A blur of soothers, sippies, commuting and photos

For the January 1, 2008 blog exchange, we are to post about the Best of 2007 Awards. Huh? The first half of my 2007 was spent at home, dazed in babydom, still trying to figure out how to read the operator's manual for this six to twelve month old critter, never mind actually move much beyond walks in the parks, music classes, swim classes and the occasional fringes of a mommy group. I hardly payed attention to the outside world, let alone enough to award anyone of social, political or musical talent. The second half of my year was getting my sorry self back to work. I went back to my job and left my girl to the care of her father. It was easier than leaving her with a stranger, yes, but I was still leaving her. I got retrained to my duties and I reiterated instructions to my husband every morning before heading out the door. Reading blogs became a little less - okay, a lot less - consistent since the return to payed employment, so how can I claim enough knowledge to hand out awards there? The one constant rock throughout the whole year, though, has been my husband [okay, stop rolling your eyes or making little gaggy sounds - it's true!]. He came home early on the days either his wife or his daughter weren't feeling their best. He cooked. He cooks. He took over as stay at home parent with barely a dent in the continuity, despite what I may have thought at the time. He got his daughter out to the mall, to the toddler gym and figured out how to walk her and the dog at the same time. He put up with the photo-a-day project that I signed up for - and saved my butt on more than one occasion with his camera phone. He phased her into day care. Got that? He managed to phase her into daycare calmly and almost peacefully and retain his sanity. And for his final month off before going back to work? He'll be painting and cleaning up the house. Yeah, so that last one's a theoretical, but he seems to be on board... So, here it is: My Best of 2007 Award goes to Mr.Q for being a great husband, an amazing dad and all around great guy.* *despite what may sometimes appear in print on the web ********** Today's post is part of the Blog Exchange and was written by Jenn from Quarter Rest. She blogs about her daughter, husband and everything that may affect those two regularly and is hosting Jodi's post at her blog today - head over and check out her Best of 2007! A note from Jodi: Yes, Jen was my blog exchange partner New Years day last year!

Gold

My name is Alex Elliot. I am a professional Mom of two cats, a dog, an ant farm, and oh yeah...two boys: a preschooler and a toddler. While I am celebrating the randomness of life here as part of the December Blog Exchange, Jodi may be found on my blog Formula Fed and Flexible Parenting. This month's blog exchange topic is to post on silver or gold. We both chose different types of gold.

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When I hear the word gold, I think of the biggest gold "object" in my life, my golden child, my golden retriever Gandalf. Until my older son (OS) was born, Gandalf had been the baby of the family. He got a ton of attention, and he was as close to angelic as a golden retriever could be. He had gone through a couple of years of dog training classes, and he had passed the Delta Society exam to be authorized to visit nursing homes or participate in reading programs for children with literacy challenges. The holidays were particularly special for him, as Gandalf and his two feline older sisters had stockings stuffed with treats and holiday evenings filled cuddling on the couch. Four years ago, however, came the first holiday season where Gandalf was not the center of my attention. OS was three months old, so he got most of my attention. Whatever I had left was focused on another critical goal: making a perfect roast for the holidays. Because I was a vegetarian for a long time, although unlike my friend and host Jodi I am no longer, and because, also unlike Jodi, I'm a lousy cook (although that's been improving!), my prior efforts at at a roast came out just like I imagine a gym shoe would taste. I had seen a crockpot recipe for a horseradish roast. It sounded perfect for a number of reasons

1. I love my crockpot
2. Unless you really mess up, foods in the crockpot are very tender and moist, as opposed to gym shoes which are rarely tender, even when subjected to rain or other forms of moisture
3. We all love horseradish

I bought a perfect cut of meat. It was organic, hormone-free and pretty expensive. I carefully followed all the directions with not even a single short-cut. I even browned the meat on the stove before putting it into the crockpot and covering it with the horseradish mixture. Eight hours later, it came out looking exactly like the picture in the cookbook. I am not kidding; it looked perfect. It was one of my biggest achievements. Okay, now I'm totally kidding, but it would have been rated an A+ by even my friends who are consistently exceptional cooks. My husband, the Big Giraffe, carved the roast. As he carried the festive serving platter to the table, OS began to fuss. The Big Giraffe forked a sliver of meat on his way to help me feed, change, and put OS to bed. The Big Giraffe's lip smacking was even louder than OS's bottle sucking as he declared the roast amazing! We both were very hungry by the time we got downstairs. We both pulled chairs up to the table and made a significant discovery. The roast was gone! Clearly someone had broken into our house and stolen the roast because it looked so perfect! Then we noticed that the door was still locked. Plus, how could someone have broken in without disturbing the dog. Wait, where was the dog? That's when we saw the flash of gold under the table, as Gandalph finished off the last scrap of beef that he had apparently pulled to the floor. As he started licking his chops, he exuded an air of contentment. In addition to losing our perfect meal, it occurred to me that dogs are not supposed to eat 5 pounds of meat in so brief a time. I called the vet, and sure enough she was concerned that he was probably going to have diahrrea from it, so we needed to make sure to let him out every couple of hours that night. We didn't go to bed hungry. In fact, the Big Giraffe didn't go to bed at all. He dozed in the guest room, setting the alarm to get up every couple of hours to let Gandalf out. How do you replace a meal stolen by a golden dog? Call Golden Pizza, of course. Unfortunately that was not an adequate replacement, but at least I didn't go to bed hungry either. Gandalph never got sick. I have never been able to recreate that roast. We wonder if the whole thing was as good as it looked and as the first sliver tasted. Of course the only one who knows the answer is Gandalph, and he's not parting with any secrets.

Get Your Dukes Up!

It's Debate Time. This month's Blog Exchange has an interesting twist. Instead of exchanging posts, this month we are debating each other. My partner is the lovely Allison, who over the past year has become an email friend. But, I refuse to allow our friendship color my debate. So, Allison, it's on. Our topic, character toys. Allison is very anti allowing her children (two identical twin boys and a girl, she is all kinds of brave), play with character toys. And I represent the pro side. But, I more represent the huh side, because I just don't get the con. I think Allison would argue that character toys do not allow children to be creative. I have seen the exact opposite with Michael. Dora becomes a pirate with the Backyardigans, Elmo is sometimes a member of the band. Michael has plenty of character and non character toys. As long as I don't tell him Elmo has to be Elmo, he is just another one of the toys. How does she handle Christmas? Or Birthday presents? Does she take the toys away after they have been given to the children? Do all family and friends know no character toys? As I said, I just don't get it. I feel like there is so many things to argue about with Michael . No, he can't watch TV, no he can't have a cookie, no he can't cross the street without holding my hand. But he can play with Cookie Monster and Big Bird. To this day, I remember being devastated because I was not allowed to have the easy bank oven, Snoopy snow cone maker, or Barbie head that you put make up on because they made a mess. My mom took a hard line approach to messy toys. I really want Michael to remember more than he was not allowed to have Blue. It's just not that important to me. But, that's the thing about parenting, we all get to make our own decisions. Now, go tell Allison I won the debate!

Black

I began my elementary school teaching career in suburban Seattle, but I didn’t have my own classroom until I moved to Kansas City. I should have been suspicious when the principal offered me a job on the spot, but after two years of long-term subbing, I was desperate for my own classroom. I was dying to make a difference. I liked the fact that the school was . . .um. . . in a financially challenged (some might say “blighted”) neighborhood.

I bounced into school on the first day, determined to bring the joy of learning into the children’s lives. My class was small (as was my classroom), with a wonderful mix of Latino and African-American students. The first graders seemed so sweet and tiny. After getting them all settled in, I called them over to the “reading area” and began to read them poems from my “Multi-cultural Poems” book.

After reading a poem about the beauty of African-American skin, a little boy raised his hand. I was so proud of myself for remembering his name already, I said, “Yes, Trevor?”

“What’s an African-American?” he asked. He was not one of the Latino students.

I didn’t know exactly what to say. I sputtered out some long, lovely descriptive paragraph that basically amounted to, ‘you are’.

“No, Ms.Teacher, I be black,” Trevor said decisively. The other students nodded, looking at me like I was clueless. It was right then that I realized that subbing in the ‘burbs had not been much preparation for my new job.

This post brought to you as part of the Blog Exchange. Jerseygirl89 normally blogs about mommyhood, pop culture and politics at Dirty Little Secret. Thanks to Jodi for letting me post here and make sure you go check out her her post.

Dads of the 21st Century

So Father’s Day is coming and I have a small bone to pick with Hallmark, American Greetings, and their ilk. A bone and a news-flash: I know you may find this nearly impossible to believe, but my dad does not play golf. Neither does my husband. Nor do they sit on their butts all day with a beer in one hand and a remote in the other. They do not fish, tinker with their cars, or obsess about sports in any way, shape or form. And neither of them owns a recliner!

Therefore: Father’s Day cards featuring the above don’t work for me and my kids. We come to the drugstore prepared to drop $5—maybe $10!—on cards for Daddy and Grandpa. And we find: nothing. I don’t want to tease my dad about his (nonexistent) TV habit; the man is far (far, far!) more physically fit than I am. I don’t want to give my husband a card with a necktie on it; he wears one maybe three times a year.

There are cards now for your grandma’s new hip and your boss’s new job and your neighbor’s new pool. How about some Father’s Day cards that branch out maybe a teensy bit beyond the ‘60s stereotypes? My dad was as close as he could get to a stay-at-home dad—two decades ago. My husband is one of the best cooks I know and is also the chief tailor/button-sewer-onner in our household. Any chance that we’ll find cards that really reflect our guys and how much they mean to us?

I doubt it. So we’ll be getting out the construction paper and markers and taking matters into our own hands. Nothing says “We love you” like toddler scribbles and some Dora the Explorer stickers—am I right?

This post is part of The Blog Exchange. When she’s not overseeing craft projects and plotting corporate take-downs, working mom of two Mayberry blogs about life in a small Midwestern town. Stop by today to see Jodi’s post!

Raising a Future Mother

When I had my daughter, I started having all this anxiety about raising her. With my 3-year-old son, it was so much easier. The world has very low expectations for teaching boys. My religion has a few higher standards but they still aren’t nearly as much as what we’re “supposed” to teach our daughters. I have to teach my son the value of work, the value of education, how to treat a woman, how to be a profitable member of society (just to name a few). But I not only do I have to teach my daughter all those things but on top of that I’m “supposed” to teach her how to cook, clean, how to dress attractively (which encompasses so much: hair, make-up, accessories, modesty ect.), how to decorate, and the ins and outs of manipulating your husband. Lol. More simply put, I have to teach her how to be a mother. Now this is no small undertaking. Of course, you could turn that around and say that I have to teach my son how to be a father, but then this post wouldn’t be about mothers. So my anxiety is how can I possibly teach someone how to be a mother when I’m only learning myself? My mother was a wonderful teacher. I just wasn’t a very attentive student. I didn’t care to learn how to cook, I was more interested in boys. Which brings me to my next question, how do I teach my daughter this if she says she has no intentions of ever becoming a mother? I guess my questions are answered simply that the best way I can teach is through example. Therefore, I will have to step up my game a little and start trying to be better at cooking, cleaning and all those other perfect mom things. And in the event that she doesn’t learn half this stuff I’m trying to teach her then she’ll just go through a bunch of hard knocks like I am because of my failure to listen to my mother. This post was written by Kendra over at Dramatized Reality. She has a 3-year-old son and a 8-month-old daughter. When she’s not keeping busy with her children, she likes to play the piano, scrapbook, read and sew. She is currently in the process of moving her family....this week.

Pass the Wipes Please

Today is the Blog Exchange. Please read Amanda's hysterical post and then click on the link to find me!

Each day my quirks are getting quirkier. Ever since we became parents I have wanted, like most new parents, to provide a safe and clean environment. This isn't to say that I always have the laundry folded or the dishes done, because I don't. I just want a place where our girls can play, sleep, and grow. A start would be no shoes in the house and no fingers where they shouldn't be. I don't think it's too much to ask. A while back Briar discovered the magic circle under the tails of our cat and dog, also known as their "boo boo" -- (Talking about the anus.)

"No honey, mama said don't touch." "No, put your fairy wand away, that will hurt the kitty." "Honey, no. "Barnaby doesn't want that in there." "Leave the dog's boo boo alone." "Honey, mama said no, if you do that again Ella won't be able to go poopin' in the backyard." "STOP. Mommy said no touch!" "Owie. It hurts. It hurts a Ella in'air." "That's right honey, touching Ella there could hurt her in there."

I tried establishing a "No Shoes on in the House" rule. Sean made this wonderful little sign with a stamp print of Avery's 30 minute old foot and put it on the front door.

Would you mind taking off your shoes? "Oh, ok. Oh look, Ella. Hi baby dog." "Aw, could you just take off your shoes, and please, don't say hello to Ella yet I have to put her in---" "Ella, Ella, Ella. I love you so much Ella!" This being said with dancing, stomping feet. "Please stop, I need to take her--" Damnit, too late. She peed on the floor. "Oh, that's ok, c'mere sweetie. Let's go in the kitchen." "But. Your shoes. Please."

And instead of removing them they fast tiptoe across the floor. What the hell? Moving faster is going to make the 87,000 different kinds of fecal matter, oily street funk and who-knows-what-else not smear across the floor? If you tiptoe does that somehow counteract the fact that your hundred and fifty plus pounds of human being is pressing down upon your outside shoes on our inside floor? Do you want to lick that? Do you understand that our children will? Do you not care at all about what I am asking? Can you please help me not to explode and scream with all the rage I am feeling towards you right now? Cut to the corner of the room and witness the dog burying her face in her canine lady parts, smacking her lips and then licking our daughter's face. "Gawd, Ella stop it. Sean. Damnit. She's licking. She, aw, gawd." It is a never-ending, exhausting, and ultimately losing battle that I am waging. The fact is no one else worries about what the kitty is tracking when he hops on the kitchen counter and walks delicately, tiptoes even, from one end of the counter all the way across the oven, past the sink and over to the far end where he jumps across the kitchen and on to the butcher block. "Sean! He's up there again! Why won't he listen?" "Honey, he's gonna get up there. Cats walk on counters." "I realize that in other people's homes it is fine for cats to walk on counters, but damnit he turned a chipmunk inside out, licked his anus at length and drank from the toilet today. And those are only the things that I saw first hand, God knows what he did for the other 18.5 hours. I just don't want that on our counters." I am quite aware that my vehemence borders on Bill Murray in Caddyshack territory, but my daughter bites her nails, I cook on those counters and we roll on those floors. To hell with it, call me quirky. All I ask is that the people coming into our house have the decency to allow me to chase my own Quixotic dreams in my house. Say what you want when you leave, shake your head, be offended I really don't care, but damnit take your shoes off and swat the damn cat if you see him on the counter. This post was written by Amanda, when she's not coloring Dora and the Princesses or shooing the cat off the counter, she can be found writing at Tumble Dry. Pop over there today to get your daily dose of Jodifur. Thanks to her for letting me guest author, and thanks as always to Kristen for putting this crazy, wonderful Blog Exchange together each month. Be sure to check out the other posts listed at Kristen's place!

Gypsy Woman (She’s Homeless)

Sometimes I marvel at what I danced to. After college I taught an ED/BD class in an urban school district (ED/BD stood for emotionally disturbed/behavior disordered). Two of my housemates were gay and I would go dancing with them on weekends. The gay clubs were so far away from the poverty, mental illness and despair I dealt with in the classroom. Beautiful boys (oh, how beautiful), booze and beats. Such a lovely combination. Did I mention the booze? So it amazes me that I danced, complete with pantomime, to the following lyrics: She wakes up early every morning Just to do her hair now, because she cares y’all Her day wouldn’t be right Without her make up – she’s never without her makeup She’s just like you and me but she’s homeless She’s homeless And she stands there singing for money La da dee la da doo, la da dee la da doo Now, what seems like 3 lifetimes ago I live in a different part of the country. In the morning I drop off my kids at their various schools and take the commuter train into the big city. I work for an organization that helps low-income women gain work skills to get out of poverty. One of our services is a homeless shelter for over 60 families. I have to steel myself when I go to the site. Watching young mothers care for their children in such a public place, with so little to call their own, is painful. But strangely the woman who catches my breath every day, twice a day, has recently set up her belongings in the doorway of the train station I race through. She stands by the door surrounded by plastic bags in a grocery cart, a suitcase and other bags. She has a winter coat, hat and sturdy sneakers. She looks to be in her late 40’s but living on the street ages people - fast. I’m always late for work or late to catch the train to go home. She stands in the same spot next to the door looking out the window. Part of me really wants to stop and ask her how she is doing. But I don’t feel like taking on yet another person’s problems. But would I? Maybe all she would want is a greeting. Someone among the hundreds who race by her to say “hi”. Or maybe she likes the anonymity. But what embarrasses me the most is that Crystal Waters is in my head as I race by. I can’t believe I think of a 1990’s dance tune when I see this homeless woman. La da dee la da doo la da dee la da doo Allison is visiting today courtesy of The Blog Exchange. Usually her posts are about the quirky and maddening behavior of her 6 ½ year old twin sons and 2 ¾ year old daughter but instead she decided to share her maudlin side. You can read Jodi’s piece about a song at http://denyingsoccermom.blogspot.com/. Go to http://www.theblogexchange.net/> to learn more about the exchange. If you want to learn more about homelessness in your area and how you can help (e.g. drop off at a shelter all those hotel-size shampoos and soaps you have in the bathroom) visit the National Coalition for the Homeless state partners list at http://www.nationalhomeless.org/resources/local/local.html.

Changes

I've changed my clothes three times today. This is not something I was warned about in prenatal class. Yes, changing clothes due to the inevitable spit ups, ill-fitting diaper or simply being unable to recall if today's underwear came from the drawer or the floor seems reasonable in a post baby world. But dressing for different members of society was not brought up. Before baby I had day wear and night wear. Now, it is oh-so much more complicated. I have my sleep wear, that often doubles as my run-around-the-house wear. It is by far the most comfortable and consists mostly of my husband's boxers, my stretched out tees and ratty tanks: stuff that still fits my now much changed figure. If I'm lucky, I get to wear this through breakfast and into the morning nap. I have my run-around-the-house wear that makes me feel like I got dressed, even though I would never want to be seen outside of the house in any of it. You know - the slightly threadbare yoga pants and only slightly ratty t-shirts. Cotton and comfy. The kind of thing Stacy and Clinton love to take you down for. Just dressed enough in case a package is delivered, but not so dressed as to stress about a little rice cereal caked on the sleeve (digested or otherwise). I have coffee clothes: clean jeans, fitted wash'n'wear shirts that are accompanied by a swipe at my hair with a brush before staggering down the block with a stroller for a cup of sweet, life-giving caffeine. Changing into these clothes is that first step toward joining the real world. If a little mascara is added, well, my husband would probably suspect me of flirting with the bag boys on their coffee break. This is usually as good as I get. After coffee, I, of course, get to change back into my run-around-the-house wear. Only it's now hairy, wrinkled run-around-the-house wear because I left it in a pile on the floor and my cat has been napping on it. And, finally, I have my real clothes. I have so few real clothes. But, every now and then, I get changed into them and berate myself for not checking in advance to see if they still fit. They usually don't. Real clothes are reserved for the rare night out - as has happened a grand total of three times post baby - and the evenings tend to be short. Uncomfortable and short. But I haven't popped a button. Yet. And, with the new year now upon me, will this constant change of clothing see any changes? I have the feeling that the answer is a resounding no. At least, not until June when everything changes again and I have to return to work, wearing my big girl, real clothes for a staggering nine hours at a time. Now that'll be a change.

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Jenn is a new mom to an almost 7 month old baby girl and blogs about baby, motherhood, in-laws and other crazy people, and the venerable Mr.Q at Quarter Rest - which is where Jodi is guest author today, as part of The Blog Exchange. Be sure to stop by and read Jodi's post on Changes!