, clandestine communication, I bend my head toward hers and rub her tiny nose against mine, eliciting a giggle and a smile of delight. And now, I've been replaced by a cup and a cow...and probably one of those irritating California cows from those annoying milk commercials. It's not that I begrudge my daughter her sippy cup. But it's hard to nuzzle with a baby who's chugging like a pledge at a frat party. She seems happy enough, but it's not the tender mother-daughter moment I've grown accustomed to.

Before I started nursing, I didn't know if I'd make it three months. Now it's been thirteen months, and I'm sad to let it go. But I'm trying to focus on the special moments ahead of us. The first time she lets me read her a book. Our first time baking cookies. The first Mother's Day she hands me a card she's written all by herself. One day I'll follow her lead and blissfully move on from those cozy cribside moments where we bonded for so many months. Until then, watch out sippy cup. Hell hath no fury like a Mommy scorned...

Mother's Day Countdown

Mother's Day is fast approaching. It's my second one with my daughter, who was about one month old when we celebrated our first Mother's Day together. Here are the top ten things I've learned in the past year:

10. Ah, shoes. Laces to chew, Velcro to chew, rubber to chew. The only thing better than a pair of shoes is a closet full of shoes...who can ever get enough of that yummy, shoey goodness?

9. The trifecta: transferring a sleeping baby from the car to the changing table to the crib without waking her. Practically an Olympic event.

8. After many hours and several classes in engineering, I can now remove a new toy from its packaging without bloodshed, tears, or obscenities. Ten more hours and I get my certification.

7. I was prepared to choose between working and staying home. Instead I make that choice every day, watching my daughter's bewildered expression as I leave the room, her tiny arms raised toward the slowly closing office door. After a year, I'm now able to get at least some work done before sinking into a spiral of guilt and despair.

6. All that karaoke has come in handy. Show me the crying fit that can withstand Def Leppard or Ini Kamoze.

5. I thought the cabinets were properly organized. However, my daughter has demonstrated at least a dozen alternative ways to arrange each unlocked space.

4. I can fit a stroller, a pack & play, six bags of groceries, and a booster seat in the trunk...and still have room for a body, if necessary. Or a spare tire.

3. I've gone from being able to lift a slice of pizza with a couple of toppings to being able to lift a 23-pound baby with one hand (because the pizza is in the other one).

2. After intensive military training and repeated readings of Sun Tzu, I've discovered the secret to outmaneuvering other mothers with strollers (and the occasional person in a wheelchair) onto the elevator at the mall. Hey, that sale at Gymboree is one day only!

1. It's possible to grow a little every day, be amazed a little every day, and fall in love a little every day. It's possible to learn from someone who can't speak, be moved by someone who can't walk, and be awestruck by a tiny pair of brown eyes looking at you with innocence and love. There is no job more wondrous, overwhelming or perfect than motherhood.

Happy Mother's Day to all the Mommies
who make a difference in their children's lives...
one dirty diaper,
one skinned knee,
one squeal of delight at a time.

On Parenting

Dad: It just makes you want to do it better.

Mom: Do what better?

Dad: Everything.

The Grocery Store: A Study in Ethics

You and your baby arrive at the grocery store ready for business. You have just a few items to purchase--paper towels, dental floss, milk, and cold cuts. It should be a relatively simple procedure...but you have little time to spare. Already your little one is yawning, and you know a full-blown meltdown--your child's automatic response to nap deprivation--is less than 20 minutes away. Your mission is fraught with danger; each item on your list presents unforeseen obstacles. How will you handle this challenge? And are you willing to do what it takes, run over other customers if necessary, to meet your objectives? Take this quiz to see how you stack up when it comes to ethics in the aisles...

20 minutes to meltdown....

1. You reach the paper towel aisle and grab an economy-size package (enough to last your family for about a week). Unfortunately, your baby has stealthily grabbed a roll of toilet paper from a display and, in one Jenga-esque move, has caused the demolition of an entire toilet-paper tower. Do you:
(a) Walk away quickly and hope that the mess will be blamed on the family of six at the other end of the aisle.
(b) Attempt to rebuild the tower, despite your suspicions that whoever put this thing together had a degree in architecture and a team of union workers at his disposal.

15 minutes to meltdown...

2. You arrive at the dental care aisle and grab some floss. Your daughter is fascinated by the packaging--an irresistible combination of cardboard and plastic. It's the perfect distraction! However, after a few minutes you discover that the packaging is soaking wet. Do you:
(a) Put it back in the aisle for some other sucker to purchase.
(b) Show the cashier the one small spot on the packaging where she can place her fingers without soaking them in your daughter's saliva. And then think of new places to grocery shop.

10 minutes to meltdown...

3. You arrive at the deli line at the same time as an elderly couple. The elderly woman, who is standing (barely) with the help of a walker, begins cooing at your baby, while her husband analyzes the ham and grumbles to himself. Do you:
(a) Wait for the wife inevitably to say to her husband, "Oh, let her go first, she has a baby." (And, just in case the offer isn't forthcoming, tickle your baby to elicit a giggle. Resist that, grandma!)
(b) Let the couple go first, even though you know they will question every sale item, complain about the thickness of the slices, and order about 50 pounds of meat. Face it, they're old and trump you in the obligatory kindness hierarchy.

5 minutes to meltdown

4. You've paid for your items and go to unload your groceries into your car. You suddenly realize that your baby is holding a pack of Altoids that you never picked up and certainly never paid for. Do you:
(a) Dash into the car and speed away. Not only do you have all your groceries, but now your breath smells like crème de menthe. Score!
(b) Go back inside and wait to speak to someone at the courtesy desk. As your baby begins to wail and attract the attention of the everyone in sight, you abashedly admit that your child is a kleptomaniac. (Luckily, with the all the crying, the customer service rep is eager to usher you out of the store.)

If you answered mostly A: Congratulations! You beat the baby meltdown clock with your ruthless efficiency and total disregard for others. You are teaching your child important life lessons, preparing her for a bright career on Wall Street or teaching Sunday School. Good job!

If you answered mostly B: Yeah, yeah, you're teaching your kid all about courtesy and respect. But let's face it: It's a dog-eat-dog world out there. Dig through all the milk cartons, leave your shopping cart in the middle of a parking spot, cut in front of someone on the deli line. If anyone complains, do the adult thing...blame it on your kid. Or, better yet, do the American thing. Blame it on someone else's kid...

Happy shopping!

More Than Words

I've been reading a lot lately about the importance of helping your child develop language skills at an early age. As an editor and writer, I'm all about exposing my daughter to language in any way possible. Luckily, I've got two baskets full of informative, gripping children's books in the nursery. Let the learning begin!

Mom: OK, Baby, let's read this fascinating book called That's Not My Tractor!
Baby (Grabs book and throws it across the room): Ba ba ba ba.

Mom: No problem! (Picking up another book) This one is called The Wheels on the Bus. Let's give it a try.
Baby grabs book and begins chewing on it furiously.

Mom: How about this one? It looks really interesting. It's called I Love Sheep.
Baby: Thank you, mother, for your attempts to expose me to language and develop my linguistic abilities at such an early age. While I am not yet fully able to communicate my gratitude verbally, please interpret my pulling your hair and throwing my sippy cup on the floor as signs of my utmost appreciation for these early lessons.
Mom: You're welcome, I'm so glad we can have these special mother-daughter moments...
Baby (ripping pages out of book and throwing them like confetti): DA DA!

You know, I'm starting to think this language thing is overrated...

Training Days

I took the train to the city the other day to have lunch with my former boss. While on the train, a ride that, both ways, probably took longer than the lunch itself, I thought about how appropriate the ride was...symbolic in a way. As a work-from-home mom, I often feel like I live between two worlds. I don't quite fit in with the working-mom set. They worry about daycare; I worry about (barely) affording health care. I don't commute to an office. I don't wear a suit (or clothes that don't double as pajamas). I don't order my lunch from a shoebox-sized deli where despotic cashiers bark at you if you fail to pay within a 30-second time frame. I take breaks from my computer not to talk to coworkers or grab coffee, but rather to nurse my daughter or (on a good day) take a quick shower. I'm a mom who works, but not a working mom.

And yet, like many of the women I know, I'm not living the life of the "stay-at-home mom" that I imagined for myself. I can't schedule play dates because I have deadlines set by editors who don't care that I'd rather be at the playground watching my daughter squeal in the swing. I can hear my daughter laughing with my husband or parents on the other side of the wall, yet I'm glued to a computer screen in the office, trying to rewrite an article on establishing an LLC in Michigan (it's not too complicated, if you're interested). I'm a mom who stays at home, but I'm not a traditional stay-at-home mom.

Yes, riding on the train between two worlds--the quiet, serene village that is my home and the frenetic city that provides my livelihood--suits my situation. I've come to accept living in the "in between," creating a life instead of choosing a label. And if that means typing an email while nursing, or correcting a split infinitive from my iPhone while at the playground...well, so be it. My train may not always run smoothly or on schedule, but I'm doing my best to enjoy the ride.