Trash or Treasure?

by Cathy

The other evening, my six-year old walks determinately into the living room where my husband and I were engrossed in an episode of Southland, and asks in a rather demanding tone:

"Mommy, why are my school papers in the garbage?"

I stop short of the formerly captivating television show to deal with the drama unfolding in my living room.

I look over at her, one hand pinned just so on her hip, the other hand thrust forward holding the accordion-folded stack of papers I had just hours ago, unsuccessfully disposed of in our kitchen garbage bin.
Oh crap. I thought I hid those!
"Why do you always throw my school papers away?" she persisted as my mind reeled about how to respond.

Fumbling over what to say, I look over at my husband to find his face buried in the crook of his elbow, head bobbing up and down with silent, but apparently uncontrollable laughter. I shot him the look of death and turned to face my daughter, who was shooting me the look of death.

Why does she automatically assume it's me?!? Maybe because this isn't the first time this has happened. My excuse of, "Oh no! They must have accidentally fallen into the garbage!" barely passed muster the first time and didn't cut the mustard at all on the second. So after that, I learned my lesson and began folding up the papers and tucking sideways under banana peels and coffee grinds so that they couldn't be seen. This day, I apparently forgot to be sneaky.

It's not that I don't love keeping every cute, meaningful little art project, note and drawing from my children; in fact, I have stacks in the storage from each school grade for each kid. (And even those I had to riffle through alone in the confines of my dungeon storage, away from the prying eyes of my hoarding family.) As much as they want me to, I just can't keep every scribble of scrap paper and every puppet made out of a brown paper bag; I just keep what I perceive to be the milestones, the special, the unique items.

All of this cannot - and will not - be saved

My husband, on the other hand? He keeps every. little. scrap. of. paper. Where does one draw the line?

I turned to look my six-year old straight in the eyes and said, "Oh honey, we don't need all of those. I already kept your important papers."

Before her look of mortification could be expressed verbally, my husband jumps in in the form of Captain Dad, to apparently save the day.
"Honey, you can put those on my nightstand. I'll file them away."
Ta da da DA!

"No," I stopped his rescue mission flat. "Just go put them with the other papers under the computer desk and I'll take care of them," I directed her.

Satisfied, she turned on her heel and marched into the kitchen to complete her task.

My husband turns to me, and says rather matter-of-factly: "Wow. You deserve the mother of the year award. Nice going."
"I'm not going to apologize for being practical," I retorted."I keep what I need to keep. I can't keep everything. I'm not a hoarder."
He looked at me, shaking his head.

This whole scenario reminded me of an episode of The Middle in which Brick, the youngest of three kids, finds the handmade card he lovingly created for his mother (and which she had just gushed over mere hours before) mockingly teetering atop a pile of garbage in their kitchen trash. After confronting her, Brick dared her to produce past projects of his, which she swears up and down she has kept. Needless to say, after ransacking her garage and even bribing a fellow neighbor to use one of her kids' projects as a stand-in, she was found guilty on all charges. Feeling horrible, she creates a beautiful heart-shaped card with a thoughtful, tearjerker of an apology and places it on Brick's bed. Guess where that ended up.

While I would never throw away a handmade card from my kids, I wouldn't think twice about ditching math tests or spelling quizzes. After all, one person's "treasure" can be another person's hoarding nightmare.

Back to School?

by Patti

In 12 days, S goes back to school - as a SIXTH GRADER.  Yes, I have already mostly managed to work through the fact that my baby - the one I fed from my bosom for far too long; the one that cried out for me night after night after night after night after... you get the sleepless picture; the one whose legs would go into a frenzied, happy delirium whenever I simply walked into a room; the one who asked me to read her just one more story; the one who still holds my heart unlike any other human being has ever managed to do. Yes, that  one. And I guess, in my struggle to work through all of the emotions that come with having a real, live middle-schooler, I kind of forgot to buy school supplies.

S has been begging me since she graduated fifth grade two and a half months ago to please, oh please, buy her those school supplies. "You always wait 'til the last minute, Mom!" And though it pains me to admit it: I do. So after several weeks of prodding and poking and nagging, and whined-out-loud fears that she would be the only kid in 6th grade with no school supplies, I finally MOM made the trek today to do the deed I dreaded all summer.  As of now and a mere $100 later, her school supplies are neatly unpacked, labeled, and repacked into little take-to-school bags, ready to be carried through the halls and into the lockers and desks of junior high. The thing I've wondered since I started buying school supplies is this: How on earth are paper towels, Kleenex, and plastic sandwich bags school supplies?  I mean, the fact that I had to buy a calculator and $15 13-pocket FOLDERS for crying out loud is bad enough. But I also have to stock the classroom with Kleenex? As wallet-busting as it is, I've learned to accept this fact about school supply shopping, and though it seems suspicious to me that a sixth grader would need 48 #2 pencils, I just buy the stuff. And buy the stuff I did:

Take out a second mortgage and get your school supplies!

S now feels secure that she can embark on her junior high career fully-stocked. The only problem is, I also kind of forgot to register her for the school bus. And school.

I'VE BEEN BUSY.

So I went online to register and was happily amazed that I actually found S's user name and password to log on. But when I got into the ever-so-convenient online registration system, I received an error message telling me that "online registration is not available at this time." I called the school, and was informed that I would have to leave a message for the "computer guy", but that I should be aware that the "computer guy is very busy" and that he "might not" get back to me - but that I should leave him a message anyway. I asked the school lady if I could just pay her over the phone for the bus and school fees, and she told me I should do it online. You know, the ONLINE THAT IS BROKEN. So I asked if I should just come in person to register S, and she told me the office hours, which OF COURSE are only during my work hours. I thought about asking M to handle all of the registration paperwork, but we are talking about a man who can't even remember his mother's name, so there went that option.

12 days away from the start of school, I have $100 in school supplies, and no school in which to use them. I have the feeling S will be very, very annoyed with me if she bounds into school on the first day, her backpack loaded down with expensive calculators and 13-pocket folders, and she is turned away for crimes of procrastination.  But first, she will have to work her way onto the school bus, since she is not on the list. 

Kid, you're in junior high now. Time to get resourceful.

You Must Have Been Dropped on Your Head as a Child

by Cathy

As she's done countless times before, Ari pitter-pattered her way down our hallway last night - no doubt, half asleep as always. Since I was still up, I headed her off at the foot of the bed, where she ended up bowed over, resting her tired head.

"Come on, honey. Let me take you back to your bed," I whispered as Joe snorted awake.
"What's going on?" he mumbled with one eye closed, arm stretched out in front of him as if searching for something.
"I got this," I said, as I ushered Ari's tired little body out the door and followed her down the hallway.

Upon entering her pitch black room, I heard her stop short and lay her head on the edge of the bed. 'Poor thing is sooooo tired,' I thought to myself.

I could barely see my hand in front of my face and couldn't gauge the distance from where she was laying to her pillow, so I just scooped up her legs and swung them onto the bed and put pushed hard to shift her up and onto her pillow. Apparently, she was MUCH closer to the pillow than I thought because the next thing I heard was a loud THUD. (It reminded me of those cartoons where the bad guy is using a tree log to bust down the door of the poor victim, except the log was Ari's head and the door was the headboard.) I froze. All I could hear was the headboard reverberating in the blackness. Oh my God, was that her head?!

She attempted to whimper on and off while I frantically whispered over her head: "Are you okay? Honey?! Is your head okay?! Are. You. OKAY?!?"

She wouldn't respond and this freaked me out because I didn't know if she was too tired or if I had knocked her out. So I sat there poking, pinching and nudging her while listening up close to see if she was breathing. With every poke, pinch and nudge, she shifted and with each of those shifts came a slight, tired whimper, followed at last, by a deep sigh. She was just too plain tired to acknowledge the pain resonating in her head. Sighing in practical unison with her, I sat there, my eyes now just adjusting to the darkness, and I thought about how scary it is that in just a millisecond, a serious injury could find your child. And what's more frightening? To know that it may be YOUR fault.


This happened to me once with each of my girls: With Bella, I neglected to strap her into her playswing and she fell hard on her tiny, still-forming head and with Ari, I let her 'cry it out' in the playpen when she managed in a fit of rage to break out of her baby prison and flipped over onto her head and the floor.

Of course I had to reference these episodes when my sister, a new mom, texted me at work the other day in classic new-worried-mom mode to tell me: "The baby just whacked her head really hard against my cheekbone while I was holding her and now she's crying. Do you think she'll be okay?" After I reminded her of my episodes, my sister replied with a relieved string of LOLs.

I was literally laughing out loud recalling the incidents now and my co-worker Marie had to come into my office and asked what party she was missing. I explained to her about my sister's worry and she too now had a baby-been-dropped-on-its-head story to share. "I was holding my son Nathan and he was about one at the time and we were at the park and he was throwing a fit," she began. "He got so fussy and fidgety, that he lunged forward and leaped right out of my arms and onto the cement pavement below."

I gasped. "What did you DO!?"

"I became hysterical, crying and screaming for someone to help me because I saw blood," she recalled with worry on her face. "Luckily, the blood was coming from his nose and nothing was broken. It was such a horrible experience. But he's okay now," she added with a laugh.

It occurred to me then that every mom out there has a freak-out story about their child that they can now easily share, but perhaps were not at all proud about at the time. In fact, my parents always tell me about the time I was in the baby walker when I was one year old, and my father left the front door to our apartment wide open as he went down three flights of stairs to retrieve the mail. I unknowingly waddled after him and cartwheeled my way down those flights of stairs while still in the baby walker.

I swear I still see a slight fracture in my skull from that incident. But it's okay, because you must have been dropped on your head as a child too. I'm SURE of it.

Burning Love

by Patti

After S was born, although I was so sleep-deprived I actually wondered if one could die from lack of sleep, I was pleasantly surprised at what an easy baby she was, and how naturally I fell into caring for her while still managing to do things around the house. Hard? This wasn't hard!

When she was only a few weeks old, the cookie-bakin' spirit hit me, and I decided to whip up a batch. As usual, S made it easy for me. She slept quietly in her little bouncy chair, and I Martha'd away in the kitchen, humming and smugly thinking to myself, "Hard? This isn't hard!" I popped in the first batch, and just as the timer alerted me that it was done, S started to stir. Being the perfect multi-tasker, I sweetly scooped up my baby, and then headed to the oven to take out the cookie sheet. Look at me! Holding a newborn AND baking! Such finesse, such control, such ability! I opened the oven door, holding S in one arm, and with the other, swiftly removed the pan.

Suddenly, S wailed out in pain. I dropped the cookie sheet, realizing I had just burned my baby. Ohmygod I had totally just BURNED MY BABY. I ran to the bedroom and laid S on the bed, and inspected her tender little body. Everything looked good. Intact. Unscathed. But she continued to cry, clearly in discomfort, and I frantically tried to recall how I had been holding her. I concluded it had been her thigh that the cookie sheet had grazed, and I called the pediatrician, crying into the phone that I had just burned my baby, I had just burned my BAAAAABBBBBYYYY! The nurse reassured me, telling me that as long as the skin looked normal, I could just smooth some ointment on the area and she should be fine. I hung up, shaking, and rummaged the linen closet for some ointment. I squeezed some onto her thigh, whispering apologies over and over again to her as I gingerly rubbed in the cream. Then I held her to me, willing her to be okay.

But she kept crying. And crying. AND CRYING. I pulled her away from me, her little legs kicking angrily. That is when I saw it: her foot was red and beginning to swell. I had rubbed the ointment into the wrong place! I was trying to heal her, and I was doing it all wrong. I started to cry right along with her, rubbed in the ointment into the right place, and then called back the doctor, and the nurse once again reassured me she would be alright.

And she was. Thank God.

That day was the first of an embarrassing string of awful parenting moments, but, through tearful confessions to friends, I soon learned that I was not alone. If we peel back the layer of the perfection we all strive for, we learn that we all make mistakes with our kids, from the shameful accidents to the less-than-stellar parental freak-outs that twist themselves into possessed yelling. 

But, as a new mother, I learned an even more important lesson that day. Sure, this "having a baby" stuff wasn't nearly as hard as I thought it would be. It was harder. I realized it's not the lack of sleep or the ability or inability to make dinner, take a shower, or throw dinner parties while tending to your baby's needs that makes it hard. No, what makes it hard is how much you care; how suddenly you are more vulnerable, more raw, more in love, than you've ever been. And as that baby grows and becomes a person with opinions and interests and demands and a defined personality, it only gets harder.

And you know what? I'm up for the challenge.

Falls of Shame

by Cathy

As mothers raising babies, we've all done things we are not proud of.

These could have been intentional/purposeful (letting your baby cry while you...gasp! finished a much-needed shower) or accidental (locked your baby in the car with your keys on a hot summer day.) I am ashamed to say, I have done both.

The car incident was particularly scary; thank goodness for my chance encounter with a police car that happened to be cruising the store parking lot that day.

However, I've had two moments of motherhood shame that, for a long time, I didn't even tell my husband about for fear of being reprimanded because I wasn't with the baby 1,000% of every second of every minute of every day.

Bella was about four months old and we had one of those wind-up swings in our kitchen to entertain her, which she looooved. She was such a good, quiet baby for the most part and this night, I was having a particularly good time with her - we were playing, singing and having typical mom/baby fun.

It was time for her to eat. I placed her in her swing (basically a chair with a lap strap to hold her in while she rocked back and forth) and turned to reach for the can of formula.  At that precise moment, I quickly realized that I didn't strap her in. Before I could turn, I heard a thump that made my stomach sink, followed by her baby wail, all within seconds. As I turned towards her, of course milliseconds too late, I saw her laying on her back on the hardwood floor near the metal tubing of the base with the swing swaying gently above her.

I lunged towards her and carefully scooped her up in my arms. She was screaming and wailing as I walked her around the house examining her head, pacing, crying, apologizing, crying, worried, distraught, pissed, replaying how it happened in my head over and over. I concluded that she must have leaned forward, causing the swing to inch backwards and fallen directly onto her head, flipped, and landed on her back. I got sick to my stomach picturing that fall. I wouldn't put her down the rest of the night and even slept with her to make sure she didn't have some sort of internal head injury. I didn't sleep a wink as I wept over her, praying she was okay. And I never told a soul - except, of course, my mom. I knew she could commiserate with me.

Arianna was eight months old and much fiestier than her sister. I had put her down to sleep for the night in her playpen, which was in our bedroom. Her sister slept in the other room. I was also 'training' her to fall asleep on her own, (i.e. without us laying in the room with her). So I said 'nite nite', closed the door and went into the kitchen, which was adjacent to that room, to wash the dishes. I heard her crying, then wailing and I remember going in there a few times and saw her little fingers gripping the sides of the playpen as she stood and peeked desperately over to me with those big,watery, brown eyes. I comforted her but still wanted her to fall asleep on her own. So I just let her cry it out until she got tired and fell asleep. But she didn't fall asleep.

She fell OUT. Of her playpen. And onto the floor. She pushed on those little toes with all her might, enough to position her upper body over the railing, lose her balance and somersault out and land hard on the carpet - thank God for the carpet.

I ran from the kitchen and burst in to find her in eerily the same position as I had found Bella when she fell. I felt horrible. Once again, I scooped her up, reliving the same physical motions and sickening emotions as that night with Bella. I cried, I kept checking her head, I paced, I didn't tell my husband. I layed with her to sleep that night, and again, prayed.

The other night there happened to be a report on the news that highlighted the dangers of playpens and cribs and how some babies fall out of them. There was even a little girl who had gotten terrible internal head injuries from her playpen fall. I froze as I watched that segment, knowing full well that something horrible like that could have happened to one of my babies, and worse, on MY watch. Thank God it didn't.

Regardless, the mom guilt of having those instances even occur, will never leave me. And if you don't understand that, then well, you must have been dropped on your head as a child.

Wax and Wail

by Cathy


I was a full-on, stay-at-home-mom with Bella. I was there for her through everything. No preschool; just her and I, every day, together. She was an innately sensitive and emotional baby and still is, but back then, even moreso than now, she required gentleness and continuous companionship, even when laying down to go to sleep.

So when she was three, I decided to try and ease her into a little separation time from me on a larger scale than staying with the grandparents or having a playdate at the neighbor's house.
I had an appointment for a bikini wax at Lifetime Fitness' salon. They have a fantastic kids area with engaging supervisors that make the childrens' experience fun. I specifically went into the play area with her (and maybe this was my mistake, but I just didn't want to dump her somewhere new without making her feel comfortable and safe about it) and showed her all the wonderful things she could occupy herself with. Once I felt she was fine with it all, I snuck out and prayed.

After about ten minutes, while settled fully into the classic bikini wax position on the spa-like table as the aesthetician was diligently and painstakingly deforesting me back into human form, I heard over the P.A. system: "Will Mrs. (Me) please return to the child care area. Thank you." I pretended not to hear it and thought, 'Just leave her, she'll be okay. She's got toys, other kids to play with - she just has to get accustomed to being without me.' A few minutes later, I heard it again. I was perspiring already from the fact that hair was being ripped out of my private area at lightning speeds, but the pressure from the sweetly annoying voice coming from the P.A. had me sweating bullets.

After the third announcement, I finally interrupted the chatty aesthetician and told her that it was me they were paging all this time and could she please make it quick? She could clearly see my anxiousness and followed through. The announcements kept coming and I kept getting more anxious and frazzled. As soon as she ripped that last wax strip off, I jumped off the table, doused some talc on the now red and swollen skin, and began to get dressed in the smokey haze of the powder, while explaining to her that I will be back to take care of the bill as soon as possible.

I went to collect my child before they thought she was just abandoned there, and what did I see? Poor little Bella was beet-faced and soaked through to her hair with sweat and tears. She had been crying so much that she actually couldn't catch her breath and was quasi-hyperventilating. I burst throught the door and immediately scooped her up in my arms, telling her that I was here now and that everything is okay. She was trembling.

Naturally, I felt like the worst mother in the world. I had traumatized my child. Now she will NEVER be able to be alone, to get dropped off at school or anywhere. How could I think to do something so selfish? How could try to get my child to get used to being separated from me for a short amount of time?
It wasn't until I got home that I realized that in my haste I forgot to put my underwear back on. And to make things worse, Waxing Wendy left me with the 'postage stamp' look rather than the traditional 'runway' look. What an experience this had turned out to be.

I spent the rest of the day comforting Bella with hugs and kisses and telling her that I will always be there for her, no matter what. That eventually, she will have to go to school, playdates, the houses of friends and family, activities, etc. and that I couldn't go with her everywhere, but I would always be there to pick her up or always be home for her when she got back. Basically, I reassured her she will never just be LEFT somewhere.

She is now a social (and socially adept) young girl who still loves for me to lay with her at night sometimes but also needs her time by herself and her friends.

As for me? I eventually got over the postage stamp waxing but the guilt still - and always will - remain.
Mom Guilt is just something our conscience is automatically handed in exchange for bringing a child into the world and it's always there, prodding the backs of our minds at every decision we make.

Slowing Down

So here we are, in the midst of Easter and spring break schedules.

It was Tuesday morning, and my oldest daughter (Isabella) was due back in school after a week-long spring break. My youngest daughter (Arianna) had a few days off for Easter last week as well, so we were good to go.

We had just been through our usual morning routine:

Waking up late and exhausted because we all went to bed too late the night before - kids included; Rushing to make lunches, cook breakfast, pulling out every possible skirt, legging, tights and shirt to appease Arianna's choice of outfit for the day, putting on my makeup, getting MYSELF dressed, braiding Isabella's hair, making sure Arianna used the bathroom so as to avoid an unpleasant experience during the drive to school, checking my morning email, all while taking in a few gulps of desperately needed coffee. Oh and did I mention all of the above was set against my neverending stressed out hollerings of "Hurry UP, we're gonna be late!!" and "Let's GOOOO!!" and "Just PICK something!"

Yeah. So we all manage to get in the car, we drop off Isabella at school and hightail it to Arianna's preschool. As we were coming in for a landing, whizzing by the front entrance before coming to a screeching halt, tires smoking, I noticed that the blinds at the glass door entrance were pulled down. 'Strange,' I thought. 'Must be too much sun coming in.' (Realizing full well that it was a cloudy day.)

"C'mon, c'mon, c'mon sweety," I urged as I flew out of the car and opened up the back door, unbuckling her car seat belt. We jog over to the door. As I started to ring the doorbell, I tried peeking in between the slits of the blinds. 'Looks kinda dark,' I thought to myself as I repeatedly rang the bell. Arianna stood next to me, quiet and holding some random toys she picked up as we were racing out of the house that morning, dressed in the most ridiculously cute and unmatched outfit, as only she could choose in her sweet and quirky way.

I desperately look back at Joe in the car, as he's looking at me in disbelief and shaking his head, not scoldingly, but more in shock.

So there we stood. Me pinned up with my nose against the glass door of the preschool, thumb still on the doorbell, other hand cupped around my eyes peering in as if it would make someone inside the school materialize and graciously open the door to accept my child for the day so I can head off to work, which I was already late for. Arianna held her empty gaze at me; a combination of confusion and tiredness, eyelocked and waiting.

I exhaled a long, destressing sigh, scooped her up and gave her a big hug. I didn't know if I wanted to scream or cry. How could I forget that she still was on spring break? How could I not KNOW my child's schedule??

I gave her a big kiss and leisurely strolled back to the car with her in my arms, just holding her tight.

We'd have to resort to plan B and figure out where to take her for the day. But seriously, most importantly, we have to s-l-o-w down and step outside of our crazy ass schedules before we encounter a situation where a plan B is not an option.

~Cathy