Thanks 2014, it's been nice to know ya!

Disclaimer:  Yes, this post will serve as our family Christmas card, a much-needed blog update, and the final blog post of the year. Yes, you can call it "lame", if you'd like. I prefer "efficient". And if you're a family member looking for our Christmas card and haven't read my blog before, check out the "Cast of Characters" page down to the right. I've given the girls all pseudonyms to ensure plausible deniability when they're older. But I'm sure you can figure it out.

2014 was a year of ups and downs, as they all tend to be. We worked. We played. We traveled a bit. But we are all healthy and together at the end of the year, so I call it an overall win. We truly do have much to be thankful for. As I've written before, we are rich. No, we don't have our dream house yet. No, we haven't won the lottery. But we have a comfortable snug home with heat that we can turn up in the winter. We have warm clothes to go play outside in. We have more food than we should probably eat. We have a high-quality and safe school to send our girls to. We have loving parents and siblings that live too far away. We have a loving family of close friends that live a bit nearer. We have friends and family scattered across the nation that pray for us, cheer us on, and bring smiles to our days. We are rich.

And the rest? Well, we're working on a little concept called "contentment".

The girls are just getting bigger and better every day:

HeyMama is 6. She loves to read, loves to do math, and says she wants to be a scientist when she grows up. And no, BestestHusband didn't tell her to say that. But he might be a bit proud... She started playing the piano, and is quite diligent about practicing. She gave a short concert of Christmas music at our friends' house on Christmas Day, and is anxious for lessons to start up again in the new year. She enjoys gymnastics more than ever, and can frequently be found hanging upside down or jumping from things. And she is the most perceptive, doting, and sweet big sister a baby sister could ever hope for. And she likes to talk. A lot. I'm still trying to find a way to bottle her energy. Or just find a mute button.

MeToo is 5. She loves to do whatever her older sister is doing. So she's into reading, math, and maybe being a scientist too. Or a unicorn trainer. Or a dance teacher. We might need to start dance lessons first... She is a child of wide-eyed wonder, finding magic in the most mundane of tasks. "Mama! Come look! I pooped a 7!" And she was right, it really did look like a 7. Other letters and shapes eventually followed. MeToo will interrupt dinner with, "Guess what! I'm having a dream inside my head RIGHT NOW!" She's full of fun ideas and whimsy. She's currently lobbying us to trade her to a neighboring family so she can have a brother.

LittleDebbie morphed into HurricaneDebbie, and is typically a Category 5. At 16 months old, she is already the strongest personality in the household, and that's really saying something... She has quickly learned to communicate her wishes, and this week has decided to do that via sentences:  "I need milk!", "I need Uppa!", "I need Daddy!" She has also learned quickly how to climb up to the top bunk, rock standing in the rocking chair, retrieve things from the middle of the dining room table, let herself out the door to outside, and undo an hour's worth of cleaning and organization in 2 minutes. According to BestestHusband, she is a living example of the Second Law of Thermodynamics. And she makes me want to drink. Good thing she's so dang charming and cute...

The dogs continue to add love, fur, and noise to our household. They have become skilled opportunists, seizing on the chance for a belly rub any time one of us sits or leans over to the floor. They even demand belly rubs from the girls. And you know what? It works. It's sweet to see them develop relationships with the girls, and see the girls take more responsibility in their care.

BestestHusband started a new job at a tech company downstairs from his previous job. What's a guy with a PhD in Chemical Engineering and a background in discovering oncology drugs doing working at a tech company? Something Very Different from what he did before. But he still has the same bike commute. (Some call being a one-car family being "cheap", again I like to call combining a commute and exercise as "efficient".) In his spare time he plays the role of SuperDad, stalks Boston real estate for our future house, tends a good-sized garden, makes out-of-this-world mexican sauces, and helps reign in the chaos that has become our household norm.

I'm still doing many of the same things as last year. I work per diem at local rehab hospitals a few days per week. I shepherd the girls to and from the bus stop. I try to keep up with a kamikaze toddler. I started running again this past year, mostly to improve my patience level. And I started baking sourdough bread. And at the end of the day, when the house has been destroyed by my kamikaze toddler and my patience has been destroyed by everyone else, I at least have something tasty to show for my time.

So if you're in the area, stop by for a slice of fresh bread and a glass of wine I'll be ready to pour. We have a guest bedroom, and plenty of mayhem to share. We are truly blessed by what we have, but are pretty much constantly exhausted by it. And we look forward to a new year of exhaustion, love, joy, tedium, exasperation, and blessings in 2015.

With love,
The Bundles Of Joy Family

Sleeping Through the Night

It's 4am. I'm awake. Little Debbie is not. In fact, she hasn't been awake since around 9:15pm. It's a bit odd, and disconcerting. I was awake 3 times with her last night. Tonight, she hasn't awoken yet. Yes, she's still breathing. I checked. And double-checked. And triple-checked.

That's the funny thing about a baby sleeping through the night. The first time it happens, you can't enjoy it. You're too worried that something's wrong. Certainly she should be awake by now, right? Certainly she should be hungry by now, right? The worry that something is wrong is greater than the relief of getting more sleep. Is she really still breathing? How about now? Still breathing? Still asleep?!?!

So why am I awake? Let's just say that there's an oversupply issue that I'm managing at the moment. My body thinks she should have eaten two or more meals by now, and is wondering what to do with all of that food. Again, the irony. I should be luxuriating in the extra rest time. But I can't. As usual, I'll go back to bed just in time to fall into a deep sleep before the alarm goes off. 

I'm not going to expect this to be a regular thing. Sure, Little Debbie's big and old enough that it's not out of the question. But I don't want to be disappointed when it doesn't happen. 

Addendum:
Immediately after writing this, I heard noise on the baby monitor. Sure enough, she woke up hungry at 4:30. And we were up until 5:30. Which allows a quick nap before the alarm goes off. I jinxed it. Oh well, I did sleep from 11pm until 4am, so 5 uninterrupted hours is nothing to sneeze at...

What Not To Do When You Encounter A Tantrum

Modern life ensures that we encounter all types of people when we're out-and-about in public. And, much to the dismay of some, that will occasionally include children. Sometimes those children will be well-behaved. Sometimes those children will not. And sometimes those children will be in the middle of an all-out tantrum. It has come to my attention in the past few weeks that people feel an urgent need to DO something when they encounter a tantrum. And most of those people do things that are actually counterproductive. So I thought that I'd create a quick cheat-sheet to share with those well-intentioned people who aren't sure what to do.

Let's start with what NOT to do:
1. Do NOT come over to inform the mother that her child is being annoying. I guarantee that she already knows this. Especially don't do this if the mother is pregnant with an additional child. Your chances are good that you'll end up with a bloody nose. A large belly may make her move slower, but carrying small children will give her a strong left hook. Just back away.
2. Do NOT ask the mother to "Do Something" about the screaming. If there was a magic switch to make it stop, she would have used it already.
3. Do NOT inform the mother that the tantrumming child is "in the way". For pete's sake, just walk around.  Get over yourself.
4. Do NOT offer the tantrumming child a cookie. This is the equivalent of giving someone an additional cash prize for robbing the bank. It's totally the wrong response. And may even encourage future repetitions of the current behavior. And see #1 about getting a bloody nose.
5. Do NOT offer the tantrumming child a sticker. See #4. You're not being helpful. You're just antagonizing the mother.

Here's what you CAN do:
1. DO IGNORE IT! Chances are good that the child's doing it for attention, or just experimenting with boundaries. Providing a visible response may encourage the child to tantrum more often, just for fun. Please, don't torment the mother any further. Just keep walking.

Ok, so some people are incapable of ignoring the situation, and really must DO something. It's their personality type, and they just can't help it. Ok, fine. Here are some other options:

2. DO give the mom a smile. You can even say, "Hang in there!" If you have no other reason to stop, just keep going. It's an interaction that might make her feel less judged. Being the mother of a public tantrummer can be a cringe-inducing situation to make even the most stalwart of disciplinarians doubt herself.
3. DO commiserate, only if appropriate. "Oh, my oldest was such a screamer. Ugh, she knew how to push my buttons. She mostly grew out of it." This is appropriate to say, if true. It also might give the mother a chance to chat if she really wants to demonstrate to her child that she's ignoring the situation. It also draws attention to the big picture, that children do grow out of it. In the moment, it can be difficult to remember this.
4. MAYBE consider a light-hearted compliment, if you can make it humorous. "Whew, she's got some lungs. I see American Idol in her future. Can I treat you to a set of earplugs in the meantime?" The mother might need a moment of levity. Or even just something to hear that people aren't judging her for having a lack of control over her child. And maybe she really would love some earplugs.
5. MAYBE offer the mother candy or a sticker OUT OF VIEW of the child. "Would this at all be helpful?" Let the mom decide what her child gets. It's likely that her parenting and discipline philosophy is different from yours. As much as you might want to help, it's best to let her handle the situation HER way. Because it's HER child.

So if you have childless friends, consider sharing this list with them. And if you do have children, tell me, what's missing from this list?

Dancing Queens

So I just realized it's been over a week since I last posted. Ooops, sorry. I'm gradually feeling better and better, which means I'm getting more and more ambitious about actually DOING things during the day. Things other than laying on the couch and moaning about nausea or taking marathon naps. Oh, don't worry, I still take naps and moan about nausea. But the naps are shorter and the nausea is mostly in the evenings. Like right now. But I still have dishes to clean up, and I'm too guilt-stricken to lay down on the couch before cleaning them, so I'm using this blog as a procrastination tool. Thanks for enabling me.

So our renewed up-and-about-ness means that the girls are happier and we spend more time in the car. They're good passengers, and better when I play music instead of my favorite NPR "chit-chat". A handful of months ago, I mourned the passing of my long-favored alt-rock station that was the soundtrack to my college and young-adult years. It was going off the air, to eventually be replaced by Something Else. I mourned it with a co-worker who was shocked to find someone else who still listened to it. Well, the pre-set is still there in my car. And while trying to find music for the girls the other day, we re-discovered it. It's now dance music. Like club dance music. Like the kind of music that you dress up in skimpy clothing for, wait in line for an hour in the cold with no coat on for, then drink a lot and gyrate on a sardine-like dance floor to. (I was always impressed at the young twentisomethings that manage this in a Boston winter. Just driving by them makes me cold...)

Anyway, my preschoolers love this music. They don't know anything about the skimpy dressing, cold-waiting, drinking and gyrating parts. They just hear the music and think it sounds "fun". 

So we drive the streets of Boston in our nondescript 2007 CRV, secretly harboring a traveling dance party. No line required, although admittance is reserved for an elite few...

Seriously though, now that the girls are starting to listen to what they hear on the TV and radio and start asking questions about what they hear, dance music isn't so bad. There aren't many words to it, it's mostly just synthesized rhythms and an occasional "melody". While I don't find it particularly edifying from a musical perspective, at least there aren't catchy lines for my girls to repeat. There are endless YouTube videos of very young children singing the provocative lyrics played on mainstream radio. This makes me cringe. The last thing I want to hear from my back seat are lyrics of seduction from the mouths of preschoolers. I've seen commentary on Facebook of little girls who love Rihanna at age 2 and can sing her songs. No offense to the lovely lady from Barbados, but I don't want my preschoolers singing about sexual relations with an abusive boyfriend. I don't really want it at any age, but I'll have less control over the matter when they're older. 

So we listen to dance music. Or CD's. Or occasionally, a bit of NPR. As long as they're not reporting in gory detail on deaths in the Middle East... I want to relish my control over their media exposure while I still can.

So the next time you pass a black CRV driven by a mom-ish looking person, imagine the backseat contains a pair of dancing queens, bobbing to the never-ending beat. (boom-ch-boom-ch-boom-ch-boom-ch...)

A Royal Celebration

Once upon a time, there was a little Princess named MeToo. Every year she grew fairer and smarter. On her third birthday, fair maidens from all over the land gathered to celebrate at a Princess Party. They wore puffy princess dresses, decorated tiaras with jewel stickers, painted masks, and decorated treasure chests. They found jewels hidden by an evil fairy to fill their treasure chests. They destroyed an evil piñata to get the treasures hidden inside. They feasted on treats, and a few healthy foods, too. They played with toys and balloons. And when the party was over, they cried as they put on their coats and went home.

But before the party, royal preparations had the household abuzz and aflutter. Royal family flew in from Minnesota and Alaska. Gifts were purchased. Party supplies arrived in the mail. And the royal birthday cake was made. The fragility and secrecy of the Princess' cake required that it be made the night before the party. So, working late into the night, the royal cake decorator frosted, cut, constructed, and assembled the cake. And, long after the stroke of midnight, the long-awaited Princess Cake was complete. 

Modeled after the castle Neuschwanstein, it was similarly structurally unsound and designed by a crazy person. 

Front view.

Side/back view.

View of the tower that fell and shattered while taking pictures seen above.

The exhausted royal cake decorator assumed that more castle damage could occur overnight, and left the repairs for the morning. Amazingly enough, no further damage occurred, and the repairs were simple and quick. (and cleanup was rather tasty.) 

And the Princess loved her cake, and everyone lived happily ever after.

The End.

Marabelle's Trip to the Salon

There are perils to being the mother of girls. One of them reared its ugly head of hair this past week: doll hair. Unless it’s solid and plastic, it must be dealt with on a regular basis. Now, if your daughter is old enough and likes playing beauty parlor, you might be able to delegate the job of dolly stylist. Alas, neither of those situations applies to my household right now. 

So Marabelle needed a trip to the dolly salon. Her full name is Marabelle Lavinia Chandelier, thanks to a favorite Fancy Nancy book. Marabelle started out as a Madame Alexander doll with eyes that opened and closed and two neat, fluffy pigtails. These days, her eyes still open and close, but her pigtails have matted into one big frizzy ball of yuck, complete with drool, fuzz, dog fur, and other food-induced sticky spots. Now, the wise and zen thing to do would be to acknowledge that the doll’s hair is bound to get a bit out of control, and “accidentally” leave the scissors out next to the doll, easily within the girls’ reach. This would have been the easier approach, in retrospect. 

But I am the type of mom who has to look at this doll constantly and referee feuds over who has fair possession over her at any given minute. In other words, the frizzy ball of yuck drives me bonkers. So I spent large portions of two evenings attempting to tame the ball of yuck. Marabelle now sports French-braided pigtails. Who knows how long they’ll last. But odds are better for the continued presence of “hair” vs.“yuck” when it’s tightly tied down. 


Wish her luck.

One frizzy pigtail of yuck.

The view from the front.

The view from the back.

Dirty Little Secrets

I was working last week with a lady with metastatic cancer – a nasty glioblastoma that has robbed her of her ability to remember new information. Our therapy was a last gasp attempt to help her regain some independence and quality of life before she was discharged home with 24 hour supervision. And hospice. This will likely be her last summer. She’s not very old. She’s too young to be facing her last summer. Such is the curse of cancer. She is long-divorced, and her only son lives a few states away. She has some delightful and loyal friends who visit and help take care of her.

Our most recent therapy session together included one of these dear friends, “Julesie” as she called her. They go way back, to when they lived in apartments across the hall from one another and had screaming and inconsolable newborns. I always try to find a balance between the value of what I provide in my therapy vs. the value of what visiting friends bring. In cases like this lady, I decided that a visiting friend was much more valuable. She was able to tap into long-term memory, something I don’t have the context to stimulate, and it was much more preserved than her short-term memory was. They laughed about the trials and tribulations of having “screamers” for children. My patient chuckled, “Oh, he was a HORROR!”

“He was a horror.” It’s not a phrase you’re allowed to say about your children these days. I mentioned that. “Oh, it’s something you could only say amongst your friends.” My patient said. Her friend agreed.

Has it always been a dirty little secret? Because if you say it publically now, you’re labeled as a Bad Mother. An Ingrate. Unable to appreciate your “spirited” child. Selfish. Uneducated. How dare you attach such an unkind adjective to your child?!?! But certainly we all think it. At least once. We logically know that a strong personality will serve our child well when they’re adults. But right now, it just feels like they’re being jerks. You can go a long time before you find another parent who will admit it. “Yes, I love my child, but she can really act like a pain in the @ss.” And until then, you feel awful for thinking it.

This is the dirty little secret of parenting. You love your children. But they can be “horrors”. Admitting this doesn’t make you love them less. Admitting this is acknowledging the challenge of your job. You must demonstrate unfailing love and a semblance of patience to a creature who does a great job of acting horribly towards you. Yes, it’s in their innate nature. Yes, it’s “developmentally appropriate”. Yes, they’re born sinful creatures, just like we are. They need to experience forgiveness and grace from us before they can begin to understand the concept and that it’s something that comes from God. But let’s be honest. Only God is an unending well of forgiveness and grace. The rest of us struggle to provide it on a daily basis. I personally struggle on a minute-by-minute basis.

I think this should be another tenet of the Sorority of Moms. Don’t judge a negative statement of another mom about her child. You know you think it from time to time. The mom who says it is just being honest enough with her feelings to utter the words. Good for her. Encourage her. Support her. Help her laugh about it. The true tragedy is when the mom doesn’t realize that children can be jerks and she thinks she’s doing it all wrong. We need to let other moms in on the secret. ASAP. Our kids can be jerks. So can we. Refusing to admit it doesn’t make it not true. Let’s forgive ourselves for thinking it just like we forgive our children for doing it. Let’s expose the dirty little secret.

Sorority of Moms

We moms are doing it all wrong. 
Follow my local online mommy network, and you'd be horrified at the judgmental comments and insinuations. Sleep with your baby? You're a bad mom. Don't sleep with your baby? You're a bad mom. Don't breast feed? You're the worst of moms. Breasfeed until they're 2? You're the worst of the worst.

We can be a bunch of witches. No one can cruelly condemn a mom quite like another mom. We name ourselves judge, jury, and executioner over trivial matters. You let them watch TV!?! You let them eat Fruit Loops!?! You bought them a Barbie!?!?!?!?!

I propose we start a sorority of non-witchiness. I say we set out to help insulate each other from the rest of the witchy world. We can agree to disagree on most things. But there are a few things we must all agree on:

1. Compliment heavily pregnant women. Tell them they look amazing. Especially if they don't. It doesn't matter that you're lying. Its not about truth. It's about encouragement.
2. Cheer on moms with horribly misbehaving children. Compliment their patience. Compliment their child's sass vocabulary. Vocabulary is one sign of intelligence, you know... Kid tantrumming in public? Offer to treat her to a peppermint mocha or margarita. She'll likely turn you down. If she doesn't, you know that your impact was especially profound that day.
3. Another mom at your office or playgroup show up looking like warmed-over and sleep-deprived leftovers from the last decade? Get together with another parent and buy her flowers. Have them delivered. Don't let her know they're from you. Do let her know they're in recognition of the amazing amount of work she does every day.

My university's motto was "truth even unto its innermost parts". When it comes to moms, thats an awful motto. Ours should be "encouragement even unto its outermost stretch."

Because the truth is that most of society doesn't care about our inner battles of mommy guilt. How we can find a way to feel guilty for any decision we make. How other people openly question any decision we make. And how celebrity moms have raised the bar to have perfectly toned, dressed, and rested bodies within six weeks of childbirth. With frequent trips to the salon, massage parlor, and gym. Society doesn't care that we struggle to dress our post-baby bodies because nothing fits anymore and daycare costs ate up our clothing budget. Society says that if we try hard enough, we can have it all. If we can't keep it all together, we must not be trying hard enough.

Yeah, but we know better. We know that "breast is best" (a phrase that causes angst and extreme guilt for many new moms) means that we wear our oversized breasts in oversized shirts until our child is a year old. Or longer. And we wear the extra weight that helps feed them. And sometimes it doesn't go away when we stop feeding them. We know that moms can be just as productive in the workplace as everyone else. Which is amazing considering the twice daily pumping breaks and unpredictable mid-day trips to the pediatrician's office. And leaving "early" every day to make it to daycare on time so we don't get socked with a dollar-a-minute late fee. And getting less sleep because we were up late organizing all the food and gear bags for work and daycare the next morning - a task similar to prepping for the invasion of Normandy.

We try not to complain about all of these things... We love our children and do it gladly. And besides. No one would really listen to our complaining anyway. Being a mother is supposed to be an indescribable joy that trumps all hardship. 

So I say again:  Encouragement even unto its outermost stretch(marks). 


Anyone want to join my club?

25 lb Throat Warmer

I have a 25 pound throat warmer. My throat stays very warm when I use it. The problem is that it’s 25 pounds. On my throat. Which is not so conducive to throat-clearing, swallowing, or breathing.

My throat warmer is named MT. She’s much like me, not really a morning person. She’s content to wake up slowly, preferably after she’s transferred herself to my bed. Being not a morning person, I’m content with this idea. I love early morning snuggles, especially if they’re later in the morning. (I’m less enamored with a throat warming in the middle of the night.) I’ve called MT my “Schnuggle Muffin” since very early on. She’s a cuddler. She loves to snuggle in the rocking chair. On the couch. In my bed. On the floor (lying on me, of course). Her older sister, HM, is like her father. As soon as the eyes open, so does the mouth, and springs propel her out of bed and into her day. Some days it’s jet engines. Lying around in bed with Mama is of no interest to her.

So I relish the snuggle time. But time has marched on. MT is no longer the 7 lb 3 oz creature of her birth. She’s 25 pounds. That’s a lot of weight on my throat. Sometimes she’ll let me move her. She’s ok with that, as long as I move her to my face. She doesn’t have to lay on my throat. My face is acceptable. Which still has an impact on breathing. So I do love snuggling, but breathing is kinda important too.

Everyone keeps telling me that I should enjoy it, because this phase passes so quickly. Oh I will. If I survive it.