Mean Mommy

All my bags are packed...

Sat, 11 Aug 2007 03:29:03 GMT

I'm moving! There are some features here that aren't working for me (ahem, the comments), and I didn't get such a good reception on the suggestions board when I posted that LJ visitors should be able to sign their comments. I wanted a bit more control of my template too, so I'm off to Blogger. Please update your bookmarks with my new address: http://meanmommyblog.blogspot.com/

I'm leaving this site up and moving everything over to the new site very slowly, so if you're looking for older posts, you can come back here until it all makes it over.

See you there!

Middle Man

Thu, 09 Aug 2007 22:44:51 GMT

All parents imagine their children in the future, what they'll be like as teens, as adults, as parents themselves. It's hard to know if the roles I see my kids settling into will stick as they get older, but I do have a pretty fixed idea of what Owen and Mitch will be like at 16 and 18. As my older sister recently predicted, "Owen will not be cool enough to hang out with Mitch." That basically sums it up. I can imagine Mitch peeling out of the high school parking lot in some sputtering old sports car with Owen riding shotgun, shouting, "Slow DOWN! You're gonna get a TICKET!"

We call Mitch "the blond bombshell" (bombshell more in the "ka-boom " sense than in the "foxy mama" sense). He's high energy and full o' sass, a personality that childcare experts like to call "spirited" and that I like to call "obnoxious." He is fearless, loud, funny, brave, smart, and capable. He is full of confidence and curiosity. In our family, it's not only his bravado that stands out; he also has his own set of physical features: clear blue eyes and blond hair, Malibu bronze skin in the summer. The rest of us have dark hair and eyes, and resemble one another much more closely.One night when we were out for ice cream, Mitch wandered over to a table that held a family of four towheads. I whispered to John, "He's going to be with his own kind."

Mitch is also the middle child. All of these qualities combined have, I fear, created a child at risk of feeling alienated.

Right now, we can add to the mix an older brother who is drawing a lot of attention for starting kindergarten and an adorable baby sister, the only girl, who has just started to crawl and was recently diagnosed with a health problem that requires much doting and numerous doctor visits that leave Mitch at home. It's no wonder his first line of defense against melting into the background is raucous behavior. And he's three. As any seasoned mother can attest, the terrible twos have got nothing on the tear-your-hair-out threes.

Here's a list of SOME of the trouble Mitch has gotten into today:

Broke the printer by kicking it while sitting at the computer.
Spilled cherry Italian ice on the rug.
Bit Owen.
Ran into the family room to divebomb the couch, knocking Paige into a table in the process.
Ate one bite of a peanut butter sandwich he'd thrown a fit to get, then declared himself full.
Hit Owen. And hit Owen again. And again.
Woke Paige up from her nap on purpose.
Swiped the doctor's stethoscope at Paige's check up, and when asked to give it back said, "No thank you."
Erased two of my shows from the DVR.
Splashed juice on the screen of daddy's beloved and very fancy TV.
Pooped in his #@%^&# pants THREE times!
Unplugged the floor fan and plugged it back in elsewhere.

The list could go on if I felt like sitting here recounting all of it, but I'll give the kid (and myself) a break.

Sometimes when I'm reprimanding him, he gets this look of sheer defiance, a "bring it on beyatch" kind of look. But sometimes, especially when I am watching from a more objective place, when John does the fussing, I can see something softer beneath that look. It's a look made of sadness, defeat, anger, and a little bit of love, and it reminds me that he's only been alive three years, that he doesn't mean any harm in all the trouble he gets into. He's just figuring out the world.

So maybe I can't predict with any accuracy what Mitch will be like when he's sixteen, maybe he'll be a mild mannered boy, a devoted student and a disciplined, no nonsense athlete. But no matter what he becomes, I hope he will always know that, blond hair be damned, he's one of us. A vital, significant part. Keeping things interesting in the middle.

Addiction

Thu, 09 Aug 2007 00:05:22 GMT

It has recently come to light that a member of my family is hopelessly addicted to a powerful substance, one that has such a grip on this person that it even disrupts her sleep. She wakes several times a night for a quick fix, though during the day she is able to function normally, if a bit crabbily.

Yes, my boobie milk is that good.

Paige has recently regressed to the newborn stage, where she insists upon waking every hour to have a wee sip of breast milk. I know that her waking is not out of hunger. She eats heartily at dinner, especially now that she's added some table food to her diet. And many nights John puts her to bed with a nice fat bottle of formula. But still, from about 11 o'clock on, she insists on waking and fussing until I let her nurse. She latches on for about 5 minutes and then goes right back out. And it's getting very very old. Very very very old.

I know, I know, I'm a sucker. If I wasn't so wimpy, I'd be a mama with a backbone who makes her too-old-to-nurse-every-hour 9 month old cry it out. But I've always had trouble with that technique. Something in me just won't let me leave my babies bawling and wondering why I'm not coming to the rescue. I have no problem with the technique itself; I just can't seem to follow through.

So I'm walking around rather blearily these days, biting everyone's heads off over the slightest indiscretions.

This hasn't been the best of weeks anyway. We've been casually browsing real estate a nearby town, and I've developed new house fever. Right now it's about a 30 minute drive to and from Owen's school, and since we want all the kids to attend there, it makes sense to move closer, especially since we're past ready for more space anyway. But realistically, we won't be ready, financially or otherwise, to move until at least the spring. I've worked myself into a lather over a couple of perfect houses I've come across in my browsing, lying in bed wracked with angst that we can't do anything about these perfect houses. So I've decided to stop looking for awhile and trust that the right house will appear when we're ready for it. (It will appear, right? RIGHT?)

Another not-so-great part of this week: an email from Owen's teacher asking about his noise sensitivity. She told me that he's been falling apart before the intercom comes on in the morning and in the afternoon, crying and covering his ears. Apparently he also lost it during class, as well, when his reading teacher used an electronic timer during their classwork. We knew that the intercom was bothering him, but he had not shared with us that he'd been as upset as his teacher indicated he was, and it breaks my heart that he has been struggling with this on his own. That he hasn't told us tells how scared he's been shows me that he's trying hard to work through it and that he's a little embarrassed. Poor kid. We do have an appointment set up with a child psych that a friend recommended. I'm hoping it will help. This anxiety is only getting worse, and I'm afraid of what it will grow into if we don't teach Owen to cope now.

And to top it off, it's been over 100 degrees every day this week. Dog days for sure. Yipp-flippin'-ee.

A sad milestone

Wed, 01 Aug 2007 17:31:22 GMT

His first at-school meltdown. Oh just rip my heart out and mail it to the top of Kilimanjaro. It did me in. I'm likely to homeschool him from here on out. If only homeschooling didn't require any discipline on my part, I'm sure I could do it.

Many moms of elementary schoolers are probably already familiar with the "stoplight" system of discipline in the lower grades, but in case you're not savvy, here's an overview: Staying on green is the goal. Every kid has a stoplight and a clothespin. The pin starts out on green every day. If a child misbehaves, he gets an "X" on his behavior card. In our school, 4 X's mean the child's pin moves to yellow. Staying on green all week results in the much coveted trip to the treasure box on Friday.

Yesterday John picked Owen up from school. When they got home, Owen blew past me, shirttail out, shoes untied, and went to his room calling back to me, "I gotta unpack my bookbag!" I was puzzled, as he usually stops to say hello and blather about his day for a bit before moving on to anything else. When John passed me, he gave me a dark look. Something was amiss.

Before going back to check on him, I learned from John that Owen had gotten an "X" on his card. Just one. No change to his "green" status, just one little "X." This, apparently, was NOT okay with our little rule Nazi. In fact, it fairly undid him, and, John reported, he bawled all the way home from school. Sigh.

So I had a little chat with Owen, and he told me (after some snuffling and a round of fresh tears) that he'd been playing with his glasses when he was supposed to be doing something else, so the teacher had given him an "X." He got so upset about it, the teacher sent him to the restroom to calm down. I hugged him, wiped his eyes, and explained that everyone makes mistakes, told him that what happened was no big deal and one "X" wasn't the end of the world. I said that know he knew that he needed to listen closely to what the teacher wants him to do. He seemed much better after realizing we weren't disappointed in him.

I'm not sure which part of this is most painful to me. To imagine him feeling ashamed and humiliated and embarrassed with no one to turn to is gut wrenching. That he had to leave the classroom to get himself together is the saddest thing ever. And that he ran past me to unpack his bookbag before I could see any evidence of his "X" bothers me. Did he think we'd be angry about one little mistake? Does he see us as that hard nosed?

My reaction to this relatively small incident is so first-time mom of me, I know. But all of this letting them step into the world alone stuff is hard as hell. What's hardest for me is standing by while he faces moments of sadness or embarrassment or loneliness by himself, without us there to turn to. It's necessary, of course. But he's only 5, and that first push out of the nest is damn hard.

I'm sure I'll feel this way again, as we reach other milestones. Like college. Holy crap, college. Maybe if I start brushing up now, I'll be smart enough to homeschool him to a BA.

Does a few days of school really compare to this?

Mon, 30 Jul 2007 02:47:46 GMT

Yes, I felt a little guilty yanking my newly adjusting kindergartener out of his second week of school. Yes we stayed all week when we'd intended to come home on Tuesday so he wouldn't miss too many days. And yes, I wrote a rather sheepish note of explanation to his teacher. But it was worth it. The week was, as ever, soul cleansing and fun and renewing and bonding, and my children love their cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandparents all the more after it. School doesn't even come close.

See what I mean?

Vacation

Sat, 21 Jul 2007 13:34:13 GMT

We've decided the hell with anything that interferes with our beach vacation, we're going for at least a couple of days. Back next week!

I Did It

Fri, 20 Jul 2007 16:11:20 GMT

I made a person. A real, live person with a life independent of mine, who goes on about his day while I go on about mine, our paths crossing only in the afternoon, at the end of the day. Someone whose peers will now influence him almost as much as I do, whose teacher will know things about him that I don't. A person with an inner life who is, as I type, sitting alone in a room full of strangers, calling up all of his young emotional resources to adjust to a new place, a longer day, new friends and authority figures. A person who's doing very well with his first year of big kid school. Mostly.

I have been trying to write this post since Wednesday, Owen's first day, but my computer is acting wonky again, and I don't have time to take it over to tech services. But it's almost better to have a few days under my belt, a bit of perspective. I was fine when I dropped him off on Wednesday (maybe a wee bit sentimental), and he was fine, too. I looked back once as I walked to car after delivering him to his teacher, and he wasn't watching me, just sitting among the other kindergarteners on his new red and blue nap mat with a bravely stoic expression, that look we get when we're somewhere new, a little disoriented, and don't really know what to do with ourselves. He gazed around kind of blankly, waved when I finally caught his eye and gave me a small smile. Part of me wanted to run back and scoop him up, spare him those first few awkward days. I just kept thinking, he's only FIVE years old, and I'm leaving him in this brand new place with all of these strangers. Adjustments like that are scary even for grown-ups. It amazes me how he's taking it in stride.

So far his favorite things about kindergarten are art, recess, reading, and the discipline system, since his teacher rewards good behavior with a weekly trip to her "treasure chest" to pick a prize. He's striving with all his might to earn that damn treasure, so I guess the system works.

However. I'm also afraid what I feared may be happening. Remember the post about Owen's fear, where I predicted the conversation we'd have if he found a noise to be anxious about at school? That conversation happened this morning, almost word for word as I imagined it. But it's not a school bell that's bothering him, it's the building's intercom system. It startles him when it comes on with morning announcements and to call the kids' names for carpool. On the way to school this morning he said, "Mommy, I want to stay home and do fun things with you." Shit.

When he came home on the first day, he announced that they had a "speaker" in his classroom, then assured us that he wasn't scared of it at all. Not me. Uh uh. No way. But that's how his anxiety starts: first he denies it, fights it, tries to pretend he's not feeling it--hoping to get past it, I suppose. So when he tells me he's not afraid, he really means, "I'm very worried." Then it escalates. The second day he mentioned the intercom again, still claiming to be fine with it. Then this morning.

I knew why he wanted to stay with me, so I saved him having to tell me and asked, "What's bothering you? The speaker?" He said, "You got it!" Sigh. I told him he couldn't stay home, that he'd have a very sad and boring life if he let noises keep him home because noises were everywhere. I explained that every child in his class had something he or she was trying to get used to, even if no one else was worried about the speaker, and that everyone would feel more comfortable in a few days. I told him that the intercom was a very small part of a really fun day and he shouldn't let one part of the day ruin the rest of it. I assuaged him for now. I only hope his anxiety doesn't grow further.

I hate that his worry about that stupid speaker is complicating his adjustment to kindergarten. I wish we'd gotten in touch with a child psych before school started. I wish he could be reasonable about the whole thing and overcome it. Because when I imagine him, alive for only five years, on his own at real school for the first time, waiting for me to pick him up in carpool with his hands clapped over his ears and that alarmed expression on his face that makes him look like almost like a baby again, it breaks my heart. Why does life have to get harder? Why does it have to pull us farther and farther apart, separate an anxious five year old from his mother?

But truly, I know why, and I'm proud of him for doing as well as he's done so far. I'm proud of him for going without hysteria and tears today, for trying to listen to me and get past his fear. He left the car this morning with a quick hug, and I could almost see him brace himself for the day. That's one "first" I didn't expect--his first public face. The first mask he'd wear for everyone else. The first year he's old enough to realize that sometimes we have to grin and bear it, even if the grin masks fear.

Only Owen Could...

Tue, 17 Jul 2007 04:32:00 GMT

Entertain himself for hours taping handmade price tags to our belongings. (TV: $400, Lamp: $6.00, Exersaucer: $50.00, Entire Bathroom: $600.00)

Offer a tutorial to the savviest of technophiles on the little-known features of the digital cable remote. (I bet you don't know how to sort your favorite programs by theme)

Follow his mother through the Dollar Store begging (and I mean a GROVELING begging ) for a suction-cup car sign (ala "Baby on Board") that reads "Bad Cop. No Donut." (The kid loves signs)

Memorize the school day schedule (down to the minute) after seeing it only once and then rattle it off to any passers-by who happen to make the mistake of asking if he's starting kindergarten this year. (He's most excited about the TWO recesses)

Bring his own gumball machine along when eating dinner out in case the restaurant doesn't have a gumball machine wherein he can spend his quarters. (Tonight he decided to spend them on a skill crane instead)

Ask for Tootsie Rolls for breakfast and when denied suggest popsicles as his second choice. (He settled for Cinnamon Life)

Beg for a new t-shirt at Target (but they're on SALE mom!) rather than a new toy. (The tackier the better)

Fear the toast popping out of the toaster. (Among other things)

Have a meltdown about learning to tie his shoes. (He gets frustrated easily)

Name "guess what number I'm thinking of" as his favorite game. (And we're talking ANY number, no limits here)

Link of the Week: Sunday, July 15, 2007

Mon, 16 Jul 2007 01:44:04 GMT

This week I'm loving DayTipper. It's a site where you can submit and read tips of all sorts to make life easier. In the few weeks I've known about the site, I've found a few really useful ones. And if you submit a tip and it's accepted, they'll pay you a whole $3.00! That's almost a Starbucks latte!

A Blah Blah Blah Blah Blah

Mon, 16 Jul 2007 00:58:51 GMT

We took this video of Paige tonight after dinner. Background noise courtesy of Owen, Mitch, and Bailey.

It's a little bit long, but cute as heck. Also, I was holding my camera sideways, forgetting that the video feature wouldn't automatically reposition it for the computer. So just tilt your head sideways while you watch.

Fear and Gratitude

Sat, 14 Jul 2007 19:42:05 GMT

Yes, gratitude. Oddly, that was my most salient emotion yesterday morning, a morning spent at the hospital for Paige's kidney tests.

Gratitude nearly overwhelmed me when they handed us the baby-sized hospital gown for her to wear during the x-ray. We were alone in the room as I pulled it over her arms and began tying it closed in the back. Fumbling with those ties as Paige wiggled and squirmed, leaning forward to chew on my arm, I felt a lump rising in my throat, not just for my baby, who would wear her hospital gown for no more than an hour, but because baby-sized hospitals gowns exist at all.

In half-an-hour I'd be allowed to take this sad garment off of Paige and dress her again in her bright cotton dress, take her home, snuggle her to sleep for her nap, then feed her dinner at our kitchen table. Gratitude.

And beneath that, Fear. Bad things happen. Horrible things happen. To babies. To children. Families have to live through bad things. Children spend weeks, months, years in tiny hospital gowns.

Once she was dressed, they catheterized her and began to fill her bladder with a contrast dye. They had to wait a bit for the dye and for the doctor to arrive, so they left us alone in the room for a few minutes. I could tell the catheter wasn't hurting her once they'd gotten it in place because Paige was in a good mood as we waited, giggling at my funny faces and playing her favorite game: tug mommy's bottom lip then laugh when mommy grimaces.

I was standing over her, hovering above her radiant little face as she giggled and kicked, and I felt a strong sense of her spirit, a sudden consciousness of the difference between the soul and the body. I'm not sure how to explain it, but as she laughed and wiggled, lying there catheterized with kidneys inside her body that possibly weren't working right, I sensed the divide between body and spirit, this realization that the spirit exists in spite of the body--and that in a baby especially, the spirit is nearly oblivious to the body. Paige seemed to exist only in her happiness while we waited, aware only of our playing, unaware of what could be going on in her body and of what she was doing on that table.

Overall the VCUG wasn't as bad as I thought it would be, but it was heartbreaking all the same. I don't think it caused Paige much pain, but it certainly caused her a great deal of fear. They asked me to stand at the head of the table, so she couldn't see me, and I was afraid even to soothe her with words as they took the films, because I knew she'd try to flip over to see me, and they needed her to stay on her back, keeping as still as possible. Finally, I reached over her shoulder and held her little flailing hand, and that seemed to relax her a bit. I could tell she knew it was my hand she was holding, though she couldn't see my face.

She does have reflux. While I'm not happy about it, it's not an awful thing. Most children outgrow it, and the treatment is usually a low dose of antibiotic, administered daily until the reflux is gone. We can manage that. I'm grateful that we've been handed something we can manage. Grateful that, again, we have escaped tragedy, though lately I'm aware that the line between us and those families who are facing terrible illness and suffering is thin, thin, thin. Even the relatively minor brushes we've had with bad luck recently remind me that the abyss is out there. It's always out there, like some heavy, dark creature. Crouched and waiting.

Recipe for Joy

Wed, 11 Jul 2007 04:18:48 GMT

Mitch couldn't sleep tonight (my fault--I let him take too long a nap today) and kept coming out into the family room where I have been sitting quietly on the computer while everyone else sleeps, including John, who isn't feeling well. Finally, tired of taking him back to bed, I told Mitch he could lie on the couch if he could be quiet and keep his eyes closed. He tried very earnestly for about 15 minutes, doing that "I'm trying to keep my eyes shut squint/flutter" and occasionally opening one eye to check if I was looking.

After awhile, I decided I wanted some ice cream, so I got up and headed for the kitchen. Mitch sat bolt upright and said, "Where are you going, Mommy?" I told him, "I'm getting some ice cream." He nodded very seriously, looking completely aware that he had no place asking to share a delicious treat when he should be sleeping. So he didn't ask.

I got him some anyway, a tiny bit. And then I put a tiny bit of whipped cream on top.

I brought it into the family room and sat down next to him on the couch. "You shouldn't be eating ice cream at 11:00 at night," I told him. He stared back, unblinking. Then I said, "But sometimes, it's fun to do things you're not supposed to do." And I handed him the bowl.

The wave of joy that rippled across my middle child's face made up for every twinge of frustration I'd felt tonight, hearing his bare feet padding down the hall every 10 minutes to deliver some excuse for being out of bed. His happiness was pure. Nothing matches the thrill of having mommy say yes when you are sure that she'll say no, so sure that you don't even ask.

A moment later, pausing in his zealous spoon scraping, he said, "Mommy? Why did you give me a treat?" I shrugged. "I don't know. Sometimes you deserve a treat for no reason at all." And through a mouthful of Edy's Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough ice cream topped with whipped cream, my sleepy, overjoyed, and too often exasperating three year old boy mumbled, "You said it!"

Holy Smokes -- I'm Hot!

Tue, 10 Jul 2007 21:31:57 GMT

Each time I realize someone unknown to me has found and enjoys my wee blog, it stuns and pleases me to no end. I had a fun surprise in my in-box today: a message that someone has nominated this post for GNM Parents' weekly "Hot Stuff" contest. Thanks Mr. or Mrs. Nominator-who-is-unknown-to-me!

Of course, if ye my broad and diverse fan base wish to pad the results, click on the icon below, then cast your vote for my post, "Because I'm a Better Parent Than You" (unless you think someone else's post is hotter than mine. In that case, forget you, man):

A Letter of Apology to the Bobos

Tue, 10 Jul 2007 04:21:00 GMT

Dear Big Brothers,

I am writing to apologize. It grieves me to tell you this, but I think it is better that you know now, so there are no misguided hopes: we will not be able to pay for your college education. Education is important to your father and me, as you know, but we just couldn't predict the factors that would arise in our life to get in the way of our saving for your education. Such as, having a baby girl.

You see, until your sister was born, I had only ever bought clothes for you, my sons. I was perfectly content to build your wardrobe from hand-me-downs, consignment sales, and the clearance rack at Target. And I think I managed to keep you looking relatively decent (until recently when you started dressing yourselves). But now there's a baby girl, and though you will probably never understand this, the lure of adorable clothing is simply too hard for me to overcome. Cute baby clothes are my crank, my smack, my crack. If there were a 12 step program, I might consider signing up. Alas, there is not.

Here is the bright side. You will grow up always having a well-dressed darling little sister to admire. Also, when you are working your way through college, you will certainly learn a great deal about resourcefulness, gratitude, and frugality.

Until then, please understand that as long as this

and this

exist in the world, it is your duty to sacrifice so we may bring them into our household, adorn your sister in them, and take many pictures. And maybe, just maybe, if I one day consign her gorgeous wardrobe, I can earn enough to help buy your textbooks in the first semester of your freshman year.

Love,
Mommy

How You Know the Kids Stole Your Digital Camera

Mon, 09 Jul 2007 03:13:49 GMT

Little Miss at 8 Months

Mon, 09 Jul 2007 02:32:22 GMT

The 8th month was a busy one for Paige, lots of firsts, many milestones. I'm just taking a moment to get it all down.

This month, she learned to:
Crawl
Get into a sitting position
Pull up
Cruise
Babble "mamamamama" and "dadadadadada"
Pick up and eat Cheerios and Fruit Puffs
Find a hidden toy

Right now, she loves:
Standing up
Playing with cups and buckets
Baby Einstein and Eebee
The bead coaster
Books with photos of babies
Ripping paper
Baths and swimming
Getting into anything she shouldn't bother

Lately, we call her:
Missy
Paigers
Paigey
Boops
Sweet Pea
Littlest One
Beauty (what Mitch calls her)

Her favorite foods are:
Pears
Sweet Potatoes
Bananas
Watermelon
Carrots
Oatmeal

Here are a few pictures we took tonight during our weekly picnic at the Sunday Evening Concert in Fletcher Park

She's such a happy girl! And she will grow up well loved by all of us, especially her doting big brothers.

From Milestone to Meltdown: A Story of Ungrateful Children

Sun, 08 Jul 2007 06:24:40 GMT

First let's just get the milestones out of the way real quick: Tonight we went on our first school supply shopping trip with Owen, and Paige wore a little pink barrette in her wispy baby hair for the first time and looked adorable as sin. And there was a first for me, as well. I do believe that tonight may have been the first time I ever truly had the urge to tell my children a story that began with the words, "In MY day..."

Because, get this, school supply shopping was no big deal to Owen.

That's okay, I'll wait for you to collect yourself.

In MY day, school supply shopping was a major event. We got excited about it from the moment our supply lists arrived in the mail, and once in the store, we took our time, painstakingly choosing our pencils and crayons and notebooks. When we got home, we spread out all the supplies and admired them and placed them lovingly in our new bookbags and tried the bookbags on and wished we could go to school at that very moment, just so we could open everything up and use it.

But no, not my child.

Today's events unfolded thus: After lunch, we convinced the boys to take a little nap because, we told them, it was Saturday, and sometimes on Saturday nights we like to do something a little special, a little fun, something that may keep us out a bit late. This was our bargaining chip and not a false one; it's true that we often go out on Saturday evenings, sometimes to a movie, sometimes to get ice cream, sometimes to browse the bookstore. So the boys napped. Then, after dinner, their expectations were raised.

Owen asked what we were going to do, and I announced that we were going to Target to get his school supplies. He seemed fine with that. I naively thought that getting school supplies would be a fun thing to do. As I mentioned, in MY day...

Now, I've had the school supply list for about 2 weeks, and I've been waiting for Target to set up their seasonal school supply section where the markers and crayons and erasers are displayed in big inviting bins and marked down a good bit from their usual prices. I was also savoring the list a little bit, not wanting the school supply shopping to be over with too quickly. So, see, I'd been anticipating this errand, like the true nerd that I am.

We got there and had a grand old time picking everything out. We let Owen choose whatever he wanted, even hideous licensed crap like Transformer folders and Hot Wheels notebooks. We spent the most time (and rightly so) picking out a new lunch box, a task which I thought was hella fun. When we finished, John took the kids to the in-store Starbucks get us some coffee, and I checked out, forking over nearly 40 dollars for the goodies. When we met up again, Mitch said, "Are we going home?" And I joked, "What, wasn't that enough fun for you guys?" and John said, "Actually, no. Owen just finished falling apart in Starbucks." I looked down and, sure enough, the child's face was red and splotchy and twisted in frustration. I asked him what was wrong, and he told me, "I thought we were going to do something FUN tonight" and proceeded to fall apart some more.

Well. I went on a little diatribe which eventually led to Owen's telling me on the drive home, "Okay, okay, it was fun, mommy!" Later, I continued the diatribe, though in a calmer, kinder voice, until I finally felt like Owen was really listening and beginning to understand why his behavior had been spoiled and bratty and spoiled bratty. When I finished he was silent for a moment, then, in soft voice, he started, "Mommy..." I waited for the acknowledgment, the apology, the recognition. But he said, "Mommy...can I play on the computer?"

The school supplies are still in the bag. I don't know what kind of monster I've raised.

Link of the Week, Saturday, July 7, 2007

Sun, 08 Jul 2007 03:34:42 GMT

This week I'm linking you to another mommy blog, Sweet / Salty, probably the best written blog I've come across since I started exploring this corner of the internet. Kate's story is heartbreaking, and her writing is sublime; no doubt you'll be touched not only by the events in her life, but by the honest and lyrical way she writes about them.

Don't read only her newest post on the main page, read the archives, too. I'm telling you, she's a brilliant writer. I'm just so sorry that recently she's had to use her skill with language to write about a crushing loss.

The Word I Say Most in the World

Sat, 07 Jul 2007 02:07:26 GMT

When I was in 7th grade, my best friend Emily and I were walking down the hall just before recess, as everyone charged outside in a whirlwind of noise and energy. As we passed the classroom of our math teacher, Mrs. Dutton, we saw her in there erasing the board in this dazed kind of way, slowly, methodically, and murmuring to an empty room, "Shhhhhhh. Shhhhhhh. Shhhhhhh." We snickered and whispered to each other, "Uh. Mrs. Dutton? Who ya talkin' to?"

Now I am Mrs. Dutton. I find myself saying that word, "shhhhh," all day long. As my children ramble on in their high pitched voices about something that happened on Spongebob, or when they come running into the kitchen shrieking, "He HIT me," even as they are talking I'm saying it. Then when they stop talking, I reiterate, "shhhhh." When they are roughhousing in the playroom, playing cars in the kitchen, pounding down the hallway to their room, I catch myself saying "shhhhh," though nobody is near enough to hear me.

Shhhh because the baby is sleeping and our house is tiny. Shhhh because daddy is working and our house is tiny. Shhhhh because he's on the phone and there's no space for an office. Shhhh because I cannot take one more minute of noise goddammit or I'm going to lose my mind so please please please just. stop. TALKING.

During those rare moment when they are all asleep and John is working, I sit in the family room with the TV off, just enjoying the quiet, no sound except the humming of the baby monitor. Some days, when no one naps, my nerves get so frayed by the ruckus and by the effort of trying to keep the noise at a reasonable level that I have to keep myself from sneaking out the back door to sit on the stoop and pray they don't find me.

I know, I know. One day I'll miss those sounds, they grow so quickly, blahdee dee blah blah. But until then, we have GOT to move. And there are only 2 features of our next house that I will demand it have: an office space and fenced in back yard.

The Real Reason I am Anxious about Owen's First Day

Fri, 06 Jul 2007 03:40:07 GMT

Here is a picture of the Outer Banks. I have vacationed with my family at the Outer Banks every July since 1977.

Now I have children. One of them is starting kindergarten in 2 weeks. The same week my family will be in the Outer Banks, the place I've vacationed every year since 1977. Every year except THIS one.

Visiting this beach is more than a vacation for me. In fact, every year, as we cross the long bridge over the Oregon Inlet to head back to the mainland, I tear up a little. It's not because I'm sorry to be returning to normal life (though that's never easy); it's because I am leaving a place where I feel like myself completely, where all the little holes life drills in my heart and soul and psyche over the course of the year are healed.

When I'm on that beach, especially early in the morning or in the evening after dinner, I have this sense of all the me's that ever walked there: 2 year old me, 9 year old me, 15 year old me, the me who got married there, the me who dipped Owen's toes in the ocean for the first time. It is a place that always feels the same to me. It has changed a good bit since my childhood, but regardless of these intrusions--the mini-mansions, Food Lions, and tacky oyster bars--it feels the same. When I wake up in the morning and go out on the porch, the smell, the sounds, the dampness, the breeze all feel the way they felt 20 years ago. It really is like encountering some essential version of myself, a spirit that waits for me there.

I realize this is pretty melodramatic, but I sincerely feel this way about the Outer Banks, and I am sincerely mourning the interruption of my tradition this year. Yes, I am thrilled for Owen, excited about his first day, giddy about going to Target next week and buying tidy new packs of crayons and unrumpled notebooks. But as I celebrate this step with him, I have to push a strong surge of disappointment away.

Next summer, my parents generously plan to shift the weeks we will go to the Outer Banks to accommodate Owen's (and his cousins') new year-round school schedule, so I will return next year. But for 365 more days, I'll have to live without the renewal that my beach vacation gives me. Even if we take a different vacation later this summer, even if it's at another beach, even if feel somewhat recharged, reinvigorated, I know I won't be filled in the same way.

There will not be 29 me's waiting for me where we go. No 29 me's reminding me who I am.

Happy New Middle of the Year

Wed, 04 Jul 2007 15:11:11 GMT

Owen keeps mixing up the 4th of July and New Year's. I think it's because we lit some leftover sparklers on New Year's Eve this year, and naturally he associates sparklers with 4th of July. He thinks we're supposed to stay up til midnight tonight, so okay, whatever, we'll stay up til midnight. At least Mitch, John, and I will. Owen probably won't make it, just as he didn't make it on New Year's Eve, despite much shaking and nudging to wake him for the ball drop.

Today I have a random assortment of funny moments to record. One happened yesterday in Target. Owen was begging for a Transformer (though I can't imagine why--it's not like they're being heavily promoted or anything), and I told him no. He was whining, begging, asking whhhhhhy? And I answered, "Cause I'm a mean mommy." He poutily crossed his arms and hmmphed, "I know. I saw it on your website." Well good, so now we're clear.

The other one was this morning. Our darling blond son is still having poop issues despite a recent improvement. He is consistently going in his pants again, and he knows that it irks us. So I came out from putting Paige down for a nap this morning, and Mitch looked guilty. He came over to me and quietly told me, "Mommy, I talked to my pants."
"You talked to your pants?" I sensed where this conversation was going.
"Yep. I talked to my pants, and I told them I wasn't ready to poop yet."
By now I could smell where this was going. "Oh yeah? And what did your pants say?"
"They said, um, I don't know. I just. I just told them no pooping."
"But your pants pooped anyway."
Solemn nodding.
"Well please tell your pants that they're big pants now and they need to put poop in the potty. K?"
"Okay. But can you change my pants?"

I had to fight the urge to follow the logic of the conversation and explain that if we changed him into new pants, those pants wouldn't know what we'd told his current pair of pants about being big pants and waiting for the potty, so maybe he should just sit his doo for awhile until his BOTTOM remembers the whole deal about pooping . But the child is obviously confused enough, so I refrained.

Sigh.

Anyway. Happy New Middle of the Year. Here's hoping that 2007-and-a-half brings blessings, growth, and potty training before preschool starts in September so Mitch doesn't get booted from the 3 year old class for having disobedient pants.

A New Blog, an Old Blog

Wed, 04 Jul 2007 02:58:21 GMT

I almost moved over the weekend. Not houses (though lord knows I'm ready for that), but blog hosts. After visiting a number of other blogs, I thought Blogger was a better host--easier customization, no ads, connected to my beloved Google account. So I spent a couple of days playing around with a new blog design over there and moving posts. But I just couldn't settle on a design for the new and improved Mean Mommy and something just kept drawing me back over here. I decided to stay put, and now I think I know why.

When I started this blog a couple of months ago, I was totally green. I knew nothing about the blogosphere; I just jumped in willy nilly. I used my kids' real names for pete's sake! Everyone knows mommy bloggers only refer to their children using cute, representative nicknames! And for the first week or so, I didn't even share my blog, nor was I sure I ever would

Now that I've become better acquainted with mommyblogville, and now that I've culled a few (and I do mean a few) readers, I feel a little more self-conscious about my posts. I even struggle not to try to write my blog the way I think it should be written instead of just writing it the way I want to write it--the way I blogged when I first started. I think as I was trying to design a hip, clever new site for Mean Mommy, that feeling of trying too hard bubbled up. I didn't feel as authentic. When I decided to stay here, I felt better.

I may decide to move eventually, but I'm not ready to leave my first blog home quite yet. I like what I've built here, and I'm afraid of changing it, so I'm going to stick around and let everything settle in a bit longer. I even sprung for a paid LiveJournal account (only $20) to turn off the ads on this site, since the ad-freeness of Blogger was the biggest draw for me, and I'm home again.

Now. The new blog.

Since I joined the community of mommy bloggers--and there really is a community, quite a sincere one--reading other blogs has become a hobby, maybe even a mild obsession, only because I get caught up reading, following links, reading more, and suddenly 2 hours has gone by. And I have found some amazing voices out there, some really smart, witty, and talented writers. The more I read, the more respect for I gain for these women. So I decided to create a blog to showcase some of the especially good posts that I come across. It's called Mommy Blog Round Up. I just started it yesterday, so there's not much there yet.

But you can help me build the site! If you read a particularly great post, send me the link in comments here or over on MBRU (Mommy Blog Round-Up--yeah, the site's cool enough to have an acronym already) or email me. Don't be shy about submitting your own posts, either! I'm trying to build a pretty extensive collection of mommy blogs on Google Reader, so I can easily scan several posts every few days, and I'm happy to add new blogs to the list.

When I collect enough brilliant posts, I'm going to share the site with a friend who just started a small publishing company and try to persuade her to let me help her edit and publish an anthology of mommy blog posts. It would be an amazing book, don't you think?

Link of the Week, Sunday July 1, 2007

Sun, 01 Jul 2007 05:43:42 GMT

This week's link comes to us from resident road sign aficionado, Owen.

Keep it clean, people!

Confession

Fri, 29 Jun 2007 14:05:44 GMT

My husband still has not read my blog. Because of the way the universe works, I'm sure tonight, after posting this confession, he will say, "Hey, I want to read what you've been doing. Can I see your blog?" Well then, John, I tell this to you, too, without shame, for what I am going to confess, I earned.

I haven't been doing jack shit this week.

I am the director of a week-long women's writing workshop at the college where I teach. All year long I plan for this thing, doing publicity, updating and printing out mailing lists, courting faculty, balancing budgets. But the week itself? Cake. All I have to do it show up in the morning, set up the book sales table, and maybe make a few photocopies. Then from about 9:30-noon, I do NUTTIN. I have lunch, then from 1:00 - 3:00? Nuttin.

I find a spot in a suite of conference rooms; I plug in my computer; I minimize a page that looks kinda workish in case anyone pops in with a question, and then I goof off on the internet. For 3 hours. 3 HOURS. Do you know how rare a privilege that is? No one at the workshop asks me for a snack. No one begs to play outside. No one whines about bunchy socks, or writhes in boredom at my feet, or attacks a sibling from behind with a plastic golf club. No one drools on my pants or attempts to dive into my shirt through the top of the v-neck.

And there are pastries. Every morning. A whole tray of pastries beside big thermoses of coffee, and the thermoses are refilled all day long. The workshop participants go into their sessions and leave me alone with this bounty. No one is around to see that I have eaten 2 danishes. Then 3. Then maybe, at 11 o'clock, just cause there is no other snack available, one more danish and another cup of coffee with a little splash of decaf in it cause I'm just healthy that way.

After a year of planning this thing, of putting up with all the minutiae of organizing a conference, this week is my reward. I EARNED this. Am I ashamed? I am not. Have I been forthcoming about my week with my family? I have not. I have protected this idleness from any requests that may rain down upon me if family members realize that I have spent more than 20 minutes occupied with something other than family business.

Today is Friday, the last day of the workshop. In some ways I am happy that this is my last day of work for the rest of the summer. I have all of July and half of August free, with mountains of time to goof off with the kids. I do love days like that, days when we loaf in our pajamas until 10 and then slowly make our way to the library or the store or the park.

But this time next week, when I am sitting with Paige in the pee-warmed baby pool, watching the boys splash around in the big pool and out-yell any other children within a 5 mile radius, when they pad over to beg for .75 cents to buy a miniature bag of Sun Chips, I am going to close my eyes and visualize this conference room with its shiny table, its fake crystal chandelier, and its carefully arranged pitchers of ice water, and I am going sigh for the loss of this idleness, these hours of reading Perez Hilton and playing Scrabble Cubes. And then I am going to take a deep breath, look at my adorably soggy children and say, "NO! We JUST. HAD. LUNCH."

Three Things I Want my Kids To Say to Me When They are Adults

Thu, 28 Jun 2007 17:51:50 GMT

1. "Mom. It's me. Sorry for calling again. I just remembered something else I wanted to tell you."

2. "Oh my lord. You are going to love the book I just finished reading."

3. "Since the baby was born, I keep thinking, 'Did you love me this much?'"

For future reference, dear ones, yes. I did.

**This post is my response to the June 2007 group writing project on MamaBlogga.**