The Mom Tribe

It’s that knowing glance, the one from the mother across the aisle who sees you desperately trying to keep your cool as the toddler in your cart melts down in the middle of Target, yelling mean words, kicking and screaming. Just when you feel like everyone is judging you, you get that look, the one that says, “Man, have I been there before.”

It’s the stranger who holds the door as you head into the post office, pushing a stroller with one hand, package looped under your other arm. In your hardest moments, when you’re just trying to figure out how to accomplish everything on the to-do list with children in tow, those small gestures from strangers can be the difference between accomplishment and failure.

            The fact of the matter is we can’t do this alone. We may feel like we’re going at it solo, but mothers are part of a tribe, The Mom Tribe. Whether it’s the best friend you can joke about running away with, or the checker at the grocery store who calms your children with stickers while you fumble for your credit card, you’re anything but alone.

            Most of the time a favorite toy or a well-timed snack helps my son and I make it through the day’s errands. Sometimes though, it’s not enough. My son is in a mood and he loses his cool at the mall and I’m positive the people around me are contemplating calling CPS because I’m clearly doing something wrong here. But it’s those little moments where nearby moms say a gentle word, often in passing, that I remember, I’m not alone. We’re all going through this together. We distract each other’s crying babies, we pick up fallen toddlers, and we offer a kind “I’ve been there” as we walk by the overtired preschooler and his frazzled mother.

            These interactions, these moments, they’re important. Feeling like you’re not screwing this all up is sometimes the only reminder needed to make it through hard days. And whether she knows it or not, the grandmother who gushes over my tiny human while I try to select the right cereal at Safeway, is my savior.

            We may never exchange numbers, or even names, but we’ve got each other’s backs. The kindness of fellow mothers reminds me not only to appreciate the women who save my day without knowing it, but also to do the same for the ones I see in need. In those overwhelming moments, my tribe lets me know, we’ve got this, often without saying a word.

Mommin’ Ain’t Easy

Some days are hard. Correction: most days are hard. I feel constantly overwhelmed by taking care of both myself and a second human on a daily basis, making sure all of his needs are met, keeping him happy, entertained, and enriched; building a human being that will become someone I’d like to know as an adult. It’s a lor. I try to remind myself “everyone does this.” It seems crazy; somewhere out there there is a 16-year-old mom with the same duties as me, crushing it. I should feel comforted by that fact, but it doesn’t make the day-to-day any easier.

And then there are those other days, these rare glimpses into what the future (hopefully) looks like, where my son is courteous, behaved, and loving. Where he says please and thank you all the time, asks politely for food at a restaurant that he then sits down and eats without complaint. Days where we go out for a meal and he stays in the booth the entire time, fidgeting only slightly but not bounding out of his seat to run away.

I can never figure these days out; they honestly almost don’t even feel real because they are so different from our average day, the ones where I feel that I struggle to keep my temper in check while my son constantly pushes my buttons, testing his boundaries.

I’m not sure if he’s too tired to be the psycho he normally is, if I’m in a particularly good mood that seems to be clouding his behavior in some magical way, or if this is a glimpse into my future; into what it looks like to have a child and not a toddler anymore. The days when all of that reasoning and disciplining you’ve been doing finally feels like it will pay off—after months of being fairly certain timeouts were all completed in vain.

I know there will be future struggles, ones much more mentally trying than those of today, where I have to worry about bad influences and peer pressure and a world so much scarier than that of 3-year-olds. But today, I’m taking the win. I’m cherishing this good day to as a memory to call upon during all the hard times that lay ahead. To the moments this three-year-old starts acting like a three year old again. We have to take these wins when we can, moms. And today, I’m taking mine, and giving myself a little credit, too—in the form of a bowl of ice cream touted as a “good behavior” gift for my son.

My Baby, the Fashionista

Dressing babies is fun. They don’t care what you put them in, it’s adorable when they look ridiculous, and you can change their outfit as many times each day as you please (out of necessity or just because) with very few complaints. Infant fashion shows are a rite of passage for new moms. Dressing toddlers is the opposite of fun.

            Every child between the ages of two and five would rather be naked than wear clothes. Getting my son to wear any clothes proves difficult. Luckily, he is old enough to understand that he can’t leave the house without clothes on (although he did once escape through the garage and run down the sidewalk buck naked screaming and giggling—ah, to be free) but when we’re home, I’m lucky if he’ll keep his underwear on.

            When it comes to picking out the actual clothes, that’s another problem. I recently bought him two pairs of these adorable, uber-trendy comfy skinny harem pants, with the tight legs and drop crouch. They are all the rage on the online mama shops, and since they were made of sweatpants material, I thought he would be thrilled.

            Between the day I ordered them and the day they were delivered, my son had given up sweatpants. Every time I tried to put the adorable harem pants on him, he screamed in protest, “NOT THOOOOOOSE ONES!!!!”

            It took some prodding, but I did get him to explain to me what exactly the problem with sweatpants is. Turns out, he “needs pockets to put his monies in.”

            He’s started collecting things: pennies he finds on the ground, quarters he convinces his grandparents to give him, small rocks or pieces of trash I don’t know about until they jam up my washing machine…

I should point out that his sweatpants have pockets. The harem ones actually have two. But his “collections” require more than that.

            If I’ve learned anything, it’s that parenting a toddler is about compromise. And compromising with a human who doesn’t have any idea what compromise means usually feels like negotiating with terrorists. Long story short, I found him some FIVE POCKET cargo pants. And to appease myself, they aren’t the baggy Abercrombie-style ones that were “all the rage” in high school Instead they have skinny legs, drawstring tops, sweatpants cuffs, and come in chic fall colors.

I don’t think my son actually cares at all what his pants look like; he only cares how many pockets they have. Just tall enough to see over the edge of his top dresser drawer where his pants are kept, he picks out his own pair each morning—based solely on how many pockets they have. My challenge is then to find a shirt to match.

The five-pocket skinnies have become his favorite. He owns them in three colors.

Little Green Lie

I’m going to preface this story by saying I’m lucky; since birth my three-and-a-half-year-old has been a (mostly) healthy eater. Some nights he refuses to eat anything but hot dogs and French fries, but for the most part getting him to eat green vegetables and fresh fruit isn’t a battle.

            However, his generally good eating habits make those days he refuses anything resembling real food more difficult. Like most mothers, I feel an intense need to get at least some nutritious calories into his body before he eats ice cream for dessert. Sometimes those desperate moments lead us to do things we aren’t proud of. For me, it led me to lie.

            Little fibs are part of parenthood and I thought this one was no harm, no foul. With a hunk of avocado on his plate that he poked at and exclaimed he did not like before even attempting a taste (this has to be the most annoying toddler habit, right?), he insisted he was done with dinner. So I got creative.

            That’s not avocado, that’s Hulk poop, I told him. I mean really, how else do you appeal to a three-and-a-half-year-old boy? And to my surprise, he bought my little white lie, complete with the fact that he would grow super strong like the hulk when he ate it. Without hesitation he got wide-eyed and shoved the entire hunk into his mouth and swallowed. No grotesque noises, no protesting. I thought I had won this battle.

            Then, without skipping a beat, he hopped down from his place at the dinner table and ran full speed ahead into the wall, fist out, his entire body colliding with the wall, as a green streak appeared against the textured cream paint (which was not easy to clean by the way.) “Ow! Ow! Ow!” he yelled as he jumped up and down holding his fist. “Why didn’t I punch through the wall? I ate the Hulk poop!”

            It was a valid question, and one I hadn’t yet considered an answer to. I mean, I really didn’t anticipate him trying to break through solid wood and plaster.
            “Oh, well, you have to eat it everyday for a really long time before you get as strong as Hulk.”

            “Oh.” He sounded a little dejected but he also seemed okay. Although, he must have decided it wasn’t worth the commitment because he hasn’t eaten avocado since. And I learned a valuable lesson…

            Not all little white lies are harmless.

--N.

Disanores

I love dinosaurs, and I’ve been determined to pass that love of dinosaurs onto my son since the day he was born. His nursery decorated in dinosaurs, books about dinosaurs lining his shelves, even a little Dinosaur Train on TV now and again.

            It turns out it doesn’t take much to get little boys hooked on dinosaurs, and it wasn’t long before my son was talking about them gleefully. In his cute little voice he would mispronounce it, “disanore.” Everyone just melted when he said it that way.

            Fast-forward approximately two years to a routine drive to preschool and my whole world changed. Sitting there quietly for a few moments, he suddenly blurted out of nowhere: “Mom! Guess what? I can say DI-NO-SAUR.”

            He pronounced it perfectly. I whipped around and exclaimed, “What?!” If I had been driving, I might have crashed, but luckily his dad was along for the ride that morning.

            “DINOSAUR! DINOSAUR! DINOSAUR!” He chanted. “I’m a big boy now cause I can say dinosaur. Disanore is what babies say.”

            I damn near broke down into tears right there on the way to preschool. I pestered him about who had taught him how to say it that way, I contemplated (briefly) telling him whoever corrected him was wrong and it really is pronounced disanore. But he knew—the secret was out, and I suddenly saw my little kid being dropped off on his first day of college, asking me not to get out of the car as he walked to his dorm room for the first time.

            It sounds like a reach, I know, going from being able to correctly pronounce dinosaur to the sudden pangs of empty nesters syndrome, but it’s all just happening too fast. And to be honest, I was never going to teach him how to pronounce dinosaur correctly.

            And since I had such an intense reaction to his pronouncement, my son now makes it a point to remind me of his genius every so often. Days go by without a mention of dinosaurs and then all of a sudden, out of the blue, he’ll say, “Mom. I can say dinosaur cause I’m big now. Does that make you sad?”

            Yes, it does, kid. Yes it does.

The Neverending Questions

The other day when I was picking my son up from preschool, one of his teachers stopped me. “I have to tell you something your son did today” she said. My heart dropped. I felt like I’d been sent to the principal’s office.

Then she told me that my son was playing with blocks and when the tower started to fall, he exclaimed, “IT’S THE LEANING TOWER OF PISA!”

“How does he know that?!” she asked.

I knew that by the time I had a three year old he'd be able to talk and I imagined some (mostly one-sided) conversations we'd be able to have, the songs we'd be able to sing, but I never realized just how much a kid that young could understand. 

On a typical ride in the car we jump across subjects. Sometimes I find myself explaining why people don't eat bones. "Because we don't" will not slide. So instead I explain how our bodies aren't equipped to digest them and dive into specifics about the anatomical differences between our teeth and dog's teeth (assuming this is why he's asking). 

Other days my son pokes different parts of his face and asks, "why is this hard?" And I describe the human skeleton to him. When I use a word he doesn't know he asks me what it means, and he stops to ask thoughtful questions (Then why isn't my stomach hard? Where did my stomach bones go?) When he's satisfied, he immediately switches to a new topic. He wants to know if car accidents hurt, if running over a bird will stop it from flying, how we are affected by other drivers on the road (if that car hits that car will WE get hurt?). It's beyond any scenario I ever imagined.

I try not to say I don't know too often because I hate that answer. Let's be honest, no one—regardless of age—likes that response. So instead I pose questions back to him when I can't answer something. When he asks me how someone feels I encourage him to think how he would feel in the same situation.

"Would Luke be sad if I took his blocks?" 

"Well, would you be sad if Luke took YOUR blocks" 

"Hmmm yeah I would. Cause that's not very nice."

I have to admit though, when he asks me the name of the stranger walking down the street, where they live, and if they have kids, I do have to resort to I don't know (although even then I try to give him a little bit more... I don't know because I've never met that person). And when he asks if he can roll down the window and ask, I find myself weighing the pros and cons of the stranger danger talk.

Bigger

Today as I sat at the table with my two-and-a-half-year-old, I couldn’t help but marvel at just how BIG he was. Watching him heave spoonfuls of mac ‘n’ cheese into his mouth, expertly maneuvering the spoon without even looking at it, I longed a little for the days when I had to feed him: highchair, bib, tiny plastic spoons—the whole nine yards. Today, he did not need my help to eat his lunch, and honestly, it’d been a long time since he had.

For some reason, in that moment, his eyes fixed on Curious George as he ate, he seemed so much bigger than the day before. Heck, he seemed bigger than he had at breakfast. Maybe I had finally sat down long enough to notice, or maybe it had something to do with the fact that we had taken our first preschool tour that morning.

All he ever talks about is being bigger. He wakes up from a nap, “I’m bigger, Mom!” From the backseat of my car he says matter-of-factly, “when I’m 16, I can reach the pedals.” I tell him, it’s good to be little, to stay little as long as he can, but he’s in a rush to grow up.

It seems like forever from now that he’ll truly be big enough to not need me anymore, to be able to reach those pedals, to secure true independence, but I suppose when he was an infant, lounging in my arms most of the day, I thought having a toddler was a long ways off, too. Being bigger is all he wants to think about, and I can hardly bear the thought of it.

We’ve left behind everything “baby,” about him. Every time I call him baby, he stands tall and corrects me, “Mom, I’m not a baby. I’m a big boy!” And he’s right. I simultaneously fight and embrace him growing him. We’ve left behind the binkies, the bottles, the crib, and the high chair. We’re almost done with the diapers. And I’ve marveled in every milestone. Clapped for him, gave rambunctious high fives, celebrated his every success right there with him, a wide grin pulling across his face as he cheers and says, “I’m big!”

After I tuck him into bed, savoring the song he still asks for and the stories I still read to him, I retreat with a simple, “goodnight, I love you.” He returns the sentiment, and I let go a sigh of relief that the day is over, before pressing my fingers to my eyes to staunch the tears. Because when he wakes up, I know one thing is true: he’ll be bigger.

-- N.

Little Lies

I read once that when young children lie it's a sign of intelligence. Now, I'm not 100 percent sure if this is true, or just a little lie parents concocted themselves to feel better about their two-year-old's ability to fib like a politician, but I breathed a little sign of relief when I read it. You see, my son has been capable of lying just as long as he's been capable of talking.

They started out small. Mere "mistakes" I thought at first. Answering yes to questions when the truth was no--that sort of thing. Then we reached a particularly alarming phase of lying where anytime I asked him about a scratch or a bruise he told me his dog bit him. It lasted so long I was afraid to take him out in public for fear people would call Animal Control to our house to capture the beast (he's not). My son could be laying down on the couch next to me, playing a little game, his dog not even in the room and he would look up at me with big blue eyes and say "Mom, Nine bite me!" Clearly, Nine did not.

It got a little humorous (but only a little) when he started telling me his grandparents bit him. He'd come home from a day at their house all smile and giggles. I'd question a bruise and he'd look at me, completely serious, and deadpan "Papa bit me." Obviously, Papa did not. And to make matters worse he'd tell his grandparents the same about his dad and I. I was feeling pretty certain we'd have a CPS visitor at our house before we knew it. Luckily he got through the phase quickly enough but not before he started adding variation to his routine. Let's just say, it wasn't only mysterious biting going on, my son was now also being miraculously hit while no one was even standing within arm span of him.

While the outright lying has subsided, his trickery has not. He'll come bolting into the house from the garage where he's undoubtedly been "fixing" something with his dad and ask me a question, or tell me he needs something. "Mom! I need to hold dad's wrench!" My response, "Did dad say you could hold his wrench?" "I NEED ITTTTTTTT" followed by wails. Ah yes, the ol' ask the other parent when the first one says no. I know it well, kid.

Then there's the sweet talking. Ohhhh, the sweet talking.

My son: Mom, I really, really love you. I REALLY love you.
Me: Awww honey, I really, really love you, too!
My son: Can I have chocolate milk?

I mean, clearly I gave him chocolate milk, but that's not the point here. The point is my son is a genius. And your little fibber probably is too.

Oh, and guess who coached him on the last one. His dad. Yup; don't even get me started on the bro code that seems to exist around here.

Parental Pride: A Cautionary Tale

As a parent, I think it's impossible not to be (overly) proud of our tiny offspring. After all, every new milestone they hit is more than just an achievement for them, it's a victory for mom and dad, as well, and two years old seems to be an especially busy time for little ones. They are potty training, transitioning to big boy and big girl beds, and learning how to ditch the little comforts that have consoled even their biggest tantrums for the previous two years (such as binkies and bottles). All of this while simultaneously learning shapes, colors, letters, and numbers. It's a lot.

Every time my son masters a new word or counts just a little bit higher, my heart swells with pride. I, like most parents, think my son is probably the smartest kid around, boasting to family and friends about his (honestly time-appropriate) life developments as if he has just secured an Olympic gold medal. We can't help it, I swear.

Thankfully, however, in the same moment two year olds make your heart grow three sizes, they can bring you crashing back to reality. They do it well, and they do it often.

This week, in mommy and me soccer, my budding soccer star (who still prefers to use his hands and scream touchdown when he makes a goal; it's okay, he can be the goalie), was a perfect angel for the entire 50-minute skills class, which is really saying something for a toddler who can't make it through dinner without at least two meltdowns, three screaming sessions, and a fit of giggles. To say I was proud that he managed to listen and follow directions for the entire duration of class would be an understatement. It was a clear sign of his obvious genius. We were finally turning a corner! The terrible twos were over! We could have left soccer class right then and never come back and my son would have forever been remembered as the most well-behaved two-year-old to ever play soccer. But I didn't. I missed my opportunity. I took his behavior for granted. And as he and his little teammates put their hands out for traditional end-of-class stickers, I was humbled.

My son's playmate—same age as him—took one look at the star-shaped adornments on his hand and promptly exclaimed "Stars!" for all the mommies to hear. Then, as if that wasn't enough, he began to count proudly "1, 2, 3 stars!" His mom yelled congrats, we all clapped and said "yay," my son looked on in awe. And as he got his celebratory stickers—the ones that marked a job well done for the most perfect performance in a toddler class ever—he took one look at those brightly-colored stars, lifted his hand toward his face, and ate them. Just like that, it had all come crashing down.

It was not my first lesson in parental pride, and it will not be my last. I’ll still cherish every milestone, I’ll still gobble up compliments when they’re doled out (I’ll need those moments later when he’s sprawled out on the floor, screaming because I cut his waffle wrong), and I’ll remember to cherish it while it lasts; because if my son has taught me anything, it’s that these prideful moments are fleeting.

--N.

My Mini-Me

When I was 27 weeks pregnant, I had a 3D ultrasound. The second the technician found a good angle and projected my unborn child's tiny face onto the giant screen, the entire room (my husband, mother-in-law, sister-in-law and me) burst into laughter. The technician gave us a sideways glance; she didn't see it like we did. There it was, plain as day, my husband's face on a squishy little baby in utero.

Since before he was born my son has bared striking resemblance to my husband. I had no chance really, my husband is the splitting image of my father-in-law and my son the splitting image of both of them. Aside from the blonde hair, light skin and blue eyes (that have stayed the same dark shade into his second year suggesting they are a permanent feature and not the fleeting hue most babies possess for a year or so), he looks exactly like my husband. It isn't until my son opens his mouth that you can tell, undoubtedly, that he is mine.

As a working stay-at-home mom, I'm lucky to spend a lot of time with my son. This easily led to his first word being "mama," (mostly because I prodded him gently when no one else was around to ensure it would be), and now that he speaks in full sentences, it's impossible not to hear myself in him daily. He walks into a messy room and exclaims, "oh my goodness!" mouth agape as he flings his arms into the air. He mutters "ay yi yi," when the dog is being especially hyper, pronouncing each word exactly as I, using all of the same inflections. It makes me smile to hear my voice in the kid who only slightly resembles me regardless of the fact that I birthed him, but sometimes it makes me a little self-aware, too (much as I imagine actors feel when they watch themselves on screen). I never realized how often I say "honey," until my two-year-old mini-me started randomly adding it to the end of unrelated words. I didn't notice my affinity for scolding the dog (perhaps a little too often) until my son started yelling "go away, Nine!" at him as we all played side-by-side. My son acting as my permanent echo gives me a a unique look into how I sound to others, which is simultaneously hilarious and terrifying.

It wasn't until we started employing time outs as punishment that my obvious impact on my son's vocabulary (and personality) became evident. It was mostly short phrases and exclamations at first, but then, right around his second birthday, when he started engaging in conversations and fully grasping the concept of being in trouble (made apparent by his following a swift hit with an immediate screech of "no time out!" before running down the hallway), I heard myself in him in a whole new way--my parenting practices on display right in front of me for my own judgment (and amusement).

One morning, I was perched at the dining room table, enjoying a cup of coffee, while my son played calmly (albeit not quietly) with his dinosaurs. It was then that he shouted "OW! Don't bite me!" to his tiny plastic long-neck and promptly carried him to the time out corner and began counting (one, nine, nine, nine, nine...) saying things like "turn around" and "look at me," in an even tone. I froze. And then I burst into laughter. It's like I was listening to a recording of myself where the sound had been altered to a higher pitch, and watching my life play out before my very eyes, my son in the role of me. There's no better way to see how directly your own behavior affects your offspring than watching them reenact a scene that seems to play on loop in your house.

I noticed something in that moment though; those reoccurring feelings I have that I'm too frustrated, too stressed, I yell too much and I'm not sure if I reprimand my son in an effective manner (I've forgone the controversial spanking thus far), floated away. I could tell right then, as he punished his tiny plastic dinosaur for his inexcusable behavior that he gets it. And maybe I'm not doing such a bad job after all. Although, I am trying to yell at the dog less.

Baby Help.

Ever since my son hit 18 months, his verbal skills have really picked up. Not only did he add more words to his vocabulary, but he is able to string words together, recognize several letters and parrot back things we ask him to say (which is particularly fun--but also a little dangerous). His new phrases crack me up and melt my heart. He says "I love you," "Go Niners!" and "Touchdown!" (All equally important phrases in our house). I am always most impressed, however, when he picks up a new phrase that I can't recall every saying... or at least with any frequency.

Here or there he surprises me with a word we've used a couple of times, or just read over in a book but never focused on. He calls our house "Home" and everywhere else is "Papa's House" "Auntie's House," etc. Even when he refers to our dog, it is "Nine's Home." This is my favorite because while I'm sure I've said "We're going home" a million times before, he is already discerning a difference between a house and his home.

His favorite phrase as of late, and in some cases the most aggravating, is "Baby Help." Now I know I've asked him to "Help Mama" in the past, and we most certainly call him "The Baby," (which is particularly frustrating when we tell him he's a big boy and not to whine like a baby to which he points at his face, smiles and says "Baby!" ensuring us he most certainly will act like a baby because he is one), but I can't recall a time the phrase "Baby Help" ever came out of my mouth.

It is clearly an indication that he is developing both his verbal and cognitive skills, being able to understand the meanings of words and put them together in new ways to convey thoughts and ideas. However, EVERYTHING is "Baby Help." The disagreement we have on repeat typically goes as follows:

("Baby" pulls all of the DVDs off of the shelf)
Me: Don't do that (frantically starts putting them back on the shelf, no longer in the alphabetical order they were in pre-toddlerdom)
Baby: Baby help!
Me: No. No baby help. Mama do.
Baby: No, Mom. Baby help! (grabs DVDs and shoves them haphazardly in all the wrong places)
Me: Baby, no. No, help.
Baby:...Mom... Baby help.

I eventually give in to baby's help and as I glance over at the DVD shelves on our walls my OCD aches as I notice "Home" placed next to "Monsters, Inc." and a few backward and upside down titles on either side. It's a battle I have chosen not to fight. For the first several months after my son learned how to walk I re-alphabetized those movies way too many times. I've finally realized it's not worth it.

I suppose I should be happy that the helpful toddler gene is strong with our youngin' but sometimes it is SO much harder when baby actually wants to help. He's become rather useful at some tasks--dusting, feeding the dog--but when it comes to vacuuming and carrying the laundry basket, it really creates more work than anything. That doesn't mean I don't acquiesce to his demands to help. I do. But I tend to let out a large sign every time I say "Ok, honey, you play here, mama is gunna go pee" and he says "BABY HELP!" as he chases me out the door.

I suppose one day he'll be a fairly useless teenager, finally able to complete tasks in a helpful manner after developing a complete unwillingness to do so. So for now, I take the "help" no matter how decidedly unhelpful it is.

--N.

I Scream, You Scream.

As the full-time caregiver for my little tot, I don't always get to play the nice guy. In fact, in the game of good cop vs. bad cop I'm usually the latter. I know this because at 7:15 a.m. when my son is gleefully screaming "ICE CREAM!" from his car seat, I tell him no, only to hear his father sneaking him a spoonful when he gets home from work and whispering, "don't tell mom."

I'm not sure where this ice cream obsession came from but I do know he learned that word in about two seconds flat (although he still can't say 'meow' - I guess that's just priorities).  The only word he may have learned quicker was "Avengers," go figure. His love of ice cream started in utero. I, who rarely indulged in a scoop and much prefer cake or cookies when picking a treat, found myself craving ice cream constantly. It's no surprise that after his first taste of the frozen sweet, he rarely ever asks for anything else to eat.

Because I stay home with my son, I cannot give in to every request he has, no mater how adorable he is. If it were up to him, he may never eat anything other than ice cream and applesauce, which probably isn't the best diet to support a healthy nutritional profile, especially at the ripe age of 20 months.

That being said, I take every opportunity I (responsibly) can to be the fun mom. The mom who feeds the motorized helicopter at the mall quarters so my son can take a 60-second ride after picking up diapers at Target. He may scream later when I say no to his every request for Curious George cartoons, but at least I have that moment to hold on to - the one where he smiled gleefully for an entire minute and must have thought "wow I have the best mom on earth for letting me ride this awesome helicopter."Although, he was probably just thinking "COOL! I wonder if I can ride the train next."

I decided to up my cool mom game after a long day of work. My son had spent the day with his grandparents and I was missing my tiny sidekick. His grandparents inevitably spoil him tirelessly but knowing they rarely keep ice cream in the house, I knew they were probably turning down every gleeful request he made just as I do day-in and day-out. So, on my way to pick him up I stopped by to grab a kid's scoop of vanilla from the local Baskin Robbins. I smiled the whole way home knowing I'd be the hero that day.

And sure enough, as soon as I flashed that little pink cup, my son was joyful for my arrival (he usually hides and yells NOOOOOOO when my husband or I show up because he doesn't want to leave nana and papas' house). I relish those moments when I get to win. When I get to be the cool parent who comes home with ice cream.

As he plowed through that tiny cup, smiling between bites and brain freezes, it felt good to have a win. Another, "well, my mom isn't always a tyrant" moment for my son. Although he was probably just thinking, "but do I have to leave nana and papas' after this?"

-N.

Planes, Trains & Automobiles

I used to think that the Russian culture class I took in college would be the largest source of "useless information" I would acquire in my adult life. I was wrong. Not only have I now memorized the words to countless children's books, but I can very accurately tell you the names of most heavy operating equipment.

It's one of those things I never thought I'd have to know: the difference between a backhoe loader and an excavator. However, it has become blatantly obvious that it is completely necessary for me to have this information on hand. My son insists.

My son has a serious obsession with vehicles. Basically anything with wheels. He is no longer content to just push toy cars around his room making a "vroooom" noise that results in a LOT of spit gathering on his chin, he now has to jump up in his crib at 6:30 a.m. and scream "MOOOOOM!!!!" in between making airplane noises every time he thinks he hears one (I've tried to explain to him that sometimes it's just the wind - or rather, before 7 a.m., it is ALWAYS the wind).

He points at the airplane pictures in our house and makes flying motions above his head, he eats his meals with utensils outfitted with tiny diggers and points joyously at them in between bites exclaiming, "dig! dig!" He even brings his vehicle magnets to me one at time and demands I tell him exactly what vehicle each one is supposed to be. (Is a roller a vehicle? I think that's wrong...)

The good news is with all of the "baby's first vehicles" books we read, I'm actually learning something. Although I would like to pick a bone with whoever thinks "excavator"is an appropriate vehicle for this book. Seriously, what about "car?" and "truck?"

Most little kids cuddle their stuffed animals while they watch Saturday morning cartoons, or bring their favorite book in the car with them, but my son has decided that instead of a security blanket, he would prefer to drag his giant, plastic garbage truck everywhere we go. He strokes it during story time before bed, holds it in his car seat on the way to the store and would basically sleep with it if I would allow him to. To make matters worse, the hatch on the back of it opens so he can store/hide items back there to surprise me with later. Out of nowhere I have to ask "What are you eating?!" or "Where did you get that binky?!"

I understand this is a normal part of boyhood, and I'll admit it's pretty cute when he yells "more dig!" as we drive past open fields, but the other day when he accidentally dropped said plastic garbage truck on my knee cap, I secretly wished it was a stuffed bear he had dragged into his rocker with him.

His father doesn't help. Not only does he work at a landfill (full of semis, dump trucks and landfill compactors - oh my!) but he Facetimes me throughout the day just so he can show my son a running tractor. I'm sorely outnumbered.

I've decided not to fight it. We're already planning a family vacation to the Caterpillar plant in Illinois for when we decide to brave the open skies with the little, and airport trips are fast becoming more frequent than I'd like (did I mention I HATE flying? Even the sight of planes makes me a little anxious). If we decide to tackle this whole "raising a child" thing a second time, I'm praying ballet recitals and stuffed animal tea parties are in my future.

- N.

Snakes, Snails & Puppy Dog Tails

I say it all the time, my son is "all boy." I'm a great believer in the impact of nurture, but having a child has shown me just how influential nature is, too. It has never seemed to matter how many times I sit my son down quietly with a book, or try to convince him to cuddle with me in the early mornings on the couch; he would much rather climb a windowsill.

I have four nieces, and I feel like getting to know them over the years sorely misrepresented what motherhood would look like for me.. especially with the oldest two. I remember spending quiet mornings with one niece, reading stories on a blanket and singing nursery rhymes, all the while she would giggle and hold her soft toys close. And when my son was born, I got that. For about six months before he learned to crawl. And then at 10 1/2  months, he took his first steps. And I'm pretty sure he hasn't stopped moving since.

Everything is always full speed ahead. He doesn't talk back or give me much attitude but he certainly makes his opinions known. He juts off full speed in every direction, throws baseballs at my face like a major league pitcher and screams in a tone that you would think is "all girl," though I've learned it's pretty indicative of toddler-aged boys. Bottom line: he's nuts.

I used to feel embarrassed about his inability to follow directions during gymnastics class or wait his turn at soccer; I've cringed when people meet him, legs covered in bruises, and probably think I don't pay attention to my child, or worse. And then I started to get the response that made me feel better. "He's all boy, isn't he?" People would ask as he came crashing onto the playground, his little body moving too fast for his legs to keep up.

Since becoming a mother to a boy, I've decided I definitely believe in toddler gender stereotypes. Sure it's not a hard-and-fast rule -- I do have one niece who would give my son a run for his money -- but it seems to hold true more often than not.

The acknowledgement from other mothers who have the same observations about the differences between toddler girls and boys reassures me that I'm not making unnecessary excuses for my son's poor behaviors. I definitely put him in time out when he's being mean on purpose, but the fact of the matter is, when you're moving as fast as my son does, sometimes there are accidental casualties. I don't want to punish him for being who he is. Crazy isn't all bad. He's just "all boy."

It's funny how in these media battles of breastfeeding vs. bottlefeeding, SAHM vs. working mom, we seem to lose the idea that we are all in this together. Usually my son is able to give me the queues and clues to let me know he's okay. But, in this instance, it was the shared stories with other mothers -- barely more than acquaintances -- that has made me feel at peace with my son's crazy behavior.

The Great TV Debate of the 21st Century

Having a child is a conundrum. It's basically one big mind boggling experience after the next. Why is he not sleeping? Why does he suddenly hate pancakes? Why does he insist on banging his head on the floor when he's angry? The answer is, I have no idea, and despite pages and pages of research on why toddlers act the way they do, I don't think the experts really know either. So I just try and take solace in the fact that it's "normal" behavior, or as normal as ripping off your diaper and peeing on the bathroom floor can really be considered.

One topic, however, still has me stumped. The Great TV Debate of the 21st Century is one for the books. The AAP says I'm a bad parent if I allow my pre-two-year-old child to watch any television at all, but the 2008 study on the topic shows only a slight correlation between "non-violent" television programs and attention deficit disorders (and no significant correlation for educational programming). So, experts, I pose to you this question: What. The. Hell? It's hard enough to navigate parenthood without the overwhelming over-knowledge we all seem to have about child rearing these days, but did you really have to make it harder by placing such a broad, yet strict, recommendation on the only past time that gives me five minutes of solace in my day as a SAHM? And then, to make matters worse, you tell me research is limited? Ay yi yi.

In my moment of complete confusion, I did what any rational parent would do: I began to peruse message boards to see what other parents were doing. Whether or not the responses would allow me to justify a little TV time during the day, perhaps it would at least provide research that would make me feel guilty enough not to do it at all. But alas, I came up with a whole slew of parents that seemed just as confused as I (and the occasional self-righteous mom or dad who felt the need to condemn us all for subjecting our children to Sesame Street).

Just as I was about to pull all of my hair out and simultaneously cry about clearly being an awful parent who just wants to cuddle with my son for 15 minutes a day (because he's constantly moving otherwise), the most amazing thing happened. My son got up off of his perch on the couch after only 12 minutes of Sesame Street, closed the entertainment center doors, pointed at the television and said "off." I paused.

While I was busy worrying that I had turned my child into a television fiend because I let the TV act as background noise in our otherwise too-quiet house a little too often, he had proven to me that I was wrong. That simple little action made me swell with pride. I was able to relax a little. Even if I let him my son wouldn't be content to waste away in front of the television all day long. He prefers playing outside, reading the same book 15 times in a row and chasing his dog around the house screaming at the top of his lungs. He'll be ok.

I always marvel at how some days my son seems to give me exactly what I need without me saying a word. It took no direction, no less-than-subtle prodding. He just knew that at that moment in time I needed to know I hadn't ruined him. At least not yet. I did however, give him a cookie for making mom so happy.

- N.

Life is too short to always have clean fingernails

I'm not quite sure when it happened but at some point my cuddly infant with the best smelling hair turned into a grimy toddler with dirt under his fingernails and pieces of dinner in his hair. I remember the days when baths weren't a nightly requirement and my tiny baby smelled like heaven in my arms, but now I have to stop him from eating dog hair and drinking soapy, dirty bath water on a daily basis.

Kids grow up and I'm sure at several points in my life I'll cry remembering the younger years that will be long gone (hell it already happens every time I pack away another set of too-small clothes), and one day I'll miss the silliness and even the dirty bits just a little. Sometimes it's not so bad.. The muddy smile I get after a literal trip into the dirt is at least a little humorous (if no injuries are involved) and the funny face I get when my son has a hair in his mouth as he opens wide, points at his tongue and says "nine" (his word for our dog). I've even stifled a giggle when my son cracks up after an inevitable expulsion of gas. These, while gross in their own right, are accidents. It's the on-purpose gross behavior that sometimes leaves me mouth agape and horrified.

Today, for example, we went to the zoo. We hold annual passes so I make it a point to take my son every so often for a short trip to visit the animals. The zoo is not a clean place but with an 18 month old I've given in to the dirt and simply prepare by packing some hand wipes and a spare binky. This particular trip involved lunch given the time of day so my sister-in-law and I ordered our meals, packed my son into a high chair and started to eat. Minutes in, my son decided lunch at the zoo is only to be had while wearing two socks and one shoe. When I attempted to put his shoe back on, or take the other one off, he pitched a fit. This battle wasn't worth the tears (mine or his) so I gave in and placed the discarded shoe on the table while I continued to break up French fries and hand them to the tiny human making monkey noises next to me.

Mid-conversation with my sister, I saw my son stretching his little fingers across the empty space between him and the table and trying to get a hand on his rejected shoe. I asked him if he wanted to put it back on, to which he aggressively shook his head "no" so I returned it to the table, placing it a few inches back and out of reach.

A few seconds later, to my horror, I turned to see said shoe in my son's hands, making its way in apparent slow motion to his mouth. Apparently my shock caused a delayed reaction and before I could intercept his shoe, my son took one big lick right down the sole of it -- the sole that had been walking around a zoo filled with animals, uncaged birds and tiny humans that probably carry more germs than the first two combined.

I snatched the shoe back as quickly as possible and thrust some water in his direction but my son, who won't put half of what I try to feed him in his mouth, seemed unphased by the unpleasant mix of dirt and poo particles he had probably just consumed. Not to mention the morning consisted of a park trip in the same pair of shoes that included muddy grass and a gravel/sand pit (I don't even want to know what's in there!)

I'm pretty sure my son has since forgotten what the bottom of his shoe tasted like -- I'm sure he'll remind himself later - but I still gag a little every time I think about it. We brushed his teeth a little extra tonight. Is it still too early for mouthwash?

- N.

How to survive a week-long business trip with a toddler

So my husband often goes on business trips for work. They are typically 4-6 days and he's been doing them since my son was about 5 months old so we have gotten pretty used to them. Until this week, the last one had taken place when Hunter was just a year old (actually over his bday week) so I had never experienced a full "no dad" week with a toddler. And I thought the night wakings were exhausting...

First of all, this is the first time Hunter has had "object permanence" while my husband was on a business trip, meaning he knows dad still exists even when he can't see him. Even when my husband comes home late from work my son knows and will occasionally point at the door and say "dad?" I anticipated my husband's absence might be a problem, so we prepared accordingly.

Prep: All the fancy books and blogs suggest FaceTime, phone calls and even leaving behind a small token - such as an article of clothing with your scent on it or a Build-a-Bear with your voice recorded inside. We went with the latter and spent about $50 on a monkey that said "Hey Buddy I Love You" in my husband's voice. We gave it to him the day before my husband left and he LOVED it.

The next day, the true test began.

Day 1: 

11:30 a.m. - Facilitate a proper goodbye. Let your toddler wave to Dad as he leaves for his business trip and explain he will be on a trip for several days. But reassure him everything will be okay and he'll still have Mom, Nana, Papa and Auntie throughout the week.

11:45 - Put your toddler down for a nap and sneak husband back in the back door because he doesn't actually have to leave for another hour but if he leaves while your son is napping there is sure to be a meltdown and confusion when he wakes up (the experts say so).

12:45 - Husband actually leaves.

1:00 - Son wakes up from nap. Commit to keeping busy to ensure you both stay sane without any helpful intervention from family or friends.

1:15 - Lunch. Easy enough - we always have lunch without dad while he is at work.

1:45 - Make brownies. 

1:47 - Realize you are out of eggs and make an impromptu trip to Target to buy some. Stop at Costco to buy a water table to help distract your son from his father's absence. You've been meaning to buy one anyway...

2:15 - Actually make brownies.

3:15 - Go to the park to keep your toddler busy. Continually hear yourself saying "Dad is on a business trip" when asked by your toddler.

4:00 - Take shower. Let your toddler FaceTime Dad, who is at the airport still with a delayed flight, to distract him while you do so. Clearly you are an expert on this already because you are doing exactly what the books say to do.

4:15 - Finish shower, say goodbye to Dad and experience first meltdown as child will not hand over the phone but instead holds it close and says "dadadadadadadadad" over and over, clutching the phone to his chest.

4:30 - Give up on getting your phone back for the rest of the week.

5:00 - Dinner. Make a trusted favorite meal for your son so you know he will eat it and you won't have to spend time cooking several meals. Read books and play in playroom until dinner is ready.

5:30 - Watch as your child throws turkey to the dog and spits mashed potatoes down his shirt. Attempt to eat some yourself to show him how delicious it is. 

5:35 - Give in to microwave meatballs and applesauce for dinner.

5:42 - Look confused as your son makes monkey noises at you. Suddenly realize he wants his stuffed monkey with Dad's voice inside. Ah, yes.. you have beat this system, hearing dad's voice will cure all.

5:43 - Bring him monkey, sit it in chair next to him while he eats. Push hand that makes "monkey sounds." Toddler response: "dadadadadadad."

5:44 - Push hand with dad's voice instead. Watch your child gleefully request this on repeat.

5:47 - Regret your decision to buy stupid expensive monkey as your toddler becomes frantic, screaming and crying for Dad - who should obviously be home for dinner.

5:48 - Cry.

5:49 - Hide monkey.

5:50 - Pull yourself together, it's bath time. Your son LOVES bath time so this should be a breeze.

5:55 - Catch toddler mid-fall before he slams his head into the side of the tub because he is having another epic meltdown (obviously because Dad is gone and Mom sucks).

6:00 - Thank the Lord above that it is bedtime. Do entire routine yourself including attempting to stop your toddler from eating the lotion you are trying to put on him while also fighting him into pajamas and preparing his room for the night. Do everything perfect to assure there are no hiccups. There is no room for error.

6:10 - Attempt to carry toddler to bedroom, usually a pleasant end to the night where you tell him goodnight and he lays his head on your shoulder and blows you kisses. Instead, struggle to keep your toddler from falling onto the ground as he flails about screaming "DAD!!!" You have disrupted his routine and you suck. Way to go, Mom.

6:20 - Experience yet another epic meltdown when you inform your toddler it is neither time to watch TV or play with his dog (who is stuck in the garage while you attempt to get the toddler to sleep).

6:25 - Try to calmly explain to toddler where dad is while he shakes his head at you and says dad on repeat, while standing on top of a box, stomping his feet because, why not?

6:30 - Cry.

7:00 - Give in to TV with toddler.

7:15 - Call in-laws and cry to them that you need help because you are clearly incapable of even 12 hours alone with your toddler.

7:30 - In-laws arrive. Hide in pantry and feel like a failure until they successfully get toddler down to sleep without you.

7:33 - Marvel at how differently your toddler acts when grandparents are around.

7:35 - Breathe a sigh of relief that he is asleep.

7:40 - Cry.

7:45 - Watch TV for an hour before deciding the day was too exhausting for you and go to bed early. Pray for a full night's sleep.

11:30 - Awake to toddler crying for about 30 seconds followed by "dadadadadadadad" before he falls back to sleep. Simultaneously feel awful.

Day Two:

6:40 - Awake to toddler screaming "MOOOOM" into the baby monitor. Typical morning.

6:45 - Greet your child with the typical "Good morning sunshine!" to which he replies, "PAPA!" Still a typical morning.

7:00 - Make him his favorite breakfast to make up for being a total train wreck the day before. Sit calmly and watch Paw Patrol while he drinks his smoothie.

7:15 - Play in playroom, read stories, feel relief that things are going so well.

7:45 - Child discovers monkey that you hid the night before. Immediately begins frantic chorus of "DADADADADAD!"

7:46 - Rehide monkey.

8:00 - Decide the only way to handle the rest of the week is to be home as little as possible and take toddler to Target to play with toys in the dollar section. Go to breakfast, run errands, buy him a couple treats.

9:00 - Leave for music class.

11:00 - Get home from music class. Keep toddler awake in the car as not to interrupt nap time. He's clearly exhausted so nap time should be a breeze.

11:30 - Toddler fights naptime. For an hour. STOP JINXING YOURSELF.

11:32 - Cry.

12:30 - Decide to take him to lunch because home is awful. 

12:35 - Toddler falls asleep in car.

1:45 - Lunch with toddler. He is well-rested and actually happy. SCORE.

2:30 - Go to in-laws house to play with auntie and papa and stay there until you absolutely must go home.

5:00 - Go to Great-Nana's house to kill more time.

6:00 - Accept help from both parties who come over to participate in bedtime routine.

7:00 - Put toddler to bed with the help of papa and auntie. WIN! He goes right to sleep. You clearly cannot handle your toddler on your own, but three people can. You have finally discovered the secret formula!

7:20 - Tell husband when he calls that he is no longer allowed to FaceTime or talk to his son while he is gone because you (and your toddler) seem to be unable to handle it emotionally. Sorry, Dad.

7:30 - Realize the water table you purchased is still in the box, unassembled, on your bedroom floor.

Day 3:

Basically more of the same. Except this time naptime is a success on your own and your toddler sleeps for two hours. Hold onto this feeling for the rest of the week. You can consider it your single greatest success.

7:15 After child falls asleep, with the help of papa, cry from exhaustion. Call in reinforcements. Plan mini-vacation with sister-in-law to recoop. Hand off baby duties to Nana.

Day 4:

7:00 a.m. - Nana comes.

12:00 p.m. - Listen to Nana gush about how well-behaved and happy your child is. Silently wonder if your child behaves better for Nana or if Nana is exaggerating to make you feel less guilty about leaving. Decide it's probably a mixture of both and swear to enjoy 36 hours of vacation before returning home.

From now on, mom and baby are joining dad on business trips. If he's not going to sleep anyway, may as well do it in a fun locale.

- N.