GUEST BLOG POST: Staying Anchored in Safe Waters by Lisa Levine Bernstein

My daughter, Jordana, barely one year old, wanted to join the “party.” A cousin of mine and I were enjoying an after dinner chat in the living room of my tiny NYC apartment and Jordana was wailing and crying in an effort to be released from her crib in the bedroom.

Jordana, now an amazingly social 20 year old, must have been angry with me for maintaining her bedtime routine while there was still an opportunity to socialize. I was not uncomfortable with her anger which I credit to my first job in psychiatric nursing.

As a staff nurse on the brand new eating disorders unit at the now defunct Gracie Square Hospital, I was anxious to be liked by my patients. It was a struggle for me to maintain the unit protocols, intended to maintain a therapeutic milieu, when it involved the wrath of one of my patients. Then, while I was discharging Julia, one of my particularly rude and aggressive patients, she thanked me. Julia appreciated that I kept her on track and made her “tow the line” despite her angry outbursts. What an amazing lesson in human nature!

In the years to come, in subsequent psychiatric nursing jobs, I often experienced the anger of patients and became more comfortable acknowledging their anger while still maintaining good limits. Admittedly, raising children is different than taking care of psychiatric patients, however, I have found that the practice of firm but loving limits apply to both. Children do not want to be in charge, and find it frightening to feel like they are the captain of the family ship. Even when they protest (and they will because that’s what various developmental stages “require” them to do), they want to know that an adult is steering the ship and keeping the family anchored in safe waters.

The world can be a frustrating place. When a child runs the show at home, she does not learn that there are barriers to getting what you want. Setting and keeping clear limits allows your child to build tolerance for frustration and actually makes his or her life out in the world happier.

When Jordana was born, followed twenty months later by Zoe, I was able to be a strong, loving parent who set limits from the start. I felt secure in their love despite tantrums directed toward me. Now that my daughters are nineteen and almost twenty-one, I know that learning how to care for patients like Julia was great training for parenthood.

So what can you do to stay anchored despite the ups and downs of childhood?

• Set clear limits and provide simple explanations (I cannot talk to you right now. You will have my full attention when I am off the telephone.)

• Be consistent but flexible depending on the circumstances (You can stay up past your bedtime because we have company.)

• Give your child time to adjust to changes and stick with what you have communicated (We will be leaving the party in five minutes.)

• Provide “time out” in the same room as the parent or caregiver so your child has time to calm down without feeling rejected.

• Let your child know when your own feelings are getting in the way (I am so angry right now that I will take a few minutes to calm down before we talk.)

Setting and keeping firm limits when your child is angry can be difficult but you will get better at it with practice. The bonus is that, over time, your child will protest less when she learns what to expect and you will enjoy each other’s company more!

Lisa Levine-Bernstein, MSN, RN, FNP has been dedicated to helping families create meaningful relationships. Her direct experience with parents and children spans over two decades. Lisa is a psychiatric nurse, an Adjunct Assistant Professor at LaGuardia College of the City University of New York and a school nurse at Great Neck North Middle School. She is a parenting workshop leader and teaches parent/child yoga and nutrition.

 Lisa holds a BS in Nursing from the University of Pennsylvania, an MS in Nursing from Hunter College of the City University of New York and qualified as a Family Nurse Practitioner at SUNY Stony Brook.

Having been on the front lines of parenting herself, raising four children (including two step-children who lived with her as teenagers), Lisa personally understands the challenges and rewards of raising successful children. Visit her site http://www.parentingsuccessfulchildren.com/.

 

GUEST BLOG POST: Being a Friend to your Daughter Could be Toxic by Susan Shapiro Barash

While writing my book on the trials and tribulations of female friendship, which came out last fall, several women spoke about the importance of setting an example for their daughters when it came to female bonds. For instance, if you, as the mother, are a jealous friend, a misery-lover, or a user, then you are teaching your daughter what not to do. If you are a sharer, a mirroring friend, or the authentic friend, then there is solace and safety in your friendships and your daughter does well to consider you as her model. Either way, few of us can deny that female friendships are complicated for women of all ages. If mothers and daughters alike, strive to have healthy friends among their peers, consider another scenario altogether. That would be how dicey it becomes when mothers prefer to be friends with their daughters rather than to ‘mother’ them.

Not that we haven’t heard of this before, but a lack of hierarchy between mother and daughter, replaced instead by mothers as ‘best friends forever,’ is a growing trend. Beyond that, there are mothers who consider this a successful way to go – in fact, a survey by Kelton research shows that 71% of women between the ages of 21 and 54 counted their mothers among their best friends. And while this might seem suitable for the mothers and daughters who subscribe to this concept, a pecking order between mother and daughter is actually a wiser and better balanced method of ‘mothering’ than being enmeshed with our daughters.

Still, mothers who choose this ‘BFF’ route, justify their actions. One mother, 35, with six year old twin girls, is an advocate. She told me that her daughters were her best friends and that she never wanted the mother/daughter relationship she’d had with her own mother. “My mother was in charge. She had all this power and basically I did what she wanted. I vowed that one day I’d be a better mother if I had daughters. I’d be easier, lighter… I’d do things with them.”

Ironically in our culture, as our daughters need to feel safe now more than ever before, mothers consider the friendship role as an option, and to this end, blurs the boundaries and confuses the relationship. Because if you are busy being your daughter’s friend, you certainly aren’t protecting her, whether she is ten, twenty or thirty. It takes guts to stand one’s ground on this topic, it takes courage to be a mother, i.e.: harsher, stricter, and tougher. As a mother, 48, with a 17 year old daughter, explained her decision to be a ‘drill sergeant’ at times, it was “horrible but worth it.” “My daughter can’t stand when I lay down the law or when I tell her what she has to do. She says the other mothers are nicer and act like friends to their daughters. They probably are nicer. But in the end, I think she respects me more for what I’ve done. Secretly, I would have preferred to be her pal, why not – it’s more fun. But I knew I had to be in charge, for her sake and mine.”

Another advantage of mothers and daughters having a hierarchal relationship is that it also allows the mother and daughter to have age appropriate friendships with their peers.

Sure, there are times when it’s enticing to be with your daughter the way you would be with a friend. Say you’re a single mother and you have no plans on Saturday night and your daughter, 20, is home for the weekend from college and will spend until about ten o’clock with you, before her night really begins and she goes out. It’s tempting to fill your loneliness with her company but deep down, you know it isn’t in either of your best interests. If you can anticipate this scenario and can be honest with yourself, you’ll avoid it. Instead, you’ll call one of your friends and make a plan, just as your daughter has done, and in this way you won’t jeopardize the mother/daughter bond or allow your daughter to feel guilty. The truth is, someone has to be the adult, and because you’re the mother, it’s you. That means that you respect your daughter’s independence and she respects yours, and you have lives of your own, each with the friends you choose.

Susan Shapiro Barash is an established author of nonfiction women’s issue books and has published eleven to date. Her latest is YOU’RE GROUNDED FOREVER… BUT FIRST, LET’S GO SHOPPING: THE CHALLENGES MOTHERS FACE WITH THEIR DAUGHTERS AND TEN TIMELY SOLUTIONS. She teaches gender studies at Marymount Manhattan College in New York and is a well recognized gender expert. She is frequently sought out by the media for her input on women’s issues and blogs regularly for The Huffington Post and Psychology Today. For more information about Susan, visit  http://www.susanshapirobarash.com/.

The Big Reveal...by Liimu

I know I should have been happy enough to have a healthy baby that I didn't even need to know the gender. I am painfully aware of the fact that many women my age want children but can't have them without the help of fertility treatments, if they're lucky enough to have them at all. And so yes, I felt guilty admitting that I had an opinion on the gender of my unborn child. But dammit, after 8 years raising three strong-willed, melodramatic, girly-girls,8 years of arguing about whether they could wear the same dress five days in a row, 8 years of trying to brush through three thick heads of hair, 8 years of princesses and pink and Hannah Montana, I wanted a boy.

Interestingly enough, my husband claimed he would be happy either way. He said he knew how to do girls, was content to just go on ahead and do another one. Was, in fact, tired of getting his hopes up only to have them dashed (as we both had the past couple of times) and expected a girl. I, on the other hand, was not giving up without a fight. First, there was the dream. For those of you who don't remember, check out my blog titled, "The Psychic Sister." Then, there was the fact that this pregnancy felt so different from the others - no tell-tale metallic taste in my mouth, no sweets cravings, no crappy skin breakouts. On the contrary, this was the first pregnancy where people (including my husband) were telling me I was "glowing." I had never experienced that before and assumed it was a cockamamie myth some guy had concocted to get women to get pregnant despite the weight gain, stretchmarks and painful labor. But sure enough, here was my frightfully honest husband telling me I looked like I was constantly bathed in soft lighting. I even tried the old strand of hair tied to a wedding band, and it went back and forth, just like it should for a boy. I was convinced.

All that being said, I was still not patient enough to wait nine months. I hadn't been with any of my other pregnancies, why start now? I did want it to be special, though, this being our last time. I convinced my husband that it would be a good idea for us to have the ultrasound technician seal our baby's gender in an envelope, and we would then open it over a lovely, romantic dinner. Flash forward to this past Thursday. Our ultrasound technician did exactly that, and then handed the envelope over to my husband, who promptly hid it so I wouldn't be able to ruin the surprise (I'm not THAT impatient...but still, better safe than sorry, I suppose).

That night, on our way to dinner, I was already getting phone calls and texts from people wondering if we had done our Big Reveal. (I mentioned we have had three daughters in the past 8 years, didn't I?) So, we sit down to a lovely dinner at Ristorante San Marco in Ambler, PA. (I highly recommend it if you're a fan of Italian and happen to be in the area.) I'm ready to bust out the envelope and here is my husband, reading the menu like it's date night. Needless to say, I told him that he needed to fork it over. "I'm a trained actress," I explained. "I can keep a poker face."

It was hard, though, I must admit. After months of praying for a boy, months of talking myself down from the ledge in case it wasn't a boy, even apologizing to my unborn baby for having such a strong opinion on what his/her gender should be, I wasn't prepared for how happy I would be to see the little ultrasound picture the technician had put in the envelope, annotated with the words, "I have a peepee, Mom! I'm a boy!" (Yes, that's really what it said.)

As for my husband, who was fine either way and entirely prepared for another girl, well I think I saw tears well up in his eyes. I know there are folks who will think this blog is slightly sexist. Maybe not. I hope not. We have three beautiful daughters and we love them all to pieces. But we are very much looking forward to seeing what it's like to raise a son, and our whole family is completely overwhelmed with joy and gratitude that we're going to get to do exactly that.

And as I brushed my daughters' hair the next day, I have to admit I was relieved to know that there wouldn't be another head added to the mix, waiting for me to tackle its tangles. If there had been, I would have been up to the challenge, but I am going to relish every new facet of life this little baby boy is going to bring.

Until next time!

The Stain and Other Sorrows by Cyma Shapiro

Several months ago, I wrote about our much beloved twice/year involvement in a local consignment sale. Forgive me, dear reader, if I make you read it again:

“Last weekend, my husband and I spent two days preparing items to take to my old neighbor’s bi-annual consignment sale. This is not your usual consignment sale; this is the mother of consignment sales. My neighbor prepares for months, delegating tasks, advertising and marketing this well-known event.  We prepare for months, by adding old things to our now old-familiar consignment sale paper bags. These bags are hidden in closets and tucked away awaiting final examination. The items are then transferred to well-marked boxes and transported to the Event. 

 From the end of one sale, in the spring, to the other sale, in the winter, nearly every week is spent assessing the viability of too-small clothes, no longer used toys and ‘gently used’ accessories. I must confess that every stain that appears on my children’s clothing, every rip I find represents lost dollars and a futile attempt to make good on something now seemingly bad. I’ve spent countless hours spraying and respraying stain remover on grass, blood and crayon in the hope that I can recycle that one piece at the tag sale. Sometimes it works; sometimes it doesn’t.

 For us, the days leading up to the sale are a ritual, and one that takes on the tone of the High Holidays – this is when we get to assess; reassess; atone for past mistakes (i.e. items needlessly torn or broken during fun times, or during a fit of rage); and attempt to make better. We get to say goodbye to things no longer needed, items which came with memories, and items which have a story of their own. And of course, I, especially, feel the familiar sadness that comes with knowing that the clock can’t be turned back; that you, and your children can’t recapture time gone by.  While they continue to race toward the finish line – “when I get older…………..,” I can’t wait until I get older……………..” -- and seem to delight in adding their no longer needed items to the pile, I keep holding on to the past, reluctantly parting with all of this, knowing full well that the finish line never looks the same when you are standing at the starting gate.

The act of preparing for this Event takes on a life of its own: we separate the clothing from the toys; tag all items on the right side of each piece with the gold and silver safety pins we receive with our participant package; and list each corresponding item on the inventory sheet, being careful to disclose the type, size, wearer’s gender and, of course, the price. Nearly always, the price becomes a bone of contention between us – should we reduce it to nothing just to get rid of it, should we charge fair market value to recoup our original investment? Should we just get rid of things that are no longer useful by selling them, or should we donate them to much needier people? Ultimately, does any of this matter at all?

This time I had 68 items; actually 64 a few days ago, but the straggler pieces – things that I just stumbled on throughout the house -- were added and added until finally we brought the boxes to her.  Yesterday, I found something else to sell, but yesterday was too late.  That item was placed in the new paper bag, awaiting the next sale this winter.”

This past weekend was the winter sale. In preparation, I gathered all the winter items and stumbled on a really ‘cool’ shirt I’d bought my daughter years before she could wear it. I knew, at the time, that I’d wait for her growth, and later reminisce about how the purchase was so special for me – I finally had a daughter, I finally had a daughter that I could love, I finally had a daughter that I could dress and I hopefully had a daughter who would enjoy dressing up as well. Everything I just stated is still true, except I have a daughter who is a slob. The shirt is full of stains.

 To say more would be disrespectful to her and to us. However, everything she wears is constantly full of stains; in light of the above story, it is my job to try to eradicate them. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. But here’s the rub: suffice it to say that nothing she owns or wears or plays with matters to her at all. Things that are damaged or wrecked can “just be thrown away.” Things that we think will matter (such as items we take away as punishment) to her, don’t. Things we know (and she knows) look special on her, or are special, or are special gifts given to her by special people in her life, don’t matter. In this way, she isn’t at all like her mother or father. In fact, this disconnect is a source of great grief and disappointment, not only because we care about things, but we both have an innate sense of worth, of value in this world, whether it be external or internal. We care about material things, people, events, places, issues of the heart, ethics, morality, highly defined principles and the intrinsic value that all things on this earth must be given. But I must confess that she does not. 

How does one teach one’s child these inherently and deeply important traits – to cherish and value people, things, experiences, places? How does one impart the knowledge about value and worth? What does a parent do when a child’s framework so diametrically differs from theirs and their teachings on so many levels? How do we teach children to understand what they don’t seem to understand or ‘get?’

I am sad, today. Not about the stained shirt; it just serves as another reminder of things.  And, I’ve come to learn through mommyhood that “things” don’t matter. But things about living do. In this way, I continue to feel like we’ve failed.  I may use her soon-to-be-discarded shirt as my tissue when the tears start to flow.

(Oh, and by the way, I’ve started another consignment pile for the spring.)

GUEST BLOG POST: The Year of the Dog by Deb Amlen

When my kids finally get around to choosing my nursing home – I fully intend to live long enough to be a burden on them -- I am confident that they’ll be kind. She might not have been the cookie-baking type of Mom they’ll say, but she always had our backs against the naysayers. And then they will go ahead and reserve the room with the garden view and the working “Call” button and the muscular attendant named Thor, because as I’ve taught them, one hand washes the other. Cookies come and go, but emotional indebtedness lasts forever.

Intellectually, at least, I understand the importance of fitting into a society that values conformity. A round peg fits nicely into a round hole and makes life a lot easier for school administrators. But what if you give birth to a hexagon and the local nursery school says, “I’m sorry, but the only nap mats we have are round. You’ll have to take your little hexagon somewhere else”? Sometimes you have to just look at the whole hexagon and say, those points may be a bit rough now, but I can help smooth them just enough for my kid to fit in. And eventually, what’s left will be seen as a positive character trait. What’s left will be her strength and will get her through the rough spots in life.

If I’d had my kids earlier, it might not have worked out that way. It takes a certain amount of confidence to face off against people who tell you they have a lot more experience with children than you, but you know what those people ultimately taught me? No one knows my kids better than I do.

If anyone had told me that my daughter, who has grown into one of the loveliest, most well-adjusted young women I know, would spend the entire third year of her life walking on all fours and barking like a dog, I would have suggested that they up their doses of medication. But that’s exactly what she did. This included wanting to drink from a bowl on the floor (occasionally indulged) and pooping outside with our real dogs (not so much tolerated.) I knew why she was doing it; she was raised around dogs and was developing a compassion for animals that would eventually lead her to become a vegetarian.

It wasn’t always apparent to those who crossed her path that she knew she wasn’t really a dog. I had signed her up for a tots’ acting class, seeing as how she loved indulging her creative side. The teacher pulled me aside one day and suggested that perhaps my daughter would benefit from a psychiatric evaluation. My first reaction was to try to suppress the urge to vomit, because nothing makes you feel more insecure as a parent than to think that an objective adult with a graduate degree thinks there is something seriously wrong with your child.

“She thinks she’s a dog,” the teacher said. “I tried to tell her that she’s not a dog, but all she did was lift her leg on me. That’s bad.”

“Well, she shouldn’t try to mark you,” I agreed, the queasiness starting to subside. “But she knows she’s not a dog. C, are you really a dog?”

“Woof,” my little hexagon replied, wistfully shaking her head. If only, she was probably thinking.

“You see? She doesn’t think she’s a dog. She’s pretending that she’s a dog.” I added a genial smile and laugh to show her that C and I were not, in fact, clinically insane. I took my child and left without pointing out the irony that pretending was exactly what she and her graduate degree had been charged with teaching a group of kids to do.

Occasionally, we lucked out. This was around the same time that C. started pre-school, and that year she had a teacher armed with a graduate degree and a developed sense of humor. At the end of the year, this wonderful woman took me aside and congratulated me. C had spent her year in pre-school slowly convincing the unconverted that being a dog was much more fun than being human. Once the teacher was able to convince the litter that speaking was more acceptable than barking, they became quite the obedient class. Oh, and when they covered color identification, C. had gone around stumping for her personal favorite until the entire class believed that their favorite color was purple, too. She has a brilliant future ahead of her, the teacher said. Yes, I agreed, apparently as a politician. Or a cult leader.

It’s a good thing she dropped the drinking-from-a-bowl-on-the-floor thing. That would not go over well on the campaign trail.


Deb Amlen is the author of “It’s Not PMS, It’s You” (Sterling, 2010). Visit her home on the web at http://www.debamlen.com/. 

Pierced Ears and Other Dilemmas (Or, the first real trial in helping my daughter grow up) - by Cyma

My daughter has been asking to have her ears pierced. She’s been asking for more than one year -- my prerequisite for considering it seriously. My daughter is seven. At what stage/age should this be done? Who has the right answers for all these types of potential dilemmas/mindfields? Consider this: If your child gets excellent grades; is polite, courteous and earns some money, should they be allowed to: dye their hair, have a scooter, wear makeup, wear nylons, show belly-skin, have a nose ring/belly ring, or get their ears pierced? What about my friend’s son, who was allowed to wear flip-flops year-round during his high school years. She thought that acquiescing his request was a small price to pay for his decent grades. At what age should they be given a cell phone?

If your child likes one particular color, should they be allowed to only wear that color? What about type of food? Should they be allowed to only eat the foods they like, if they also take supplemental vitamins?

Does it matter what age they are in response to any or all of the above?
Should the criteria consist of whether it creates bodily or mental harm? Or should it be allowed when your child comes ‘of age?’ At the risk of trying for healthy and continued autonomy and independence, where do we draw the line between holding the strings tightly and loosening the reins? And, where do we get the right or, more likely, best answers?

Will any or all of these decisions make for later traumas or adult discussions in therapist’s offices?

I decided to ask our children’s therapist, Jennifer Sanford. Here’s what she said: “Independence doesn’t magically arrive on day unannounced. It is cultivated throughout a child’s young life. As parents, we can become stuck on the issues of the right age for ear piercing, sleepovers, cell phone, dating, etc. There is no right age that can be generalized…I have found it important as a therapist and parent to keep in mind that the ultimate goal isn’t to have an obedient and compliant child; the ultimate goal is healthy independence which occurs by establishing a framework for maintaining a close relationship filled with open communication between child and parent. The framework should have the flexibility to grow and change as the child develops into an adult. (With) this, the practice would allow room for the bigger question: Is my child prepared to take care of the pierced ears, or the new puppy, etc. It is key for parents to understand the natural progression of a child’s life cycle. This knowledge helps inform that parent when it is appropriate to step in with supportive life skills, and when it is appropriate to allow space for the child to put into action the life skill previously taught.”

In my case, I polled my closest friends regarding the pierced ears. All of them said, ‘‘not at her age.” All of them also said that it shouldn’t be done in reaction to other kids doing the same thing. In this case, no other kids are doing this; a few have had pierced ears since infancy. Mommy has pierced ears.

This dilemma brought out more than I’d previously known about my friends’ philosophies. One friend said that things like dyed hair, and strange haircuts were fine; body piercing and tattoos were not. Another friend said that makeup, nylons, and high heels were ok during later childhood – she saw this as ‘playing’ rather than a foundation for later concessions. I don’t agree with either friend.

My own mother refused to let me: wear nylons, makeup, short skirts, high heels, etc. etc. until I was around 14 years old. At that point, she said she agreed only because she had tired of the ongoing, daily fights. I did get my ears pierced at age 12. That day was one of the happiest days of my childhood.

Should I put my questions to online support groups? Does safety/strength in numbers justify certain behaviors? If every kid is doing it (fill in the blank with anything you’d like), should my kid do it, too?

Having given myself a small time-out, I’ve decided to wait a little longer. While I am certain that my daughter is not old to take care of her ears and earrings, I am certain that she would enjoy having them. I would have been prepared to have helped her or to have taken care of them for a while, assuming that she’d eventually take over the responsibility. In this case, I’ll give her a little more time to grow up and give me a little more time to make a final decision.

Carbon Copy - by Cyma

My daughter wants to be like me. She watches how I walk, she watches how I talk. When I beg her to wear more than the three outfits she keeps reaching for, I must remind myself that I only wear black, black and black. No wonder she wants to wear black.

Last night, she asked for my shirt, to sleep with. This morning she is wearing it, and showing me how the sleeves nearly fit (they don’t) and how it matches her pajamas (they don’t).

My daughter acts like me: fearless, creative, brassy, and needs to be in charge of things. Oh, yea, and always wants to be right. I look at her face, and sometimes see mine. We have the same eyes, skin tone, hair color, and nearly the same body type. Another mother, but the same as me. I want to believe that her sadness, like mine, is overshadowed by a great capacity for happiness. I know she laughs more than I did at her age.

I believe that all things happen for a reason. I chose to believe that someone else birthed her so I could have her. I must say that I believe that the fit couldn’t be better. It wasn’t always this way. My first glance took my breath away. I remember holding my breath when I saw this horribly sad, confused creature. I sensed a tightness in her brain, a portent of many things to come.

I was ambivalent about it all. I didn’t take a leap of faith, I just said ‘yes,’ and nearly died afterward trying to retrace my steps and retract my words. It was all too late.

But, G-d has a plan. The plan has unfolded. Today, I reached down to take my shirt off my daughter, and catch glimpses of myself underneath. And then she laughed.

Playing House - by Jamie

When I was a child, I fondly remember playing “house” with a good girl friend of mine. She always took on the role of the mommy, and I was the little girl. I don’t recall what situations we acted out while pretending to be a family, but I do know that this was one of our favorite games to play. Sometimes, another little girl in the neighborhood with whom we occasionally played—but didn’t completely adore—would show up uninvited during our role-playing, and we grudgingly included her. While my friend and I happily continued our game in my bedroom, our not-so-bright neighbor sat out in the hallway with a pile of crayons and coloring books that we’d supplied her with to occupy her time. When anyone else in my house questioned us about why this girl was sitting out in the hallway while we were playing, we responded matter-of-factly, “She’s the daddy—she’s at work!”

Decades later, my own daughter, Jayda, is obsessed with “being the mommy,” while she forces other adults—mostly me, but sometimes my father or mother—into playing the role of the baby. Sometimes this is a pleasure, like when she has me, as her baby, take a nap while she rubs my back, or when she insists I have to “rest” while she reads a book to me. But the pleasure is short-lived because she generally also wants to stuff a binky in my mouth, or have me “’tend” to suck on her doll’s bottle. And when I complain, she eggs me on with instructions to “cry, baby, cry!” She also demands that I cry when she’s leaving me, and enjoys it when I beg her to stay with me and cuddle.

When I’m not playing baby on the couch or in bed, Jayda likes to take me shopping with her; this entails holding my hand while she totes several pocketbooks and bags filled with her toys all around the house and barks out a list of things we need to buy. On other occasions, I’m forced to walk with her to another room, where she leaves me “at school” while she “goes to work.” When I complain about going to school, she assures me that my teachers are nice and that I’ll have fun with my friends. It all sounds very familiar.

I’ve always found it remarkable how much information my child retains, and how careful I have to be about the things I say and do in front of Jayda, or the promises that I make to her, because she remembers everything. And when Jayda pretends to be a mommy, I see her keen skills of observation at play more clearly than ever. Most everything she knows about being a mommy, she’s learned from me. And for what it’s worth, she’s a very loving, affectionate, comforting mommy when I test her and complain or cry. But she’s also a busy mommy, and a reminder to me that sometimes I need to slow down.

For instance, the other day, while Jayda was in her “mommy-mode,” and laden with bags strewn over each of her arms, I told her it was time for dinner. She responded, “Not yet. I’m going somewhere!” When I queried “where?” she spewed out a laundry list of destinations that sounded very similar to my own day’s activities: “I have to go to CVS and the fruit store and the store where I get protein bars, and then I have to get gas, go to the bank, and go to the gym.” When I laughed and said “Is that all?”, she quickly added “I also have to meet my friend at the playground.” Well, thankfully, at least this little mommy is letting herself have some fun!

The Back-Up Plan - by Jamie

Lately, the subject of single mothers by choice has been all over the media because of a movie that recently came out, starring Jennifer Lopez, in which her character becomes pregnant with the help of an anonymous sperm donor, only to fall in love with Mr. Right immediately afterwards. I haven’t seen the movie, and, as a “real” single mother by choice, I’ll never have the time to see it, but I have viewed some of the recent TV news stories and discussions about it. And while it’s nice to have a celebrity like J-Lo showing single women that they do have options, I can’t say this movie is anything like my life—nor is “back-up plan” an appropriate term for the process by which I came to have Jayda.

I never pictured myself as a single mom; but then again, I didn’t always picture myself as a mom, period. Unlike some of my friends who were always talking about having babies during their 20s and 30s, I said things like, “I’ll have kids if I marry a guy who I know will be a great dad, and who really wants to have kids,” but I wasn’t obsessed with being a mother at all. I wasn’t even comfortable around children, and didn’t think they liked me very much. In fact, before I had Jayda, I’d never changed a diaper, and could count on the fingers of one hand how many babies I’d actually held. And yet, as soon as the nurses put my newborn child on my chest, I knew I was put in this world to be Jayda’s mom and care for her.

There was a point in my mid-30s when I had an epiphany and realized that I’d be incomplete if I never had a child, and that I’d just been suppressing my desires for fear of never meeting Mr. Right. I was flooded with maternal feelings and became baby-obsessed almost overnight. It took a lot of thought and planning to have Jayda (as well as plenty of drugs and monitoring and money, since I didn’t get pregnant on the first try like J-Lo’s character did in her movie), and I can hardly allude to the process as a back-up plan. “Back-up” to me implies second-best, and having Jayda was an ideal plan for me, because I can’t imagine my life without my amazing daughter in it. Unlike J-Lo’s character, I didn’t find Mr. Right while I was pregnant (though I did date during the first two trimesters), and I still haven’t found him now that Jayda is about to turn three. But that doesn’t trouble me at all, and I hate the implication that a woman “needs” a man to be a good mother. Or that having a husband is always the ideal “plan.”

Most of my friends did find their Mr. Rights before they had children—or at least they found someone whom they thought was the man they’d be with forever—and I can’t say their lives are all better than mine. A few of my friends are going through nasty divorces now—and are battling over custody issues. Several others actually married someone as their “back-up plan”—fully knowing the man wasn’t exactly what they wanted or needed in their lives—but rushed to settle down because they felt their clocks were ticking. Those friends (and their spouses) are all pretty miserable. And then there are my friends who are happily married (or at least appear to be), but just about all of them admit that having a husband is a lot of work, and they’re forced to divide their attention between their children and their man. There’s nothing wrong with that—and I know having a good husband is a worthwhile investment—but I can’t say that these women’s children are thriving more than mine is…or that the moms are so much happier than I am. We’re all just experiencing life the way it happened to us…and most of us are realizing that you can’t plan everything, especially when it comes to being a mom. Plan A…Plan B. What’s the difference? Life is what we make of it—and just because our lives aren’t as we always pictured them, doesn’t mean they’re second-best. Mine certainly isn’t. It isn’t movie-perfect, either, but I don’t really know anyone whose life is.

The Long Wave Goodbye - by Cyma

Today, I waved to my daughter riding away on the bus. The silly kind of wave – two arms, as if flagging down a passing ship. We both continued waving until the bus was out of sight. Walking back to my house, I had a lump in my throat. I am sad.

I guess I’m sad for the lack of these experiences with my own mother; sad for the time which is passing so quickly; sad, too, that I see that my parenting must be working well – my own daughter still longs for me. I did not have that with my own mother. I will continue to try my hardest to fulfill that need, until her hands stop reaching for mine, the arm waves stop and I see her waving to her friends, not me. That time is coming. In fact, it’s just around the corner.

Writer Kelly Salasin recently blogged, “There are so many deaths in mothering, beginning at the beginning, and arriving every day after. But equally matched with these deaths are the blessings of a new life – new growth – new possibility.” These words are haunting me. I spent so much time trying to keep things the same. Having kids changed that. I spent so much time trying to live the same life. Having kids changed that. I spent all my time trying to keep people out, and keeping my life (force) in. Having kids changed that, too.

When my children arrived, I listened to little that people said. Everyone had advice, even if mostly unsolicited. They didn’t understand the traumas we all adjusted to; they didn’t understand the struggles we’d all had just to get here. But, the one thing I heard and followed was to ‘cherish these times wisely.’ (Translation: be in the now). I say this daily. I pray with these words.

So, the next time the bus drives away from our house, I will wave with gusto, count all my blessings, and cry if I need to. I’m in the now of my life.

The Sweet Life -- by Jamie

When I was a child, I was a terrific eater; my mom often relates her memories of me gnawing on a lamb chop when I only had a couple of baby teeth in my mouth. And throughout my youth, I always loved to eat—both good foods and bad-for-me foods—as evidenced by my baby fat, which lingered far longer than it should have, well into my adolescence.

As an adult, I’ve embraced healthful eating by balancing a diet of lean proteins, whole grains, and lots of veggies and fruits, with an occasional sugar binge when I can’t ignore my ever-present cravings. I DO love sugar, but try to avoid it as much as possible. My daughter, Jayda, however, is a toddler, and has no self-control: Though I do allow her all kinds of treats—in moderation—she begs for cookies at 6 a.m. (as well as throughout the rest of the day!), and for ice cream every time she hears the music from the truck. She’s also the pickiest eater I know; aside from our shared love of sugar, her eating habits are nothing like mine. And it’s so frustrating.

When Jayda was a baby, she ate all of the vegetables I put in front of her; as a toddler, she refuses to consume any of them. Oddly enough, the only veggie she’ll willingly nibble on is an artichoke, but I think her pleasure mostly comes from emulating me (I’m an artichoke fanatic), and eating with her fingers—not from the taste of the artichoke, itself. The teachers at Jayda’s day care insist that my daughter likes the veggies they serve there once a week, but I suspect she’s just eating them because all of her friends are. Because when other kids are not around, it’s nearly impossible for me to even sneak veggies into Jayda’s diet. Sometimes, as a treat, I’ll give her a can of V8 V-Fusion, which combines vegetables with sweet fruit juice. I also bake low-fat zucchini/carrot bread on occasion—but I have to call it “pumpkin bread,” or my daughter, who insists she hates carrots, will refuse to try it (though, remarkably, when she perceives it as pumpkin bread, she’ll devour slices of it). But my creative solutions end there: Jayda won’t eat pasta with red sauce (so I can’t puree vegetables and hide them in the sauce, as many people have suggested), and she won’t consume anything green, no matter what I douse it in.

Similarly, when it comes to protein, Jayda’s not a fan. She’ll eat rotisserie chicken once in awhile, but nothing else. No hamburgers or hot dogs, nor any kind of meat. No fish or shellfish. Not even chicken fingers (which, secretly, I’m pleased about). And pizza? She takes the cheese off, chucks it, and simply eats the crust. She’s also the only kid I know who rarely enjoys macaroni and cheese. Cheese sticks? Never. Eggs? Sometimes she’ll scarf down a scrambled one on a Sunday morning…but most other times, she’ll turn up her nose. Fortunately, she does like yogurt, and Greek yogurt is a staple in my home. Sometimes, I mix it with a sprinkle of Splenda, generously smear it on bread, and call it “cream cheese.” Jayda always asks for seconds. Other times, I serve Greek yogurt and a bowl of fruit for Jayda’s evening meal. When I was pregnant with Jayda, I secretly worried about cooking family dinners. I’m no Martha Stewart and I stressed over the idea of producing hot balanced meals for both of us every night. Little did I know I’d have nothing to worry about; Jayda eats somewhat nutritiously, but not because I’m cooking nutritious meals for her.

Lately, I’ve been buying “Pure Protein” ready-made shakes; they come in a can, and I pour about 1/3 of the contents into Jayda’s sippy cup of milk and call it “chocolate milk.” She consumes about 15 grams of protein in several swigs, and both of us are satisfied. She also likes to take bites of the protein bars I eat after my work outs—and has even devoured a Balance Gold bar (also 15 grams of protein) all by herself after an active day at the playground.

I believe I’ve been fairly creative in seeking out healthy food choices for Jayda, because left to her own devices, my daughter would survive on cookies, candy, ice cream, and bread. Oh, and fruit, too (she loves every kind—which isn’t surprising considering her raging sweet tooth). But dining out is a complete nightmare; no matter what I order for her, Jayda just eats the dinner rolls that are put on the table, or worse—the French fries that come with her entrée. So, I’m forced to always bring a healthy, protein-packed selection of snacks with us wherever we go. While other kids are given potato chips to munch on with their sandwiches, in lieu of the sandwich (that Jayda won’t eat), I give my daughter what we call “chips”—a bag of Glenny’s Soy Crisps (low fat, high fiber, and 9 grams of protein in a bag). They’re delicious and nutritious—though a rather unconventional choice for a meal.

My daughter is healthy, active, and isn’t overweight. But her eating habits stink. And I often wonder if I’m doing Jayda damage by turning her into a perpetual snacker, and allowing her to eat so many sweet foods (even if they are healthy ones). Grazing is supposed to be healthy for adults…but is it a positive habit for a kid to develop? I have no idea. All I know is that I want my daughter to thrive nutritionally, to always enjoy her food, and that mealtimes should never be a battle for us; and for now, I’m sticking to those rules. I have too many other things to worry about!

Some Friendly Advice -- by Jamie

I’m not sure if it’s because I’m a busy single mother who doesn’t have time to waste—or simply the result of being older and wiser—but ever since Jayda was born, I’ve been more selective about which friendships I choose to foster. I consider myself very fortunate to have so many wonderful friends from every stage of my life—high school, college, my “single in the city” days, former jobs, and even my few years of motherhood. But it’s quality, not quantity that counts to me. And at this point in my life, when it comes to friendship, I only give as good as I get.

Over a year ago, I met a woman at my gym who, aside from our shared stair-climbing workouts, I had very little in common with; she was single, childless, rough-around-the-edges, and after devoting herself to her ex-boyfriend for years, now had no girlfriends to speak of. But she appeared to have a good heart, and she needed a friend, so I let her into my life. The woman latched on to me, called me incessantly, and, despite all the hours of listening and support I gave to her, never gave anything back to me; she was simply self-consumed. When we got into an argument a few months ago, I easily made the choice to “let her go,” as I don’t have the time or energy for people who drag me down and never do anything to lift me up.

That said, friendships are a complicated thing…and sometimes “letting go” of someone who really isn’t “good for you” isn’t as easy at sounds. For instance, my mother has been friends with one particular woman for decades—a woman whom I almost consider to be part of our family. But over the last several years, there have been countless fights between these women, tons of miscommunication issues, and lots of hurt feelings. In the last few weeks, things came to a head, and my mother was attacked by this woman for a long list of silly offenses my mother had purportedly committed. When this woman called my mom, my mom was put on the defensive, and hung up the phone crying; she has been miserable about the situation ever since. Everyone tells my mother to “let this woman go,” and I personally advised her that she shouldn’t be friends with someone who makes her feel so uncomfortable—someone whom she has to step on eggshells around, and always be fearful of offending. But dumping a long-time friend isn’t so easy. There’s history there, and lots of emotional investment. Sometimes it’s even a “pride” issue: We want people to like us—especially our old friends—and we sometimes bend over backwards to “fix things,” even when we’re not the ones who broke them.

I’m trying to teach my daughter, Jayda, the value of good friends—and what she should expect from them. Fortunately, she knows a bunch of sweet, little girls whom she likes to play with, and I try to foster these relationships by organizing play dates and encouraging Jayda to be a good friend to her friends. But there’s one little girl at Jayda’s day care who has been a source of angst for both of us. This girl is a close friend of one of Jayda’s best friends, and, as is often the case with threesomes, jealousy issues and conflicts have arisen between the girls. Jayda has told me on many occasions that this girl is “not nice” to her. And several times in the last few months, there have been notes on Jayda’s daily progress sheet informing me that my normally-well-behaved daughter has pinched or pushed “a classmate.” Upon pressing Jayda for details, I’ve learned that Jayda’s attacks have all been toward this particular girl, and Jayda always prefaces her confessions with the fact that this girl was “not nice.” I spoke to Jayda’s teacher, who told me there was nothing to worry about, but I still felt the need to speak to Jayda about the situation. I told her not to spend time with this girl, and to, instead, hang out with girls who were nice to her and treated her well. I stressed that friends should respect one other and make each other feel good—not hurt each other physically, or hurt each other’s feelings. She seemed to “get” it and, lately, has been proudly informing me that she’s been hanging out with “good” friends, and offering the names of a few kids whom I know treat her well.

Recently, I’ve started planning Jayda’s upcoming third birthday party, and asked my daughter which of her classmates she wanted to invite. After offering the name of her “best friend” and a few other nice girls from her class, Jayda rattled off her former nemesis’s name, too. Huh? She says they’re friends now. And the other morning, Jayda waited for this girl in the parking lot so they could hold hands and walk into day care together. I’m not sure if this truce is going to last forever, but for now, I’m hoping the kids have truly worked things out. As I said before, sometimes it’s not so easy to let go of a friend…and sometimes, if the friend turns out to be a decent one (as I hope this little girl will be), you find out you don’t have to, after all. But in the long run, spending time with people who make you feel good about yourself is what counts the most. And I just hope Jayda—and my mother, too—will figure that out.

Bed Hopping -- by Jamie

For the most part, my almost-three-year-old daughter, Jayda, and I co-sleep every night—and we’ve done so ever since she was born. My daughter hates to sleep (even as a baby, she barely napped, and fought the urge to sleep with all her might), and no matter where she is, she takes forever to drift off—and wakes at the crack of dawn. Since Jayda’s sleep battles are generally very noisy, it makes no difference whether she’s in my bed or not—I’m still at the mercy of her sleeping patterns. And if it makes her happier and more secure to be snuggled up with me, I can’t complain. I’m single, with a queen-sized bed, so there’s plenty of room for both of us. Besides, as I’ve read in many parenting magazines and journals, researchers around the world have discovered that children who co-sleep are “more independent, more outgoing, and more confident. As adults, they have higher self-esteem, better stress-management skills, and are more comfortable with intimacy than adults who slept alone as young children.” Sounds good to me!

Of course I do try to encourage Jayda to sleep by herself—as I think it can only enhance her independence—but her standard response is, “I’m not ready yet, Mom.” Her certainty cracks me up, and since I know she will be ready at some point in the not-so-distant future, I can wait. But I do find it quite ironic that, despite Jayda’s aversion to her own bed, she’s obsessed with everyone else’s. She constantly requests to see her friends’ beds—be it to jump on them, or simply tumble around under the covers.

Several months ago, we had a play date at a little boy’s house. Moments after entering the boy’s play room, Jayda approached the boy and demanded, “Let’s go to your room! I want to see your bed!” His father and I looked at each other and laughed…and jokingly insisted, “Keep the door open, kids—and both of you, keep one foot on the floor!”

Similarly, after a recent family dinner at my cousin’s house, Jayda enjoyed running around with my cousin’s twin boys, who are three years older than Jayda. At one point, Jayda disappeared with one of the boys and the boys’ father ran up to his kids’ bedroom to see if they were in there. He returned with this report: “Jayda’s in my son’s bed—with my son. They’re under the covers, giggling.” Then, as if to reassure me, he added “They DO have their clothes on.” Oy. That’s my girl!

Fortunately (or not so fortunately?) it’s not just boys’ beds Jayda adores; she likes hiding under the blankets with her girl friends, too. Many times I’ve let Jayda run off with one of her friends to play in the girl’s bedroom, and have later found Jayda shoeless and curled up under the covers with her pal. She giggles when I find her, and blissfully enjoys “pretending” to nap with her friend.

Lest you think I’m concerned by Jayda’s behavior, I’m not—I actually find it quite amusing (as long as she’s not still dragging her boy friends to their beds when she gets a bit older!). I just find it funny that a kid who doesn’t want her own bed seems to love everyone else’s—and that a kid who hates to sleep enjoys pretending to nap. But who ever said children were easy to understand? Whether she’s sleeping or awake, my unpredictable daughter always keeps my on my toes!

A Different Spin on Spring Break -- by Jamie

I have many wonderful memories of past Spring Breaks, ranging from a carefree trip I took to the Bahamas with my parents and my good friend at the end of high school, to an alcohol-infused vacation I had in Acapulco with a bunch of college pals, to my solo adventure in New Zealand on a singles tour while I was studying for a semester in Sydney, Australia. Good times. Really good times.

And now, for the first time in almost twenty years, I’m on Spring Break again: A ten-day hiatus from my classes at Queens College, where I’m working on my degree to become a Speech Language Pathologist. As I finished my final test last week, and completed an important Statistics lab assignment over the weekend, I felt a huge swell of relief…but it’s far from party-time for me.

My first day of “vacation” was spent working on a freelance project (which, thankfully I didn’t have to do at night, which is when I generally complete my paid work during the semester), doing several loads of laundry, and scrubbing the bathroom clean—before I raced out to pick up Jayda from daycare and headed to a play date. While chatting on the phone that night with a good friend, who asked me what I was going to do with my time off (alluding to lots of potential R&R for me, and perhaps some great social activities), I rattled off a list of things I needed to get done. Most importantly, I need to renegotiate a lease for my car (as it’s up in 6 weeks), and figure out health insurance plans for me and Jayda (since my Cobra expires at the end of May). Also on that list is figuring out my Fall class schedule (I have to register after Spring Break, and it’s crucial that I secure four important classes in order to apply to Grad school in the winter), reorganizing my parents’ garage (where I’ve stored boxes of things from my former apartment for the past three years, and have finally been asked to remove them), and running a myriad of long-overdue errands. In sum, this Spring Break will be a far cry from drinking Margaritas on the beach and hooking up with hot guys.

And yet it’s still a big relief. Ever since Jayda was born, my life has been non-stop; when new responsibilities unfold, I take them on, because there is no alternative. I’m a mom—and a pretty good one, I think—and it’s my job to do whatever I must to make a good life for myself and my daughter. At one time, that meant commuting to the city every day for work, and still managing to cook, clean, shop, and spend quality time with my daughter during the week. Now, it means taking on as much freelance work as I can, excelling in my college classes, and still accomplishing those aforementioned chores and taking care of my daughter (and enjoying her!) as well as I can. When more is required of me, I dig deeply and do more—because that’s what a single mother does. And I manage; I juggle, I organize, and I make it through every day just fine. But losing one layer of responsibility does make a difference: It’s like removing just a bit of pressure that’s been holding me down, and allowing myself to take an extra deep breath. And that much-needed breath is a very nice thing. It means I can go to the gym a few extra days this week, snuggle with my daughter a little bit longer on mornings when I’d normally fly out of bed to get ready for my long drive to school, and, mentally, have a bit more space in my brain to focus on what’s most important in my life: Jayda.

I won’t be completely carefree this week, and I certainly won’t be without responsibilities, but I can still enjoy my break. I can even make myself a mean Margarita. But as for the hot guy on the beach, he’ll have to wait. First, I have a second degree to earn, money to make, and an amazing little girl who needs my attention right now—and is much more worthy of my time.

Time -- by Gina

This week my father-in-law was in the emergency room for severe stomach pain. He is better, thankfully, but it has been a crazy week for me since my husband has been working long shifts, and I was the only one available to deal with “Grampa”: visiting, picking up stuff from his apartment, picking him up upon being discharged, then driving him around town for his various errands. It was an unseasonably warm and sunny weekend and not what I really wanted to be doing, but of course I had no choice.

Then there were all of the other “things to do” for the week: creating and mailing out my daughter’s birthday party invitations, shuttling her around to school and activities, celebrating my husband’s birthday, two work events, late meetings, working full-time, and all of the other usual stuff (laundry, dishes, etc.) Not to mention two separate emergency deliveries to my niece (backpack forgotten in my car) and nephew (change of clothing after a classmate spilled chocolate milk all over him.)

Yet, when a good friend who is going through some tough times asked me why I hadn’t called her in a while, I couldn’t come up with a good excuse. “I’ve been so busy” sounds like such a cop-out…I mean, everyone is busy, right? But when I actually sat down and thought about why I hadn’t called, I realized it wasn’t just that I didn’t have time, I never seemed to have the RIGHT time. By that I mean, I never seem to have “phone time”, that precious luxury that I am only now realizing existed only in my pre-mommy world. I have always had very busy jobs, so I always (and still do) had to rush my friends off the phone with a “Can I call ya later, work is crazy? Thanks!” I’d wait until after dinner when I could sprawl out on my couch and really catch up…laughing and having lots of good girl talk. Now, as the mother of a 3 ½ year old, those opportunities never seem to come anymore. I still entertain the thought that I will be able to find time for a good chat after Gianna’s asleep, but since she has trouble falling asleep and staying in her own bed, that phone time never seems to come for me. I spend the night going up and down the stairs to her room, as she calls me to come stay with her because she is afraid, or because she “has too much energy.” Then when I think she is finally asleep, I am exhausted from working all day and parenting all evening. Also, once the house is quiet, I feel obligated to speak low so as not to wake my daughter. This is also the time I do a load of laundry, straighten up the house and get ready for the next day.

The only phone calls I seem to get a chance to make on weeknights is to return calls, mostly to my family and my in-laws, arranging visits, exchanging babysitting duties, and checking in on how everyone is feeling.

I made amends with my friend – I devoted a very long phone call to her which thank goodness Gianna cooperated with by going to bed on time. I assured her that although I don’t have the kind of time I used to have, I am still here for her no matter what and will find a way to make time to talk more often (haven’t figured that part out yet…) She doesn’t have children yet but I think she understands - I hope so. When we moms say we don’t have time for something, it isn’t an excuse… it is our reality – that our time is just not our own anymore no matter how many more hours we could use in the day. We can carve out time here and there once our kids are old enough for babysitters but in the meantime, it is a big adjustment and a real balancing act to find time to do the things WE want to do. I have heard it gets easier as our kids get older, but for now, I can only hope that friends understand, just as I am understanding when plans get canceled or my calls go unanswered. I think that is part of being a good friend – being flexible and forgiving – none of us are perfect and we are all doing our best to get as much as we can done in one day. These are the times I wish I could work only part-time, but for now I have to find a way to make it all work.

I have another good friend who had her three children in her early twenties. When I don’t have time for the long gab fests, she understands and lets me slide. I was able to see her for a brief visit recently and it was like no time had passed. Those are the moments you realize that true friendship endures through all the highs and lows of raising children, trying to have a career, and not having enough time for either. We sat in her mom’s kitchen, talking and laughing like we did when we were 17. In those moments, time – be it how much has passed, or how much more of it we wish we had – just doesn’t matter so much…well, at least for a moment, anyway.

It Must Be Spring -- by Jamie

This past week, the temperature rose…not just outside, but figuratively, too. Suddenly, men from my past were popping up everywhere. A guy I know from High School who lives out of town, but has shown interest in me over the years, texted me that he’d be in New York the next day, and wanted to get together. The very same day, a man I went on a handful of dates with about four years ago, but who seems to “check in” with me every year (only to disappear again shortly thereafter), sent me an email asking how Jayda and I were doing. A few days before that, an ex of mine whom I flirt with now and then—but hadn’t heard from in awhile—sent me a flurry of texts telling me I was on his mind. None of these encounters meant much to me—other than giving me a brief ego boost and a few days of fun flirting. But I found the timing interesting. It was clearly spring…and everyone was feeling freer—and flirtier—than they had during the cold, dark winter.

The same held true at the playground. Jayda and I returned to one of our favorite parks this week for the first time in many months, and bumped into a little boy whom Jayda had played with a lot last year. Suddenly, Jayda was following the boy around like his shadow—literally chasing him—while he showed off for her by climbing the jungle gym expertly and performing silly swinging antics. I realized instantly that they were “flirting” in a simplistic, child-like way: smiling happily at each other, holding each other’s hands as they ran around, and, like a true flirt, Jayda seemed to find everything the boy said or did simply hilarious. At one point, Jayda tumbled off of the swing she’d been riding on with her belly, and burst into tears. Instantly, the boy ran over to her, pulled a “fish” he’d created at school out of construction paper and crayons out of his backpack, and presented it to Jayda to soothe her. She accepted it happily, and her waterworks stopped soon after that. She also accepted a packet of cookies which he offered to her—and even gave him a shy hug in return. Yes, spring was in the air…and as young as these three-year-olds are, it amazed me how they instinctively seemed to know how to “do the mating dance.”

Jayda’s certainly too young for a boyfriend, and right now, I personally don’t have the time to pursue one, myself. But, as I’ve stated before, we both sure do like guys. They’re nice to get attention from—and they’re lots of fun to flirt with—and now that spring is in the air, we’re both looking forward to enjoying the weather—and the good times it promises to bring with it.

Why I Run -- by Liimu

I have been obsessed with dieting and changing my body for as long as I can remember. My mom was a dieter my whole life, even my 94 year old grandmother confessed to me while in the nursing home that she still replaced two of her daily meals with SlimFast and weighed herself daily.

When I had my children (all girls), I realized that I was going to have do something to counteract this way of thinking so that I wouldn’t pass on this lack of self-acceptance on to them. Every year since I turned 30, I had run the Susan Komen Race for the Cure, a 5K run that benefits research for a cure for breast cancer, a disease from which my mother has been surviving for nearly 30 years.

About a year after my second daughter’s first birthday, I decided that a better motivation for going to the gym than to lose weight would be to train for a longer race. I set a goal of running a 10K by the end of that year. That April, I ran the 10K and I met a woman named Amy who would change my life. Amy and I began to get to know each other as we ran that 6 miles, and what we learned was that we both thought of ourselves as the last to get picked for the teams in gym class, and yet here we both were, completing an athletic event that not many people we knew had ever accomplished. That fueled our fire and we were off. That year alone, Amy and I ran the 10-mile Broad Street run, the Philadelphia Distance Run (a half-marathon) and the Philadelphia Marathon. During our training, I started a new job, and Amy moved away to attend law school. We didn’t talk on the phone or via e-mail, we saved our best stories for when she would come back to Philly for us to complete our long training runs together or complete the races we had promised each other early on we’d support each other in finishing. When we ran Broad Street and I got a side stitch a half-mile into the run, Amy hissed, “Keep going…no one ever died from a cramp,” later confessing that she’d had no idea at the time she said this if it was actually true. When I was injured in August, Amy encouraged me to take the time I needed to heal, adding only half-jokingly that she couldn’t afford for me to start back too soon and injure myself so bad that I wouldn’t’ be ready to run the marathon with her in November. She was counting on me. And I was counting on her.

Amy and I are still friends, and she married the guy she started dating during that training season. We got to know a lot about each other during that period, but what I didn’t anticipate was what I would learn about myself. When I ran across the marathon finish line, I was no longer just a girl, no longer even just a mom, I was an athlete. I had crossed another line, the line that separated the runners from the non-runners. Without intending to, I had found a way to break the cycle of self-loathing and insecurity that had plagued the women (and some of the men) in my family for generations. I now look at my body for what it can do, rather than what it looks like (most of the time…all bets are off when my hormones are in the driver’s seat). And this Mother’s Day, the gift I look most forward to receiving will be having two new running partners as I cross that familiar finish line of the Susan Komen race, for my two daughters, Devon and Amelia, will be running it with me.

Motherhood -- by Cara

I just finished watching a DVD called, “Motherhood.” When the movie came to the theatres not too long ago, I heard that the reviews were not great. But I still wanted to see it, so I waited and rented it instead.

The reviewers were right; it was, overall, not such a great movie. But for Moms, there were a lot of underlying issues that the movie brought out that I felt were great for discussion.

The first and probably universal one was time. Time for oneself. Time to do everything on your “To Do” list. Time spent with family. Time you give to your children. There is just never enough “time” to go around to get anything done completely. And the movie draws this out nicely but almost too accurately. The Mom (Uma Thurman) has her list. And it is the day before her daughter turns 6 years old. And throughout the movie, this Mom is trying to “beat the clock” getting everything ready for her daughter’s birthday party that evening. I could almost see it as an average day in my life, with the exception that this movie took place in what appeared to be New York City, while I live in the suburbs outside of New York City. Yet, as a book I am reading, called “The Mask of Motherhood,” by Susan Maushart states, “When we consider the alternatives to the juggled life, the picture is equally, albeit differently, depressing. There is no doubt that to ‘Do it all’ leaves women breathless and resentful.” I like that description. I don’t know how many times I’ve said to friends, “I feel claustrophobic,” with regard to my overwhelming list of other’s needs, coupled with other various, “things to do.” Friends have commented that they can’t believe all of the errands I can get done within a six hour time period. My record was 10 different stores in areas as far as 15 miles away in less than 6 hours! Give me a Starbucks Latte, and I can literally race through my day! But still and all, I may win the race, but the resentment is still there. One way to get around this issue of “time” is also reflected in the movie.

It seemed, in “Motherhood”, that each parent voluntarily took one of their children (there were two children in this movie) as a way to “share the burden,” so to speak. I am finding that a lot among the families I know. Even in our own home, our son seems to get passed from my husband to me or me to my husband so that we both can have a little “down time.” Personally, I don’t know that this is a particularly good idea because the family almost becomes fragmented. I see it in our own home. We actually have to schedule events for all three of us to go to. Otherwise, I am the sit on the floor, play a game, or do a craft type of parent. My husband is the rock climbing, swimming, hiking Dad who takes our son on more physical outings. I see and hear of many parents dividing their parental duties this way. In some ways, it gives each parent a little breather. On the other hand, the family becomes too distant. I guess only time will tell what works best for each family. Susan Maushart, in her book brings out, “There is no doubt that the exclusive-care mother has a more intense relationship with her children. It is also worth bearing in mind that both the concept and the practice of exclusive-care motherhood are historical and cultural anomalies.” Throughout history, mothers have always had some form of “help” when it came to raising her children. Grandparents sometimes lived in the same home or very close by. Aunts and Uncles would drop by and lend a hand. And mothers who lived near to one another would congregate in one or another’s home and provided much needed support, as well as a place for their young children to play. “It takes a village,” to raise a child. And if the “village” is barren, sometimes it takes a spouse or even a friend.

Finally, a very noticeable thing was that Moms were portrayed as looking only half put together, frazzled, day-old, dirty messes. I must confess, in the early days of motherhood, that was me to a “T.” But this Mom had a Kindergartener and a 3 or 4 year old. A neighbor commented that Uma’s character was still wearing her pajamas as she walked her daughter to school. She changed outfits when she returned home, but decided to forgo a shower to work on a freelance writing assignment. So many Moms seem to be running out the door in their pajamas (yes, I am guilty) to take their child to school or to get a quick errand done. But I TRY to look at least HALF respectable. Yes, there are the Moms who have hired help to maintain some semblance of orderliness in their homes. And they are the Moms who can actually take a shower, blow dry their hair (do I even OWN a blow dryer? I think I do...somewhere...), and coordinate their outfit for the day all the way down to matching pocketbooks. In this movie, and in my world, that just doesn’t happen. I can manage a shower and throw on some minimal makeup. But I seem to grab the same (clean) clothes week after week because they are readily available and they are comfortable. I actually have to search for a presentable outfit to have a parent/teacher conference in!

I think the take-away from all of this is that the average Mom (working full-time, part-time, or not) doesn’t have the same life she had before kids. There was a scene in the movie where a young, good-looking messenger carrier, helped Uma Thurman’s character by schlepping her numerous bags of items she purchased for her daughter’s party, up three flights of stairs. She asked him in to her apartment to get some water for him to drink. Although absolutely nothing at all sexual happened between them, you could feel their sexual tension. And you could imagine where this would have led had Uma’s character not been a wife and a Mom. And to recapture a little bit of her former self, she put on some 90s music and danced. And the messenger carrier danced. And Uma’s character looked wild and free and unburdened by her present life! And you could tell that not only did she miss that feeling, she recognized that it was now lost. And she abruptly shut off the music and shook the hand of the messenger and bid him farewell.

There are moments in all of our lives when we say to ourselves, what happened here? What happened to ME? The fun-loving, crazy, independent me? She grew up, matured, maybe married, had children and life became a whole different experience for her. Late nights out are now replaced with television or a good book before collapsing from exhaustion. Fun loving is now replaced by how many times you watch your child go down the slide (or you go with them upon their insistence) and find your body was no longer made to go down the twisty slide! And independence has been replaced with total dependence concerning every possible thing you could imagine pertaining to your child. Again, as Maushart explains, “It’s as if we were uncomfortable with the whole notion of choice—as if the exercise of free will were a form of conspicuous consumption too embarrassing to reveal publicly. Maybe we feel deep down that real choice remains a luxury to which, by virtue of being female, we have no natural entitlement.” Very possible.

But then, when you are on your bed, frantically responding to too many overdue e-mails, your child comes in with an armful of stuffed animals, a couple almost half his size. And he throws each of them onto your bed and climbs up to snuggle right up next to you with each of the various stuffed animals. And you quietly close your laptop, put it down, and look into your child’s eyes as he tells you stories about each of his stuffed animals. It’s at that point when you remember what happened to “you.” She became a Mom. And she wouldn’t change that moment or her life back for anything. She is embracing what she now calls Motherhood!

Work/Life Balance...Huh? by Jamie

I came home from a much-feared Statistics test the other day, and breathed a sigh of relief. I thought I’d done pretty well on the test—and now I had about two hours to myself. My dad was picking Jayda up from daycare and taking her to the library for awhile so I could have some down-time. And what did I do? I raced around the house, stripping my bed and washing my sheets, wiping down my ridiculously dusty bedroom furniture, and then donned rubber gloves and attacked the downstairs bathroom. The following afternoon, when I finished writing a paper ahead of schedule and found myself with several “extra” hours, I manically scrubbed all of Jayda’s mildewy bath toys with giddy satisfaction, sorted through all of her summer clothes, and cleaned out my sock drawer. Literally. Spare time well spent.

A friend of mine recently posted a query on Facebook about work/life balance:”Who keeps perpetuating this myth that people can have a work/life balance? It's not working for me.” And a clever male friend remarked “single people... the rest of us are just making it up as we go…” I couldn’t have said it better myself. I may not be commuting to a full-time job anymore, but between freelancing and school (and stressing like crazy about both), it’s impossible for this single mom to get everything done…let alone actually relax. Factor a Type-A personality like myself into the mix, and it’s almost laughable. For instance, my mother has been offering me a “free” massage (she bought a package from a local masseuse and has one to spare) for months, but I haven’t had the time to take her up on her offer. Oy.

Lest I seem too pathetic, I do make time to go out for drinks with friends every few weeks, or out on an occasional date, but more often, I’m spending my evenings doing work, studying, or desperately trying to catch up on my sleep. And last week, when my plans to go out for drinks with a girlfriend fell through, instead of kicking back with a glass of wine by myself in front of the television—as a person with a “good work/life balance” might have—I cracked open a Diet Pepsi and a textbook, instead, and did some studying. I couldn’t miss the opportunity (or the opportunity to do a load of laundry, too, as there’s always laundry to do!).

I always pay my bills on time, but my filing system sucks—and I rarely balance my checkbook. Mind you, I never bounce checks—but I can’t take the time to nitpick over every number like I probably should. I never leave dirty dishes in the sink, but I also drink out of soda cans and eat out of take-out containers to lessen the amount of cleaning I’ll need to do. And cook? That rarely happens. I do sort through Jayda’s clothing seasonally because that girl is growing like a weed—but I’m guilty of never going through my own closets; I have clothes in there from pre-Jayda years, that I just don’t have the time to go through (or the energy to throw out). I hear about kids who get baths every night and I don’t understand how or why their moms can make that happen. My daughter’s lucky if she bathes every other night (and believe me, if it was up to her, she’d NEVER get into the bathtub). Working moms have to cut corners, somehow—and something’s gotta give. I never have time to watch DVDs, let alone TV. In fact, if it wasn’t for the Wiggles DVDs I order for Jayda, it would probably be more economical for me to cancel my Netflix subscription right now.

The only thing I do have time for is my daughter: we have several play dates every week, and we do things together after school almost every day. And I always have time for cuddling with her in bed. I’m an excellent multi-tasker, and combining sleepin’ and lovin’ all at the same time is my forte. Because there’s one thing I can always balance: Jayda’s head on my chest and her arms wrapped around me. But as for the rest—my life is definitely off-kilter. And with a kid relying on me, and work that always needs to be done, I’m not sure that’s ever going to change.

Granny Day -- by Gina

Since she was just three months old and I returned to work part-time, my mother-in-law has been taking care of my daughter Gianna for two full days a week. Gianna lovingly refers to these as “Granny Days”, because the other three weekdays she has “School Days.” I am fortunate to have “Granny,” and the fact that she is home sick today with bronchitis has made me realize how missed she is.

When I say, Granny watches Gianna for two full days… I mean two FULL days. I sometimes get exhausted just listening to the replay of their day. A typical day may include any combination and many times all of the following: doing an art project, playing downstairs in the playroom, playing upstairs in the bedroom, going out for manicures, having lunch in their favorite café or the pizzeria, painting at the pottery place (I now am the proud owner of about twelve assorted handpainted mugs, cups plates, and candy dishes), and going for ice cream. These days alternate or sometimes include visiting the Children’s Museum, Chuck E. Cheese or Barnes & Noble. And that’s just in the winter… once the weather her in New York gets warmer, you can add the beach, park, playground to the list. Whew!

On top of all these great activities, Granny is so caring and patient with Gianna. Last Christmas, Gianna was treated to a hand-crocheted Christmas skirt, with a matching one for her Hello Kitty doll. She got to choose what color yarn she wanted for the skirt, and even what order she wanted the three stripes in…even if it meant Granny pulling out the work she’d already done on the skirt and starting over, just because Gianna wanted the black stripe first, then the red. I told Granny you don’t need to do that, you’re spoiling her.. but I knew my words fell on deaf ears. I got the old line, “I’m her grandmother, it’s my job to spoil her!”

Having grandparents healthy enough and living close enough to be involved in your child’s care is such a blessing. I was not nearly as close with my grandparents. I never met my paternal grandfather, and my paternal grandmother, died when I was very young, about three. I remember her vaguely – pouring water out of my plastic bucket onto her feet at the sprinklers in the Brooklyn playground, her smuggling baby bottles in the bottom of her shopping bags after my mother had already weaned us onto cups. I do remember her always smiling, then remember being told that she was with God and we wouldn’t see her anymore but she could still see us.

My maternal grandmother lived in Long Island - we took the Long Island Railroad out to visit almost every Sunday while we were young, then less as we got older. It was a long trip from Brooklyn, having to first take the subway to downtown Brooklyn, and we always left early, so we would occasionally whine, “do we haaaave to go?” My mother always responded the same way, “It’s your choice… but you don’t know how long Grandma will be around….”

We always had a huge Polish dinner (at 12:00 noon). After which, we usually passed out on the couch, my sister and I both trying to squeeze onto the daybed for a nap with my grandfather. When we surfaced, we might play "Penny Ante" or Rummy card games, or visit my grandfather's "victory garden" at his friend’s house, a short drive away, where we would inevitably get scolded for stomping all over the root vegetables. But then it was back to Brooklyn and maybe we’d be back the next Sunday or the one after. My grandfather died when I was a teenager, leaving my grandmother to downsize and rent an apartment in Brooklyn so she could be close to us. Her health declined rapidly - a heart attack, mini-strokes, and eventually Alzheimer’s led to her needing live-in homecare. Her decline lasted almost ten years, of which there was little “quality time” due to her age and illness. I said goodbye to her through tears over the phone from my boss’ office in Manhattan, when my mother called to say, “It’s finally time - Grandma’s finally ready to go. You better say goodbye now. She may not make it until you get home.”

I missed my grandmother when she was gone, and indeed longed for those Sunday visits I used to complain about. Moms are always right, aren’t they?

When Gianna was younger, I feared Granny was spoiling her too much. M&M's before breakfast, and making a habit of showing up with a box of Dunkin' Donuts in hand. Not to mention jumping up to fix Gianna some instant macaroni and cheese after just preparing a nice family dinner of pasta and meatballs, because Gianna was not happy with our choice of pasta shape. I would say No but Granny would say Yes. Those things burned me inside. I tried to talk with Granny about it, and of course she’d agree to stick to whatever I wanted. But… I have learned, as I imagine most moms do, to pick my battles.

So, now I don’t mind so much anymore when Granny brings Munchkins. In fact, when I lamented how it was hard to get Gianna off her steady carb diet of pastina, spaghetti, and mac n’ cheese, she showed up the next morning with a Ziploc full of hard boiled eggs, which is now a staple of Gianna’s diet – something I never even thought to try.

I want Granny to enjoy her time with Gianna, and vice versa. She is so good to us, and I know it means the world to her to have lots of quality time with Gianna. The years are passing so quickly and Gianna is in Pre-K this September, and then full day kindergarten. Then, this special time is over and on to the next stage. My mother-in-law gives Gianna so much love and attention, and so many wonderful memories. It is a relationship like no other, that of a child and a doting grandparent. Besides, Granny gives her attention which I cannot, due to working full-time. I like to think instead of spoiling her, Granny is showing her that she’s special, and worthy of lots of attention and affection… and perhaps a little good old fashioned “spoiling” now and then, too. Besides, what are Grandmas for?