Growing

My 6 year old came home from school yesterday, jumped down from the last bus step in his usual spring board like manner. He came running toward me, arms outstretched for a hug. We came into the house, back pack thrown to the floor, shoes kicked off in different directions. He grabbed the iPad, headed to the cabinet to retrieve a snack, and nestled into a counter stool for a few minutes of decompression before the tiresome after school routine (dinner, read, homework, bath, play, 5 minute warning 15 times, bed) began again like groundhogs day.

But something about my now 6 and half year old was subtly different today. I felt him get older, sitting there, eating crackers. It was nothing overt or outspoken, more like the way you can sense snowfall despite a forecast of clear skies. The air hangs heavy with a smell that you can feel in your throat when you swallow a deep breath. But just like that, I saw my tiny toddler melt away a little more that day, replaced by a taller, leaner being, capable of backtalk and words that, though he doesn't quite appreciate them yet, carry meaning. His questions are direct and not as easily answered, (why do we go to Church if God is supposed to be everywhere?), and his anxieties about his world (I feel embarrassed when the 3rd graders laugh at me on the bus, why do they do that?) not as easily explained away.

So as 2018 begins, and I smell the emergence of a new age, somewhere north of toddler and still south of teen, I'm trying to hold onto my parenting confidence which is still constantly rattled. Amidst a sea of year end conference calls and client crisis, I realized the baby still hasn't began to sleep through the night yet. And as his first birthday peeks at us from the calendar I'm reminded just how little I actually know about raising children (and how much I need to avoid baby blogs). Deep breaths, calm voices, and lots of hugs.

Diary of a Mom: Working Mom Guilt Edition

I'm practicing mindfulness, and trying hard to wake up happy even on mornings where I have slept less than 4 hours, have to bring the baby to daycare, have to drive to New York, blah blah blah. I know many working moms talk about the guilt associated with having to be at 'work' most of the day, but I don't find this to be my largest source of stress or guilt. Rather the effect that work can have on my patience, and my unfiltered reaction to my kiddos is where my guilt blooms.

When my darling 6 year old says 'mommy' for the 27th time in a 10 minute span, and I sigh audibly before answering him, this is guilt. Because he is trying to show me the track he constructed along the basement floor by himself, or recite a math lesson from school for me, or ask me which of the model trains he collects from the museum gift shop is my favorite.

That small wish I unconsciously make for solitude, for silence, for a glass of wine instead of holding a container of chocolate milk, that is guilt. Working all day at a job I enjoy, feeling proud to be an attorney with large scale responsibilities at a relatively young age, that is fulfillment and modeling hard work for my children, not guilt. The challenge to reserve space on that full emotional plate is what I work at, elusive at times, but most true challenges are. So deep breath, happy face, tight hugs.

Do You Promise This Too Shall Pass?

 

Its 9 am and I'm on my 4th cup. Last night, thanks in part to back to school colds, teething, pink eye, deadlines, the anxiety of the approaching 4th quarter at work, and a variety of other soul-sucking factors, I slept for 45 minutes. In total. I have read all the blogs, comments and self-help books on colicky babies. The thing is, I don't have a colicky baby. I have an amazing baby who smiles, laughs, crawls, and babbles all day long. He just does. Not. Sleep.

Not in the crib, not in my arms, not in the rocking chair, not in the bed on top of me, not in the bed next to me. He will fall asleep at 9pm in the crib giving me false hope that maybe, just maybe this will be the night he sleeps. I'd praise the lord for even a solid 3 hours stretch. But like an egg timer, by 9:31 he is up. We have tried the rigid day schedule, 4 hour feedings, reducing night bottles, withholding night bottles, freely giving night bottles. He does. Not. Sleep.

Last night I reached the pinnacle of despair, as pink eye set in (for me, not him), and I fought the urge to rub my face as I walked circles around his large nursery, patting, rubbing, singing to him as he restlessly thrashed against my neck. Not crying, just thrashing. Surely this cant go on all night, right? But as the clock tauntingly crept from 1 am to 2, then 3 and 4, it continued. I may have shed a silent tear as I pleaded with him to sleep, feeling instantly sour with guilt because he is such a good boy. But as the unread email count climbs to 50 before 6 am I am in a hole of anguish thinking about the day ahead, and another night like this might break me. Or it might push me over our allotted wine budget for the entire month on the 6th day.

Diary of a Mom: Sleep 'Training' Edition

So we have all read the books, watched the videos, overheard the mom who brags about her success with training her baby to sleep. I am not a first time parent, yet many days I completely forget everything I once 'learned' about motherhood from my first born, as I'm lulled into dreamland by the gentle coos of my 7 month old falling asleep on my arm, head nestled against my shoulder.

On Day 1 of the decision to craft some semblance of a schedule for our precious bundle, its all good. I wake with a purpose, dedication to the mission, and images of going to sleep in my own bed. Spacing daytime feeds out to 4 hour intervals can't be that hard, right? Step 1 seems like a breeze.

By the end of the 1st day we're in one piece, baby is satiated, finished most of his 4 bottles more completely than when I let him snack on no predetermined regimen. Naps  are the same, sporadic and in varied places from the crib (25 minutes) to my chest (1 hour during a conference call).

Night 1 is a shit show. The 8:00 pm 4-hour interval bottle was too late and he was too hungry, yet hes not ready for bed after guzzling down 7 ounces either. We rock. We try the crib. We cry. We come out of the crib. We dance, we sing, we bounce, we rock again. An hour later, we're both asleep in the bed as all nights prior to the sleep mission. He eats at 12:00 am, and 4:00 am and goes through many restless wake ups in between.

Day 2 starts off with mostly despair, and 3 coffees. Work is busy, my hair is messy, and there wasn't time for a shower because the 8:00 am 4-hour interval bottle is due. He takes only 2 ounces. But the books say have him finish the whole feed! Now what?

By night 2 I'm done with this crap. Still no shower because these damn 4 hour intervals, which sounded easy  (much like how a 5 year old looks like a real grown kid minutes before he throws himself on the ground in the supermarket and you pretend not to know him) are actually miserable and deceiving.

So my advice is this. One day, babies become kids, and kids go to sleep (this I know since I have one). It might be months or years, so survive while you can, and spend your money on good shoes and vodka, not sleep training books.

Back to School!

First grade class assignments went out this summer and the frenzy that ensued brought me right back to the early days where we knew no one, and Connecticut felt like a foreign land. Seeing messages on the Facebook page about who was in class with who, and which moms already knew each other felt overwhelming. We have come so far, made so many amazing friends, had such a wonderful year, yet the sight of the start of the year chaos brings an onslaught of those familiar feelings, as if we're back in middle school ourselves, holding a lunch tray and desperately panning the room for an empty seat next to an inviting soul.


As I've mentioned before, my (almost) 1st grader is not a team sports kind of kid. Legos, trains, used book shops, and antique stores (yup, that's right- antiques) these are more his jam. The whole wearing of a uniform, 'winner' and by default 'loser' associated with most organized sports are just not his speed. I wont force participation in something that's supposed to be 'fun', even though it often means we are declining the 'see you at the game?' or 'is he doing soccer? t-ball? [insert kids' sports]' this season?

So lets all remind our littles that as they embark on this next year of their journey, we are right there with them, empathetic to their struggles and proud of their courage. I definitely vote for kind over gifted, inclusive over exclusive, and effort over results.

Summer Stresses

We're 7 weeks in, and I can see the light (school) at the end of the tunnel (summer). For working parents like us, summer is just an extension of the everyday, filled with heat, humidity, complaints, and pressure to fill the days with fun. Summer camp is a necessity, not a luxury for us, as we both juggle deadlines, meetings, clients, and a 6 month old on a daily basis and rarely do any of these tasks run on the 9-5 clock I so often hear fellow working parents lament.

But its not all bad of course. The baby is a slice of heaven on a silver platter I get to enjoy daily. No, he doesn't sleep through the night, in fact he wakes to eat at least 3 times between 9pm and 7am, so I haven't slept more than a 3 hour stretch at a time since December. (Take pity on me when you see my under-eye circles and wonder if I've ever heard of concealor- I have 3 coats on already). But he is pure joy so Ill take it.

And then of course the 6 year old just gave me a week in which I swore I'd send him to reform school as soon as he turned 8, and then wondered if they take children as young as 6. The kind of week where you sit at night, and your insides feel like old wallpaper peeling in on itself when the glue has long worn away. But immediately after the low point he gave me a high point as if he felt my inner most despair. He woke up on the right side of the bed, and flipped the switch from antagonistic villain to compliant cherub (though 'compliant' may be an overshot, you get the picture). And just like that hes back to his joyful, spirited self. Helping pick up leftover food from Panera for the soup kitchen, happily cleaning the basement with a smile. Perhaps these weeks are plucked from above and delivered to remind us what challenging is, in case were have grown complacent, jaded or even worse, discontented.

Thoughts on a Friday

My older son is turning 6 in a few weeks, and while people tell me how fast it goes, I'm not sure it feels speedy but it still feels rather incredible that we have managed to feed, clothe, care for, and keep alive another human for 6 years.

Having a second child has filled my soul with so much joy that I cant begin to memorialize it in words. The only rub of sadness comes when I think of my dad, and how he will never meet Wells. This realization feels like a ragged edge of an opened soup can in my chest.

I bought and assembled a 5 piece patio set this week, consisting of an entire outdoor sofa, side chairs, and table. It brought me immense satisfaction, but cost me a manicure and crippling back pain eased only with an extra glass of wine.

Baby Wells slept in his crib for 5 out of 10 of his sleeping hours, 3 nights in a row, and it feels like a victory. But then last night I missed his small head resting on my arm, and decided that not every baby really needs to sleep in a crib all the time.

The only way I could motivate myself to use the gym this past week was with a new Lululemon jacket. We all have our weaknesses.

Summer Reals

Though in reality, July 4th weekend is the very early stages of summer, to me, it feels like a half way point of sorts. I've been climbing a mountain for at least a month, so it feels like maybe we are in for a break some time soon.

Today, after spending the entire weekend preparing for and then hosting a friend's bridal shower, I took the day off from work. However to cope with a 4 year old that is more akin to a European dictator than a cuddly toddler many days, I had to dress as if I was going to work, and leave at my usual time. Underneath a shift dress I wore gym clothes and changed in my own garage. Luckily, this ploy worked and my husband was able to drop him at camp with minimal resistance (as a full time working mom, a day off for me signals a weekend for my son, and we could not have another epic meltdown like last week when I made the foolish mistake of thinking I could work from home and that he would still agree to leave the house at 8 am).

When we are on the emotional roller coaster with our mostly sweet, but sometimes difficult son (after school ends, before camp begins, when the teacher is absent and their is a sub, when the wind blows west instead of east), I need to stay away from social media where pictures of compliant, smiling children and their easy going, happy parents flood my news feeds and make me feel inadequate, foolish, and completely isolated. The 'this too shall pass' motto is hard to muster with any sincerity, and 'one day at a time' feels like a Tough Mudder competition.

To any parents out there that may relate, let this be my hand reaching out to say you are not alone.

Summer Struggles

Its June, my son's preschool has been out for days already, and camp is still weeks in the future. What are working parents to do? We have patched together a string of activities, days off, grandparents and pure begging to bridge the gap, but everyday is a break from the routine which causes me intense anxiety.

The other weekend after a fabulous day in NYC visiting our friend (and Tucker's Godfather), 6 train rides in and almost home the engine stuttered and died. I felt my chest tighten. The snacks were long gone, juice boxes all drank. No iPad. No toys. Sweat forming all over my face. But as if sensing we needed calm, our son simply looked out the window, asked how we were going to get home, and then said 'its OK'. He has told me 'it's OK' at least a dozen times recently, which makes me first realize what a sweet, compassionate boy he is, and second, that perhaps my son already knows I am an insane stress case that can barely function in the face of the slightest adversity.

Instagram is filled with parents doing crafts, taking trips, and just enjoying moments frolicking in the grass with their tots. These images make me feel inadequate while I slave away at a desk in Melville for countless hours each week, and then guilty when on a weekend, I am eyeing the clock to know how many hours of entertainment I must provide before dinner. Often we have watched 2 shows, decorated many sheets of paper with our stamps, built and dissembled 2 train track displays, and its not even 9 am. I wonder how we will pass the next 3 hours until our play-date, or soccer practice. Then of course, the guilt hits. Because these moments are the life we live between planned activities, around the iCalendar, When its real life, and real life is not always an Instagram moment. So perhaps this summer put away the iPhone, take less pictures, and inhale more deeply.

The Real Parents of Long Island

May has been a beautiful but hectic month. The usual daily stressors are ever-present (work, bills, a temper tantrum, too many loads of laundry and too few hours in the evening) and some new ones have cropped up. The thought of moving to an entirely new place, starting an entirely new life has been discussed. But the fear of leaving holds us back. I love our home, our friends, but the pressures I see for Tucker as he enters school and the crazy expectations that engulf the youngsters on the North Shore of Long Island are sickening. Bravo has a new show shot in the town abutting ours, with women who frequent the same exercise classes, schools and shops as us, and has made me really examine what we are doing. I have read reviews of a new book written by an insider on the insanity of parenting on the Upper East Side, some parts all too close to home (parents hiring therapists to train toddlers on the art of having a play date). A show about our life would be filled with mundane commutes to work, the same dinner every night for our son (Annie's mac and cheese), cleaning, negotiating bed time, and then wine. Lots of wine. No one would watch.


All I want for my child is happiness, satisfaction, and fulfillment. When his teacher raves about his sweet nature, social skills and book smarts I am thrilled. Then she tells me that despite this, he doesn't pick up and hold his pencil the correct way unless prompted, or follow 4 step directions independently, and perhaps he should repeat nursery school before moving on to pre-K. I am stunned, and at this point, I can actually laugh. But alas, this is what parents in the area want- brilliant 3 year olds ready to tackle Harvard upon graduation from preschool. And so I come to work every day to pay for said preschool, unsure of the path to take, I examine every sentence my son speaks for clues on what the right choice is for us, where to go next month, next year. My husband works hard (with vision in only 1 eye), building a law practice in a town overrun with lawyers to help fill the income gap inherent in living where we do, as fairly normal parents who had their first child before turning 30. With a few good friends that help ground me and remind me we are not alone in our exhausting marathon, we will see what the future holds. I know it can always, always be worse and there is much to be happy and ecstatic about on a daily basis. More of that, less of the rest.

On Potty Training

I have read the potty training boot camp book. I have had many friends tell me it was a life saver. I have read countless blogs, message boards, and ranting news articles by parents with all forms of knowledge on the perfect method to get your kid trained in a weeks time. But what I just cant understand, is how the kids in the books are so compliant. Despite the anecdotal 'accidents', on all forms of wood or expensively carpeted floors (or walls), the kids in these tales seem to come out as obedient, potty-trained machines in little to no time.

My 3 year old is not so easily broken. Like the legendary 30 year old horse at my barn growing up named Image, who would fly through a 9 rail course in under 2 minutes flat despite his riders' best efforts to slow him, my child just wont succumb to pressure no matter how gently (or forcibly) applied.

I have tried the overpriced Thomas engines (his favorite). The bags of M&Ms that his teachers find success with. Bribes, pleadings, promises, tears, and indifference. Nada.

Until one glorious day, after days (weeks?) spent without one mention of the potty, I was standing in 4 inch heels on a delayed and packed train that crept through the tunnel inching toward Penn station. My husband texted me that our son insisted on underwear today. He seemed irritated, so I texted faster than my fingers would allow to say 'great! make a fuss! pack extra pants!' worried he might try to dissuade him. Luckily my messages were received, and off to school my tot went in said underwear. I was so excited I proceeded to tell my client (whom I had to jog in those heels to meet thanks to the LIRRs usual lack of punctuality) about what a great morning it was. Since then we have had some downs (refusals to go, and a nearly broken nose when I rushed to fetch his potty only to run full force into marble sink) but mostly ups. Nothing about parenting is easy, most of it leaves an otherwise capable adult feeling like an utter imbecile (or crying when no one is looking). But its pretty awesome.