Stork's Nest

Baby, Baby, Baby, No

There are weird happenings around the Conway residence these days. Not only does Danny know who Justin Bieber is, he sings the song. No more “Good Night Moon “or even “Good Night Gorilla”. Now it is “Diary of a Wimpy Kid” or, worse yet, “Captain Underpants” (well, at least it was Underpants until I decided to ‘lose’ any such books before we got home from the library). There is begging for a Wii, a refusal to wear his “I Love Mom” shirt any time other than the weekends. A disgust at eating anything his sister’s lips may have already touched. And there is that crush on his kindergarten teacher, who I must say would meet my approval in twenty some odd years.

Yes, my firstborn baby, the one I fussed over, worried about too much (OK, still worry about too much), the one I would never let just have a tantrum in the corner, would always have his nails clipped at regular intervals, the one with the rashy red cheeks and cowlicky hair, well, he is a baby no more. He isn’t even a toddler or a preschooler. He is a real live boy. 

I can’t say I saw it coming. Sure, he has been getting older, but so have his two younger siblings. And with three kids and two working parents, there is a lot of noise and chaos in our house. It feels I was searching under the couch for his favorite Elmo doll and somehow, when I looked up and emerged with the toy, he was sitting across the room, cross-legged at the kitchen table writing one of his stories about his battles against Team JA (aka Jay and Annie).

I have to say that I feel the same love, the same animalistic pull of protection, that I have always felt towards my boy. And I guess in many ways our relationship is still the same. We still joke, we still (thankfully) hug, we still cuddle and read stories at night. He still likes the same foods—and I do find it a blessing that he can now eat them without wearing them. He has the same sense of humor, the same cowlick, the same secret Danny mark of a tiny freckle under his chin to prove that he is indeed my boy.

But a boy he is now. He’s gotten lanky where once he went off the charts in chubbiness. He loves to climb and jump, where once he wouldn’t take a step without holding my hand. He has play dates without me, secrets with friends that he doesn’t always tell me (although he often caves), struggles with school work rather than the potty. He has more sophisticated jokes and has clear dreams for his future (which currently include being an archeologist, but only one exactly like Indiana Jones). He is processing everything around him and is curious about my life, my childhood, and even where his daddy and I met (although I recently discovered that while I told him we worked together at Macromedia, he actually thought I meant McDonald’s). He takes everything at school to heart. Recent Earth Day activities at school have resulted in a water sprinkler and plastic bag ban at my home. Thanks for the education, Ms. Benny—just wait till you have to live with him!

And here is my ultimate proof that my baby is gone. He has stopped calling his equipment his “peanut” (his word after our attempt to actually teach him “penis” at a young age) and has started referring to it as his “wiener”.

When I was pregnant with Danny a co-worker gave me the book “Love You Forever”. I remember sitting up in the nursery, in my new glider rocker, hugely pregnant and hugely happy, and just crying hysterically reading that book. In fact, although it is on Danny’s shelf, I have yet to read it to him because just thinking of it makes me cry. I frankly don’t know how six and a half years have already passed since that day. Some days I almost find it hard to remember what exactly we did on a regular old day when he was a baby. Sometimes I almost find it hard to remember what his little voice sounded like. But I remember the little moments, like how he would start moving when he was still in my belly once I settled into my train seat on my way to work. How he would twist his hair while he drank from his sippy cup. How he loved to snuggle in bed with me and Daddy in the mornings, cheeks flushed and body warm in his little footie pajamas.

 

And I remember the moment when my parents had left and Dan had gone back to work, my very first day all alone with Danny. I remember putting him on the bed and lying down next to him. I said to him, more than a bit panicked, “Well, here we are. We’re all alone now. So, what will we do next?”

Next has been so amazing so far. So many tiny moments of holding hands, riding trains, dancing in the kitchen to the old CD player, swimming in the river, shooting the Wolf Man, doing "run for your life" away from ocean waves, mastering the monkey bars, cooking soup, reading stories, kissing boo-boos, chasing away nightmares, sharing our dreams, riding in the car to endless parties, classes and errands.

Today Danny lost his top front tooth. It had been hanging on by a thread for days and he finally yanked it out at school, apparently surrounded by a group of very impressed friends. As I held that tooth tonight, I realized that although it looked so big in his mouth, it was so tiny in my hand. And I remembered watching that tooth grow in, waiting so excitedly for more and more teeth to join it. How can they be leaving so soon?

So now I help him prepare for the tooth fairy, watching him write a note with an arrow  to leave on top of his pillow just in case she gets confused where his tooth is, and also a note to put next to the tooth, all wrapped in toilet paper, with some special instructions. His note asked that she leave the tooth for him to keep because it is a big one and it is really very special.

As I laid with him for a moment, running my fingers over that same old cowlick, feeling his little heat beat against mine, I couldn’t agree more.

Although I do have to wonder what we’re going to do with all those baby teeth.

 
 

Wistful Thinking

Maybe it’s because I’m newly 40, but more likely it’s because classic R.E.M. seems to be on the radio every time I am driving alone in my car, but lately I’ve been thinking a lot about how amazingly different life can turn out from what you think it will be when you are 18.

According to my original plan, I would have been a famous novelist by 30 (a revision from 21 that happened when I started college and became distracted by frat parties and co-ed dorms). I would at this point be traveling the world, have houses all over the place and be churning out another prize-winning novel every year. Oh, and my books of course would have all been made into Oscar-winning films so I would be married to a movie star. An extremely hot, forever young movie star.

Sense anything major missing there? Yup, as hard as it is to believe, at 18 I never even really thought about kids. It was all about me. Even the husband role was basically just eye candy. As I told Dan last night as we watched American Idol and I lamented the fact that I just can’t quite sing no matter how bad I want it, damn it, I was meant to be famous.

So what happened?

To tell you the truth, I don’t know and I didn’t really even notice it happening. I had the typically tumultuous twenties, made all the rookie mistakes, and then met a great guy and realized that what I really wanted was children. As many of them as I could convince him to let me have, which appears to be three (unless somehow he has some kind of mental breakdown or a bout of amnesia where I can mold him as I wish—ah, every wife’s dream).

Believe me, I don’t regret one second of the last ten years. And there are no more precious people to me than my three babies.

But again, still, one has to wonder, after all that education, all those prizes, all those dreams, what happened? Why am I making school lunches when I should have been giving speeches?

Two weeks ago Dan and I had the amazing privilege of bringing the kids to SFO and watching Air Force One land. We even got to meet the President. It was a huge day, especially for two people as devoted to The West Wing as us. In typical suburban family fashion, we got horrifically lost and were running around like mad people trying to find where we were supposed to be. We saw two extremely well dressed, good looking people and asked them if they were there to see Obama.

They were. As part of the administration.

Once we were in the right place, I couldn’t help but keep staring at this man and woman. They were likely the same age as us. They had on gorgeous clothes, power ties and jewelry. Their hair was clean and even combed. They were the people Dan and I thought we were going to be. And we were those other people—those tacky families I would roll my eyes at when I was 18. We were dressed as if we were going to Disneyland in the rain, with big overcoats, baseball hats, kids with sweet rosy cheeks but big runny noses. We cheered at the people on the other side of the gate.

Somewhere along the line we’d forgotten that we were supposed to be over there with them.

That very same weekend, Dan and I had another amazing privilege. We went to the city with friends and stayed overnight. In a hotel. Alone. This, my friends, has not happened since I was pregnant with my second child. So, it was a long time coming. And it was karaoke. So it was my dream night.

We sang until the bar closed. I talked with random strangers. I laughed more than I have laughed in ages. And in all, Dan and I just had the best time together we’ve had probably in years. I felt on a high for days after that night, plotting and scheming of how I could get back to that karaoke bar as soon as possible. I didn’t even care that my pocketbook had gotten stolen there. I just wanted to sing.

But then, the days went by. Life got busy with the big things again. Danny had to move tables at school and was devastated to have to sit a foot away from his best friend. Jay took a marker to the house, proving once and for all that washable markers are a lie. Annie tried to hold it too long and peed all over herself and the bathroom floor at ballet.

And Danny made little heart cards and placed them all over the house for me. Annie held my hand and asked me to tell her just one more story as we walked home from school. Jay told me he loved me as he gave me his big, sloppy kisses.

Dan and I sat in the living room, working away as we watched American Idol and saw those same young people we once were live out their dreams.

And I realized that it was all OK. I don’t need to be famous. I’m happy. Life is far from perfect. I’ll probably never have all those houses, and maybe not even write that novel. But I have a husband I love and I have three amazing humans to nurture and love for all of my years. If I’d followed my original dreams, they wouldn’t exist. And I  would trade all the riches and fame in the world for just one day with my babies.

But that’s not to say I won’t be trying to work in some more karaoke nights. And that’s definitely not to say I won’t be hoping that one of my kids might just someday be the next American Idol.

Hey, a girl has got to dream.

 

Stand By Me

One basic fact of life is that 2/3rds of the earth is made up of water. A similar, but less widely reported fact, is that 2/3rds of a mother’s time is spent waiting for her children. This they do not teach you in school.

There is of course the basic waiting time of getting shoes on, toys put away, teeth brushed, bodies in bed (and actually sleeping), dinner eaten rather than played with or thrown on the floor. And then there are the endless classes, the soccer practice, the dance class, gymnastics, baseball.

But the sweetest and hardest times of all are waiting for them to walk through those schoolhouse doors.

Annie started preschool yesterday and I thought I had it all together. In fact, I felt a bit bad that I was as together as I was. I am, of course, constantly plagued with that middle child guilt. But then, the minute she let go of my hand and stepped through that green gate of our neighborhood preschool, a school she’d been circling, desperate to enter for the past three years as she watched Danny head off and leave her by my side, she smiled at me, not a care in the world. And I cried as if I might never see her again.

I am, by all accounts, a bit of a crier. I cry when I am happy and when I am sad. And sending my baby girl off to school is a bit of both. I am so happy for her. She so needs school and I need her to find her own way to make friends and not always hide behind my legs when faced with something new. But I feel a bit like Baby Jay, who now wanders the house calling out for his brother and sister with a melancholy “Danny, where are you? Annie, where are you?” And we both run to their sides when they come through that door.

But even harder for me is my big boy, Danny. I know that when I leave Annie she has three teachers and countless parents ready to care for her, to hug her if she is down, to play with her, to take her to the potty (and hopefully make it on time). I know her routine in and out after three years of co-opping. I know she is in an amazing, special place filled with art, nature, surprises and constant love.

Danny in comparison is in a bit of an urban jungle. OK, he is in a nice, academically recognized public school. But, man, there is a lot of concrete. And even though his late bird class is just fourteen kids and I really like his teacher, I don’t think there is going to be time for much hugging let alone time to build robots out of sand pails or splash in puddles. And even though he comes home every day with a new song or poem memorized, a new tale of the mysterious principal (whose office he has vowed to never have to visit), even though his teacher said he is very happy and so fun in class, still I worry and I worry.

I worry because of that moment when I have to leave his side. As a late bird, Danny enters school at recess time now. He has to drop his lunch in a bucket and then enter a group of kids, kids he just met two weeks ago, and find a friend. And there is nothing more excruciating then watching his sweet little self wandering around that playground, searching out a friend, swinging his arms by his side as if he hasn’t a care in the world. Yesterday Dan and I spent five minutes—which felt like five years—watching him circle, looking for a place to land. We finally had to pull away, even before he’d found success, because I could feel that familiar tug on my heart, that impulse to run in there, grab him in my arms and tell him everything is alright.

The problem is that everything is alright for him. It’s just me who’s suffering the moment. For despite how amazing it is to watch your babies grow wings and face this big bad world all on their own, and no matter how sweet that hug is at the end of the day, the toughest part of being a mom just may be all that time flying stand-by.

All I Ever Wanted

It’s hard to believe that the summer has already almost slipped out of our grasp. Although it was just a few months ago, it seems like years since we went on our first mini family vacation down to the sands of Pismo Beach. We’ve had a lot of fun this year, with trips to the Conway house at the Russian River and back to Boston to see my folks. Now, as I prepare for my tan to fade and the kids’ golden streaks to darken and, scariest yet, for Danny to strut off without me through that big kindergarten classroom door, I can’t help but reminisce of what I’ve learned from our adventures. It keeps me from worrying about whether or not Danny really knows how to use a urinal. (Dan swears he does. But he won’t let me go in there to make sure.)

Dirty clothes are OK, unless they are socks: Our family house at the river is one of my favorite places on this earth. It is also one of the dirtiest, nestled amongst redwoods and blackberry bushes. When a cold weather snap hit us on our week up there, we did a lot of clothes recycling, which was surprisingly OK. Except for socks. Socks get really, really dirty really, really fast.  Socks smell. Bad. Take my advice. No matter where you go, always pack too many socks.

Forget organic, roadside rules:  There is nothing more delicious than fruit you pick in the woods. I’ve known this since I was little myself. Every year, on the first day of our summer vacation up in the White Mountains of New Hampshire, my best friend Senta and I would take wooden bowls and fill them with wild raspberries and blueberries, which we would then eat in a bowl of milk. Now, my kids and I can spend hours picking blackberries at the river, naming areas of the woods “Blackberry Valley” and “Blackberry Castle” and picking until our fingers bleed but you can’t even tell through the purple stains of the fruit. Even baby Jay was obsessed, chowing down on every week. And in honor of Daddy’s great blackberry pies and our abundant pickings, he even redubbed all fruit “blackberry”.

If a child does not sleep enough, eventually there will be hell to pay. Especially if that child’s name is Annie: Annie is a “drama queen” according to Danny. And he has a point. The girl can be as sweet as pie to you. She’s always wearing a princess dress and often a crown, so you kind of expect the best. But after a week of late nights and a visit to the San Francisco Zoo right after a red-eye flight  home, Annie carried on in a way that Linda Blair could not have dreamed of. Her head may have spun around. I’m not sure because about ten minutes in I stopped looking. But you have to give it to her, that girl can scream.  And scream. And really the only thing you can do is laugh.

Grandparents’ love is indescribable: One of the best things about going home to Boston is the unbelievable love that is poured onto my children by my entire family, especially my parents. From Danny watching the Sox play with my dad, to Annie climbing in my mother’s lap to Jay toddling around showing off his fake burp and giving kisses, those kids just shine with the great love they feel there 24 hours a day.

Friendly’s is Boston’s secret weapon: Why oh why are there no Friendly’s in California? If there were, would butter crunch ice cream taste so sweet? Would monster/princess sundaes be so desired? Would hot dogs, hold the pickles, be considered a gourmet meal? Yes, yes and yes. My kids and I could eat every day at Friendly’s for the rest of our lives. I mean,  you even get to call sprinkles jimmies when you are there. And when you say give me a lot of jimmies at Friendly’s that really means a lot rather than the two lame shakes you get in California. I could move back to Boston for the jimmies alone. Oh Friendly’s, we miss you already.

You are never too young or old for Santa Claus. Or cannonballs. To see my 81 year old father at Santa’s Village, a Christmas-themed amusement park in the White Mountains, is to see pure joy. There is a show there with some animated figures of “Elfis” and “Rudy the Reindeer” that he just can’t get enough of, so neither can we. And to see my six-foot something nephew Michael do a cannonball into an unsuspecting pool of people is the same kind of happiness. Especially when it starts a revolution, with everyone young and old cannonballing from all sides, despite every sign that says you can’t. I even did some myself, after some false starts. I’d never done them before, but when your five year old is running next to you, somehow taking that leap is not so hard. Sometimes you have to become the parent to really understand how to best have fun.

Turn off the TV, turn on the talk: One of the most amazing things about our week at the river is that there was absolutely no TV. So we talked and we talked and we talked. We told stories about leprechauns and ghosts and big-butted caterpillars. And no one once asked for TV because no one missed it. I even read a book. Yes, an entire book. Now that we are home again, it’s easy to be too tired to talk. After a stressful work day, it sometimes feels simpler to turn on the TV while making dinner rather than trying to think up adventures while cutting a cucumber.

Once you’re back from vacation, there is no denying it. You are back. No magic wand is going to slow down the days, give me one more week of my Danny as a preschooler still safe in his happy little school, of my Jay just learning how to walk, dance and sing, of my Annie giving me beauty tips and learning her own version of the ABCs, where A is the most important letter. Time moves on, the pace picks up, the work calls interrupt the stories. Whole wheat bread replaces donuts. PJs are off before breakfast and back on before 8. Summer concerts are over, train rides are closed. We are back in the routine.

But when I close my eyes, I can see Danny and Annie cuddled up together in bed, giggling about what the day would bring while Dan and I are still sleeping right near them, Jay snuggled between us. I can see Danny laughing at my dad’s jokes at Friendly’s while Annie tries to coax my mother into letting her wear all of her jewelry and Jay steals my food, flashing me a toothy smile. I can hear the waves that lulled us to sleep at Pismo every night. I can feel the tingle of a sunburn on my back.

I can hold close another summer with my babies, another set of memories that will keep me warm all winter, and keep me working towards next year’s reward, summer’s freedom, cannonballing towards us quicker than we think.

Say My Name, Say My Name

The last few weeks I have felt a bit like what Dorothy might have felt like if the tornado that picked her up had never landed anywhere. Work has been simply insane—lots of meetings, lots of deadlines, lots of late nights—so I haven’t had a lot of time with the kids. And so, as always happens when you’re feeling like a sucky mother, one of your kids gives you a blow right across the jaw. This time, the culprit was sweet baby Jay who decided to start calling his nanny Lyn “Mama”. Oh, and not only calling her Mama, but recoiling from his real mama any chance he got.

Talk about kicking you when you’re down.

Now, I know this is a phase. Annie went through the same thing about this time. (Danny never did, but it turns out that he wasn’t crying for me and running to my arms every night out of great love but rather our of relief that he wouldn’t be stuck in his highchair eating Cheerios and watching Mexican soap operas with Rosa for another three hours). And I tried not to take it personally when Jay started calling Lyn mama. But of course I did. All kinds of thoughts ran through my head. That’s OK, I have two kids that love me. Well, THIS is why I am glad we aren’t having any more kids, clearly working mothers should not have children. Well, fine, Jay I’ll just ignore you too. Wait until you want “boob boob” around three a.m. That’s fine. I deserve this. I suck as a mother. And then I went in my office and cried.

Did I mention how stressed out and overtired I was?

That first night, I told my mother what Jay had done. And she laughed. She thought it was the funniest thing ever that I was even telling her about this, let alone thinking about it. And then she apparently told my father who agreed this was just another funny Eileen story. She just couldn’t even fathom why I was upset. They were still laughing about it a week later.

I wasn’t quite ready to go there with them but by the weekend, after a few hours of uninterrupted family time, I was willing to loosen up a bit. OK, I have to admit it, what really made me get over it was when Jay called both Dan and Danny “Mama” in the span of an hour. Clearly, this isn’t all that personal.

Growing up, I spent all my weekends and summers with my aunt and uncle at their beach house. It was an idyllic childhood, swimming all day, falling asleep to the sounds of the waves crashing and the feeling of water finally escaping from my always waterlogged ears. There was an ashtray full of quarters for the ice cream man who always drove by each night. There were containers full of cookies always at the ready, roller skates always on my feet, sand always in my sheets and good friends always by my side.

But yet, when I grew older, a little part of me always wondered if I was there because my parents didn’t really want me around. I was the quintessential “mistake” baby, born to my mother when she was 42 with a 16 year old and 12 year old practically raised. She was an “older” mother, back in those days when no one was yet having kids in their 40s. She has gone back to work and was so shocked at the thought that she could be pregnant that it took the doctor having my dad come in for a visit when she was already past four months to convince her that I was indeed a baby and not a tumor.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I know—and have always known—that my parents love me. I couldn’t ask for better parents and am so grateful for all they do for me to this day. But I did wonder how my mother could send me off to my aunt and uncle, who were in their 70s at the time and had never had children of their own (no one ever dared to ask why although we always assume it was infertility because there are no two people more full of love for kids than they were). I mean, didn’t she miss me? Didn’t she worry about the milestones? Didn’t she want to teach me how to read? Seriously, didn’t she miss me?

I finally figured it out this past week. My parents had faith in love. My mom was a mature enough mother that she didn’t have to sweat the small stuff. She knew that I would always love her and that there would never be any question as to who my mother was. She knew I would always need her, just like I do. And she knew that the most amazing gift that she could give me was to bring these people who had so much love to give, and who loved me so much, into such a big role in my life. I am sure she missed me like crazy but rather than having me sit around the house all summer she sent me to this amazing, fun place. She took her love and made it into more.

And that’s what I am finally getting, as I myself head towards 40. The more people that my kids have in their lives that love them, the better off they are. My kids have the gift of having an incredible nanny, someone who is truly an essential member of their family. Their bond is so special because it is built on deep, mutual love. And it is a relationship they will have with Lyn for all their lives. And it will enrich them and in turn teach them how to give and share love. So, like my mother says, who cares if Jay calls Lyn Mama. He loves her. And that is a good thing.

In fact, it’s great.

 

Bouncy House

Of my three kids, I can already tell that Annie is going to be the clingiest one. She just really needs her mama, and she needs her a lot. If I am honest, the reason that she needs me so much is that she needs someone to talk to. Constantly. Because Annie likes to talk. And I mean a lot. There is nothing that makes Annie happier than asking “why” and then answering her own question in about twenty different ways in about twenty seconds.

Honestly, I do love talking to her although sometimes, like when we are trying to get out the door, I find myself telling her to be quiet so Mommy can think. And sometimes it can be a bit tough on Danny, who is at risk of developing a stutter for how much he is interrupted. At the dinner table, in the car, in the bath, it doesn’t matter. If Danny has a good idea, Annie has a better one. If Danny has a booboo, Annie falls down too. You get the picture. Classic little sister stuff.

But strangely enough Annie tends to clam up at birthday parties (as I have noted before, she also tends to have accidents, a problem which no longer happens since I started having her wear Pull-Ups to parties—now, suddenly, we are in the bathroom 27 times whether we need to be or not). She’s a social butterfly at the park and she never stops talking at dance class. But when we go to one of Danny’s friends’ parties, she simply won’t play with anyone but Mommy.

This past week one of Danny’s best buddies had a party at Pump It Up, the mecca of bouncy houses. And before I could say hello to any of my friends, Annie had me by the arm and bouncing away. Now, mind you, it isn’t too hard to get me into a bouncy house. I frankly love to bounce and pride myself on being able to bounce and land in a sitting position (although I can’t then bounce back to standing but, really, who wants to anyways). But I must admit that about 45 minutes in, I was looking a bit longingly through the netting at all of my friends, who were sitting and happily gabbing away. I even tried to escape, telling Annie I had to check something in my purse. But Annie’s no dope. She came right around to check with me.

Then, something clicked at about the hour mark. I realized how lucky I was that my little girl still wanted to hold my hand. How lucky I am that I am still her best girlfriend—and, as she notes herself, she does have a lot. I started listening to her sweet little voice, really feeling her chubby little fingers reaching up to play with my hair. And I finally started to really have fun.

Because I know from experience that soon, once she starts school in the fall, she’ll have friends of her own and, like Danny, she might pop by and give me a hug or a kiss but she’ll be busy playing games with her new best friends. And, horror of horrors, just like Danny did this year, she’ll refuse to wear any “I love Mom” shirts or paraphernalia, likely claiming like Danny that such clothes “are good for the weekends.”

So, I am going to bounce like crazy while I can. I am going to have tea parties and play princesses until the sun goes down. And I am going to listen to every silly, often incoherent word that my sweet Annie babbles in my ear.

Because that’s what best girlfriends do. I am still hers.

And she will always be mine.

 

 

Perma-Bump

Everyone who has had a baby has one of these stories. You know what I’m going to say. You are minding your own business at the park, the grocery story, the dry cleaners, and-- bam!--it happens. Some moron with a big sickly smile asks you when you’re due.

And you tell them. Uh, that would be two years ago.

My story is from when I was actually about two days pregnant with Jay. (Mind you, if I had said I was six weeks pregnant when this happened, then I would have been in the clear because I balloon up when I get pregnant. Maybe it’s because I have big babies. Probably it’s more because I celebrate with large pizzas and ice cream.) Anyways, we had just spent a great Labor Day weekend at the Russian River, swimming and sunning with the two kids every day. A really nice 50-something woman, with grown kids of her own, had taken to Danny over the summer, helping him with everything from making mud balls to teaching him the right way to roll down the hill into the water. We were sad to see her leave at the end of the weekend and we all talked about how we looked forward to seeing each other the next year.

“Yes,” she said, with that good old glazed-over grin. “And we’ll have a new baby next year too I see.”

I don’t know whose expression was more full of horror, mine or Dan’s, as he knew what he was going to have to live with for at least a month.

“No,” I told the lady, trying to fight back tears. “I’m just fat.”

Now, she was nice and all, and tried to say nice things but I heard nothing other than my own heart beat thumping in my ears. I never felt so gross, so unkempt Believe me, I would bet a million dollars that there is no one who loves being pregnant more than I do, (and not just for that pizza and ice cream) but even I don’t want to be pegged as a preggo two years later.

Recently, I’ve thought my stomach is getting bigger and that I am looking more pregnant than ever. I keep weighing myself but there is no gain. And that’s when I realized the problem: my belly isn’t bigger, it just isn’t getting smaller with the rest of me. And, after staring at all my friends (sorry everyone if this is weirding you out at this point) and every single random woman I have seen from Starbucks to the gym, I realized the basic truth of this perma-bump situation:  Once you have had a baby you are screwed.

Even my skinniest, most fit friend admits that her belly is not flat. The one mom I know who has an amazing stomach revealed to me her tummy tuck scar (and scared me right out of plastics with her it-was-a-week before-I-was-out-of-agonizing-pain-but-really-it-wasn’t-so-bad story). So, barring some extra help, I think that the perma-bump is here to stay. It’s like our kids want to leave their calling card, leave the equivalent of heights marked on a kitchen wall on our war-torn bellies, just to prove they were once there.

I bet you think I am going to get all Lillith Fair on you now and say that I realized that I love my perma-bump, that it is my badge of honor as a mother and that I am beautiful just the way I am. But, you know what, screw that. If we women are smart enough to have babies, run companies, run households, and still have time to watch a Lifetime movie here and there, we’ve got to be able to figure out how to get rid of these perma-bumps without getting sliced open.

Or at the very least, we should be able to get someone to start making bathing suits made entirely of Spanx.

The Husband Wild

After I had been blogging for a month or so, Dan noted that I barely ever mentioned him in my posts. Some of his friends said it almost sounded like I was a single mother. Dan’s analogy was that basically this blog is a lot like “The River Wild,” that old Meryl Streep movie where Meryl kicks crazy Kevin Bacon’s ass while her husband pees his pants in the raft for the entire 90 minutes.

Hey, Dan said that, not me.

The funny thing was that, about a month ago, we happened to find that very movie on cable. After getting sucked in and having some good laughs at the 80s feathered hair and acid wash jeans, we both realized something: the husband had a way bigger part than either of us remembered.

So, in honor of Father’s Day and all of your DORKS (the name Dan has affectionately dubbed for husbands married to stay-at-home/work-at-home STORKS), here are some truths I have learned about fatherhood from my very own raft-mate.

Dads make the best food: I feed our little menagerie every single day, but when Dan cooks anything from his pasta sauce to a cheese quesadilla superlatives like “world famous and “best ever” waft around the kitchen. I could take this personally— and one might say (OK, at this moment one is undoubtedly saying) that, in comparison to me, anyone is a Top Chef. But I do think this Daddy-food connection is a universal. When I was little, we’d all wait around to try and steal bites of my father’s perfectly seasoned steak. Mind you, my brother and sister were in their 20s at the time, which raises a lot of other weird daddy issues that we won’t dive into today, but I think I made my point: a dad in the kitchen can make a little magic.

Dads are baffled by little girls’ clothing: Never ask a dad to dress his daughter. Annie has had dresses on backwards and bathing suit straps in positions that it is surprising she survived. Oh, and while you’re it, don’t ask Dads to fold laundry. They somehow forgot this ability the day they decided to marry you.

Dads know everything (or fake it really well): Dads never say, “I don’t know.” Growing up, my dad could give you the Latin root of any word imaginable and answer any question. Frankly, I was shocked when he got Final Jeapordy wrong most nights. And then, in my 20s, he revealed his secret: a lot of his knowledge was made up. I think Dan may be practicing the same trickery with our brood but that’s OK by me. There is nothing more reassuring for a kid than a dad who can take his hand and show him around this big old world.

When a dad says he is watching the kids, he’s really not: Dads don’t have eagle eyes. Mothers can look in two places at once and text at the same time. But when a Dad takes a peek at his paper, your kid is on his own. Case in point: Dan’s “watching” of Baby Jay at Pismo Beach resulted in Jay playing with cigarette filters and old gum. Seriously, guys, this is one you could work on.

Dads tell the best stories, complete with voices: I used to think it was only that annoying park species of Super Dad that did three-act plays complete with multiple voices on command, but now I know it is just a dad thing. And it’s pretty cool.

Dads are ready in the case of disaster: Dan is definitely calmer than me in a crisis. He’s also bought a huge barrel of water that’s in our shed in case of emergency. Dads are like that. They are ready for anything—and a bit over-excited to kick that anything’s butt.

Dads really only engage when the baby is born: I’m sorry to say this, but I truly believe that although men may be “excited” when you are pregnant, they don’t really one hundred percent get into it until the baby arrives. Some just do a better job at faking it than others. And one more thing: I don’t think any dad really finds birth beautiful. Seriously, it’s not so pretty down there.

Dads need more sleep: While we’re on the subject of babies, it’s a biological fact: dads just aren’t equipped for the all-nighter. Dan still semi-jokingly refers to Annie’s first night home from the hospital as the worst night of his life. I used to let it aggravate me, but now I just accept it. And I even let him sleep. That is, until the kids get up.

Dads are better husbands: Maybe it’s just because they have so little time to think about themselves anymore. Maybe it’s because when you have kids, you have to become a team for the sake of your own survival. Whatever it is, having a child makes men better people.  It brings out their hunter, their gatherer and their protector. There is nothing I love more than to watch Dan play with our kids, to see him race them down the street or play monster in the pool. I’ve loved my husband for a long time but watching him become a great dad has made me love him more.

Now, don’t get me wrong, Dan isn’t going to suddenly be starring in this blog every week. I do still think the 80/20 rule applies to parenting. We moms are stuck with 80 percent of the work no doubt, whether we work or stay home. It’s just the way it is: our kids expect it and so do we. It’s as biologically ingrained as dads’ love of the grill.

But here’s the thing: Dad is around for 20 percent. He’s there to cut the cord and put your child in your still shaky arms. He’s there to walk a croupy baby on the porch in the dark of night, willing her breath back. He’s there to run beside your daughter when she finally learns to pedal, and to kiss her boo-boo away when she topples over. He’s there to wrestle with your son, to teach him the moves his dad taught him so many years before. He’s there to race on the beach, to walk your baby when he just won’t settle down. He’s there to give baths, to give silent kisses before he drives away in the morning, with the rest of you still snuggled up, often all together in one bed. He’s there to tell funny jokes, to make up silly songs, to clean up after dinner. He’s there to watch TV for ten minutes before you both fall asleep. And he’s there to hold you and let you cry when your day has just been too long or when you’ve just had enough.

When you need him, he’s there. Dads always are. After all, as that rule itself insists, it’s the 20 percent that matters.

 

 

Talk to Me

This time last Friday afternoon we were cruising down 101 on our way to a mini-vacation at Pismo Beach. We arrived excited about the weather, excited about our nice big suite, excited to head back to the beach. We had four luxurious days and nights ahead of us, full of promise of quiet and fun. And they were fun, amazingly fun. But they weren’t quiet. And it wasn’t the kids’ fault this time. I blame the invention of the smart phone.

When I was young, every summer my mother and father would take two full weeks off from work. We would go up to the White Mountains and hunker down in a chalet that had minimum TV (a few local channels could be found by some aggressive bunny ear adjustments) and lots of wild blueberries and raspberries for the picking. We’d spend all day at the lake, eating the sandwiches we’d prepared the night before between rounds of Scrabble. There was no talk of work. Frankly, until I was quite older, I don’t think I was ever really clear on what my father actually did for a living. It was pure family time. If we wanted to call home, we had to go downtown and use the pay phone. But rarely did we ever want to call home.

Our beach vacation reminded me a lot of those early trips. We had fun building sandcastles, racing the waves, catching 81 sand crabs (or sand dads as Danny named them) in one sitting. We brought sand by the truckloads back to our beds and at night the kids, tanned beyond reason and salty from the sea, ate peanut butter sandwiches, their laughter punctuated by the waves rolling in by our patio. We walked downtown, ate ice cream every day and jumped over and over again from vacant lifeguard stations. Jay became a full time walker over the course of these quiet, happy days.

It was heaven. That is, until the rest of the world went back to work and tried to drag us with them. Sunday night found Dan and I on our laptops, for thirty minutes of clearing our plates which ended up being ninety minutes of working. Both of us were asked to attend meetings and do work, even though everyone knew we were on vacation. Our phones rang, emails came in, and pretend family meetings about a “Scooby Doo” mystery that Dan had invented about people stealing the beach were interrupted by real work calls.

But, you know what, I blame us. We are the idiots that chose to bring our phones with us. We are the ones who worried about getting our iPhones sandy when we should have just left them at home. We are the ones who didn’t just say no to meetings, who vaguely offered up statements like “although I am on vacation, I am still totally accessible.” OK, that we is me. And why would I ever do that?

Since I started my own business, I have never had a day completely tuned out of work. I even worked every day for hours during a trip home for Jay’s Baptism, which was also the first time I had seen my 80-something parents in almost nine months. Crazy. And I have no one to blame but myself.

Late ‘50s and ‘60s styles are back in fashion. Mad Men is a hit. So I vote all of us crazy working parents take this retro comeback one step forward. On your next vacation, turn it all off. Disconnect. Because you know what, it will all still be there when you come back. Our parents knew that. When I was a kid, we didn’t pretend to email each other, we ran around outside. We never had to worry about Mommy dropping conversation at red lights because she was now desperately scanning her iPhone, even on a Saturday morning trip to Little Gym.

This summer, let’s all be nice to ourselves. Let’s all log off. Let’s admit that it is under our control and let’s actually enjoy our vacations with our kids. If we miss out, it’s really just our own fault.

Although, as with everything else in my life, I will still secretly blame it all on my iPhone.

 

Commence

Danny is graduating preschool Friday and, with the way I have been carrying on, you would think he just up and joined the Army. I’ve been crying while I jog by the school, crying driving home from work meetings, crying watching Johnson & Johnson commercials (OK, I always do that). It isn’t helping matters that he’s had a growth spurt the last week or so, his legs getting all lanky, his already sun-streaked head getting higher and higher when he leans against me. My first baby is growing up.

When I think back on how Danny has changed in the past three years, it’s staggering. When Danny first entered preschool, I had two major concerns: he was barely potty trained and he was a wanderer. I actually worried that he might roam right off school property despite the gates and all. Who knew someday they’d have to drag us both out of there.

When we started St. Paul’s, Danny had just stopped calling himself “Doobadoo.” He could barely ride a tricycle, couldn’t dress himself, and thought Caillou was cool. He had playgroups and play dates but he didn’t have friends. Drinking milk out of a big boy cup typically resulted in a major mess. He couldn’t recognize letters, let alone write his name. The most I could get out of him after school was what he had for snack, if he even remembered that. And most days, I’d have to carry my exhausted little man most of the short walk home.

Today, Danny doesn’t remember ever calling himself Doobadoo. He loves Phineas and Ferb, and leaves the room if Annie insists on “baby” shows like her favorite, Caillou. He doesn’t need playgroups; he has a pack of boys, just as sweet and crazy as he is, to call his own. He is shockingly neat—well, for him—at the dinner table (or maybe anyone would seem that way next to Annie). He wants to write things, wants to document his life for himself. He tells me all about his day and brings me gifts, everything from necklaces to potato bugs to Halloween cards in May. He rides bikes, scooters and soars across the monkey bars like nothing at all. When he runs, sometimes I almost can’t catch him.

Other things have remained the same. His hair is still soft and sweet as a baby’s. He still comes home from school tired and needing a rest. His pants still inexplicably slide down no matter how tight I make the side buttons. When something goes wrong or he falls, he still wants his mama. Sometimes he will even let me carry him up the stairs. And he still loves to lie in the grass and dream.

Most of all, to Danny, the world is still one amazing, beautiful adventure. He is filled with joy. He doesn’t know bad words (or if he does, doesn’t let on to me), he doesn’t even know what a cigarette is called (he thinks it is a “smoker”). He thinks that he can just as easily play pro baseball, be a firefighter or travel to the moon when he grows up. Whatever he chooses, he can be. He believes that magic can happen and that Santa really watches you all year round. He teases his sister for loving fairies so much, but he definitely believes in the one that comes for your teeth. He is kind to everyone and expects only kindness in return. And this is thanks to preschool.

Being a part of a co-op preschool is the most amazing gift I could ever have given Danny or myself. It was really tough to pull off as a working parent—and a situation that most working parents don’t even have the option to consider, so I am so glad the stars somehow aligned for me. Because being at the school with him, watching him play and grow, watching him build friendships and build confidence, there was nothing like it. I got to see first-hand Danny’s transformation from a shy little guy to a boy who has compassion for others and excitement for whatever comes his way next.

I got to watch friendships grow and even personality conflicts arise and resolve. I got to snap on kids’ bike helmets and then watch from afar when they no longer needed my help. I got to paint butterflies on girls’ faces and watch them flap around the school. I got to laugh as a crowd of boys replicated Ducky’s Car Wash, washing their plastic cars while singing along to “Life is a Highway.” I was trusted to hold little girls’ bags of treasures, kids’ jackets, their turn for the swing. And I got to hear about Danny from his friends and to truly know his friends. I even know that one little girl named her teddy bear for Danny.

Working in the kitchen, I could listen to the laughter from the circle time going on next door. Cleaning up at the end of the morning, I could sneak a peek at them all in the classroom, lying on the floor, tongues hanging out in concentration as they wrote their names or painted ladybugs. I got to watch them create ski slopes out of wooden blocks, build complicated alien invasion games out of a few costumes and some microphones.

I got to witness teachers’ boundless energy, talent and kindnesses. And I got to see how their generosity of spirit, their ability to find beauty in a crumpled leaf, taught our children how to be better people. I got to supervise the somewhat covered sandbox on a rainy day and watch as one sweet boy stood guard with his umbrella, walking kids to and from the classroom to the sandbox, moving slowly and steadily through the pouring rain.

I am filled with such gratitude for these years that I can’t even imagine saying goodbye. Although I am lucky enough to be starting this journey all over again with Annie next year, I’ll still always look for Danny and his buddies at this special place, always remember their laughter, even their tears. Their shadows will loom large for me here. A part of them will live on. And for this great gift, I will always be grateful.

And now I need another Kleenex.