The Compliance Manager

Ya know when you’re alone in your car, driving at night, and you feel a tiny little dried-up booger sitting at the edge of your nostril. You look around for a tissue or some other scrap of paper to extract the little bugger but can’t find a thing. So you do what everyone else would do when they think no one is looking—you pick it.

What a jerk you feel like—looking all around you, hoping (praying!) no one saw what you just did as you toss the offending slime out the window. I’ve done it. I’ll admit it. And I have a whole laundry list of other indiscretions I’d admit to if cornered, but I prefer to keep them to myself.

Now, I’ve got a seven-year-old at my side who keeps track of and admonishes my gross/weird/sometimes slightly borderline illegal little habits, insecurities and tendencies.

I call her the “The Compliance Manager.” She’s the kid who follows me around and reminds me when I’m bending or breaking the rules, not following her pre-established guidelines for being a good person or to let me know when there’s a big, fat elephant in the room.

“Two hands on the wheel mom!”
“You went to the restroom awfully quick. Are you sure you washed your hands?”
“You stole those pictures from a website?”
“Shouldn’t you take your makeup off before you go to bed?”
“Why do you pretend you’re not home when you’re sitting right next to the phone?”
“Can you eat those crackers before you pay for them?
“That shirt doesn’t look good on you, mom. I can see your booby crack.”
“Why does everything have to be perfect? You're not perfect.”
“Are you allowed to use the store bathroom? That sign says 'for customers only' and you didn’t buy anything.”
“Did you really not see that person waving to you?”
“I bet you don’t want me to tell Daddy I saw you doing that!”
“Don’t lick my spoon. It has my germs. Don’t you care about germs?”
“You’re driving too fast mom!”
“Did you read the instructions?”
"Do you know what you're doing? Are you sure?"
“How can you leave the shopping cart here when the rack is right over there?”
“Will you get in trouble, mom?”
"You act all crazy when you drink wine!"
"How do you know that? Did Daddy tell you?"
"That sign said 'no u-turn!'"
"I don't think it's supposed to be/look/smell like that!"
“Why does it take you so long to look beautiful on Saturday nights?”
"Did you really just eat eight cookies? I thought our limit was three..."
“I don’t think that dress really fits… Are you sucking in your belly?”
"The sign says six items in the dressing room. Why did you sneak in twelve?"
“Are you allowed to do that?”
“Does Publix care if you wear makeup to go shopping?”
“Didn’t you wear those sweats yesterday?”
“Did Daddy/your boss/the police officer/clerk say that was okay?”
“Are you sure that will taste good if you don’t follow the recipe correctly?”
“Should you leave the dog’s diarrhea smooshed on the neighbor’s grass like that?”

And my personal favorite:
“Your butt is too big... your panties go up your crack!”

I know you can relate. I bet you have a compliance manager too. Now I have to watch everything I say and everything I do because my every move is being watched and cataloged. I must be on my best behavior. A true role-model, upstanding citizen, good deed-doer, honorable, dependable, ethical, politically correct, sterling, principled, righteous, contientious mother and set a good example for my two children at all times.

Yeah right. I’m in f@%!ing trouble.

New Schooltime Routines

I’m already dreading the first day of school, which is just around the corner, because that means my kids will be relying upon me to get them there on time, every day. At 7:15am. I’m hosed.

I’m sweating the thought of trying to add a “Routine” to my day. I’m terrible at routines. All that same-old, same-old every day routine goes against my grain. I’m great at formulating a routine. I suck at the follow-through. I realize that “routine” must become my new BFF and fast. Because who else do you think Maya will blame when she sees the tardy count on her report card? (“No, honey, those tardies don’t count against your grades. Really, I promise. What?...No, I will not call your Principal to double check!”)

At least in past years, I had a carpool. So that meant I didn’t need a routine, I just needed to focus on getting my act together on time a few days a week. That’s a manageable task. That’s not the same thing as every day, all five days, every single week, for an entire school year. I figure while I’m working out my new “be-on-time” routine, I’d be best served adding a few more to the super-working-mom list:

Routine #1: Remove my make-up nightly. I’m not sure why after 30+ years, I still struggle with this simple act. I’ll brush my teeth before I go to bed, but makeup removal is a hassle. Those darn little pads take an extra thirty seconds. At this point in my life, I should get over this one and drop it from my routine “wish-list”….accept the raccoon eyes… but its simplicity still taunts me. This has nothing to do with my new school routine, but it’s always the first one that comes to mind.

Routine #2: Pack lunches the night before: I’m embarrassed how simple this task is and how I still need to push myself to create a routine around it. Seriously, I’m just lazy. I’d like to do it at night but with the eight thousand other things I do when I walk in the door after work, it just falls really low on the priority list. It kills me because this routine could clearly save me ten precious minutes I so desperately need in the morning. I wish I could pack lunches for a week—make Maya five PB&J sandwiches and store them in the freezer and then pull one out each day….Oh yeah, it’s called Uncrustables and she hates those…

Routine #3: Get up at 5am to exercise. Really, do I need to explain why I can’t make this a routine? I’ve been doing well this past month, getting out by 6-6:30. But 5am seems unfathomable. Please don’t email me to say you get out to spin class at the gym by 5am. I already have a friend that does that. One’s enough, thank you.

Routine #4: Twenty minutes of reading. This is required by our elementary school and I totally agree with setting aside time each day to read. I’m an avid reader, so this should be a no-brainer. However, I’ve got two kids at two very different levels, with two very different interests in books and only one of whom can read. This presents a problem every time we sit down to do this routine.

Sometimes Maya wants to read on her own near me, but can’t concentrate as I’m reading aloud to Camryn. Half the time I’m raising my voice at Camryn because we can’t read one page without thirty-six interruptions about nonsense that has nothing to do with the story at hand. I suggest Maya read in her room, but she wants to be with me. (Who can argue with this logic?)

Other times, Maya wants to read together. That usually begins with a half-hour argument between the girls over which book to read. Once that’s agreed upon, we all snuggle up for our story. Maya-the-director, interrupts regularly to advise me of exactly how I should read the book. She’s my over-the-shoulder editor. (“You pronounced that word wrong!”) I can’t skip irrelevant passages to speed up the story. (“Wait a minute, you didn’t read this part!”) I didn’t spend enough time analyzing the pictures. (“You’re turning too fast! I didn’t see”) I can’t read in my “voices”. (“Don’t give that girl an Indian accent mom! Stop using French words!”) It’s an exhausting 20 minutes, as you can now clearly imagine why doing this task on a daily basis is painful.

All this is in an effort to get six bazillion things done before I walk out the door. I’ve got to exercise myself & Casey; shower & dress; throw up a load of towels; wake, dress and wash/brush two sleepy, cranky kids; run upstairs for something I will forget; feed two kids (different breakfasts because of course they can’t agree) and one dog (who luckily eats the same thing every day, so no thinking on my part); pack two backpacks; raise my voice to settle a random squabble; sign permission slips; locate homework; prepare three lunches; run through spelling words one more time; find my keys; run back upstairs for something one of the girls forgot; hustle everyone into the car (and settle a disagreement over who is sitting where); run into the house for the keys I left in the laundry room; drive the kids to school, stop at Starbucks, drive to work and start my day.

Whew—tired just writing what my routine will encompass. Must enjoy this last week before the chaos ensues. Hope everyone else’s back to school is less stressful.

Baby no more

Last week, I had to drop Maya off at school by herself. Typically, I carpool with a friend and drop the girls off at the light by the school;. Maya and her friend walk to the corner, cross with the crossing guard and make their way into the building by themselves.

On this day, the friend was sick, so I planned to park the car and walk her in. I pulled into a standing spot, turned off the ignition and opened my car door. Maya asked me where I was going and I explained.

She said, verbatim: "Now, Mom, I love being with you and like that you want to walk me in, but only the babies in kindergarten have their moms walk them in. I can go alone."

With my mouth agape, I slowly closed my door and mumbled, "Of course, honey, I know you can." And off my baby went. I sat in parked silence and watched her walk to the corner, wait for the crossing guard and run across the street. That day, my daughter was just a step ahead of me.

It was one more sign that my little girl was moving ever closer to young adulthood and farther away from being the babe in my arms she once was. I'm not surprised by this change, as growth and development is obviously expected. I just didn't realize it would happen so fast and made me a little sad.

The terrible twos of puppyhood

At 4am this morning, I was standing in my driveway, staring up at the full moon and the bright night sky. No, I didn’t sleepwalk my way outside nor awake from a bad dream. I was watching my new puppy, Casey, pee. Even at that ungodly hour, he was so awake and chipper. He sniffed in endless circles until he found just the right blade of grass with the right scent to leave his mark. Then he followed it up with a healthy poop. Of course, I have to watch each poop to ensure it’s the right consistency, much like a new mother inspects her newborn’s poop.

And that got me thinking about how much a new puppy is like having a new baby. For the longest time I had a magnet on my fridge that read, “Once you have a baby, you can’t give it back.” Unfortunately, at times, I wish this weren’t also true for dogs.

I love my dog, don’t get me wrong. I love that he still looks like a large, fluffy cream-colored marshmallow. He’s a love bug. He loves me to scratch his belly. He’s fun to watch as he chases a bug or can’t maneuver going down the stairs and falls. I love his silly antics. I love watching him run: his back legs run almost perpendicular to his front legs, his ears flop and he has a lopsided smile on his face with his long tongue hanging to one side. Often, when he’s running directly to me, he can’t slow down fast enough and crashes into my legs. He’s hilarious.

I love how eager he is to please me. How I can train him to sit or come when I call. I love how he loves to hang out with me all the time. He’s great company. He doesn’t talk back. He’s a great listener. He keeps a good secret. I love watching him have fun with an empty paper towel tube. If only I could find such joy in something so simple.

On the other hand, I’m tired of getting up to walk him every night. Damn it, pee in your crate or hold it, I think when he wakes me. He also likes to dig in the dirt and bury things. Usually as I’m walking out the door, dressed for work, I have to stop and clean muddy paws and then my own muddy pants. He finds everything I don’t want him to find and eats it, like my dirty panties in the laundry basket. He’s like a Mexican jumping bean now, jumping up on my couch too. Each time I push him off. Then he jumps back on like a broken record. On, “Casey off!”. On, “Casey off!” On, “Casey off!” You get my drift…

Casey chews everything. My baseboards, my rugs, the girls’ stuffed animals, my robe, my pants legs, my shoes, and most deliciously, my arms and hands. Apparently, I’m a delicacy. Maverick and the girls are tasty treats but not so much as his favorite person, me. And when he gets fixated on teething on me, I have a hard time keeping my cool with him…it hurts! When I reprimand him, he thinks it’s a game, which leads to more human chewing. So much so that I toss him outside for a reprieve, which leads to freedom in the back yard and digging and dirty paws again. It’s a nasty cycle.

It’s reminiscent of all my new-mother suffering I had to endure when Maya came, especially the first few months. Luckily, one human year is equivalent to seven dog years. So this stage should be end much more quickly than with a human baby. However, that also means Casey is almost two human-years old. A toddler. Great. Now I’m beginning the terrible two’s. I’m in trouble.

A star chart for lip plumper

I decided tonight that I need to make myself a star chart, just like the one I had as a little girl. My mother made it for me and it tracked certain responsibilities I had to do on a daily basis. Do my chores, get a shiny gold star. The chart was intended to reinforce good behavior, so a certain number of stars equaled a wonderful prize, such as a new Barbie or some stickers.

I'm frustrated because I can't seem to get going on certain things I know I need to do for myself. I wonder if the star chart would help motivate me like it did so many years ago. Like remembering to take my eye makeup off at night. I want to do it every night. I know it will only take two minutes, but when I’m ready for sleep, two minutes feels like two extra hours, and all I want to do at that point is get into my bed. So, yes, I skip it many nights.

Honestly, I really don’t care if I wake up in the morning with raccoon eyes. It shouldn’t feel like such a big deal, to admit that I stink at being a responsible woman who takes care of my skin as well as I should. But admiting that fact make me feel like I’m wearing a scarlet letter. No woman in her rightful mind says it aloud either. And when we do admit it to our close girlfriends, we giggle at the relief to know we’re not the only ones.

There are those girls who wouldn’t dream of sleeping with their makeup on. Those girls have hour-long rituals of mud masks and toners, lotions and potions and bottles of hopeful magic. Those girls have drawers full of the latest and greatest in skin-care who-ha and all the latest rage they learn about from their shiny Vogue magazines. I’m definitely not one of those girls.

Sometimes, however, I long to be that girl… who sits on a chaise in front of a well-lit mirror, in a long silky robe with kitten heel slippers at her dressing table, dressing for dinner. The woman who has oodles of time to pay attention to herself. I am that woman when I’m on vacation. Then, I allow myself a whole hour and a half to get dressed in a beautiful marble hotel bathroom, vino in hand, jazz on the radio. I take my sweet time to pluck, shave, trim, inspect, moisturize, glamorize, spritz, curl my lashes, flatten my hair and otherwise enjoy the rituals of womanhood.

But in my reality, I wash and brush with one hand and tear my puppy Casey off my robe with the other. I’m an on-the-go kind of mothery-professional-sort-of-career-girl who wears cargo pants and flip flops to work just because I can. Dressing, like I do on vacation, is a luxury. In my daily life, reality is only getting the fuck dressed and out of the house, kids washed, brushed and fed, shoes on, backpacks packed, and oh, yes, there’s lunch to be made this morning too, plus I’m ten minutes late. I’m tossing the waffles in the sink that my kid asked for and microwaving a second breakfast of pancakes that she didn’t because she changed her mind. I’m getting the dog walked, poop scooped, and sufficiently hydrated and energized. I’m running back into the house, maybe once, usually twice, because I’ve forgotten something. All before 8am.

So when I say looking in the mirror while applying mascara is a luxury, you can see the picture. But there are some things I should do to take better care of myself, like remove my makeup at night. For once, I should make myself a priority again. Because only then will I take an extra minute to do something nice, and god forbid, healthy, for myself.

I had that brilliant epiphany the other weekend. Tonight, though, days later, after all that self-insight, I still have yet to do anything about it. I figured if I reward myself for completing the goal, not only will my chart be filled with lots of gold stars, but I’ll teach myself a new, good-for-me habit. My skin will thank me for it too. And then I can reward myself with that cute lip plumper I saw online at Sephora, because I always wished I had a pouty mouth. Then, as my motto goes, I will deserve it.

Hip-hop-laugh-a-lot

Since I was a little girl, I’ve loved to dance. The house I grew up in had a giant, furnished basement. As a kid, I’d lock myself downstairs, turn the Bee Gees up on the turntable and dance the day away. Sometimes, I’d bring a large mirror down there to watch myself. I’d use an open door to swing myself around on like it was my dance partner. Once, my mother stored a highly polished wood dining room table down there and that became the perfect surface to practice spinouts on my tush like a Dance Fever girl. I’d throw myself down and spin out with an arm raised in the air with the a flourish, ta-da!

I’d sing and dance and put on a show for nobody in particular. But in my fantasy, I was always a very famous, very glamorous, very rich, popular and gorgeous Hollywood starlette who made the crossover from successful films to Broadway to Billboard’s Top 20 Hits. Not to mention my movie-star boyfriend, Tom Cruise!

That’s when I was my happiest. Dancing around like I knew what I was doing, first to Andy Gibb and then Saturday Night Fever and later to Grease, Fame and then Flashdance. Dancing around in the privacy of my own basement (with a very large, appreciative audience in my own mind) always put a smile on my face. I clearly remember feeling flushed and out of breath, as I took a large bow and accepted my standing ovation. It was my way of escaping out of reality and into my perfect fantasy of actually having a gifted dancing ability.

Truth be told, I really can’t dance. I can move my hips and pull off a convincing dance in a crowd. That’s when I’m at my best now. I’m the girl who can shimmy in a chair and look good doing it. But getting up and dancing doesn’t translate as well on my own two feet. I do it anyhow because after all these years, it still feels amazing. Put a few drinks in me, and I’ll tear up a dance floor. Who cares how I look to others if I can’t see straight? Even today, I still dance around the house when no one is looking. I dance with my girls and luckily, they don’t know any better than to laugh at me.

One of my favorite dance shows is “So You Think You Can Dance?” After watching the first season, I got hung up on wanting to learn how to hip hop. Maverick laughed. I’m so klutzy and uncoordinated. How could I learn to do hip-hop well? I showed him my hip-hop moves. He laughed again. So did I. But deep down inside, I really meant it. I WANT TO LEARN HOW TO HIP-HOP. It’s all about exaggerated moves and popping. I think I could do that. Maybe…

So finally, I found an adult hip-hop class. I refuse to get down on the floor and do the “corkscrew” or the “worm-whatever” but I am very excited to learn how to bust a move. Hopefully, I won’t bust a bone. My girlfriends are going with me. I don’t know what that’s going to be like but I can guarantee it will be worth it’s weight in laughter. Maybe I should down a few shots of tequila before I go.

Unconditional love

This weekend, I fell in love at first sight. I saw him at once upon entering the room after quickly noting the other boys. Our eyes locked into a death grip and you could feel the laser-beam energy emulating from them. The rest of our surroundings melted away and all that existed in that moment was he and I. I crossed the room to him and he ran to me. I raised my arms and reached for him and we intertwined in a hug that felt like a lifetime coming. I knew right then and there that he was the one for me. I had waited so long to meet him and once I was there with him, everything in the world felt right. Next, he brought his face up to mine…

…and licked me. Yes, this weekend I brought home my new puppy, Casey. And yes, it was love at first sight, I’m not exaggerating. From the car ride to the airport, from the plane back to the car, in those first few hours we made our connection and formed a permanent bond. Me to him and him to me. I’m in love with his puppy breath, his oversized paws, his tiny, sharp teeth and his fuzzy fur. He looks like a golden marshmallow and has a personality to match. I’m in heaven.

Of course, my almost-seven-year-old had something to say about this new love. She commented that I’m paying so much attention to him and treating him like a baby. I replied that he is in fact a baby, only 8 weeks old. She corrected herself that I treat him like a human baby.

Obviously, a little jealous, but if you think kids grow up fast, try raising a puppy. By the time you turn around, they’re full grown. And cute of course, but surely not like a puppy. I can’t get enough of the puppy phase of watching him crash into walls, uncontrolled spinouts and slides on the tile floor, endless curiosity regarding every nook and cranny of my home, chasing his tail, trying to catch a lizard, attempting to navigate up the stairs, and even watching his sheer joy as he chases five kids in the backyard.

And the thing about a dog is he gives you unconditional love. Where else do you find that? Surely not from your children who swear to disown you when you embarrass them. Or from your husband who gets pissed when you don’t do things exactly as he would. Every human relationship has conditions that must be met to receive love. With a dog, just feed him, play with him, love him, and take good care of him and his heart is yours forever. It’s a beautiful thing.

So maybe I’m choosing to overlook the three am walks and the poop on the floor because I didn’t get him out soon enough. I know I’m overlooking the chewing and vet bills and all the other responsibilities that goes along with having a dog. To be home to walk him and make sure he’s looked after when I go on vacation. Cleaning his teeth, his ears, his coat. Vacuuming up the tumbleweeds of fur. Training him to be an upstanding dog who listens to commands, sits when asked and doesn’t hump the guests. It’s just like taking care of another baby, which I swore I never would. At least the human kind.

Alas, it’s just one more task I’ve added to my daily to-do list, but it’s worth it. If you’re still not convinced, stop on over and to meet my new boy. He’s already warmed over some of the neighborhood chickens who ran from dogs before. In fact, they’re going to be our newest pet sitters next time we go away. Feel free to get in line...I know we'll need it.

Lost freedom

Driving with my kids, I had to laugh as they listened to their I-pods while playing their Nintendo DSs. They don’t even realize how lucky they are to have these fabulous, portable toys to play with in the car. When I was a kid, all my brother and I had to do in the car was fight, usually about who was going to sit in the middle of the backseat.

When I think about all the things our children have that didn’t exist when we were kids, I could be envious. Even with all their cool toys though, there’s one thing that we can never give our kids that we had and that’s worth all the gadgets in the world. It’s freedom.

As a kid, I remember running around my neighborhood for hours and my mother didn’t feel the need to be outside with me. We used to run in the woods, build forts, pick blackberries, play ring-a-levio or tag. We'd ride our bikes all over and then throw them down to play inside someone's house for a while. We never though to call home. We just knew to be home by dark or when the neighbor stood outside at dinnertime and whistled to his kids like a dog. Even as a tween, I was allowed to walk down a semi-major road to the 7-11 or take a bus to the mall or go to the movies with my friends and just be free.

No one worried that we were going to be snatched away by a stranger in our own driveway. No one worried that the boogeyman was hiding at the playground. Play dates and sleepovers with friends were no big deal, even if my parents didn’t really know their parents. It was a different world.

Now, I’m not even comfortable allowing my girls to play hopscotch in the front of the house without supervision. And sadly, it’s not because I don’t trust them not to run off into the street. You just never know anymore who’s lurking in their car or watching them exit the building at school.

Even without a cell phone, we were afforded so much more freedom and trust than we can give our kids today. And for that, I feel sad for them. That we have to be so guarded and protected and force them to understand potential dangers of this world much earlier than we would like.

Everything is always so structured now, including their free time. I think there’s some life lessons to be learned about interacting with others, especially when a parent is not around to mediate. Too often, we jump in too fast to “help” instead of letting the kids work it out for themselves because we don’t want to listen to the bickering. Maybe next time, I’ll give them the latitude to work it out on their own. It’s the smallest bit of freedom I can give.

The apple doesn't fall far

My six-year-old has gorgeous hair. It’s silky, long, straight and blonde—the perfect Jan Brady hair that I wished to have when I was her age. As a matter of fact, I recall walking around with a yellow towel on my head, tucked behind my ears, in my own attempt to cover up my own plain, mousy-brown head.

I try hard as a mom to raise strong, intelligent women who are beautiful on the inside and outside. I compliment my girls when they are good people and kind and thoughtful and considerate. I compliment them when they look pretty too. I like giving positive reinforcement to bolster their self-confidence when its warranted.

This morning, as I was brushing her golden locks, I told her that she was beautiful. I shared it as quickly as the thought passed through my brain.

My daughter turned to look me squarely in the eye and said, “You always tell me that. You tell me I’m beautiful all the time and that makes me think you don’t really mean it.”

How is it that this little girl could twist my words, words of honesty and a compliment no less, and perceive them to be false and degrading?

Oh yeah, she’s my daughter.

Losing ourselves

As little girls, women dream of a life like Cinderella. Not the rags and housework part, but the dream of meeting our Prince Charming and living life happily ever after. Each of our versions may be somewhat different but collectively, we all wish to find happiness and fulfillment one day when we wed our true love and become a Mrs.

Then there’s other fairy tale of the house with the white picket fence, an adoring husband and two lovely children. Again, the stories we’re fed as children fuel this desire to have a perfect life. How often we sung the song of “…k-i-s-s-i-n-g! First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes so-in-so in the baby carriage!”

Unfortunately, our mothers did not do a proper job of filling in the blanks. Perhaps it was the Mean Stepmother’s story: the one that teaches us that oftentimes, in our quest to fulfill these childhood fantasies of what married life with children would be, we lose ourselves along the way.

We’re so consumed with our work, our home, our husbands, and our children that we squash any sense of self. There’s just no time left in the day for us. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve noticed a wrinkle in the mirror and wondered how long it had been there. God knows, who has time to look that closely in the mirror anyway?

And then after a while, we stop one day, look in the mirror and realize we don’t know who we are anymore. We know we’re “wife” and “mother” and “daughter” and “friend” but we don’t know ourselves.

It’s scary to acknowledge the fact that we let our passions (and ourselves) go. We’re consumed with filling our kid’s day with meaningful activities to uncover their passions but what about ours? We used to be dancers or painters or photographers or roller-skate queens with ambition too. We had dreams and desires. Wants and needs. But we’ve prioritized ourselves right off of the list.

Of course, when we come to this realization, it causes strife with our spouse. He can’t imagine what we’re going through because it’s just not the same for men. But the truth is, we need to find ourselves again sometimes. Take a new class. Schedule a lunch-date with a girlfriend. Read that dusty book on your nightstand. Call an old friend for a good laugh. Go for a run. Make time for YOU!

In the long run, not only is it best for us, it’s best for our kids and our marriages too. So don’t be afraid.

Another baby, no way!

Today my little brother's daughter was born. As happy as I am for him to become a first-time father, I felt my own self shudder at the thought of what he has in store in the coming months and weeks. I don't miss having a newborn baby for one single second.

I am so thrilled to never have to change another diaper, wash another bottle, sing another Elmo song, watch another Baby Einstein video, attend another Mommy & Me class, change my shirt five times, clean up spit up or pump my breasts like a cow. I'm so happy I can run into a store without lugging a giant stroller, don't have to plan my day around naptime, and don't have my living room littered with musical toys.

Now that my kids are older, I can enjoy what I like more often. I like my sleep. I like having my nipples back for my own edification. I like putting on only one outfit per day. I like showering. I like the ability to hop in the car with my kids and take off for the day without a forty-minute planning session that includes schlepping sippy cups, jarred food, a change of clothes, diapers, diaper cream, a dozen toys and three different types of snacks. I like that my kids can give me some "me time", even when they are awake. I like using adult words like "go to the bathroom" rather than "go pee-pee". I like going out to eat and actually tasting my food.

Not that having older kids doesn't present its own challenges. Sex, for one, is not as fun when it has to be moved upstairs all the time. I can't have private conversations freely anymore. I always have to be on my best behavior or else I'm called on it now. I can't curse. I have to share my jewlery, favorite lipgloss and even sometimes my best purfume. Now I'm criticized, judged and blamed. Either way, it's still waaay better than cleaning up another poopy diaper.

6-year-old Smart Ass

I think I must have missed the chapter in the mothering handbook entitled, "Six years old equals smart ass." It was probably an oversight that happened somewhere between reading "What to expect when you're expecting" and "How to discipline a spirited child." I must have convinced myself I had this parenting thing under control.

Then my daughter turned 6 and all hell broke loose. She transformed from a sweet, inquisitive five year old into a Miss I Know It All, Prove It To Me Smart Ass. And yes, the capital letters are intended for emphasis.

I heard about this stage from my friends with kids older than mine, but I thought, no, that couldn't happen to my precious child. I'm a great mother. It must be some deficiency in my girlfriends' parenting style. I've got my kids whipped into perfect shape.

Ha ha! Laughs my six-year-old. She knows better. That prim behavior was so last year. Now, I've got my little shadow questioning me, quizzing me, challenging me. Nothing I say is ever taken for granted anymore. I now must prove myself.

Such as today, when I received an email from her camp counselor informing me that tomorrow would be "Super Hero Day" and Maya should wear her favorite superhero costume. Maya insisted I show her the email. She wouldn't take my word for it. I puffed out my chest in a childish response and told her she'd just have to trust me. Maya crinkled up her nose as she processed this idea. Then she promptly responded that she'd just have to pack the costume in her backpack "just in case".

I thought part of the fun with parenting would be to actually teach your child about life. Imagine that at six, she's fully in control of all her faculties that goes into living it. There's nothing I can say to Maya anymore that she doesn't already know. Her favorite sayings are "I know that already!" or "Daddy already told me!" or "That's not true!" She gets annoyed when I try to show her anything because she can figure it out on her own whether it be the TV remote, a new game, tying her shoes and such. Even when it's quite obvious she can't, her response is that she doesn't want to. (As in, I CAN do it if I WANT to but I don't WANT to.)

Add to the smart-ass frustration the fact that now I have yet another person living in my house who is quick to pick up and pick on all my flaws too. "Mommy, you ate six cookies already!" or "Mommy, that makes your butt look big." I especially enjoyed her observation of my Saturday night outfit that "It doesn't look very good on you." (Of course, I was just thinking the same thing but do you think I want a six year old criticizing me about it?)

Maya now has a running commentary of critiques and smart-ass questions such as: whether her homemade pancakes are fluffy enough; why didn't I finish folding the laundry?; what's the matter with the first six outfits I just tried on, why did you forget to wash my camp shirt; why are you yelling at Daddy?; why do you always need to suntan?, your panties up your butt is gross; how could you not have bread for my PB&Js?; why are so tired?

Pair that with the "It's Not Fair"...that I get to stay up late, I sleep in the bed with Daddy, I get to go out for dinner with my friends, I get a new lipgloss....you get the point. It's not so much what she says but the perfectly pitched whiny/annoying voice that goes along with it.

I try to chalk this all up to the fact that she's a smart cookie. And she is. Sometimes I just wish it wasn't so smart-assed.

Baby Shop: Closed for Business

I'm supposed to be creating baby shower invitations tonight but every time I sit down at the computer and start to think of cutesy wording to introduce the proud momma-to-be, I gag. I can't believe how far removed I feel from baby showers and all that goes along with it. The adorable diaper towers, the "how big is her belly?" toilet paper game, the forced "ohhs and ahhs" that must accompany each tiny outfit as its passed around the group. Seriously, gag me.

Right after the birth of my second, I was so positive I was over it, I closed up my own personal baby-making shop and burned it to the ground so it would never see the light of day. I wanted to ensure that no small egg would dare ever even try to covertly sneak its way down my fallopian tube towards my fertile uterus in search of the forbidden fruit. Two human beings calling me Mother was enough. I couldn't bear the thought of gaining another fifty pounds again. (My god, I had already put on enough weight to create a whole other person between the two and my stretch marks can prove it!)

No way, no how. No thank you.

My girlfriend, Callie, had a baby some months ago. I've held the baby once or twice, just to see what it would feel like again. I wondered if it would conjure back warm memories of my own two daughters whom I had each breastfed for almost a year. Or perhaps I'd associate that delicious baby smell with the early months of bonding with my girls. But it didn't.

Actually it had quite the opposite effect of been there, done that. It reinforced the fact that I'm so happy I do not have little babies anymore. The other day, a woman ten years my senior told me she would happily adopt a baby to save him or her from the perils of a depraved life in some third-world country. I thought she was stark-raving mad. I can't imagine starting over. Yes, I'd love to save all the starving, homeless children of the world, but I'd rather send my check to "save the children." I couldn't imagine the dirty diapers, the spitting up, the lack of sleep, the sopping wet breast pads, the nipple cream, the butt cream, the nasty diaper pail, did I mention the sleepless nights?

Some women are actually surprised by my somewhat vehement shudder of horror I uncontrollably exude when asked that infamous question of whether I'm going to have more kids. Maybe there's a short circuit in my motherly wiring, but I like having one hand for each kid and not being out numbered. I like having a life again.

Having babies was a joyful period in my life that is thankfully now over. I shut the door on the "Mom is a human pacifier" chapter. I don't want to relieve it nearly as much as I enjoyed reliving the salad days at my 20 year high school reunion. Not to mention the permanent wounds left on the landscape of my body. It's not a pretty sight...I lost the battle and the war with stretch marks and deflated boobs that looked like cold chicken cutlets. Whenever I get out of the shower and dismally see this body reflecting back at me, I thank the marvels of modern medicine that enabled me to ensure any more damage of this kind can never be inflicted again.

Don't get me wrong. I love my kids and am thrilled to be a mom. I just don't miss the first nine months of being pregnant along with the first six months of the newborn stage. I know some are horrified when they hear my diatribe. But for how many other women do I speak their deep-seeded truth? It doesn't make us any less of a woman to concede that one or two, or even no children at all are quite enough for any one of us.

So stop looking at me like I have two heads.