Pillow Talk

by Cathy

Ever since Bella was born (actually, since she was a toddler) I have had to lay with her - and now my younger daughter - to fall asleep at night. Why? Because we have trained them this way. Not because that's how we intended this to go. We did not intend to spend hours upon hours of precious, free time sitting in a half-lit room staring at the strange light designs on the ceiling made by that giant star hanging on the wall. Hours that could have been spent doing much needed housework or taking advantage of even more needed "me" time or "couple time". No siree.

Bella was a finicky sleeper. She did just fine as a baby and I was even able to "nap when the baby naps". But as she entered her toddler years and became cognizant that she would be sleeping alone, she morphed into a very troubled sleeper. She repeatedly got up, dragging her exhausted little body out of her toddler bed and into the living room where I would be practically hiding under the couch cushions so that she could just return to bed and put herself to sleep. Because I knew...I KNEW...that once I entered that room and sat on that floor next to her bed, it would still take her centuries to fall asleep. She even caught me trying to crawl out more than a few times, (picture that pretty scene, would you?) whereupon I had to start the whole ordeal over again since she was now traumatized that I would leave her.

Many a night would I sit on that floor, sometimes literally crying tears of frustration at how this process had gotten so out of hand. She needed some type of security, some kind of reassurance to sleep quickly and soundly and even to this day, her bed is strewn with numerous special stuffed animals, her special pillow and Cuddles, and she has even concocted a little "nest" for herself to sleep in amongst throngs of pillows and teddy bears.

I don't lay with her now unless she asks me to, which can be about once a week. Sometimes I sit on her bed for a few minutes, sometimes I'll crawl under the covers with her since I'll only be able to do this for a short time yet before one of us falls out of the narrow twin bed.

However, with our younger daughter, I was determined to NOT repeat this mistake and thankfully, she was a very independent, self-soothing baby once we passed the "let her cry it out" phase. I avoided laying with her like the plague, but my husband on the other hand, who had no idea what I had been through with Bella, decided to start laying with her. The only good part is that he fell asleep instantly (whereas I would sit and mull over mental to-do lists, things I could be doing now, making myself more anxious than sleepy).  I was secretly happy it wasn't me this time.

But eventually, he tried to cut off ties too. He liked his free television time to veg on the couch and watch the news. He soon started denying her requests and then Ari tried to sideline me into the task. I obliged more than once, but then nipped that too in the proverbial bud. I came up with a hardline rule, since she now was old enough to lay by herself: I would only sit on the edge of her bed for ONE minute and then I would leave.

That has been my M.O. for quite some time now but the other night, Ari convinced me to lay down next to her "just for two minutes." What mother can deny that for her child? So I did, but vowed I would get up in a few minutes and made that clear. She agreed. As soon as I lay down, her little arm swung around and circled my neck comfortingly. Then she began to talk.

[I discovered that as they grew, the more they wanted to tell me as I was tucking them into bed. This was their time to confess or ruminate over things that only a clear mind, free of noise, gadgetry and television clutter, would allow. And oh, the things I heard. ]

I listened intently to her concerns, her observations, her fears, to things said to her by friends that have already left obvious impressions on her. As she was talking, I couldn't help but think to myself, What else have I missed about their thoughts and lives by not laying with them? 
If this is the time they feel most comfortable to talk to me, why haven't I realized this and taken advantage of it more? 
What if these are the only moments they would open up and I would get quality time with them?

Apparently, the fear of laying with them until they go to college had scared me into possibly depriving myself of a piece of them. These little pieces that make up the parts of who they are, how they feel, how they will think and live their lives, how they become affected and how they process life's curveballs and curiosities - these were the moments, and I was letting them go right past me, to be dreamt away and never return.

So now I lay with them - even if it's a few more minutes than I "allow" myself - and take in every little part of their beings - their hugs, their kisses, their caresses, their whispers, their observations, their revelations, their laughs, their minds and their hearts. Then I can drift off to sleep knowing that I was there to listen, to help, to make a joke, to take in these small, yet precious moments of life with them.

The iFamily

by Cathy


Hey y'all! Yee-haw!!!!
We done leaped into the 21st century!!!
We bought an iPad.

You gotta know our backstory to know that this is kind of a big deal in our house, and apparently, a shifting of the planets' alignment in my tween's world.

First off, let me clarify that we are not like The Beverly Hillbillies ; we are forward-thinking, technology-aware, on the edge-of-trends people. I have an iPhone, Bella has an iPod and we have one Mac laptop and one iMac desktop. The problem, however, is how old these two computers are.

If it wasn't for Mac's sleek, minimalistic design, you could not tell that this is 12 years old:

That's our new, powerful, smartcased iPad wedged up tauntingly against a classic.

Or that this is seven years old - at least:

iMac G5: cool name, cool design, bad mutha(board)

My husband, a bonafide MacHead and a staunch believer in using something until you can't physically use it anymore, refuses to part with the tiny little laptop, claiming, "Are you kidding me? This is retro Apple. It's vintage! It's awesome! People at the coffee studio always ask me to check it out!"

Ya think it's 'cause it's sort of like, a relic? 

This is one of the first MacBooks Apple came out with so it is sort of a collectible and to be completely honest, if you can get past the tingy sound when it powers on or the fact that you have to connect it to the internet with an ethernet cable (GASP!) that little thing has so much power, memory, speed and form, it seems almost wrong - sort of like watching tiny toddlers start walking prematurely and how in the world can that be physically possible? It's our little workhorse, which will now be used by our tween for all of the middle school essays she was to write, so it's still being put to great use!

The desktop, however, is a whole other story. When you turn this dinosaur on, it sounds like The Gong Show. GNNNNNNnnnnnnngggggggg!!!!! One of the few goof-ups Apple made had to do with this particular iMac G5. Apparently, as we were told by MacHead repairmen, this version has a defective motherboard that will eventually cause the computer to just die. Then they went ahead and listed the "symptoms" caused by the "diseased" motherboard and wouldn't you know it, we are experiencing them now: it can't be upgraded to the newest version of Mac OS; it starts going dead on us; the cooling fan kicks in loudly when it's off, just to name a few. Oh, and our favorite? Ever since we did a slight upgrade to Leopard, it set something else askew within its sick self, whereby it shuts completely down if it's left unattended for a short amount of time. As in five minutes. Gotta go to the bathroom while you're in the middle of something? Fuggedaboutit. Gotta restart the sucker all over again. GNNNNNNnnnnnnngggggggg!!!!! 
Oh, and are you sitting? It's also NOT wireless. We don't even own a router! (DOUBLE GASP!)

So now you know why getting this iPad was such a big deal (mainly for my husband, who does a lot of work from home). For me, slightly less because I got myself an iPhone a year ago and joined the high tech masses of society. I was so excited about it, I slept with it next to me on my nightstand. Still do. But for my husband, who is still tinkering around with a T-Mobile phone, the iPad was an angelic Godsend. He's still getting used to its capabilities, nuances and little quirks, but as the days go on, his awe for the thing becomes greater and greater.

He happened to email me something while I was at the grocery store the other day so I emailed him back from my phone. Under his message, was the omnipresent, "Sent From my iPad" and under mine, "Sent From my iPhone." I didn't even realize that until he emailed me back and said, "We are an iFamily now. :)" I could almost feel the pride emanating from the screen. Until our iMac dies and we buy a new desktop.

Sweetly, Come Undone

by Cathy

I have the sweetest, most thoughtful girls on the planet. They are both kind, respectful and generous.

Last night, my six-year old, Ari, wanted to surprise my husband and I with what she called a "romantic dinner". The thought popped into her head two nights ago while I was tucking her into bed - although I have no idea what prompted that thought. Either way, she had it stuck in her head and insisted on doing it, and after some coaxing and savvy explaining, I got her to hold off until last night. And boy, did she ever remember.

She got home from school, ate, did her homework, rushed off to her bedroom, shut the door and began her planning preparations for our "date night in". She staked her claim in the living room and posted some signs (backed up by verbal warnings) that we should not, under any circumstance, enter or peek into that living room until she invited us in. After what seemed like hours of scurrying to and fro, sliding around some chairs, requesting step stools, carrying bins, writing out menus, digging up pink aprons and covering the coffee table in a fuzzy, teddy bear blanket/tablecloth, we were summoned to be seated.

My husband and I sat across from each other, literally on the edges of our seats due to fluffy couch pillows placed lovingly against the dining room chair seatbacks for comfort. No matter that our knees were crouched up against the sharp edges of the coffee table - we were on a romantic date and nothing was going to spoil this fun. Pretend tea was served to us in Ari's plastic, princess Disney tea set as we perused our hand-written menus, courtesy of Ari's Cafaye.

My menu had Brecfist and Dusrte as such:
wofols
eggs
meteu (meat)
spgedey
cack
SunDay
ice screme
cokese

Joe's had Lunch and Dinnr as such:
eggs
Hot Dogs
chiginugit
friyse
spgedye
brede
meteu
salide

Ari dutifully stood guard, decked up in an adult-sized pink apron which was tied all the way up under her underarms and mentally took note of our orders. She set up some tunes on a keyboard and for full effect, we unsealed the plastic film from around our fireplace for the first time since they were toddlers and fired that baby up. Ari even entertained us with a puppet show from behind our couch called "The Frog Who Won't Leave the Puppy Alone," complete with intermissions where she allowed us our "privaseat" and "funny talk".

Towards the end of our hot date, I asked if I could personally thank the owner of Ari's Cafaye and she shyly said, "That's me!" So I grabbed her, tickled her and plopped her on my lap, whereupon I smothered her with millions of thankful mommy hugs and kisses. Worried as to her father's potential jealousy, she looked over her shoulder mid-tickle and gestured to him that she will come to him next.

Later that night, once we had tucked both girls into bed, I cleaned up the living room and collected the menus and signs posted outside the living room. Then my eye caught a welcome sign that I missed on my way in:

The sentiment; the spelling; the innocence. I've come undone.

And that, my dear friends, is when I lost it. I don't even know where all of this emotion was coming from and was baffled that all it took was to read this sign, the catalyst in my mommy meltdown. I began sobbing - the type of sobbing where your body is racked with heaving sighs and multiple attempts at catching your breath. I was drowning in tears and my face was so contorted with wails that I now know why they call it the "ugly cry". And it just kept coming. My eyes became puffy, my nose filled up with snot and I was wailing like a baby.

My husband shuffles into our bedroom half-asleep. "Are you okay? What's wrong?!"
And there I stood, hand wrist-deep in a tissue box, face beet-red, puffy and smeared in makeup-infused tears, and replied, "My babies are growing up!!!!"
"Of course they're growing up," he says, totally unhelpful and setting himself up to be punched by his lunatic wife/mother of his kids.
"Pretty soon she's gonna grow up and figure out how to spell and we'll be done with this phase of our kids! Look!" I said, shoving the sign under his nose. "It's the cutest most innocent thing and that is going to come to an end. SOOOONNN!!" I fell apart again.
What was wrong with me?!?! Why was this hitting me so hard? It's not like I haven't seen this writing before; I must have looked insane.
"Yes, but when they do, we'll still get written letters, just of a different kind," he tried hard to reassure me.
"But I like these!!" I cried back, slamming her hand-written note down on the bed.
After a long pause filled with lots of sniffing, nose-blowing and heaved sighs, I turned back to Joe.
"Just wait. You'll experience this too. For me, it was this letter. For you, it will be something else very seemingly insignificant yet monumental in some way and it will hit you out of nowhere. Just wait," I taunted. "You'll see."

And with that, I drifted off to sleep with sweet thoughts of my sweet girls in sweet, unforgettable moments that I hold onto with the tenacity that only a mother could take in, hold dear and never let go of.

Insane in the Mane

by Cathy

Last week was picture day at school, (also known as the psycho-drama-meltdown-running late morning at my house).  I have two girls and because I have learned some hard lessons about preparation in past years, this year, I was determined  to nip that madness in the bud.

The night before, I made sure their uniforms were washed, pressed and spot-free. Then I actually sat with each one of them to discuss...their hair. Yes, we had hair consultations for school picture day. Ari's was easy: braided pigtails. Neat, clean, great! I made her choose which twisty ties she wanted to use and had her keep those on her nightstand until morning so as not to get lost in the toy and knick-knack rubbles that have formed various piles throughout her room.

From Bella, I got a special request.
"Mom, can I get my hair straightened for picture day?"
"Why do you want to do that? You have such beautiful, wavy hair!"
"I just want it to look...different," she replied, her eyes pleading.
I looked over her thick mane and replied, "Okay Bella but we either do it now or you have to wake up earlier tomorrow so we have time and we're not rushed. Okay?"
Her posture deflated a smidge. "Oh, but I'm so tired now. I'll wake up early to do it tomorrow morning, I promise. Like, what time do I have to be up, around six?"
If my sleepyhead of a daughter proposed such a far-fetched time, I knew she was excited about the prospect of straightening her hair. I also knew that there was no way in hayul she was getting up at the ass crack of dawn to even do this.
"No, it's not necessary to get up that early," I replied. "I'll get you up at seven sharp but you gotta get up."
"I will, I will!" she said excitedly.

As a young girl growing up with thick, curly, unruly, half-frizzy, half-crimped, bushy, unrelenting European hair, I could totally relate to my daughter's request in straightening it. Granted hers is much more manageable than mine, but oh, how I desperately wanted limp, lifeless, pin-straight, thin hair like the rest of my non-ethnic friends. Oh, how I desperately wanted feathered hair but all mine would do is just frizz out and mock me. How I feared rain and humidity like the grim reaper himself. How many times did I cry tears of frustration in front of my mirror as my hair did what it wanted, totally oblivious to the societal and adolescent pressures I faced.  No one at that age strives to be different, but fortunately, with age comes wisdom and embracing what you have and soon, the rebellious, individualistic side of us emerges to set us free.

Where were flat-irons when I was a tween?!?

The morning of picture day went as smooth as can be, despite the fact that Bella got up at 7:18 and rushed at the speed of light to get dressed so as not to miss her opportunity to sleek up her hair. She got to the bathroom in record time, where I was waiting with flat-iron in hand, buzzing and burning the air. She chatted excitedly about random things while I smoked her stubborn hair into smooth silky tresses. I could literally feel her mood shift with every straightened clump of hair I released onto her tiny shoulders. By the time I let the last strands lay against her cheek, she physically looked and emotionally felt like a brand new girl. Her face was glowing and there was an ear-to-ear grin on her face that worked its way up to her eyes and made them twinkle. Her chatter was lighter, happier, peppier. (If only I knew that all it took was a straight-iron to also work out the kinks in my daughter's personality, I'd have resorted to this many struggles ago.)

She left the house that morning, on time and spiffy, in about the best mood ever. I couldn't help but think about how for us women, a great outfit or a perfect hair day can literally boost our confidence, our  mood, or even our outlook on life, and how even though we never think about it, it can work the same magic for our growing girls, trying to find their place in the spaces between children and teenagers. That is the power of a good hair day - never underestimate it, no matter how shallow it may sound. And I am thankful that my daughters can experience this at a time in their lives when they need it most.

Chips Ahoy!

by Patti

There are many things about motherhood veteran moms try to warn you about before you become a mother for the first time. "Get sleep before the baby comes!" "Sleep when the baby sleeps!" "Prepare to die during childbirth!" I mean, really, the list goes on and on, and it's a wonder any woman ever decides to get pregnant and have a kid at all.

But we do. And we inevitably find out for ourselves what they so desperately tried to tell us - times a million. One of things I was sure I wanted to do once I found out I was pregnant was breastfeed. I had heard the stories about how my boobs would swell into horrifyingly huge, hard, round aliens with minds of their own - tethered to my chest, I heard about the circles of doom that would appear without warning on my shirt by simply thinking about my baby - or even hearing another baby cry. I heard about the cracked, bloody nipples and the searing pain of trying to get a baby to latch on. Oh yes, the veterans made sure I heard it all. Yet, being the stubborn, "let me see for myself" kind of person I am, I still wanted to do it.

And I did. After S was born, I faced many of the things I had been warned about while learning the ropes of nursing a newborn. That coupled with sleep deprivation brought to me courtesy of HELL and the hair that fell out in clumps until I was certain I needed to order a wig STAT and the jello-y mess that had been left of my once taut stomach... well, the mixed bag of torture was not so surprising thanks to the countless warnings - though let me just say that the level of crazy is one that can never be properly explained. Nope. You simply cannot understand it until it happens to you.

One of the things the veterans forgot to mention when it comes to breastfeeding was the "holy crap, where'd that come from?" effect. After a while, the boobs work out a rather intricate, miraculous schedule around demand, and once this schedule is set, you are "booby" trapped into trusting it. Ha. Ha. HA HA HA. Picture this: There you are, in bed with your husband, getting all snuggly and, uh, intimate, which - after the miracle of childbirth - we all know is another miracle to behold, when suddenly? Your morph from MILF to MILK. That's right - you become Bessie in da Bed.

Oops! Did I do that?

Suddenly, there is milk everywhere and it's just so not sexy. Or romantic. Or hot. Unless you count fresh off the farm milk. Because it is surprisingly hot - as in, literally.

Fortunately, though my dignity had flown out the window, my sense of humor remained intact. As did M's. Because as the baby shrieks in the background and milk drips down your chest onto your husband's face, what can you do but laugh?

Not too long after that first dairy debacle, I shuffled into our bedroom one night after putting S down in her crib. M was waiting for me in bed with a big grin on his face. In his hands? A big box of cookies.

Can I join the party?

Hey, no use in crying over spilled milk.

Cutting the Rope

by Cathy

Today, Bella, my 11-year old, will return from her first solo away-trip - a school excursion to Lake Geneva, WI., a trip the school has aptly named, "Ropes Course", a program involving a variety of activities designed to provide both individual challenges and opportunities for group cooperative problem solving.

The trip is a tradition and a rite of passage for all the sixth graders at her school, not only to prepare them for how to handle the obstacles they will face in life, but also to prepare them for life's bigger picture as well - taking baby steps away from the comfort of their family/home and towards new experiences.

Undoubtedly, I had my doubts. The sheltering motherly side of me immediately reared itself upon receiving news of this trip. I immediately emailed the teacher and asked if parent chaperones were allowed (and also because I knew this was going to be the first question out of Bella's mouth.)
The teacher's reply? "No. You are off the hook!!!"
As if this was supposed to be some inconvenience that we don't need to be bothered with. As if we don't have time for this and we are free to go off and do the countless trivial things on our to-do list, made to seem much more important than this.

The night before the trip, she was mixed bag of emotions while packing - excitement peppered with bouts of sadness, nervousness and anxiety. Sad because she will miss us; nervous because she doesn't know what to expect; anxious because what if she can't handle taking an exercise challenge in front of her friends? She is not a fan of being away from us and would much rather prefer the safety and comfort of her own bed. She rarely ever partakes in sleepovers, much less take an overnight trip in another state without the comfort of having a family member accompany her. This was her first big "grow-up" moment.

I quelled her feelings by telling her that it was completely normal to feel all of these emotions and that the anticipation of thinking you will miss your family is much greater at this point than what she will experience. But that she will see, if she lets herself fall into the moments, the experiences, the fun and the challenges, those will take precedence over her thoughts of missing us.

There goes my 'lil girl, tentative feelings packed neatly in with her belongings.

So then it all made sense. The teacher was trying to let me down easy; to spin this experience in a positive way, which it really is. Once I forced my brain to switch gears and try to see it from his point of view, I understood that not only was it important to her growth and development to do this by herself but also for mine.  It was a "Ropes Course" for both of us - a lesson on learning how to cut the ropes that tether us to our children. And even though that rope is tightly knotted in the case of my first-born, we are both slowly working together on loosening it while still holding on.

Little Lolita

by Patti

Those who know me know I am a little on the liberal side. I tend to be free with expression and thought and am pretty accepting of other people's choices. I'm also a little...opinionated. I will argue with a rude cab driver, tell somebody to bleep off, and stand up for the underdog over and over. Mostly? I just want to be free to be me. After all - this is the girl who wore black garbage bags to school with a studded belt around my waist, and even now, any perception that I am being held back from wearing a black garbage bag to school if I wanna does not sit well with me.

I want my daughter to grow up with the same sense of independent thought and freedom of choice. I want her to be able to fend for herself, fight for what's right, and not be afraid to stand out. And, if she happens to fall in love with someone like her papi - a strong, also opinionated, somewhat conservative ball of fire, I want her to be able to able to love him back while still holding her own and staying true to who she is.

And it all begins with shoes.

I bought S a pair of wedge booties for the fall.  In my eyes, they were totally adorable, totally harmless, totally fashionable. See?

But in M's eyes? They looked like this:

And because he felt he was sending his daughter off to work the streets instead of into the halls of middle school, he refused to let her wear them. We actually had an argument about ANKLE BOOTS.
"She is too young to wear high heels!"
"They are NOT high heels - they are wedges. They look like HIKING boots, for crying out loud; how is that high heels?"
"She wore them with these pink pants that looked like stripper pants!"
"Stripper pants? My daughter does NOT own stripper pants - what are you talking about?"

(Apparently, Children's Place is now in the business of selling hooker wear? Did you know this? I did not know this.)

We discussed her gray ankle boots for nearly an hour. I tried to pinpoint what was causing my anxiety over his disdain for the harmless shoes, and I realized that I was kind of projecting my own fear of being stifled into the matter - and he was projecting his own fear of his daughter growing up. We were both projecting our neuroses onto S, and all the poor kid wanted to do was wear her I STILL SAY TOTALLY HARMLESS boots in peace.

A couple of days after our conversation, I spotted the boots on the shoe rack by our door and picked them up, marveling at how even MORE conservative they appeared to me under the shadow of "slut wear!" that had so unfairly been cast upon them. M was watching TV and I held one of the shoes up to his face. "Really? REALLY? THIS is what you were freaking out about?"

In the end, she will wear her boots, but she will wear them with non-stripper pants to appease her father. And to satisfy me, she will wear them with a confident smile on her face that says, "I won this battle; I will one day win the war."