Leading Mama

Good Nite, Sleep Well

As you may know if you've been following this blog for a while, Little Mama is a champion sleeper. Scratch that: WAS a champion sleeper....

 

Until I ruined her.

 

From early on, she slept soundly through the night, soothing herself back to sleep quickly by sucking on her two favorite fingers.

 

Then, in January, it all went south. Well, actually it went west. But that's confusing, right?

We went to visit family in California and she started waking in the night. Probably it was due to some combination of factors: time change, portable crib, too much light, too cold in our room, not enough quiet. Who knows exactly.

 

What did I do? I rewarded her. (Bad psychologist. Bad, bad psychologist!)

 

That's right? I nursed her back to calm composure, then popped her back in bed. The consequence? (It doesn't take a behaviorist to figure this out, right?!) She got hooked on "boppy." That's her new word for breastmilk "Boppy."

 

The vicious cycle set in. She cries; I nurse her. She goes to sleep. I toss and turn. Often for two hours of more. Before I go back to sleep...

 

She wakes again. I want to let her cry. But I. am. so. freaking. tired. And so I nurse her, again.

 

Before long, she's up every two hours all night long, nursing like a 3 week-old baby.

 

Nice.

 

In a recent effort to turn things around (and find the energy for my plan to achieve total world domination higher-level writing goals), I've redoubled my resolve. And so it was just in the nick of time that sleep journalist and Parenting Squad expert Malia Jacobson asked me if I'd review a final draft of her new e-book "Ready, Set, SLEEP: 50 Ways to Help Your Child Sleep, So You Can Sleep Too."

 

I'm happy to say that within a week, I'd recaptured some of that earlier baby magic. Turns out I didn't ruin Little Mama completely, and -- surprise! -- she's still just as capable of self-soothing as she ever was. Last night she slept from 7 p.m. to 7:20 a.m. (BLISS!) I just had to get out of her way. And stay out.

 

What I liked best about Malia's book was it didn't teach one specific strategy for sleep training (like Ferber and friends). Instead, Ready, Set, Sleep debunks several misperceptions parents have about sleep and helps you study your child's sleep "system" and tweak it until it works. For them. And for you.

If a one-size-fits-all approach is what you're looking for, don't read Malia's book. If you want to learn the ingredients of good sleep and build your own bedtime (and nighttime) routine, buy it NOW. Her wise advice will help you rethink your beliefs and behavior. Plus, she provides tools to study (and change) your situation.

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Disclosure: I received a free review copy of Malia's book "Ready, Set, SLEEP" but all opinions are my own.

 Photo Credit: NEWBORN SLEEPING © Denys Dolnikov | Dreamstime.com

 

Rockin' the Baby

Just a short, super-sweet post to share baby pics today because I'm linking up with Shell for Rock the Baby! Take a trip with me down memory lane...

Little Man snoozing on Boppy after he nursed himself to sleep, 3 weeks old (sniff, sniff)

 

Little Mama posing on her special afghan blanket made by Great Grandma McKinney, 3 weeks old

We had pics of the kids taken this past Sunday -- can't wait to share those with you soon! Share pics of your own babes and link up with Rockin' the Baby.

Dear Pokemon

How do I love thee, Pokemon? Let me count the ways.

 

Pokemon image by Bob Villalobos (flickr)

You’ve captured Little Man’s interest and made him feel like a big kid. He trades cards with neighbors, huddled quietly around binders and bins at the park. He listens and learns from bigger boys. They treat him like an insider, not caring that he makes his own rules. My mom-heart is full.

 

No longer do I fret about bribes for good behavior. The hidden deck of Pokemon in my desk drawer ensures our toy room will be clean all summer long. And doling out cards is better than nagging, more effective than threats. You, Pokemon, are a secret weapon in my mom arsenal.

 

You take up little space in my cluttered, child-centered home. I don’t need enormous plastic tubs or an ambitious shelving system to display Little Man’s cards. He carries a small binder of precious Pokemon. They go to the park, in the car, upstairs and down. All day and all night they are with him.  

 

When I step on a Pokemon card, it sticks, begging me to pick it up, to love it a little more. It does not slice my foot like the stabilizers of a die-cast jet airplane or imprint my skin like a lego. Bad words do not fly from my mouth when I step on a card.  Even under foot, Pokemon are friendly.

 

Someday in the future Little Man will move on to other hobbies, other collections. Then, fine Pokemon, I will love you more. Because you, unlike any other toy he’s loved, are 100% recyclable. Our affair will not go public at a yard sale or thrift shop, laid bare for the neighbors to see. Our love will not end on Craigslist. It will end quietly, like it began. In secret.

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This post inspired by a prompt from Mama Kat (3. Do you love it or hate it? An open letter to your child's latest obsession) and by Little Man's love of Pokemon.

Sunday Soapbox: Show Me the Rainbow

We don't eat out a lot. There aren't many restaurants near our house and driving 45 minutes to have an hour-long meal with two impatient kids isn't relaxing.  Plus, kids' menus make me a little bit crazy.

 

Choices include:

Macaroni and cheese (usually Kraft)

Chicken fingers

Hot dog or corn dog

Hamburger or cheeseburger

Grilled cheese sandwich

and

Pasta with marinara (if you're lucky!)

 

What's my beef, you ask?

 

Three issues for the soapbox: variety (none), portions (huge) and sidedishes (starchy).

 

No matter where you go, the kids' menu has the same options. If your child is a picky eater, this is probably a good thing. When you have the same options every time, choosing is simplified. If your 3-year-old will eat nothing but hotdogs, a kids' menu without hotdogs would be disastrous.

 

But Little Man is an adventurous eater. His tastes -- thanks to inspiration from the Food Network and my culinary experimentation -- are pretty sophisticated. If he has his way, Little Man orders clams in red sauce, grilled salmon, and chicken enchiladas. He dives right in to a plate of calamari, tentacles and all. I encourage it, even if it makes me cringe inside.

 

Sometimes we order an appetizer as his meal ($9.95 instead of $4.95) to give him access to better options. Sometimes I order what he wants and we share it: last night I ordered the sea bass to accompany his "pasta with butter sauce". Without the fish, his dinner would have consisted of the following:

 

Rolls with butter from the bread basket 

2 1/2 cups of ziti swimming in butter

A 16-ounce "kid's cup" of chocolate milk

 

It doesn't take a dietician to see that this is unhealthy. The portions are too large, even for an adult. There's no protein, no vegetables, and no fruit.

 

Why is it that restaurants serve adult entrees with appropriate side dishes but can't put a few broccoli bites and some melon onto a kid's plate?

 

Some kids may not eat the broccoli. I get that. But mine -- and many others -- will. And most would eat some fruit.

 

Restauranteurs hear this: when parents buy dinner out for our kids, we're feeding their brains, not just their bellies. Oversized greasy-starchy kids' meals skew kids' expectations about what makes a meal.

 

I shouldn't have to supplement a kid's "meal" with protein and veggies from my own meal to anchor the pyramid, round out the rainbow, or balance the plate. There is no nutritional model known to man that endorses macaroni and cheese with a side of french fries.

 

It may appear that my kids are making their own food choices in your restaurant, but I decide if and when we come back. If I can't score a reasonably balanced plate for under $8, chances aren't so good.

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That's what has me on my soapbox this week. If you've got an opinion to share, link up your post below and share your thoughts in the comments. Links are live all week. Please be respectful and don't link up posts that don't fit the Sunday Soapbox theme. They will be removed.

 

NOODLES PREPARED FOR BOILING
© Tomo Jesenicnik | Dreamstime.com

Sunday Soapbox: He Must Really Love You

In between sessions at the Philadelphia Writer’s Conference Friday night, I snuck into the bar in the hotel lobby for a glass of wine. I took a seat at the end of the bar, ordered a cabernet, and opened a magazine. I read for a few minutes before other conferees started trickling in.

 

Writers, it seems, like to drink (a little). And talk ( a lot).

 

The seats at the bar filled up with writers and editors. I fit right in. Sort of.

 

I recognized the name of the man who sat down next to me; he was on the list of conference speakers. As we talked, I mentioned that I’d been in New Jersey less than a year, and that we’d moved here due to Leading Man’s Air Force career.

 

He said he was staying in the hotel, even though he lived close. I explained I was driving home, because it wasn’t that far. Our perspectives, it seemed, were quite different.

 

“I have two kids and two puppies at home,” I added. “My husband is watching them while I’m here.”

 

“He must *really* love you,” he responded.

 

“Yes,” I stammered, surprised by his stealthy, unintentionally sexist comment.

 

“I earned some super-wifey bonus points by going it alone during four long deployments,” I added, feeling some strange need to justify my husband’s behavior.

 

The bottom line is that I take care of two small children and two puppies all day, every day. I also work from home, in between wiping noses, folding laundry, and fixing toys, dinner, and sibling squabbles. Writing is my work, and I approach it with dedication and tenacity. I squeeze it in. I gut it out. And Leading Man supports me. He closes the door to my office to give me distraction-free writing time on weekends. I know; I’m fortunate.

 

Where’s the rant, you ask? This is Sunday Soapbox, after all. And it’s starting to feel a little lovey-dovey.

 

Here’s my problem:  

 

No one will ever tell Leading Man that his wife must *really* love him because she’s willing to take care of two kids and two puppies while he works. They assume it’s my job, even when they meet me in the context of my work. If taking care of kids and puppies reveals anything, it’s that I *really* love my kids and my puppies.

 

In my book, Leading Man doesn’t get super-hubby bonus points for caring for our kids and our puppies. The wet-nosed, laundry making brood is as much his responsibility as it is mine. He is not “babysitting” when I am away. He is parenting.  

 

It's true, Leading Man supports my career because he loves me. And I appreciate the ways he facilitates and supports my writing. But he takes care of our children and our puppies because he loves them. He loves spending time with them, even if it is exhausting.

 

And so this morning, I’m on my soapbox to say dads don’t babysit their kids, they parent them. Please, don't assume the kids are my responsibility. We share that. And we share the credit, too.

 

FIVE CYGNETS AND A SWAN
© Tatyana Chernyak | Dreamstime.com

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What's got you up on your soapbox this week? Link up an opinionated piece and comment away. Links are live all week.

Six Word Mommy Memoir

 

 

Two tots bathe. 

 

One poops.    

 

Bleach.

 

 

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This post inspired by a prompt from Mama Kat's Writer's Workshop and tonight's after-dinner show at our house. Really. I couldn't make this stuff up.

Sunday Soapbox: 4 Rules for Field-Trip Chaperones

I try pretty hard to take a “you raise your kids, I’ll raise mine” approach to parenting. But today, I can’t help but ask other mothers to “mom up” already.

 

On Friday, Leading Family went to the Adventure Aquarium in Camden for the day. Leading Man thought (incorrectly) that most people would be working and we’d enjoy the fishy fun without the big crowds. Instead, we toured the aquarium with 80 bus loads of kids who visited the aquarium in an end-of-school field trip extravaganza.

 

Kids are kids, you know. They’re excited, they’re noisy. They climb on things they shouldn’t and they aren’t always tuned in to people around them. I get that.

 

What I can’t handle are the parents who accompany kids on their field trips but turn a blind eye to bad behavior or who set a poor example for their own kids and for mine.

 

A chaperone is “someone who accompanies and supervises a group, especially a group of young people, usually when in public places.” Not just accompanies, but supervises.

 

And so, in this edition of Sunday Soapbox, I offer four rules for field-trip chaperones.

 

1. Say “excuse me” as you lead a group of kids through a crowd of people. Especially when you are going the wrong way. I will still be annoyed, but I won’t hip check you with my diaper bag. Manners are good.

 

2. Listen politely to the guide, even if you aren’t that interested. Your kids are here to learn: this isn’t the time to gossip with other mothers, talk on your cell phone, or update your Facebook status. It is rude and sets a poor example.  If you doubt that, ask your child’s teacher whether she allows kids to gossip, use cell phones, or post to Facebook while she’s teaching. I didn't think so.

 

3. If you don’t know something, admit it. Don’t make up answers to kids’ questions when you could consult written information or ask a staff member for insight. Kids need to learn information-seeking skills, and this is your chance to model them. It takes all the strength I have not to burst out laughing when you shout (too loudly), “Look, a swordfish!” when this shark swims by.

4. Correct bad behavior. Supervise your kids so the aquarium staff member can stop yelling into her megaphone. Tell your kids to get down off an exhibit so I don’t have to do so. Trust me, I’ll be the first one to remind my son to use his indoor voice and to wait his turn at the viewing window.

 

Mom up and follow the rules, ladies. I promise to follow them too.

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What's got you up on your soapbox this week? Link up an opinionated post below and share your thoughts in the comments. Links are live all week.

 

 

Big Trouble Behind the Wheel

I never got in really big trouble as a kid, but that doesn't mean I didn't deserve it. 

 

When I was 16, my dad bought me a 1969 VW Beetle with a baja kit. Basically, it was a VW bug that looked like a dune buggy, with an exposed engine in back and cut out fiberglass fenders over the wheels.

Mine was similar to this picture, but without the lights on top or the stripes. It was beige and white: the fiberglass was never painted, so the body was beige and the hood and fenders were white.

 

I loved that little car. I lived in that little car. It was a whole lot of fun.

 

It had a heater to-die-for, and a gas gauge that didn't work. I kept track of the miles travelled to know when it was time to fill 'er up.

 

Because the car LOOKED like a dune buggy, my not-s0-stuck-in-the-mud friends wanted me to drive it off-road. I wasn't that daring. But I wanted their social approval badly enough that I let one of them (a 16-year-old guy who is now a fine, upstanding member of society) drive it off-road in a field not far from our house. He bumped it hard and fast over the curb and into the dirt and weeds. Round the field a couple of times, then back on the road.

 

Some days later, my dad confronted me about the car.

 

"Did you hit a curb with it?" he asked.

 

"No," I lied. Forthright I was not. 

 

"I know you did," he said. "Stand here in front of the car. What do you notice?"

 

I looked at the car. I looked at my dad.  I didn't notice anything, really. But I knew the game was up. My dad notices every little detail on a car. And he knows how they work. Or why they don't. He's a mechanical guru.

 

"The front wheels are completely out of alignment," he explained. "They don't go straight anymore. You hit something big and hard and knocked the wheels sideways," he said.

 

I can't recall now how long it took me to come clean.

 

What I do know is that I eventually fessed up. But I wasn't forthright about parking tickets, either.

 

At some point dad found a cache of parking tickets in the glove compartment of my car. He asked if I thought they'd just go away if I didn't mention them.

 

I don't know what I thought. Probably I didn't think much of anything. I certainly didn't imagine that they'd send copies through the mail to my dad, who was the registered owner of my car!

 

I should have been in big Trouble (with a capital T). But my dad went easy on me. 

 

What did *you* do to deserve Big Trouble?

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This post inspired by a prompt from Mama Kat 1.) Write about a time you got in BIG trouble as a kid and by Jenny Matlock's Alphabe-Thursday meme (write about the letter F -- forthrightness and fessing up).   

 

10 Things about My Grandpa

Grandparents get a short shrift in our society. Maybe it's because they move slowly.  Maybe it's because we're too future-focused. Maybe it's because they aren't on Twitter (unless your grandma is Betty White).

 

I am fortunate that my maternal grandparents are still in my life. I live far away and I don't call or write as often as I'd like, but my grandparents are near and dear to my heart. And so, in response to Mama Kat's prompt, "10 Things about One of My Favorite People," I give you 10 Things about My Grandpa.

 

1. Grandpa McKinney is one of 13 children. His parents and siblings called him "Little Boy." He grew up in Smith County, Tennessee.

 

2. My Grandpa McKinney never had a hobby besides work. Even now, his favorite way to spend a day is puttering around the ranch, caring for the cattle. When he doesn't get to go, his eyes don't sparkle like they should.

3. My Grandpa McKinney goes to town in his beat-up bib overalls to shop for cars. He looks every bit a country bumpkin. The car salesmen don't see him coming. When he's negotiated a good price, he pays cash and drives home.

 

4. Grandpa McKinney has a killer sweet tooth. I've never seen him pass up dessert. When we were kids, we made him homemade, hand-dipped chocolates for Christmas each year. Making "Grandpa's candy" is one of my favorite traditions. I'm sharing it with my own kids.

 

5. Grandpa McKinney shells walnuts to keep busy. This year, he had thirteen 5-gallon buckets of walnuts to crack. My son spent an entire afternoon cracking walnuts with Great Grandpa McKinney. He smashed his finger with the hammer, just like Grandpa warned, but he kept cracking. I bake up lots of love with Grandpa's walnuts.

 

6.  In April, Grandpa McKinney turned 97 years old. This Tuesday, he passed the State of California's behind-the-wheel driver's test. Again.

 

7.  Grandpa McKinney can speak volumes without saying a word. And he can talk a blue streak, too. I could listen to him all afternoon.

 

8. My Grandpa and Grandma eloped to Carson City, Nevada. They raised three children. They have been married for 77 years. Their lifelong partnership inspired Little Man's first name.

 

9.  He never went to college, but my Grandpa can engineer a bridge or a building with skill. When he advised the county work crew that the culvert they were building wouldn't hold water, they ignored him. Probably thought he was some foolish old man. Later that year, it washed out.

 

10.  The best gift I've ever given Grandpa is time with my children. He smiles from ear to ear as he watches my kids play on the living room floor, chasing battery-operated trains under the coffee table. He shows them old-time tractors in his big picture book, and lets them down when their attention wanders.  He grins when they eat with their chubby hands and stuff their mouths way too full. Grandpa McKinney finds joy in the little things.

 

I'm fortunate to have many good role models in life, and Grandpa McKinney is one of them. He taught me it's okay to love my work. He taught me to be loyal and to remember where I came from.

 

He taught me book learning isn't everything. He taught me to be independent and keep myself busy.

 

He taught me that people listen better when I say less.

 

And, he taught me to eat dessert. Take a nap after lunch, and watch my kids play.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hello, ego. Goodbye, stereotype.

Today I'm taking a minute to Pour my Heart Out about a lesson I learned last week at the grocery store. I'll warn you up front, it wasn't pretty.

 

I was just back from a two-week vacation. By 8 a.m., I'd colored my hair, taken a shower, and done my makeup. The baby was happy (so far) and Little Man was dropped off at preschool.   A grocery run seemed do-able.

 

I swept through the commissary, hoping to get all the items on my list before Little Mama had a meltdown.

 

I expected her to get tired. She hadn't slept much the day before because we were traveling. She didn't nap on the plane or in the line for immigration and customs. She didn't nap on the car ride home. As my mom would say, she was pooped. At least for the moment, she was happy to be steering the kid-friendly cart, one hand on each little steering wheel. We flew through produce, meats and dairy. 

 

And then, she was pooped. Yes, the other kind. Stinky, goopy, no-diaper-in-the-world-could-contain-this-mess pooped.  Right there in the frozen food section.

 

So I shopped faster. I jettisoned items from the list that could wait until later. I flew toward the check out, eager to escape with my poopy baby and a shred of mommy dignity in tact.

 

As I approached the check out, the pimply faced teenage checker asked me loudly, "Will you be paying with WIC today?"

 

And the world stopped spinning.

 

I thought, "Do I look like I'll be paying with WIC today?"

 

I'm sure I looked like a bridesmaid who just discovered her dress was tucked into her panty hose as she walked down the aisle. I was caught completely off guard. I was self-conscious and embarrassed. I didn't know what to say.

 

And then my brain caught up with my ego and I thought, "There is no 'look' that describes recipients of WIC." Poverty isn't so obvious.

 

I asked the checker why he thought I might pay with WIC. He responded, "Sometimes moms with babies who come in early in the morning pay with WIC." 

 

Hmm. I nodded. "I see," I said. And then I paid cash for my groceries.

 

As I left the store and pulled Little Mama out of the shopping cart, poop oozed up her back and slathered my forearm. I was mortified.

 

And I felt a wave of compassion for moms who depend on assistance to feed their families.

 

I don't know who they are. Appearances are deceiving.

 

What I do know is those moms are gutting it out day-by-day doing the best they can for their kids. They're wiping noses and changing diapers and trying to get through the grocery store before the baby has a meltdown, just like I am. And the last thing they need is to be called out for paying with WIC. 

 

I regret that I didn't stop and share my thoughts with the checker. I'm sure he hadn't considered how his customer would feel when he asks way too loudly whether she'll be paying with WIC today.

 

Empathy isn't automatic. Apparently mine needed a tune-up.