house rules

A few weeks ago, at utter wits' end with my squabbling children, I sentenced them to sit down and write some house rules which we would post in our kitchen, to peruse at mealtimes. To my surprise, this was not really a punishment. The boys have taken to this idea with great gusto, add to it freely, and at this point, the rules have taken over half our kitchen.



Here, now, our House Rules.

No Teasing. Note the sad face of the person being teased, at bottom.




No Biting. Note the blood.




No Pulling on Shirts. Too many stretched-out collars around here. And, oh yeah, the possibility of strangulation.









No TV till 6:30. This is counterintuitive, but if the kids can't put the TV on while it's still dark outside, they might actually stay in bed. Note the cable box reading "6:02" and the large NO.




Do Not Take Things Out of Maggie's Hand. We're getting a little specific here, but if that rule were followed there'd be a lot less bloodcurdling screaming around here.




Really, though, if you're going to follow any rule at all, stick with this one.

No Drilling Your Sister.

Words to live by.

another milestone in Seamus' life

I suppose there are two ways you know your son is a man: one, when he comes home married; and two, when his training wheels come off.

Please excuse me while I sniffle a bit at how grown up my baby boy is.

The sad part is, in my rush to post Seamus' marriage updates, I totally forgot about this significant- and actual- milestone in his little life. Aunt Mollie just came over, and when she asked Shea if he had news (still trying to pump him for more wedding details), he said "Oh yeah! I can wide my bike wifout twaining wheels now!"

His wife? The wedding? Hello, two DAYS ago.

an arranged marriage, part two

I have at least one reader who has begged me for more information on Seamus' wedding and just how it went down. My five year old came home from pre-K yesterday and told me he was "married to Elizabeth." He showed me one of my ponytail holders around his upper arm, as proof of his pledged fidelity. And then refused to give me a single other detail.

I kept trying different angles, all through bath and dinner and teeth-brushing, and have managed to glean the following additional information:

Q: Whose idea was it?

A: Seamus' idea, because his friend Colin had a wife too, Sophia, and Seamus wanted in on the action.

Q: Did you have a wedding?

A: No.

Q: Did you ask Elizabeth to marry you?

A: No.

Q: So how do you know that you're married?

A: Because during free play I said to her, "What're you doing, wife," and she answered, "Cleaning."

Seamus decided he would take a wife, and when he called Elizabeth "wife" in his mumbly, shy voice, she didn't expressly contradict him, so that means they're married. Plus, she likes to clean.

It's all very caveman. Or Mormon splinter sect. Or something.

I was anxious to see them together at dropoff this morning, but Seamus assiduously avoided eye contact and stuck to the Play-Doh table.

That's all I have for now... if there's an afternoon update I will be sure to post it!

an arranged marriage

This afternoon my son told me, after much giggling with his friend who is over to play, that he had news. I was a mother-in-law.

SEAMUS: Mommy, I am married to Elizabeth!

He and his friend fell into a pit of giggles.

Seamus is five. Elizabeth is in his class. Some of the faster girls in pre-K talk about boyfriends and stuff, but from Seamus, a boy, this announcement was a little unexpected.

MOMMY: How did you get married to Elizabeth, Shea?

SEAMUS: At school.

MOMMY: Does Elizabeth know that you're married?

SEAMUS: Um. I don't know. Want to see my married arm band?

He pushed up his sleeve to show me one of my black hair elastics, which my kids all call "Mommy's bracelets" because I am rarely without one around my wrist. It was around his bicep, and come to think of it, had been there since last night.

I have been pushing for a few more details, but am not having success. In typical Seamus fashion, my son has dropped a total bomb on me and refuses to discuss it further. Long time readers will recall that this has been going on ever since he told me that he touched a poop at camp two summers ago, and then blew a gasket whenever I tried a follow-up question. I'm still up at night sometimes thinking about that one.

Seamus' bombshells without details will be a real problem for me down the road. I can just picture him as a sullen teenager, walking in from school and saying something, oh, like

SEAMUS: Mom. I'm married to Elizabeth.

or even

SEAMUS: Mom. I touched a poop at school.

and then walking away, leaving me to piece the story together. It will be even more unsettling coming from a 17-year-old, I imagine.

Elizabeth's mother was Seamus' nursery school teacher, so I can say my son has chosen well. Maybe Elizabeth is less stingy with the color commentary. I'll let you know what her mom says.

wild toddler: future criminal?

This morning, via The University of Pennsylvania, something new for us to worry about: toddlers who are afraid of nothing are more likely to be wearing orange jumpsuits as grownups.

According to the results of this study, published in HealthDay, "poor fear conditioning" in a small child may be due to a dysfunction of the amygdala in the brain, which, if left untreated, can lead "to an inherent intrepidness and disregard for the law."

I had never considered that my boys' chandelier-swinging might be the result of a brain dysfunction. I just figured, when Seamus had stitches four times before his fourth birthday, that he was being a typical boy. This study makes total sense, when I stop and think about it: of course fearless kids become fearless adults. I just never knew fearlessness was something, in itself, for me to fear.

Parents should "enhance the amygdala," this study recommends, with nutrition, exercise, and cognitive stimulation. No need for us to, you know, worry needlessly. As psychiatrist Dr. Elissa P. Benedek pointed out:

Addressing parental concerns, Benedek added: "Don't be discouraged if your child has early brain dysfunction. It doesn't mean that he or she is going to grow up and be a criminal."

Thanks, Dr. Benedek, for trying to make us feel better. But I'm a little stuck on the "early brain dysfunction" part. Off to enhance some amygdalae.

OK, one more Maclaren post

Interesting article here on why the Maclaren recall has hit us NYC moms harder than most. I am quoted within:

Finger-Chopping Stroller Frazzles City Moms

By the way, I haven't received my hinge covers yet. Have you?

a quick Seamus Fact

Seamus was in the bathroom, taking care of business. I came in and asked him to flush. He did. The toilet made that gurgly, almost-clogged noise.

MOM: Wow, Shea. It sounds like you had success.

SEAMUS: Yes. And Mommy, you know what?

ME: What?

SEAMUS: If a poop doesn't wook big, but then you hear that noise? That's to wemind you. It weally was.

who names toys?

It's a busy afternoon around here. Maggie is asleep, and her two older brothers, one of them with a 101.8 fever, are very busy going through the Toys R Us and Target inserts and deciding what they want for Christmas, circling their selections with two different color markers. Of course, they pretty much circled everything on every page, especially if its suggested manufacturers' retail price is $49.99 or higher.

"You're choosing some expensive stuff," I murmured, looking on.

"Why are you talking about how much stuff is?" Connor asked. "Santa's elves just make everything. They don't have to pay for it."

I started a rejoinder about how perhaps the materials themselves, for a sleigh full of $49.99 toys, might be a little pricey for Saint Nick, but trailed off quickly, since the more we talk about Santa these days, the more holes Connor finds in my story.

Then the boys paged through their catalogs and pointed to what they wanted so I could type it all in for easy Amazon search later. This is what I want to know: who at these toy companies is in charge of naming things? Because they're just farting around, basically.

Exhibit A: this is on the top of Connor's list.

Star Wars Home One Mon Calamari Star Cruiser

Seriously, what the hell. "Mon Calamari"? Sounds like a Italo/French seafood joint. Seamus, on the other hand, wants the Cars Race-o-Rama Lightning McQueen Stunt Jump Speedway. Try saying that three times fast.

Saturday mornings always start too early, don't they? By 8 a.m., I'm usually counting the hours until bedtime... too much unstructured puttering in pajamas always leads to trouble. This morning, I was in the bathroom when Connor shouted, from a few rooms away,

CONNOR: Dad! Maggie swallowed her gum!

I expected to hear my better half lay down the law and figure out which of our two sons was about to be in big trouble for giving it to her. Instead, David says,

DADDY: Maggie. Why'd you swallow your gum?

as if this were, in any way, a reasonable question to ask of a barely two-year-old. I opened the bathroom door.

ME: You gave Maggie GUM?

David just shrugged, sheepishly. All innocent though, like, I had no idea that was a problem.

Sometimes fathers lose their minds a little bit I think. He definitely knew at points prior to this one that a two-year-old will do nothing with gum but swallow it whole, and immediately. I'm not sure when he lost sight of that.

A few minutes later, he stuck his head in the bathroom.

DADDY: Are you going to put that on your blog?

I just shrugged, sheepishly. All innocent though, like, I had no idea that was a problem.

one thing at a time

Yesterday morning I stayed home with Maggie, to give her the one-on-one attention of which my third child has been so characteristically deprived. We sat down to play Zingo, a Bingo-like game featuring pictures instead of letters and numbers, and a really fun chunk-chunk piece distributor, that is Maggie's obsession at the moment.

I was really patting myself on the back for giving my youngest this Special Mommy Time, and basking in the enjoyment of it, when Maggie clapped her little hands right in front of my face.

"Mommy! Come ON," she said. I snapped out of my distraction, chagrined. I had not even realized that I WAS distracted, but I certainly was: I was sitting there with my iPhone texting my husband about what time he'd be home that night.

I mean, I wasn't doing some Facebook quiz on what High School Musical character I was, or anything, but I was not giving my daughter my full attention. And the part that unsettled me was, I was not even aware I was doing it. I have become, in just a few years' time, so accustomed to having one eye on a little screen most of the time. Even if my phone is in my pocket, I check for it furtively, making sure I haven't left it somewhere, making sure it's there to alert me when something interesting happens.

I love being in constant contact with the world. I hate that my daughter sees me unable to be in contact only with her, for more than a few minutes at a time. I wish Lent were closer. Since it's not, I will probably not go cold turkey with the texting and the emailing, but I am going to make a concerted effort not to do it in front of my children. This is not how I want them to think a grownup has to behave. For ten minutes, playing Zingo, I should be able to do that one thing, and nothing else. My daughter needs that from me, and if it is as hard for me as I expect it to be, well then, I need it even more.

my last (I hope) Maclaren post

When I said I would blog every day in November, I did not really mean that I would blog about Maclaren every day in November. But having been sucked into the commentary about the commentary about Maclaren's recall, I did what no one should ever do, really, and read the hundreds of comments on the NY Times and time.com websites, half of which are most unflattering to "hysterical mommy bloggers" like me, who are supposedly blowing this whole stroller thing way out of proportion. "Hello? Are you going to sue knife companies next?" one non-parent flamed, and I would just like to point out this is really an imperfect comparison, since knives are 1) dangerously sharp by definition, and 2) not marketed as something you put your children INSIDE.

Now, a confession: I used my Maclaren just this morning, even though my hinge covers have not yet arrived. So I am neither boycotting their products, nor even wishing them ill. But there is some interesting back story in the New York Post this morning. Apparently, Maclaren has known this dangerous finger- snapping possibility has existed since 2004, but failed to immediately report it to the Consumer Products Safety Commission, as is required by law. No surprise there; that seems to be standard business practice in these recall situations. The interesting part of this Post story is the details of the first reported finger amputation, which I have to say I have been wondering about. Who were these children (and mothers) and why weren't we hearing from them? Now the Post has the details, and they are not pretty:

The company has known the stroller hinges could become finger guillotines since at least July 12, 2004, when 23-month-old Carlos DeWinter lost his right pinky... His mother, Jane DeWinter, was shopping for a Maclaren stroller at a Right Start shop, and she was testing the one-handed folding and unfolding mechanism.
As she was about to lock the stroller into the open position, Carlos put his finger on the hinge, and he suffered a "traumatic amputation," the court papers said. Despite two surgeries, the pinky could not be reattached. Maclaren and Right Start argued that the mother's "own negligence" was to blame. Maclaren settled with the DeWinters for an undisclosed sum. Jane DeWinter said she could not comment.

I found this story kind of horrifying. Ms. DeWinter did not even OWN a Maclaren! She was just trying one out in the store, and during what I presume is the first time she EVER opened the thing, she lops off her 2 year old's pinky finger. This, I think, sort of belies the notion that this stroller recall is a bunch of lazy parents blaming everyone else for their own negligence. One cannot really blame Ms. DeWinter or her son for knowing those huge hinges were present-- and extremely dangerous-- the first time she ever used the stroller.

Another pooh-pooh response out there has been that this sort of injury could happen with any folding stroller, and that Maclaren is being unfairly maligned. Not so fast:

Robert Moro, an engineer and former compliance officer with the Consumer Products Safety Commission, testified in 2007 that "this stroller contains a substantial design defect when compared to other types of designs of strollers intended to be used by children."
The way the stroller was designed and manufactured in China violated federal guidelines intended to prevent a gruesome "scissoring effect," Moro said.
"Maclaren had a legal obligation to report this," Moro told The Post. "It's extremely unfortunate a lot of little kids had to get their fingers amputated."

Shall we storm the Maclaren headquarters? I'm not saying that. But if anyone out there tries to blame this on the "hysterical mommy" instead of on a wilfully negligent manufacturer, please send them my way.

Bravado Breastfeeding Information Council

I was really excited to be invited yesterday to the launch luncheon for the Bravado Breastfeeding Information Council. This is an organization, funded by Bravado Designs (the nursing bra company), that plans to provide accurate and "non-judgmental" information on breastfeeding, both to journalists and to mothers.

I think that's quite needed, don't you? I wrote a whole chapter for my book on my own nursing experience: how I headed into it with total dread, how I kept waiting for someone at the hospital to tell me what I should be doing, how I got sent home 48 hours later with no more idea of how to feed my child than I had before he arrived. I do not think my experience was unique.

Here were a few of the research findings discussed at the luncheon yesterday:

--"First Generation Breastfeeders" are in need of extra support. These are the women whose own mothers and mothers-in-law did not breastfeed. (hand raised) At best, formula-feeders of another generation cannot be helpful to a nursing mother. At worst, they can be actively discouraging. Thank goodness, this was not the case for me; while I really wished my mother and mother-in-law could have been more actively supportive, they were nothing like one woman we heard about, who told her daughter-in-law that she should not nurse because it was, quote, "not natural" for the baby to see her topless.

--There is a man behind the milk. 70% of nursing women say their feeding decision was one they made with their partner's input and/or support. (hand raised again) I am not sure I would have even tried it if David hadn't been so gung-ho that Breast was Best. Science and statistics are the way to the dad's heart, BBIC's research suggests, and getting dads on board is crucial to breastfeeding success.

--Businesses that are supportive of breastfeeding can expect incredible loyalty from their mother customers. And it's not that hard! Two lines in the employee handbook of, say, Banana Republic, stating that nursing mothers are welcome to use an empty dressing room whenever the store is not busy, would make a world of difference-- and, BBIC suggests, would help such a business' bottom line, as well.

--To keep a working nursing mother happy, all her employer really needs to provide is a door, a plug, a fridge, and a sink. OK, maybe a chair too. But it doesn't have to be a suite all "Pottery Barned out," as one panelist suggested yesterday. Just a place to pump in peace that isn't a filthy restroom. Employers that provide this can expect great loyalty from their employees who are mothers.

The BBIC says there's lots more where that came from, and I certainly look forward to reading more. What I loved most about this initiative is the total lack of uber-boober sanctimony. As one panelist, lactation consultant Heather Kelly, put it, "Our goal should be to give every nursing mother a successful experience, however she defines it."

for more information go to
breastfeedinginformation.org
or follow @BBICouncil on twitter

more on Maclaren

Time Magazine ran a story on their website today on the stumbling online response by Maclaren to their million-stroller recall. As proof of their mishandling of the moms-online world, they quoted this very blog, and how I said at the time that I was, quote, "very pissed off" at their company.

I would have chosen my words more carefully if I knew they would be broadcast to such a wide audience, but I must say, I stand by my sentiment. Some commenters here have suggested that this whole thing is overblown; one responder suggested this was less a Maclaren problem than a "stupid parent problem," and that parents have to take responsibility for keeping their children safe.

No argument there: that is a parent's primary reason for existence. And in the case of the Maclaren, I truly cannot picture how it is possible for one's baby to be sitting there while one pops the stroller open. There's nowhere for them to sit, so it should be hard for any small child to get close enough to those hinges to be injured.

But they were. And that is what makes me so angry: twelve children were injured. SERIOUSLY injured. Maimed for life injured. All in the exact same way. And it took twelve amputated fingers for the company to act. It never should have taken more than say, two, to make it clear these hinges were dangerous to children. And on a product specifically designed to be FOR small children, to boot.

As a mother, I do everything I can to keep my children safe, but when I use a respected (and expensive) stroller like Maclaren, I have the right to a reasonable expectation that nothing about it, when used in a normal way, can maim my children. That just shouldn't be in the realm of possibility. Sure, companies make mistakes: the stroller company phil and teds had to issue a fix for their own double strollers, after it became clear that the kids in the back could stick their fingers in the wheel spokes. But no kid ever LOST a finger that way.

But Maclaren is making it right now, and that's what matters. I was able to quickly and easily order replacement parts for my Maclaren today, and if you haven't yet, here's how: go to maclaren.us/recall or call 877-688-2326.

And let's all, from here on out, hold the companies that make products for our children to a higher standard.

(Baby Bargains has another-- and similar-- take on the Maclaren recall here.)

H1N1 ambivalence is now an epidemic

In the NY Times Science Section this morning, proof that the H1N1 ambivalence epidemic has reach far beyond those in this writer's acquaintance. I posted earlier this week about the tortured reactions to the swine flu vaccine among the mothers I know, and heard from even more of you in response. Sounds like this is how it is everywhere. Perri Klass, MD, the author of this article, said this is the reaction she gets to the vaccine from "nonmedical friends":

With about half, it is something like: “Oh, my God, our doctor doesn’t have it! Can you get me a dose?” And with the other half, it is something like, “Oh, my God, that brand-new vaccine — do you really think it’s safe?”

Dr. Klass thinks it is, and makes a compelling case for it in this article, while also exploring where this inchoate and yet deep-seated uncertainty regarding the vaccine may have come from. She quotes Dr. Paul Offit, chief of infectious diseases at the Children's Hospital of Philadelphia, and I think he has interesting insight:

Dr. Offit wondered if people were more comfortable with sins of omission than of commission. Rather than inject a foreign substance into your body, he went on, “you’ll take your chances with a natural virus infection, which may or may not kill you.”

I'm a sucker for any Roman Catholic metaphor, so I like that one. As far as my own children, I am actively pursuing the swine flu vaccine for all three- and am getting all three of them the seasonal flu vaccine this afternoon. Despite this, we've all been sick on and off since Labor Day. So this may be a long winter.

(photo from NYT Klass article cited above)

Maclaren recall: is there nothing safe?

The blogosphere is alight with the news that Maclaren is about to go public (Tuesday, Nov 10th) with a recall of every single stroller they have made for the last ten years, due to twelve cases of fingertip amputation among children when the strollers were opened.

Let's stop right there. Fingertip amputation? And they had to get to TWELVE cases before they issued a recall? I'd say two cases was probably enough to establish a pattern. As always, I am outraged at how many kids have to be injured before a company will own up that their product is dangerous. And now you, Maclaren? I have had my $99 Volo since Connor was born seven years ago, and while it has never been my primary stroller, it has been invaluable whenever I had to take my little ones on the subway or bus or on vacation. Only a Maclaren folds like a dream and, slung over your shoulder, weighs 7 pounds, yet is still durable enough to last you through three children. And now this? I'm not ready to break up with you Maclaren, but I am REALLY pissed off.

Here's what you need to know: starting tomorrow, Maclaren will provide free kits to cover the strollers' hinge mechanisms. The quickest way to obtain the kits will be to order them through www.maclaren.us/recall or by calling 877-688-2326. Both are currently not functioning but presumably will be tomorrow. Get the hinge covers-- and until then, make sure your child is nowhere near your Maclaren when you are opening or closing it.

The Quarreling Book

Have you ever read a book to your children and thought: the message of this book may be going way over my children's heads, but holy cow, this was a one-two punch to their mother? This weekend we visited my parents' house because the cousins were around, and to calm down the three five-year-olds, three two-year-olds, and two seven-year-olds while we were waiting for the very late pizza guy to arrive, I pulled some random and dusty old books out of Nana's collection.

This one looked kind of cute: a slim volume, originally from 1963, called The Quarreling Book, by Charlotte Zolotow. "What's quarreling?" Seamus asked as they all clambered around me on the couch to take a look, and none of the other kids knew what it meant either, and that seemed to be a clear sign that this book would be quaint but perhaps not too relevant.

Then I began to read.

It was a rainy gray morning, and Mr. James forgot to kiss Mrs. James good-bye when he left for the office. Mrs. James felt quite cross because of this... So when Jonathan James came down for breakfast, she was sharp with him. "Oh, for goodness' sake!" she said. "Why did you wear that shirt again today? It's filthy!"

In other words, Jonathan James' mommy was having a shitty morning and took it out on her kid. Wow, did that sound familiar.

The book goes on to show how our behavior towards our loved ones is all too often shaped by things that have nothing to do with them. Jonathan James, in a bad mood because his mommy wasn't nice, is nasty to his sister, who is nasty to her friend, who teases her baby brother, who pushes the dog.

Only the dog can turn things around. Thinking the baby wants to play, he licks his master's face until he giggles. Then he's nice to his older sister, who apologizes to her friend... and before you know it, Mr. James is home to give Mrs. James a great warm hello kiss.

The kids liked this book just fine. I find it incredibly powerful. The next time I am being snippy or snappy or sarcastic or nasty with one of my children, I am going to try to take a moment and consider if, perhaps, there might be a reason for my reaction that actually has very little to do with my children's behavior. I have a feeling I will be seeing a lot of my impatience with my children in a new light. It looks like this book is still available on Amazon, and even though the dad goes to work while the mom stays home and hangs out the washing, and the big sister calls her little brother a "sissy" for playing with dolls, which might merely give some kids a new avenue of teasing possibility, its overall message means I can still recommend The Quarreling Book most highly.

bring back Daylight Savings Time

Today, an immodest proposal: let's stop with the Daylight Savings Time back and forth. Every autumn, I see some talking head on TV saying how I'll get an extra hour of sleep on Sunday morning, when the clocks fall back. I used to feel that way. Then I had kids. For the last seven years, all "Fall Back" Sunday means for me is that I have to get up even more Ungodly Early then I do every other day.

This past Sunday, all three of my children were up by 5 a.m. "The new five," my husband calls it, and admittedly that was a mitigating factor. Last weekend. Five was really six, and as long as I looked at the un-reset microwave clock, instead of the cable box, I actually felt OK. But this morning, six days after the time change, two of my children were up by 5 a.m., as they have been every day. And it no longer felt, in any way, like six. It felt like five. It felt like the middle of the night. I have been so tired all day that I can barely function. And there is no end in sight.

Seriously, should parents bond together and stop the madness? I agree that kids shouldn't be waiting for the school bus in the dark, but if we never sprung forward onto Daylight Savings Time in the first place, it wouldn't be an issue. I think. Or maybe I'm just really tired.

teeth are busting out all over

After waiting nearly seven years to lose a single tooth, Connor has now lost two teeth in two days.


He came home from school yesterday with the other bottom middle tooth at a jaunty angle to the others, like the feather in Robin Hood's cap. I would have just left it.
But our babysitter was quite focused on getting it out, and together, she and Connor decided she should tie a piece of thread around his tooth, and tie the other end to one of his Shake 'n Go Racers. Connor would shake the car, set it down, and it would race off with his tooth. I had my reservations about this plan but stayed out of it, because I wasn't pulling it out, that was for sure. In the end, the race car did not even have to be shaken for the tooth to be gone.

Before our babysitter left I threw my coat on and ran out to the bank with Maggie under one arm. I would not be unprepared this time! I got ten gold Sacajawea coins, set aside three to go under Connor's pillow, and safely stashed the rest for future use. Then I took Connor's tooth from where it sat on my desk, and handed it to him to put under his pillow. I was very proud of myself indeed, for having my act together for once.

Connor stared at me. "My tooth already IS under my pillow," he said.

Gulp.

"No it's not!" I said, idiotically, buying time.

"I just put it there," he said, quite sure of himself.

We go in his room. There is a tooth under his pillow. I have just given him the one the Tooth Fairy supposedly took LAST night. I try to pocket the pillow tooth, but Connor is right at my elbow. "You had my other tooth that fell out on your desk?" he said. "That's so weird. That's so weird I like, might not even BELIEVE in the Tooth Fairy now."

I decide to dig myself out of trouble by vehemently agreeing with him. "You're right! That's bizarre!" I said. "How did your tooth from last night end up on my desk? That makes NO SENSE." When David came home, I met him at the door to head this story off at the pass. "Isn't that WEIRD, Daddy?" I exclaimed. "Why did the Tooth Fairy leave money and not even take Connor's tooth?"

"Because she's magic," Daddy replied, without missing a beat. "And she can see the future, so she knew she'd be back here tonight anyway. Tonight she can pick up both teeth at once."

Sometimes I really love my husband.

big news

How quickly things change! The day before yesterday, Connor was despondent. And then yesterday was one of the greatest days of his life so far:



Connor is nearly seven, and this was the first tooth he has ever lost. He was the only kid left in first grade who had not yet lost a single baby tooth, and when I tell you that was eating him up inside I am not exaggerating. He had been wiggling this one loose for some time, and by last night at dinnertime, it was hanging by a thread. A blue one. It made me gag just to look at it. Daddy was at the Yankees game, and my stomach churned at the thought of having to pull it out. Thankfully, just one bite of Annie's Bunny Macaroni did the trick, and Connor had become a man!

I ran and checked my wallet while Connor called the grandmothers. I had two ones, and a ten. Ten bucks seemed a little steep; two seemed insufficient. I went directly to Facebook and posted to all: "What's the Tooth Fairy paying out for a first tooth these days?" Here, a smattering of the responses I quickly received:

--three gold Sacajawea dollars
--100 shares of Bear Stearns
--$5 for first teeth and/or center uppers, which are particularly exciting
--$5 plus one tube of High School Musical toothpaste

Good suggestions all. But it was 7:30 pm and I had neither shiny gold coins nor stock certificate nor glittery Crest around the house. Heck, I didn't even have a fiver. So I asked Connor, trying to appear casual.

MOMMY: What have kids at school been getting from the Tooth Fairy?
CONNOR: Ten dollars.
MOMMY: Wow! Really? Are you sure?
CONNOR: (pondering) Well. Emily got one dollar, but she also got a coloring book.

He returned a few minutes later to elaborate:

CONNOR: It was an animal coloring book. And Emily likes animals more than anything.

And more, a few minutes later:

CONNOR: I think Emily's coloring book was so good that like, the animals were almost going to COME TO LIFE, it was so good.

I certainly didn't have one of those lying around.

And so I sneaked into Connor's room last night, heart pounding lest I be discovered, retrieved the teensy tooth, and left the ten. Connor came running into our bedroom at 6:02 a.m. to show me.

CONNOR: Mom! The Tooth Fairy brought me ten dollars!

By now, I was certain that had been completely excessive.

MOMMY: Wow! That's a lot of money. That's probably just because it was your very first tooth that you lost.

And then Seamus popped his head around the doorway.

SEAMUS: Nope. It's ten dollars every time, Mommy. When am I going to lose a tooth?

Looks like I better get looking for that magical coloring book, or else I'll be out several hundred dollars by the time this is finished.

a sensitive male

If you are a fan of the Louise Bates Ames series of books on youngsters (and if you're not familiar, I recommend them), you know that Your Seven Year Old is subtitled: "Life in a Minor Key." I do not have said book at my fingertips as I write, but it explains how, once the average child turns seven, they enter a moody, taciturn (and temporary) stage where they are certain they are getting the short end of any stick.

Connor will be seven in a month and three days. Yesterday evening, at the time of day when first-grade exhaustion usually makes him weepy for one reason or another, he came to me and said he needed markers and paper to "work on something private." Off he went. Ten minutes later, he came and stuck this card in my hand:



and ran away to hide.

How cute! I thought. A little surprise for Mommy. Not sure why he didn't sign it, but whatever. Then I open the card, and this is what it says inside:



I went looking for him through the house, and finally found him hiding in the corner of the kitchen, shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs. I scooped him up into my lap, and he cried to me, for several minutes, about how he does not "get the respect he deserves" in our household, and how I pay much more attention to his two younger siblings than I do to him, and that no one, ever, is nice to him.

I decided not to argue. I decided to just hug him and let him get it all out. I have to say, I was so very proud of him. I thought of how my husband lets me know when HE is not happy, by sulking for a week or three, and how much more productive it would be, and how much more receptive I would be, if he would just make me a little greeting card with sad faces saying so. If he didn't wait for me to notice, based on his cranky behavior. This goes for me too. What if I made my husband a card with talking socks saying "We are sad when you leave us on the floor," rather than picking a fight about it every month or so? Would that not be WAY more useful? Who can resist homemade sentiment and words with facial expressions?

I hope Connor is always like this. He is my sensitive one, I tell him, and always let him know that that is a wonderful thing. Now I just have to find a way to give him more attention this week, and while my babysitter is out sick. Hmm.