Jun 21

Baby Mama: The Final Post Before Baby

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I am very excited that I am only a few weeks away from just being one person again. Being a baby house is fun and different, but it does get old quickly. My husband says these words to me everyday, “It is weird that there is a baby inside of you.” Yes, thank you, my love, it IS weird that there is a baby inside of me; not only weird but uncomfortable and at times painful.

At the doctor yesterday, we scheduled three more doctor visits, one per week for the next three weeks. As I was setting up the third one, I realized it was quite possible that we would already have the baby before that third appointment. That was when it really hit me. Oh my heck!! We only have a very short amount of time left, we could be measuring it in days and it wouldn’t be a high number.

So then I came home and realized that I have a list of things to do. Then I look down my list and realize that I am in this limbo of time, where we are close to having the baby but not quite close enough. I do need to pack a bag for the hospital, but it is still a few weeks away, when is the right time to pack a hospital bag? So I toss that “to do” aside for a while, and keep looking down my list.  Next on the list is go shopping, well I can’t do that until after the baby shower. Good heavens! Is their anything on the list I can do early? It seems a little premature to get out the baby toys or put together the diaper bag, so those items get procrastinated too. The only thing I end up doing is washing the car seat and setting it by the car; but I feel better. I am one step closer to being baby ready.

Sometimes I forget that I have a five pound parasite inside of me, and I try to act like I am just a normal person. For example we took our daughter camping a couple weeks ago. That may have been the dumbest thing I have ever done. Normally I can sleep anywhere. However, I slept very little that night. My poor hipbones which are trying to make room for baby just couldn’t handle the baby pressure on one side and the hard dirt bed on the other side. Another time I decided that I really hadn’t been exercising enough lately so I put a Jillian Michaels aerobics video on the TV. Now her routines are a little rigorous normally, but I felt like such a failure when I was winded during the warm-up. 

Luckily I only have a few more weeks until everything is back to normal.  Or as normal as it can ever be with a brand new baby that I get to take with me everywhere.

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Jun 08

Cable Car Moms

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After dragging my three children up to the top of Nob Hill (which was only 6 blocks from our hotel, but entirely uphill) to the Cable Car Museum in San Francisco, I was exhausted. I stood on the platform and observed the hard-working cables that keep the cars running up and down the steep slopes of the city. I don’t know if it was the tired sounds of the machines or the sweat pouring down the back of my neck, but it got me thinking: Cable cars and moms are a lot alike. 

First of all, cable cars run all day – except between the hours of 1 a.m. and 6 a.m when they return to the barn for a brief rest. Moms of newborns have been known to keep these hours. And moms of teenagers too. And overworked, busy moms with lots of hats to wear have also been known to keep “cable car” hours too. Pretty much if you’re a mom, you haven’t slept a regular eight-hour night in years – unless you were sick, and even then it’s debatable.

Next, cable cars run at a constant but slow speed all day long – 9.5 miles per hour to be exact. While it seems like a mom is never getting things done because she’s always on the go, it also feels like a mom can’t ever seem to get anywhere very fast. Just when a mom gets going, it’s time to stop again. Just like the cable car trudging up and down the steep hills of San Francisco, as mothers we’re journeying uphill all day to cross things off our lists with temper-tantrum-prone toddlers and pouting pre-teens in toe.

Finally, these antique cars’ cables are coated with a sacrificial lubricant that keeps the ropes gripping day in and day out. They compare this special tar-like oil to a pencil eraser eroding away instead of the paper. In mom-speak, our protective lubricant is the thick skin we develop so our own pride and self-esteem don’t wear away. In comes in  those times when we step into a tough spot to defend our family and find ourselves looking the lone wolf in a forest full of hungry salivating predators. In the end it’s that extra layer that helps us develop greater resolve than ever to do whatever it takes to keep our little den of wolf cubs safe and happy – day after day.

Cable cars have been around for what seems like forever (just like moms), will be around for a whole lot longer (just like moms), and seem to only get better and more beloved with time (just like moms.)

 

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May 17

Future American Idol Finalist

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Yesterday, I could hear my youngest daughter belting out one of the many songs from her repertoire as I sat on my peaceful perch on the sectional in our living room. But this performance sounded louder than normal. Her sister, who was at my side when the show started, wandered upstairs to investigate and bolted back down to the living room to exclaim, “She’s standing in your bedroom window – totally naked—singing to the entire neighborhood! She said she was in her room but moved to yours because she ‘needed a bigger audience.’”  (Side note: My bedroom window overlooks a fairly busy commercial area of shops and restaurants.)

In my defense, I had sent my youngest daughter upstairs to get dressed and brush her teeth. I have to admit that I wasn’t at all shocked to hear that she became sidetracked by the thrill of being on center stage. I can picture a reporter interviewing me in 15 or 20 years asking, “What was your daughter like as a child?” And I will be able to honestly reply, “There was never a dull moment.”

One of the most thrilling things about being a mom – especially to girls – is to see how alike or, and in this case, not alike, to me they are becoming. Not that I want my kids to be just like me (because that means they would inherit the good, the bad, and the ugly. And who wants that?), but it’s fun to see how some of that DNA transfers over in a completely identifiable pattern. One of my daughters has developed my love of writing. Another loves sports. Another has inherited my passion for all things related to HGTV.

In the case of my youngest (i.e. the budding “American Idol” finalist), I see some definite areas where we don’t overlap. For starters, I’m not a singer. I can barely join in on Christmas carols and it’s a great feat that I even hum “Happy Birthday.” (She gets her songbird-ness from her father.) And second, I’m not a big fan of public nudity. Never went skinny dipping. Never did any streaking. (And I’m guessing that didn’t come from her paternity, either.)

So, her performance causes me to ponder some on those traits that I can’t readily trace back to any one ancestor. I wonder, “Where in the heck did this come from?” Don’t get me wrong—I’m not threatening to disown her or any of my kids. I do, however, seriously watch the behavior of each of my children some days and wonder where some of their strongest traits (even the good ones) come from when I can’t seem to link even an inch of their talent, courage or gusto to either side of their family tree.

In my child development classes in college my instructor argued that strong character traits are a result of a combination of nature or nurturing. I’m pretty sure there must be a third category called “neither.” Since I haven’t come up with any better theory, I’m proposing that these traits come from the stork that delivers children out of the sky. Maybe if I roll with that theory I won’t have to take responsibility for the outcome now or later. I guess that also means I can’t take credit for it later when she matures into the fantastic person I can see taking shape. There’s that whole Catch 22-thing popping up again in parenting.

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May 10

Baby Mama — The Last Trimester

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Here’s another great guest post from Tara as she shares her perspectives on the journey of her second pregnancy.

I am officially in the third trimester of pregnancy now. While I would rate it as easier than the first trimester—when I am always nauseated— I wouldn’t exactly call this trimester fun.  

While there are many reasons to complain about this final term of pregnancy, I limit my whining to just six reasons why I wouldn’t mind if my little boy came a few weeks early.

  1. Hurting Hips. Apparently the ligaments in my pelvis have softened, allowing my hips to spread, in preparation for birth. I think they should just wait and soften once I have an epidural, so I can’t feel any of it.
  2. Bladder pressure. Need I say more?
  3. Contractions. While Braxton Hicks aren’t painful yet, it’s still uncomfortable to try to do anything when my uterus is doing its own little work out.
  4. Frequent Doctor Visits. I now have to take time out of my day every two weeks to visit the doctor’s office. It isn’t that much fun anymore. For the first couple of visits when you are pregnant it is very cool to go to the doctor and realize there is a little baby forming inside of you, but at this point I don’t need the doctor’s help to know that there is a baby in there.
  5. Sleeping. I don’t think a comfortable position exists during the last ten weeks of pregnancy. It doesn’t help that once you finally get to sleep you have to wake up to visit the bathroom.
  6. Extra body heat. It isn’t really fun to have everyone else in the vicinity comment on what a nice day it is, when I am sweating.

 All of this being said, I suppose I will forget it all when we bring home our cute little baby boy.

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May 03

Cheetahs and Cheaters

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While the girls and I were all piled in the car running errands recently, one of the older girls saw a sign that listed a phone number and said, “Private Eye. We catch cheaters.”

The other one said, “What’s a cheater?”

I held my breath and tried to look invisible behind the wheel. I know we’ve had the birds and the bees chat with the older girls, but I am pretty sure the subject of infidelity never came up and the word “cheater” was never used. As I crouched down in the driver’s seat trying to go unnoticed, while still driving between the white lines, I listened as my girls discussed all of the possible definitions of the word “cheater.”

“They’re talking about Cheetoes. I love Cheetoes. Except when they make your fingers turn orange and you lick them but your fingers are still orange. That’s gross. Then I’d rather have Ruffles or something.”

Phew…so far I’ve escaped a really difficult topic. They’re completely off track and now they’re talking about food. That’s a good sign. Please don’t ask me, please don’t ask me, please don’t ask me, I chant silently in my head.

“No it says, ‘Cheaters,’ like someone who cheats,” the oldest one chimes in.

Ugh-oh. This sounds like dangerous territory. Should I intercede before she blurts out more info than I’m ready for the younger ones to hear? This could open up a whole can of worms I’m not ready for.

“I hate when so-and-so at school tries to cheat off my spelling test. It’s so annoying,” whines my other daughter.

Hooray! Another tangent. I should be safe, but we’re still many minutes from home. Maybe I should turn on some Taylor Swift or the “High School Musical 3” soundtrack and throw them off. If nothing else, it will kill the conversation.

While I’m fumbling around looking for some music,  my brilliant and comedic four-year-old burst out with, “Cheetahs! Cheetahs! I a cheetah! Or you a cheetah! You can’t catch me Mr. Eye. I run fast, fast, fast. I-uh-cheet-ah.”

Everyone’s laughing. Keep laughing. Keep thinking about cheetahs. While you’re laughing I’ll begin praying that my fact-loving oldest daughter will begin spewing a laundry list of data about cheetahs.

“Cheetahs run so fast! How can anyone catch a cheetah? That’s humanly impossible,” she said as she begins telling us exactly how many miles per hour a cheetah can run and how long they can sustain that speed.

Of course, my middle daughter didn’t go down without a fight. She spouted back, “But if he was a super fast runner then he could totally catch the cheetah.”

“And if he had magical powers, like Dora and Diego,” chided the youngest.

The sounds “uh-uh,” and “uh-huh” going back and forth were music to my ears as I knew that my children’s innocence to the awful things of the world were pushed back just one day further. And I was spared from enlightening them.

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Apr 26

Where Have Those Lips Been?

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My youngest is really into giving kisses. Unfortunately, she’s discovered “romantic” kissing – thank you endless Disney flicks – and tries to share her love with a little more generosity than what is typically appreciated.

Like any normal, neurotic, parent I fret about her teenage years. How will we ever keep the boys away? My husband will have to dress like a redneck and carry a gun. Or maybe he’ll issue lie detector tests like the father in “Meet the Parents.” Either way, I’m sure he’ll be plenty scary, but what would be my role in scaring off all future suitors?

A flood of memories suddenly came to mind as I watched the little kisser shriek as she chased her terrified older sisters with threats of “juicy kisses.” Those lips have already had quite a ride in just four short years. I began concocting my plan that I decided could include my older girls as well. I would share gross-out moments in a special scrapbook entitled, “Do you know where those lips have been?” that only comes out right before one of them leaves on a date. 

The possibilities are endless but I share here a few lovely moments I could include that would scare off any prom date.

1.       My husband and I were in the kitchen making dinner and catching up on our day, when all of a sudden my mommy-radar heard an odd noise coming from the bathroom. I heard the sound of thirsty guzzling. That’s odd, I thought, as I gazed across the hallway from the kitchen to the powder room. My two-year-old (at the time) was in plain view with a cup in her hand. I asked her what she was doing and she frankly replied. “I was thirsty so I got dink (drink).” I knew she wasn’t tall enough to turn the faucet on, so I asked in horror because I was pretty sure I knew the answer, “Where did you get a drink from?” Her answer, “The toilet.” Needless to say, my appetite was ruined.

2.       When we moved into our newly constructed home, our daughter was only in the crawling stage. As a result, everything she saw went directly into her mouth. And she was fast. I was constantly pulling things out of her grasp in exchange for acceptable chew toys. We had what my husband called “a minor mouse problem” when we moved into our home. (Later he confessed that is was more like a major problem. This is why I can no longer view movies like “Ratatouille” or “Stuart Little.” I have a serious rodent issue.) As I was unpacking the kitchen my daughter grabbed a sticky, glue mouse trap and put it to her face. The 3 x 5 glue trap was stuck to her face and both of hands. An hour later and after numerous calls to poison control, pest control, the doctor’s office, and my husband, the glue trap was removed, the mice were all gone, and luckily no damage was done. (Glue traps are non-toxic. Phew!)

3.       On a trip to Sea World, one of my daughters became obsessed with the starfish in the tidepool area. One of the attendants said she could pick it up and look at it. Like any good mother, I took a few steps back from toddler, so I could snap a shot of this precious moment. My daughter was carefully looking over the red crustacean when suddenly her mouth opened wide and she proceeded to insert the starfish into her mouth. I hopped up out of my squatted photographer position just in time to swoop in to save that poor starfish’s life. It’s proof you never know quite what your child is thinking. While I thought my sweet daughter was considering her life as a future oceanographer apparently, she was actually thinking about lunch.

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Apr 19

The First 24

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There’s nothing cuter than a litter of new puppies. You watch them play and sleep and you snuggle with them and pet them. But it can be nearly impossible to pick one out of the bunch. Experts advise doing one easy test to know which puppy has the best personality: you simply put the puppy on his back and hold him down gently for a few seconds – enough to give resistance but not too much to hurt the pup. How he responds – either by lying passively or by wiggling and worming out of your grasp — will tell you a lot about the kind of pet you’re welcoming into your family. Most people are looking for a pup that’s somewhere in the middle.

I think the same could be said about newborns. While I’m not suggesting holding a newborn down to see what he or she would do, I can say that the first 24 hours of a newborn’s new life is a foreshadowing of any dominant personality traits. I can see now with years of perspective the early signs of the strong character traits each of my three daughters possessed in those first hours of life.

When my oldest was born she greeted us with the typical signs of healthy life – lots of screaming and crying – but her crying ended quickly. She was a content child and snuggled up into her little burrito with her eyes closed and as happy as a clam to sleep off the trauma of childbirth. I, on the other hand, couldn’t get enough of her. I repeatedly unwrapped her blanket to look at her crinkly ears that she inherited from her grandpa and her full lips she stole from my DNA. She stretched and fussed each time I’d examine her just as she acts today when I try to fuss over her. She’s content just the way she is. These days that means tucked away into a corner of the house, close to all the action, but snuggled up under a blanket (just like in those first few hours of life). Now, however, she snuggles with a book in hand.

When my second daughter arrived, just 361 days after No. 1, I expected everything to be about the same. After all, the date on the calendar was almost the same, my swollen toes looked identical to the Vienna sausages I had carted around the year before, and my husband had the same concerned but calm look on his face.

So, I was blindsided when daughter No. 2 came out. First of all, we didn’t know she’d be a girl (the strong-willed fetus only showed us her backside in every ultrasound.) We also didn’t know a kid so small could have such a big set of lungs. I’m not sure I’d ever heard a child scream like that – ever. She was not as happy to see us as we were to see her. She screamed and screamed and then screamed a whole bunch more. The doctors swore up and down that she was perfectly healthy and that some kids are just more fiery than others. Hmm….fiery? What does that mean? I thought. That sounds like code for lots of sleepless nights.

As we lay down to sleep that night in the hospital, my 12-hour-old, 6-pound daughter could not be consoled. Everything I tried –and I thought I knew all the tricks – didn’t seem to work on her. She was only happy when I was holding her. The problem was, I’d been awake for over 24 hours – giving birth and all – and I was a wee bit tired from the day’s events. So, I did what every experienced mom would do (and at the risk of being lectured by a nurse): I set her down in bed beside me. She nestled up against me, let out a big sigh of relief, and then fell asleep in 1.2 seconds (which is exactly how long it takes her Dad to fall asleep each night, actually).

A few nights ago I had a flashback to our first night together. We were away from home and No. 2 was having a hard time falling asleep. She tried every excuse in the book to explain why she was still wide-eyed and bushy-tailed long after her sisters had zonked out. She all but threw a toddler tantrum – even though she’s well beyond the toddler years – before I allowed her to climb into bed with me. As you can guess, 1.2 seconds after she pulled the covers up to her chin, she was out cold, just like that first night over 8 years earlier.

Last, but not least, my third daughter arrived after years of heartache, medical trauma, months of morning sickness, and even more months of pre-term labor and bouts of bedrest. Needless to say, we were all exhaustedly excited for her arrival.

And arrive she did. Right on time. The doctor asked my husband to predict the hour of her birth after we checked into the hospital for the delivery. Even though my labor wasn’t progressing, my husband confidently declared that our daughter would arrive at 11:17 a.m. And that’s precisely – and I mean down to the second precisely – what she did.

Exactly eight minutes earlier (11:09 a.m.) I had sent my doctor off to take care of other patients since I figured I was hours from delivery. I turned to lie on my side where I had a full view of all of the machines tracking my contractions, just as seismograph machines record earthquakes. Suddenly my machine looked like the San Andreas Fault during “The Big One” and I went from the first stage of labor to delivery in less time than it takes cheese to melt on the top of a pizza.

As a mother of two girls already – with very different personalities – I couldn’t imagine how on earth I could have another daughter (this time I knew she’d be a girl) that could still add yet another female dynamic to our home. But there she was– all 7-plus pounds of full lips and a lively personality.  She took one look at me, calmed herself, and then knowingly reached up to grab my index finger. I think we were both relieved to no longer share a body, but to instead share life together but in separate bodies. She never misses a beat but still beats to her own drummer, just like her arrival nearly five years ago.

It never fails to amaze me how distinct and different each of my daughters is in looks and personality. Just like a litter of pups all from the same parents, but all so different. I guess my daughters’ births are proof that parenting really isn’t a one-size fits-all approach; rather, each child needs her own layers of compassion and direction. Each of my daughters’ births tells the first chapter of the story of who they are and what they will become. They are just as individualized today as they were the day they were born.

 

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Apr 12

Locked Out

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Our daughters used to have an obsession with locking themselves in their room. Unfortunately, they were old enough to lock themselves in their room but not old enough to figure out how to unlock the latch and get out. So, after several dramatic, tear-filled weeks in a row of picking the lock or taking the entire knob off the door, my husband decided to reverse the knob on our daughters’ door so that it locked from the outside only. Sounds like a genius, fail-proof plan right? Yep. Until my precious, innocent, little Irish twins closed the door behind me once and locked me in.

No big deal, right? I said to myself. I can handle this. No one’s life is in danger. It’s a simple problem to fix. No big deal. I’ll just talk them through it and they’ll be able to unlock the door. Who was I fooling? After lots of crying (mostly by me) the door was still locked and now everyone was hungry (mostly me). Did I mention that I was about 6 months pregnant? That explains the crying and the hunger, right?

So, I looked at my options and decided that if I stood on the toy box I could get enough height to hop out of the first-story bedroom window. I pried off the screen and opened the window without much problem. I was feeling confident my plan would work until I heard my pants split as I was coming over the window. Darn those Dairy Queen cravings from Week 14, I thought.

But the split in my pants was the least of my problems. I was still a good five feet off the ground and I’m pretty sure this little adventure was not on my doctor’s list of approved activities for my prescribed modified bedrest. I thought to myself, Just stay calm. Think of the positives. What on earth could be a positive right now? Hmmm … Think hard, I’m sure there’s a positive somewhere in this situation. At least there are no witnesses to this event. That’s a positive.

With that thought in my mind, I courageously took a death-defying leap and crossed my fingers that I could stick my landing in flip flops despite my protruding baby belly. To my surprise, I not only kept my balance, but I was also greeted by a chorus of cheers from my neighbors who had somehow caught a birds-eye view of the whole show. Where did they come from? I asked myself. And why didn’t they come help me? I’m pretty stubborn so I probably wouldn’t have accepted the help even if they had offered it.

I’d love to say that this was the only time that I’ve been locked in a room at the hands of my children. Once I was locked in my friend’s daughter’s bedroom on the second story. (There was no leaping  from tall buildings for me.) We were at the mercy of our two mischievous toddlers – 12 months and two years at the time. We had no phone, no food, and no hope for help for hours. Lucky for us, we had been assembling an IKEA bookshelf when the door locked behind us so we did have a large pile of tools to help us make our escape in time to pick up our older children from school and to keep the preschool aged rascals from getting into more mischief. They were pretty pleased with themselves when they figured out that they’d locked us in.

Years later, and with no children under the age of 4 living under my roof, I think maybe I’d like my kids to lock me in my room—especially if it was quiet, filled with fluffy pillows and large quantities of chocolate.

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Mar 22

$100 Later and a Lesson Learned (I Hope.)

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Why are kids so expensive? There’s always a new study indicating that children cost a gazillion dollars to raise. But it’s not really the diapers or the college tuition that freaks people out about the cost of parenthood. Most people realize the diapers and dinosaur toys cost money. Instead, the financial stress comes from all of the unexpected life lessons that you can’t add into your family budget the way you can account for pizza parties and piano lessons.

Here’s one example. A few weeks ago, my four-year-old ran full steam into the house to report on her daddy-daughter date that night in which she and my husband saw “The Princess and The Frog.” Her excited grin threw my mommy radar off and I wasn’t prepared for what I heard in her full report on the night’s events.

“I had a great time with Daddy except for when he had to cut me out of my seatbelt. That was scary.”

“What!?!,” I asked, not sure if I’d heard what she was saying correctly. She repeated it back again and just as I was asking why her Dad had to cut her out of her seatbelt he appeared from the garage with an exhausted look on his face.

My heart began to race as I heard the tale about how my daughter was monkey-ing around in the 10-minute drive from our house to the theatre when somehow the shoulder strap of my daughter’s seatbelt became wrapped around her and wouldn’t release due to the locking mechanism of many seatbelts. Despite the efforts of my husband, and his pal who was also there with his daughter, they couldn’t get the belt to release. In fact, the harder they tried to free my daughter from the seat belt that was wrapped around her, the more it pressed down on her 4T-sized abdomen. So, my husband did what all Eagle Scouts would do: he pulled out his pocket knife, cut her out of the belt, shrugged off the trauma, and then went in to the theatre to watch the toddler chick flick.

Needless to say, once the shock wore off and my daughter’s full body inspection proved to have no signs of damage except for a little bit of childhood trauma, I began to fret about the cost of replacing a seatbelt. It didn’t sound cheap. And it wasn’t. Lucky for me the lovely folks at the dealership took pity on us and ate the majority of the cost. We escaped with only paying $100 and a valuable but expensive lesson learned by my daughter. (I hope.) When I equated the cost of fixing the belt to the price of Disneyland tickets, my daughter suddenly had a new understanding of the concept that money doesn’t grow on trees.

Lucky for me, I am an experienced parent, so I know how these expensive lessons work. I think each of my kids have cost me a pretty penny over the years to learn a lesson.

Years ago, I was entering a busy freeway on a typical morning when I heard excessive, repeated honking. As I was trying to merge into oncoming traffic, I tried to look for a sign of an accident ahead of me or behind to me.

Where is this disturbance coming from? I asked myself as my two daughters sat in their carseats screaming about the loud noise. The sound followed me as I traveled down the freeway at full speed. As I looked around at other drivers, who were glaring at me like I was a crazed nut, I suddenly realized the sound was coming from my car. That was the sound was familiar to me because it was the panic alarm on my car! I postponed my morning plan and drove directly to the car dealership. (The people at the stop lights along the way thought I was a real jerk with all of that maniac honking I was doing at red lights.)

The expensive mechanics discovered that an important electrical panel had been water logged and was now malfunctioning. Water-logged? But we don’t allow food in the car, I said to myself. Or so I thought. The man pulled out an empty water bottle and we the truth began to unfold. One of my adorable children had accidentally knocked over an open water bottle from my cup holder and then tried to hide the evidence. Oops. That oops cost me $800.

Question: What expensive oops-moments have you had in your house?

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Mar 09

A Dwarf?

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After endless viewing of Snow White and The Seven Dwarfs over the past month, my youngest said to me, “I can’t wait for Daddy to come home and give me a kiss. He’s my true love. I love you, too, mom, but you’re more like a dwarf.”

She’s cute and she’s four, so I didn’t think much of it, but really, do I have to be a dwarf? After all, I suffered through endless years of trying to conceive this child, endured horrible morning sickness, and then survived months and months of bed rest. Now she views me as a dwarf?

It left me wondering, Which dwarf does she think I am?

Sneezy? I was pretty sick last weekend and I did do a lot of sneezing, but normally I’m a pretty healthy gal. I don’t think it was Sneezy she was thinking of when she labeled me a dwarf.

Bashful? Not a chance.

Dopey? I do struggle to help my third-grader with math, but I doubt she notices my scholastic downfalls … yet.

Sleepy? Hmm…she might have me here. After all, she has been my personal alarm clock for the past four years.

Doc? I’ve performed surgery on her Barbies when she rips off an arm or head by accident. I’ve also placed a Band-aid on nearly every inch of her precious, soft toddler skin over the years. (She’s accident prone and fearless – not a good combo.) I’d be happy with the title of Doc, but I really doubt my daughter pictures me as a vertically challenged medical professional.

So, by process of elimination that only leaves Happy or Grumpy. Hmm…Can I cross my fingers and hope for Happy?

It’s easy to reflect on the past few weeks and remember all of the times when I was less than patient or a little irritable with my children. It’s harder for any mom to pat herself on the back for all of her other victories – the times she didn’t lose her patience but instead took a deep breath, or when she spent time playing a game together, or reading a book or snuggling. It’s easy to focus on the times when we’re not at our best instead of cutting ourselves some slack and realizing we won’t be judged for one or two weak moments, but instead on the collective job we’ve done.

I’ll settle for being a dwarf any day if I can be seen as Happy in my daughter’s eyes. After all, she could have said I was The Evil Queen.

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