Saying Goodbye

Every day that I drop Paddy off at preschool I feel a profound sense of sadness. On June 8th Paddy will graduate and later this year he will begin a new chapter in his life, kindergarten.

Growing up there was no discussion of what school we would attend. There were no options or decisions to be made. I did not live in a school district that was labeled as "under-performing" and that had been taken over by the state of Massachusetts. I do now.
 
Yet, we were still ready to enroll him in our city school. And then we heard stories of extended school days. We heard that good teachers were leaving the district in droves. We were told that our son's education would be focused on passing standardized tests.

Even so, I wasn't worried. I was confident that Paddy would be able to attend the school in the next town over. I thought school choice would be an easy option. At the end of March, however, I learned that there were no openings for him. I panicked.

Patrick and I called a realtor. We went to the bank to get pre-qualified for a mortgage. We started looking at new homes in South Hadley, Hatfield, Florence, Westhampton. Anywhere but here.

I also started filling out school applications, learning I had missed many of the deadlines for the much sought after programs in our area. I began to feel like a failure. It is my responsibility to make sure he gets a good education and I had dropped the ball.

But then, about 2 weeks ago, we learned that he had been accepted into a wonderful new pilot program in our city. The answer to our prayers. We were elated, or at least my husband was. We went downtown and registered him for school. "This is exciting!" said my husband. "Yes," I calmly agreed.

It didn't make any sense. Everything had worked out the way it should. We are able to stay in our home and our son is enrolled at a fabulous school. Although I had panicked about so many things over the last few months--the state taking over our school district, the longer school day for my 5-year-old, having to put Gabo in the car twice a day, five days a week to ferry his brother to school, Gabo not being able to take afternoon naps, Gabo not being able to attend the preschool we would want--everything had worked out, hadn't it?

Yesterday, as I drove Paddy to preschool and we looked in awe at the clouds touching the mountain, it hit me. We stopped to watch a groundhog eating in a field and talked about the large red tailed hawk that had just flown over the car and I started to cry.

All of the panic and let down I have been feeling boils down to one thing: I am sad.

I am sad that my little boy is growing up.

I am sad that my little boy will be away from me 8 1/2 hours a day, 5 days a week.

I am sad that Gabo will be separated from his "Bo" 8 1/2 hours a day, 5 days a week.

I am sad that Gabo won't hear his 2-year-old buddy Anna calling as we walk into preschool: "Where's Gabo? Where's Gabo?"

I am sad that we won't see the splendor of autumn in the mountain leaves every fall morning.

I am sad that I won't be showing my boys eagles and hawks as we drive to school.

I am sad that we won't stay after school to play with our friends in "nature play."

I am sad that I won't see the friends I have made.

We are losing something as we make the transition from preschool to kindergarten and no matter what I am freaking out about in the moment, it really comes down to one simple thing: I am sad that we are losing it.

The Deafening Sound of Silence

I remember a night when I was about 25-years-old. I went to NYC with a friend to go dancing. We checked into a hotel and around 4 a.m. we tried to go to bed. All I could hear was the street noise below and the sound of a flag banging on a flag pole, bang, bang, bang, bang.

My friend, born and raised in the city, slept peacefully in her bed. I slept on the floor, head in the bathroom, the fan on, cotton balls in my ears.

Years later I found myself in the kitchen with my two small boys running around me screeching and playing. My mother had slept over the previous night and stood there pouring her first cup of coffee. She was in a bit of a daze.

"It's different, huh? Than it was with us?" I asked.

"Yes," she said. "I have to admit it was different." She had raised two girls.

She wondered whether buying them dolls and doll carriages would help. Would they play quietly? No, they would not. The would use their dolls as ninjas and the carriages would crash into the walls.

While the noise at 7 a.m. is admittedly intense, it is normal to me. I wash dishes while they sword-fight and run screaming from one end of the kitchen to the other crashing into the refrigerator.

Even though the noise is my new norm, I felt giddy when my husband decided to take both boys out hiking this morning. A whole hour alone in a quiet house on a Sunday morning. I could do so much. I would take a shower, knit, post some pictures on Facebook.

The first thing I did was take a shower, with the door closed, alone.

A few minutes into the shower, though, I found that instead of relaxing I was anticipating. When would my 4-year-old barge in to pee? When would my 18-month-old start banging on the door yelling "mama, mama!"? When would something crash to the floor?

I finished my shower and listened to the silence. It was deafening. For a brief moment I wondered if this is what it feels like when your kids move out? It was a sad thought.

As soon as I left the bathroom and sat down in the living room I saw the car pull into the driveway. They had been gone less than 20 minutes (you learn to shower quickly when you have two children under five).

The door opened and my husband walked in, our 18-month-old yelling in his arms.

"Not happening," he said. "He won't get into the backpack. He just flailed and screamed. But Paddy still wants to go."

With that he turned and walked back out the door leaving me with a wailing child. "Dada, dada!" he screamed and cried. I brought him into the living room to soothe him.

I took a deep breath and realized that now things felt right.

Unsolicited Advice to My Childless Self: Be Selfish

Before I had children I took so many things for granted. I read whenever I wanted, curled up on the couch for hours after a bad day at work, didn't think twice about running to the store to buy just one thing.

Friends and family members with kids would offer me one piece of advice: "Enjoy it," they'd say. "Once you have a family, everything changes." I've never really appreciated unsolicited advice (although I am guilty of giving it). I probably should have listened a little more.

Now I am sitting here, listening to Teletubbies and my two young boys yelling at each other. Every so often I notice the pile of popcorn on the floor growing as my 18-month-old methodically empties his bowl, one handful at a time.

And I wonder, what unsolicited advice would I give my childless self?

• Sleep: Forget the idea that you "sleep enough when you are dead." Sleep now. Sleep whenever and wherever you can. I haven't had a full night of sleep since 2010. It is now 2015.

• Call in sick: Don't be a martyr. If you are sick, stay home. Curl up in bed, drink hot tea and sleep. Once you have children (and I speak as a stay-at-home mom) there is nobody to call in sick to. If you are sick, your children and spouse are probably sick too and you will live in the land of "suck it up."

• Don't be so hard on yourself: Don't focus so much on your weight or compare yourself to others. Enjoy every piece of chocolate that touches your lips. Once you have kids your hips will spread and your belly will be mushy. But, none of that will matter so don't let it matter so much now. 

• Enjoy the quiet: Every day sit in a room, by yourself and just be quiet. Once you have kids you will live with a perpetual wall of sound. Not complaining, just saying.

• Close the bathroom door: Every time you walk into the bathroom, close the door. Even if you are just going in to wash your hands or grab the towels to wash. Close the door and memorize what it looks like. Once you have kids you will never see the back of the door again. 

Trying to close the bathroom door.

• Don't complain about having to clean: It is hard to understand now, but you will miss being able to clean. You will miss the smell and look of a freshly mopped floor. You will miss walking through your house without tripping on toys or stepping on a freshly chewed and spit out apple peel.

So, childless self, I have one piece of unsolicited advice for you: Be selfish.  

Coping with the Incomprehensible: Kids Found Trapped in Hot Cars

After an hour and fifteen minutes of playing at the library the boys and I left to get back into our black RAV4. I had tried to park in the shade at 10:05 am but the only two shady spots had been taken. Paddy suggested a shadier spot farther from the entrance. It's early I thought and parked in the sun.

I returned to the car saddled with my 15-month-old, my purse, and a bag of library books. I opened the driver side door, started the car to blast the air conditioning and opened all of the windows. After then emptying my hands and buckling my boys I got into the driver's seat. The thermostat on the dashboard read 97 degrees. I put the windows up, started to drive and started to sweat.

As I traveled down a windy and shady road the thermostat reading dropped to 85 degrees. After about five minutes it felt more comfortable in the car and I stopped worrying weather the kids were too hot.

What I did was start thinking about a video I saw on Facebook recently of a toddler being rescued from a car in a Costco parking lot. The mother returned after the police had broken the window and extracted the child. Her older daughter was at her side and her cart was full of groceries. My stomach turned.

There are many things in this world that are hard to make sense of but this is incomprehensible. Why would anyone leave a child in the car in a hot parking lot with the windows rolled up while they shopped? I don't even like returning a shopping cart on a hot day or leaving the kids in the car long enough to unlock the door to the house. But long enough to shop for shoes (as in a recent case) or go grocery shopping?

Something needs to be done. I was happy to see a sign as I walked into Walmart today. It reminded shoppers to look in their cars to make sure that you haven't left your child. This seems to be a drop in the bucket though.

Whether children are left in cars because caregivers forget, are somehow ignorant to the dangers or are abusive does not matter to me. Charging a caregiver with a crime after the fact does nothing, the harm has been done. What matters is what is being done to prevent this. Fortunately the child I saw recently on Facebook survived. Many others don't.

I don't often use this blog to talk about issues like this but I don't know where else to place my anger and sadness. Yet.

Grandparents Around Every Corner

Last week I attended the funeral of a dear family friend. More than that, he was like a grandfather to me. I grew up on a very short street, 5 houses total, bordered by a large paper mill and a cemetery.

Our neighborhood was a tight-knit community. We had ice cream parties in the summers, saw each other on Christmas day, and attended each others' big life events. The neighbor who recently passed attended my college graduation and my wedding. He was beyond himself with joy when he met my first born son.

I don't often think about my children needing surrogate grandparents. Paddy and Gabo are blessed to have five doting grandparents (and for the first three years of his life Paddy had six). But I find that we are surrounded with surrogate grandparents just as I was when I was a child.

Earlier today Paddy, Gabo and I walked next door to one of our next door neighbor's homes on our not so short, but pretty quiet street. She is retired and lives there with her partner. She invited us in and gave us cookies and milk. She helped Paddy write his name on a piece of paper and hung it on her refrigerator.

After lunch our neighbor in the other next door house asked Paddy if he would like to plant some flowers. I sat in the nursery putting Gabo down for his afternoon nap and listened to them chatter as she first taught him, then allowed him, to plant her flower garden.

My husband and I often talk about moving from our home. Eventually we would like a little bit bigger home, a little more land, a slightly better school district. After being reminded the importance of community and watching Paddy with our neighbors today, I wonder--- is it worth losing so much for a little bit more?

The Worst Advice to Give a Breastfeeding Mother: Just Cover Up

I'm at the bagel shop. Doing my thing, throwing things on the floor and watching my mommy and brother scramble to pick them up. Then, mommy pulls me onto her lap and I get excited. I know what's coming. 

But, mommy gets nervous. I feel her heart beat faster and I see her looking around the room. 

Where is it? Why is this taking so long?

Then, the lights go out. I know it's there, but I can't find it. And it's hot. And I can't see mommy. 

This is how I imagine my son feels when I "cover him up" to nurse. He flails. He pushes the wrap off of his head. He struggles to latch on. This is why the person who advises--whether with good intention or not--to just cover up is not considering the feelings of the mother or the baby. If he were, he would know that the mother is left feeling shamed and the baby, anxious and disconnected from the mother.

Recently this issue hit home when a local business tried to institute a policy stating that breastfeeding was only allowed in the play area if a cover was used. The business caters to children up to the age of six. The outrage on social media was swift. By the end of the day, the owner had recanted the policy, but the damage was done.

Opinions on whether a breastfeeding mother should cover her breast and subsequently her baby's head while nursing ran rampant, varying from supportive to ridiculous. After a local newspaper ran an article on this business' attempt to institute the policy and the subsequent nurse-in that took place at the business, one comment at the end of article likened breastfeeding to men pulling their penises out and urinating in public. Needless to say, this was one of the more ridiculous--and disturbing--statements.

Yet, throughout this debate, voices were heard but feelings were ignored. Many commentators--wanting to offer a quick fix to the nursing-mother-problem--repeatedly said "just cover up," but they failed to even think about how a woman feels when she is told that feeding her child is a shameful act that needs to be hidden.

Meanwhile, women are celebrated for exposing their bodies in the media, on the beach, on the streets, but they are corrected for showing a small piece of breast when feeding their babies, and women are the ones left to deal with these mixed messages.

And what about the baby? How many grownups would want to eat a sandwich under a blanket? It's not only uncomfortable but dark and hot. Also, when under a cover, the baby can't make eye-contact with his mommy and this is scary; if you're out of a baby's eyesight, you don't exist.

So, after reading those responses in the local newspaper, I felt outraged, shamed, and disappointed. Yet, I also felt somewhat empowered. My reaction varied from feeling like I should never breastfeed in public again to wanting to burn my nursing wrap and whip out my breast to feed my child in every restaurant in the Pioneer Valley. (If only my husband and I had the money.)

But I also felt confused. It is common knowledge that breastfeeding is recommended by the medical community. So, while doctors tell us to breastfeed, the public shames us for nursing when we do it in the wrong place or in what society deems the wrong way.

I started to breastfeed four years ago, when I had my first child. Now, I have a nine-month-old, and rarely do I feed my son in public without using a cover; and I never have. I cover up not only for my comfort, but for the comfort of others. If my 22-year-old nephew is visiting, I cover myself. If I am in my father-in-law's home, I cover myself. If I am in a restaurant, I cover myself.

And, when I cover up, I duck under the cover with my son to keep him company.

Luckily, I do not always feel I have to cover up. I am supported by many in my community and I am fortunate to live in an area where a policy telling nursing mothers to cover up or leave the room is an anomaly (as well as against the law). Unfortunately, I also walk away knowing that there is still an incredible stigma around breastfeeding. I walk away knowing breastfeeding is misunderstood and the feelings of women and their babies are often ignored.

The recent event will not change my breastfeeding practices. I will continue to use a cover in restaurants and I will continue to duck under with my son so he's not alone. I will continue to nurse openly in places where I feel comfortable and supported. The only thing that may change is that I will not patron establishments that do not support me feeding my child. I will not give money to an establishment that supports a point of view that says such a natural act as breastfeeding needs to be kept under wraps.

Life as a Mom: Being a Little Less Graceful Under Pressure

"Momma, what does fuck mean?"

I was four months pregnant, sitting on the floor in my basement, bawling. My three-year-old was standing over me. I had just attempted to call my husband at work to no avail. Our septic tank was backing up into our washing machine.

I am no stranger to crisis. I spent four years as a therapist for adolescents in residential homes and eight years as the clinical supervisor for an adult mental health crisis unit. The name of the facility even had the word crisis in it.

At work I had my own pair of pink rubber boots so my feet would stay dry when the new bathrooms flooded. When I wasn't unclogging toilets and cleaning up vomit I was standing up to angry men and convincing suicidal people not to hurt themselves. I could handle a lot at the same time.

All of that seems to have changed. Now that I am home with two small children the stakes are higher for me.

When I am driving my car and it lurches or when I am exiting the highway and the brake light comes on, I panic.

When the carbon monoxide detector starts beeping at 4:20 am and the fire department tells us to leave our home with our family on one of the coldest days of a New England winter, the adrenaline rushes.

If my husband and I had been alone when the detector beeped, we would have changed the batteries or moved the monitor. But we weren't. We were staggering around our home blurry-eyed looking at our small children. We dialed 911 and walked outside, blankets wrapped around our boys.

I am lucky to have a partner who I can lean on during these times. He understands my anxiety even when I don't. He forgives me for teaching our toddler how to swear and wipes away my tears. He helps me develop evacuation plans so I don't to lie awake panicking about what I would do in an emergency.

Yet, as I think about all of the normal every day emergencies--breaking-down cars , temperamental septic tanks, beeping alarms--I realize how differently I react to stressful situation. Now that I have two little lives in my hands, I don't cope with things quite as easily. Every difficult situation is a little scarier.

Today, I can no longer face a crisis head on without a little cursing and crying on the side.

And I have to accept that when I have water from my septic system mixing with my laundry my son may learn to swear. And that will have to be OK.

Co-parenting: Stepping in So Nobody Loses Their Shit

I was sitting at the computer in the living room searching for finger foods for our eight-month-old. My husband was sitting in a chair across the room, the baby sitting at his feet. Our four-year-old was bouncing around the room, jumping on his father and nudging the baby.

"Be careful with the baby. Paddy ... be careful with the baby."

Then the bang and the scream. The scene changed. Paddy sat frozen on the floor. My husband rushed to pick up the screaming baby. He thrust the baby into my arms, picked Paddy up and carried him sideways, kicking and screaming to his room.

A few moments later Paddy was crying hysterically in his room. I was checking the baby's mouth for broken teeth and putting a wet cloth on his bleeding lip. My husband was seething.

I walked to our toddler's room, handed the baby to my husband and said I would talk to Paddy.

Then it hit me. This is what co-parenting is. It is stepping in so that the other parent doesn't lose their shit.

At times I feel like I have an invisible scoreboard. There is so much focus on shared responsibility with shared parenting. Is each parent changing his or her share of diapers? Is each parent spending the same amount of time with the children?

Yet, that's not what it is about.

It is about knowing when your partner has reached their limit and when it is just too hard.

It is about my husband taking the baby in the middle of the night when I am so exhausted that I can't possibly take another step.

It is about tagging in and talking to our toddler when he has pushed every button that his father has.

It is about the long conversations we have after the children sleep, talking about what happened, reassuring the other that they did the best they could.

Am I Just a Control Freak?

Yesterday I went to the grocery store alone. While I desperately needed the time by myself, at times I felt lost. I felt like people weren't seeing the real me. I was wearing my wedding ring but not my children.

I wandered around the grocery store. I heard children, talking and crying. I noticed what other people were buying. In my cart were a jar of baby food, baby oatmeal and mum mum's. The only visible signs that I was driving home to my children and their father.

Lately I've been thinking a lot about co-parenting: what it means to me and how my husband I exist together as parents. My solo trip to the grocery store helped me to put words to what I've been thinking. I realized that I'm not actually thinking about co-parenting as much as my identity as a parent.

I often wonder why I take on certain tasks. I am responsible for the simple (such as packing for trips) and the more important (such as scheduling and attending pediatrician appointments). If I weren't responsible for these I do not doubt that my husband would be.

So why do I feel the need to do them? Is it because I am a control freak? Partly. Is it because I am the mom and feel like it is my job? Partly. Is it more than that? Definitely.

Walking around Big Y alone I felt my children missing. I felt a little lost and a little lonely. I wanted other people to see my children and to know that they exist.

I spend most of my time with my boys. I make sure they never run out of diapers. I make sure their favorite snacks are well stocked. I make sure they get their vaccinations. I make sure that they are read to every day. I make sure they brush their teeth. I do all of this because they are an extension of me.

Someday they will no longer be an extension of me, although they will always remain a part of me. When that happens my role as mommy will change. Until then I will continue to make sure we never run out of diapers. I will watch my children get vaccinated and make sure we have sippy cups for road trips. I will continue to take care of all of me.

Self Less: The Relationship I Didn't Know Would Change

Last night I had a dream.

I was in a hospital waiting room trying to call my husband who was home with the kids. I had been told that I would eventually lose my eyesight. I had a choice to make; have surgery or wait until I painfully lost my sight. In my dream I realized that if I went through with the surgery I would never see my children's faces again.

My decision was made.

…

On a beautiful August day in 2010, I was riding my bicycle on the bike trail near my parents' home. I heard a bell behind me warning that a cyclist would pass. I turned around and my tires slipped off the trail. With my foot stuck in my pedal cage I fell hard onto my left side, and slid along the pavement. As I fell, my arm instinctively tried to protect my stomach.

I was five months pregnant.

At the emergency room the nurse focused on cleaning and bandaging my arm and leg. The medical staff didn't feel the urgency that I felt.

Was my baby OK?

Two days later I had a scheduled ultrasound and was able to see my beautiful, healthy, unharmed, unborn baby.

I then allowed myself to feel the pain in my body.

…

This past Saturday was my son's fourth birthday party. His friends arrived and began playing together. I soon began to feel a stabbing pain in my right breast. I nursed the baby and handed him to my mother; this made it easier to ignore the discomfort.

Three hours later the pain had intensified. My legs became sore. Chills began and I began to shake as a fever set in. At 11 p.m. I called the doctor. He told me to go the emergency room.

My husband and I talked and looked at our sleeping baby whom we would have to bundle up and take into the cold. My in-laws could care for our toddler (they were sleeping over for the birthday party) but I couldn't leave my nursing baby home.

I decided not to go to the hospital unless my fever returned. The next morning I began treatment for Mastitis.

…

These three moments tell a similar story: My relationship to my body has changed in complicated and unexpected ways.

My body nurtured the growth of two lives. It fed two babies. Yet, it’s more than that.

Five years ago my body’s care was selfish. If I was sick I would go to the doctor, call out sick from work and stay in bed all day.

Now it cares for two small children and every decision I make for myself is driven by how it will help or hurt my children.

By no means does this mean I am reckless in ignoring my needs—because I know if I am not healthy, I can't care for them.

Becoming a mother, however, changed my understanding of selflessness.

It’s a change that I did not expect and that I struggle to explain. It does not just mean fewer dates with my partner or fewer moments to myself. Being a mom has redefined my relationship with my body and how I care for it.

And, this new way of viewing myself is worth all the discomfort and pain.

When I watch my toddler dance in the kitchen while my seven-month-old gives me open mouth kisses on my cheek, I’m aware that the muscle in my chest feels like it may burst.

And I wouldn't trade it for anything in the world.

Babies Don't Have It So Good

When I am in public, my 6-month-old snuggled in a wrap on my chest, I find that people are jealous. Not of me, but of Gabo. They are under the false assumption that he "has the life." Yes, at the moment he is warm and cozy snuggled up on his mother's chest. But that could all change at the drop of a hat.

Would I rather be an adult or a baby? An adult, hands down. Because when you are a baby ...

• You are sitting in, and often covered in poop, at least once a day. When your diaper doesn't hold it goes up your back. On really bad days it finds it way into your socks. No matter how quickly your parent detects the mess you have still spent a period of time sitting in your own feces.

• You deal with ongoing pain for 2 years. Teeth attempt to push through your sore gums, not all at once in a humane manner, but one at a time. Once you feel relief it starts again. Despite having frozen objects thrust into your mouth or swallowing some sticky faux grape flavored liquid, you still hurt.

• When your nose is stuffy you can't eat. Adults have the choice of keeping their mouths open. While possibly not appreciated by their dinner partners, the choice is there. You either can't eat or you dribble sticky breast milk or formula down your chin.

• You don't have fine motor skills. This is a true detriment when you have an older sibling or two, shoving toys, their bodies or any other object they can find into your face. You have no recourse but to sit there and take it, sometimes squirming and flailing your arms, but rarely to any useful end.

•  Dignity? What is that? You have no privacy. Your diaper may be changed in the back of a car, on the hood of a car or on a public lawn. Worse still, you may be changed in a public bathroom. If luck is on your side the changing table may be in a stall but how often does that happen? Usually you are being changed in the line of bathroom traffic, your parent often being in the way and attracting the attention of others. You are subjected to the "oohs and ahhs" that come from viewing a cute baby behind when you just want to be clean. 

• Despite your best effort to perfect different cries your parents rarely get it right. They overreact and their exhaustion and anxiety get in the way. You are held when you don't want to be, put down when you want to be held. You are fed when you aren't hungry and changed when your diaper isn't wet. You feel like your parents should get it which leads to more frustration and crying. Why can't they get it right?

• For your safety you are often strapped into car seats, high chairs, swings, bumbos, jumpers and vibrating seats. You just want to be let loose on the world. You want to put that stale cheerio in your mouth that you spied on the floor. You don't care that you don't have teeth. You just want to be free.

As I sit here typing and Gabo sleeps soundly on my chest I admit that there are moments when he has it good. But soon he will wake.

Laughing through the Chaos

I stood in a parking lot behind a Royal Farms gas station. My hands were on my toddler's shoulders and my eyes were scanning the parking lot. I was three minutes away from my sister-in-law Jen's home in Maryland. As I looked at Jen, who was sitting in the passenger seat, I noticed tears streaming down her face. I looked down. Paddy was urinating in a perfect arc into a storm drain three feet away.

After eight and a half hours in the car and three hours of broken sleep, I agreed that an outing with a four-month-old, a six-month-old and a three-year-old sounded good. It was a beautiful fall day and so Jen and I packed them in the car and set out for a shopping plaza "15 minutes away."

About two minutes into the ride, Captain America fell to the floor. I weathered the tantrum that followed. It was easier than pulling over on a four-lane highway and climbing into the rear of our RAV4 to find it. The tantrum ended and then Gabo, our six-month-old, took over. His fussing quickly escalated to heart-wrenching sobs that lasted the duration of our much-longer-than-15-minutes trip.

"Maybe it is a little farther than I said," Jen said. "You do drive slower than me."

I assured my sister-in-law that it was fine, despite being crammed into the car, driving unfamiliar roads on little sleep and little caffeine. We'd have to get there eventually and then everything would be o.k., right?

We finally pulled off of the highway and stopped behind a long line of traffic. Missing the first green light, Jen felt confident that we would get through the next. The car in front of me was small enough for my SUV to push if necessary. I have four-wheel drive and could make it over the hill of a median in the middle of the road. We would get through that light one way or another.

I parked and jumped out of the car as soon as we arrived. Gabo quickly settled into his wrap and sniffled the last of his sobs. He was red-eyed, but no worse for the wear. Paddy, on the other hand, was asleep.

"I'm not getting out of the car," he yelled after I gave a him a soft nudge. "Take me home!"

My usual tactic of gently rousing him  had flopped. There was no way I was putting Gabo back into the car. I pulled out the big guns and offered him both a treat and a toy if he would get out of the car.

Saddled with wraps, diaper bags, purses, a stroller and three small children, we headed to Barnes and Noble. Soon Paddy had his treat and I was able to nurse the baby. For 10 precious minutes all three children were settled and relatively happy.

Then Jen's baby started to fuss. But we soldiered on.

Carter's was having a 50 percent off everything sale and our stomachs were grumbling. After shopping and lunch my niece was tired. Jen carried her to the car and warned me that the ride home would be bad. We prepared for the worst and were pleasantly surprised when both babies rode peacefully, entertained by my toddler. It seemed we would make it home.

And then: "Mama, I have to pee."

Paddy agreed to wait a few minutes to get back to Jen's house.

And then, he began to wail. There was no time to think. I quickly cut across the right lane of traffic fully aware that I was being called a masshole by the driver I cut off. I pulled over and got Paddy out of the car and he soon found a storm drain to pee in.

When our husbands arrived home later that day we recounted our days. They expressed pity for us. It sounded like our day had been terrible and my husband was sad that I hadn't enjoyed the time with his sister.

This could not be farther from the truth. We hadn't had a terrible day and we had enjoyed ourselves.

Jen had been there to calm me down and reassure me when I didn't think I could take one more second of Gabo's cries. She watched Paddy for me while I nursed the baby.

I waited at the counter for Jen's food so she could feed her daughter. I pushed the stroller so she could carry her to the car. I picked up the baby's sock when it fell and retrieved the other from a stranger who was chasing after us with it.

Jen told my son he could pee in a parking lot instead of having an accident in the car.

If either of us had been alone that day it would have been terrible. We would have cried instead of laughing. Instead we were able to understand and support each other at the moments we needed it most.

Despite the chaos, we were able to laugh and truly enjoy our time together. And, in the end, we made it out with a story to tell.

Scrutinized More Than Supermodels

Mothers are scrutinized more than supermodels. Every decision we make may come under fire. I have received unsolicited comments and advice from people I love dearly, complete strangers and everyone in between. I have been judged for how I feed, sleep, nurture and play with my children. These are the top comments that left me speechless.Well, not really speechless, that's pretty hard to do.

6. "You are still breastfeeding?" Yes, I am still providing healthy, nutritious, germ-fighting food to my child despite him being alive for more than 365 days. While giving milk that came from a cow's udder may be enticing, I am going to stick with what my human body provides. Silly, I know.

5. "We just fed our babies sweetened condensed milk." I guess this was a recommended source of nutrition in the 1950s. I scoured the internet but could not find any research to support opening a can a sweet-milk for my infant son.

4. "Breast-fed babies are too skinny." Tell that to my 18-pound five-month-old. Apparently, he did not get the memo.

3. "You people do that a lot around here, I can't say anything, but it's not recommended." "You people" are us Birkenstock wearing liberals in the Pioneer Valley of western Massachusetts. What we "do" is bed-share with our babies. Believe it or not, we are educated and know that there is research that supports safe bed-sharing. I tend to shy away from getting drunk, lighting up a cigarette and plopping onto a waterbed with my infant.

2. "Don't wiggle your fingers so close to his face, he will go cross-eyed." I'll let this one speak for itself.

1. "Good grief, can that baby breathe in there?" This is by far my favorite and a response to a picture of my infant son snuggled in a wrap that my husband had posted on Facebook. No, I did not spend 9 months--big, swollen, sore, and cranky, shunning caffeine and alcohol--to turn around and suffocate my infant in a wrap.  But, thank you for bringing that horrific image to mind.

Playground Etiquette for a 38-Year-Old

I was painfully shy growing up. I had a small group of friends that I stuck close to. I would not seek out new friends to play with and would prefer to play alone than approach someone I didn't know. Much later, as an adult, navigating the professional world was not easy. Yet, I learned to be more outspoken and confident, eventually taking on a supervisory position that tossed me miles beyond my comfort zone.

Then, I brought my almost two-year-old son to story-time at a local library. I had been a stay-at-home mom for an entire week and, suddenly, I had to navigate this whole new social world. I was thrust into a situation where other moms knew each other and I had to decide whether to stand in a corner or become one of them.

Admittedly, there were some tears when I recounted my day to my husband and wondered how I would ever fit in. Over the last few years, however, it has become so much easier. Today, I even approach other mothers to engage them in small talk. I've come leaps and bounds from that first uncomfortable play-group.

Yet, as I am feeling more at ease with other moms, my son is trying to find his way with other kids. Watching him navigate his little social world is both amazing and painful. About a year ago Paddy kicked a little boy in the face. We were at the library and at the time, he wanted to do anything but play with others. We had to cut a few library trips short.

Today, though, Paddy has become a gregarious, friendly soon-to-be four-year-old who seeks out playmates wherever we go. I watch him approach kids at the library, playground and children's museum. I watch him develop fast friends. And, I watch him get rejected.  As I watch, I wonder: How should I handle situations when Paddy is being rejected and I know other children are being mean?

Recently, I sat pretending my butt was glued to a park bench as Paddy tried to play with two other children who clearly did not want to become a threesome. Soon my nephew intervened, distracting Paddy long enough for him to find a little girl who wanted to play with him. My stomach churned and I won't repeat the words I shared with my adult nephew when he confirmed my fears that the children were being less than friendly.

After these situations I am left reeling, wondering whether my son's feelings have been hurt. Yet, I don't want to project my own introverted insecurities on my child so I struggle with how to react. I say to myself as long as he is not being physically intimidated or name called, I will do my best not to intervene. I know that he needs to learn how to behave in social situations and being an over-bearing mother will not help him.

With that said, it is so hard.

My heart breaks a little every time he is rejected. I know it will happen over and over again and that I will eventually be picking up the pieces of his broken heart. I just didn't expect it to happen so quickly, and that it would be the pieces of my own heart I would be picking up. I did not realize that as the mother of a toddler, I would have to figure out how to behave myself. I did not realize that after I learned how to open up in my professional life, and after l learned how to socialize in my stay-at-home-mom life, I would now have to learn playground etiquette, too.

When Reality Walks In ...

My husband was home, the baby was fed, our toddler was occupied and I was going to shower, alone.

I probably used a tank of hot water. It was quiet and I was able to think. I started writing a blog post in my head. I fantasized about getting out of the shower, pouring a glass of wine, curling up on the couch under a warm blanket and reading a book.

As soon as I turned the shower off I heard the door knob turning. I waited for my toddler to rush in yelling that he had to pee. Instead he just stood there, waving away my luxurious steam with his toy sword, complaining that it was too smokey. He had left the door ajar and the warmth slowly vacated the room.

My husband distracted him and he darted away. Thirty more seconds of peace and then he barged in again. He wondered why his small plastic sword couldn't cut through the towel rack. He wondered why it couldn't cut through his corduroy pants. I wondered why I couldn't have just five more minutes alone in my steamy bathroom.

Soon I heard the baby fussing in the kitchen. The fuss turned into a cry and I went into hyper mode finishing up as quickly as possible. My final task was to blow dry my hair. I did so while my toddler, husband and five-month old stood outside of the bathroom waiting, not quite patiently. I sang and danced. Distracting them bought me thirty more seconds of hair drying.

And then it was over. The baby was in my arms and our toddler was trying to climb on me. My fantasy evaporated with the steam.

First Words

"I think his first word is going to be gentle."

We were in the playroom of the local library with one other mother, her toddler, and her four month old son. I agreed that "gentle" would probably be Gabo's first word, too. As we spoke, Paddy and the other toddler were "hugging" their brothers.

I want to teach Paddy that his brother is not as durable as his transformer robots or superhero figurines. At times he treats them the same. I know he doesn't want to hurt his brother. He gets excited and wants to play or cuddle. He wants to pick up his 18-pound brother by pulling him up by the head. Even his over exuberant hugs cause me to wince. One day I decided to count how many times I asked him to be gentle. By 7 a.m. the number was so high that I gave up.

I don't have a problem with teaching my toddler right from wrong. It is ok that he has to learn that babies are smaller than him and that his actions can hurt. What bothers me, though, is how our relationship has changed.

Some days I feel that all I do is tell him "no" or "be careful." I threaten to send him to his room or to take away his toys if he isn't more careful with his brother. My husband tries to reassure me. He says our relationship is more than me nagging him, but it doesn't feel that way. 

To make up for this, I overcompensate. I let him eat marshmallows for breakfast and jump off his swing set. He can tell me he is the boss and yell loudly in the house. I probably buy him too many toys and let him eat too many sweets.

I don't want the only word he hears from me to be no. 

My husband and I were once given a piece of advice about our relationship. We were told to make more deposits than withdrawals. I want to heed this advice with my son.  So, I praise him anytime I can. When I have days where I feel like I am constantly telling him no, stop, be gentle, be careful, don't pull on the baby's head, don't push his head into the floor, don't "nibble" his ear, don't roll him over, don't squeeze his neck, don't pinch his neck, don't grab his neck. don't be so rough, I need to tell him how special he is, how smart he is, how athletic he is and how handsome he is. I need to remind him that he is a wonderful big brother.

I agree with him when he says Gabo's first word will be Paddy, not gentle. And I hope he's right.

Sleeping Like a Baby- Part 2

At 9:30 pm I awoke to my husband's voice.

"Do you want to put your boob away?"

The last I had known I had been awake, lying on my side, nursing the baby. I did as he asked and promptly fell asleep.

At 11:30 pm I woke up to nurse the baby.

At 1:30 am I woke up to nurse the baby.

At 3:25 am Paddy called out. My husband went to his room and I heard Paddy tell him that he wanted to get up. He wanted to watch Netflix. They compromised. He came into bed with me. My husband retreated to the basement couch.

At 3:30 am I was lying in bed with the baby nestled on my right arm and my toddler asleep with his cheek on my head and his leg wrapped around my body, snoring in my ear.

At 4:00 am the baby started to cry and my toddler woke up. I nursed the baby and changed him and begged my toddler to go back to sleep.

At 4:10 am I had to pee. I called to my toddler from the bathroom not to squash his brother as he began "hugging" him and telling him how cute he was. I ran from the bathroom to save the baby in time to see my husband staggering up the stairs. He took Paddy to the living room.

At 4:15 am I nursed the baby again, praying he would go back to sleep.

At 4:45 am my husband walked into the bedroom to get a magazine off of his nightstand.

At 4:50 am the baby fell back asleep. Finally!

At 6:00 am my husband entered the room to get dressed and to tell me he had to leave for work.

At 6:11 am the baby woke up.

The next night we started it all again.

Turn Off and Tune In

Gabo was sitting on my lap slouched forward slightly, singing to his feet. I was staring like a Zombie at the "important" news on Facebook. Suddenly a light switch in my brain turned on. I needed to turn off the computer and soak in the adorable moment.

Later I posted a status report. After all, everyone needs to know how cute my child is. A short time later my husband read my status and inquired about the moment. Where had he been? Was he on the phone with his mother? No, he was across the room using the other computer. I wondered how many of these moments I lose out on when I get lost in the status reports.

When I was working full time I feel that I did a better job of having true quality time with my son. I missed so many hours of the day with him that I was going to make every moment count. Now that I am home full time with him I am concerned that I may have lost sight of that.

A friend of mine recently told me about a rule in her home. No screen time after 7 pm. She works full time and often attends meetings at night. She wants to be sure that the time she has with her family counts.

I think this is a great rule. We should implement such a rule when the kids get older. Not only for our children but for ourselves. Spending time in front of a screen has become our adult time as well, watching Netflix or Food Network together. Recently, after a wonderful anniversary date, we both settled into our seats across the room from each other with our respective computers. I sent my husband a Facebook message. He replied instantly.

In the meantime I need to set limits for myself. I need to set limits with how much I am tuned into a screen and how much I use the screen as a babysitter so that I can do household chores. It is easy to put our toddler in front of the computer. It is not easy to pull him away from it.

I know that I can't use this as an excuse to stop doing household chores, although I feel it makes a pretty good argument. I do think that there are many times that I could turn off the computer and my phone and just focus on my children. There are many hours in the day, too many I think when I am filling them all with household tasks. There is no reason why I can't fully devote some of them to my children without distractions.

I need to find time to sit on the floor and play board games, superheroes or matchbox cars. I need to sit and make faces at Gabriel and kiss his belly until he laughs. Ten years from now both will be busy with school, friends and other activities. These are the moments that I need to grab hold of and sear into my memory bank. I need to spend more time with the computer, the kitchen sink and the washing machine turned off so I can be completely tuned in to the beautiful family around me.

Survival of the Fittest

My obstetrician assured me that having big babies was not genetic. I had nothing to fear despite being 10 lbs 2 oz when I was born. When I was 41 weeks pregnant with Paddy I had my final ultrasound. I was told he probably weighed in the 7 pound range. One c-section later and I was holding my 9 lb 7.9 oz baby. I was 42 weeks pregnant. He must have grown a lot in that week!

My smallest baby boy.

I did not have as many ultrasounds with my second child. He measured big at 20 weeks and they projected that he too would be a large baby. Despite the doctor saying that I was in the normal range, I felt like I measured big as well.

 

39 weeks pregnant with Gabo.

At 39 weeks "little" Gabriel entered the world weighing in at 10 lbs 4 oz. Not genetic indeed. I can only imagine if he was born at 42 weeks. My husband would have had to rent a U-Haul to get me to the hospital.

Once Gabo started to smile and laugh, Paddy started to play with him. His idea of being gentle with the baby and mine differ slightly. He uses Gabo's bouncy seat as a launch for his superheros and I've caught him pushing the chair to the floor and letting go, giving his brother quite a ride. He "plays" with the baby on the mat and rolls him onto his chest so that he can be a train and Gabo the passenger.

Gabo riding the Paddy train.

If Gabo had been smaller at birth and had not grown into an 18-pound five-month-old he might not fair as well as a little brother. I do worry if I have a third baby how big we will both be as the new baby will have to survive two older brothers. If I had an even bigger baby it would confirm my theory. Each baby needs to be bigger because in our house it is survival of the fittest.

Preschool Anxiety

Before I could get to his cubby Paddy took off his jacket and raced into his classroom. He happily said goodbye and when I picked him up asked why he couldn't go five days a week. I told him that we needed time to do other things like go to the park and the children's museum. The real answer is that I'm not ready.

Paddy's first day of preschool.

 

 

I am happy that he likes school. I know that it is important for him. He is becoming independent, making new friends, blah, blah, blah. But really, I am happy for him and he is doing great with the transition. I, on the other hand, am not.

 

Two Wednesday nights in a row I have had nightmares. Fortunately I did not have to pull out a dream book to make the connection. After all I am dropping him off at a school with a written lost child policy in the event your child becomes lost in the woods.

 

On our drive home from his first day Paddy excitedly reported that a teacher had recently seen a bear outside of the classroom window. When Paddy was six months old my husband walked outside to follow a bear who was walking behind our pool. I locked the sliding glass door behind him. You can't be too careful when it comes to bears.

 

I digress. The point is that whenever I am asked how preschool is going I will respond that it is great while my brain screams at me that it's not great, it is scary and I'm not ready for my baby to grow up.

 

 

My favorite baby picture of Paddy.

 

For the time being I will probably continue to awaken on Thursday mornings and shake off my bad dreams from the night before. I will assure myself that I have not lost my child and that most likely his teachers won't either. I will remind myself that although he might get a few scrapes and mosquito bites he probably won't sustain any major injuries. Eventually I hope that my brain will believe these things and I can sleep peacefully again.

 

One day I will accept that my baby boy is no longer a baby and that I need to let go a little and trust other capable adults. In the meantime he will continue to wear his new blue and neon orange shoes to school, just in case.