My five-year-old boy loves to be cozy — cozy socks, cozy blankets, cozy jammies.

He loves to wear a belt, and even if it looks silly, he likes to tuck his t-shirt so he can see the belt when he looks down.

His favorite colors are black and purple, like Ravage, the Transformer.

He always makes you play the bad guy and he gets to be the good guy.

He likes to race, hates to lose.

Socks drive him crazy — always too tight, too bunchy or too hard.

He loves his mommy and he compliments me on my clothes and jewelry almost every day because he thinks they make me look pretty.

He likes to buy me little presents, draw me pictures and bring me flowers.

He prefers veggies over junk food because he wants to be strong and healthy.

He likes to “exercise” and show me his “muscles.”

He has trouble putting his thoughts into words and gets very frustrated when he can’t communicate something clearly.

He loves to help, so he always gets the mail, unloads the silverware from the dishwasher and opens and closes the garage door.

I know everything there is to know about my little guy.

But I couldn’t tell you what he’s doing today. I don’t know the first words out of his mouth this morning.  I don’t know what jammies he’s wearing or what he had for breakfast.  I don’t know if he’ll go sledding or ice skating, play video games or board games, take his dog for a walk or chase him around the yard.  I won’t know what  bedtime story he reads, whether his cough will keep him up or if he’ll think of me before he falls asleep.  He spends half his life in his other home, and I don’t have a clue what he’s doing at this very moment.

The saying “what you don’t know can’t hurt you” has taken on a whole new meaning.  And believe me, this hurts.

Read more by Lauren at here.

Everybody knows at least ONE gymnast mom. If you don’t know one personally, you’ve heard nightmare stories about what these “gymnast/tumbling/cheer moms” do to their girls.

It’s funny. I’m sitting here in the lobby while my daughter is at tumbling practice. I’m tucked in the corner, on my laptop, desperately trying to NOT make eye contact with any of “them.” The newbies, the mothers of these 4 & 5 year olds who are learning how to “roll, roll, straddle, straddle, roll.” It’s adorable. You can always tell which ones will be the nightmare parents. They are the ones blocking the window with their asses or their big hair, or their whining, crying toddlers hitched on their hip with snotty noses & saggy diapers, the toddlers who should really be in bed.   They are the mothers who giggle with pride when their kid stands up from a 5 skill pass and “sticks it.”

They are the ones whose eyes dart around the room to see who is watching their child do that stellar pass. They are also the ones who suddenly stop talking and start writing notes to each other while giving me the stink eye. I know why. They think I’m not watching my daughter as she does a round off, flip flop, flip flop, back tuck.

I try, HARD, to pretend that I am NOT paying any attention whatsoever, to my kid’s tumbling. Truth is, I make my daughter nervous. I used to be one of  “them.” The mothers who just KNOW their kid is the shizz. 

I pushed her, HARD. I had that kid in the gym 12 hours a week. I laid guilt trips on her when she didn’t want to go to practice. I would actually make her show up late to birthday parties so she wouldn’t miss practice.   I bribed her with shiny new leotards, every time she would excel during practice.  When she had a cast on for a heel fracture, yep, you guessed it, I had her in that gym so she could do her conditioning. In short, I single-handedly destroyed my daughter’s love for her sport.

I never wanted to be a gymnast, so I’m not really sure where the pressure that I put on her came from. Was it because every time I signed up for an activity, I didn’t get that extra push from my own mother? If I didn’t want to go practice, it was “ok, don’t go.” So I didn’t. Maybe, deep down, my desire to be nothing like my mother was the driving force behind my behavior as a “tumbling mom.”

My daughter has switched gyms. She no longer competes.  She tumbles one hour per week.   We no longer sacrifice entire weekends to attend tumbling meets.  The trampoline in the back yard is strictly for fun, now. She’s not learning any new tricks, but  I can say that she is a much happier kid. She no longer experiences that dreaded stomachache or headache before practice.  I think it’s safe to say that I am finally a “tumbling mom” in recovery and she is exactly where she needs to be, having FUN at practice.

This Cat Will Be My Friend.

I heard that once you slapped a ring on your finger and popped out some kids, it was almost impossible to stay friends with your single friends. I didn’t believe that for a second. After all, I’d had my first kid when I was twenty-one and my friends were exclusively single. So when I did get married and have a couple more kids a few years later, I wasn’t expecting my friendships to change.

There have been a country-western songs worth of complications in my life since I got married. Between alcoholism, pre and postpartum depression, colicky babies, the isolation of being a new parent without any support, post-traumatic stress disorder, raising a special needs child, neurosurgery, pregnancy complications and a string of miscarriages, my life went from tolerable to incredibly difficult in a few short years.

When I talked to my single friends about it, it was clear that they had no interest in this. Why should they? They had no frame of reference. These were not issues that affected them. They couldn’t relate. They didn’t really…well, care. Instead, we discussed their lives. Their jobs. Things that were going on with them. When I’d attempt to bring up something to do with my children; with myself, it was clear that I annoyed them. So I stopped.

We moved an hour away from my friends and my children, as babies, didn’t travel well in the car. Rather than sleep, they’d scream, making driving a harrowing experience. Even if I brought them, my friends didn’t seem to understand that chasing after small babies in un-babyproofed houses wasn’t the same as relaxing and talking. Plus, they’d complain that my kids were loud. Annoying. Busy.

In short, they’d complain because my kids were kids.

Without the luxury of babysitters, we were stuck at home. Come out for a Saturday night on the town? Love to. But can’t. No, it’s not you, really, it just won’t work out. If I don’t put the kids to bed, they won’t sleep, and will be up screaming and crying for me. Don’t really have anyone to call to sit for me anyway. If there’s a problem, we’re at least an hour away anyway. I’d love to, though, honestly.

It hurt their feelings that I never showed up, so my friends would lash out at me. Pile the guilt on. What they didn’t realize is that I already felt ten shades of guilty about it. I’d agree to plans with my friends, and when the time came, I’d tearfully cancel last minute. Things always came up. It wasn’t really my fault, but that never mattered and the whole cycle of guilt began again.

I’d hoped that it wouldn’t matter that we were at different points in our lives. I certainly didn’t care if they really wanted to talk diaper bags and feeding schedules with me because I’d rather stab myself in the foot than talk about that for longer than absolutely necessary. I’d hoped that we’d still manage to connect the way we’d always connected: as people, even though our lives had changed.

I’m starting to think that maybe that’s not the way it works, though, because I’ve had enough of the guilt-trips and the insinuations that it’s all my fault we’re no longer close. As though it’s only my phone that works. Only my email can send outgoing messages. I simply can’t take any more of the poo-flinging and the name-calling because frankly, I don’t deserve it. I owned up and apologized for the things I’ve done wrong; the times I’ve hurt feelings, and I’ve yet to get anything but more guilt thrown back in my face.

So maybe that’s the way of it. Maybe single (married) friends can’t be friends with people who have kids.

It’s a shame. I’ll miss them. But I won’t miss the guilt.

—————-

Has this your experience, too, Smartlies? Have you managed to stay friends with your friends once one of you got married and had kids?

You can read more of Aunt Becky’s drivel at her significantly less whiny blog, Mommy Wants Vodka.

I read this article on CNN… When to have a second or third kid?

It was a very simple read. Not theory but actual examples, voices of mothers, kids perspective on the actual gap- the bonding- the activity. Of course it depends on what works for your family and if you wants more kids to begin with. But for once, I read a balanced article, no judgments, no right way- wrong way. Just a perspective.

Ever since my two and a half month old turned one, I was barraged with the question- So what’s your baby program? And this was generally followed by lectures of why siblings are great, how less gaps are beneficial and so on. There are very few people, minus other mothers of infants, who actually understood my response: “I am still getting used to my baby.”

It’s different to be a parent, good different of course. But it’s very different. It no longer, let’s pick up the purse and step out. It’s no longer, be right there. It’s more of, an hour of packing supplies, ensuring the diaper bag is stocked, checking time to coincide the nap with the drive, cleaning the barfed on clothes and then stepping out, only to realize, oh I forgot extra bottles.

It takes a lot of getting used to, for both parents and their friends and family. The heart of the party needs to be ready to take a break and soothe a crying baby- Read, my husband. The planner and organizer needs to take a step back and let a few things slide just to maintain sanity- Read- Moi.

Getting used to being a parent takes time. And even after 2.5 years, I am learning to maneuver new challenges. I still get pounded by parents of siblings- come on.. get with it now! I am still getting pounded by friends with or without kids – come on.. get with it now! I am still getting pounded by family.. come on.. get with it now!

Luckily my husband and I have figured it out: the correct response is no longer: “I am still getting used to my baby but, “When the time is right”

Honestly, we both have no freaking clue, our daughter will be playing with stuff toys a bit longer, or until we figure it out… it’s just a numbers game right now. But at least, I think I know the right answer for our well wishers: “When the time is right”