Here He Grows Again by Margaret Hart

It's that time of year again. The time when the perennial flowers start to peak through the ground in New England. When the birds start to chirp loudly outside my bedroom window at dawn. And when my son goes through his annual growth spurt. But this time, the spurt is more like a season of change.

For years I've been complaining that my son doesn't eat enough. He eats two peas and he's full. I can hear my mother saying, "Well, just wait until he becomes a teenager and eats you out of house and home." First of all, that's redundant. Second, since when has anyone literally eaten everything there is to eat in their house? I get it. Everyone says teenage boys eat like mad. I'm half Italian. I love food. Bring me your appetite.

Over the years, I've been told by friends that I should be grateful my son is not a big eater. I am happy that I haven't had to deal with an overweight child, and my heart goes out to parents who have children who are struggling with their weight. It hasn't been easy, however, to raise a child who is a picky eater, and to worry that he's not getting enough nutrition. I remember my pediatrician advising not too long ago, after an annual wellness exam, to add a little extra butter and cheese to my son's food on occasion, and supplement his meals with Pediasure. She wasn't concerned, but said it couldn't hurt to sneak in a few extra calories. My son has always been consistent with his weight and height since birth. And my pediatrician also told me that she felt he was healthy, and was going to be tall and slender. And there's nothing wrong with that!

Somewhere along the way, he learned about healthy eating and good food choices. I like to think he got some of that knowledge from me. I also think the schools have done a really good job. Beginning with preschool. My son has never been one to eat a lot of salty snacks or sweets, and he didn't have his first ice cream cone until he was about 3 years old—he just wasn't interested. He eats a very small portion at every meal, and is full. He rarely finishes everything on his plate. This used to frustrate me until I figured out the secret: give him a small portion, he will usually eat it all, and it will make mom feel good seeing that he ate everything on his plate! And if he asks for more, mom will be even happier! And supplement his diet with vitamins and a daily "special milkshake"(aka Pediasure). This has gone on for the last five years.

The last few months, however, have been different. Even before he turned seven this past December, and more so since then, his appetite had increased dramatically. I began to notice that he was hungry more often, wanted to eat larger portions, asked for second helpings, and was "asking" for food—something he rarely did in the past. Now, half a sandwich for lunch is often not enough. He needs a whole sandwich! And despite the fact he gets less than 20 minutes for lunch, he manages to eat most everything in his lunchbox, which usually consists of a sandwich, a yogurt, a milk or juice, and a fruit (and sometimes a cookie). In the past, he'd typically come home with uneaten fruit and the cookie, but these days, the lunchbox is empty. And by the time he gets off the bus, he's asking for a snack.

Along with the increase in his appetite, there's been a noticeable growth in his height and shoe size—nearly two sizes in less than a year! The jeans I bought him in September are now good only for wading in ponds. And the expensive sneakers he "needed," are now too tight, and only slightly worn. Fortunately, there's a good consignment shop nearby where I hope to recoup a few dollars for the sneakers.
So now I wonder. Is it beginning? The "eating me out of house and home" thing? Maybe this is the first step in that direction. Tonight, the boy was really hungry. He ate an entire cheeseburger. For a child who eats two peas, and is full, this is big. It has only happened once or twice before. This is news I had to report to my husband right away. News flash: the boy ate an entire cheeseburger. Including the bun. Seriously. Can you believe it?

If my mom is right, and she usually is, forget the burger, next he'll be asking me for a side of beef!

Mission Statement for Motherhood - by Leta Hamilton

As 2012 approaches, I am going to challenge you to write a Mission Statement for Motherhood. This simple technique takes the letters in “Motherhood” and uses them to encapsulate your core values as a person and as a mother. For example, my Mission Statement for Motherhood is as follows:

M = Measure their success by the amount of joy they experience.

O = Open my door when they knock and listen for when they are standing there, but afraid to knock.

T  = Take the time for my own personal and spiritual growth.

H = Help with life and homework, but do not do it for them.

E = Engage with them as people, rather than just as “kids.”

R = Read and Review my Mission Statement for Motherhood often to remind myself of what matters.

H = Harness their passions to the best of my ability and help them master the skills of their dreams.

O = Organize my own life to be fulfilled outside of my kids and my role as parent.

O = Offer myself the same amount of unconditional love I give to them.

D = Demonstrate to the best of my abilities those qualities I most want to pass on – Unconditional Love, Tolerance, Respect, Humility, and Personal Responsibility

This Mission Statement for Motherhood is printed out, framed and hung up in two locations in my home. In the kitchen I can see it as I go about fulfilling the tasks of mother in the communal nature of family. It is here that we eat our dinners, work on our homework and discuss the ups and downs of our day. Next to the light switch just as you enter the kitchen, I am constantly reminded to be mindful of what I consider sacred about life and motherhood. It is not that I have to read it all the time, but it is of tremendous value just being there, knowing that it is available for reading during those moments when I suddenly realize I have forgotten to see the forest for the trees.

It is also in my bedroom hung next to my dresser. This is my personal space where I brush my hair, put on my makeup and prepare my inner self for the new day. It is also the last place I stand before heading into the bed for night. Here my Mission Statement for Motherhood acts as a trigger to bring everything back to center and to that place where everything begins and ends – my inner self. Again, there is no pressure to read it word for word. Its presence is simply a metaphor for the energy that will take me back to a place where I feel at peace. With all the chaos of life and motherhood, I value this metaphor. I need it. Inner peace is a place from which I deviate often.

The process of writing my Mission Statement for Motherhood took several weeks. I wrote draft after draft until I was sure I had a version I would love for the rest of my life. For some, they may choose to write new ones at various intervals of the motherhood path. Who knows? I may change mine at some point down the line. For now, though, it is enough to have it written, printed and framed on my walls. I love having them there. If you have never considered writing a Mission Statement for Motherhood, I would encourage you to write one now, especially as we close up this year and head into 2012. A Mission Statement is the defining statement for a business and so too it can be for our lives. With that clarity, things become much easier. Ease is a treasure every mother can appreciate. Blessings and Happy New Year to you and yours.

Missing My Dad by Robin Gorman Newman

I miss my dad, but he's still here.

He's 93, G-d bless him, and I'm grateful for every day he's in our lives.  But, I miss what he was.

Every phone conversation we have or get together is peppered with discussion of how he feels, which is never good.  It's always something.

Back in April he had yet another abdominal surgery which landed him yet again in rehab.  I had hoped that would bring his health matters to a halt at least for some time.  I was wrong.  Shortly thereafter, he complained about his vision and learned that he has the start of cataracts which he is now itching to take care of. 

Earlier this week, he had a Ct scan to check up on the abdominial surgery had had because he still feels some discomfort.

It's very difficult.

He has a good friend, Bob, who used to get getting together with us.  The three of us would have lunch, and he'd tell stories and make us both laugh.  He's not laughing much these days.  He's having difficulty walking and is spending more 'n more time at his son's place.  Really, he shouldn't be living alone anymore.

Thankfully my dad has a live-in aide, which gives both him and me peace of mind.

But, it's sad.

I miss what my dad used to be.  And, there are days when I wish for a second he would "fake" it.  I'd just once love to hear from him that "things are fine....he feels ok."  But, I don't anticipate that will ever happen.  It's also partly in my father's nature to focus on himself...often to the point of obsession.  He likes to share and talk about his "stuff," for better or worse, whereas someone else might want to spare their child the daily details of their chronic ailments.

As an older mom, this all gets me thinking.

When I have a day that I might feel less than patient with my father, I turn my mind toward wondering how I will be as an old woman.  It's a bit hard for me, I must admit, to fathom that, G-d willing, I will be a senior one day.  I certainly hope I'll reach that point and beyond...so I can see my son mature as the years go by.  But, I also hope that I won't grow into a cranky post menopausal woman who my son will cringe to call because he hangs up depressed, as I sometimes do, after speaking to my father.

It's not his intent to leave me in that state, but I often find I have to "rebound," so to speak, to pull myself out of the funk that results from our conversation.

Sometimes I wonder if he might feel better if he tried to take an upbeat tact.  Isn't there something to be said for mind over matter and the power of positive thinking?!  

As later in life moms, some of us have a high conscious of mortality.  I don't so much view it that way.  I more strive to be as happy and fulfilled a person as possible, and hope that I may carry a positive outlook into old age.  I'd hate for my son to miss me even while I'm still alive.  I might not have the energey I did as a 40-something mom, but I'll never lose the twinkle in my eye I have for Seth, and hope that he'll, long after I'm gone, remember the days when I referred to him as "my little buddy" and he called me his "mommy girl." 

GUEST BLOG POST: Caboose Baby by Sharon Johnson O'Donnell

Starting over with the baby routine after your other children are in school has its ups and downs. Sure there were times at the mall I had to yell to my middle son, David, who was 6 when my youngest was a baby, “Don’t do wheelies with the stroller!” And yes, it was a pain to have to take the diaper bag with me again wherever we went, after going places hands-free for several years.

The age gap means that I’m considered an older mom this time around -- a mid-life mom, as they call it, since I had Jason when I was 38. Children who are born awhile after their siblings is often called a caboose baby. The last one, bringing up the rear, giving the illusion of straggling behind. This analogy is a sad one to me, as if the caboose is an afterthought, trying to keep up with the rest of the train. Jason, my youngest, was no afterthought; he was what I knew was needed to complete our family along with our other sons, David and Billy, who was 9 at the time.

I, too, was a caboose baby, with my 3 siblings all considerably older than I am. I was the youngest, the ‘baby’ of the family, and perhaps that’s why I wanted a caboose baby, too. One to hold, to savor, knowing it’s your last. And knowing from personal experience that yes, time really does go by quickly and he’ll be grown in no time.

Of course, the age gap means that my boys have been at different places along the road to maturity, so the body changes can sometimes be a source of insight. Several years ago, Billy - who was 15 - was lying on the coach asleep, his arm stretched out over his head. Jason, 6, surveyed his brother’s exposed underarm hair and screwed up his face in disgust. I grinned and explained, “That’s what happens when you get older.”

Still mesmerized by his brother’s armpits, he replied, “The thought of that happening to me sickens me.”

Jason, now 10, likes to still do things with his brothers, but as Billy and David get older, the age gap is more pronounced. When they were younger, I’d take all the boys trick-or treating together. But on Halloween night of 2008, Jason and I wandered the dark streets of our neighborhood practically alone. Everybody in our neighborhood was now evidently too old for Halloween. Was I the only mom out here anymore?

When I’d gone trick or treating with Billy and David, there had been other kids their age and other moms about my age going trick or treating too.. Was I the only mom out here anymore?

When Billy and David were young, I knew other moms with sons the same age and formed relationships with them; with Jason, I haven’t done that because the moms are younger and travel in different circles than I do, while I’ve been busy with my older sons. So I don’t really have a lot of peers who have kids Jason’s age. Often Jason and I do things together by ourselves. Nothing wrong with that, but I find myself remembering how Billy and David used to play together and pal around on vacations.

I know that our family vacations will soon change as college student Billy will opt not to go along and David will soon follow, meaning my husband, Jason, and I will at some point take vacations with just the three of us. I’d welcome the time to concentrate on just Jason, but I know I’ll also miss the times we were all together at Disney or at a Red Sox game or even in the camper. I’ll miss having my boys together, and I know, as one caboose baby to another, that Jason will miss it too.

As a caboose baby myself, I can relate to that. My mother was lucky enough to have some friends and relatives with children near my age, but the two of us frequently did things together. When I was searching for a card for my mom on Mother’s Day of 2010, I found the perfect one: on the cover, it read, “From Your Youngest”. I immediately picked it out of the card rack and read it, getting tears in my eyes. It read in part: “Baby of the family? I was, I guess, it’s true. But I didn’t mind the slightest bit because, Mom, I had you..” It continues and then ends with: “So growing up the youngest wasn’t very hard to do, because you were my mother, and I grew up loving you.” When I gave it to her, I offered to read it aloud to her, which I do quite often since her eyesight is poor due to macular degeneration. As I read, I got a lump in my throat, looking into her blue eyes and also knowing Jason was right there listening too. I wrote in the card, “ I hope I can be the mom to Jason like you were to me when my siblings were grown up.” My mother and Jason will never know how very much I meant that. I had my mom, and now my youngest child had me. And I, in turn, still had him. It seems like some sort of circle of life, and I relish the fact that I am an older mom.

Sharon Johnson O'Donnell, mom of 3 sons (ages 19, 16, and 10), is a published author and award-winning columnist. Her humor book, House of Testosterone – One Mom’s Survival in a Household of Males, was named a BookSense notable book selection in 2007 and was then published in paperback by Houghton Mifflin. From 1998-2010, she wrote a regular column for The Cary News that won several statewide awards in North Carolina. Sharon’s also written for Good Housekeeping and Better Homes & Gardens, as well as greeting cards for Blue Mountain Arts. She teaches writing workshops in schools through a United Arts Council program. Sharon and her agent are currently pitching her latest manuscript to publishers; the book is tentatively titled, “Please Don’t Let Me Be the Oldest Mom in the PTA!” More info about her can be found at http://www.momsofboys.org.

GUEST BLOG POST: Spirituality? Yes..... by Cyma Shapiro-Roland

Spirituality has always been a buzz word for me. But, now as an over-50 mom to two youngsters, I think it’s my mantra.

Living in my later 40’s, without full-time children (I had two teenage step children), I was feeling my vitality, my power; enjoying my professional success and my many friends. I had it all, right? But, something was missing. I was a seeker; I just needed to find other avenues and other arenas to challenge me.

But, while nearing 50…….something hit me. Heck, I was getting older. I may have felt and looked much younger…but the joke was on me. Truly. Here was that nagging, never-ending question: to have or not have children. As a half-century of living loomed on the horizon, the question wouldn’t go away, the fears just increased, and the cacophony got much, much louder. What to do? I couldn’t hear the answer. Yes?

So, at an age when most women are sending their children off to college; changing careers (or husbands); starting perimenopause, and looking twice (or three times in a row) in the mirror, I realized that it was time to play catch up. Fast. That tiny, tiny inside voice calling for more was being drowned out by external expectations…………..until I said, ‘yes.’ I began to exhale.
Here’s where the real spiritual journey began.

The attempt to get and have my kids (from Russia – I’m of Russian ancestry) seemed to others like my sole end goal. However, for me, the real end goal was the spiritual epiphany that the multiple trips provided. My love of Eastern Europe – satisfied (the pictures of the “Steerage” by Alfred Steiglitz; imagining my grandmother as she sailed from Russia was now right before my eyes); my belief that overseas travel would always be that looming experience which I’d pack and emotionally brace for weeks in advance – shattered (try traveling 10,000 miles on a day’s notice); my belief in my inability to travel and sustain myself safely – gone (try traveling in a country fraught with turmoil and intrigue); my belief that I couldn’t sustain instantaneous early motherhood (that is, gaining a one-yr. old without one day of pregnancy) gone in a flash; the belief that all those friends, neighbors and coworkers would understand just what I had done and why - gone (are you “craaaazy?”); the belief that I couldn’t be a new mother at my age – yes - I could.

My life changed in an instant. That instant followed the word ‘yes.’

So, it’s more than possible to change your life, to personally grow beyond your wildest dreams -- all you need to do is say ‘yes.’ It’s often using the fewest words, and having the clearest intentions that guide you back to yourself and your peace.

Oh, yes, and spirituality.


Cyma Shapiro-Roland is a later mom, writer and businesswoman living in West Hartford, CT. At present, she is working on a book about new mothers over-40.

GUEST BLOG POST: Forced to Lie About My Age - by Elizabeth Coplan, author

I don’t color my hair. Have never done Botox. I do tweeze the gray from my eyebrows and my chin, and, as the mother of two sons, I’ve earned every line on my face. When I remember where I last put them, I wear reading glasses. I hold the distinction of being the oldest member in a mothers book club – by a number of years. Most of the other women were children of the ‘70s. I did more in the ‘70s than just grow up.

I have never lied about my age – except once when I was coerced, forced, denied the ability to move forward unless I did in fact lie about the year of my birth.

Why should I say that I am younger than my 56 years? I’ve worked hard to create the woman I am today. I started my career in my twenties, developed professionally in my thirties even after having my first son when I was 35. Five years later, after my second pregnancy was confirmed, my obstetrician wrote in large black letters AMA (Advanced Maternal Age) on my medical chart. I was 40.

“Aging is not just decay, you know. It’s growth,” so says Morrie in Tuesdays with Morrie by Mitch Albom. True. During my forties, I grew around my middle and my thighs. I also grew in wisdom and patience. I learned how to use technology -- computers, cell phones, PDAs and the Internet. In my fifties I learned to Tweet and Friend and to write a profile worthy of social networking. And that is when the lying began.

No, I did not lie about my age on MySpace or Facebook. Instead, I logged on to a newly launched parenting website. To register, the site asked for my age. As directed, I entered my birth month, June, and my birth day, 24, and the year 195__. I tried adding the “4” but the field didn’t take the number. So I chose the earliest year listed -- 1956. 1956! This begged the question: Are mothers over 55 too old to learn from Internet resources?

I tried to enter a “4” one more time. I only wanted to log on so that I could talk to other moms -- women like me with little time to connect socially during the day and only a few minutes at night to search the Web for parenting strategies and eBay sales.

No go. Finally, forced to lie about my age, I gave up and entered my birth year as 1956 -- the year Lucille Ball won the Emmy for I Love Lucy, the cost of a postage stamp was 3 cents, the Yankees won the World Series (against the Brooklyn Dodgers), and life expectancy was 69.7 years – all according to the Internet.

Since I first joined that parenting website, they’ve wisely expanded their list of possible years. But now I am thinking, why should I ever select my real birth year? Why not pick 1970? The year a postage stamp cost 6 cents, Cybil Shepard was on the cover of Glamour magazine, and life expectancy rose to 70.8 years. Next time I’ll choose 1970, the year both Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin died of drug overdoses and The Mary Tyler Moore Show premiered on CBS.

On second thought, choosing 1970 seems…well…dishonest. Maybe I should pick a birth year closer to my own, one that I do not remember with such certainty.

Hmm. I wonder what important events occurred in 1958. Let’s check the Internet.

Elizabeth Coplan began her marketing and public relations career in New York and Los Angeles over 30 years ago. Now as CEO of COPLAN AND COMPANY in Seattle, Elizabeth focuses on business consulting and on the all-important-job of wife and mother.

Well-known for her personal essays and public speaking, Elizabeth, a "later" mom, recently appeared in the anthology When One Door Closes: Reflections from Women in Life’s Turning Points and in the book In Our Prime: Empowering Essays by Women on Love, Family, Career, Ageing & Just Coping. She is also co-creator and author of A Wild Ride, a website for parents of challenging children.

Planning for Love - by Laura

How many of us are as close to our mothers as we want to be? How many of us find friendship with our mother-in-laws? I don’t know of many. I know of too few. For those of us who long for a good relationship with our mothers, what is it about mothering that alienates them from us and us from them? And the most important question: How do we not repeat that in our own children?

I think it’s a grave mistake to assume that just because we sacrifice our time, bodies, lives, finances, freedom, and love that our children will automatically love us back the way we love them. We must ask ourselves; “How do we not repeat our parents’ mistakes when by being raised by them, we were taught their particular values on how to behave, how to parent, and how to love? If children learn by example, how do we unlearn what they have taught us?”

My mother-in-law was here over the weekend to celebrate her grandsons’ first birthday. It was a tough visit for my husband and his sister. They’re not close to her, and they do not speak warmly of their childhood. Apparently, she suffered from depression, and she could often be physically and emotionally abusive during an episode. She would go on religious rants that led to violence like the time she ripped a necklace off her daughter because she believed it was unholy. It was a frog – a cheap, silver charm on an s-chain given to her by a classmate – but to my mother-in-law it was a symbol of the devil, so she yanked it off, leaving a small scar on my sister-in-law’s neck.

The compassionate thing to do is take a look at how my mother-in-law learned to parent. She was raised on a remote farm in West Virginia, and she was the youngest child out of eight children. Her parents frequently left their children to fend for themselves while they went to Bible tent revivals all around the state. She was literally raised with animals. And when she was 18, she joined the army so that for the first time in her life she had three meals a day. She survived 18 years of neglect, loneliness and abuse. But, she did not escape West Virginia any more than she did her upbringing.

Her past explains her parenting. She repeated her parent’s mistakes: physical abuse, religious tyranny, emotional abuse and neglect. After continuing the cycle her parent’s taught her, she cannot understand why her children don’t like her. She thinks her son and daughter are ungrateful for all she sacrificed for them. She thinks they’re selfish. She thinks their dislike of her is due to their own personal character flaws. She denies she ever hit them or mistreated them even though they have the physical and emotional scars to prove it.

My husband and I are determined not to repeat our parent’s patterns. But ,we have hardly a roadmap at where to begin. We can only start by admitting how much we are like our parents, so that we can navigate change. It’s a painful thing for me to do. I confess when I see a mother and daughter enjoying one another’s company I get an ache in my chest. In spite of all of the pain between us, I long for a good relationship with my mother. And I hope my children want that, too. But, as I have learned it doesn’t happen naturally. It’s work. I have to work for their love when they automatically receive mine. My gift is unconditional. Theirs is not. If I can remember this, I think I can succeed. I believe I can nurture a relationship between my sons and me that cultivates both love and respect. I believe we can all love each other well enough. Not just now but 30 years from now. We can love each other well enough.

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.

Like Riding a Bicycle - by Cara

My 6 1/2 year old son learned how to ride a bicycle without training wheels for the first time this past week! I must give all of the credit to my “husband” who worked with my son almost every nice day after school. I was unable to physically participate due to an injured rib (a long story). My husband runs between 5 - 10 miles each day, so he was physically able to run next to my son. At first, my husband would hold the seat, next he kept his arms out in case my son wobbled. Finally he ran next to my son, coaching him on how to use the brakes!

I’m so proud of my son! More importantly, my son is so extremely proud of himself! He would come into the house with his red, rosy cheeks and report to me how he didn’t even wobble once! Or that Daddy didn’t have to keep his arms out to catch him anymore! You could tell my son was beaming with enthusiasm! Every day there was another small accomplishment to describe with confidence and self-satisfaction!

I can remember back to the days when I learned to ride my own bicycle (those were the days before bicycle helmets, knee pads, and elbow pads!). My father took off the training wheels and ran behind me, holding onto the seat. I seem to remember catching onto bike riding with only 2 wheels pretty quickly. I was off! Wind blowing through my hair, streamers fluttering in the wind off the ends of my handle bars! The requisite bicycle bell, and a pretty pink basket tied to the front of the handle bars! Most of all, though, I can remember feeling that riding a 2 wheel bicycle was one significant step towards autonomy! In my childhood days, once you were able to ride a 2 wheel bicycle, the world was your oyster! You could ride to a friend’s house several blocks away and knock on their door to see if they could come out and play (they were not bogged down learning algebra or statistics in those days!), and if they were free, the two of us would find streets with hills or curves! We were learning to master riding our bicycles! It’s a shame that life for children is not the same as it was 40 years ago (was it REALLY that long ago?).

But back to my son...he has nothing else to compare his riding experience to, so he is enjoying every moment of his own new-found autonomy! He is knocking on friend’s doors, along with my husband. My husband then becomes the “chaperone” for the two young riders! I am grateful that my husband sends me video clips so that I will have this milestone event caught digitally to be watched for years to come! And photos taken with my son holding up his bicycle without training wheels!
The smile on this little boy’s face is priceless!

Once my injury heals a little more, I too would like to resume my own exercise regimen. I love to walk long distances and alternate with yoga.
And now that the weather has been mostly cooperating, I am sure that I can slowly work up to the vigorous workouts I still remember so vividly.
I long for the days when I would get up early and walk at least 3 miles before going to work! It energized me and made me a much more productive employee! Even exercise classes taken at night would never “rev me up.”
I used to sleep like a brick those nights after a workout.

So, perhaps getting my body back into the exercising “mode” may not be too difficult, even after years of being a “slug.” I guess it will be like riding a bicycle; Once you master the technique, you never forget how to ride!

Fun -- by Robin

Why does it sometimes feel as if fun is so short-lived?

Seth and I had a terrific time away in Asheville, and since we've gotten home, life has felt full of challenges. It's amazing how things can seemingly turn on a dime.

Earlier this week I was out to lunch at the diner with my senior dad and his live-in aide...the same day he had two doctor appointments....follow-ups from his recent hospital stay. All was ok, he told me the doctors said. Then, just the next day, my father called me to say he was calling a car service to take him to the hospital because he was severely constipated.

I thought we were done for now with the hospital and my father, and I was grateful.

Why didn't he say anything to either doctor or me that he was struggling that day in the bathroom department? Why did he wait until it became a dire matter? It's like having another child....one who is 91.....and can't take care of himself.

Just yesterday I had a physical myself because it's time, and I haven't been feeling up to par since our trip. I await the results of the blood work and am trying not to be overly anxious about it. The raging hormones of perimenopause can cause many symptoms, I'm aware. Not to mention stress.

Then, we had a meeting at my son's school, and he's having some challenges which we need to address.

I also found out that a good friend of mine....a nurse.....slipped and fell at work on a wet floor and fractured a bone in her knee, and she's now out on workman's compensation, yet she was scheduled to retire early next month and go to Ireland, which she may not now be able to do.

And, let's add to the pot that my mother-in-law tore something in her arm....and is awaiting MRI results.

I was speaking on the phone with a friend today who said that maybe I should consider taking something like Lexapro. That she took it when she went through a particularly rough period, and it helped take some of the edge off. And, she's not a pill popper, nor am I. We both tend to be more holistically minded. So, I don't know.........

When did life get so complicated? So unpredictable. I used to welcome the unpredictable because it felt full of promise.

Now I ask.....

Where's the fun?

Where's the peace?

I don't have enough of either at the moment.

Can I jump on a plane back to Asheville and leave all this behind?

I should at least jump on the meditation bandwagon.

A friend said I need to consider revamping my life. Maybe do less? But, I don't think that's the issue for me. I like being busy. It's better than bored. But, anxiety-ridden is something else.

I'm at the point where it's about somehow accepting that this is what midlife is ...especially when you're living the sandwich generation (which I've blogged about before.) But, I need to find the joy and not just the responsibility and uncertainty of it all. It's so beyond my control. All I can control is my reaction to it. I don't want to walk around feeling like I'm carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders. I know things could be worse. But, I could personally use a dose of nurturing right now....and some genuine belly laughs.

Dear Motherhood Later -- by Robin

I receive quite a number of letters from Later Moms who hear about MotherhoodLater.com and reach out to me via email. I have decided to periodically share select letters, with the permission of the moms. Some truly touch my heart, and I feel might resonate with others who became a mom at 35+.

This is a letter I received recently. I invite you to post a comment to the blog.

Hi.

I would like to add my two cents about being an older mother. It sure beats not being a mother at all!

Although I would have preferred to have children at a younger age, my first was born when I was 36. I was in great shape physically, emotionally, mentally, and financially. I consider my pregnancy a gift. I "enjoyed" and "experienced" ALL of that pregnancy. I placed no judgment on anything I felt. There was no discomfort, only an experience. Of course, my doctor told me that Lori would not be born early...a week later he said on the day I visited him, but she arrived only 12 hours later. Never having experienced labor, I thought I was in false labor and wondered how I would get through the real thing. I did have some difficulty then staying neutral and experiencing.....However, Lori's birth was the most spiritual experience of my life.

Christine was born on my 40th birthday, a true birthday present. I remember the nurse in delivery looking at my card and scornfully saying to me," Yu were born the same year as I was." I smiled and replied, "Is that so?"

I savored every moment with both girls as they grew to young women.

People think I'm younger than I am, first because my children are younger, and I'm sure too because my attitude is younger. I feel 40 although my younger one is now 21I take care of myself, keep my weight down, and take care of my skin. The new 61 can be the old 45.

Motherhood has been a gift from God, and my daughters have taught me what love is in so many new ways. I consider myself very blessed.

By the way, I nursed both girls for some time and my weight just dropped off. I would recommend it for that reason alone, although the bonding was incredible.

Keep up your good work of supporting all moms and especially older ones. I was usually the older mom with all the young gals at events. My husband is 14 years older than I so you can imagine what looks we may have gotten. He's 75 now, and we both look 10 years younger. Must have been the girls' effect!

Hugs to all moms and their children,
Carole

PS -- Here are some things that I have done for my children (and me).

1. A week after my children were born, I typed out my feelings and thoughts about their births. 8 pages. Now when I look back, it is interesting. I had forgotten so many of the details. They are special memories for my daughters to now view also. (I also wrote just prior to their births, but the details of their births was most interesting.) I included what I wanted for them in their lives.

2. On their birth date, I kept several newspapers so that they could see what the world was like on that day. Subsequent years, when I had too many papers, I just kept the first section.

3. When I had too many of their painting, projects, etc. to store, I began taking pictures of their "prizes." Saved storage, but still had memories and pictures.


CAROLE THOMAS
RODAN + FIELDS Dermatologists

Independent Consultant
(530) 673-7911 office
To Shop Online: http://cthomas.myrandf.com

Egg Hunt -- by Gina

This past weekend I took my 6 year old niece and 3 year old daughter to an Easter event at our local children’s museum. The week prior my sister and I had been preparing by gathering up the requisite egg cartons (paper, not plastic or Styrofoam) for the Easter Egg basket craft the girls were going to be making first, to house their found eggs. My sister couldn’t make it – she had to take my nephew to a karate tournament so I would be spending a festive morning with just the girls.

We had to be there early – I had scheduled us for the earliest appointment. After leaving the house only a few minutes late to pick up my niece, I called my husband from the driveway. “Can you do me a big favor? There’s an egg carton in the fridge… can you empty the eggs out and bring me just the carton?” He hung up without a word and appeared in the driveway (in his boxer shorts) a few minutes later with the empty egg carton, a confused look on his face, handed it over and walked away without saying anything. He has learned not to bother asking what’s going on… it is usually too long an explanation for him.

Despite the cold and rainy weather, the girls were excited to get started. They enjoyed making their Easter basket craft – though it was a little chaotic, with lots of aspiring crafters pushing their way in for a spot at the busy craft tables to decorate egg carton baskets. There being no chairs, I hunched over the craft table or squatted down to the girls’ level, twisting into awkward positions to help them do their crafts. While I spent an extended amount of time helping Gianna get her basket together, my niece, Alissa, who had been suspiciously quiet, exclaimed, “Wow! This is so cool, Aunt Gina! Mommy NEVER lets me staple!”

So between alternate demands of “Help me, Mommy!” and “Help ME now, Aunt Gina!”, I managed to create two lovely Easter baskets with only paper and staples. But boy was my neck and back killing me from hunching over. As we traipsed from one building to the next, up and down stairs and over the wet field now, baskets in hand, my neck stiff, it occurred to me as it often does when I am doing these kids’ activities that… I am just too old for this!

Next they collected their eggs, arguing over who spotted which egg first, but enjoying it just the same. I made them pose for lots of pictures, then we went off to the next building for the snack. The Easter Bunny himself was seated in the snack area for photo ops, How nice, I thought. “Look girls, the Easter Bunny!” , to which my niece, who has always hated costumed characters, shouted, “That Easter Bunny is freakin’ me out!” My daughter, who predictably repeats everything her older cousin says and does, shouted (LOUDLY), “Yeah, Easter Bunny, you’re FREAKIN’ US OUT!” I hung my head in shame as everyone turned to look at us, but giggled to myself as we headed to the cookie table for their snack.

We entertained ourselves by watching the door the Easter Bunny had disappeared behind, waiting for him (from a safe distance) to come back out after his “carrot break.” The girls became brave when I told them he would give them treats if they went over to him. In fact, they were the first ones over when he came back out and they marched proudly back to me with bags of jellybeans in hand, smiling proudly and excited at their spurt of bravery. I snapped a quick photo of them and thought, “I’m not too old for this, after all.” Kids make everything more fun – a typical Saturday morning for us is an adventure for them.

It was a good day.

Happy Easter and Passover to everyone! And remember, don’t let the Easter Bunny freak you out!

The Favorite Child -- by Laura

When you have twins, people like to jokingly ask which one is your favorite. You can’t answer them honestly or they would look at you like you’re a cruel, callous mother. Because truth be told: you do have a favorite. You can’t help it. It’s biology at work, and it’s called social smiling, although sometimes I refer to it as passive infant manipulation. The social smile is designed to engage and elicit a positive response from the adult, which thereby creates a bond between parent and child. The parent then feels obligated to take care of the baby in order to ensure a regular source of warm fuzzies.

When my son Lyle was two months old, he began social smiling. He would spread his mouth across his face in a drunken, toothless grin when he saw me, and I would respond in kind. When I came in the room he cooed and beckoned me to him with that smile, and I fell all over myself trying to get to him like a 14-year old girl in love. Wyatt, however, wasn’t ready for the smiling and the engagement. He was born a pound smaller than his brother, and he spent his energy catching up.

My husband got angry with me because at that time I favored Lyle. I couldn’t help it. Mother and son were going through some biological and physiological changes that caused us to bond, thus ensuring Lyle’s survival. I was unsuccessful at getting my husband to understand that Wyatt as not neglected by any means. I still sang to him and fed him and cuddled with him just as much as I did Lyle. I also know that as soon as Wyatt started smiling and engaging I would form the same kind of bond with him, and the one who would get the short end of the stick would be me, because I would be frazzled from giving two babies so much love.

By three months Wyatt began social smiling, and he was better at it than his brother. He beams. Radiates. When Wyatt smiles he does it with his whole head. And he has a really big head. His head is so large I have to cut slits in his onesies to get them over that giant noggin. Wyatt’s grins are so enthusiastic that they often knock his cranium of kilter and he falls right over. And when he does this, he’s my favorite.

Lyle is the leader of their gang of two. He crawls around the house emitting shocks of laughter as he delights in his movement and his autonomy. He is the first to do everything while Wyatt watches with his mouth open and an expression on his face that says: Um! I’m telling! When Lyle doesn’t feel well, he comes to me and hugs my leg or my arm and holds on tight until I gather him in my arms and put him to sleep. Once when the entire family was sick with stomach flu, we all slept on towels and blankets in the living room. Lyle woke up and crawled around hugging us all and nuzzling his head into ours. He’s that kind of baby. Compassionate. Awake. Sensitive. The smile on his face was shy and gentle. And on that day, he was my favorite.

However, Lyle is also very demanding. He wants my attention all the time, and it is beyond exhausting. It becomes a fight to make sure Wyatt gets his needs met. One day when Lyle found new ways to request my time by throwing up, exploding in his diaper, and coloring his mouth with a pen, I was running back and forth with him from the kitchen to the bedroom to the bathroom, and I realized I had not checked in with Wyatt for almost an hour. I had left him playing in the middle of the living room floor with his soda bottle filled with pennies and his magnet dolls. I rushed by with a naked Lyle in my arms, and I paused in the doorway. Wyatt looked up from chewing on a doll, smiled his enormous smile, and fell right over. And at that instant, he was my favorite.

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.

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.

Reassurance with Trepidation -- by Robin

A friend of mine raised a question this week that immediately resonated with me.

She is having marital challenges and finds herself feeling the need to reassure her young son that all will ultimately be ok, in the face of her own deep letdown and insecurity. Understandably so, under the circumstances, she is very hurt by a man she had planned to spend her life with and who she relied on to be a strong, constant presence in her son's life. Now, the future seems uncertain, and she's digging deep to find an inner strength powerful enough for two...both her and her son.

Not only do I feel for her, but I "got" it. I truly did.

Totally different set of circumstances, but I, too, found myself as a mom, working hard to offer reassurance to my son despite my own trepidation.

I grew up with parakeets. At one time, we had three in my childhood home. Parry, Polly and Corky. They were green, blue and yellow. I remember them like it was yesterday...especially the story of how my mom valiantly captured Corky at a local supermarket during a shopping trip. He must have flown the coop from his owner's cage in the neighborhood, and my mother and others bird lovers hunted him down, and mom was the victor, bringing him home in a paper bag. I thought it was so heroic.

Ultimately, one by one they passed away, not to be replaced.

When I got married, Marc and I bought a parakeet of our own. We named her Chiffon because she looked like the white and yellow of lemon chiffon pie. Or, perhaps it was meringue? But, Chiffon sounded better.

I adored her, but 5 years ago, she passed away, and my heart was broken.

Seth was very young then, though he swears he remembers and misses her. We do have photos in the house, and I vividly recall how she used to land on the tray of his high chair, as he'd swat at her with delight, and she hopped away from his attempt to grab hold of her.

After years of knowing that no bird would be the same...I used to call her a "little person with feathers..." I decided I had room in my heart for another. I was ready. Seth would have preferred a dog or cat, but since we weren't going to go there, we opted for a larger bird. Something bigger than a parakeet, but not as large or pricey as an Amazon Parrot.

Hence, we are now the proud owners of Smokey the Cockatiel. Or Smokes, as Seth has dubbed him/her. We think it's a girl, but we're not sure. She's 5 months old and is yellow with patches of smokey grey, hence her name.

It was exciting picking her out in the pet store. Quite unnerving bringing her home in a dark cardboard box for a car ride that felt like a lifetime. I kept imagining that the poor thing must have been terrified. Every now 'n then, we heard a small thud in the box. I presumed it was her attempt to break free.

We speedily prepared her cage and let her out of the box into her new home. And, she freaked out. One minute she looked like a frozen deer in headlights. The next she was fluttering about wildly. Afraid she was going to hurt herself, I took her out of the cage. She made a hissing sound and pecked my hand...luckily I'm not afraid of being bitten. But, I felt so badly. What would it take to get her to trust us? And, how long would the process be? Can you imagine how she must feel? One minute she's in a cage with birds like herself and the next she's living in a strange cage all alone with people she doesn't know staring at her and talking to her.

I want her to love us. We already love her.

Seth kept asking me if Smokey was ok? I believed she was, but there was a little girl inside of me who was fearful knowing that I have no experience with a Cockatiel, and questioned what I was thinking getting a larger bird like this? Couldn't I just remain within my comfort zone and stick to another parakeet?

An even louder voice was screaming at me to believe in myself and our ability as a family to care for and endear this bird to us. As the matriarch, I am the one to assure both Seth and my husband that we made the right choice here. That we'll enjoy Smokey, and she'll enjoy us. And, that we will conquer Cockatiel territory, if we do our homework and have patience.

But, it made me realize, that just because someone is a grown-up, doesn't mean they have all the answers. And, as a mom, we have our moments of uncertainty just like anyone. But, to our children, we strive to be the ever present hero, so that if they're not feeling so brave or confident, we instill in them a sense of peace as we endeavor to navigate new ground together. But who makes us feel brave? How can we do that for ourselves? We can't always look to others even if they offer support. As they say, sometimes it's an "inside" job." And, maybe we're stronger than we admit?!

Smokey made me think back to bringing Seth home from the hospital. That was 7 years ago, and I'm no longer that same novice mom. I still have my days of self doubt. I'm sure I always will. But, just as with Seth, I trust that one day I will feel like caring for a Cockatiel is within my comfort zone, or at least relatively speaking.


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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?

Worried Sick -- by Cara

A couple weeks ago, I wrote about my upper respiratory illness and how it always seemed that no matter how sick we Moms are, we still put our own needs aside for the sake of our families, especially our children.
Well, this week is the reverse. Now I have recovered, however my son came down with...well, we really didn’t know what.

My son started to exhibit signs of not feeling well last Saturday night.
My night owl son, who typically falls asleep between 9:30pm - 10:00pm (genetics...not bad parenting), fell asleep at 8:30pm. That was my first clue. The ONLY time my son falls asleep before 9pm is if he is sick or becoming sick.

The next day, Sunday, my son was extremely cranky and whiny. He also didn’t look very well. He had circles under his eyes and looked extremely tired. We had a birthday party to go to that day and my son wanted to go desperately. But throughout the party, he kept coming out of the play area and would plop down next to me and rest his head on my upper arm. I felt his head...it was hot. But it could have been hot from all of the running and jumping he was doing in the party room. It was when he asked when we were going home that I suspected something was wrong. My son NEVER wants to leave a party early. We stayed until the end, but said our thank yous quickly because I really wanted to get home and take my son’s temperature.

I almost fell over when I did take it. 103.3!! I ran to get him some Motrin, but getting it into him was an even bigger challenge. He hates sweet tasting things, so he can’t stand the children’s liquid medicines.

He won’t take pills, even crushed up and put into applesauce. He didn’t want to eat anything. So we just decided to let him sleep and hoped the fever would break soon. My son’s only request was water. Lots of water.

I lined up little water bottles on the table next to his bed, and by morning they were all empty. And this was the scenario, day after day:
lots of sleep or awake and lethargic. Temps ranging from 103-104ish almost around the clock. No eating of food of any kind. Water, water, and more water. An occasional dose of Motrin when his temps were so high he was practically delirious and would take the medicine with minimal fighting. To put it mildly, we were scared out of our skins.

I have a fairly solid medical background, although I am not a physician.
I have real, professional medical books that I combed through. I went to some professional, medical web sites to look for answers. I even consulted a handy iPhone App called Pediatric Symptoms MD which walks you through determining whether your child’s symptoms need immediate attention, call the doctor in the morning symptoms, or wait a day or two and see what happens symptoms. This handy App suggested calling our Pediatrician first thing in the morning.

I was up that night practically every hour on the hour either checking on my son or hearing his weak requests for more water and running to get some for him. The next morning, we bundled our son up, and my husband carried him to the car and then into the physician’s office. Other than extremely high fevers, our son didn’t exhibit any other symptoms whatsoever, which led the doctor to diagnose him a viral fever. He assured us that the fever would break in 2-4 days. They did a rapid Strep test which turned out negative, but the doctor said he would call us the next day if the overnight test came back positive.

The rest of the day was the same...extremely high fevers, hydrating him with only water, and occasionally being successful at getting Motrin into my son.

Concerned friends were calling and e-mailing. Could it be the flu? The Swine flu? An undetected infection? Were we sure it wasn’t Strep? I called the doctor the next day and said there was absolutely no change in my son and if anything, he appeared to be getting worse and looking terribly ill. The doctor told me to bring my son in the next day for another Strep test and a blood test.

We went back the next day. Again a negative Strep test, no true indications of any type of flu. White blood cell count was NORMAL (which blew me away...how can someone’s white blood cell count possibly be normal when their body is fighting something so hard to handle? But, like I said, I’m not a physician). We left with no definitive answers and a little boy who was getting worse by the hour.

Now it was Thursday. Fevers still hadn’t broken and the time frame for a “viral fever” had expired. We called the Pediatrician again. He said if the fevers didn’t come down by the next morning, he wanted him to get a chest x-ray. Then we noticed throughout the day, the fevers dropped to the 102-103 range. We managed to get more Motrin into our son. As the day went on, the fevers dropped even more to the 101-102 range. Our son still looked absolutely awful, but he started moving around. He wanted food. Of course everything he wanted, we didn’t have in the house. My husband ran to the grocery store. Slowly, our son was starting to eat. Fevers were down again to between 99-low 100s! My son hadn’t slept or taken a nap at all that day. But he had a very full belly and his fever seemed to finally be breaking!

By 7pm that same evening, I had to tackle an enormous pile of clean laundry by folding and putting the items away in my bedroom. My son crawled under the covers of my bed and watched me. After 5 minutes, I heard heavy breathing. He had fallen asleep. I finished a little more folding then turned off the lights and let him sleep.

I went to check on him a couple hours later and found him burning hot and drenched in perspiration. His fever was finally breaking! I didn’t want to move him, so when I was ready to fall asleep, I simply crawled under the covers next to him. Throughout the night I slept lightly, feeling his forehead, which felt cooler. And he sensed my presence because he kept snuggling closer to me and even would grab my forearm and clutch it to him like his favorite stuffed animal. He even interlocked his little hand in mine, drawing it close to his body. I was half asleep but gushing with emotion! This little angel needed me, wanted me, cherished me enough that he wanted to draw himself as close to me as possible and hold on tight to whatever part of me he could. All while in a state of sleep and return from the depths of a terrible illness.

I loved sleeping with him that night. In fact, I think we may have more occasional Mommy and son sleep togethers. I know he felt safe, warm, protected, and loved. I was overflowing with love for this child, even though I didn’t sleep very soundly. But the love I did feel from him was tremendous! He is approaching an age where displaying physical affection, especially towards your Mom, can be a little embarrassing.

But feeling the true, uncensored adoration of me, while my son slept, made my heart swell one-thousand-fold!! I felt so relieved that he was finally on the mend! But most importantly, I felt just how much I really mattered to him. And I know I made him feel exactly the same way! I can’t wait for our next sleep together! I can feel my heart swell as I remember him interlocking his little hand with mine, pulling it real close, and sighing himself back to sleep. The two of us, together.

Unlike My Mother -- by Laura

I’m new to blogging, to motherhood, to New York, and Motherhood Later...Than Sooner. My name is Laura Houston, I am 45 years old, and I have twin boys Lyle and Wyatt who are 10 months old. I recently moved to Manhattan from a farm in Oregon, and I transitioned from having my own business to being a stay-at-home mom. We’re a different lot – we mothers of advanced maternal age – and I find older moms bring a richness to their job that opens up a treasure chest of insights and wisdom. I hope we can all share.

I didn’t have much of a role model when it came to mothering. After four kids and a desperately common life in the suburbs, my mother got tired of being a mom and she checked out. And I got tired of being her kid, so I checked out. I did whatever it took to get out of the house, out of that Midwestern suburb, and as far away as possible from her life, her bitterness, and her unhappiness.

That was the start of my journey into motherhood. I called it the Do-Not-Turn-Out-Like-My-Mother Plan, and I hoped it would serve me when I finally became a mother, which is something I desperately wanted some day. I made most of my life decisions based on this question: “Would my mother do it?” If the answer was no, I would do it. If the answer was yes, I would not.

In order to have a life unlike my mothers, I wanted an extraordinary man who would want an extraordinary woman. I made a list of everything I desired in a man, and I set about to be that person. I went back to school to get my master’s degree. I spent a summer kayaking in Glacier Bay, Alaska. I started my own business and became financially solvent. I bought an old house, remodeled it, and flipped it for twice what I paid for it. I volunteered as a tutor for at-risk youth, and I ran a half marathon. I became a temporary foster mother. My life was almost as full and as rich as I wanted it to be.

But at the age of 35, I still did not have that extraordinary man, and I was running out of time to have children. My friend Valerie and I made a pact that at the age of 37, we would rent a limo and take it to the fertility clinic in downtown Portland and get inseminated.

When you’ve got a backup plan in life, it often seems you rarely need it. I ended up finding that extraordinary man one year before the artificial insemination due date, and this man was worth waiting for. Together we bought a farm that would be the ideal place to raise children. After going through six years of fertility treatments, we were finally able to get pregnant with twins. Finally, I could be the mother I had been training to be.

But five months into my peaceful, blissful motherhood, the phone rang with a job offer for my husband. It was a big job. In Manhattan. I asked myself, “Would my mother do it?” And of course she would not. So we left the farm, the chickens, my gardens, and the grape vines and headed to the city with our twin boys. And here we are trying to figure it all out and navigate the new challenges of motherhood and a fast city.

Living my life trying not to be my mother is not easy. At all. In fact, it’s downright hard. Manhattan is a challenging place to live for a mother of twins. My stroller doesn’t fit through some doorways, on the bus, the subway, or in the trunk of a taxi cab. The winter weather alienated me from my walks in the park. My dearest friends and helpers are 3,000 miles away. But I’m not living my mother’s life. Sometimes that’s the only gauge I have for measuring how I am doing. And most of the time, that’s enough.

My Little Fashionista -- by Jamie

Before becoming a mother, I suspect I sometimes looked judgmentally at little girls in completely mismatched outfits…never really understanding why their moms let them leave their houses looking that way. But now I understand that often the way a child dresses really isn’t under the mother’s control. Sometimes it’s not worth battling with your daughter over outrageous fashion choices when you’re already battling to leave the house on time.

Jayda was fighting with me over her outfit selections earlier than I ever imagined she would—probably by the time she turned two. The blissful baby-dressing years—when I’d been able to dress Jayda in whatever I wanted without consulting anyone else’s opinion—ended abruptly, and she was soon pulling clothes out of her drawers, rejecting many of my choices, and throwing fits when I insisted that her clothing selections didn’t match, were out of season, or, simply no longer fit her.

To appease Jayda and foster her creativity, I gave my daughter carte blanche over her pajama choices; I filled the bottom drawer of her dresser with all sorts of tops and bottoms, and let her pick out whatever she wanted to wear at night. Often that meant polka dots on top and stripes on the bottom. Or pink velour pants with a green cotton shirt. And that was fine with me. Jayda’s wacky outfits were confined to the bedroom and I was content. But of course that wasn’t enough for Jayda; it wasn’t long before she wanted control 24/7.

Now, every morning, Jayda is in charge of picking out her clothes for school; I do get to supervise and offer opinions, but Jayda gets the final say (unless my daughter is insisting on wearing a sundress in 30 degree weather, in which case I put my foot down). Fortunately, I don’t have it as bad as some moms at daycare—who are forced to send their kids to school every day in swirly dresses, or swathed in pink from head to toe. But I do have to make sure that I do laundry constantly, because Jayda is obsessed with her Tinkerbell underwear (and asks for it constantly…throwing fits if I inform her that it’s dirty), and goes through phases where she likes to wear the same things over and over again. And lately, she gets very upset if I don’t listen to her fashion advice while dressing myself, as well.

A few weeks ago, I put on a tailored burgundy shirt I hadn’t worn in ages and Jayda snarled at me: “I don’t like dat, Mommy! Throw it in the garbage!” When I told her that wasn’t going to happen, she got very upset: “What?! You’re not taking it off, Mommy?” I was forced to placate her with fruit snacks and a Max and Ruby video, to make up for my “defiance” of her request. But alternatively, I scored points by purchasing a new “pokie”-dotted bra that Jayda thinks I look “bootiful” in…and believes I should wear “every day!” She even likes to check to see if I am following her advice (and, as I mentioned before, it’s a good thing I do my laundry very often!).

Fortunately, along with the bra, there are plenty of things in my closet Jayda does like—especially shirts that are pink or purple. And when she looks through my clothes, my daughter likes to remind me, “when I get bigger and bigger, I’ll wear these, too, ok?” Sounds fine to me…it would sure save us shopping time…and a heck of a lot of money!