tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25081381594415455132024-03-08T18:43:34.392-06:00janna farleywriter, baker, candlestick makerJannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05667859943257193914noreply@blogger.comBlogger9125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508138159441545513.post-42289692153652408732015-03-01T20:02:00.000-06:002015-03-01T20:02:26.840-06:00Son needs room to grow – and a few reminders<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: 22px; margin-bottom: 15px; margin-left: 60px;">
One Saturday, as we were rushing out of the house for my son's football game, I noticed Josh had left his helmet by the door.</div>
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Granted, he was pretty excited about the game. But forgetting his helmet for a football game is kind of like forgetting his head — which some days, if it weren't attached to his body, I'm sure he would.</div>
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I grabbed the helmet, of course, along with his water bottle.</div>
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"Think you might need these for the game?" I asked him as I handed him his forgotten gear in the car.</div>
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"Oh, yeah. Thanks, Mom!"</div>
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My husband just groaned. This isn't the first time Josh has relied on one of us to grab something he should have been able to remember.</div>
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"I should be happy," I told my husband. "He still needs me for something."</div>
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Because at 9, Josh doesn't need me for everything. I can't tell you how many times I've heard the phrase, "Mom, I'm not 6 anymore," in recent weeks.</div>
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We've never been the kind of parents who hover. We've always given Josh a fair amount of freedom. But allowing Josh to have the kind of independence he wants can be scary. Though the world is full of good, kind-hearted people, it's not completely devoid of evil. Kids get hurt. They get lost. Accident happen.</div>
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So naturally, I worry.</div>
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Will Josh pay attention to traffic when he's riding his bike to school and make it there on time and in one piece? Does he know not to accept rides from strangers? To not let strange people in our house?</div>
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But I can't keep him in a bubble. I don't want to. While it would be nice to embed some sort of GPS tracking device in his body so I could know exactly where he is and what he is doing at any given moment during the day, Josh is a smart, capable kid, so I have to trust that he'll make good decisions.</div>
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For the most part, he does.</div>
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We didn't send Josh to day care last summer, instead filling most of his days with some sort of scheduled activity. Basketball camps, swimming lessons, golf and fishing classes kept him pretty busy.</div>
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Other days, he was on his own and had to find ways to entertain himself. Sometimes, that meant finding some neighborhood kids to play with. Sometimes, he went to the pool. Sometimes, he just rode his bike around.</div>
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I wasn't thrilled when he said all he did was watch cartoons and play Minecraft, but I can't dictate every minute of his life.</div>
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Having the freedom to choose what he wanted to do taught Josh a lot — especially about time management.</div>
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One day, for instance, we told Josh he could go to the pool, but he had to be home by 3 p.m. because of evening activities. He texted me to say he was going to eat lunch and then head to the pool. But around 2:30 that afternoon, my husband was driving between two of the buildings he works at and saw Josh riding his bike in the direction of the pool.</div>
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Matt flagged him down. Josh said he didn't leave for the pool earlier because he got caught up watching cartoons on TV. Since he wouldn't have time to do anything but jump into the pool and leave, Matt sent an unhappy kid back home.</div>
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But I've also been pretty pleased to realize just how responsible Josh can be. A friend invited him to hang out after school one day last week. Nobody would have noticed if he weren't home right after school, but Josh borrowed his friend's mom's phone, called and asked for permission to stay at his friend's house for a bit.</div>
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Later that night, when we were all home, I reminded Josh of how proud I was of him for making good, independent choices.</div>
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"See, I told you mom, I'm not 6 anymore."</div>
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No, Josh, you're not. You're growing up.</div>
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But since the library books that are due back at school tomorrow are still on the floor and not in your backpack, you still need me for something — for the reminder, of course, and the cash to pay the fine if you still forget.</div>
Jannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05667859943257193914noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508138159441545513.post-51242454807403566282015-02-28T12:11:00.001-06:002015-02-28T12:12:59.603-06:00Center of attention: Sharing the limelight with my nieceOn more than one occasion, my 11-year-old niece Eva has said or done something that has reminded my parents of me. Her independence. Her occasional bossiness. Her love for nacho cheese Doritos. You know, ordinary first-born traits. (Well, except maybe the Doritos. But the fact that we share a love of junk food is not lost on anyone.)<br />
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Those déjà vu moments, though, were strongest when Eva used to demand we all watch her sing or dance on some sort of makeshift stage. “The Eva Show” was her version of the wildly popular (at least in my mind) and aptly named “The Janna Show” from my childhood, when I, too, would entertain any willing audience.<br />
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“The Janna Show” long has been canceled — though not entirely by my choice. Even my 3-year-old daughter tells me to stop when I try to entertain her with a little dance in the living room. I get it. I am fully aware that singing and dancing are not my strongest talents.<br />
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But Eva still loves being center stage. Not too long ago, I got to watch her perform in her first school musical. She played an Oompa Loompa in her school's production of “Willie Wonka.” The show was pretty awesome, and I thought Eva did a fabulous job. After the show, we showered her with flowers and took about a billion photos.<br />
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Watching Eva on stage reminded me of the first performance of hers I attended when she was just 4 years old.<br />
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It was her first dance recital. She, along with three other little girls, twirled on stage for about two and a half minutes.<br />
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To be honest, I remember dreading the recital. “Dancing With the Stars” this was not, and Eva’s part was going to be over in a blink of an eye. For the remainder of the show, I’d be watching kids I didn’t know do ballet, jazz, tap and clogging. Yes, clogging. The Irish kind. Argh.<br />
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Surprisingly, the recital as a whole was really good and filled with wonderfully cute moments. But Eva’s performance (and I fully admit my bias) was the best. From the moment the stage lights went up, she was so proud, so confident. You could tell she loved every second of it.<br />
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But when we made our way backstage to congratulate her on a fine performance, Eva was visibly upset.<br />
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Did one of the other girls, jealous of her obviously superior talent, say something mean? Did an evil stage mom, afraid that Eva would upstage her daughter in a future performance, somehow poison her?<br />
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Hardly likely, I know, but my imagination tends to immediately jump to the overdramatic, made-for-TV conclusions.<br />
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I’ve seen enough movies on Lifetime — I know that terrible things can happen backstage.<br />
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“What happened? What’s wrong, Eva? Are you OK?”<br />
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Eva’s dad Jess just shrugged his shoulders. He didn’t know.<br />
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We offered up high-fives. We offered her hugs. We presented her with flowers. Eva still was upset.<br />
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It was kind of a bummer, because we wanted to get a few more pictures of Eva in her costume before we went home.<br />
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“Eva, do you want to go back on stage so we can take some pictures of you?” my mom asked.<br />
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These were the magic words Eva wanted to hear.<br />
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The tears dried up immediately, and we could hardly keep up with her as she ran back toward the stage.<br />
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She wanted more applause, more time to be the center of attention.<br />
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I totally understood then. And I’m not going to lie — it’s still true today, for Eva and for me. When you do something cool, you want to be noticed, to be applauded. Good thing our family is completely willing to indulge our egos every once in a while.<br />
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Like mother, like daughter?<br />
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In our case, it’s like aunt, like niece.Jannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05667859943257193914noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508138159441545513.post-32113053957099351562015-02-16T17:37:00.004-06:002015-02-16T17:38:15.137-06:00Like mother, like son<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, serif;">When you look at my son Josh, it’s easy to see where he gets
most of his physical features. His skinny little bird legs come from Grandpa
Rich. His big ears come from Grandpa Dave. And his smile comes from Dad.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Good looks, as they say, run in the family. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Sure, he looks a bit like me, too – maybe a little around
the eyes and the nose. It’s harder to pinpoint those matching physical traits
when you’re looking at a mother and her son instead of a mother and a daughter.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">But when it comes to temperament, we’re almost identical.
Josh and I both have a bit of a stubborn, independent side. We both like to do
what we want, when we want – and we’re both willing to fight every battle.
Couple that with the fact that he’s still a kid testing his boundaries, and
we’ve got the potential to butt heads. Not surprising, we occasionally do – but
not on the big things, like baths or bedtime. No, it’s the little every day
things that cause us the most problems.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">When he was younger, Josh would get mad when I wouldn’t let
him eat cookies for dinner or take every single tiny tractor he owns with him
on a trip to the grocery store. These days, we butt heads about the amount of time
he can watch cartoons or play Minecraft on his Kindle. Depending on the
situation, one of us isn’t happy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Fortunately (for me), a good majority of the time, Josh will
eventually back down and realize that he’s not going to get his way. But every
now and then, he doesn’t. That’s when he’ll cross his arms in front of his
chest and sulk. Every now and then he’ll throw in an eye roll for good measure.
When I remind him that a crappy attitude won’t get him anywhere, he’ll stomp
off.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Every now and then, Josh needs to tell his side of the story
to Dad. My husband, the ever-patient mediator, calmly explains to Josh that he
needs to shape up because whatever we say goes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">But this game of tattletale, is unfortunately, not just
something Josh plays. Just because I’m the mom doesn’t mean I’m always more
mature. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Told you so,” I sometimes retort back. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">That’s when my husband will groan and wonder (sometimes out
loud) how he became the only parent in the house. With that, I’m whisked back
to adulthood. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">And I’m also reminded that while Josh and I might not have
the same color of hair, we’re more alike than our physical characteristics
suggest. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Don’t argue with me on that one. I’m always right, you know.
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Jannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05667859943257193914noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508138159441545513.post-91373882647392086202015-02-12T20:02:00.000-06:002015-02-12T20:02:42.497-06:00First Chuck E. Cheese's, then the world I don’t mean to sound overly dramatic, but my 3-year-old daughter Kate said something to me as we were driving through town recently that scared me a bit.<br />
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“Hey, look mom! It’s Chuck E. Cheese’s!”<br />
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Now I have nothing against Chuck E. Cheese’s. I like pizza and skee ball as much as the next person. But it’s always crowded. It’s noisy. And kids are running all over the place. It’s just not the first (or second or third) place I’d choose to go for dinner and a night of entertainment.<br />
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So like our vow to never buy a mini-van, my husband and I decided that we’d avoid taking our kids to Chuck E. Cheese’s as long as we could.<br />
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Eventually, we figured it’d be inevitable. Someone would be invited to a birthday party there or we’d forget the pact we made and decide to take him there on a whim some weekend afternoon. After all, doling out a small fortune for enough tokens so your child can win a few tickets to exchange for an eraser shaped like a heart or a handful of stickers is kind of a parental right of passage.<br />
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But I wasn’t ready yet. So I did the only sensible thing I could think of at the moment. I lied.<br />
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“Oh, you don’t want to go to Chuck E. Cheese’s. That’s not a fun place for kids.”<br />
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Kate wasn’t deterred. “But Chuck E. Cheese’s has games inside.”<br />
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Hmmm. She knows more about Chuck E. Cheese’s than I thought. But where did she get this information? We certainly weren’t singing the praises of the mouse and his overpriced pizza. I had to get to the bottom of this.<br />
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“Who told you about Chuck E. Cheese’s? Was it one of your friends from day care? Did you see a commercial on TV?”<br />
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I guess my interrogation scared Kate a bit. From the rear-view mirror, I watched her simply shrug her shoulders and say, “Chuck E. Cheese’s is cool.”<br />
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Whether she learned about the pizza and games from talking with one of her friends or it was some sort of wacky subliminal advertising doesn’t really matter. The point is, it was a great reminder that my husband and I can’t shelter Kate from the evils of the world – whether they’re as harmless as a noisy kids restaurant or as serious as the crime reported on the evening news. Sooner or later, she’s going to learn some things on her own. That means, it’s our job to make sure Kate has a good enough head on her shoulders to be able to separate the good from the bad.<br />
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What category she decides Chuck E. Cheese’s ultimately falls into, however, is to be determined.<br />
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Jannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05667859943257193914noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508138159441545513.post-55399213141620733612015-02-01T15:38:00.002-06:002015-02-01T15:39:45.235-06:00Everybody poops<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Before my son Josh was born, my diaper changing experience
was very limited. That is, I’d only changed one diaper. It belonged to my
niece, Eva, and it was a doozy. Let’s just say I threw away the kitchen towel I
used as a changing pad and leave it at that.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">One more kid later and my diaper tally is somewhere in the
thousands. To be fair, I haven’t changed all of those diapers. My husband’s
changed at least two. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">So clearly I’ve won the right to tell any of my kids’
disgusting poop stories. And let me tell you – there’s been plenty. A month or
so after Josh was born, he had a diaper blowout while sitting in his swing. At
first, I thought it was just dirt all over his shoulders. “That’s funny. I
swear I gave him a bath this morning.” But in my sleep-deprived, new mom state,
I figured I was wrong. I was – but not about the bath. And as my poor child sat
in his own filth, I did the first thing any sleep-deprived, new mom would do. I
called my mom, then my sister and then my husband to laugh about how horrible
it was. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Of course, talking about poop is almost never appropriate.
“Guess what guys! I had nasty diarrhea last night. Totally left skid marks on
my underwear.” Nobody needs to know that much information about their friends
and co-workers. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">But when you’re in the company of other parents, it’s just
natural to talk about what comes, well, naturally. Or, in the case of Josh’s
exploding bowel movements, also taking a picture. Gross? You bet. But it turns
out, I’m not the only one. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">A friend of mine – I’ll call her Jen – had a similar story.
She was giving her son a bath in the tub, saw some bubbles and thought it was
cute. When she called her husband at work that night, he was thrilled. (“Like a
typical man, who thinks farting is hilarious,” she added.) “But then, I hit him
with the kicker. His son rolled a log in the tub!” Naturally, Jen’s husband
thought this was awesome, mainly because he wasn’t home to be in on the
clean-up. “But he did request that I take pictures.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Our poor children. We’re not only talking about their poop –
we’re documenting it. They have no idea of the humiliation that awaits them
when we pull out their baby photo albums at their high school graduation. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Still, once you get started on the subject with other
parents, you can’t stop. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I remember trying to sleep in on a Sunday morning when Josh
was about 2. Josh, for the most part, was happily chattering in his crib and we
were able to catch a few more minutes of sleep. Well, until he started yelling,
“Owie! Owie!” When I got into his room, he was holding his hand up in the air,
fingers all curled, like he’d pinched them somehow. “Did you hurt your finger?
Mommy’ll kiss it and make it better.” I was only millimeters away from putting
my lips on his poop-covered fingers. He went into the tub immediately. I
brushed my teeth twice for good measure. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">And then there’s the time that Josh peed on the dog. He just
stood in the hallway and peed on Kolby. Thankfully, that didn’t involve
anything other than pee. But my son “marking his territory” on the dog is just
too funny. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Nothing, however, tops the story my friend Jess just told me
about her son’s loose stools. One morning, her husband was changing his diaper
on their bed. Everybody had just woken up, so there’s an element of drowsiness
here, but even the most wide-awake dad couldn’t have predicted what was going
to happen. Kory carefully pulled the dirty diaper off, swapped the new one in
and was in mid-wipe when their son decided he wasn’t quite done. Poop shot all
over Kory (who was only wearing boxers) and their bed. “We washed our sheets
three times that day,” Jess says. “I still don’t like to use them on our bed.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-family: "Times","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Poop stories, it seems, are the great parenting equalizer.
It doesn’t matter if you’re a stay-at-home mom or a working mom or if you’re
breastfeeding or you give your kid a bottle or whatever else the media’s “mommy
wars” would have parents fighting about. Everybody poops. And everyone’s got a
story to tell. </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Jannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05667859943257193914noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508138159441545513.post-8985628024848158032015-01-30T21:13:00.003-06:002015-01-30T21:13:38.590-06:00An offer my daughter can't refuse<div class="MsoNormal">
If you’re in business or politics, the last thing you want
is to be associated with bribery and corruption.<o:p></o:p></div>
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But as a mom, I’m here to tell you that despite what the
parenting experts tell you, a little bribery is not all that bad – at least,
not when you’re dealing with a 3-year-old like my daughter, Kate.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Doling out bribes – maybe we should just call them rewards –
is an art. Offered too often, at the wrong time or in jumbo sizes can give kids
the wrong idea – and they’ll turn the tables on you and won’t do anything
unless they’re given something in return. After all, kids will learn to depend
on rewards in order to cooperate. So I’m careful not to get too carried away.
But bribery (without the corruption, of course) is a daily part of my parenting
toolbox. <o:p></o:p></div>
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At breakfast: “If you eat your cereal, I’ll give you some
gummies.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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At the mall: “If you’re good while we’re shopping, we’ll
stop at the play land before we go home.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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At bedtime: “If you brush your teeth, we’ll read a story.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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Right now, Kate hasn’t caught on to the fact that what I’m
bribing her with isn’t all that special. The gummies in the morning? Well,
those are actually gummy vitamins – something she’d get anyway. Letting Kate
burn off some energy at the mall play land before we go home is my chance to
relax for five or 10 minutes before heading home. And the bedtime story? I love reading him stories at bedtime. The
fact that Kate will happily brush her teeth without much of a fight if I offer
it to her is just a bonus. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Of course, there are definitely times I up the ante. I
bought Kate a little necklace at Target the other day so she’d stop whining and
sit in the cart long enough for me to get all my shopping done. I let her watch
three episodes of “Sofia the First” so I could read a magazine in peace and
quiet. Last Saturday, I groggily told her that she could eat a Nutty Bar for
breakfast if she’d let me sleep for 30 minutes longer (and yes, it worked).<o:p></o:p></div>
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Does this make me a bad parent? Heck no. I’m sure the
parenting experts will tell me I’ll traveling on a slippery slope. But you know
what? Those parenting experts don’t live in my house. And kids, like anyone,
tend to respond to bribery – or, if you prefer, rewards or incentives. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Now if someone wants to offer me a large sum of cash,
diamonds or a new car, perhaps I’ll rethink my stance on bribing my daughter. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Jannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05667859943257193914noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508138159441545513.post-77018344660892134792015-01-25T11:41:00.001-06:002015-01-25T11:41:07.506-06:00The secret life of Super Mom<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, serif;">Even the most casual fan of Superman has got to wonder: Why didn’t
Lois Lane ever put two and two together and realize that Superman and Clark
Kent were one in the same? Sure, they were never in the same place at the same
time, so it would have been hard to do a side-by-side comparison. And Clark had
those glasses. But still. You’ve got to think that someone as seemingly smart
as Lois Lane would have made the connection. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, serif;">But then I start to think of my very own superhero, the Super Mom.
She’s brilliant and articulate about current events. Her kids are always
well-behaved. Her house is spotless. She serves balanced meals, made from
scratch. And her whole family is just ridiculously cute. Always. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, serif;">This is in stark contrast to my life. My most brilliant ramblings
usually have to do with reality television. My 3-year-old daughter likes to run
away from me at the grocery store. My house is messy. Pop-Tarts and frozen
pizza is considered dinner. And ridiculously cute … well, I guess we are. (One
out of five isn’t bad.) Except in the mornings, when we’re all crabby and
un-bathed. It’s not pretty.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, serif;">In short, I’m normal. But yet, I can’t help but wonder what I’m doing
wrong. If Super Mom can do it all, why can’t I? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, serif;">That’s when I got to thinking: Maybe Super Mom doesn’t really
exist. Sure, from the outside, she may look like she has it together. But
really, it’s just a big façade. She’s just an ordinary mom, like Clark Kent,
with some super powers she can unleash on occasion. As outsiders, we only see
the fabulous dinner party the mom of two was able to pull off. We don’t see
that behind-the-scenes, she got in a fight with her husband because he forgot
to take out the garbage, yelled at her kids for getting underfoot (and then
sent them downstairs to watch “The Lion King”) and actually had the whole
shindig catered.) By the time we arrived, “Super Mom” was calm, cool and
collected. “Oh this? This is nothing,” she says. “Hardly took any time at all.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, serif;">Why don’t more moms make the connection? It would sure save a lot
of heartache to realize early on that the secret behind Super Mom is that she
really doesn’t exist at all – or that, rather, she doesn’t exist all the time.
No one person can do it all every minute of the day. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, serif;">We all think other moms are doing it better, but
really, we're all doing the same thing – trying to do our best.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, serif;">I didn’t make the beds this morning (or
yesterday or the day before, for that matter). I don’t wash my floors unless I
absolutely have to. I’ll let my kids watch television instead of engaging them
with educational flash cards. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, serif;">But the kiddos and I make cookies together all
the time. We dance in the living room. We always read before bed. In short, we
have fun. When I know I’m having guests over, I’ll go into a cleaning frenzy.
(Please avert your eyes from the mess in the living room should you stop over
when I’m not expecting you.) <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, serif;">There will be time later to do the dishes. The
time will come too quickly when the kids will be grown. Super Mom can wait. </span><span style="font-family: Times, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Jannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05667859943257193914noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508138159441545513.post-16012768861337588162015-01-24T15:12:00.002-06:002015-01-24T15:13:26.600-06:00Confessions of a packrat<div class="MsoNormal">
The idea of a guest bedroom in my house is pretty laughable.
While we have an extra bedroom and an extra bed in said bedroom, we don’t often
have overnight guests. Save for a very occasional weekend, the guest bedroom is
mostly uninhabited – except, that is, for all of our stray stuff that doesn’t
have a home elsewhere. Board games, extra blankets, laundry baskets, old
pillows, random junk … it all somehow ends up in this room. <o:p></o:p></div>
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It’s so bad that several years ago, I stopped referring to
this room as our guest bedroom and instead call it my Grandma Alice room. <o:p></o:p></div>
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If you’re related to me, this requires no explanation. My
cousins and aunts will nod their head in agreement when I talk about my Grandma
Alice room. (Most of them have one, too.) That’s because Grandma Alice, like
many women of her generation, didn’t like to throw anything away. I still
remember her sewing room – there was a sewing machine in there somewhere,
buried underneath the piles and piles of fabric, notions and other crafting
supplies. Need a Styrofoam egg carton? Grandma Alice probably had a dozen. <o:p></o:p></div>
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My mom is the same way (well, except for the Styrofoam egg
cartons). Our former basement family room is now her art studio, with
bookshelves filled to the brim, worktables covered her latest projects and
bulletin boards covered with photographs and ideas ripped from magazines. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Like mother, like daughter, like granddaughter. At least I
come by my packrat tendencies honestly. <o:p></o:p></div>
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But there’s one major difference between my guest bedroom
and my mom and grandma’s rooms. I don’t actually use the space in my house. It
drives me crazy to know that for a room no one lives in, the closet is
surprisingly full and that boxes of junk seem to multiply overnight. So most of
the time, I shut the door and pretend the room doesn’t exist. <o:p></o:p></div>
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A few weekends ago, however. I couldn’t take it anymore.
While putting a box of my son’s old clothes in the closet, something came over
me. I was pulling boxes off the shelves, pulling old dog toys out from under the
bed and uncovering forgotten treasures from the back of the closet. In almost
no time at all, I was trapped inside the bedroom with a mound of junk at the
door the bed off its frame and all the books off the bookshelf. My son climbed
over the pile to see what I was up to, and then wisely climbed back out,
figuring it’d be safer to go play with Dad than risk getting caught up in my
mess. <o:p></o:p></div>
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A couple of hours later I emerged, with a cleaner, more
organized Grandma Alice room. It’s not perfect, but it’s better. It’s a room
I’m no longer ashamed of – with the door open even. But I do have one
confession to make: I really didn’t throw that much away. I bet Grandma Alice
would be proud. <o:p></o:p></div>
Jannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05667859943257193914noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508138159441545513.post-64779820642223391582014-12-04T23:57:00.000-06:002014-12-04T23:57:13.043-06:00Pull forward, people. My rules for the school drop-off line.<div class="MsoNormal">
Mornings always are a little hectic at my house.</div>
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Part of it is my fault. I usually hit the snooze button a few times too many, and I spend more time than I should in the shower. So almost every day, it's a mad rush for me to get ready for work.</div>
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But I also have two kids: 9-year-old Josh and 3-year-old Kate.</div>
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Parents, I don't need to tell you how stressful it can be to repeatedly tell one child to brush his teeth and to not forget to put his library books in his backpack while begging and pleading with the other to please — please — put on pants.</div>
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Oh, and I still have to get dressed, too.</div>
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(And my husband, who leaves for work about the time the rest of us are getting up, sometimes wonders why Kate's hair looks like it hasn't been combed in a couple of days. It's because it hasn't. But she's wearing pants, isn't she?)</div>
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Somehow, we manage to get out the door with all the bags, hats, gloves, extra sweatshirts, lunches, cell phones, iPods and everything else we think we need for the day. But I can't do a victory dance just yet. I still have to navigate the school drop-off line.</div>
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Now, for the most part, the daily drop-off goes relatively smoothly — amazingly so, considering there are more than 600 kids at my son's school. (I know some kids are bused and some kids walk, so not everyone is getting dropped off, but still — that's a lot of kids.)</div>
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I mean, it's not rocket science. Pull forward, stop to let your kid get out of the car, move ahead and leave the parking lot. Easy, right?</div>
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If only that were true. Unfortunately, there are just always people who believe they're above the system. There are always people who aren't following the major drop-off line rules.</div>
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Let's review:</div>
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<b>Pull forward. </b>I'm not sure why some parents stop immediately after entering the parking lot to let their kids out. Instead of joining their classmates on the playground at the top of the drop-off circle (and by the doors the kids use to enter the school in the morning), they walk through the front door of the school instead. Why? I'm not really sure. My son never has to stop in the office before school.</div>
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But I don't really care if kids go to the office before school. What I do care about is the line of cars waiting on the street to turn into the parking lot — the line of cars that's also holding up traffic that's not pulling into the school — all because someone wouldn't pull forward.</div>
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<b>Don't get out of your car.</b> Your child doesn't need a hug. Really, he doesn't. Nor does he need help getting his backpack out of the car. Trust me, he can handle it.</div>
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And by all means, do not abandon your car. If you have to walk your child into the building, park in the parking lot. That's what it's for. The rest of us shouldn't have to drive around your car sitting idle in the drop-off lane.</div>
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<b>Keep moving.</b> The drop-off lane is not the place to have lengthy conversations with your kid. Say your goodbyes in the car — not while your kid is lingering on the sidewalk.</div>
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See, it shouldn't be so complicated. But then again, neither should getting my daughter to wear pants.</div>
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But just as I hold out hope that someday I won't have to yell at Josh to brush his teeth in the mornings, I believe that we can do it. We can make the school drop-off line stress-free.</div>
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Jannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05667859943257193914noreply@blogger.com0