The fact that we have just plunked down an insane amount of money for a dog bed (for a creature who would be just as happy sleeping on old towels) is testament to how much in love we have fallen with our new family member from the Humane Society.

And this is probably old news to other dog owners, but I am surprised at the parallels I keep drawing between my child’s and my dog’s behavior:
***Like my daughter so poetically put it - “Mom you’re all about poop… first you used to wipe my butt, now you’re picking up Deuce’s poop.”
***I have to repeat myself to make myself heard.
***You discipline them for something, then turn around an hour later and they are doing the same thing.
***I have to regularly stop them from putting inappropriate stuff in their mouth.
***They never shut the door behind them.
***They never pick up after themselves. Dog toys, kid stuff – they’re everywhere.
***They’re constantly underfoot. I turn around and one or the other is nipping at my heels.
***They seek my approval and then are disdainful of my reaction.
***I have to make sure they “go” before bedtime.
***They want treats at the wrong time.
***They always want to get into bed with us and then hog up all the space.

And though I have to keep reminding my daughter that he is not the brother she always wanted – “You are my child.” I keep saying about him, “I am his owner.”

But then I look deep into those wise brown eyes and can’t help but be convinced that like our children are meant just for us, aren’t our pooches?

By Tania Malik

Labels: children, discipline, dogs, Humane Society, poop, Tania Malik, toys, treats

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I just dropped my sixteen-month-old off at daycare for the first time ever, and it was tricky. Before today, he’s only had one-on-one care, and I’ve only worked part-time from home. I did this so I could sneak peeks at our son, watch him develop, and take pleasure in the joys of his being.

The week before, weird emotions surfaced. Was this my own separation anxiety? Guilt over planning to spend less time with my child instead of more? Am I thrusting him into an environment he’s not prepared to deal with?

But I knew he was ready, and I needed to take this step. I would still keep him home on Thursdays, I rationalized. I would still see him grow and change. He needs to socialize now, and
I need to work a little more -- we both need to grow.

I admitted my emotions to another mom. She said, “After you drop him off at daycare that first day and get back in your car, just go ahead and let yourself cry. It’s okay.”

That day came this morning. I dropped my son off, explaining all his little quirks to the new caregiver. I watched him play with the new toys and get scooped up by the new caregiver, who showed him around and played with him. I heard him laugh. I knew he would be fine. After a half-hour, I kissed him good-bye and left. I heard him cry, but kept walking. On the way home, I stopped off for a coffee and a scone. Quiet time was mine again.

I entered my house, went into my office and turned on my computer. The house was quiet, empty. I would get a lot done now, without the distraction of my son’s squeals of joy or cries of discomfort. I stepped into the kitchen for a snack and found our au pair there, this being her last week.

She asked how our son is. He’s okay, I told her. She asked how I am. Fine, I said. Really fine. In that moment, I started to ball, tears flooding out from I don’t know where.

Obviously, our hearts know something that our minds do not. The bond with our children runs that deep.

By Cindy Bailey

Labels: babies, children, Cindy Bailey, daycare, mothers

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Many of us go rushing through life thinking we should do something important, be someone, and then we die and recycle back into another piece of the whole and what is remembered?

I think of my mom and remember her Angel Food Cake.  No one ever has, or ever will, make one like it. 

I have her recipe and I fail every time I try to make it; so do my daughters.  With her flat, antique whipper she produced it joyfully to the end; partly because I had surpassed her in so many other endeavors as she grew older.

When her hands grew arthritic, the grandchildren did the whipping and under her direction they were prideful and successful. The cake was there when I had a birthday, when my children were born; when I came home after surgery, and always appreciated.

I remember my Dad for wonderful rowboat rides up Curly Creek where he spun extemporaneous stories of the Adventures of Princess Virginia, or recited Shakespeare, Kipling, and Robert Service aloud to any and all who would listen.

I knew the “Quality of Mercy” from “The Merchant of Venice” by heart, long before I could understand its meaning. I remember breakfasts where he starred as the chef, making imaginative pancakes where his thin batter somehow managed to spell out our names or take the form of balls and bats or monsters.

I asked my eldest daughter once what she would remember me for. Without a moment’s hesitation she answered, “For showing me the star in the apple. You taught me to cut the apple the other way so I could find the five pointed star.”

I told her that her father had shown me the star in the apple before she was born, when we were first married. 

My youngest child was birthed after his paternal grandfather had died, yet his older sisters would take their two fingers and walk them up his arms and legs chanting, “Here comes the walking man, the walking man, the walking man,” just like grandpa Scotty had done to them when they were toddlers.

Our son would giggle and squirm with delight unaware of this link with the past, the fact that he was experiencing grandpa’s immortality. Pasternak says it all in “Dr. Zhivago” with one line, “You in others, that is your soul.” 

We are not to choose or ever know what small or great act will live on after we are gone and recycle back into the whole. Perhaps that is the true mystery of life, the meaning of oneness.

And so it goes on and on and on. What we are to each other we will perhaps never really know, but I think the good we do, the joy we produce, the positive, somehow goes on and the rest is eventually forgotten, forgiven, or just weeded out.

By Ruth Scott

Labels: children, life, parents, Ruth Scott

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It is nine Saturday morning and I long for a morning off.

“I’ll take them if you get them ready,” my husband offers.

Isn’t the whole point a break for me?

Why is it that any time, scheduled or last minute, that appears to be an opportunity for me to be alone -- shrinks before my eyes? I am packing snacks, dressing children, loading backpacks, finding shoes, etc.

But why do I need to do anything at all?

“Can’t you do it?” I suggest.

“I don’t know what they need,” he responds with a straight face.

I begin to question my husband’s mental faculties.

My husband is a fly-by-the-seat of his Levis kind of guy. Snacks? We will forage! Water bottles? We will find a stream! Extra clothes? We warriors will run naked!

Often they are back within an hour. They are usually hungry, thirsty and soaking wet.

I try to stock my own car so that it could survive any excursion. Extra clothes, first aid kit, healthy snacks, etc. Of course, my husband prefers to take his car. This actually is a relief to me since I do not want to hear the never-ending commentary on how my car is always filthy and full of useless stuff.

It is ten a.m. and the natives are getting restless. If I wait much longer there will be blood or tears. Or both.

So I go ahead and transfer the necessary rations to his car. I am painfully aware that I may never see these things again.

There is that resentment once more.

I pack the car and kiss them goodbye. I am relieved to no longer have to complain about them not wanting to go without me. Finally, they are excited at the prospect of “daddy time.”

Rather than feeling left out, I feel “let out.”

I try to pin my husband down as to when they will be back. He cannot comprehend why this matters. “In a while. We’ll see what happens.” He has no idea that the amount of time I have is directly proportionate to how relaxed I am able to get. More time means I can get more relaxed. If I think they are coming back any minute, I can’t relax at all.

It is already ten-forty. I worry they will never leave. I don’t exhale ‘till the car turns the corner.

On these rare occasions that I do somehow manage to escape the vortex of my family, I am often so exhausted from the preparations that my first half hour alone is spent recuperating. Then I frantically do things that can be done quickly.

It is eleven. I throw in a load of laundry. Pay bills. Walk the dog. Answer e-mails.

The truth is they could be back in five minutes or after dinner. I so long for any quiet time in my own home that I will take what I can get even if I never get to relax. I do not dare to embark on any kind of project that might involve lengthy prep time or clean up. Must maximize private time.

It is now twelve-thirty. They will probably be back any minute. I am starving. Do I still have time to eat something hot?

By Cathy Burke

Labels: Cathy Burke, children, Mother freedom

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My four-year old takes the Asking Endless Questions stage seriously.

Like a game show designed to torture multi-tasking mommies, he requires that I deliver a brief, yet definite answer to each question in less than five seconds. If I fail, I will be pelted with increasingly difficult questions faster than I can pant, “Please wait! I need time to think!”

Unfortunately, these aren’t the kind of questions that I can formulate short answers to in a matter of seconds. These are not questions like, “Why can’t I ride my bike now?” Or, “Is tomorrow a school day?” And, “Can I have a snack?”

Instead, I’m asked, “Why is this world here? Why?” and “What happens when people die? How do they die? How?  

These are the questions that make my head hurt.

He fires out test shots throughout the day to check if I’m paying attention.

At breakfast: “Who draws the cereal boxes? Who?”

While we’re trying to leave the house: “How do they color clothes, Mom?  How?”

As I clean up after our sick dog: “Why do dogs do poop all over the place? Why?”

I try to focus, stay calm and show no external signs of panic or uncertainty.

But, he can sniff out less than fully present Mom faster than our dog can sniff out a treat. Catching me unaware, he pockets the test questions and pulls out the automatic questioning weapon. Then the bullets fly:

“How do our eyes see? How? Where do birds live? Where? Why are there so many strangers in this world? Why? How do we make trees? How? Why are you a girl? Why, Mom? Why?”

Like the dictation tests I failed in college Spanish, each question whizzes by as I try, hopelessly, to catch just one.

“Why, Mom? Why?”

Please don’t smugly suggest, “Well, what do you think?” I’ve tried that. His response: Major eye rolling accompanied by a whiny, “Mom! I’m asking you!” Then he loudly repeats the question as if I might have a hearing problem.

Ditto for my favorite teacher response, “Hmmm… that’s an interesting question. How could we research the answer?”

He scolds, “Mom! Don’t say ‘interesting’! Don’t say that.” And then, agitated, he repeats the question.

I love his curious mind. Really, I do. It is adorable, challenging, funny…. just not when I’m cleaning up dog shit and vomit while the baby screams, the phone rings, we need to leave the house in the next five minutes, and I haven’t even brushed my teeth. 

So, recently, when my four-year-old and I had an hour alone together, I was ready to philosophize. Brain uncluttered. A good night’s sleep.  No interruptions. Out in our garden. What better time and place to have a meaningful conversation?

Hit me with your best questions, kid. I’m ready.

Apparently, the questioner was out to lunch. 

My son was content to swing his Spiderman action figure from bush to bush, occasionally calling, “Look, Mom!” to show off a new Spidey move. In that entire hour, he only asked one question. “Can I have a snack?” 

Why? Why?

By Maya Creedman

Labels: children, help, Maya Creedman, questions

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It might be the mind-numbing aspects that often have me despising my 24/7 job. The pleasant and unpleasant things you have to do over and over every day.

It is not like in the corporate world where those brain freeze tasks were not life threatening, and there was always some poor underling who would adopt them when you got promoted and earned the right not to do them anymore.

It is more the lack of choice.

Sometimes I feel like waking up and deciding, “I am not going to touch excrement in any form today.” Which sounds great in principle but when I wander out to the living room, my two-year old has already made my decision for me by removing his pull-up.

Now it is all over his legs; on the toilet where he remembered to dump it after we showed him where poo goes; on his hand from his attempted wipe; and on me where I grabbed his hand in an effort to reduce the ooze.

I can’t hold onto my promise. In fact, if I can’t wash my hand in the next 15 seconds -- I will have an out-of-body experience.

I’ll have to compensate. Though my usual mind-numbing task of bathing the kids takes place at night, I will instead do it before my morning coffee.

Something to look forward to. The coffee, that is.

Yet, it is also the sounds of laughter when the water comes out of the faucet and the look of glee in their faces when something as simple as bubbles form.

It is about noticing the small moments and trying not to lose it too much over the more trying ones.

This allows me to get through the daily blahs.

By Jennifer O’Shaughnessy

Labels: children, Jennifer O'Shaughnessy, work

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When I first moved to our idyllic suburban neighborhood six-months pregnant, I imagined the cul-de-sac of my own youth. There were so many young families I was hoping for a commune of sorts.

I imagined trades and breaks and everybody pitching in to help each other. I really was counting on all of us raising our families together. Now, seven years later, I realize it is not meant to be. While I do feel a special bond with all mothers, especially moms with two children close in age, I realize there is a difference between proximity and convenience. Yes, I know all my neighbors, but that does not mean I like them. I have such a hard time asking, let alone accepting or feeling, like I deserve help.

When we were all pregnant at the same time and all new to the neighborhood, we formed quick friendships that I imagined growing over time as our families grew. But two siblings later, I still feel as if I am imposing if I ask a favor. The children do play together and there is one other family that we do regular trades with but it is nothing like I expected. More often than not I am stuck home with my own children. Why does it feel like such a chore?

As far as helping each other out, we have a ways to go. There are mornings when it bugs me to see the three of us who go to the same school pull out of our driveways simultaneously. But then the other day one asked if I could hang out at her house while her little one napped so she could pick up her first grader.

Since my little one was at a play date and my first grader was already bored with my company, I happily agreed. We walked up the street together hand-in-hand imagining how much fun the change of scenery would be. We could not wait to see a new assortment of toys.

After 15 minutes, my 7-year old declared he was bored again and wanted to go home. It was comforting to know he could walk safely home stopping and checking at each of the five driveways.

He waved to me as he turned into our own driveway and I settled in to enjoy myself. I was thrilled to discover a new assortment of magazines.

Maybe I was the one who needed a change of scenery.

By Cathy Burke

Labels: children, favors play dates, helping, neighborhoods

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Should we write down those little things our children say? I would say put them in a time capsule for eternity, but most likely it is only the genetically linked who would consider them darling or funny. That said, there have to be some gems that would make any parent go "ah."

But I wasn’t so sure.

So, last night I decided to troll through years of e-mails from and to my college roommate, Andree. Fortunately, we live parallel lives -- two involuntarily globetrotting Aussies with ankle-biters in tow.

Unfortunately, I quickly learnt, we have therefore archived an indulgent (to quote Andree) "gabfest of puffingly vacuous proportions.” Yes, from the mother load (excuse the pun) I found a scant few that make the scrapbook short-list. They may not be classic, but read on for the kid-bits that made me remember when:

Savannah, at 2, playing with my eyebrows: "I love your rainbows mum.” So sad when they finally get the words right. . .

Savannah, stirring the cake mixture vigorously. . . out of the bowl: "I'm getting the grumpy bits out" (translated - lumpy bits). This is going to be my new mantra at the gym.

Savannah, in the next room: "I'm busy mum."

"Okay then."

"I'm really busy mum.”

"That's good.”

"Now I'm really, really busy.” Thump. Next time I peak in to see her mid-spin, tutu on, getting really, really “bizzy.”

Eddie, also 2, absolutely adorable, sweet and gentle little man, constantly asked to ride the "poopolator" -- this is a particular escalator, the Egyptian Art Deco-style escalator at Harrods.

Once aboard and ascending, he would greet the downward-bound with a hearty, "Goodbye suckers!” - never anywhere else, just these particular escalators.

Ed trying to convince his mum to let him keep his brother’s soccer ball: "I will hold it in my armpit for safekeeping."

At the museum, with hand over mum’s mouth: "Please stop singing. You will frighten all the people."

At Hyde Park, 110 degrees: "Here is some breeze. It's to calm down your pants.”

And my all-time favorite: Ed, needing to defend himself and pigeons from his older brother, needs his (imaginary) weapons -- a stick and a spear -- before he leaves the house. He reminds his nanny, "Never go out without a dick and a beer.” Well that is how it sounded. And that is how we have said it ever since.

Should we write down those little things our children say? I say yes, write them, use them and revisit them, put them in a box or a locket, and hold it in your armpit for safekeeping.

By Robyn Murphy

Labels: Aussies, children, kid conversations

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We live on a hill and to get to it you have to go up a beautiful street lined with Mediterranean style houses. While the houses are expansive, the street is not. It’s narrow with cars on either side.

Tragedy! Mimi, my 5-year old daughter, had fallen asleep. Not at 8 p.m. on a Sunday. That meant she would never go to bed at 9 p.m.

I turned to the right to shake her awake. As I did, the steering wheel must have turned to the left. BOOM!!!

I had side swept a car. It was an older, beat-up looking vehicle. Thankfully, I had avoided the new Saab behind it.

Mimi kept on sleeping – and I let her. I rang the doorbell of the house. Nobody answered. I left a note of apology, along with my telephone number and e-mail.

About five days later I got a call from a giggly man. He’s either going to be very nice, I thought, or very not.

He thanked me for my honesty. I explained the irony of my daughter sleeping through the accident, yet still was able to go to bed at 9 – but I couldn’t sleep all night.

He said his car was 12 years old and not in the best shape, but he would go to a body shop for an estimate. A body shop? The car already looked like it needed plastic surgery and I had swept the side with the major damage being a bent mirror and a tire rim.

He called a few days later. “Yep, you wouldn’t believe the estimate.”

Yep. He was right. I didn’t. $2,053. I figured $350 tops, which we’d pay just to get rid of him. “It's an old car so your insurance company would probably just write it off. I’d settle with you, though.”

Of that -- I’m positive, I thought. “How much?” I asked evenly.

“I’d take half, a $1,000 bucks.”

I played it totally female and said I would have to talk this over with my husband. He, of course, understood. Then I got on the Internet and found a mirror for his car for -- $15. A rim for $29.99. And I Kelly Blue Booked it at $1,500 max.

I talked it over with my husband, John, and I said I couldn’t deal with the man because he was pretending to be so nice when he was obviously not. I asked John to talk to him mano a mano. I’m afraid if I talked to him it would be mano a New Yorko, and I would just scream.

The guy’s final offer, $700. We had our insurance settle with him.

Meanwhile, there is what looks like a bite out of my wheel bumper and some dents in my car. John asked if I wanted to fix them. I thought about it. After all, this is Marin, and you ARE what you drive. But then I thought more deeply. I decided against getting them fixed.

The damage could have been far worse. I could have hurt someone. Every time I look at my car I see that. I really don’t care if others see the scrapes. I just hope they see them the way I do now: when driving, especially with children, an accident can easily happen. And paying acute attention, despite numerous child-centric distractions, is the only way to drive.

By Dawn Yun

Labels: accidents, cars, children, insurance

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I’m driving the kids to school, maneuvering my way through strategic lane changes on Geary in San Francisco past Japantown. As I turn right on Gough and begin the long downhill descent, I have a clear shot at downtown, all the way to Market Street, where I notice a flashing red light and backed up cars in the middle lane.

Good to know, I think. I don’t want to be one of those poor slobs helplessly blinking left into a sea of unresponsive morning commuters.

I’m so proud of myself for the heads-up that I almost ram into the back of the silver Prius in front of me. Gotta keep their bumpers in full view, I remind myself, one of many rules drilled into me by my high school driving instructor, Coach Bernhardt.

That’s a lot like parenthood, I think. It’s easy to get lost in the future of our children. Whether we’re applying to kindergarten or planning a birthday party, we’re sometimes forced into a strategic planning approach to doing the best for our kids.

You need some of that long-term look to make sure you end up in a smooth lane ahead, that you’re on track to get to where you want to be. But we can’t forget what’s happening right up front, outside the windshield; these are the ‘now’ moments of Monopoly games, kissed knees and the strength to say “no” even when it hurts.

As Coach always said, “Keep your eyes open for what’s ahead, but don’t stop watching the bumper in front of you.”

By Kimberley Kwok

Labels: children, driver's education, driving, lessons, traffic

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I spent two nights in the ER and three days on the Pediatric Ward with my 5-year-old daughter last week. Doctors were determining whether the uncontrollable fever, vomiting, and pain in her right side were solely the work of a kidney infection not responding quickly enough to antibiotics, or if they were the added burden of a bursting appendix, as well.

Two urine samples, two blood tests, four I.V. insertions, four ultrasounds, and a CT scan later, the doctors determined that the pain in her right side was indeed the work of the kidney infection, particularly raging in her right kidney (hence the heightened attention to her appendix).

The doctors and nurses were so thorough (see above), treating the many scary symptoms and listening to every piece of information coming from my 5-year-old’s mouth that, despite the pain and fear I both witnessed and felt, I was certain they would do whatever it took to correctly diagnose her.

Because of this, I felt calm and strong.

However, when I spoke to my mother up in Washington state, also calm and strong, I almost lost it – but not for any obvious reasons.

We were having an even-keel, matter-of-fact conversation, when, off the cuff, she told me she’d never had to go through anything like this with me. The only thing that came close was a middle of the night trip to the ER for a terrible earache when I was Aubrey’s age. There, she’d learned her insurance company wouldn’t cover the visit because it wasn’t technically an emergency.

That’s the point of the phone call where I could feel pressure in my throat, that burning in my nose and eyes.

How dare they? I found myself thinking. What kind of horrible healthcare system would make a single mother with next-to-nothing in child support, working full-time as a bookkeeper for a lumberyard, have to choose between the care of an ailing child and taking a big financial hit?

Pardon me, but what a shitbob choice.

Fortunately for us, we’re poor enough while my husband attends dental school and I work part-time. that we qualify for kick-ass state insurance – and I am so eternally, eternally grateful. But, listening to my mom, I couldn’t help but think of all the in-betweeners, the families on other kinds of insurance that won’t cover x, y, or z, or the families with no insurance at all.

Coincidentally, the night before Aubrey’s first trip to the ER, I listened to Joan Blades of MoveOn.org and MomRrising.org, and co-author of The Motherhood Manifesto, speak about these very issues.

Little did I know I’d be playing so directly into her concerns.

I remember her saying that it was time for families to recognize that what might seem like isolated incidents were not isolated incidents (i.e. my mom having to make the choice between medical care in the middle of the night or financial safety). They were the widespread problems among many. She said it was also time to see an acceptance of these incidents, as being “just the way it is,” as problematic as well. MomsRising.org and The Motherhood Manifesto are grassroots attempts at uniting women and families with a common goal to create positive change in these areas.

I’ve never thought of myself as someone political. Give me good literature that makes me ponder the human condition and I feel wise enough. Truth be told, though, I’ve always kind of wondered if sometime my desire to understand the human condition, my own real world experience of it, and the possibility of impacting it would arrive at a three-way crossroad – where I’d have to get out of the car and feel the dirt under my feet.

Perhaps now is the time.

When I looked at my little girl, pale after days of fever and pain and uncertainty, I knew it was never a question of whether she’d get care; it was simply a question as to what extent the care would work.

Shouldn’t it be that way for everyone?

I made it through one emergency last week; it looks like it’s time I gear up to face another one.

By Anjie Reynolds


********************
From MomsRising.org
Tell the President and Congress it's not acceptable to have 9 million kids without healthcare coverage and millions more with inadequate coverage. And it's not okay to have 46 million total uninsured Americans. In our country, healthcare issues shouldn't be a leading cause of bankruptcy, and our childhood mortality rates shouldn't rank in at a pathetic 37th of all nations, according to the World Health Organization. This is simply not acceptable.

Labels: children, ER, illness, MomsRising, MoveOn.Org, org

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My 4-year-old announced for at least the tenth time as we drove to the airport that she WOULD be taking her prized purple roller suitcase on the plane with her. The idea had moved to the top of her list of cool things to do ever since our last flight. It was then that she realized some passengers actually brought their luggage on the plane with them -- and she’d been missing out.

“We’ll see, honey,” I muttered under my breath. Not on your life sister, I thought.

I’m proud of her independent streak. But from past experience I know that in her hands -- in a busy airport -- the little purple suitcase can be a lethal weapon. I’ve seen terror on the faces of other travelers as they’ve narrowly escaped having their toes pulverized or knees bashed by this deadly duo as it steamrolls its way from curb to check-in counter.

“Okay, honey -- give the lady your case,” I instructed her when it was our turn to check in.

“NO! I’m taking it on the plane!”

“No, you’re not,” I said as the woman behind the counter eyed me and my tiny foe skeptically.

Minutes passed as we wrestled with the suitcase. My daughter’s protests grew louder. The line behind us grew longer. It was time to pull out the big guns.

“Honey, if you give the lady your suitcase, we’ll get jelly beans,” I cajoled, digging deep into my bribery arsenal.

Surely the promise of a favorite treat -- before breakfast -- would do the trick.

She just glared.

Peering over my shoulder, I saw a sea of hostile faces staring back at me. The woman behind the counter looked equally irritated. It was time for this showdown to end. And I knew I wouldn’t be the victor.

Trust me -- I don’t always cave in to my daughter’s demands. As a mom, though, I’ve found that living by the mantra “choose your battles” is sometimes necessary to preserve my sanity.

“You are NOT getting jelly beans,” I hissed as we walked away.

“But I want something UNHEALTHY!”

She didn’t get the jelly beans. But she did have an ear-to-ear grin as she lugged that suitcase onto the plane.

By Dorothy O’Donnell

Labels: children, luggage, mothers, vacations

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