Entries Tagged 'Growing up' ↓

We are two months past Christmas and in the meantime, my six year old has been losing teeth and growing them back in faster than I can start weeping “I remember when you were just a drooling, teething, gumming mess!” And thanks to all the pasteled cardboard bunnies decking the halls of my local Target, I have been reminded that Easter is right around the corner. So what does this mean?

A whole lot of lying to my kid.

Why?

Because within a span of a few months, I will have told my kid that yes, one more mysterious magical being will creep into our home and leave him things.

Santa.

How does he get in?  The air vents? Why can’t we hear him? Do you promise he doesn’t come into my room?

The Tooth Fairy.

How big is she? Is she like Tinkerbell? Can she fly? How does she carry all this money and what does she do with all the teeth?

The Easter Bunny.

Does he lay these eggs? Does he like to eat plastic grass? Where does he come from? Why do I get jelly beans? What would the Tooth Fairy say?

And I come up with fascinating, complex responses to each of his questions. This year, I even managed to have the Tooth Fairy be in cahoots with Santa. If he does a good job brushing his teeth, she’ll let Santa know. His eyes were wide, considering all of this, hoping his rep remained in good standing for all of these magical home invaders.

And yet, those wondrous tales I weave? Lies. All of them.

Here I am trying to teach my six year old facts about the world. At school, he learns about gravity, liquids, solids, what floats, what sinks, where his nation’s capitol is and that Abraham Lincoln was our the 16th president. He helps me bake and bring his dishes back to the sink. He is learning responsibility and asks me questions about current events on the news. He is learning and processing and showing brief glimmers of (…I can hardly bare to consider it…) adulthood.

And then here I come along and throw in fat men squeezing into vents in our house (no “stranger danger” to worry about hon, I promise) and fairies flitting about dropping change and bunnies hopping through our home with an odd fetish for plastic grass.

It just feels a little… off.

But I try to back up and think of the six year old world I experienced some 30 odd years prior. I remember gleefully celebrating everything magical, fantastical and far from realistic. As fast as I learned about how serious and strange our world actually was, the hope of magic and fairies and gifts being left in the dead of night if I was a good girl absolutely appealed.

Because at six years old, magic still makes a lot of sense. Santa is about as real as some guy named Abraham Lincoln anyway. So let’s go with it.

But the guilt remains. I can’t help but feel like I’m lying. As much as he seems to enjoy these silly traditions…

Ok, wait. I’m lying again. He went through a faze at about 4 years old when the concept of some strange man coming into our home on Christmas Eve seemed more frightening than any spook left behind from Halloween. I promised he didn’t have to sit on his knee. I promised he wouldn’t go into his room. I promised that I was right down the hall. Yay for Christmas, isn’t this fun?

That has since passed. But during it all, I could not help but question why I had to shove this strange myth down his throat. Believe in Santa, damn it. After all, I believed – so YOU must too! Like some screwy rite of passage, you better be good for goodness sake.

And what will happen when my six year old learns about my litany of lies after all these years? Because what is all of this for? So that he can grasp onto some hope of magic only to have it dashed? I worry he will be so disappointed. Because he is wound deep into the tradition of it all now. He adores it all and takes it very seriously. I cringe a little while he solemnly places carrots for our reindeer in our driveway, making sure they are well fed for all their work. And then runs his pajama-ed feet back inside to find NORAD online and track Santa’s progress.

All of it is still so believable.

He believes because the barometer of all that is real and safe and ok  – that would be yours truly, Mommy -  said so.

Gawd, I am such a liar.

But there have been times where I have hinted that the magic isn’t there. I have forgotten to fill the advent calendar only to have him ask me to fill it, but could I do it when he’s not looking? He wants that candy to magically appear. And I have left the tooth fairy writing paper out, and the pen I used. He overlooks it. Maybe he didn’t connect the dots – or maybe he doesn’t want to.

I think I was close to ten years old before I was 100% sure there was no Santa. I held on for as long as I possibly could. I kept the faith, thinking the non-believers were totally losing out while I stubbornly bought into every last drop of Christmas magic. I knew that Santa and the Eater Bunny’s handwriting looked an awful lot like my parents. But I didn’t care. There were a lot of things we couldn’t explain, let’s just believe the magic is real.

And I think I still have to.

I need create magic for as long as he wants it. Because there is something special about believing. It fosters wonder and hope and possibility in their imaginations. If there is a tooth fairy hovering over my head, slipping change under my pillow, well anything seems possible, right?

Yeah.

Well, I hope you’ve enjoyed how I rationalize my lies. Yes, saying there is a Santa means my child will have a fantastic imagination. Awesome.

But I will continue with these traditions and routines. They are woven into our culture. Watching them believe brings us back to a time when we believed. And that feels ok and fun and, who cares, everyone enjoys it. So I’m ok with that.

But when my six year old puts it together that my handwriting is the same as Santa’s and the Tooth Fairy’s and the Easter Bunny’s, when he comes home telling me what they are all insisting on the playground, when he mourns the fact that all of this magic is just, you’ve got to be kidding me, his mom… well. I’ll be back on here. Oozing with guilt and parental self doubt.

Until then, I am wondering if the Easter Bunny should leave a new toothbrush too – a little something from his “cuz” the Tooth Fairy. With all of those anticipated jelly bellies, the Easter Bunny might need to encourage a little dental care too. Yep, let’s weave some guilt into my tale of lies. It just might work.

It’s Groundhog day! It’s my holiday. Cheers, a toast to me.

Well, its my holiday in the Groundhog Day MOVIE sense of the holiday. Do you remember that movie? With Bill Murray? From about 15ish years ago? I remember going to that movie with an old boyfriend. I thought the movie was kind of lame at the time. So did he. I don’t think I ever thought about that movie again. At least not for a long while.

However. Years later, this holiday – in the sense that it is in the movie – has become my day. And I am sure you can guess why. Or why any mother home with her kids might relate. Stuck in my own personal Groundhog Day, I wash the same damn dishes every day, I yell the same demands of “stop beating your brother on the head with a baseball bat” about the same time everyday, I ask daily that they eat their carrots, and pee in the potty, and pick up their underwear off the ground, and not slosh every drop of bathwater onto the floor, and stop jumping on the bed, and WIPE for God’s sake, and yes you DO need a nap, and look both ways. Its always the same. THE SAME. Everyday.

In some ways there is a certain comfort in it all. I know there is for my children. By nature, kids require adults to create predictable rhythms and army issue schedules which we can set our watches to. They need that routine. And parents abide. To a child, in an ever-changing world, that schedule is wholly welcome and needed and comforting. And who am I kidding – the guarantee that I will see my 6 year old at 3:45 everyday is assuring and wonderful and something I look forward to daily.

But while I look forward to 3:45pm, to see him bopping up to my car with his backpack on, it always seems that this day could be the same as the last or the day before or the next day coming. The same buses pass me on the way to school, the same cars line up and sit next to me in the car line, the same fights happen in the backseat on the way home.

Its Groundhog day. Everyday.

Ugh, so… do I really need to make a disclaimer here? And say that while this painfully predictable same same saaaame-ness in my daily schedule can be extraordinarily tedious… and even though I admit to that plainly here… even so, I do truly love being here for my children. Do I need to say that? I hope not. I hope it is clear that I cherish my time with my boys. Just because my job is mind numbing and exhausting, doesn’t mean I don’t love it. I know. It makes perfect sense.

But oh once just to throw nap schedules to the wind, to bust out of the car line, to not have dinner ready at 6pm. My children would be better off for some spontaneity now and then. Which we try to do. And succeed at now and again. But I will tell you this. While the crazy fun is exciting initially, they don’t do so well with unpredictability long term. And they are much easier to parent if they know what’s happening next. So the routine is a must. It allows them to grow, to flourish and to trust that their world around them is still the same and that dinner will be ready by 6pm, I promise.

But still. Happy Groundhog Day to me.

And if you forget to wish me a happy one today, well that’s ok.

You can always do it tomorrow.

So. I’m going to finally come out about it. I’ve been quiet for a long time figuring it was no matter, quite sure I’d lose some street cred for saying so anyway. But since I can never keep my trap shut for long… here it goes…

I’m into “Twilight”.

I’ve read the books. I own the movie. I play the soundtrack in the school car-line. And I’m going to “New Moon” as soon as it’s released and I can find a group of Twilight Moms to go with me.

Oh wait. Am I a Twilight Mom now?

And now I see Twilight Mom’s bristle everywhere. Is there anything WRONG with being a Twilight Mom? What am I really trying to say, huh? …What, am I like BETTER than Twilight Moms because I’ve been all closeted and snobby, claiming I’m not INTO teenage vampire books?

Yeah, no. Well. I just. I never thought I’d get into it. Before I even considered dipping my toe into the Twilight series, I joked it off sneering that “Twilight” simply HAD to suck without starring the two Coreys. (Yes, this was my sorry attempt at a humorous reference to the movie “The Lost Boys” which – ironically – I adored as a 14 year old angsty kid).

But then I picked up “Twilight” at an airport to read on the plane. I was indifferent about finally jumping in. *Shrug* it was something to do for three hours. Not expecting to really like it. But of course, I did. A lot. And I surprised myself. And now I just don’t know where that leaves me exactly.

I mean what IS IT about these books anyway?

The series follows the lives of kids half my age while re-introducing a familiar vampire premise (“vampire wants woman he can’t have”) that is as old as Edward himself (maybe older). And further, they are wrestling with moody, predictable teenage stuff that really should be soooo “1987″ for someone like me. AND. I have to say. The writing is only fine, not great, not unpublishable, but nothing to blow your socks off either. Just…eh… fine.

So what is it? Why was I so hooked on “New Moon” that I literally could not put it down for the entire 24 hour period it took to read? I actually found myself cooking, cleaning, *insert daily chore here* and reading at the same time. I would mumble that I’d be right back to my husband and steal away to read another chapter in my bathroom a secluded section of the house.

How could I be THAT drawn in?

Well, let me ask you another question which may answer the first question.

Do you know what really attracts me to this series? Yes, sure, the fantasy but I’ll get back to that point in a minute. And no, not Edward particularly either (cough, yeah RIGHT, cough) or Jacob (I’m old enough to be his mother, for the love of Pete…). Its the author, Stephanie Meyers, who has drawn me in.

Watch this interview of her. I honestly couldn’t believe my ears. Pay attention to the first portion of the interview which discusses how she began writing this book series. You should understand right away why I can relate.

She had never written a book before. She was just a stay at home mom. With three boys. Simply trying to get out the door everyday to swim lessons. And she took a kernel of an idea from a dream she had and turned it into all of this. She wrote 10 pages a day from her computer in her kitchen, while her children climbed over her lap and Blue Clues blasted on the television. A mother with no real experience, a mother who didn’t follow any of the rules, a mother who just loved to write made this entire Twilight thing happen practically over night.

Wow.

Do you understand how deeply that inspires me? That element alone has pulled me right in. How couldn’t I leap? While I also type away on my laptop within a swirling windstorm of boy activity and the theme of Wonder Pets as my Morningside Mom soundtrack, she has shown me the potential of what I could do as a writer. That maybe somehow its out there, within reach, if I do as she did and write, write, write. I’m awed and inspired, I tell you.

But also, let me get back to the fantasy part of what also pulls me (and so many other readers) in. Stephanie wrote this tale from her little corner of everyday life. Stephanie, like many women my age, has already met her life partner and is now living in the practical reality of “happily ever after”. I’m there too. Generally, we know how our lives will play out for the most part. Fairy tales are replaced by reading bank statements and report cards. Fantasy is saving up for a family trip to Myrtle Beach. The dreams and hopes and “what ifs” of every teen-aged girl are long past. And that’s ok. It’s called being a grown up.

But sometimes we miss the wonder and possibility of it all. It was kind of fun to be lost in some of that girly, dreamy crap. As a teen, such fantasies came as naturally to me as breathing. As a thirty six year old, maybe I need a book or four to prod me along a bit.

So Stephanie has dreamed up an escape that relates to teens but pulls Twilight Moms back to a time when the thrill of romance or possibility of adventure was more likely than your kids eating their vegetables. Its just an innocent, indulgent escape really. And for some of us, Twilight leaves us breathless, giggling, teenaged and transported. Caught in a place where the perfect writing technique doesn’t matter but a good heady story does. Escape. Possibility. Magic. Fralalala, Edward, and I don’t care.

And thus I have justified my attraction to a 17 year old vampire.

But let me also point out my feminist tendencies shift in their chairs a bit over this whole series. So excuse this sidebar while I say my piece. The whole “tracking a woman” (done by either wolf or vampire), coming after her, wanting her to such an obsessive degree, being unable to help themselves and too strong for their own good, sometimes hurting her even though they “love” her…. ugh. And she choosing to fall for a man who could hurt and kill her, putting her life second to “love”… well. Eh. The hunter versus the prey thing bugs me here. It just does. And I will leave it at that.

So.

Anyone else want to see “New Moon” with me next weekend?

If you knew me in the mid 80s, you would have known I was a die hard Michael Jackson fan.

Ok, well not maybe right away. I was extraordinarily awkward and hardly drew attention to myself in public. I had these horrid tinted glasses in big brown frames, a blond mop of usually unbrushed hair and teeth too big for my face. I was shy, I was insecure, I seemed made of glass and ready to shatter if a teacher called on me in 5th grade. I had friends of course, but usually I just hoped my catholic school uniform would act as camouflage, and I could just melt into the background.

So shouting to the world for all to hear that I was a Michael Jackson fan was extremely unlikely in those years.

But if you happened upon me back at home, downstairs in the security of my basement or up in my kitty postered bedroom – you would know that I adored Michael Jackson. Why? You’d hear why. My Thriller tape seemed perpetually on repeat on one of those small cassette tape players (you know the rectangle shaped ones with one speaker and big chunky buttons that you had to really push down on). I had his posters up too, next to the kitties. I had pins on my jacket. I had worn copies of special edition People and Life magazines – Michael pictures splashed on every page. I even had a glove. It didn’t have sequins, it was picked up at the the Goodwill store down the road, but it was white and I wore it. Often.

I also spent my days perfecting the Michael Jackson “Billie Jean” dance. I think I even had a hat. The high water pants were (unfortunately) not hard to come by, I wore those too. With white socks. And penny loafers.

And, lost in the fog of my 10 year old imagination, I used to day dream Michael Jackson’s limo would happen to be driving by on a dark and stormy evening when suddenly, right in front of my home, it would break down. Oh no! He would need to call a mechanic! Well, he’d run right up to my house and ring the doorbell – sequins glittering in the rain. And I would answer – tinted glasses, blond mop of hair and all. And while we waited for the tow truck, we’d roll up the carpet and he’d show me how to perfect that dance in the middle of my living room. And he’d be stunned by my talent. Oh yes he would be.

(Lordy, it pains me to write this. How mortifying. To the core, these memories make me criiinge and wish to camouflage myself in my catholic school uniform once again. But. I’m afraid it’s true. All of it.)

A few days ago we learned Michael Jackson had passed away. No doubt, the news was shocking. And I have been going into my MP3 archives and even blipping some favs to play in his honor. He was a fantastic performer. He set the bar for pop music stardom. Few, if any, have met the standard of being “as big as Michael Jackson” – or at least as big he was during those years in the 80s. A true phenomenon.

But here’s the strange thing. I was not all that blown away when he passed. And I have been trying to figure out why. He clearly made a very strong impression on me growing up. So why am I not shedding any tears and lighting a candle? Or something?

I think it’s because many of us had already lost him years ago. Adulthood left him confused and unsure. Fame swallowed him. Fans and stardom sent him running into seclusion. Being told he was so fabulous for so long clearly affected him. He turned inward, changed himself physically, he became consumed in reclaiming the childhood he never had – and was simply lost. A lost boy, like Peter Pan. In Neverland. Dulling himself with painkillers, bringing children into his world, determined to stop time. Hoping to never grow up. That’s what he wanted for himself. No doubt about it.

We lost Michael Jackson – the Thriller dancing, glove wearing, hee-hee singing, sidewalk lighting, glitter and magic making Michael Jackson that we all fell in love with – long LONG ago. And I had already said good-bye well before he actually passed away.

I think what has happened to him is almost a syndrome of stardom I think our culture needs to consider very carefully. I think many celebrities have come to the brink of losing themselves this way. Watching a recent Britney Spears special, I remember saying “she’s turning into another Michael Jackson”. Sure, she’s not sleeping in oxygen tents and playing with little kids. But she is just as isolated. She has nothing real around her. She seems just as lost.

So, my point here is that yes, I am certainly mourning Michael Jackson. But I don’t think the person that was Michael Jackson in recent years was the same person in the days of Thriller and sparkly socks. How could he be? I just know I wouldn’t have wanted his limo stopping in front of my house these days.

Because as much as he was a fabulous performer once upon a time, in my heart I have to wonder if he abused those children.  Nothing was proven but… this man was just not right. Whether it was fame, wealth or some emotional psychosis -  this man was broken.

And you know what else? Secretly, I am somewhat relieved for him. I truly hope he is finally at peace now. I hope he has now found the Never Never Land he’d been searching for all along.

Rest in peace now Michael. And I will try to remember THIS Michael Jackson and all that he was as a performer.

Underpants. I want underpants. Dry ones specifically. I don’t ask for much, really. Just dry underpants ON my three year old.

We are in the midst of conquering another milestone here in the Morningside household (although, this one has been dragging on for awhile now): potty training. And we are really (I mean it this time) just about there. We’re rounding the last bend: all of us cheering wildly behind my three year old, toddling ahead with his potty in tow. At the end of the finish line, a wonderful prize awaits… dry – wonderfully dry – underpants.

Yup, my kid knows all about where to put his business when he needs to go. And he is certainly a pro when pants-less. But alas, we cannot go through life pants-less (much to the dismay of every boy in this household). However, as soon as I put him in underpants, his training switches off and his “diaper brain” switches on. He goes right in them with not a care in the world. Ho hum. Pee. Poop. Whatever.

So while we wait for him to piece it all together, those underpants are staying on. As “used” pairs are peeled off and new pairs are pulled on throughout the day, we bait him with special treats and put on one heck of a show when he happens to get it right.

I think we went through nine pairs yesterday. Today? We’re on our fourth pair. But I haven’t checked since I started typing this. We may be onto pair number five.

Yesterday my husband mentioned my last post. And while he is also feeling a little misty about our babies growing up, he got all “glass is half full” on me. He pointed out just how CLOSE we are to finally being diaper free. He makes a fantastic point. I am trying to picture life without the regular costs of pull ups, the mess of bodily functions and finding them just about… everywhere. The smells, the squishes, the sanitation issues, the “whoops mama I made a stake (mistake)!”

We are SO close. The end is in sight. I can see dry underpants flapping their reward in the breeze at the finish line. Until then, I will keep washing basket fulls of dirtied little boy skivvies that need a super soapy hot water cycle asap. But. I’m hopeful.

*Sigh*

…Dry underpants.

Oh but guess what? I just checked. Underpants pair #4 are good to go. No change needed. So close I tell you. SO CLOSE.

There are certain moments in a parent’s life when they realize they don’t have babies in their homes anymore. For example, when I stopped breastfeeding, or the day I packed away the bottles for the last time, or signed my youngest up for school in the fall – I had that heart stopping, panicked realization that my babies were grown. In those moments I moan “they were right” – these years do go by too fast. And I convince myself that maybe I never appreciated their pudgy, crawling, dimpled, mouthing, cooing, drooling, cuteness enough when I had the chance.

We had another one of those moments on Monday. My three year old has finally graduated from his crib to a big boy bed.

There goes that breaking news alert scrolling across the bottom of my heart: You don’t have babies any more. You don’t have babies anymore. You don’t have babies anymore.

But it was time. It was beyond time. I have always stood by the idea that you keep your toddler in his crib until you absolutely MUST move them. Call it baby jail and I am the mommy warden but keeping my child from wandering at bedtime simply meant an extra serving of sanity for me. Thanks. I’ll take that. With a twist of lemon.

And since he never climbed, he stayed put.

Well, he never climbed until last week when I found him (after a particularly long nap time battle) perched large and squawking, like a toddler sized bird, on the railing of his crib. He was holding on for dear life and, as I lunged for him, I won’t forget the crazed look of both beaming pride and sheer panic on his face.

So that was it. No matter how much I knew his fading nap time would be put at risk with an escapable big boy bed, the crib had to go. And as we dismantled it, we saw where the joints had weakened, where 40 lbs of jumping child had just about brought that crib to its knees.

But as we dismantled it, as we unscrewed bolts, pulled out the baby mattress, untied the bumper and folded up the crib skirt, I could not believe that we had come to a time where this crib would not be needed in our household any longer. I remember, as very green soon to be parents, when we pulled it out of it’s box for the first time and pieced it together. I remember my husband grumbling about the uselessness of an Alan wrench while I sat by his side, pregnant and ready to bust. And this past Monday, my husband gave the same speech about the Alan wrenches while I slid each crib piece out into the hallway. It’s the end of an era.

Next came piecing together the big boy bed – which is the top bunk version of my six year old’s bed. We unwrapped the brand new mattress (which just seemed FAR too big for my youngest). I pulled the load of  twin bed sheets out of the dryer and stared at them. They were good for a little boy’s bed: basic blue stripes. Certainly not the cutely patterned baby sheets of the past.

Once we were done (and had resigned ourselves to all that comes with having a big boy bed), we let our three year old have at it. He climbed up with glee, he whooped and hollered. He celebrated with some good old fashioned jumping while my 6 year old joined him across the room on his bed. Then he insisted that we tuck him in, the blankets right on up to his chin, with all of his favorite animals surrounding him. And he just lay there – smiling and satisfied. He knew he had arrived. He knew what a big moment this was for him.

And so bedtimes and nap times have been happening with success. He is sleeping well enough and enjoying the great expanse of a twin bed. Being a big boy, in a big bed, having just turned three, on the verge of potty training and starting school in the fall is still such a novelty for all of us. But like the novelty of this bed, we will grow accustomed to it all and move forward into the adventures that await us as a family of bright and engaged little boys – rather than a just a young family of babies. Onward.

This morning, I am trying to wrap my brain around the fact that I am a mother of a SIX  year old. I mean, think about it. SIX. Its mind boggling. This morning, my husband kept asking him if he wanted the keys to the car. Its not so unrealistic. That’s exactly what he will be doing 10 years from now. 10 years isn’t so far off. 10 years ago seems like yesterday. So does six years ago.

This is what happened six years ago today.

And now six is a long, wiry, collection of knees, elbows and goofy giggles. Six watches Sports Center and pours his own milk. Six reads chapter books and knows how to work his father’s iphone better than I do. Six does science projects about asteroids and tells me which exit to take off the highway. Six plays little league and slides into home base, or into bed, or slides into any spot he possibly can during his day. Six says things like “Mom, that is SO awesome” and “did you hear that fart?”

But, no matter how long and lanky he’s become, six has the amazing ability to fold himself into the exact same position he did as a baby in my arms. Six still needs snuggles. Six still thinks a kiss will fix anything that hurts. Six still falls asleep in his car seat after a busy day. Six is still my baby boy.

Or at least I keep telling myself that.

Six.

Its simply mind boggling.

Happy birthday, wonderful boy of mine.

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.

I remember exactly where I was a year ago today. Brow sweaty and tense with insecurity, I was hunched over my old (now passed on) “shitty shitty bang bang ” PC. While I glared at that massive, yellowed monitor, my mind was overwhelmed with writing that simply needed out. I remember rethinking, questioning and toiling over that first blog post. (Groan.) Word by word, out it came. And then the transition moment arrived: I clicked publish. And it was done. My Morningside Mom weblog was born.

It was a girl, awkward and new. Posts stumbled over themselves, too long, too weird, falling flat on their face. She tried to grasp HTML and SEO concepts, but they slipped through her tiny fingers, infuriating her. But little by little, my girl got stronger. Every post became a little more confident. She even found her voice along the way and does a fairly decent job at using her words nicely. She is growing up.

And now look at her. Publishing posts without even a thought, actually entertaining folks in feed readers and jet-setting off to NYC with really nice people.

And one year old!

I am so proud. No I am. I never expected much from this whole thing. Simply a place to put my thoughts when all I did was “mommy” all day. Of course, I am more than a “mommy”. I love my children but a year ago today I felt it was high time I honored myself by speaking my mind a little more often. After all, before I was a mother I was a woman, a thinker, a leader, a wife, a sister, a kid, a women’s college grad, a political junkie, a hard worker, a talker and a friend. And this blog has allowed me to be all of these things once again while I “mommy” within the four walls of my home.

So Happy Birthday little one. You have so much more growing to do but what a change in one year.

Oh and both my blog and my readers should expect a birthday gift from me soon. An almost“grown up” blog deserves to actually look the part. I am working on updating and giving my girl a new look.

Stay posted – we’ll be able to tear the paper off this sucker and see what we got very soon.

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.