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Our Kids Live on the Wrong Side of the Tracks

We definitely live on a less savory side of town. A few blocks either way, and we’re in a little bit crustier surroundings than we’d like to expect. Fights heard through open windows are raspier and more public, lawn “care” is a word used much more loosely, dogs look a little more menacing, eff-bombs are dropped at a higher frequency, homes are marred by more broken windows and passing faces look slightly more hardened. Sometimes the only thing that’s the same as the manicured lot is the smell of fabric softener coming from the basements.

When a rock was thrown through a neighbor’s window last year, just for entertainment, even my husband commented that we need to get out of here. We generally feel safe with the presence of our pit bull, but I’m not sure how I’d feel without him. Walking the baby in his buggy at twilight is not as frothy as it sounds in these parts. You bring along your cell phone and rough-looking dog and throw your shoulders back as special unwritten signage that you won’t be messed with.

Protecting my kid is the basis of nearly every single decision or act I make on a daily basis. When the tornado sirens went off last night, the only thing I wanted to do was teleport my son somewhere with blue skies, whether I was left behind or not. It’s funny these silly ways that parenthood changes you.

The Sweetest Dreams

Is it wrong to rue that day when nap-time comes to an end? It hasn’t happened yet, but I have this awful fear about how time flies too fast and this good thing will come to an end. For those three sweet hours, that 24-hour parental responsibility seems a little bit more manageable. Little tasks that prove impossible with a mommy-reliant Little One toddling about are completed, novels are revisited, marriages resurface and the house is again quiet.

I love love love being a mom. But sometimes that nap-time respite is required for sanity and retrieving my bearings. They leave mommy feeling rejuvenated and remind mommy about her valuable roles outside of mommyhood.

So far, my son likes to sleep. The 20-month-old drifts into REM for a solid three hours most of the time, on top of the 11 straight hours at night. I only get to enjoy these three hours on weekends because of my dear friend, Full-Time Work. So, my “me time” is limited. But this heaven-sent, built-in babysitter does all the work for me. I get to bring my own sweet dreams to realization when those little peepers are closed. I just can’t leave the house.

Backyard Adventures

Peanut and I took a nice long walk on Saturday, and you know what they say about having kids? The old cliche about how you see the world in a different way again? It’s a common miracle many of us get to experience every day. As Peanut and I walked a simple stretch of about four blocks, we found entire worlds in between.

First, there was the choo-choo. We watched that and listened to its sound until it was out of sight, walking backwards at times. A little further down the road, we gawked at a burned-down house. Peanut was probably just wondering why that house looked so goofy. I wondered about our own home and all the tiny little belongings that we take for granted and where the inhabitants of that home found themselves that morning and what had to have been racing through their minds.

As we continued, the little ramps that slope from the sidewalk to the street were like mini hills for Peanut. Each time we approached one, we ran down it really fast and he giggled like it was the most comical thing. I suppose those little ramps are big hills for those tiny little legs.

Then, we went on a squirrel-watching hunt. There were two comical characters in a tree near the still-frozen lake, chasing each other. We sat watching those guys for a good five minutes until the crows called. We tried to imitate their sounds and follow their flight paths until we came across the playground.

After plenty of swinging, sliding, climbing, hiding, peeking, running across unstable bridges, and “driving” the fake truck, I finally had to tear Peanut away so we could head back home.

There’s just something about a quiet Sunday morning with very little traffic, light beams bending across the road, very little sound except for the birds, a tiny hand in your hand, the little bits of dirt decorating his knees, and those baby blues taking it all in. There’s nothing more sublime.

Toddler-fy your Flight

If you’re a mommy looking for tips for taking a toddler on a flight, here are my tips from first-hand experience a short 2 months ago. Now, my son likes toys to a point. A very small point. A few minutes max. This worried me for his first flight…on a lap, no less. I was sure he’d squirm his way out and bother dozens of aisle-seaters, but he actually did better than expected. The key was to have several “activities” lined up for him, one after the other. Our flight also happened to be during nap time, another good tip if your child is able to fall asleep in your arms.

1. Wear the child out at the airport before boarding. After all, you do have two hours to kill. We walked, looked in stores, looked out every window in the place watching airplanes and workers, found another young boy to talk to for awhile and it was magical how he fell asleep during takeoff.

2. Change the child just before the airplane starts boarding.

3. Take a bottle/sippy cup with for all the ear popping. I think our son finally figured out that drinking made him feel better. Also, don’t forget their lovies (Blanky) so they feel more comfortable.

4. Encourage your child to watch out the window for as long as it holds their attention. Point things out and explain the flight to them for extra interest.

5. Bring along a meal to feed the child. This can eat up at least a half hour. Little snacks here and there help as well. Just be sure it’s nothing too messy and you brought a bib.

6. Bring along a Magna Doodle and a few books. Also a few blank sheets of paper and a small carton of crayons. It’s difficult to pack the whole toy box, so just pick a few smaller items that have the most potential to hold the child’s interest. Drawings do quite well in little space.

7. Pack your iPod® and let them in on the head boppin’. They’ll get a kick out of listening to your music.

8. Page through the in-flight magazines and fliers. Pointing out airplanes, doggies, and even refrigerators will keep them occupied for some time. Better yet, pack their favorite Highlights or age-appropriate magazine.

9. Some people will give you dirty looks when your toddler kicks their seat a few times (sorry, I tried to keep the little kickers contained, but sometimes it just happens), but a few will coo. Let them coo for as long as they like. My socialite son soaks it up, especially when it’s someone he’s never met before.

10. If there’s an open seat next to you and the flight attendants allow it, try buckling your child in to that seat to keep him “in place.” Our son didn’t even try to squirm out when we tried this. He somehow knew the seat belt meant business.

11. Pack your carry on with a fresh set of clothes, a stack of diapers and wipes. This saved us on BOTH flights. Don’t underestimate the importance of this seemingly no-brainer.

These are what worked for us. But I have absolutely no tips for changing a child’s diaper in-flight. Good luck with that!

Home Sweet Nest

There’s no force greater than a mother’s nesting instinct.

I mean, I have never been more inclined to remove the dust from the baseboards or remove every stray string from my home as I have since I was “with child”.

No one can stop me when a small tidying-up project turns into a whirlwind rid-a-thon. As I’ve explained in a previous post, those little piles of junk provide great threatening pressure to my life-filled chest. They can also pose a threat to that small person that toddles around them. Not just physically, but emotionally. I mean, I don’t want this boy to grow up without seeing the value in the things around him. I want him to take care of his home. I want to prime him to be a responsible respectable young man who values order in his life, especially for the benefit of any future partners. So, I have to set an example for him by taking at least a little bit of care of our things.

Physical dangers do exist as well, I admit. I can’t tell you how worried I was after we put fiberglass insulation in the attic. After vacuuming below the door several times, I still worried about the microscopic pieces that still must be embedded in the carpet and what would happen if the baby got a piece stuck in a tiny digit and we wouldn’t be able to see it nor would he be able to tell us where it hurt. It would just kill me if our carelessness hurt him.

So, the nesting instinct is also married to that ruthless polygamist Guilt. When I found remnants of larvae (gasp!) in an old can of instant cocoa mix, I instantly pegged myself as a careless mother.

Who else thinks about how, after the dog pees on his foot during a walk, he will clean most of it off in the snow during the 3 mile trek, but will come home with God-only-knows-what-else on his feet and walk all over the house and the baby will pick up a banana from said floor and ingest it? And who gives their dog a bath more than once or twice a month anyway? Mommies have been blessed (cursed?) with such instincts for ages to keep their children safe.

Really, nesting is a force that cannot be reckoned with. Only after exhausting myself once in a while with tile and a bottle of bleach, and scouring away at some of that instinct, can I finally sit back and allow the 10-second-rule to apply. Only after!

Invasion of the Clutter

Without meaning to, we’ve accumulated so many things around our house it scares me to death. Literally. Paper piles and misplaced odds and ends knock the wind and the vitality of life right out of me.

The self-designated “no-drop zones” often turn into prime dumping grounds for papers, pictures, mail and extra hardware. We get a new armchair and the extra plastic pieces end up on the dining room table. They then sit there for weeks. Each time I take in the disorderly mess on the table, I lose a little bit of sleep.

I think I’ve just uncovered the reason for my insomnia. Others may dream about little morbid dolls that come to life or losing a molar. But I, oh poor little me, dream of being buried alive beneath mounds of paper clips, cracker packaging, dust and other easily accumulated nonsense. All those small “projects” around the house invade my consciousness until REM is no longer possible. I tell you these pesky piles of junk on the table are alive. They are sources of negative energy for sure. They steal my attention, jeopardize my relationships and wear me down, one paper-thin layer at a time.

To be sure, I am not obsessive compulsive. I allow wrinkles in bedsheets and marks on the walls and the occasional dropped pea to be left on the floor for one of the four-legged creatures to find–just please no shoes on the off-white upstairs carpet. And for God’s sake, no clipping your nails in the living room.

The perfect antidote would be to light candles and let the imperfections fade into the background. Everything looks better in candlelight. And place a pretty basket by the front door, a designated “dumping zone” that you don’t mind looking at. After all, to combat all the “no-drop zones,” there has to be at least one “dumping zone.”

I do let certain things go, but only to a point. And sometimes it feels like I’ll never be able to breathe or venture into certain rooms for fear that a pesky pile will consume me. Once you let the scum build on the bathroom curtain, the salty winter shoe marks to linger on the linoleum, the cobwebs to climb the ceilings and the piles to overcome every open flat surface for too long…it is certain death.

Birth Order

I’ve been told I was a favorite perhaps by teachers and family members. I’ve also been told quite the opposite. But let me tell you. When someone tells me I’m their favorite, as gracious as it sounds, there is always a bit of guilt attached. In the bigger picture, each person has something distinctive to contribute and why should my contributions be any better? You are suddenly bound to these high expectations that you never knew you were being judged against. And even if the person(s) you are being compared to are your worst enemy, you can’t help but feel a little let down by the fact that the person choosing favorites, who is supposed to be a responsible adult, is making this judgement call.

Favoritism in families seems to be a common phenomenon (isn’t that an oxymoron?) and many times based on birth order. I can see it blatantly in my husband’s family. But there are always other factors that make me wonder about where it’s originating from. Such as, which chicken/egg came first, the kid’s bad attitude or the difference in treatment between siblings? I have no idea. I see this also within friends’ families. One sibling, 10 years junior, gets coddled to pieces while the other had been left, earlier in time, to fend for herself. Although the junior sibling receives plenty of perks, I think the older sibling deserves heeps of credit for finding her way on her own.

Even though I would’ve loved for someone to have paid my way through college, I have a deeper respect for myself, and I hope others have for me as well, for having paved my own way. I believe I have refined qualities of self-reliance and resourcefulness because of it. I don’t owe anyone but myself for that, of which I am eternally grateful.