Things Nobody Tells you about Having Kids

 I’m nearly 6 years (!!!) into this parenthood journey, and I’ve started to reflect on my experiences. I’ve come to the conclusion that a lot of people tell you a lot of things about what it is like to be a parent—but there are a LOT of things that they conveniently leave out. If I were to give advice to a new mom, these are the things I would want to say (of course I would *never* give unsolicited advice to a new mom because I know she’ll get enough of that from the other 10,000 people with whom she comes in contact!).

1.       The first year of your child’s life is the easiest.  Truth. Everybody tells you the first year is so hard. And it is hard—a primal kind of hard. You’re tired in a way you’ve never been tired. You don’t know the first thing about anything you are suddenly supposed to be an expert at. You don’t even know this human being whose life it is your responsibility to protect. And hormones. Lots of them. That year is hard, really hard. But you find your rhythm and you become an expert on the new love of your life. And then they start to grow up. Toddlerhood. Preschool. Elementary school. You meet moms that say, “Oh, if you think 2 year olds are hard…wait until he turns 3!” And you think they are crazy, until he turns 3, and you suddenly get it. And then you meet the mom that says “If you think 3 is hard, you are in for a real shock with 4.” And then 4 rolls around, and holy hell, 4 is hard. And then you meet the mom that says “4 is tough. But wait until…”  And then suddenly you realize that it is NEVER going to get easier. NEVER.  And you begin to reminisce about that first year when things were so simple.

2.       Motherhood is isolating. When I became a mom I knew exactly zero new moms where I live. I was working as an attorney and I planned to return to work. And then we decided that leaving my job was the right decision for our family. One day I woke up with a 4 month old baby, nowhere to go and nobody to talk to. It was a shock to my system, to say the least. But I quickly joined a moms’ group and had a social calendar that the Queen Mum would envy. From the outside, it would seem life as a SAHM is similar to being a sorority—always somewhere to go, and somebody that wants to join me on an adventure. Except it isn’t like that at all. I can’t remember the last time I was able to finish an actual conversation with a fellow mom. I can’t tell you how many times our plans have been derailed by a napping (or not napping) child, or sickness, or just plain exhaustion. I often go days without having any real valuable adult interaction. It feels downright lonely at times, even in a sea of moms that are in the same boat. On the rare occasion that I can get out, sans children, with some friends, I am reminded that I am not alone at all—I’m part of a sisterhood that just holds our meetings very rarely and doesn’t need to ever finish a thought because we know we are in this together.

3.       A “healthy” child is not necessarily an easy child. I was one of those moms that didn’t find out my child’s gender while I was pregnant, because I didn’t care if it was a boy or a girl “as long as it’s healthy.” I’ve been blessed with three amazingly “healthy” children. But my children are not without challenges. One in particular has some issues that until recently required weekly meetings with not one, but two, different kinds of therapists. I thought that because I had healthy children, life would be easy for us. Au contraire mon frere. Having a child that screams non-stop for 15 months is far from easy. Raising a child that hides under a chair covering his ears if you cook an egg too loudly or acts like you’re ripping his toenails out if you try to bathe him is far from easy. Searching to get that child the help that you believe in your gut he—and your entire family—needs, is far from easy. Rearranging everything in your life to get that child to the appointments so you can fight the insurance to pay for the treatments that give you a glimmer of hope that one day his life will be easy(ier) is far from easy. Worth it? Yes. Every second of it. But easy? Nope. And yet, my children are perfect. Perfectly made in their own way, each able to teach me lessons that no other being on this earth is equipped to teach.

4.       The things you think matter don’t. And you’ll be blindsided by the things that do. I know that I spent hours researching whether to start my first child with fruits or vegetables or (gasp!) rice cereal first when he turned 6 months old. For the record, we started with avocado (which technically is a fruit but often masquerades as a vegetable). Also for the record, it didn’t matter. I can remember agonizing about how and when to drop the morning nap, or when to switch from soft bottom to regular shoes. And I won’t even start in about the tormenting choice to supplement with formula. These decisions felt BIG at the time. But now, they are just part of the white noise of those early years. I look back at every single one of them and realize that if I had made a different decision, everything would have been fine. Perfectly fine, just different. Now I’m facing decisions that floor me. I’m not a political person at all, but I can remember feeling overwhelmed with a sense of importance during the last election. What kind of world am I going to leave for my children? How to educate my children—what is really important to me about their learning environments? God. What do I tell them about God, our religion, and other religions? That one keeps me up at night. How do I explain when bad things happen to good people? Or good things happen to bad people? I’ve been a mom for nearly six years, and the enormity of this job is really just starting to hit me.   

5.      

        There is no pain greater than seeing your child in pain. Labor is hard. It hurts. Like really hurts. Like pushing something the size of an elephant out a hole the size of a peanut. But it doesn’t hold a candle to the stabbing pain when your baby comes home from preschool and tells you that nobody wants to play with him. There is nothing to compare to the agony of sitting next to your child in a hospital bed while he is getting a spinal tap and all you can do is stare into his big blue eyes calmly singing “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, you make me happy…” Emotional pain. Physical pain. Seeing your child in any kind of pain will take you to a place that you cannot possibly understand until your heart is walking around outside of your body. Nothing, I mean nothing, could ever prepare me to feel pain to the depths that motherhood has brought me. But at the same time…the joy. Oh the joy. I never knew joy like watching my child feel true happiness.

     

        You will lose yourself. But it’s ok, because you will find yourself again. I think this one is the most important. Read it again. You will lose yourself. But it is OK. Because you will find yourself again.  I think we set up an impossible standard in this country. Be everything for everybody. And find time for yourself. And be a good wife. And pursue your dreams. I thought I could do that. I mean I thought everybody—every mom—did that. And was happy about it. That was my job description. Right? Wrong. It’s impossible. As in not possible. At all. And that is OK. See how freeing that is? It was for me anyway, although it took me a while to come to that conclusion. I had 3 children in 3 years. That means I was also pregnant 3 times in 3 years. And I had newborns 3 times in 3 years. And also toddlers and preschoolers…you get the pattern. Somewhere between the vomiting, laboring, nursing, feeding, washing, teaching, potty training, disciplining, driving, reading, hugging, snuggling…I lost myself. I felt scared to admit that. People would ask me “What’s new?” and I felt like I needed to produce an exciting answer—more exciting than “I changed 16 diapers today.” Because the old me would have had a crazy story to share. But I didn’t have a more exciting answer. For the past few years I’ve mostly felt like a mom, and then a wife…and then somewhere if I searched really hard I could find a little bit of me. Except it wasn’t the me I knew 6 years ago. That me would have had a list a mile long of goals, aspirations, plans, and to-dos. This me—the mom-me—if given a moment to myself would honestly like to sit and think no thoughts. Hahaha. I can’t help laughing when I think about that. But I’m cool with that now, although it took me a while (and a few tearful conversations with my hubby) to realize that this is just a season. That’s all. I gave everything I had to these past six years, and I don’t regret a second of it. Not a single second. I’m not sure I can say that about my pre-mom life when I often threw myself into things that were not worth my time, frustration, or dedication. And guess what--I’m already starting to reach a point where my kids need me less (well, differently anyway) and I’m starting to think about who I am now and who I want to be next. It’s kind of an exciting time, really. So don’t worry about losing yourself. It’s not as bad as it seems. You’ll find yourself again, and the person you find will be well worth the search. I promise.   

       

         So there you have it. What I wish somebody told me before I had kids. But now I know, and I’m all the wiser for it.

Putting Myself Back in Pictures.

When my Tatiman was born, we scheduled a 'newborn photo shoot' for his eighth day of life. We posed for our first official photo as a family of three--we all look young, excited, in love, and slightly overwhelmed with our new family situation. When Finny Bo Binny was born, we scheduled a 'newborn photo shoot' for his eighth day of life. We posed for our first official photo as a family of four--the Tatiman looks young and exuberent, my hubby and I look slightly older, slightly more experienced, and slightly overwhelmed with our new family situation. When Lici Chance was born, we scheduled a 'newborn photo shoot' for her eighth day of life. We didn't take a family photo. I just couldn't get it together--I hadn't blown my hair dry, I forgot to pack makeup, and my black nursing shirt had spit up on it. I didn't think twice about it at the time--obviously I was in no shape to appear in pictures.

I just read this paragraph from this article and now I regret that decision.

I was thinking today that if I had been in all our family holiday card photos in the ten years and change since I became a mother, I would have been photographed postpartum, then pregnant, then postpartum, then a little more together, then pregnant, then postpartum, then still sporting baby weight, still sporting baby weight, still sporting baby weight (sigh), then pregnant and now still a bit postpartum. What a story those pictures could have told about our family between the changes in our kids and the changes in my body and my husband's. I wish I had them now.

Oh, how I wish I had that family picture now. Lici Chance will never be able to look back and see how I looked when I was so overcome with wonder and joy that nothing--not even fitting into a pair of skinny jeans--could have felt better.

I have spent all of the last five years pregnant, postpartum, and pregnant again. They have been the most beautiful, and most amazing, five years of my life. Yet I haven't always felt that way about my body.

My Tatiman was an easy baby. I started back at the gym when he was 6 weeks old. Well, I tried to, but we were struggling with nursing so I had limited time for myself. The first time I tried to leave him in the gym nursery I heard him screaming for too long. Turns out I didn't want to spend the limited time I had for myself worrying about my baby. We needed each other. The Finny Bo Binny was born full term, but woefully unprepared to take in all of the sensations of the world around him. I literally wore him--all of his waking moments, and many of his sleeping moments--from the moment he was born until he was a year old. He needed my external womb, and I needed to give him the use of my body for longer than the accepted 9 (10) month stay. And then came my Lici Chance, much sooner than my mind or body were ready for, but as it turns out in her own perfect timing.

This is how my body looks after spending five full years creating life. It isn't perfect, is doesn't fit into the clothes it fit into five years ago--but it is loved by three little people who couldn't care less that my jean size is in the double digits.

I put so much effort into creating memories for my kids. We go on adventures together. We build forts together. We cook together. We have dance parties together. When they look back at pictures of all these events that they can't remember--I want them to see that I was there, living in the moment, loving every moment and not out of view for fear that a roll gets captured on film.  This mommy is getting back in the pictures.

I don't want it all.

News broke today that Marissa Mayer, the newly appointed CEO of Yahoo, is pregnant and expecting her first child in the fall. First of all, kudos to her for being a young woman who has busted her butt to climb the corporate ladder in a tech firm. She should be the model for the Yahoo Barbie doll.

Since the news broke I've read a few articles that are trying to use Ms. Mayer as proof that women can in fact have it all. I think this statement--having it all--may be at the heart of the so-called mommy wars. And now the media is once again using a strong woman to make others feel inadequate. How about all those male CEOs--is anybody asking if they have it all? I don't think so. I don't believe for a second you can have it all.

I believe that phrase---that expectation--leads to a life of discontent. Life is about choices. When you have children (or, for that matter, choose not to), you have to forge a path where you decide which sacrifices will lead to which rewards. Those choices are so very personal, and they pervade every moment of every day.

I read one article that asked, "If you're up at 2 a.m. with a baby, why not read memos from your team?" Maybe because that 2am feeding is the only time your baby lays still enough for you to notice her curls have grown or her cheeks have filled out or her toes no longer curl when you tickle her feet. Those moments are fleeting, and deserve your full attention. Or maybe the contents of that memo involve complex legal issues that will affect a major settlement which will, in turn, completely change the course of somebody else's life. Those moments are intense, and deserve your full attention. If that is the definition of having it all, I don't want it all.

I have mom friends that have one foot in each world and get to celebrate big wins at work, and big milestones at home--but sometimes feel the pull when they have to leave a sick baby at home to make an important presentation, or skip a business trip to be home for a first birthday. They don't have it all. They've made the choices that are best for their families, they endure the sacrifices, and they revel in the rewards. 

Obviously, I've chosen to spend these years at home with my babies. My choice does not come without sacrifices--I certainly feel a pang when I see a member of my graduating class in the news for winning a major case. There are days when I wish I was knee deep in legal briefs instead of dirty diapers. But for me, I would not trade these years with my babies for anything. I've made choices. I've made sacrifices. I know I don't have it all but the truth is, I have everything I need.

Mom Village

It's been said that it 'takes a village' to raise a child. So true, so true. People often tell me they don't know how I do all that I do with three little people. It's simple...I've got an amazing village of moms (in addition to my amazing husband and our families), so I rarely have to go it alone. We are still recovering from all of the (mis)adventures of the past year, and I can think back to so many instances where things would have been so much worse without our village. Happy Mother's Day to the mom that caught Finny Bo Binny when he was about to take flight off the 2nd story of a playground structure. Also, to the moms that made me feel ok when he did take that flight, and I couldn't move fast enough to catch him. Happy Mother's Day to the mom that volunteered to watch all three little people when we had to put our beloved Lukey boy to sleep, and to the mom who offered to do the final pooper-scooper-ing of our yard so I didn't have to face that final task. Happy Mother's Day to the moms that have cooked and delivered meals, shared recipes, and reviewed my experiments. Happy Mother's Day to the moms that have saved us hundreds of dollars with your product reviews, and helped us spend hundreds more dollars with your product raves. Happy Mother's Day to the moms that have helped me diagnose illnesses, and reassured me that my babies' symptoms mean nothing serious. Happy Mother's Day to the moms that have given me rainy day ideas, and the moms that have invited us over to puddle stomp at their house. To the moms that live far away, but post pictures of their babies on facebook so I can feel a part of their lives, all the while oohing and ahhhing at the pictures I post. Happy Mother's Day to the mom that helped Finny bowl his first spare, and the mom that held Felicity so I could help with the second. To the mom who tied the Tatiman's shoe, and the stranger (mom) who came running after me when we left a beloved lego guy on a park bench. Happy Mother's Day to the mom that convinced me to come to a moms' night out, even if I had to bring my sweet Lici girl, because she knew I really needed a night out. Happy Mother's Day to the first-time-moms and moms-to-be, who remind me of the excitement I felt when these babies were in my belly--a particularly good reminder on days when I'm ready to to run away and join the circus. I hope today was a day of appreciation for all the moms in my Village.

When Breasts Aren't Best.

I’m not one to talk about my boobs. Really, there is nothing particularly special about them, nothing worthy of discussion. It’s almost fitting then that the first time I’m discussing them in public is because they are failures. That’s right, though I’m a B cup; I have F- boobs when it comes to providing milk for my precious babies.

I’ve thought and thought about writing this post, but every time I’ve begun to write, I’ve fallen into a pile of tears and decided that depression is not the best place to be when I write a public blog. But today I’m not depressed. No, I’m angry. And we all know…anger is the best place to come from when writing a blog!

I’m angry because I’ve met five women, this week alone, that have gone through the same struggle as me—and all of us are *just* feeling ok enough to talk about it. We are all middle class, educated women who embraced the mantra “Breast is Best” and came into motherhood with every intention of feeding our babies the way nature intended. We knew that breastfeeding would give our babies higher IQs, better immunity, more bonding time, less allergies…and on and on and on.

What we didn’t know is that our bodies would fail us. And today I’m angry because nobody told us that could happen—and even angrier that nobody is figuring out WHY this is happening. I often think of my struggle to breastfeed as similar to my friends who have struggled with infertility. Breastfeeding, like conceiving a child, is such a miniscule part of what makes you a parent—yet as a woman, if your body doesn’t let you accomplish these things naturally, it’s hard not to feel like a failure.

When I gave birth to the Tatiman, it never occurred to me that I would do anything other than breastfeed him. Until I nearly starved him to death. I read the books, I listed to his pediatrician, and I worked with two lactation consultants. I drank water, I ate oatmeal, I took herbs, I downed tinctures, and I ordered medications not approved by the FDA. I fed him 12 times a day for an hour each time, then pumped for 30 minutes after each feeding, and then fed him whatever I managed to pump. That’s 20 hours a day, minimum, that I sat in tears, facing my perceived failure, while I still managed to starve my beautiful baby boy. Nobody worked harder than I did to do what I believed my body should do naturally. When I finally accepted that my body was not producing enough milk, I knew I had to supplement with formula. I can vividly remember the smell when I opened that first can of formula, and feeling a stabbing pain in my heart when I realized I would not even taste that powdery mix, yet I had to feed it to my innocent newborn son. I wanted to run away to a lala land where my boobs worked, but unfortunately, no lala land existed, so I added formula to the mix. Now my baby was thriving, but I was still spending 20 hours a day doing everything I could to make milk…and failing, repeatedly. I cannot explain to you the anguish I felt (and still feel, remembering that time) every.single.time somebody asked me if I was breastfeeding. I wanted to SCREAM that I was TRYING, but the feelings of failure and fear of judgment usually had me dodging the question. I can’t even begin to tell you how marginalized I’ve felt by well-meaning women who suggested I drink more water or take a ‘nursing vacation.’ My struggles with breastfeeding factored heavily into our decision not to have any more children (yeah, we see how that went!). Eventually, I made surface-level peace with the situation and went on to nurse the Tatiman for 10 months, and continued pumping and giving him ‘shots’ of breast milk until he was a year old.

I had high hopes when I gave birth to the Finny Bo Binny. The Tatiman had been tongue tied which I had hoped factored into our issues. Finny Bo had a perfect tongue. Unfortunately, I still had imperfect boobs. I began the routine—nurse, pump, feed, rinse, repeat—but was scared to take many of the herbs and drugs because Finny had a wicked case of reflux, and I didn’t want to make anything worse for his poor tummy. Still, we managed to keep up the schedule until Finny was 5 months old, and then I pumped until he was 8 months and the breast milk ‘shots’ became breast milk ‘sips’ and life went on. I held out hope that the problem was his, rather than mine, because even when taking in massive quantities of formula on top of the breast milk, the Finny Bo Binny has never broken the 10th percentile for weight. It was possible that he was really just a slow grower on my breast milk, since he barely grew once we added formula. Possible, but not plausible.

Seven weeks ago I gave birth to my beautiful Lici girl. I naively thought the third time would be the charm. I also naively thought I could mentally prepare myself for my inability to breastfeed her without any supplementation. When reality sunk in…depression started to sink in too. But this time I was DETERMINED not to spend the first few weeks of my baby’s life feeling like a failure. So I started the herbs and tinctures and medications, and I forced myself to adopt the attitude that I would give her all the breast milk I make, and the rest is just nutrition.

Nutrition. That’s it. Formula is not the devil. Formula has kept my children alive and thriving. And I don’t mean to brag…but I have one of the smartest three year olds I’ve ever met—his IQ isn’t suffering. I have a 22 month old that is practically glued to my side—we didn’t fail to bond. And I have a 7 week old that is currently snuggled up, wrapped in a Moby, making the sweetest little cooing noises. Did I mention she can already roll? Well, she can. I think she’s going to be just fine.

I’m angry because I had to go through some very dark times to get to where I am today, and I even angrier that I have been unable to find any help in the form of answers and treatment from the medical community. In fact, my beloved lactation consultant just attended a three-day conference where under-supply did not receive a SINGLE session. How can it be that even an organization whose main goal is to promote breastfeeding is ignoring the issue? I think it’s because there is still a perception that anybody that wants to breastfeed can. And anybody who can’t is choosing formula as the easy way out. Maybe that was true one day, but it just isn’t true today. More and more of us are struggling, and I want to know why.

So for now, I nurse my baby girl as often as possible. I suck in her sweet smell, and stare into her lightening blue eyes. I rub her long toes and I pat her little tushy. I consciously use the word “nurse” to describe what we do rather than breastfeed. Nursing is caring, and loving, and attending to—and I do all of that, in spite of my milk supply.

I imagine very few of you actually care about my struggles to breastfeed, but if it makes one of you feel like you are NOT a failure, I’m glad I put it out there.

'Tis the Season!?!?

A college friend posted an interesting article on facebook today: http://www.kveller.com/blog/parenting/actually-you-cant-celebrate-hanukkah-and-christmas/

The premise of the article is best summed up with the following quote:

Specifically: the entire point of Hanukkah is to celebrate people who died rather than practice any religion other than Judaism. And to celebrate that AND a holiday that celebrates the birth of someone who Christians believe is the son of God does not make sense.

It didn't sit well with me, and I've been composing my thoughts on the subject all day. And here is where I feel the author gets it wrong: She is confusing "celebrate" and "observe."

My preggo brain is preventing me from really putting things together in any sort of succint manner, so I'm just going to muddle through my thoughts. Bear with me, please.

The subject has been on my mind over the last few weeks because, let's face it, Christmas is everywhere (and has been, commercially, since Novemeber 1st). I've mentioned before that we are part of an interfaith family. Although both my husband and I are Jewish and we are raising our children in a Jewish home, we have relatives who are Christian. In fact, since Irene destroyed our home, we have been living with Christian family members. We have chosen to be open about our differences in beliefs on a level that our children can understand. For instance, the Tatiman knows that he is Jewish so he can't eat pork--and that some people in his family are not Jewish, so he has to ask them if their food has pork before he takes a bite.

So, back to the Hanukkah/Christmas situation. The house we are living in is decorated for Christmas. My boys spent the better part of a weekend helping their grandparents decorate (and 're-decorate', ha!) with Santas and candy canes and gingerbread houses and lights and a tree. The boys loved it. The grandparents loved it. As the decorations came out, so did stories about the boys great grandparents, and great-great grandparents, travels, milestones, and family memories. The weekend spent decorating was full of celebrations.

A few nights later, I heard sobs coming from the back seat of my car. We were driving down a street in which every single home was decorated with beautiful lights for Christmas. The Tatiman was inconsolable because we cannot decorate our house for Christmas. I tried to explain to him that we can decorate our house for Hanukkah, but because we are Jewish and live in a Jewish home, he is right that we can not decorate for Christmas. He wanted no part of my explanation. I decided to rectify the situation by picking him up from school with a surprise trip to a store that I knew would be full of Hannukah decorations. We drove over an hour to the store, armed with my husband's credit card; I had no budget in mind, because I wanted the Tatiman to feel like his house could be the most beautiful for Hannukah. We arrived...and the Tatiman wanted none of it. Not a single decoration. More tears ensued because no matter what, his house would not be the most beautiful for Christmas. Honestly, it was heartbreaking. I did buy the tackiest string of light-up dreidels I could find in the hopes that once we are home, he will find some joy in seeing them light up his room each night.

I can understand what he feels like. I have a favorite pizza shop. Their pepperoni pizza smells amazing. Like more amazing than the most amazing smell you can imagine. Especially when I'm pregnant, which I tend to be most of the time. When we are there, my mouth waters for that pizza. It is truly intoxicating. Unfortunately, they don't have any vegan pepperoni to subsitute. That's life. Sometimes your convictions don't let you do something you might otherwise love doing. I believe those convictions make me a stronger person, and I believe it is important to raise my children with those same convictions. It's not always fun, but I do believe it is always worth it--and one day, my Tatiman will understand that.

The next day I ventured into the Tatiman's school-a small private school with kids from all different religions and cultural backrounds--to talk to his class about Hanukkah. His teacher pulled me aside to tell me that he had refused to take part in the St. Lucia day celebration because he "is Jewish, so he can't do Christian things" (in his own words). My heart broke again.

To me, a celebration is just that--a festive occasion that you share with friends and family. Celebrations make memories. Life is about memories. As much as I want my little guy to understand he is Jewish, I want him to see the beauty in other traditions, holidays, and beliefs.

An observance is a completely different event. An observance commemorates an event, in the case of Christmas, it is commemorating the birth of Jesus. An observance shows commitment to following a set of rules.

In our family, the Christmas celebration is all about Santa Claus, favorite foods, family time, and making memories. There is nothing un-Jewish about that--certainly nothing less Jewish than opening presents on Hanukkah, which has exactly zero to do with the Macabees or the miracle of the oil. Part of our celebration includes thinking of those less fortunate and giving (toys, money, trays of cookies) to the local homeless shelter, and delivering sweets to emergency personel that work on the holiday --a perfectly Jewish concept, if you ask me.

As a Jewish family, we cannot observe Christmas as the birth of Jesus. But I do believe we can celebrate the secular traditions of Christmas without compromising our Jewish beliefs (and hopefully without offending anyone with strongly held Christian beliefs). We can celebrate Christmas without practicing Christianity. We can celebrate a holiday with our family even though it is important to them for different reasons. We can honor their choice to observe the birth of Jesus without challenging our own beliefs. It may not always be easy, especially as my boys get older and ask more questions, but I truly believe we can, and always will, celebrate Hanukkah and Christmas.

Why My Children Sit in the Main Sanctuary

This time of year is quite busy for Jewish families. We celebrate the new year with two biggie holidays, Rosh Hashannah and Yom Kippur. Each holiday is rich with tradition—and filled with hours of reverent prayer services.

This year, we elected to skip the babysitting, skip most of the tot and family services, and bring our boys to the main sanctuary for the morning services. The morning services that last about five hours. Five hours in Hebrew, a language neither of my children speak.

We were not immune to some of the side eyes, glances, and outright glares. My boys are relatively well behaved, but they are 16 month and 3 year old boys. No amount of spiffy suits or shiny shoes (or pockets stuffed with snacks, transformers and books) can keep them from acting like two little guys.

My boys are the products of an interfaith family. They proudly don their Buchanan tartan for the Celtic festival, have strong Scottish names, and open presents from Santa Claus. We keep a kosher home, light candles for Shabbat, and listen to Hebrew songs in the car. As their parents, we feel it is very important that they understand and feel connected to their roots, as unique as their particular set of roots may be.

But on the most holy days of the year, the High Holidays, we feel that it is essential that they participate in the real deal. We want them to see the real Torah, and not a cloth stuffed version. We want them to hear the prayers sung in the same way they have been sung for over 4,000 years, not a cutesy toddler tune. We want them to hear the silence pierced by the sound of the shofar, a real ram's horn, and not a plastic toy. And yes, we even want them to feel that bit of discomfort that comes with sitting and standing and sitting and standing over and over again. Its not always easy to be part of 5,772 years of history.

So when the Tatiman asked if he could sit closer to the Torah, we marched up to the very front and sat on the floor with an unobstructed view. We noticed the whispers, but we didn't care. When he asked, “What do we do to celebrate Yom Kippur?” we did not shush him. And when the Tatiman cried, not because we were still in services, but because we had to leave early to feed the Finny Bo Binny, we knew we had done something right.

We can not guarantee that our children will pass on our traditions. We can not guarantee that they will see value in being part of an unbroken chain. But we will do everything in our power to make them feel that their presence matters. That their voices are part of the music of the service. Hopefully, one day, they will do the same with their children.

Lucky.

The last song we danced to at our wedding was “The Luckiest” by Ben Folds. It’s an awkward love song, but the simple chorus keeps playing through my head these past few days:

That I am
I am
I am
The luckiest

On Saturday night, Hurricane Irene (a mere category 1 storm!) ripped through our neighborhood, literally. The damage is like nothing I have ever seen before, and something I hope to never see again. A large tree fell on our house, causing significant structural and water damage to four out of our nine rooms.

But we are so, so, so very lucky.

The tree hit with a loud boom that shook our entire house. My boys were asleep in their rooms upstairs, and my husband said he doesn’t think my feet touched a single step while I ran up to find them. The Finny Bo Binny remained blissfully asleep and unaware until we plucked him from his bed and brought him downstairs. The Tatiman, however, was cowering in a tent in his room, afraid we had been hit by a firework. I grabbed him and took him down stairs where we all—all four point five of us—sat together on a single chair. Huddling together, taking in what had just happened. I told the Tatiman “We are ok, because we are together.” He believed me, even though I wasn’t so sure I believed myself.

In the days since, we have learned how lucky we really are. We are lucky that the tree did not hit one of the boys rooms. We are lucky that our strongly built home held the tree from doing even more damage. We are lucky that we have an insurance company that has worked very hard to line up a team to fix the damage. We are lucky that we have lost very little of sentimental value, and our house can be rebuilt. We are lucky to have friends and family offering us food, temporary shelter, warm showers, babysitting, and anything else we could possibly imagine.

We are lucky because we still have each other.

No doubt. I am the luckiest.

Tissues for Mommy

One week from tonight I will be tucking my PRESCHOOLER into bed for the first time. I can not think that, say that, or type that without tears streaming down my face.

Don’t get me wrong, I am beyond thrilled with the school we have chosen for the Tatiman. He is BEYOND excited to start school. He has been counting down the days since we visited back in March. We told him that he couldn’t start preschool until he turned three. The first words out of his mouth on the morning of his third birthday were “Can I go to preschool today?” He is ready.

I am not.

For the Tatiman, this is the beginning of everything. This is his first foray out into the real world. This is his first chance to make friends without my influence. This is his first exposure to Spanish and raising goats and sitting in a reading circle and on and on and on…

For me, this is an end. I won’t have my little guy to snuggle on slow rainy mornings, eating golden raisins while we plan our day. He won’t be my sous chef when I go on a baking binge, shaking our granola bar mixture, or stealing blueberries from my muffin mix. I won’t be able to protect him from mean kids. I can’t read every snack label to make sure there is no kiwi and on and on and on…

But just like I knew, with all of my heart, that I needed to stay home with him after he was born, I know now, with all of my heart, that I need to let him take this first big step toward independence.

Our school supply shopping list included one box of tissues for the teacher. I was stoked when I got a 2-for-1 deal; I figured a teacher can never have too many tissues. Well…I’m thinking that I might have to keep that tissue box in the car for me.

Love Multiplied.

Every now and then I read something that makes me nod my head in agreement, laugh along with the author, or in the case of this blog http://confessionsofaminivanlover.blogspot.com/ cry. And I'm not talking about a little tear rolling down my cheek combined with a little sniffle. I'm talking about full on sobbing, heaving for breaths, snot rolling out of my nose. Oh, P.S., I was sitting in my doctor's office waiting room while reading this.

I can remember so vividly my last day at home with just the Tatiman. We had big plans to spend the day with my sweet boy, take him to his favorite restaurant for lunch, and then drop him off at his grandparents house while we headed to the hospital. However, the Finny Bo didn't cooperate with that plan, and we ended up needed to drop the Tatiman off much earlier that day. I sobbed most of the way to the hospital because I didn't get my last lunch date with my sweet Tatiman. I spent hundreds of dollars on a "Big Brother" gift bag for the Tatiman to get when he came to the hospital to meet his new sibling. I was excited to meet our newest addition, but also filled with dread--yes, dread--that perhaps my greed to have more babies would ruin our family. Yes, "greed" and "ruin". Hormones obviously help me think clearly.

I don't think you can understand a mother's love until you become one. There is no way to describe it, but it is more powerful than any other emotion. I didn't think I could love anyone more than I loved my sweet Tatiman--until I met the Finny Bo Binny. In an instant, I realized that not only could I love him just as much--my love for the Tatiman could grow even more. Being a mom has taught me that it is ok to have different kinds of love.

I love my Tatiman with a sense of awe. He made me a mother. I got to experience so many firsts with him--first flutters in my belly, first time hearing his heartbeat, first time meeting the person I grew, first 1st birthday extravaganza...and even though I will repeat many of those experiences with his siblings, nothing will compare to the very first time.

I love my Finny Bo Binny with a fierce kind of love. The moment I laid eyes on him, I felt this intense need to protect him from the world, from others' expectations. And that was before reflux reared its ugly head. My Finny Bo Binny has made me a better mother. He has taught me patience, and to appreciate small changes, and to really, really, cherish the good times. He was the only one who could teach me these lessons, and I will forever be grateful to him.

We currently have Baby #3 on the way. This pregnancy is not filled with any dread. I don't feel greedy, just extra blessed. And I'm certainly not worried about ruining my family--I'm just so excited to watch our love multiply.

Oh, P.S., out of all the gifts that the Tatiman recieved on the day he met his baby brother...the Finny Bo is the only one he showed any interest in. This go 'round, the Big Brothers will get "Big Brother" T shirts and special lunch in the hospital cafeteria!!

Boys Will Be Boys

I've read a bunch of articles lately (courtesy of facebook, my source for news) about raising 'genderless' children, preschools that refer to all the children as 'friends' instead of boys and girls, and specific ways we should talk to little girls. I found myself getting increasingly annoyed with these articles, because I think that ignoring differences in gender is just about as bad as pigeon-holing a person because of their gender. I think it is OK to tell a little girl she looks pretty, just as long as you also tell her that math is awesome, and she can play football if she wants to. There is nothing wrong with exposing boys to lots of sports, as long as you also expose them to painting, and dolls, and cooking.

At not-quite 3 years old, the Tatiman has some very definite views on gender-roles. He currently has a boy baby in his tummy, because “only boys can grow boys.” And when he grows up to be a daddy, he must grow a beard. Makes perfect sense.

The Tatiman has had a 'Pincess' phase, and Finny Bo Binny happily pushes around a little pink shopping cart. The Tatiman loves Tinkerbell and princess stories, just as much as he loves Storm Troopers and Legos. I don't think of these as “girl” toys or “boy” toys. I think of them as 'toys', and by introducing my boys to a wide range of toys and imaginative play, I hope they will flock to whatever it is that they truly find interesting.

So, I thought those articles had no bearing on our lives. Until I got slapped in the face by a Happy Meal toy. We picked up a Happy Meal on our way out of town. The person at the counter didn't ask me if it was for a boy or a girl, and I didn't think to tell them. When I opened the box, I pulled out a Barbie head with long, flowing, blonde hair, and a pink comb. For some reason, I thought the Tatiman would be disappointed. The 'boy' toy would have been a Pokemon character (not that he knows who Pokemon is...but for some reason I thought he would like that better). Immediately, I said “Oh, this isn't a cool toy.” He asked me why...and I caught myself. I tried to rephrase and retract my statement as I handed him the toy. He thought it was SO cool. “It has hair just like when I have long hair just like Rapunzel has long hair!” Touche. I guess I need to pay a little bit more attention to what I say, and how it may play into my boys' senses of self, and thoughts on their place in the world.

I like to think of myself as a progressive mom. Although we have chosen a more traditional lifestyle with an at-home mom, and a working dad—I like to think it is because of the feminist movement that I was free to make this choice. I like to think that one day the Tatiman and Finny Bo Binny will have the same freedom of choice—and many more. To marry whomever they love, to have children that look just like them, or come from a world away. To stay home, or work outside the home, or do some combination that works for their families. To play sports, or dance ballet. To be scientists or fashion designers. I hope that my boys follow their dreams, whatever they may be. But, barring major surgery, they will always be my boys. Rough and tumble, sweet and sensitive, gentle, and stinky, and strong, and emotional...I love these little guys.

The Day I Became a Rocket Scientist

I went to a Top 20 Business school for my undergraduate degree. I went to a Tier 1 law school for my Juris Doctor. All of that education left me woefully unprepared for the morning my sweet Tatiman woke up in tears—because I had not purchased him “Rocket Jet Shoes” while he slept, and “How could [he] possibly fly now?”

The Tatiman is not much for distraction. When he says something, he is bound to repeat it. And not just once or twice; he has a card catalog filled with events from his short life, and he has no problem reminding you of every minute detail. When he was about 18 months old, I dared to open the door at his Mom-Mom and Pop-Pop's house before he was on the front porch. That was nearly 2 years ago...and he often reminds me of the time I almost ruined his life by opening that door before he got there.

So, I knew I was in for it. Big time. The Tatiman is the grandson of an actual rocket scientist. And the son of a man who designs flight simulators (who also happened to be away on a business trip during this entire saga). His expectations are high, to say the least. And I failed calculus, repeatedly.

I decided I needed to do something. I remembered seeing something in a Family Fun magazine about using tissue boxes to make dinosaur shoes. How different could Rocket Jet shoes be, really? I got to work during naptime—using construction paper, scissors, tape, and an entire glue stick. Forty-five minutes later I had some lovely Rocket Jet shoes, just waiting for the Tatiman to wake up from his nap. I worried, however, that my preschool quality Rocket Jet shoes would not live up to his MIT dreams.

After nap, I told the Tatiman that I had a surprise. When he came running down stairs I proudly held out the Rocket Jet shoes. They were green, just as he requested. He quickly put them on and hopped around oh so happily. I snapped pictures and posted them on facebook. The applause rolled in.

And then the Tatiman stopped jumping and said “These look a lot like tissue boxes.” Wah wah wah wahhhhhhh. “And they don't really work.” ….exhale. As much as I tried to convince him that he could use his imagination to fly, he wasn't buying my story. He did, however, humor me, and run around in his Rocket Jet shoes here and there for the next few days.

Tonight, on our drive home, the Tatiman was quiet for a moment. That is usually a sign that I should brace myself. This time was no different. “Mommy, I need you to build me a JET PACK because the Rocket Jet shoes did not really fly.”

Thankfully, Daddy came home tonight. Phew.

Why I chose cloth.

A lot of people wonder why I use cloth diapers on Finny Bo Binny Binny Boo Boo. There is a short answer and a long answer.

The short answer: Because I can.

The long answer: I actually bought cloth dipes to use on the Tatiman. I bought them because I thought they were so cute. I wanted to be able to say I used cloth diapers. Neither environmental, nor financial considerations played into my decision tree. I used cloth on the Tatiman for a few months, and then he got ginormous. I really struggled to find pants that fit him well and looked cute. Remember, my initial decision was all about appearances…and it was not an option for my first born to be dressed in stretchy pants every day. So, the cloth dipes got packed away, and I resumed using our favorite brand of disposable dipes. No harm, no foul.

Then the Finny Bo Binny came along. We used ‘sposies from the start with him. When he was about six months old, I started to think about those cloth dipes again. We were throwing $60 a month down the drain in disposable diaper costs. The Tatiman was potty training, so I knew that diaper bill was about to cut in half—and the thought occurred to me that I could eliminate it entirely. We are fortunate that $60 does not make or break our monthly budget, but suddenly the idea of literally throwing it out, especially in this uncertain economy, just seemed ridiculous. Plus, the Finny Bo is a little peanut, so adding a little fluff to his tush actually helped his fashion cause! I figured it was a win-win situation.

The truth is I am not in love with cloth dipes. I’m not in love with any dipes, really. They contain poop and pee, and then I rinse and repeat. That’s it. They are, perhaps, slightly more difficult than disposable dipes—only because they require a smidgen more forethought and planning. But I do feel good about my decision. I’m saving money. I’m not putting chemicals against the sweetest little dimpled tushy in the world. And, I’ll admit…I think they look really, really cute.

Kid Fears.

I’ve come to realize that as a parent, I have three main fears. They are, in no particular order:

1. That something horrible will happen to my children
2. That something horrible will happen to me or my husband
3. That a sippy cup, filled with milk, will go missing in the playroom.

Just like Old Times…only Completely Different.

During my senior year in college, I lived in a tiny apartment with seven girls. We made up our own sorority, Sigma Gamma Gamma. We spent countless hours hanging out at home doing ridiculous things, like eating spaghetti with chopsticks, making paper rings to drape around the entire apartment counting down the days until graduation, and being filmed for a TLC show. You know, typical college stuff. It was one of the best years of my life.

I just got home from my trip to L.A. where I visited one of these former roommates. She happened to marry my cousin, but that is neither here nor there. (By the way, my boys survived and thrived while I was gone…just as I predicted!). She has a beautiful new baby girl, who is my 2nd cousin thrice removed (or something like that), and I was dying to see her.

While I was there, we decided to skype with one of our other former college roomies. She is also home on maternity leave, with an 11 week old son. We chatted for a while about random whatever kind of stuff. About the word for earthquake not being the same as the word for Vermont (you had to be there)…and then we started talking about boobs. Just like old times. I remember many conversations about boobs in the SGG house…who wanted them bigger, who wanted them smaller, who was showing too much to a guy, who wasn’t showing enough—you know, the usual. But this time, we were talking about breastfeeding. Oh, the trials and tribulations, and successes, of breastfeeding.

When we lived in our tiny apartment 10 years ago (gasp!), I can assure you I never imagined a day that this would come. Sure, I hoped I would maintain a friendship with these ladies for the rest of my life. But there was no way to even comprehend technology like skype, or that our boobs would one day serve a much higher purpose. Cheers to that.

I lost my cell phone in LA. I had to call my hubby from a payphone to let him know I landed safely. That part was totally just like old times.

For my Mudder.

My mom was my Brownie troop leader. My mom provided (the best) snacks for an entire neighborhood of kids. My mom painted sets for musical productions. My mom sat freezing her tuchus off in an ice skating rink. She brought oranges and water bottles to soccer games. She hand painted shirts for my elementary school teachers. She came on pumpkin picking field trips. My mom worked full time and somehow never missed a school concert, talent show, conference, class party…the list goes on. I used to think my mom was so amazing because she could do it all. But now that I’m an adult, and a mom in my own right, I realize that she couldn’t do it all—nobody can—she made countless sacrifices to make me feel like whatever was going on in my life at the time was the most important thing. That makes her even more amazing.

My mom made a home that wasn’t just comfortable for me and my brother, but was a second home for all of our friends. She was a surrogate mom to so many of our friends who really needed a place that they could come ‘home’ to.

My mom cooked meals from scratch, every night.

My mom taught me to make Shabbat.

My mom gave me the love of baking in mass quantities.

My mom showed me that it is ok to be afraid of something, but it is triumphant to
face that fear.

My mom taught me to bring hostess gifts.

My mom taught me to throw a party. Not just a little shin-dig, but a full blown fete.

My mom taught me that it is important to find reasons to have a celebration.

My mom always challenged my crazy ideas. I called it pessimism. She called it realism. Whatever you call it, it made me dig deep to get what I thought I wanted.

My mom threw me a wedding that was better than my wildest dreams.

My mom is an amazing grandmother. Her grandchildren have no idea that she is
constantly making sacrifices to make them feel like they are her number one priority. I know one day they will have that realization, and they will feel her love even more.

My mom isn’t perfect. But her flaws have shown me that there is beauty in being a real woman.

Happy Mothers Day to my Mommy. I love you to the ends of the earth. And I thank you today, and always. Even though some days I’m louder about other stuff, so it’s easy to miss that.

Daddy Daycare

I’m leeeeeaving on a jet plane!!! Mama is packing her suitcase (just one!) for a little 3 day getaway! More than one person has asked where my children will be. Sit down for this one. Are you ready?

With their father. *GASP*

I know, I know. Ca-razy. I actually trust the man I married, the man I chose to make these children with, to be fully responsible for their care. My husband is a pretty mild mannered man. But if you want to see him get riled up, suggest that he has to “babysit” his kids. Fair warning…step FAR away before making that suggestion. He has wanted to be a dad since long before he met me. In fact, I would bet he had second thoughts about me because I’m not endowed with birthing hips (hello, 44 hours of labor!). Our boys are 50% his (well, by looking at them you might guess they are closer to 98% his), and he takes at least that much responsibility as their dad. He changes diapers, he does middle of the night feedings, doctors appointments, bath time, meal time, and of course he rocks at playtime.

Does he do it differently than me? Probably. But here is a confession for ya: I forgot to patent my awesome and amazing parenting techniques. I know, shocker. But I fully understand that my way isn’t the only way. It isn’t even always the best way…ok, most of the time it is (I joke, I kid!).

So as I pack my suitcase today, I’m full of excitement for two reasons. 1. I get to visit dear friends and family, including our newest family member and 2. I know my boys, all of them, are going to have a rocking time at home without me.

A Graduation of sorts.

On February 8, 2002, I woke up with what looked like a golf ball lodged in the middle of my chest. I remember the date clearly—not because it was the start of a 9 year adventure—but because it was the morning of the Olympic Opening Ceremonies, and I was hosting a huge party complete with a 10x20 foot projection screen for watching the event. The party was awesome...and when I woke up the next morning, the lump was still there. By Monday morning, I was sure that lump wasn't a figment of my imagination, and because I knew I hadn't swallowed any golf balls, I decided it was time to go see a doctor. My doc saw me that same day, and sent me straight from her office to an ultrasound. The ultrasound tech uttered the words that changed my life, “It is a tumor.”

I was blessed to live close to one of only two doctors in the entire world that specialized in treatment of my type of tumor. He removed my pectoral muscle, some lymph nodes, and part of my rib cage—my body was clearly ravaged, but my spirit held strong. I relapsed in 2003, and again in 2004. Each time, my amazing doctor treated me with dignity, careful skill, and optimism. It is because of him that I have remained lump-free for the last 7 years.

Today, that same doctor uttered these words: “You've graduated.” No more trips to Hopkins. No more tearful nights before my trips to Hopkins worrying about whether the tumor has come back. No more worrying about 'what if' the tumor comes back. Of course, I know that there is a chance that I will relapse again. But I've beaten the odds by making it this far. I beat the odds when I stood under the chuppah on my wedding day. I beat the odds when my Tatiman was born, and again when Finny Bo Binny joined our world. I intend to continue beating the odds every day, for the rest of my life.

No graduation is complete without a speech. So here goes:

At my brother's wedding, I gave a toast that started with this saying: When you love some one, it gives you strength. And when you're loved by someone, it gives you courage. I want to thank my friends and family for supporting me all of these years—I haven't forgotten the 7-layer cookie tray, when you saw my butt through the hospital gown and laughed, or the times you picked me up for drives on sunny days. I especially want to thank my amazing husband and my two beautiful boys. You make every day I beat the odds worth it. You are my strength and my courage.

Bittersweet.

I just cleaned out Finny Bo Binny's closet so I can pull the Tatiman's old summer clothes out of storage and move them into Finny Bo's room. Finny is a slow-grower, so this is really the first time I've done a mass-exodus of the closet, and I found myself tearing up as I packed away some of my favorite outfits.

Things are so different this time around. The Tatiman grew and changed so quickly, I just had to grab on and enjoy the ride. There wasn't a whole lot of time for reflection before we were on to the next of everything—the next clothing size, the next milestone, the next adventure. But my sweet Finny Bo Binny is moving at is own, much more relaxed, pace. He hasn't grown into a new clothing size in over 5 months, he doesn't have any teeth yet, and he still wants me to hold him 99% of the time. I think marching to the beat of Finny's drum has kept me in denial. Denial that my baby is growing up, and before I know it, he will be a running, jumping, chattering (occasionally defiant) toddler.

Finny will be ONE in just over two weeks. When the Tatiman turned one, I was just weeks away from discovering that our little family of three was on its way to becoming a family of four.

It is different this time around because I don't know if Finny Bo Binny Binny Boo Boo will be my last baby. With the Tatiman, I was so sure I was done having kids, that I just enjoyed every second. But this time, I really feel a longing for another child. I don't know when or if our lives will ever be ready for a third little person—and as I packed the clothes away this time it hit me hard that this may be the last time I see these outfits that I picked out with such excitement during the Tatiman's first years. So, while I still watch in awe as my babies are growing up—this first birthday will come with a little bittersweetness along with the cake and ice cream.

Boring is as Boring Does.

It has come to my attention that there is a website devoted to mocking parents that post facebook statuses about life with their children. The idea is that people should tattle on their friends who “used to be fun” but now have babies, by sending in copies of the offensive facebook statuses. Really? I mean REALLY?

If these contributors lives are so exciting, I wonder how they can find the time in their wild and crazy daily schedules to contribute to a website that's sole purpose is to make fun of proud parents? Here's a thought: if you can't comprehend that a child changes your life in the most amazing ways, just ignore the people who can. It's really that simple.

Is my life a barrel of monkeys at every given second? Nope. Was it ever? Nope. But, if anything, having children has brought more excitement into my life. Sure, I can't spend every Thurs-Sat night at a bar with the same six people talking about the same six other people while I pace my drinking to get enough of a buzz, but avoid a hangover. That was fun for a few years. Then I graduated from college.

There is nothing boring about my life these days. Different? Absolutely. Boring? Never. Sometimes I wish it was! Having a child changes everything. And the most exciting part is that it keeps changing. My boys prevent me from becoming stagnant. They grow and change and develop new interests faster than the tides change.

As for me, my autonomous self, I still have many of the same interests I had before becoming a mom. I'm always finding different ways to incorporate them into my life. But having my boys (husband included) has also broadened my interests. I've met people I never would have met without spending a little extra time at the playground. I've been challenged in ways no career could challenge me.

Yep, I'm guilty of posting way too many tidbits about our daily life on facebook. It is one way I can stay connected to my friends and family. I'm sure I've said a few things that seem like I'm a little obsessed with my kids. I make no apologies because, well, I am. I think they are the coolest things ever.

While I'm logged in, I oohhh and ahhhh at pictures of friends' cats, because I know they find their antics simply charming. And I would never go as far as to suggest that posting repeated status updates about your daily commute, or your gourmet dinner menus, makes you boring. Live and let live, people. Live and let live.