so how'd we do in 2008?

So, how'd you do in 2008? Did you make resolutions, and did you meet them?

Thanks to this blog, I am faced with an incontrovertible record of what I resolved a year ago. Here was my bar-setting for 2008:

--I will work on the muffin top. Which is, after three kids, more like an entire souffle hanging down over my waistband.

Well, my muffin top still exists. According to this review of Mother Load from its Charlotte run this fall,

To do this show week after week around the country, Wilson has to keep out-of-shape. Every time she lifts her top, revealing her puffy, crinkly "muffin top" spilling out over her waistband, Wilson shows us how seriously she takes her crusade.

This review horrified me. PUFFY? CRINKLY? Sure, I think that's how it looks, but I figured it didn't look that bad from the audience. And I AM working out. Once a month. Anyway. It's better, it's smaller, but it's still there, and in 2009, I'm going to work out more, while accepting that my elephant-knee midsection may be here to stay. 

--I will actually get down on the floor with my kids and play Rescue Heroes, or Diego Animal Rescue, or Killer Whale Rescue, or K'Nex Space Rescue. I'm not talking every day. I mean at all. This year. That would be good.

I barely even know what this stuff is, and I don't think my kids do either. Killer Whale Rescue? Hello, 52 WEEKS ago. 12 months is clearly much longer than any toy stays in heavy rotation. This week I did a 100-piece puzzle with Cooper, and in 2009, I am so all about the Planet Heroes Solar Quarters.

--I will stop finishing my kids' dinners. Even when it's Annie's Bunny Macaroni.

Um. Good one. I will try again in 2009, and I will also try not to utilize the Bunny Macaroni quite so often, for the kids or for myself.

--I will spend more time interacting with actual, real female friends, than I do with the anonymous frenemies on urbanbaby.com.

Ooh! Ooh! I did this one. I haven't been on urbanbaby.com in months, and I am certainly better for it. However, I did discover Facebook in 2008, and so truthfully I have just transferred the Great Time Suck from one website to another. At least I know the people on Facebook. Kind of.

--I will get Maddie to sleep through the night. Since she will be 14 months old by December 31, 2008, I am hoping that's not setting the bar too high.

WE DID IT!! Maddie now sleeps until 6 am or so. What was our secret? Well, about three weeks ago, we had to move Maddie into our office so a guest could sleep in our room. And David and I slept until morning... and Maddie, whenever she got up, survived just fine until we woke up on our own. What a revelation! Since then, we have moved Maddie (almost) entirely out of earshot. If she's screaming bloody murder, I'll hear her. If she's just looking for a little attention at 4:30 am, well, she'll have to wait a few hours, because I'm not hearing her. It took me six years of parenting to figure this one out. And it is golden.

--I will do, like, five Kegels, at some point this year. Maybe even in January, and five more in June or so.

I have done Kegels here and there all year, I do them fairly regularly when I'm brushing my teeth. I can't say they've helped a great deal, but I do fear what I might be like without them. Nuff said.

I will remember to take my vitamin at least once a month. (Like I said, I don't want to set the bar TOO high.)

Perhaps I should have aimed higher here. I took vitamins never. I know, I know, I really need to start with the vitamins and calcium in 2009. They give me gross burps though, I can't take it. I eat the kids' Flinstones, does that count?


--I will see a movie. At a movie theater. And my children will not be with me. (A mom's gotta dream.)

I did this also. Twice! Burn After Reading, and Milk. Two whole movies. yay for me.

So, let's sum up. For 2009, Kegels, vitamins, playing with my kids. Less Bunny Macaroni. More reading books and less DVR'ing Wife Swap. And bringing Mother Load to a city near you. That would be a great year indeed.

Hope your new year is a great one!

artwork cribbed from moove1 on flickr, and, presumably, trevor

a nailbiting Christmas Eve

Happy third day of Christmas to all! I hope you got all your French hens this morning. My other Christmas wish for you is that your Christmas Eve was less suspenseful than ours.

We were lucky enough to be able to travel from the snowy Northeast to sunny Florida for Christmas morning, and I was just thrilled with myself for being so organized as to have everything Santa DONE already. I had sent all the kids' gifts there, already wrapped, and had a friend open the boxes and hide it all on the other side. Why, all we had to do was breeze in on Christmas Eve afternoon, and spend a lovely warm evening decorating the already-up Christmas tree! What a relaxing Eve of the Nativity I would have!

Beware of hubris, dear mothers. Beware. The laws of Mother Load dictate that if you ever think to yourself, "I really have my act together," the parenting gods will make it their business to see that you do not. (See "plane, throwing up on, eight times," from last month, for another example.) In fact, I should by now know to assume the worst whenever air travel is involved.

And so I was not entirely unprepared for what faced us at the small airport near Nana's house on Christmas Eve morning at 7 am: runways so icy that the trucks that de-ice the planes could not even approach them. No departures, or arrivals, for the foreseeable future. And the increasing likelihood, with each passing moment, that we would miss our connecting flight.

After an hour of cuticle-chewing, David and I decided to pull the ripcord. We KNEW we didn't want to wake up Christmas morning in the Philadelphia airport. So we won't go, we said, remaining calm. We'll fly on Christmas Day. And they can see what Santa brought when they wake up on the 26th, instead.

The boys were watching the luggage handlers and mechanics slipping and falling on the ice outside. I broached the topic carefully.

MOMMY: So you guys. It looks like we can't fly today. So we'll stay at Nana's another day, and then we'll fly tomorrow. OK?

BOYS: (only half paying attention) OK.

MOMMY: That means we won't be in Florida tomorrow, where we told Santa we'd be.

This gets their attention.

MOMMY: But, you know, it's no big deal, because we'll just see what Santa brought whenever we do get there! How does that sound?

Cooper shakes his head. Poor, deluded Mommy.

COOPER: Don't worry, Mommy. Santa has a magic snowball. He'll look in it and he'll see we're at Nana's house. He won't bring our toys to Florida! Santa knows EVERYTHING.

And the two boys returned to looking out the window, calm as could be. Well, Cooper was right about one thing: Santa did know everything, and she was quaking in her imitation Ugg boots.

But this time, I had my secret airport weapon with me: Daddy.

I get nowhere with gate agents, and flight attendants, and others in the customer service industry. I ask, they say no, I say OK, end of story. But for some reason, they all say yes to David. Women love him. Gay men love him. And straight men? He can work his whole "hey guy, you're a guy, and I'm a guy" thing. So I sent David to work his magic, and get us to Florida that day, because otherwise I was going to be searching through the dregs at the local K Mart to make Christmas happen, all because of some freaking allegedly magic snowball.

And then, David flashed his smile, and the gate agent called "Inventory," whatever that is, and then we had a Christmas miracle: 5 seats, TOGETHER no less, on the last plane to Florida out of Philadelphia that afternoon. Sure, it would mean an extra four hours at the airport, but that's where Mommy works HER magic: skipping contests and scavenger hunts! Just 13 hours later, we arrived, greasy and exhausted, at our Florida destination, and our kids were all asleep already so we didn't have to deal with the Christmas Eve bedtime agita, and dang it if Cooper wasn't right: the next morning, Santa had come after all.

And even though Fergus claimed he didn't want pwesents and wasn't getting any, he did, and he did.

But Santa doesn't think she'll be cutting it THAT close again.

he knows if you've been bad or good... so just quit while you're ahead

Santa called our house last Sunday afternoon!

By the way- when my friends heard this from my two sons in the past week, they all said to me later, my God, I never thought of that. So maybe you're learning something here today, and honestly, what could be easier? You just email each child's naughty and nice points, stressing each individual's areas of possible improvement, along with something you know they're getting, to a willing/game friend or relative (in our case, Uncle Tim), the phone rings, and kapow! You've got a huge behavioral modification opportunity on your hands.

This was Santa's second year calling our house, so Cooper knew the drill. "Yes, mmm hmm, well yes Santa," he said, taking his lumps about pounding the floor too loudly with his feet at 6 am and bothering our downstairs neighbors, because Santa did also say he was a good Mommy's helper AND that he would be getting "lots of alien toys."

Then Fergus got on the phone, and I watched eagerly, knowing that Uncle Santa was telling him he had to give Maddie some space and really just shape things up in general if he wanted his "big yellow Jeep," the ONLY thing Fergus asked for this year. The only thing. I mean, that's not the only thing I bought for him, but who knows if he'll care about the puzzles and stuff. This yellow Jeep is all he wanted, and frankly, based on his behavior this past year, it's kind of a big ask. I just wanted Santa to put that on the table, albeit leaving Fergus with an optimistic outlook overall.

Fergus listened without saying anything. When he hung up, I couldn't bear it.

MOMMY: So Fergus! What did Santa say??

FERGUS: Nuffin.

MOMMY: He didn't tell you... that you were being a good boy?

FERGUS: No.

MOMMY: He didn't tell you... that you need to, oh, I don't know, give Maddie some space?

FERGUS: I'm not getting anyfing dis year.

MOMMY: What? Oh, honey, of course you are!

FERGUS: (not giving a rat's ass) No I'm not. I don't want anyfing. I not getting anyfing. I don't wike pwesents.

And that's where his thinking has stubbornly remained, since then. If he has to leave his sister alone until Christmas in order to get stuff, then (I think) Fergus thinks, you got to know when to fold em. If there are strings attached to the yellow Jeep, forget it. He's out. A man can only do so much.

And he's still getting the yellow Jeep. I mean, it's already in YaYa and Poppy's basement. This kid is smarter than he knows.

they're on to me

Tonight, this exchange occurred as I was helping the boys brush their teeth:

FERGUS: Mommy, do you fink weindeers wike wain?

MOMMY: No, I don't think so. I don't like rain.

FERGUS: I fink dey do wike wain. You know why? Cause weindeers? Have wain? In dere deer NAMES.

MOMMY: Wow, you've got a point there, Fergus.

I smile to myself, as he resumes brushing his teeth. There is silence for a moment.

COOPER: Mom, you should put that on your blog.

Fergus Explains It All: Word World Edition

This one is actually courtesy of my sister, Aunt Polly. She and Fergus had a meaningful conversation about Word World recently. PBS Kids is really just not in the 21st century, so I can't find a bigger picture online, but Word World is a show starring animals made up of the letters that spell their names. Like, the sheep is made out of the letters S-H-E-E-P. Anyway, Aunt Polly memorized the following exchange for these pages:

FERGUS: (Indicating cartoon shark whose body is made of the letters that spell SHARK; very seriously): Dat's a real shark.
AUNT POLLY: Oh, wow. And he doesn't have to stay in the water?
FERGUS: No. He just walks around.
AUNT POLLY: He can walk on his fins, huh?
FERGUS: Yes. Dat fing dat he's walking on? Dat's the letter 'X.' And it's his back fin.
AUNT POLLY: Oh.
FERGUS: He's nice, too.

(Pause while we watch)

FERGUS: (Still quite serious): I don't know what his name is. I know the sheep and the duck's names. The sheep is 'Sheep' and the duck is 'Duck.' But I don't know what the shark's name is.
AUNT POLLY: ...I wonder if it's 'Shark'?
FERGUS: (This rings a bell): Oh, yeah, yeah, it's 'Shark.'

Well done, Fergus. It must be the X-fin that makes him so nice.

rockin' the birthday party old school

Last week, I celebrated six years of parenthood as my son Cooper finished his sixth lap around the track. Birthdays always freak me out, in that they force me to contemplate that, for example, Cooper turned six, which actually means he's FINISHED six years of life and is really in his SEVENTH year. Or, say someone were 39, they would actually be now in their FORTIETH year. Basically, by the time you turn 40 you're DONE being 40. So that pretty much means that anyone who's 39 is kind of 40 already. Not that I know anyone in that particular situation.

But a child's birthday has many other factors to freak a mom out, such as the obligation to invite the entire kindergarten classroom of 17, plus the very bestest friends that aren't in that group, and then to provide sufficient entertainment to said jaded group of world-weary loose-toothed hooligans. I thought a soccer party would be nice. Because it would not be here. Let Super Soccer Stars work their magic! "No, that's not cool," Cooper said, and neither was a bowling party or a movie party.

"So what would be cool?" I asked, out of ideas.
Cooper pondered this. "I want to have a party here," he said finally. "In our house."

Now, I entertain in my head all the time, and I imagined a lovely holiday party this year that I swear you were on the imaginary list for, but I do not often actually invite anyone to come over. So the thought of 20 six-year-olds underfoot was a little daunting. But I do try to be both Cool Mom and Reasonable Mom, and not wanting to fail the "Birthday Pressure Quiz" on birthdayswithoutpressure.com, I agreed to Keep It Simple and host an old-fashioned at-home birthday party.

And although I cannot say it was without pressure, I can say that Cooper's party was inexpensive, fun, and successful. Six-year-olds can get a little wild-- I had to break up two kids that were choking each other with tinsel from the Christmas tree-- but overall they were self-sufficient little guests. Here were some of the things that worked well for us:

--the kids all came in their pajamas, at 5 pm, for a two hour "pajama party." All the giggling, none of the sleeping over!
--I had relatives around to help but encouraged parents to drop off their kids, so I wouldn't have 20 adults to entertain as well
--we made decorating the Christmas tree the main activity of the party. Everyone took part, and I didn't have to do it this year!
--the kids sat on big blankets on our living room floor to have a "picnic" of pizza, fruit, and juice boxes
--we played "Telephone" and a sort of 20,000 Pyramid type game, where the kids took turns being the Nipsey Russell or Sandy Duncan part with categories like "Things Our Gym Teacher Would Say."

And it was all well, and good, until I ran out of categories for that game and we still had twenty minutes of party left.

"Let them open their presents," my friend Cece said.

"What?" I asked. "Do you want to get me reported? NO ONE opens birthday presents at their parties anymore."

"Trust me," she said. "They'll like it."

And I'll be darned, they LOVED it. Cooper loved it of course, but all his friends were so thrilled to give him what they brought, and watch him open it, and hear him say thank you. I must say, I think our modern ban on this activity is misguided.

So I did learn a few things from our house party, and I'll do another one next year, and perhaps I can move my home state off the "high pressure community" list on birthdayswithoutpressure. Every little bit helps.

Elf Yourself!

Send your own ElfYourself eCards

that's why they call it full time HELP

Well, it's been kind of crazy around here for the last few weeks, but light has dawned: our babysitter, Sarah, whom we use when we are on vacation, actually flew to NYC to be with us and help me out until I could find a new sitter. And we found one, a lovely woman named Lucille, who starts this Monday, and for whom we all have high hopes.

So I survived my several weeks without a babysitter, and I am certainly glad to have had the chance to be neck-deep in my children. Maddie learned to walk these last couple of weeks, and I took her to all her fun little classes, and Cooper learned to ride without training wheels, and I would have these experiences and think, why would I ever do it any differently? Why do I want someone else spending time with my children instead of me?

And then I would come home, and see my apartment that looked like a bomb hit it, and the 200 Christmas cards I have to write, and the class parent stuff I have to do for Fergus' teachers, and there's nothing in the refrigerator for dinner, and Cooper is slapping Fergus repeatedly while Maddie is about to take a bite out of Cooper's arm, and I would say, oh yeah. This is why. Because I can do this all myself for a week or two, but only if I know that help is coming.

I had coffee this week (bless you, babysitter Sarah!) with a writer whose work I really admire. She is very busy and prolific and she's been on Oprah talking about her books and she is pregnant with her third child, her oldest not yet three and a half. And the reason I wanted to meet with her is so I could ask HOW DO YOU DO IT? How do you find time to write?

She leaned across the table. "I have full time help," she whispered, as if this were a slightly dirty secret that I didn't know about.

And I was like, AND?

I went to a "Lose Your Mummy Tummy" seminar after having Fergus four years ago, and met another mother there who had just had her third. As conversations among modern mothers often go, ours turned to work, childcare, and the impossible complications thereof.

"Do you work?" she asked me.

"Well, kind of," I said.

"Do you have help?" she asked.

"About twenty hours a week," I answered.

"I stay home, and I have full time help," she admitted, as if she were saying she had herpes. "But it's full time HELP! As in, she HELPS me! I don't leave! I never go anywhere!"

"Oh, I'm sure," I said, but of course inside I was thinking, full time help? Why, life would be a bowl of cherries.

And now I am that mother, with three small children, and full time HELP that is a great HELP but somehow does not make the mess, the piles of stuff, the whining and the fighting and the short order cooking go away. It makes it bearable, makes it possible, but it does not make it easy.

I think people who don't have full time help, or help, period, think that it means the mom does nothing and the babysitter does everything. In reality, as one friend of mine put it, it's "someone at home with the baby, and someone on the move with the rest of them." I can count on one hand the times that I have left a babysitter in charge of all three of my children (awake, that is) for more than an hour or so. I can handle all three myself, clearly, but having done a lot of that recently, I can say that I'm not sure anyone else should have to.

And when people ask ME how I find time to write I answer, honestly: I don't. As some of my readers here have probably noticed. But now that I'm going to have that help back, I plan to use it, and while the boys are in school every morning, use those few hours of child-free time to work at things besides Cooper's 20 thank you notes for his 6th birthday party. Like gas, the Mother Load expands to fill all space available. Apparently, I have to declare some spaces off-limits.

Upon Learning to Ride His Bike Without Training Wheels

Cooper learned to ride his bike without training wheels over the Thanksgiving mini-break. He and his parents approached this undertaking with an equal amount of trepidation, but determination as well; it had gotten to the point where Cooper was unable to ride his bike with the training wheels *on*, either, since someone might see him, namely Leo and George, two slightly older boys in our neighborhood who had crossed the Rubicon already.

So David and I dragged Cooper outside. I mean, literally dragged. And then it took about a minute and a half. David jogged along beside him, holding on, and then letting go... and then not holding on... and then looking back at me as if to say, um, do you see this?

After a few minutes, Cooper sniffed, "D-d-daddy... I fink you don't have to hold on now..." and David had to break it to him that he never had been.

Ten minutes later, Cooper and I were off for a bike ride around the neighborhood.

"Don't I look like a professional bike rider, Mommy?" Cooper said.

"You sure do," I said.

We rode for a moment, in silence.

"I feel so happy inside," Cooper said.

"I know you do," I answered.

Cooper breathed in and out, exultantly, and said,

"This is just how I'm going to feel when I lose a tooth. I just KNOW it."

notes on blogging, from Arianna Huffington

So Arianna Huffington,blogtress extraordinaire, was on The Daily Show last night hawking her new book, The Huffington Post Complete Guide to Blogging. And as a self-proclaimed "blogging evangelist" she had lots of advice for those of us trying to do it. To wit:

--Blogging is not about perfection. Blogging is about immediacy and intimacy.

--First thought= best thought. Blogging is not about editing.

--Blog about your secret passions.

The first two pieces of advice make a lot of sense, and I will try to heed them in order to post more often. But the third was kind of a curveball. Am I really supposed to be doing that here? OK, um, what are my secret passions, exactly?

AMY'S SECRET PASSIONS

--Sleep. Glorious, uninterrupted sleep. That's what turns me on these days. The thought of it, I mean.

--"Flipping Out" reruns on Bravo

--shots of Gingerbread syrup in my Grande Decaf after I drop the boys off at school

Um, that's it. Lame, I realize, but I will try to be more secret and more passionate from this point forward.