Something amazing happened while my family and I were vacationing in Palm Desert over President’s Day weekend.  My daughter learned how to ride a bike.  Now I know this doesn’t really qualify as “amazing”; everyone knows how to ride a bike, so no big deal, right?  Well, everyone that is except for, um, me.  Yes, it’s true.  My name is Kim and I don’t know how to ride a bike.  (Now you say, “Hi, Kim.”)

When I admit this little factoid to people, I’m often met with shock: “What?!  You don’t know how to ride a bike?!”; skepticism:  “Come on, you’ve got to be kidding.  Everyone can ride a bike!”; or thinly veiled pity: “You seriously don’t know how to ride a bike?  Don’t you feel like you’re missing out?”  And then there’s the abject horror and disbelief: “How is that possible?!  Where did you grow up?!”  (The implication of course being that I must have grown up somewhere other than, say, on the planet Earth.)  The truth is, for whatever reason, my parents never saw fit to teach my sister or me (yes, there’s actually two of us mutants out there) how to ride a bike, nor did they ever buy us one (although I did own a tricycle and am pretty sure I could still tear it up on one of those).  So I had no experience with bicycles except for this one time in kindergarten, when I was playing over at Gregory Siegel’s house.  Gregory, at the ripe old age of five, was already a proficient bike rider.  So his mom brought out his old bike with training wheels for me to ride and Gregory took out his spiffy new bike (which I’m sure had some specific name you’d recognize, but given that I know nothing about bikes, I have no idea what it was).  Gregory and I rode all over the neighborhood (this, of course, was back in the day when five year olds were routinely let loose on the world at large with no supervision whatsoever), and it was all going swimmingly until we hit Manning Avenue.  Manning Avenue was a notoriously hilly street that was fairly well trafficked and, in hindsight, not a really terrificly safe street for two five-year-old cyclists to frolic upon.  As we careened down the hill, straight towards an intersection, it occurred to me that Gregory never mentioned how I should stop the bike.  Fearing that I was going to go flying uncontrollably into oncoming traffic, I decided to stop myself the only way I knew how: by flipping the bike.  I probably should’ve gone left onto the soft patch of sidewalk grass, but instead I went right—right into a low brick wall.  The result was a badly scraped torso and a certain resolve to never ever get back on the horse, so to speak. 

This oddity—not being able to ride a bike—became deeply ingrained in the fabric of who I am.  So much so, that somewhere along the way, when my relationship with my now husband was becoming more serious, I sat him down and explained that if he really wanted a life with me, he had to understand that there would be no family bike rides in his future.  He laughed and said he could live without them, but probably deep down thought that I would be amenable to learning at some point.  But I knew I wouldn’t ever want to learn; there had been plenty of men before him who, when they discovered that I couldn’t ride a bike, had (annoyingly) insisted they could teach me.  Most notably, once during my freshman year in college, I had gone on a date with an upperclassman I’d met briefly at a party.  By the time he brought me back to my dorm, I knew I wasn’t remotely interested in him and there would be no second date.  But in the interest of prolonging the evening, he kept me talking outside my dorm (clearly in a last ditch effort to get some sort of sexual return on the El Torito meal he’d bought me).  Somehow it came up that I couldn’t ride a bike, and after the requisite initial shock, followed by disbelief, followed by thinly veiled pity, he decided that it was his duty to teach me to ride one right then and there.  And by some unhappy coincidence, there just so happened to be a lone bike leaning up against a nearby tree, that, by some even unhappier coincidence, happened to be the one bike on campus that was not tethered to anything.  I desperately did not want to deal with attempting to ride the bike and knew there was regrettably only one way I could avert his attention from his newfound enthusiasm for teaching me how to ride it.  So yes, I let him kiss me.  It wasn’t one of my prouder moments, but I have to say, I stand by the decision.  It was the right call.

See—and I know this is almost blasphemous to say—I really feel at peace with not being able to ride a bike.  I don’t ever look out the window and think, “It’s such a nice day for a bike ride.  If only…”  Nope, never.  The same way I don’t ever think, “Gee, if only I had a third hand.  Just think of what I could get done…”  (Although now that I do think about it, it would be really cool to have a third hand; I could type and eat at exactly the same time.  Or do my make-up while brushing my hair.  Or read a book while knitting.  Not that I knit, but with a third hand I’d have the time extra time to learn…  Anyway, I digress.)  No, I’m sorry bike-lovin’ folks, but not being able to ride a bike has had absolutely zero negative impact on my existence.  And that is precisely why I was so stunned by the mixture of utter joy and pride I felt as my husband let go of the back of my daughter’s bike and I watched her ride off on her own, and then, not thirty seconds later, I further watched as she rode headlong into a bush (I guess instructions on how to stop are not customarily proffered until after the first fall?), emerge, and while pulling leaves out of her mouth, announce, “I’m fine!” before getting back on her bike and riding off again.  The crash, which was for me a total lifelong deal breaker, necessitating premarital disclosures and slobbery, unwanted kisses, was for my daughter, a total nonevent.

Given my complete apathy towards cycling, I tried to understand why I felt this tremendous surge of vicarious accomplishment watching my daughter ride her bike, fall and then get right back on.  And it made me recall her birth.  I distinctly remember bringing her home from the hospital and in my heightened hormonal, emotional state, confusedly thinking she was me; that her name was actually Kimberly (as I was called in childhood), and that I, adult Kim, was actually raising myself, baby Kimberly.  Okay, I should also disclose that I happened to be hopped up on a helluva lot of Vicodin due to a harrowingly difficult delivery, so that could be partly responsible for my hallucinatory thoughts.  (And if you’re raising your eyebrow at the sheer lunacy of this notion, just imagine how my husband felt when I confessed this concept to him whilst rocking my two-day-old daughter.  If he hadn’t been so afraid to hold the baby, I’m fairly certain he would have quickly removed her from my mentally unstable arms.)  However, in all fairness, I do believe that there is something valid to my trippy, hormone and drug-induced hallucinations.  Our children are extensions of us; that’s undeniable.  But aren’t their existences also opportunities for us to heal ourselves of the pains and failures we experienced in our youths?  By giving our kids the things we never had but longed for, by correcting the mistakes our own parents made, by teaching them the things we never learned and by loving them the way we longed to be loved—aren’t we in effect re-raising ourselves?  Maybe that’s the reason why parenting, which I think we can all agree is really hard (and let’s face it, a whole hell of a lot of trouble), is so unbelievably rewarding.  We get to reinvent the wheel.

So yes, my daughter’s ability to ride her bike is incredibly amazing to me.  In this small little way, at the age of seven, she is already a more perfected version of myself.  And yet, now that I’m on the other side of my Vicodin fog, I can see that she is her own person as well.  While I don’t know what twists and turns her life will take, or in what ways our lives will dovetail and diverge from one another’s, I do know that she can ride a bike.  And that, in being able to ride one, she’ll never have to kiss some guy who bought her a chimichanga just to avoid having to ride one. 

I can vaguely remember a time in my life in wherein my existence was not punctuated by excrement.  A time when the word “poop” never came up, let alone was the subject of protracted conversations.  Aside from the occasional stepping-in-dog-poop incident or the time in ninth grade when I was pooped on by a seagull (turns out it really is good luck), I simply didn’t have transactions with others’ feces. 

That all changed of course when I had kids.

It started with the bright red and green “Christmas” poop my daughter passed when she was five weeks old.  The red part, the doctor told us, was blood; the green part was apparently not unusual.  The sum total of the colors meant a dairy allergy and led to a dairy-free diet for me and the beginning of all too many conversations between my husband and myself that began with the very sexy phrase, “So how was the poop?”

When my daughter was around a year or so old, she would wake up in the morning, hang out in her crib for a while and do her business in her diaper until we’d come in to get her.  One morning though, when we entered her room, she had a surprise waiting for us: somehow she had wedged her hand down deep into her diaper and pulled out her poop.  It was smeared all over her crib, her bedding, her beautiful, muraled wall, and—most horrifyingly—her mouth.  It was like a fecal crime scene, and I might add, a parenting low point, as neither my husband nor I could get through the clean-up without gagging every five seconds.  All, by the way, to the amusement of my crap-laden daughter.

While changing diapers and dealing with poop in general was probably number two on my list of all-time least favorite parenting pastimes (number one being vomit dealings—hate those), I took solace in the fact that my daughter, a) only pooped once a day (I almost passed out hearing tales from friends whose children pooped several times a day); and b) only pooped at home, which meant no on-the-fly diaper changing in my car or in some totally gross park bathroom.  In addition, my husband and I developed a poopy diaper schedule, so I was only really responsible for roughly half of the diaper changes (though the trade-off was I had to stand by and bite my tongue as my husband used upwards of five wipes per changing; and he often left the wipes container open when he finished, leading to an assortment of dried out wipes.).  Still, I dreamed of the day when we would be diaper-free.  And that day finally came a month after my daughter turned three, when she miraculously potty-trained all on her own.  (Okay, I bribed her.  But it worked, and that’s what counts.)

My general timing wasn’t great, however, because a mere few months later, I gave birth to my son and we were back in diapers and elbow deep in poop again.  Fortunately though, this child was as disciplined as my daughter: one poop per day and always at home.  Guess he got the memo about how we did poop in our house.

The memo he didn’t get, unfortunately, was the potty-training one.  Oh sure, he potty-trained at three as well—actually he did it a month before three, ostensibly to show up his sister.  But he had one notable caveat: no pooping in the potty.  Which meant when it came time to poop, he would ask for a diaper and then do his business in there.  At his three-year check-up, I asked the doctor about this curious phenomenon.  She assured me it was totally normal—especially for boys—and told me to give him a few months.

Well, I gave him a few months, accommodating his insistent requests for diapers.  We continued to change his poopy diapers, and dealt with leakage issues and aggressively smellier, fouler bowel movements as they matured from baby poo-poos to full-blown kid poops.  The months stretched on.  And on.  Finally, the doctor suggested bribing him with a special toy he’d get to pick out himself.  So off we went to Target where I gave my son instructions to pick out whatever toy he wanted.  He chose Batman and some sort of Bat-vehicle.  I explained that this was his special pooping in the potty toy.  He could have it when he made his poo-poo in the potty, but until then, I would hold onto it at home.  That evening, when he came to ask me for his diaper, I reminded him about the Batman toy and asked if he wanted to try pooping in the potty.  He agreed to try.  And guess what?  He pooped right in the potty!   Success!  I happily gave him his Batman and Bat-vehicle and breathed a sigh of relief.  No more poopy diapers!

That is, until the next evening when he came to me and asked for a diaper.  I gently reminded him that he was a big boy now who pooped in the potty and offered to take him upstairs to his bathroom.  He started to panic and told me he didn’t want to poop in the potty—he wanted to poop in his diaper.  I explained that the special Batman was only his if he pooped in the potty and that if he was pooping in diapers, he would have to give it back.  He hung his head low and left to go upstairs to poop—or so I thought.  Three minutes later, he laid his new Batman and Bat-vehicle at my feet, looked up at me and said, “Now can I have my diaper?”

This went on.  We cajoled, we begged, we bribed, we withheld.  Nothing got this kid to start pooping in the potty.  Finally I came up with a brilliant plan.  Three months before his fourth birthday, I told him that four year olds don’t use diapers anymore.  They poop in the potty.  He accepted this as gospel.  And for three months we discussed the changing of the guard that was going to occur when he turned four.  He was totally on board and it became a mantra between us.  “What happens when we turn four?” I would ask.  “We poop in the potty,” he would answer.

The morning of his fourth birthday, I made a really big deal of clearing his room of the changing pad, the Diaper Champ, the diapers and all those dried out wipes.  He cheered me on.  No more diapers!  We were in total agreement.

That is, until that evening when he came to me and said, “Mommy, can I have my diaper? I need to poop.”  I reiterated that since he was four, there were no more diapers.  He got that panicky look and started crying, begging for his diaper.  But I held my ground.  I was not going to crack, not going to back down.  This was my line in the sand.  “No diapers.  Potty only,” I insisted. 

He didn’t poop that night.  Or the following night.  Or the one after that.  But it was clear he was getting uncomfortable and wouldn’t be able to hold it much longer.  And we would be there with the potty when it was time.

Unfortunately, the time came when we were at our friends’ house for brunch.  Our son had gone to the bathroom to pee standing up, and well, that’s when the dam burst.  We heard screams.  The rest is a bit of a blur.  I can only say there were not enough apologies for our gracious hosts who just never saw the complete fertilization of their bathroom coming. 

Still we persisted.  The pattern seemed to be that he could hold it for 3-4 days before he would blow.  And unfortunately, he would blow in the least conducive places.  The next time it happened we were at an outdoor restaurant at Griffith Park having a playdate with another mom and her daughter.  The kids played as us moms sat at the table talking, until suddenly, without warning, we heard the now all-too-familiar screams.  I scooped my son up and shuttled him off to the foulest, most disgusting park bathroom imaginable—the kind I had managed to avoid thanks to my two civilized children who only pooped at home.  Yet here I was now—sans dried out wipes—with nothing but wet toilet paper and my complete humiliation to trade on.

And yet, I forged on.  Stubborn and strong-willed, I was sure I could outlast my son (who unfortunately seemed to be built in my very image).  Three more days passed.  Then one night he came to me in a panic.  It was time.  “Ricky, get the suitcase!”  (Sorry, couldn’t resist.  Gotta love “I Love Lucy.”)  I took him up to his potty and put him on it.  He cried and said he couldn’t do it.  I told him he could.  He begged for his diaper.  I countered that he was a big boy and big boys pooped in the potty.  I offered to read to him while he pooped.  I offered to hold his hand.  I could see the utter fear in his eyes and how conflicted he was.  I assured him he was not going to fall in the bowl and that no harm would come of him from pooping in the potty.  But still he resisted.  Finally, I decided to help him along.  I lifted him up so that he was standing on the potty and I made him crouch down so that his bottom was hovering over the bowl.  The pressure this put on his rectum was obvious—he immediately started shrieking, totally terrified of what was to come.  The poop turned on like a spigot, and at exactly the same moment, he started peeing—all over me, since I was right in the line of fire.  But since I was holding him up, I couldn’t let go or move; I just had to take the urinary onslaught.  And it was then that I had an out-of-body experience.  Hovering overhead, I saw the scene: a freaked out, screaming and crying little boy peeing and pooping while crouched over a toilet, held up by his insanely driven, pee-drenched mother. 

And I had to ask myself: how did I get here?  After all, I had once been a person who didn’t deal in excrement.  Now this?  How had I sunk so low?

After that scarring episode (for me, not him), I gave my son his diapers back.  I felt both happiness and shame when I saw the palpable relief come over his face.  Happiness that we both were not going to be tormented by this crazy potty-training business any longer, and shame that I let it go on as long as I did.  My desire to get my son toilet-trained and be out of the world of diapers and explosive poops and constant poop-changing negotiations with my husband (“Is it your turn?”  “No, I did it last time.”  “Well, do you want to do it again?”), coupled with my over-arching desire to stand my ground, overtook my ability to look at the situation rationally.  People tell you all the time, “Don’t worry, he won’t still be doing ______ when he goes to college.”  (Insert whatever worrisome habit your child has in the blank.)  And it sounds stupid because obviously you know your child won’t be still dragging around his blanket or sucking his thumb or playing with his penis in public when he’s in college (okay, that last one is debatable based on some guys I knew in college, but you get the picture).  Yet here’s the thing: it may sound stupid, but it is true.  My son will not still be pooping in a diaper when he goes to college.  Or when he goes to high school.  Or middle school.  Or hopefully, when he enters the fourth grade.  But when he decides to start pooping in the potty is not something I can control, and that’s really the lesson here.  His control issues vis-à-vis his poop are his control issues and I need to respect that.

So we are still in diapers.  I am still elbow deep in poop.  The wipes are still dried out and getting used up at an alarmingly fast pace.  My husband and I still have way too many discussions pertaining to fecal matters.  But you know what?  I’m okay with it.  And that’s the straight poop.

After my son was born, bringing the kid-count in my home to two (three, if I counted my husband, which I sometimes did), I broke down and decided I needed some extra help.  I had my weekly cleaning person, but what I needed was someone to occupy my 3 ½ year daughter so I could actually get something accomplished in between baby feedings.  Part of what spurred on this realization was when my husband (probably incentivized by his own desire to get his wife back, and willing to throw regular sums of money at the problem) told me point blank:  “You need help.”  Still I dragged my feet, as the idea of finding, hiring and having someone in my home a few days a week seemed daunting and not just a little bit intimidating.  My husband could see I was stalling—or rather, stone-walling—so he took up the cause himself. 

His search led him right to Craig’s List, which made me a little nervous.  Granted, I knew Craig’s List was a great resource for finding used furniture and collectibles, and I had heard it was even a good resource for finding relationships—or even sex without the complications of the relationship.  But as a resource for finding a nanny—the person who would love and care for our children?  Quite frankly, I would have been more comfortable if my husband had told me he was scouring Craig’s List for a used toilet.

That is, until he showed me an ad entitled, “Experienced Childcare Provider Seeking Part-Time Work.”  “Hannah” (I’ve changed her name for reasons I’m not entirely sure of) was 22 years old and held a degree in Psychology from a good university.  Since graduating, she had been working as a preschool teacher but planned to go back to school to study child development.  She was from a small town in Washington (seemed wholesome to me), loved children and had extensive experience as a caregiver.  I had been a part-time nanny when I was a senior in college and remembered how much fun I had had with my charges—and it struck a chord.  Plus, Hannah’s hourly rate was miraculously about two-thirds of the going rate and she was willing to do errands and housework, if needed.  If Hannah turned out to be everything she claimed to be, she would be perfect.

Hannah showed up for her interview and didn’t disappoint.  She was pleasant-looking, but thankfully not a knock out (after just having had baby number two and feeling about as unsexy as possible, I definitely didn’t need a hot 22-year-old traipsing around my house reminding me of just what a mess I was).  She said all the right things, agreed with my parenting philosophies and seemed to be a genuinely good person.  Most importantly, she interacted extremely well with my daughter who usually took a while to warm up to people.  What Hannah was doing on Craig’s List, I had no idea, but I wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

After checking her references—which came back glowing—we offered Hannah the job.  (We had interviewed one other candidate for good measure, but she completely paled in comparison.)  Hannah readily accepted.  My husband and I were both over the moon.  We had secured the dream nanny and it had been so easy!

Hannah’s first day on the job was great.  She kept my daughter occupied and happy the entire time, allowing me to focus on my newborn while he was awake and get some much needed organizing done while he slept.  I felt lighter than I had in weeks, like I finally had a handle on multiple-child parenting.  It was glorious.  Hannah left that day confirming that she’d be there at noon the following day.  After she left, my daughter bubbled over about how much fun Hannah was to play with and how much she loved her.

The following day, both my daughter and I were giddy with anticipation for Hannah’s arrival.  Noon came and went, and no Hannah.  At about 12:15, I started getting irritated by her tardiness—not an auspicious beginning.  By 12:30, I was downright pissed.  Pissed that I would have to give her a lecture about getting to work on time, which would no doubt start our relationship off on a sour note.  I didn’t want sour; I wanted sweet.

At one o’clock, following an hour of pacing, checking the window incessantly and two increasingly tense messages left on Hannah’s cell phone, I decided she wasn’t coming.  This threw me; the last thing I would have pegged Hannah for was a flake.  I figured Hannah would call me later that day or that evening with some sort of “emergency” excuse—something that had come up that couldn’t be avoided—and explain that she hadn’t had my phone number on hand to call me and let me know.  Then she would apologize and I would acquiesce and tell her that it just couldn’t happen again.

But Hannah never called.

Over the ensuing days, Hannah’s rejection of us was all I could think about.  Weren’t my children the model children to nanny for?  Wasn’t I the easy-going, mellow boss whom anyone would be thrilled to have?  My home was neat, there were no strange smells as far as I knew or anything else that could possibly be offensive… What could be the reason for Hannah’s lack of return?  Had something bad happened to her?  Was she lying in a coma in a hospital somewhere, or worse—was my perfect Craig’s List find dead?

“Hi Hannah, it’s Kim, your, um, employer,” I said, on her voice mail.  “It’s been several days since you said you were coming to work and never showed.  It’s fine if you don’t want to work for us anymore, but I’m actually, um, really worried about you—that something may’ve happened to you.  So if you could at least call me back and let me know you’re okay, I’d really appreciate it.”

Within twenty minutes, the phone rang.  Hannah explained that she had had a “family emergency” and was back in Washington where she would have to stay for an “undetermined” length of time.  She apologized for worrying me and said that she was sorry she wouldn’t be able to work for us after all, then hung up, leaving me with more questions.  What kind of emergency?  Why hadn’t she called as soon as she knew?  How could she just drop everything and move home?

It was my best friend who broke it to me gently:  “There was no emergency,” she explained.  “She quit and didn’t have the guts to tell you.”

I felt awful and obsessed about it for days.  It was worse than any break-up I had suffered at the hands of any guy I had dated.  Why didn’t she like us?  Why didn’t she want to work for us any longer?   I had fantasies of stalking Hannah’s apartment.  Of waiting in my car until she came out—proving she really was still in L.A.—and then jumping out and confronting her.  I desperately wanted to catch her in her lie—as if catching her would somehow validate that she was the problem, not me.

Finally, due to my husband’s insistence that I move on, I went back to the Craig’s List ads to seek out a new nanny.  A week to the day of Hannah’s disappearance, I saw it:  “Experienced Childcare Provider Seeking Part-Time Work.”  Could it be?  I quickly scanned the ad and sure enough, it was verbatim the same ad Hannah had placed when we found her.  There was one notable change however: she was asking for more money.  Specifically, the going rate for nannies at the time. 

In retrospect, I realize that Hannah must have discovered she was selling herself short in the salary department, but because she was young and inexperienced, probably didn’t know how to come to me and ask for more money after already being hired for the hourly rate she had originally requested.  On the one hand, I wish she had asked me for an increase—I would have happily paid her more.  But on the other hand, if Hannah’s way of dealing with conflict was to avoid it all together, we probably wouldn’t have been a good match in the long run anyway.

In time, I realized that my over-the-top obsession with Hannah and her rejection of us was more about me than it was about Hannah.  As parents hiring caregivers, we are placed in a role of being our own human resource department—a role that is undoubtedly outside of our comfort zone for many of us.  We can perform criminal background checks, ensure that car insurance is up-to-date and read reference letters up the wazoo, but the simple truth us, we have to rely on our own judgment and instincts; there are no guarantees.  And finding out through a bad experience that our judgment may be faulty can be a very scary feeling.

Eventually, we found someone who worked well for our family at the time.  She didn’t have the youth or pedigree or education that Hannah possessed, but in many respects that turned out not to be a bad thing.  It was a while before my fantasies of stalking Hannah died down (in one insane moment I actually entertained the notion of issuing a warning on Craig’s List about her, but ultimately came to my senses).  And over time, I forgot about her.  But because I’m meant to be tortured by these things forever, every year or so (it’s been four years now), my daughter approaches me out of the blue and says, “Remember my nanny, Hannah?  I really loved her.” 

Losing a tooth doesn’t have to be painful—especially when it’s not your own.  But I remember how unprepared I felt when my daughter came home from school one day and proudly opened her mouth to display the brand new gap where one of her lower teeth had once resided.  I had such fond memories of the tooth fairy from my childhood (well, as fond of memories you can have about someone you’ve never met) and I wanted my daughter to have the same experience.  But there were so many questions and concerns:  what was the going rate for a tooth these days (was a dollar for the first tooth and a quarter for each subsequent tooth sufficient, or had the tooth fairy too fallen prey to inflation?); what if I forgot to make the tooth/money swap one night (I’ve never been good under pressure); and worse—what if I got caught red-handed?

Fortunately, on the advice of other moms I knew, I had gone to the bank and gotten ten dollars worth of gold dollar coins to have on hand (these can also be procured from older postage machines that still accept and make change for cash).  I had also had the foresight to stash away a two dollar bill I received as change months before.  I decided for the first tooth I would give my daughter the two dollar bill and one gold dollar.  So I was set in the compensation department. 

It may be my writer’s background, but the thing I was most excited about was creating a persona for my daughter’s personal tooth fairy so that I could leave her notes from the tooth fairy after each lost tooth.  First, I came up with a name.  After researching fairy names online, I came up with the name “Azalea Primrose” for it’s flowery yet slightly puritanical feel.  Then I came up with a back story for Azalea Primrose:  I decided to make her fresh out of tooth fairy school and something of a ditz.  (I did this for practical reasons.  I figured if I ever accidentally forgot to make the switch one night, it could easily be explained away by the mere fact that Azalea was a tooth fairy novice; she couldn’t be held to the standards of other, more experienced tooth fairies.)  I found a whimsical font to type the note in and printed the note in purple ink. 

In the first letter, channeling Azalea Primrose, I focused on introducing myself as my daughter’s tooth fairy, how excited I was for her to be my very first “assignment,” and complimenting her on what a wonderful job she was doing taking care of her teeth.  (In subsequent notes, I had more fun with it: giving my daughter friendship advice that “coincidentally” mirrored issues she was facing with her own friends and recounting fanciful stories of Azalea’s experiences with the other kids she tooth fairied for.) 

Making the drop/switch was complicated, to say the least.  It took several attempts of me peeking into my daughter’s room under the guise that I was “checking on her” before I found her sound asleep enough that I was able to tiptoe in and make the switch undetected.  Later, as other teeth were lost, my daughter developed an inability to fall asleep on tooth fairy nights, so excited was she to try and “catch” the tooth fairy, that on numerous occasions I was forced to military crawl into her room, once getting stuck there for forty minutes until I finally heard the reliable sound of her deep sleep breathing.  Another time, my husband had to create a diversion to get me out of there.  (Yes, after spending forty minutes hunkered down on your child’s floor trying not to move a muscle, you develop drills and diversion tactics with the hubby.)  And still another time, my daughter actually caught me lying on the floor beside her bed.  I told her I liked to listen to her sleep.  (Clearly I’m not the best at fabricating lies on the fly.)

But truthfully, the most difficult part about being the tooth fairy is keeping my daughter convinced that the tooth fairy really does exist.  Turns out, six to seven year olds are a lot more savvy than they used to be.  We have had several conversations that go something like this:

Daughter:  “Mommy, do you believe in the tooth fairy?”

Me:  “Why, yes, I do.”

Daughter:  “But do you ever think sometimes like, maybe she’s not real?  Like maybe… she’s you?”

My husband and I have had several conversations about it as well. They go something like this:

Husband:  “Stop lying to the kid!  You’re going to turn her into a freak!”

But I think there is something magical about believing in the tooth fairy.  There is something magical about believing that there is a fairy out there who loves you so much that your discarded baby teeth mean something to her—so much so that she’s willing to pay you cold, hard cash for them.  And in that respect, doesn’t the tooth fairy really exist in all of us moms?  Those tiny, little milk teeth (weird how they look so much smaller outside of your child’s mouth, don’t you think?) mean the world to us.  And losing them represents that our child has entered a new phase in his/her life—marking the completion of the transition from baby to big kid.  So maybe the tooth fairy is not about our child after all.  Maybe it’s about creating a myth that helps our kids stay innocent for just a little longer until mentally, we are able to truly accept the transition.  And to that end, what’s a little white lie?

So it’s Saturday morning and you’ve managed to get the kids up (well, to be fair, they got you up—no one would choose to wake up at 6am on the weekend), fed and dressed and out the door by 9:30 to make it to the birthday party at the play gym across town by 10am.  But halfway there you begin to have a nagging suspicion that you’ve forgotten something.  A quick check in the rearview mirror confirms that both kids are indeed in the car, both have shirts, bottoms and shoes on their persons—and their shoes are even on the right feet (bonus points).  Hair has been detangled, noses have been irrigated and you even remembered to clean the jam from breakfast off their faces (usually a souvenir they get to keep with them all day).  You sigh a breath of relief and give yourself a mental pat on the back for being a mom who is truly on top of things.  That is, until you arrive at the party and see the mound of birthday presents sitting by the door and suddenly realize: you forgot to buy a present.

As busy moms trying to run households, our To-Do lists seemingly never-ending, any deviation from the normal routine is added stress.  And when your kids enter school and make friends and more friends and then still more friends, suddenly there are birthday parties every weekend—sometimes multiple birthday parties on any given Saturday.  Too often you find yourself running out on Saturday morning to your local kiddie boutique and paying astronomical prices for a ceramic tea set or a plastic Marble Run set, silently berating yourself for not remembering to pick up a present when you were at Target on Tuesday. 

Well, I have good news: there is a better way.  And it’s called “The Gift Closet.”

The Gift Closet is a place in your home where you store presents for upcoming parties. (Could be an actual closet, could be a box under your bed, could even be the shed your husband keeps all the tools—not like he’s ever gone in there since you had the kids.)  Ideally, you store a few gifts in each of the age ranges of your children and then perhaps a few others for the random older child or the newborn baby of an acquaintance.  You can choose to store gender specific toys (although this might require more storage space if you’ll be attending both boy and girl parties) or gender neutral toys.  I like to store toys that my kids own and enjoy.  For instance, when my daughter developed a passion for Hannah Montana dolls, I bought several extra to have on hand.  And when my son begged me to buy him a Justice League action figure set, three more sets just like it found their way into my gift closet.  Buying ahead also allows you to purchase items when they’re on sale as well, so you then have the option to purchase more expensive gifts than you normally would or buy what you would have and pocket the savings (and who doesn’t love to save a buck?). 

The Gift Closet can be utilized for other gifts as well.  Housewarming and hostess gifts are great items to keep on hand.  As are small “sibling gifts” for the older siblings of new babies.

Here are some ideas to get your Gift Closet going:

If space is limited:  Stock with books, small science and nature kits (one I love is The Live Butterfly Garden—it’s fun for a wide range of ages), wooden magnetic dress-up dolls, food or stamp kits (a gender neutral crowd-pleaser for the 3-year-old set is Melissa & Doug’s Cutting Food Box).  Also good are Polly Pocket kits, action figures and the smaller Lego kits.  Just make sure to think small and don’t overbuy for your space.

If you have a little more space:  Larger Lego kits, baby dolls, Barbie dolls & Barbie accessories, Tonka trucks and Hot Wheels sets.  Board games are gender neutral (and easy to wrap!).  For littler kids, choose games like Zingo and Cariboo.  For older kids, Guess Who?, Connect Four and Pictureka! all make great gifts. 

For babies:  Unique onesies, burp cloths, cotton cheesecloth swaddling blankets, rattles and teething toys (I love giving Sophie the Giraffe as a gift because it was my son’s favorite teething toy as a baby). 

For housewarming/hostess gifts:  Aromatherapy candles, small jeweled picture frames, bath salts, good quality stationary. 

Lastly, store gift paper, gift bags, tissue paper, ribbon, bows, scissors, tape and gift tags in your Gift Closet as well to make gift wrapping in a pinch a cinch!

Like many kids growing up in the 70’s and 80’s, meals in my home often came served in an aluminum tray, complete with compartments that housed a meat, a starch, a vegetable and a dessert.  My entrée selection was generally made not so much by whether I was in the mood for fried chicken or meat loaf, but rather by which one came with the warm chocolate pudding or the deliciously burnt brownie.  (Did anyone really like the cherry cobbler?  Or—gasp—the warm apples?)   And because the moms back then had, let’s say, a rather simplistic understanding of nutrition (which pretty much boiled down to the idea that “if my kid doesn’t complain of hunger, he’s well nourished”), my mom assumed that in hitting all of the major food groups, Hungry-Man was the Rolls-Royce of meals (she wasn’t privy to the fact that I routinely trashed my peas and carrots).  So she was happy and I was happy. 

But by the time my kids came along, I had developed a sneaking suspicion that perhaps there was more to nutrition than tough Salisbury steak and soggy tater tots (how was it they were never able to solve the gravy seepage problem?).  So I started researching how I could feed my kids more healthily.  And I discovered that by dedicating a few extra minutes to reading food labels in the grocery store, you can significantly improve your children’s diets.  But what to look for on those labels, you ask?  Well, I’ve compiled a list of tips that I like to use when shopping for food for my family.

1. Shoot for whole foods.  If a label has more than five ingredients, it’s probably a processed food. 
2. An ingredient that you don’t recognize, can’t pronounce or belongs in a box of Crayolas, is most likely a chemical.  Ideally you want to limit or eliminate chemical consumption.   
3. Avoid anything that contains partially hydrogenated oils.  Look for labels that say “No trans fat.”
4. Skip foods that contain nitrates and nitrites (often found in hot dogs and lunch meats), which are known carcinogens.  Health stores (like Whole Foods) sell hot dogs and lunch meats that do not contain nitrates or nitrites. 
5. Choose grain products (cereals, breads, etc.) that contain “whole” grains.  If it’s made with just white or wheat flour, it’s not a good source of whole grains.  Also, choose “brown” grains over “white,” ie. brown rice instead of white rice.
6. Avoid refined sugar (often called high-fructose corn syrup, dextrose, sucrose or any word ending in “ose.”)  Look for foods sweetened with unprocessed sugars like raw honey, fruit juice, molasses, raw cane juice, etc.  But stay away from chemical sweeteners like Splenda and Aspartame.  
7. Beware of misleading labels that boast, “No sugar added!”  These products generally contain a chemical sweetener like Splenda.  Instead look for products that say “unsweetened.”
8. Choose products with packaging that says things like “no preservatives,” “organic,” “no hydrogenated oils,” and “no artificial flavors.” 
9. Whenever possible, go for the unsalted version.
10. Buy only free range poultry and other meat products that contain no added antibiotics or growth hormones, or ideally, are labeled “organic.”

And remember: you don’t have to make drastic changes all at once.  Start with one or two, then when you and your kids have adjusted, choose one or two more and so on.  Good luck and happy shopping!

When my daughter was four, we stopped into the local supermarket to pick up a few things.  While walking down the cereal/granola bar/fruit snacks aisle, her eyes went wide at the staggering amount of sugary snacks that featured animated characters on their respective boxes.  She was particularly drawn to the Disney Princess snacks, but there was also Finding Nemo, Hello Kitty, Spiderman, Superman, Winnie the Pooh, Dora the Explorer and Diego, too!  She immediately started pointing to different boxes asking, “Mommy, can I have that?  And that?”  She had no idea what was actually in those boxes, but no matter; if Belle was on the box, she wanted it. 

As parents trying to make healthy decisions for our children, it’s frustrating to be undermined each time we set foot in the grocery store.  It’s bad enough we have to contend with the melt-down inducing candy at the check-out stands and that pesky Leprechaun boasting that his sugar-laden cereal is “magically delicious,” but now we have to say no to Shrek and The Backyardigans, too? 

The marketers have gotten smarter, branding kid-friendly junk food with virtually every different animated character/movie, ensuring that at least one of those boxes will appeal to every child (a sort of Fruit Roll-Up version of the No Child Left Behind Act).  So we as parents have to get smarter, too.  And no, that doesn’t mean blindfolding your children on trips to the market or distracting them with those nifty fluorescent lights on the ceiling while you hightail the cart down the cereal aisle (although if you can get away with it, more power to you!). 

What it does mean is beating those marketers at their own game.  The next time your child wants the Power Rangers snack, explain the basic principles of marketing to him.  Lower your voice conspiratorially and tell him you’re going to let him in on a secret that the companies who make those unhealthy snacks don’t want him to know about (doesn’t every child love a secret?).  Then explain that those companies put your child’s favorite princess/super hero/green ogre on the boxes to trick him into eating it-- because of course, why would anyone want to eat something they knew was unhealthy?  You can further illustrate your point by asking your child if he believes that Dora or Superman would really eat unhealthy food.  (Dora, after all, needs energy for those long treks she goes on and Superman needs healthy food to help him leap all those buildings in a single bound.)  You can even enlist your child’s help to pass on the message to his friends who may not know this vital, secret information.  Not only does this help in the short-term of the snack aisle, it sets your child up for a lifetime of critical thinking and questioning. 

 It really works, too.  I tried it on my daughter and by the time we were out of the cereal aisle, she was disgusted with those companies for trying to fool her and determined not to fall for their trickery.  And the lesson stuck.  Recently, when my Superhero-obsessed son lamented that he wanted Batman fruit snacks in his lunch like his good friend had, my daughter asked him if he thought Batman would really eat sugary fruit snacks.  “Yes,” he replied.  “Because fruit is healthy!”  Clearly I have my work cut out for me with this one…

Last year was my son's first Christmas. He was 9 months old and enthusiastically celebrated by trying to eat as much wrapping paper as he possibly could.

This year, it really feels like his first Christmas. His first time seeing Christmas trees, twinkle lights... even those horrible blow-up decorations in people's yards. And its truly precious.

He wakes up in the morning, runs to the tree and points at it until we turn it on. Even a simple trip to Target is suddenly magical when we're with him, as he points at the decorations, laughing and clapping with joy. He loves everything he sees (except for the Santa in the mall, who he ran away and hid from).

Our two other kids are getting older and we are entering the stage where - despite our trying to emphasize the true meaning of Christmas - Christmas seems more about presents than anything. They started their Christmas lists in September and the countdown is focused on when they will get to open their presents.

But somehow he has swept our entire family up in his enthusiasm and even refocused his sisters on enjoying the simple things of the holiday season: a string of lights on the neighbor's bushes, hearing bells jingle as you open a door or just sitting in our living room, gazing at the tree.

I love it.

You get to go out … finally!  You’ve been home with your kids 24/7 for the past 3 months without a break, and although you love them dearly, you NEED some time away!  So whether you’re going shopping ALONE or getting a much needed massage or having a date night with your husband (also much needed!), you need to call in the Calvary: a babysitter.

It doesn’t matter if your babysitter is the teenager down the street or your own mother; they both need the same information about your little bundles of joy.  So how do you determine what’s necessary to tell them and what’s going to look ridicules in your sitter’s eyes?  Easy – it’s ALL necessary!  And I’ll give you one excellent reason why:  Because getting time away doesn’t just mean “getting time away.”  It means doing your best to RELAX during your time away.  And how can you relax if you’re worried that you forgot to tell your sitter something?

When you’re thinking of what to write down, don’t just think of the obvious information, like emergency numbers and such.  Here are some suggestions on information they may need while you are gone:

• Think about the time of day that you will be gone, and write down the exact schedule you want your sitter to follow.  Yes, you may vary your child’s naptime, for instance, but your sitter doesn’t know your child like you do, so be precise.
• Don’t just give times, give her your routines also.  If little Suzy needs her pink elephant in order to fall asleep or Bobby will only eat with the fire engine spoon, this knowledge can potentially avoid a meltdown.
• If your kids are a little older, you might want to list things that you just KNOW they are going to try to get away with.  You know what they are!
• Time limits, if you have any, on certain activities, such as video games.
• Specific instructions on outdoor play. 
• Discipline instructions in terms of what you will allow the sitter to use in order to discipline your children.

These are just a few suggestions to get your mind working towards looking at the details of what you deal with everyday, but don’t necessarily think about.  Here are a few more pieces of information that you really MUST leave for your sitter:

• Where you will be, the phone number there, and your cell number.
• Phone numbers for doctors, including specialists, hospital names and numbers and emergency contacts.  These contacts should include at least one close neighbor who will be home and one relative.
• Children’s allergies.
• An Authorization To Treat A Minor form, so your child can be treated at a hospital in the event of an emergency if you are not present yet.
• An updated Child Identification Form for each child.

This about covers it.  Remember, you need some “alone time” and this doesn’t mean you’re not a great parent.  You’ve heard it before:  You’ll be a better parent if you take care of yourself once in a while.  So don’t just arrange to get away, make sure you can relax while you are having that coffee with your girlfriend or getting that pedicure.  After all, you deserve it!

I don’t care which holiday you celebrate – Hanukkah, Christmas, Kwanzaa, etc. – they all have one thing in common.  They all hold the potential for mayhem and madness – especially for us moms!   According to the http://www.apahelpcenter.org -- American Psychological Association, past holiday stressors include lack of money, the pressures of gift giving and lack of time amongst others.  It doesn’t have to be that way though.  Over the last few weeks, I have been speaking with a variety of personal friends and “experts” regarding several aspects of the holiday season.  Below are my five tips for keeping things SIMPLE (or as simple as possible) during the holiday season.

1. Budget for holiday spending.  Since finances are consistently the number one holiday stressor, set yourself up to win from the start.  Recently, I was on a call with financial expert Jean Chatzky www.jeanchatzky.com . She shared the fact that people are still paying off debt from the last holiday season.  As such, she suggests that people don’t spend any more than 1.5% of their take-home pay on the holidays.  To help set a realistic budget, you can find http://www.jeanchatzky.com/swf/calculators/holiday.html holiday budget calculator on her site.  The thing that Jean mentioned (which stood out the most to me) was to include everything - holiday cards, postage, gift wrap, extra grocery costs, etc. – when making your holiday gift budget.  I can tend to just focus on the gift aspect of the budget and overlook those things and they really do add up!    

2. During the holiday season, we moms give so much to everyone else.  There will be plenty of time to connect with family and friends, which is great.  However, it is important that we make the time to take care of ourselves too.  Even if you only have 10 free minutes, use it to take care of yourself. If you need some “me-time” suggestions to help you relax and re-energize yourself, pick up my blogging friend Lyss Stern’s book http://divamoms.com/ If You Give a Mom a Martini… 100 Ways to Find 10 Blissful Minutes for Yourself.

3.  SMART holiday goals. Have you heard about SMART goal setting? The acronym stands for the following:

S = Specific (What exactly are you trying to accomplish?)

M = Measurable (How will you be able to tell whether or not you met your goal?)

A = Attainable (Be honest.  Do you really think that you can reach this goal?)

R = Realistic (If you work your plan, is it do-able?)

T = Timely (Set a definite time frame for what you want to accomplish)

Setting SMART goals is helpful.  Keep in mind though that despite your best plans, life will happen.  Give yourself what I call “wiggle room” – whether it’s time, money, etc., allocate a little extra “just in case”.

4. Try to keep things in perspective. Most of the things that tend to stress us out are relationship based.  Think about it though.  It means that we actually have relationships!  In their absence, life would truly be bleak. 

5.  Others Help. You don’t have to do everything.  For example, if a full meal is too much for you to handle, have a pot-luck style meal instead.  I do that a lot and they are always a ton of fun.  Also, don’t feel like you have to get everything on your kids’ wish lists.  First, decide which things you actually want them to get.  Then, when family and friends ask for gift ideas, give them specific direction.  I’m sure that if you take the time to think about it, you will find many ways to accept the help and support offered from loved ones.  Remember how good it makes you feel to help others and allow others to share in that feeling.

And lastly,

6. Extend yourself to those who are less fortunate. It goes back to keeping things in perspective.  People are really hurting this year financially.  There are so many charitable organizations that need financial donations.  Even if you don’t have extra money to contribute, you can offer your time.  If your kids are old enough to go along while you help, that is even better.  A small amount of time at a soup kitchen, homeless shelter, a hospital and such, will do wonders for your mood.  I promise.  The gift of service to the needy cannot be beat.  If you need some direction, one online service that matches volunteers with needs is http://www.VolunteerSpot.com.

In any event, I hope that these five tips will lessen the mayhem and help your holiday season be more SIMPLE.  Happy Holidays!