Entries Tagged 'Boys' ↓

I was thinking this morning how much I would like it when my kids could get their own cereal or make their own lunches.

No more: “Mommy, I hungee”. Instead, they could just saunter on into the kitchen and make what they needed. With the right amount of milk. In the right colored bowl. With the spoon of their choice. (“Not that one, THAT one!!!!”) No fuss, no haggling, everyone would be happy.

But then I realized what that would mean. If they could get their own cereal or reach for the bread, it meant they were taller. If they could get the milk out of the frig door with no spills threatening, it meant they were stronger. If they could use a sharp knife to cut their sandwiches, it would mean they were old enough to actually use a knife.

If they were that tall, that strong, THAT old enough, they could probably use the phone, call a friend and disappear off into the neighborhood on a skateboard (he BETTER be wearing a helmet). And then (maybe, hopefully, please God) return home that evening on a wing and a prayer with no broken bones, safe and sound, back under my roof again.

Or they might even be old enough to grab the car keys and say they were just driving over to Ryan’s house to check out his new video game. Driving. Out into the world. My children.

Um no.

My youngest is turning three years old  today. Did you hear the key phrase there? My youngest is now three years old. I don’t have any babies in my home anymore. My youngest actually told me not to forget the sunscreen on the way to the pool this morning. *Blink* He is a far far cry from the wee baby I was clutching to my chest in a haze of Percocet three years ago today.

And this is a critical milestone year. Soon, he will be out of diapers. Soon, he won’t be needing naps. Soon, (in fact, it should have already happened) he will be in a big boy bed. Soon, he will be going to preschool.

Me. A mother of two napless, school going children with clean pants. I just want to weep. When was I ever old enough to have babies – I mean – boys who could both wipes their own asses?

Already, they do attempt to wrestle the milk out of the frig door and heft it over to the counter, heave it up and precariously push it on to safe ground while I sprint in there (always in slow motion it seems), repressing a yell: “OHMYGOD be careful! That milk will spill! It’s too heavy for you, baby!”

Annoyed stare. “No, no mommy. I DO it.”

My baby. *sigh* No. My big boy. Just trying to get his own milk. Exactly like I had been wishing for a half hour earlier.

My sweet little three year old. Happy birthday today. To me, you still look exactly like the baby you were three years ago. Except, now you walk and remind me about sunscreen and dump mounds of cereal into your own bowl and pee in the potty. Happy birthday. I am so very proud of you.

…What’s that? You’re thirsty? Ok. No, I’LL get the milk. I swear you do still need me for that.

It was almost the perfect storm of sorts. And I blame myself. What was I thinking dragging my two year old to Walmart  right before his nap? And I haven’t been feeling so great recently, so I made this outing tired and my guard was down. To top it off, my usual barter snacks and water cup weren’t packed. But I just needed a few things. I wouldn’t be long. A half hour. Tops.

Well. I don’t know what started it all. Something set him off. I think he wanted to go down one aisle when I had decided to go another way.

(Silly me – I still had it in my head that this would be a quick trip.)

So it was one of those moments. Do I cave? Do I do what he wants so he doesn’t spin out and explode into million pieces right here? Do I dig in and refuse to let him get his way?

Well, I let him have this one. I let him go down the aisle he wanted to. But it was too late. He was mad by then. And starting to stomp a bit. Not good. The downward spiral into tantrum hell had begun.

Let me stop for a minute here. It doesn’t matter what kind of song and dance I do sometimes. If my kid is going to go ape-shit, he’s going to go ape-shit. Its like stopping a full alert, gale force wind hurricane. You can’t convince it not to blow, no matter how hard you try.

And that’s about when the strawberry incident happened. HE wanted to put them in the cart. Ok. We can do that. Unfortunately,  he picked the nastiest package of strawberries there. Usually I am sneaky and let him put them in and – if it is not a “choice” grocery pick – I switch them out when he’s not looking. But he decided to willfully toss the strawberries into the cart. And so, the plastic container popped open and strawberries rolled out all over the groceries.

You have got to be kidding me.

So, on the verge of losing my temper, I cleaned them up and swapped them out quickly and quietly. However. I was not undercover about any of it. Could you blame me? I just wanted this trip to the store over with already…

That’s when the storm hit and my two year old simply blew. Like his personal tip of the hat to the start of hurricane season, my son’s gusty breezes cranked into screaming gale force winds with booming thunder and crashing lightening – you know, its the kind of two year old weather that snaps tress and crushes small homes. It was on like Donkey Kong.

In a full red faced, squealing rage, he tossed strawberries and rattled the cart. He grabbed at our groceries and managed to whip a frozen pizza across the floor. That’s when he turned to the produce stands. While hefting a mango and winding it back with every intention of hurling it, I tackled him.

Kicking, screaming, thrashing and frothing at the mouth, I wrestled him into my arms and scrambled over to the closest corner I could find. It happened to be the frozen shrimp section next to the bakery. There was a corner there, and it was out of the way.

It was time to do what I was supposed to do in situations such as this one: we were going to have a time out.

So, channeling every bit of Jo Frost I could, I firmly declared he was going to stay in this corner for throwing things and losing his temper. We would stay there until he was calm and ready to apologize. My arms were crossed. It was my turn to dig in.

(Come on Jo, please be right about this, I am doing exactly what you would do on the show. I know this is the right thing to do. I know it is.)

Uh huh.

He made a break for it. Madly flailing his arms and screaming towards the stand of freshly made cupcakes.

Aw hell no.

I raced after him and got him. I dragged him back to the shrimp section. I put him down firmly. And gently (well, I am pretty sure I was gentle about it…) pinned him there against the refrigerator. He would stay here with me until he was calm. While one leg gently pinned him into place, I stood up, turned my back to him and waited.

That’s when I looked around me. Mothers, Walmart staff, so many people were watching us. Blatantly. Just staring.

What? Was I doing something wrong?

He kept on screaming, he kept on thrashing.

My pinned leg was starting to loose its grip. Plus I didn’t want to stare back at these faces – watching, wondering and judging.

So I turned around, kneeled down and put both arms on the freezer, locking him into a little mommy jail. “Hon, if you calm down and say sorry for throwing, we can be all done. Do you want to help mommy find some yogurt?”

“BAAAAAAHHHWAAAAAAAAHHHH”

“Show me you can be a big boy and calm down. I need to you to say sorry for throwing. Then you can be my big helper. Show me a good job.”

“NOOOOOOOWWWAAAAAAAAHHHHBAAAAAAAAHHHHH”

“Excuse me miss?”

Huh?

I turned around. An older lady was standing there. She had a bag of crackers opened in her cart and was munching away on them – like popcorn in a movie theater. Clearly, I was putting on a good show.

“I just want to say that you are a good mom. MOST MOMS would be really embarrassed to do a time out RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE OF WALMART. With EVERYONE watching. But I think its great you’re doing it. He has to learn. You’re doing a good job, mom. Really.”

“WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHBAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!”

“Um, he just… I just need to get my groceries…”

By then she had wheeled away. By then I was ready to cry.

So I looked past my child (turned rabid, mad dog) and stared into the freezer behind him. Shrimp for $3.00? That seems too cheap. I wonder if its even real shrimp. But what would you make imitation shrimp out of? …Ew.

“Hi there…”

“BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!!!”

I turned. This time it was someone from the bakery.

“I just wanted to say that I really feel for you.” She turned to the rabid dog. ” Hi hon! Look what I have!”

She extended her plastic gloved hand. There was a small ring. You know, the kind that goes on top of cupcakes. It was a “Wonder Pets” ring.

He reeled and screamed with rage and lunged to hit it out of her hands. She jumped back a bit.

“Oh. Well. When he’s ready, maybe he’d like this…”

“Thanks.” I threw the ring into the cart. And turned back to my child. No. The storm was not abating. At all. He was maintaining a level of “100% bat-shit”. I glanced over to a woman getting some shrimp out of the case next to me. And there was no denying it. I saw zero sympathy in her eyes. I saw disgust.

(What? Because a two year old was having a tantrum? Because he had been thrashing about on the Walmart floor? I know thats gross but… does this woman even know what children are capable of??)

That’s it. I stood up. I grabbed his hand and my bag and stormed out. Nothing was getting accomplished in the shrimp freezer section. I marched outside and looked for a shady spot to sit. I found a curb around a tree to sit on. Right next to the Walmart staff smoking section. Beggars were hardly choosers in that moment.

So we sat. And he screamed. I considered bailing on the entire trip. But I really needed bread and yogurt and milk and it took enough energy to even get here in the first place. No. We weren’t leaving without what I came here for.

And then. I heard the crying slow. He was watching them push the carts into the store.

“Like a choo-choo train” I heard him hiccup through sobs. He slowed some more. He watched. Finally I turned to him.

“Baby. Come here.” He stood up and looked at me.

“Why are you in a time out?”

Shuddering sigh. “Thwowing.”

“Right for throwing groceries. What do you say to me?”

“Sowwee for thwowing gwoah-swees.”

And that was that. He wiped his eyes and started babbling at me about the shopping cart choo choo train. He gladly held my hand and walked back into Walmart with me. He sat in amongst the strawberries and frozen pizza and yogurt chatting about his “Wonder Pets” plastic ring. He was a dream the rest of the trip.

An hour and a half after we left our home, we were back. And I survived another trip to walmart with a two year old.

Because that’s all it is. Just another typical day. There are no awards for managing tantrums like those. This is nothing all that special. No one (except for everyone in Walmart) was even there to witness it. (Like a tree falling in the woods, if no one heard it, did it make any noise?) Hopefully some small part of that experience is retained in his mind. He did actually do what he needed to do. But other than managing his behavior, it doesn’t honestly mean that much.

This is what parenting is about. This stuff happens. And its really hard. But we deal, we move on and we wait for the next round. On and on it goes.

But maybe next time, I will make that “quick” trip to Walmart after naptime.

Birthday parties. There’s so much build up, you know? For the birthday kid AND for the parents.

My obsession? The cake. I consider it my funny “mom” way to get some bastardized version of art out of my system. A sort of sculpture.

Snort.

Its just a cake! And yet I hem and haw and sketch it out and plan and shop for the right candy and cookie bits for detail. Such silliness. Just buy a sheet cake and be done with it, right? I know, I know. Anyway.

So, my SIX year old asked for a baseball diamond cake. Baseball. Of COURSE. Nevertheless. Ask – and my boy shall receive.

But then he got worked up about the party too. He was so excited. The day seemed to drag for him as he waited for departure time. And finally it was time. He spent the afternoon bowling with his friends. He had a blast. He ate tons of pizza. And cake.

Then we tried to get a picture with him. Nice, right? Pleased as punch. Maybe it was us.

But this morning we’re wondering if maybe it was the pizza. (Oh God. What if it was my cake?) Nothing like waking up to the sound of heaving and splattering vomit over the monitor. Poor kid.

Happy birthday, my sweet boy. Get better.

My husband graduated this weekend. That fact alone is blogworthy. Over the past two years, he managed to plug through one grad class at a time while balancing a waaaay more than full time work schedule which already fills up his days, nights and weekends. I’m not sure how he did it, but he did. My husband rocked it and is now the proud owner of an MBA diploma.

So, when it came time for his graduation ceremony, we rolled out the red carpet for him. His mother flew down, my brother and his family drove over, we planned a party and I bought excessive amounts of ribs and beer. It was time to party like it was 1999 2009.

And with the best intentions, the entire family marched all three kids (ages five, two and two) into the University’s auditorium for graduation on Saturday. Yes, with the best intentions we climbed up the stairs of the stadium seating and managed to find seven seats at the very top, far from any sort of “easy out” exit, and right next to rows and rows of esteemed faculty, gowned and seated immediately to our right. Faculty who actually wanted to hear every word said during the ceremony.

Three boys, my boys and their third amigo/cousin, were lined up on their fold out chairs. Hair slicked down, button down shirts smoothed into place, khaki shorts snapped up and sneakered shoes sticking straight out in front of them in their seats. Eyes wide and halos in check, there was no way they could cause any fuss on such an important day. Right? No way. Not our boys.

Cue the pomp and circumstance. I don’t think it took much more than the first few graduates to stride proudly into the auditorium for the chaos to begin.

Whining. Loud declarations of: “I hungee. I wanna food.” One dropped to the ground and started crawling under legs.  They scrambled over our laps.  They squirmed. “He’s pulling me! He hit me!” We passed them back and forth. We tried iphone downloads of Little Einsteins. We played “I spy”. No matter. They kicked backs of seats. They threw crackers. They ripped at the programs. They slammed the squeaky seats up and down and up and down. They climbed. They dug through purses. Game on. And it was on like Donkey Kong.

Can I stop here and blame myself? It’s about time for a little mommy guilt anyway. I had the gall to bring three young boys to a two hour graduation ceremony and expect them to be still after having packed only a mere sleeve of crackers. What. Was I. Thinking!?!? Ok ok, cut me some slack though, I was very distracted this weekend. But for real. I got what I had coming to me. I should have been much better prepared with crayons, paper, toys, magna doodles, and endless unhealthy snacks. One lowly sleeve of dry crackers? Cha right. Nice try.

Oh and did I mention that my husband also happened to be a commencement speaker? So as expected, it was during his introduction that the actual screaming started. Should I escape loudly down all those steps and across the auditorium with the kids to spare those around us? Should I gag them with every disintegrated cracker at the bottom of my purse? Should I sit on them and just hope my cute flowy spring wrap dress muffles their yelps a bit? My husband did an amazing job. Or at least it looked like he did. I never heard a word of it.

By that point, most of those sitting around us had fled for other, further, more peaceful seating options. But the esteemed faculty to our right? They were stuck. In their pizza box shaped hats and colorful regalia, they never heard a word of that ceremony. My apologies to all the smart-looking faculty folk. But I can guarantee that they did in fact hear: “Is it over? When’s it over? Is it done yet? Is it over? Is it over? All done? Is it over? Is it over? Now mommy? Now mommy? Now mommy? Now? Now? How bout NOW?

At one point I’m pretty sure I made a 15 year old boy’s day. While one two year old ran behind me and I “gracefully” leapt/charged over my fold up seat to catch him, I am quite positive that my flowy wrap dress hitched way up. That 15 year old kid saw my Hanes her Way. I am sure of it. His eyes got kinda buggy and his acned cheeks flushed. I consider it payment for the chaos he endured. There ya go kid. Hope you enjoyed the show. But he eventually fled the scene too. Promises of further glimpses of my Hanes her Way were simply not enough.

While the graduates walked up to the stage, the crowd finally joined in with the hooting and hollering. And as our kids ran rough shot over the seats in our section of the stadium, my brother and I leaned back and got to laughing. We dreamt of tequila shots and threatened to moon the graduates. If you can’t beat them, you know? I give up.

But that is what these sorts of events are really about. While the University President reminded the graduates of all the support their families gave them during their studies, my husband beamed up at us. From where he sat, he loved the craziness he was witnessing. He was proud his family was there to, er, “represent” in their own special way. At these sorts of events, it’s family that makes an achievement like this so worth while.

So as he walked across the stage, his family yelled out. When his name was called, he heard us loud and clear. My husband graduated and he knew, throughout the ceremony, that his family was joyfully, playfully, loudly and entirely there for him.

Congrats huz-o-mine, you rock my world.

Somehow, in the midst of a time when people can barely scrape together enough for their mortgage payments, I raised money for the March of Dimes. When I set up my account (being the optimist that I am), I got a little nutty and aimed for a $1000. Hey, why not? But I really only expected about $100. But reality and the pure goodness of people have met me right in the middle.

As of today, I have raised $430 $5o5 $515 $565.

To me? That’s a LOT.

And who do I have to thank for this? Blogging friends, Twitter friends, online friends (some whom I’ve never meet “in real life”), then “in real life” friends (some whom I haven’t seen in years) and family (some whom I haven’t seen in years).

Also, after a round of “shot in the dark” emails to companies I shop at in my neighborhood to see if they would sponsor me, I heard back from one company right away. Who was it? Stride Rite. They said they would donate a pair of Robeez to a donor if I wanted to set up a contest. So I did on Twitter that very day. Whoever made the first donation, got a pair of Robeez. Within a half hour, I had a couple donors and the first donor won the pair. The Stride Rite representative was surprised by the quick response. But I wasn’t. Maddie’s story and this March of Dimes walk had the ear of mothers all over the Internet. But still, how appropriate that Stride Rite “stepped up” to help donate to a walk for the March of Dimes? Thanks to Stride Rite for caring about this cause.

So, I am gearing up for Saturday. I am hauling the whole Morningside family along. We will be there to meet up with the rest of the “Friends of Maddie” donning what purple I can scrape up for the boys (jeez, do I even have any purple for my boys?) and hoping that the combined 80+lbs of my kids on our stroller won’t be the end of my husband and I after 5 miles.

But while I gripe about pushing all that boy through the streets of Tampa, I have to remember that I have big, healthy, strong boys. When I was lifting my monster sized 40 lb two year old the other day, this thought crossed my mind: “Maddie never even had the chance to get this big.” So. 80lbs on stroller? I’ll relish it. I’ll push them (and all of their guaranteed fussing about “when is this gonna be over?”) and I will do it proudly. I honestly can’t wait.

So thank you to all of my donors. From the bottom of my heart.

(Oh, and it isn’t too late to donate. Just click on the banner above. I’m just saying…)

It was a balmy, temperate, pretty much perfect Florida evening tonight. And so, after dinner, I let my boys run around in the backyard. I may have mentioned before that I am in the throes of potty training (still ), so my youngest spends most of his time pantsless while at home – and with his pot by his side. So while they chased and screamed and expelled the final breaths of their boy crazies into the evening air, my two year old’s potty was set by the backdoor, waiting for him.

While I was inside, I heard their screams and laughter die down and switch to more serious conversation. I peeked out. And luckily, I had my camera right there to catch the moment. This is what I caught almost word for word.

“Ok so. You have to sit on the potty when you gotta go. You know. When you gotta go pee or poop. You gotta put it in there, not on the floor or anything.”

“OH-TAY! On da poddy!!!”

(My two year old does a killer Buckwheat impression, let me tell you…)

“And then you gotta like PUSH it out. Ok? Like sit like this and really puuuuuuush!” (Insert illustrative grunt here. Note the red face. Academy award material, let me TELL you.)

“OH-TAAAY!!!!”

Some may argue that brothers develop very dynamic and complex relationships. Sure. Ok. Maybe. But there is one very simple fact about my sons’ relationship so far: whatever my 5 year old says, goes. Literally. Go get my light saber, go jump off that chair, go stick your finger in that red ant pile – if my five year old demands it, my two year old obeys.  And so, after his well thought out potty training lesson had concluded, the wise, 3 years experienced at managing his own bodily waste, older one stepped back to observe. He nodded encouragingly – but with authority. And my two-year took direction very well.

“TAH DAH!!! I did it! See!?!!?!!! See??? Oh-tay!! Yay! I did it!!!! HOOORRAAAAYYYY!!!”

At this point my 5 year old peered in to observe his brother’s work. He nodded his head in approval.

“Ok. Cool.

………..MOOOOOOMMMMMM!!!!! HE MADE A REALLY STINKY GROSS POOP THATS SHAPED LIKE A BANANA SO YOU BETTER COME GET IT AND FLUSH IT CAUSE ITS REALLY STINKY AND GROSS!!!!”

I set my camera down (I’m sure you are relieved to hear that I never had any intention of taking any further pictures of this process) and went out back. But before I rid that little potty of said stinky gross banana shaped poop, I stopped to gather my boys up in a big “squeeze the life out of them” (but hopefully nothing else) hug. Maybe its only a moment a mother would appreciate, but I was filled with pride and boatloads of love for both of my wonderful boys. The trained leading the trainee through life. Isn’t this what having a sibling is all about? Well, kind of anyway? I love my boys.

Are you a parent of a boy? I am. But you probably know that already. Yes, I have been blessed with two healthy, wonderful boys. One brown eyed, thoughtful Star Wars loving kindergartner and one blonde, 40 lb two year old who bubbles over every emotion and sentiment he feels. Good kids. No, they really are. But after almost 6 years as a mom, I feel its time I share with you a certain phenomenon that occurs with boys. Maybe you are already familiar with it. And maybe it happens with girls too (I’m not sure though since I am only in the business of boys). But still. Something happens with boys. And if you don’t understand what its about, the order of your semi put together world will explode into a million lego pieces in the blink of one sweet, long lashed, little boy’s eye.

So yeah. Boys? They get crazy.

No, I mean it.

And I don’t think this kind of “crazy” is a bad thing really, its just some sort of natural occurrence that seems part of their make-up. Beneath the surface of every little boy, nestled within their gears and cogs and built in tendency to recreate bodily functions, there lies a significantly sized reservoir of craziness. And everyday, slowly but surely, it fills right up. And if you don’t get their shoes on, unlock the door and herd those boys right on out and into the light, the crazy will top up and spill out, leaving in its wake the remnants of your living room in unexpected, like a mac truck hit it, tore up shambles.

So everyday I make time and space for the crazy. Like two cute, smiley eyed pressure cookers, I make sure I tap it from both of them. Get that crazy out, OUT, I say. Whether its running in circles or screaming you can’t catch me and nanny nanny boo boos or riding bikes as fast as they can up and down the sidewalk or playing hide and seek at the playground – the result is the same. The crazies get tapped. We can return back inside. They can sit still in their seats. Consuming dinner quietly and carefully. Homework can get done. Peace in the land. The universe returns back into its previous state of (sorta, kinda, if you squint with one eye and don’t look at my kitchen floors) order.

And my boys are certainly self aware about it too.

“Mom, are we going to the park to get my crazies out?”

“You got it.”

“Ok.”

And they know. As soon as they get out of the car, they tear off: yelling, jumping, leaping, spinning, rolling, tagging, screaming, laughing until they finally jog back to me and rest their heads on my hip, almost as if to say “Thanks. I’m good now.”

And they are. My boys are good. And the crazies are good. Its just my job as mommy to know when they need out. Its just my job to know how to manage the wonderful physicality of boys which will eventually be focused into something (hopefully, please make it be) productive. But for now, let them leap. And for now, I’ll do what we can to make sure its just not off my couch.

*********

I wrote this post last night, sitting in my peaceful living room after having tucked my two exhausted boys in for the evening. I saved it as a draft and went to bed. This morning, I woke up to read the news on Twitter that a fellow blogger, Heather Spohr, had lost her daughter over night. I met Heather briefly at BlogHer last year and have followed her blog about her beautiful daughter Maddie ever since. Sure, I can’t say I am a personal friend. And yet this news has utterly broken my heart today. I simply can not imagine the horrible, breath-sucking, searingly painful void the loss of her daughter has left. As any mother does, I think about the quirky little wants and needs our kids have… gone. I think about the sounds they make… gone. Their smell. Their laugh. The weight of them. The light they shine into every crack of a room. Just gone.

And so, as I post today about the outrageous, excessive amount of life my children have, I want to leave you honoring the life that all of our children have. What beautiful, impossible to contain, joyous gifts they are.

Please send thoughts and prayers of peace and love to Heather and her family right now. While her blog has been overwhelmed by visitors and may not always load for you, please visit A Mom Two Boys for more information. And please consider donating to Maddie’s March of Dimes fund to honor her very short life. Thank you.

I am guessing that by now you are fairly familiar with my perspective as a liberal mom. Well, how about a father’s perspective? What is it like to be a liberal father raising children today? Wouldn’t you know it, my husband just happens to be a liberal father. So I sat him down tonight and asked him what his thoughts were on freedom of speech, equality, stereotypes about white men and the future of the Supreme Court. Come see what he has to say, his answers may surprise you.

Now to give you some background about my husband, he is a 6 ft, 4” white college athletics coach. He grew up in a privileged town in Connecticut; he just completed his MBA and might be one of the smartest people I know. We’ll call him B. for the sake of this interview.

Caroline: As a liberal father, what issues are most important to you?

B: I am pretty straightforward about my values. I believe in civil rights, civil liberties, freedom of speech and every citizen having an equal opportunity to succeed.

C: And what about how your values relate to raising our children?

B: Well, our sons are part of a privileged class as two white males. I just hope I can raise them to have the same values I do.

C: So what about being a white male? What are your thoughts on affirmative action and our son’s future’s as white males?

B: It’s a topic I struggle with. I mean, why am I the bad guy? I know my race and gender give me a certain privilege but I wrestle with legislated equality sometimes. I realize sometimes we have to manufacture equal opportunity – and I get it – but I’ll admit that I struggle with this issue.

C: What have been some challenges for you as a liberal father?

B: I think I am most frustrated with the assumptions people make about me. I am a white, male coach – stereotypes are immediately drawn up. I mean, come on, even on the most progressive college campus, the Athletic department is assumed to be the last conservative bastion. As a result, comments are made around me since folks may presume I may have a certain value system which I don’t.

C: So how do you deal with that?

B: If I am at work and someone says something that I disagree with, I usually walk away or say nothing. I’ve got work to do and I am not going to start something then, but my silence usually clues them in. If I am outside of a work environment though, I do usually say something or try to start a constructive conversation about the topic. I make no apologies for my politics, take them or leave them.

C: With the new administration, what is the most important issue for you as a liberal father?

B: Apart from the obvious issues of establishing economic and global security for this country (and in turn, for our family), the appointment of the next Supreme Court justices is an extremely important issue for me. The current liberal appointments are not getting any younger. Whoever Obama chooses will leave a lasting impression on this country – probably longer than his own administration will. Do you know what kind of Supreme Court justices I want in there next?

C (smiling because I already know – and love – this answer): Tell me.

B: I want a purple haired, pierced nosed, extremely bright, straight talking lesbian from Northampton, Massachusetts appointed next. In fact, I want three of them in there!

I paused here to give him a big ol’ kiss. I love this guy.

C: Ok well gay adoption is illegal here in Florida. And you’ve heard all the threats about how legalizing gay marriage would ruin our marriage. What are your thoughts as a liberal father?

B: What in the world does my marriage have to do with two gay individuals who decide to be married? The success or failure of our marriage is strictly our responsibility. I have yet to hear one good cognizant argument against gay marriage. It is an equal rights issue that needs to be granted finally. If my sons grow up and decide that they want to love and marry another man, that is their right and I think it should be recognized, supported and protected.

C: Any final thoughts about being a liberal dad?

B: Florida is an interesting place. As far as I can tell in our area, I would say that being a liberal father is not particularly common. One morning a few days after the election, I was sitting at a red light. I mean, here I am, a white guy, with my kid in his car seat, on the way to kindergarten drop off with an HRC and Obama sticker on my bumper. I just don’t see that too often around here. All of the sudden, a guy in the car next to me (with his own collection of Obama stickers) started waving and honking at me, giving me the thumbs up. I saw that he too had kids in car seats in his backseat. I think it was a unique moment to see another guy like me so fired about this election. It was an interesting moment for me.

Cross posted at Type A Moms.

If you have small children and you are potty training, perhaps even trying to explain the normalcy of bowel movements, it’s likely then that you have the book “Everyone Poops”. While it guarantees gales of giggles with every read, it also teaches children that everyone and every living thing, well, poops.

It’s really no big deal, right?

Of course with two boys it is no surprise that “Everyone Poops” is a bedtime favorite around here. However. My husband has brought this book to life a bit, and I am sure he is not the only husband who has. My husband likes to add certain sound effects while reading “Everyone Poops”. I have never made said sound effects while reading it myself (yeah, I’m such a lady) but thats ok. My boys will make the sounds for me. With sprays of spit and rattling raspberries, all three of them have become very talented at poop sounds while hopefully learning that yes, in fact, everyone poops. Maybe the youngest will finally be inspired enough to someday put his poop in the potty. Maybe.

In the meantime, here is a quick video I made of my husband and the example he has set for our children with the book ”Everyone Poops”. Never underestimate what complexities a father can pass on to his children.

Enjoy.

This is a post for parents. For mothers and fathers whose lives have done an entire 180 and have landed *splat* face down on the sidewalk since they have had children. After five years of parenting, I consider myself entirely too enlightened about one key factor: the you, the “you” you knew before your kids were left in a bundle on your doorstep, will become a scarce, mythical beast, read only about in fairy tales, lest you corner that old “you”, wrastle it to the ground and trap it in a place you can access on a daily basis.

What am I on about? Parents know. Its the days of wearing old t-shirts because your breasts are leaking constantly. Its cutting your hair because you are tired of having it yanked out a strand at a time. Its crushed crackers in a diaper bag, while all the cute bags slowly fade out of style in your closet. Its Friday nights asleep on the couch while a well intentioned DVD plays in the background. Its the groundhog days filled with time outs, thrown applesauce, nails down the chalk board screams, flushed toys and poopy diaper wrestling. It’s considering your annual trip to your OBGYN “a day out”. It’s never having a private moment in the bathroom. Ever.

Please. To all my brothers and sisters in the trenches of parenthood. Take a look around. When was the last time you went on a date with your partner? When was the last time you wore something ”dry clean only”? When was the last time you left the house without diapers, snacks, sippy cups, and an outift change? When was the last time you slept somewhere away from your children and then – gasp - allowed yourself to sleep in past 7am?

It is so very important to remember what makes you happy. Yes, yes. Your happy child makes you happy. So does 8pm when they are (God willing) in bed finally. But what makes YOU tick? Before kids. Did you like to read? (And I don’t mean board books.) Did you have a hobby? Did you see friends often? Did you exercise? Did you have actual leisure time?

Did you?

Do you have any of that stuff now? No??? Go find it. Quick. Hire a sitter, even if it costs money. Figure out a girls night out. Have a friend take the kids for an afternoon. Check the guilt at the door and do something for YOURSELF.

Because if you don’t, you will truly lose yourself and your mind. You will forget who you are. You will actually forget what you truly LIKE to do. All of the sudden, ALL that you know about yourself is being… well… a parent. Take away the kids, and suddenly there is nothing left. Your identity is simply… a mom. Or a dad.

And it can happen so quickly. You’re there and then *POOF*, suddenly, you’re gone.

No disrespect of course. Being a parent is an incredible and, yes, noble job. It is an honorable identity to assume, and every parent should claim that title with pride. As my aunt always reminds me, parenting it the hardest job there is. Yeah, you bet your animal crackers it is. And THAT’S exactly why its so easy to loose yourself. There is so much to do while parenting that when you forget about the “you” stuff, the “kid” stuff seeps in and fills in all the cracks. There is always a sippy cup to fill, a puzzle to make, and a nose – or bum – to wipe. Just let someone else do it once in awhile, that’s all. It will still be there when you get back. No one will take the title of “mom” or “dad” away from you. Just be your first name, the name you had before “mom” or “dad”, once and awhile.

Have you still not shaken your parental guilt to consider more time for yourself? Don’t forget that when you are happier, you are a happier – and therefore better – parent. And then theres the whole “absence makes the heart grow fonder” thing. When you take some time away, you do miss your kids. And upon your return, you and your partner will actually fight for the chance to change a poopy diaper. Seriously, it happens.

And I know the tough times of parenting are fleeting. I am betting my wiser readers who have been parents longer than I have are pleading to me “Oh but enjoy these tough days. Enjoy your child before he grows up. They will be gone in an instant!”

Sadly, I know that. And I fear that. Everyday I bring my 5 year old home from school and I hold him tight tight tight because I can literally feel his mind and body growing in my arms. But that is also my point. They DO grow up so damn fast. And then in an instant, they are off to college. Where does that leave you? If your child went to college today (forget that he or she is a 2 year old toddler) – who would you be right now? How would you identify yourself? What kind of fun would you have with your spouse? Do you know? You need to know. Think about it.

Now please do not assume I actually have this figured out. (Snort.) Honestly? I am writing this post while deeply in the trenches of an extraordinarily all consuming phase of parenting. My husband is just about to begin his season and that will require him to work six days a week, working as late as 10pm. But in the midst of this time, while I raise these wonderful but tough kids of mine and my husband works so that I can take care of these wonderful but tough kids of ours, I am trying to keep track of myself. For instance, I write when I have any time, from my home, with the kids here next to me. While multi-tasking this mommy stuff, I am hoping to piece together some clue so I can be a better (potentially paid) writer “when I grow up”. And I have started running. Insane, right? But I’m into it (I’ll even go before my husband leaves for work) and now dream of finding some way to have my kids watched so I can run a 5K.

Granted, I keep reminding myself to keep my expectations reasonable. Diaper changing, referreeing the rules of sharing and helping with homework is just what I do for now. But dreaming, and clinging stubbornly onto what truly makes me tick, does allow me to be more than just “Mom” - but “Caroline” too.

The picture posted above is of me with my boys. It was taken about a year and a half ago and might be titled “Me as Mommy”. It is one of my favorites as I am caught in a very typical, absolutely wonderful, however all consuming parenting moment.