I fell in love with my urban neighborhood 17 years ago and have been there almost every year since; Nate has been a neighborhood regular for at least the last 10 years. In an area where everyone knows each other, we always wonder how we didn’t meet sooner.

We knew this was where we wanted to stay and raise our family. But when Nate and I moved to a new house in December of 2006, we had no idea how much our lives were getting ready to change. At just three blocks west of our former apartment, we didn’t think we were in for anything different.

Baby boom on the block
Right after our move, we learned I was pregnant with our daughter Anika (now 2). Throughout the winter, we planned for our newest addition.

Eventually, the snow melted, the weather warmed up, and people began emerging from their homes again. We met many of our neighbors that summer. Mia (then 3) quickly learned there was a girl close to her age next door. After realizing their similar interests (princesses, tea parties, riding scooters), Mia became fast friends with Cristina, along with her brother Antonio.

It didn’t take us long to find the common denominator among the adults, too. In three neighboring houses, there were four pregnant women. It was a hot summer and I spent the end of my pregnancy in the air conditioning, so I didn’t get to know my neighbors that well until after Anika was born.

Born in September, Anika was the first baby of the block. Lola followed in February, then Natalia in March. Finally, in May, the three baby girls welcomed the first baby boy, Louis.

About a year later another family moved to the block with their four kids, bringing the child count on the block to eleven: seven girls and four boys ranging in age from 1 to10. Some of the kids are siblings, some are cousins, but all are friends.

Two years later
After two years, it’s not only the kids who have become close friends, but also the adults who have come together as a community of parents, too.

We compare notes, ask advice and share discipline techniques. And we tell a lot of stories because there’s not many people who can appreciate the minor accomplishments of babyhood other than a parent at the same stage.

Sure some kids walked earlier than others and some talked sooner, but we never competed with one another. We patiently watched the kids develop at their own paces and discover their individual personalities.

In two short years, we’ve seen the babies who used to sit on their mom’s lap magically change into the toddler running back and forth from corner to corner, trying to keep up with the older kids.

All this time we’ve been trying to orchestrate an annual picture of the babies. But somehow we could never get four babies together until last month. It was an impromptu picture. The kids were outside, someone noticed we were all there, and I frantically ran inside for the camera. Say cheese!

Reversing roles
As I was watching the kids run back and forth, on their feet, then on scooters, then on bikes, I reflected on how close the kids have become, and how this house on this block will be our kids’ first memories of friendship and community.

I have vague memories of the house I was born in. I remember a neighbor mom and her three sons, all close to my older sister’s age. I can’t tell you a thing about those boys, except they were all blonde. And there were some adults, all of them old in my eyes.

The neighbors were probably young parents, as my parents were. But even so, we grouped them together, all adults, all old. It dawned on me: We are now those old adults to our kids.

It’s weird to think the kids on the block know us only as moms and dads (“old adults”), not as writers, artists, nurses, business owners, students … people with any interests other than being a parent and making sure the kids don’t cross the busy street. Nope, no matter how young we feel, we are the old adults.

What’s in a name?
Recently a friend asked me if I prefer her kids call me Rebecca or Mrs. Christman.

What? Mrs. C? “Sure, Rebecca’s fine,” I said. Then I thought I gave the wrong answer. Somehow, Mrs. Christman doesn’t seem like they’d be referring to me. Would I even answer? I would, but maybe not as quickly as when someone yells “Mom” in a crowded room.

While it was easy for me to accept the title “Mom,” it’s a lot harder for me to feel I’ve truly grown into “Mrs. Christman.”

Maybe it’s a respectful tradition many have lost sight of. When I was growing up, I called my mom’s friends by their first names. I called my friends’ parents by the moniker: “Stacy’s Mom” or “Charity’s Dad.”

I started paying attention. The older kids next door call us “Anika’s Mom” or “Mia’s Dad.” It’s possible the kids don’t know our last name. They don’t really address us as anything. And until I’m older, that’s just fine with me.

 Last weekend, my kids and I cleaned our closets. Summer clothes went in boxes and out came sweatshirts and snowpants. Somehow, Anika came across an old tape player. 

I haven't seen or used a tape player in years, but there it was. Anika's world looks a lot different than mine did at her age. At 2 years old, she has never seen such a device as a tape player. She still gets frustrated at the play phone with a cord. 

After the big find, I immediately went into the basement to unearth an old cardboard  box of tapes my husband has been begging me to get rid of for years. I could never do it, though. It was too much a part of my youth.

In grade school, my best friend Brandy and I made a radio station: WGGN. WGGN "aired"  songs, commercials, soap operas, movie clips and infomercials. There were dozens of WGGN tapes, but to my knowledge only one exists anymore. 

Not that long ago, an old friend emailed me to ask if I remembered taping  Michael Jackson's Thriller album for her. I didn't, but she reminded me that her dad wouldn't let her have the album, so I played my RECORD into the phone receiver, which she taped on the other end. 

In high school, all my best friends were in bands, who made tapes to promote their music. In college, I spent all my free time in dark basements throughout the Midwest listening to any kind of indie music that would end up in the basement scene. 

Give up the tapes? Never. Much of this music never made it to a CD, even though some of it evolved into bands that actually got popular. This stuff is priceless to me. 

So when my girls unearthed my old prized possession, I couldn't wait to share my music with them. Unfortunately, my box of tapes was smaller than I remembered. Maybe there's another one in the depths of the basement, but that's a project for another day. 

When I looked through the selection, I didn't find many that would be appropriate for my little girls' ears. They'll find that on their own when they are older. But I did find a few tapes that I deemed family-friendly. 

So their favorite brand new toy turns out to be my old favorite thing — something I didn't even think would work anymore. They think it's hysterical to flip a tape to the other side, and press the buttons that don't produce a digital readout. Each morning, the first thing Anika goes to is the tape player. And each time she hears a tape "click" at the end, she gives it a skeptical look, like next it just might explode. 

Even with just a few tapes, it seems like a new excitement for them each time they put one on, bounce around and giggle like it's their secret toy. But when that excitement  runs out, you'll find me in the tape aisles at the thrift stores looking for more.

While our numerous family road trips have never gone as planned, the one thing I could count on was they would be fun. One way or another, we’ve always enjoyed whatever was in front of us. Among the unexpected turns, experimental adventures and joyful missteps, we’ve always laughed together and moved on with the trip. If nothing else, we’ve come home with some entertaining stories—the family anecdotes our kids can hold onto and maybe even share with their own children someday. 

Our last trip was the anomaly. There was no traumatic event to set the stage, but smiles were a struggle. Not one of us walked away with some reflective bit of wisdom or amusing memory—nothing. No matter what remedy we tried, no one had a good time on our road trip.

I can’t fully explain it, but I know that as Anika approaches the allegedly terrible age of 2 one thing remains clear: Nothing brings her more joy than playing with bubbles in our own backyard. No matter how often I tell myself the kids will savor a family fun weekend of traveling, the truth is nothing beats backyard bubbles.

I came to the conclusion that it was time to stop fighting myself. I couldn’t figure out why we kept choosing to spend all this money to travel. And why we were taking time off work, stressing about the planning, forcing the kids into the car and driving for hours. All this to introduce the kids to a new place where all they want is to do is paint the town—with bubbles.

The new plan
I don’t know the answers to those questions, but I know one thing. We’re over it! If we are doing it for the kids, and even they aren’t enjoying it all that much, how hard is it to say we’re not doing it anymore?
I’m taking the lead from my 2-year-old and instituting a new approach to long family weekends: the Staycation. We will spend our time off “vacationing” in our own home. It’s the perfect destination: a backyard, bubbles, even a bubble machine. What child could ask for more?

Staycation amenities
One week after we made the decision, my summer birthday was on its way. All I wanted to do to celebrate was pitch a tent and “camp” with our kids in our yard.

When I got home from work, I saw my birthday present: a new tent set up in our backyard. I peeked in to see one adult sleeping bag and two Disney sleeping bags. I told Nate we were missing one adult sleeping bag, and he quickly replied he “doesn’t sleep on the ground.” We’ll have to work with that.

Now, let me share a little about our yard. We live in the heart of the city, with a standard city backyard (maybe smaller), a few houses away from the busiest street in our vibrant neighborhood—a street that doesn’t seem to sleep much, if at all.

While Nate and I have long been in love with our neighborhood, there was more than one person who gave us a confused look as we prepared for our night “out.” I packed a small bag and was insistent that we all stay outside, except for bathroom breaks (it is still the city after all).

Are we there yet?
I’m not sure if I believe in omens, but as we were preparing for our “trip,” I noticed something in the kiddie pool. I thought it was a toy, but as I looked closer I saw it was a stiff, floating squirrel. I rushed the girls inside, but they still saw it. Maybe this is why we rent hotels with indoor pools after all.

After we brushed off the creeps, we had a nice dinner cookout and conversations about life, death and pool safety. Then the weather took a turn for the worst. Rain was in the forecast and we could smell it in the air.

I was raised a wilderness camper: The sun was our light bulb, the rivers and lakes our running water, a canoe our transportation and the night sky our entertainment. A little (or a lot of) rain doesn’t scare me. But I felt Mia and Anika were too young to appreciate the outdoors if it was raining. I chose to have our first family camping experience on a nicer night and we ran inside.

Retreat, repeat, refresh
Dripping hair and all, we vowed to try again. The next day Anika skipped her nap, which never precedes an easy night, so we, again, stayed inside. After two days of excuses, Nate took down the tent to mow the lawn.

I designated the next nice day from the weather forecast to be a camp out and then wrote it on the calendar. That night, in beautiful weather, the kids chased bubbles through the yard until the sun set. I caught up on some reading and set up our three sleeping bags, three pillows, three flashlights and a small diaper bag.

It was refreshing to sit with the kids without the television on, the radio playing or even the phone ringing. There was no technology, no toys, just three girls, talking and giggling all night long. It was our very own slumber party.

As the sun fell, Anika quickly dozed off, leaving Mia and me to make up flashlight games, alphabet games, question games and shadow animal games. Mia eventually fell asleep, and I read a few chapters of a book before doing the same. As I continued relaxing, I realized how many small holes the dog digs in the yard when we’re not looking.

All in all, it was a great night. We each woke up a few times but went back to sleep. Uneven ground and all, it may have been the best night’s sleep I’ve had in some time. Our staycation was a success and I anticipate more of them to come.

The next morning, I received an e-mail from my sister-in-law, asking when we were going to bring the family to visit her in Minneapolis. Even though I put a ban on travel, it’s hard to say no. We’ll continue to do more staycations this year, but maybe one more, tiny road trip to Minneapolis won’t hurt anyone ….

This weekend was a festival on our block. Sunday afternoon, there was a knock at the door. I cringed. My living room was an embarrassing mess of toys and crafts  - the general kind of mess that erupts during an afternoon of play. Not to mention I can barely walk on my sprained foot, and I wasn't expecting anyone anyway. 

With braking dog and screaming kids, I hobbled to the door, wondering what weird request is waiting on the other side. I answered the door to see a young couple standing there. He said he has a weird question for me. 

Two things to know before I finish the story: The first is that strange things happen in our neighborhood all the time, not dangerous, just strange. The second is that my husband is a huge collector of Brewers Bobbleheads. 

So here's this young guy standing at my door with a full view of my messy house. He slowly said:

"I notice you have a large collection of Bobbleheads there ..."

I nodded. I glanced down to see him holding a box which I clearly recognize. A Bobblehead box. I started to think he was interested in a trade. I was not sure where this is heading.

"... Well, I was at this game a few weeks back and I got three of these Bobbleheads. I was wondering if you'd like this one. It's been sitting in my car and I never knew what to do with it"

I took a look at the brand new figure. It's Jeff Suppan, the Bobblehead given away at the ONLY Bobblehead game we were not able to attend this year (due to sick kids).

I wanted to invite them in for dinner or a glass of wine, but I hadn't gone grocery shopping, had nothing ready for dinner and no wine on hand (and did I mention my living room was a mess?). So I thanked them repeatedly and told them my husband would hug them if he was home. We made some small talk and I added the Suppan Bobblehead to our prominently displayed window collection. 

I couldn't stop thinking about what a generous act that was. Why didn't he want to sell it on EBay? Who would knock on a stranger's door to give them something? Maybe I should start paying more attention. These people walked by our house, happened to see our window collection and knocked on the door. 

Everyone left in smiles. Nate missed them by two minutes at most. He screamed with joy at the completion of his 2009 set. And I spent the rest of the day smiling about the kindness of strangers. The kids asked why people would "just give us a Bobblehead," to which I responded, " just because you will never go wrong by being nice to people."

People who know me may say I am organized. People who know me really well will know it’s one of my biggest struggles to stay that way.

 Right now, my purse houses a few mini-organizers. (It’s also overflowing with papers.) One is a weekly calendar where I log birthdays, work meetings, doctor appointments, school functions and day-to-day activities. My next calendar is a monthly calendar in which I write down all our bills and account information. Then I have a checkbook billfold and a wallet. These are the four things I need to have with me at any given moment.

 At home I have the kitchen wall calendar, in which I write just about everything on my personal calendar, but my husband also contributes to this one, albeit occasionally. Then I have a smaller hanging calendar (of bill information), a kitchen notebook (of house info) and numerous file folders (of more house info) in my desk.

 The funny thing is that all those calendars keep me less organized. I’m always scrambling from one calendar to another, noting something on one, but not the other. My friend Lauren tells me I need a Blackberry or an iPhone. But I really just need one, perfect organizer to write on, not type on. I decided it was time for me to merge my calendars, grow up and get more organized.

 I began the hunt for one comprehensive organizer, with all the info I need, weekly and monthly views, no address book (too bulky), and wallet slots and checkbook insert. And it had to be compact, because I didn’t want to buy a new purse, too. And it wouldn’t hurt if it was cuter than a standard black or brown. After all, I do have to carry this around for a year.

 I was firm in my decision to get one immediately. I found a black and white spotted booklet with that met my standards. It was medium-sized, but not packed with extra information I won’t use. And it was under 20$. Perfect.

 I bought it, sat down and started thinking how I was going to transfer information. I did have concern that the fabric cover wouldn’t last 16 months through kids, dogs, or the open lipstick in my purse. But since it matched every other particular detail I outlined for myself, I let it slide.

 Then I realized the calendar went from August 2009 to July 2010 - a college calendar. I started feeling anxiety that I’d have to find a new personal calendar considerably sooner than usual, and possibly not be ready for “the switch.” My year doesn’t involve summer break anymore, so I need a calendar for all of 2010.

 I told myself to get over it, not to be so concerned about every minor detail and make the best of my new a organizer. But I couldn’t.

I returned it, and defaulted to my 4-calendar purse system. 

I haven't given up hope that my perfect organizer is out there, but I did give up hope on finding it in one day. 

My 22-month-old daughter loves to take baths. As an infant, Anika was soothed by the warm water and an evening bath easily became part of our nightly bedtime routine. 

As she got older, she was fascinated by bath toys. She was equally entertained by kicking her feet in the water to create a splash. 

After her first birthday, the mere suggestion of a bath would send her running through the hall, stripping off her clothes in between squeals of glee. 

Then, long after Anika’s baby tub was put away, she started to adventurously explore the perimeter of the tub on her own. Sometimes she would take a bath with her big sister Mia. They would giggle and “talk” in their special sister way while splashing each other. Usually, I’d have to drag them out by their wrinkly toes well after bedtime. 

Nate and I joked our kids were mermaids—until a few weeks ago. That was when Anika, the same child who once loved bath time more than playtime, began a baby-protest against, of all things, water. 

 The power of a protest

The first time Anika initiated the bathtub boycott, I chalked it up to sensitive skin after a bad case of diaper rash. Due to bath time’s popularity in our house, I didn’t think much of skipping one, tiny bath.  

A few skipped baths later, I started taking her protest seriously. I figured I could get creative enough to make it work, but I didn’t know at the time how long it would take. 

Anika knows the power of her voice and, more specifically, her limbs. For example, she’s learned that it’s difficult for me to buckle her seat belt when she crosses her arms and legs in the air. She never wins that one, but when she extends her arms and legs out like a cat above the bath tub, well, I let her win once or twice. Then I was concerned I let her win one too many times. 

 Bath tubs, markers, and paint, oh my!

In an effort to encourage the kids’ natural creativity and problem-solving skills, I often tell them: Where there’s a will there’s a way. So, in keeping with my own recycled words of wisdom, we tried everything I could think of: bath books, bath crayons, bath markers, bath paints, bath basketball, bath animals, you name it—if they made a bath version of it, we bought it. 

Nothing worked. No toy would entice her into the tub. She was slightly intrigued by bath markers, but when I placed them on the inside rim of the tub (so to reach them, she’d have to step in), she lost all interest. She could see right through my effort. 

Anika couldn’t be coaxed into the tub at all—alone, with me, with her sister. We tried taking a shower, but most of the time, we’d end up struggling over some sort of compromised sponge bath or baby wipe “bath.” 

If she wouldn’t get in the tub, I thought the pool would be an acceptable substitute. What kid doesn’t like the pool? Well, mine didn’t. 

Anika dipped her feet in the kiddie pool and giggled, but then lost her balance. I helped her up, but now she gives the pool a dirty look every day we go outside. 

 Eye to eye

Every night, I’d emerge from the bathroom appearing as if I had just fought a tidal wave, and my daughter would still have dirt on her feet from playing outside all day. 

I knew she would bathe sooner or later, but I also knew it would be on her terms. The night she finally broke down, we were taking part in our daily routine: the bathroom stare-down. Fully clothed, she dramatically stepped in the tub, one stomping foot at a time, glaring at me, as if to say “so, there.” 

Anika paused, looking at the bath paint in front of her. She finally remembered how fun the bath could be. I was so happy to have her in the tub, I didn’t argue that she was fully clothed. 

 Outplay, outlast

I thought the battle was over. But two days later, we were back in the staredown.  After a repeat of the prior battle of wills, Anika took off her pants but insisted on wearing her shirt, diaper and socks. 

Well, at least it was progress. 

Every other day, we took another step forward and lost one more article of clothing. After a week of that, she agreed to go into the tub in her bathing suit.  And finally, we got there—a normal bath without clothes. It took small, patient steps but we got there. 

I wasn’t sure when or how this battle would end, but it goes to show that a little determination, a lot of patience and a bit of compromising (toddler-style) can outlast any toddler tantrum.

I'm happy to say my office moved about a month ago. While I liked our former location, the new office is so close to home, I've taken to riding my bike every day. It's great to have our whole metroparent/MilwaukeeMoms team in the same building. 

Our previous office was about a 15 minute drive and it was near a Target. I frequently picked up a box of diapers (the biggest I could) on my lunch break. Diapers, diaper cream, baby soap, toddler toothpaste, you name it - it was right there. And I could watch the sales, too. 

While I think not being next to Target saves me money, I miss the convenience of it. 

Last night, something happened I thought could never happen to me: I ran out of diapers. Completely out. I didn't even realize how low we were. How is this possible? I've been buying diapers in semi-bulk for almost two years and all of sudden there are none left? Not a one?

I yelled for 6-year-old Mia because sometimes she hides a few for her dolls. Nope, her stash was non-existent, too. 

My first thought, as I diapered Anika with the very last diaper, was to call my husband and have him bring some home after work. But it's possible we didn't have that kind of time. This lone diaper could be out of commission in the blink of an eye. 

It was late; the kids were in their pajamas. But we had to take action and move fast. We all put on tennis shoes and dragged/walked over to the nearest convenient store for a tiny box of diapers at a higher price.

All in all, we averted any diaper crisis. So there it is - something I thought I'd never have to worry about: running out of diapers. Never again will I let the diaper stash out of my radar. And I'm going to find more excuses to shop a little more frequently!

I come from a long line of passionate baseball fans. Growing up, I watched as my parents rooted for opposing rival teams. Somehow, they stayed married through each baseball season. My sister and I were swayed to be on opposing sides as well, so there would be an equal number of fans on each “side.”

I love the fanfare of the all-American game, the competitiveness of sports rivalries and more than anything, a live baseball game and a day at the ballpark.

Of course, as far as keeping tradition goes, my immediate family is full of baseball lovers. My husband, Nate, is not your ordinary Brewers fan, in fact, he’s got more in common with the kind of over-the-top fan they make movies about.
   

Nate has brought 5-year-old Mia to so many Brewers games, she once asked me if Bernie Brewer was considered a family member. Our daughter Anika followed suit and was a seasoned baseball game attendee by the time she was 6 months old. Car seat, diaper bag, and all, Nate brought her to games on a weekly basis. A few times a month, I would tag along. 
  

The fans would “ooh” and “aah” over our baby in a Brewers jersey at her “first game.” Little did they know this baby had been to Miller Park more times than the county zoo.
  

Taking a new baby to the game was complicated; but now that’s Anika’s creeping up to her second birthday and second baseball season, things aren’t looking any easier.
  

It’s my own hang-ups that prevent me from keeping it simple. I just can’t let go of the looming feeling of doom each time we leave the house. There’s the inevitable tantrums, the interrupted naps … I could go on indefinitely about potential baby disasters and how I attempt to prepare for them, but what I really need to do is focus on the moment, have some fun and cheer on our team.

Pregame
Nate woke up and decided it would be a nice day to go to a game. I knew there was no way we could be ready in time. Baseball games always begin exactly at bed time or nap time: 7:05 p.m. and1:05 p.m. These time frames couldn’t be any worse for us. (If anyone’s listening, I want to see more 10:05 and 4:05 games.)
  

When Nate learned the game was sold out, I was secretly relieved.
  

Later that afternoon, Nate found two tickets online. Do we go? Can Anika forgo a nap in the name of the Brewers? Can we make it in time? Going to the game involved waking up a napping child! So many things to consider, but there were bobbleheads involved, so we packed up the car, tired baby and all.
 

As we left, Nate looked at me with raised eyebrows, confused that I would second guess the Brewers and a bobblehead game. Anika looked at me with the same raised eyebrows, confused at why I wouldn’t let her sleep in her bed any longer. I hoped this wasn’t a prelude of things to come.

Inning 1
Between two adults, one child, a diaper bag, snacks and drinks, we came to the realization that it’s time for Anika to have her own seat. Luckily, there was an empty one next to us, so we settled in. Note to self: Just buy the third ticket.
  

Anika was happy, maybe even proud she was “big enough” to have her very own seat for the game. She stared at the field and gleefully cheered on the team. I was relieved the seating arrangement worked out, but sad at the same time that my daughter wasn’t perfectly content to sit on my lap all day anymore. Anika was mesmerized and we all watched the entire first inning, barely missing a play. Then it hit me. This is where it all starts: my baby girl’s independence.

Inning 2
Anika didn’t watch the game for too long. She quickly turned to making her own entertainment—throwing a blend of Nate’s peanuts and her Cheerios in the air like confetti. Then she wanted to crawl under our seats and get them. I was a little disgusted and as I encouraged her to do something else, I noticed an awful smell. Now, I’m never excited to change a messy diaper outside the comfort of our home, but I wasn’t going to let it get to me.  We packed up and trucked to the public bathroom. By the smell of it, we had some work to do—fast.

Bottom of the 3rd
While in the bathroom for what I thought was our shortest trip ever, we missed two home runs. And then the tantrums began. Just as I was ready to toss my good attitude to the curb, Nate swooped in from the concession stands with a giant pretzel with cheese. All was well in the toddler world again for another inning.

Top of the 5th
The time had come: Anika needed to run free. Mistakenly thinking a short walk would appease her, we checked out the play area, then the kids area, then ran up and down and up and down the incline ramps until the game was over. I had stopped looking on the bright side a while ago. Then Anika looked up at me and, for the first time, clearly said “baaaall.” Play ball!

Postgame
We missed the best parts of the Brewers’ winning game, because we were in the bathroom, crawling on the floor or walking back and forth. My family sat together for one inning. We had a nap-free Sunday and a subsequent hectic Monday. But will we be excited to hit the ol’ ball game again? Absolutely. From the look of our advance tickets, we’ll be there next week.

Most days, I’m happy if my clothes are free of baby drool or the imprint of messy toddler hands. If they match, it’s an added bonus.

I try to keep up the appearance of being relatively put-together at the office. Some days, I pull it off. Other days, it’s questionable.

Now I’ve recently changed up wardrobe routine a little. Since my office moved downtown, I’ve started biking to work. It takes a little extra preparation, but it’s coming along nicely. Each morning, I put on an old t-shirt and pack a work-appropriate outfit in my backpack.

My morning routine instantly became more care-free. First of all, it’s stopped me from changing my clothes more than once in the morning because I’ve decided it doesn’t look right, fit right or feel right.

More importantly, in the almost two years I’ve been back to work since my daughter was born, I’ve never escaped the house in an outfit that looked at all like it did when I took it out of the closet. But with my work clothes packed away, I worry less about the messy obstacles in between me and the door.

If my daughter grabs me with hands full of oatmeal and banana I don’t care as much. (In fact, some days I don’t even change the t-shirt.) If my stepdaughter puts stickers on my clothes, it’s OK. If our shedding dog rubs up against my legs, I can lean down and pet her without concern. If I spill coffee on myself, I don’t have to bring my clothes to a dry cleaner.

I thought I hit the wardrobe jackpot. Each day, after my energizing bike ride to the office, I change into my clean work clothes. Sometimes I even remember a change of shoes.

Today as I changed into my clothes, I took a quick look in the mirror to see a huge glob of something on my pant leg. A closer look revealed it was peanut butter.

Peanut butter?! Anika had apples with peanut butter for breakfast. I suspect she looked through my folded outfit before it reached the backpack. 

I wiped it off with soap and water, but there is still a substantial light brown mark on my black pants. Turns out the routine isn’t fool-proof after all (I did walk around with a suit and tennis shoes last week). But it seems it going to be even harder to get it baby-proofed.

On the way out of the bathroom, feeling slightly defeated by sticky baby hands, my co-worker said, “Good morning, you look great today!”

SO maybe I’m not as wardrobe-challenged as I thought. Or at least I can fake it well enough to make it look that way. 

from June 2009 metroparent

Nate has been an active dad as long as I’ve known him. His daughter Mia, just a toddler at the time, even came along on our first dinner date. Even though I’ve always known his parenting style, every day I’m surprised at just how different we are as parents to both Mia and our daughter Anika. Even more so, I never thought I’d be the “strict” parent. (Me? The disciplining voice of reason? Really?) Sometimes I think I need to relax a little, like Nate does so easily. The rest of the time, I think Nate needs to toughen up a little and be, well, just like me.

First foods
We were lucky to have Nate as a stay-at-home dad for a year after Anika was born. I expected—and tried to welcome—some slight discrepancies in our methods.
When it came time to introduce solid food into Anika’s diet, I became obsessed with baby food. I made every ounce myself from organic fruits and vegetables—locally grown, of course.  
I previously thought homemade baby food was reserved for SuperMoms, not me. But I committed time each weekend to make and freeze baby food for the upcoming week.
Being careful to introduce one new food each week (even though the doctor recommended two or three), I kept a detailed food diary in case an allergy sparked up. I impressed myself: I was strictly by the book, maybe for the first time in my life.
Anika was 10 months old when I learned everything she consumed was not made by me. Nate and I were out to lunch when I asked if he had any idea how to make meats into baby food. “She can’t have meats yet?” he casually asked.
I immediately tensed up, but tried to keep my cool in a pursuit to get the truth.
Expecting to hear she had tried a bite-size morsel of chicken, I looked over at Anika’s two-toothed smile. That’s when I heard Nate say she loved chicken wings.
Chicken wings? For a baby?!? Hot, spicy, gooey, bony chicken wings?
“Relaaax,” Nate said. “Anika likes the spicy stuff, just like she likes jalapeno Cheetos.”
All this work to make sure she had the best well-rounded nutrition, only to learn she was at home with her dad eating junk food—and spicy junk food at that.
I’ve only recently come to terms with the Chicken Wing Incident. I know Anika will run into (and consume) junk food in the world, I was just hoping it would be when she was much, much older. And had all her teeth.

It’s morning somewhere ...
With Nate working nights, I’m often solo on bedtime duty. Bedtime naturally poses a challenge, mostly because I want to stay up later with the kids. After school/daycare/work, dinner, homework,  baths, playtime, reading ... all of a sudden it’s time for bed. We still have art projects to create and music to dance to. Though it’s taken a lot of practice, we have finally achieved a nighttime schedule that I hold very, very dear.
   But the girls have a special ear for Nate’s first step into the house. Often, one of them wakes up when he gets home significantly past their bedtimes. Yet, after a rare occasion when the kids both slept through his homecoming, Nate carried Mia out of bed. I didn’t know what was happening, but I knew it was trouble. I felt as if I was the only person on the planet who knew that overtired, cranky kids weren’t all that much fun the next day. I grumbled, got back into bed and tried to ignore my racing angry mind.
On this particular school night, Nate told a groggy Mia to get dressed and grab her flashlight; it was time for a “flashlight hike.” A what? I knew this had to be a bad dream …. But no, it was Nate’s idea of a fun spontaneous moment with his daughter. They grabbed their flashlights and walked around the block looking for bugs and whatever goes bump in the night.
When they both came home energized, made popcorn and tossed in a movie, I tried to keep my objections to myself and get some rest. I attempted to see the positive (also known as Nate’s side): This was a special moment the two of them shared. And as soon as Anika gets older, I know she’ll join their post-bedtime explorations.
Mia brags about their hikes, which makes Nate the coolest dad ever in her eyes. And that’s hard to argue—even if it does wreak havoc on bedtime.

Cheers for Dad!
At best, Mia and Anika are learning how two people who don’t see eye to eye on everything can still be the best of friends. Between the two of us, maybe they get everything they need: planned days and spontaneous evenings. After all, variety’s the spice of life, right? And maybe that’s a good thing, as long as no one chokes on a chicken bone.
  

School's out and it's officially summer vacation on this rainy Wednesday! Mia just finished her first year of school and I'm determined for her to remember some of the things she's learned over the summer.

We try to incorporate number and letter recognition everywhere we go. Today, as Nate drove me to work, we created a letter game with Mia. We started with the letter A and went back and forth naming things that start with that letter. When someone was stumped, we went to the next letter. You get the idea.

Mia often started with her classmate's names. I suspected her of cheating a few times, but tried to be flexible in the spirit of learning. For example, she told me there were two Aarons in her class, and one of them started with E. Nate said that Aaron always started with A. I said while E was uncommon, it was not necessarily untrue. We let it slide.

She asked if we could use "naughty words." I instinctively said no, then thought again ... out of curiosity, I asked which naughty words she wanted to use. She said she "couldn't say." Nate said she could "have a pass." I said this was the only time she could say them, so she should take advantage of it and tell us which words she wanted to use. She held strong and said she wasn't doing to use naughty words. I was disappointed, but proud at the same time.

We finally got to Z. After Zebra, Zinc, Zipper, a vitamin Nate named that I can't remember (possibly fictitious), Zoo, Zit .... Mia was stumped. She paused, then said "Zicky!"

Zicky? Yes, zicky. I asked her to repeat it. Zicky. I asked her what zicky was. She said it was a word.

I asked her to use it in a sentence. She said, "Sometimes I use the word zicky."

She answered all my questions, so Nate said I had to accept it. Skeptically, I did and the game went on. After the third round of made-up Z words, we reached our destination and I went into the office.

On the off chance it really was an obscure word, I referred to my Webster's dictionary. I thought it would be a great punch line to this blog to end with the definition of zicky.

But it wasn't there, so I have to end with this:

Zicky (zick-ee) n.: A word Mia sometimes uses.

Our friends live two blocks away from us, so when they invited us over for a get-together we responded with an enthusiastic yes.

Generally, the girls and I talk about our expectations when we leave the house: what’s going to happen when we get there, what we’ll be doing before and after, and the behavior I expect to see at said function.

Nate and I used to talk about “Restaurant Manners” with Mia (5). Then we would implement Restaurant Manners at home. That worked for a little while, but what’s really stuck for Mia was to begin teaching “Princess Manners.” Our tea party girls love to “play” royalty, so I followed their lead.

On our walk to our friend’s house, I told Mia that I would insist on her best Princess Manners. Then I asked her for examples of Princess Manners.

“Hmmmm….. I can say, ‘ Will you be my friend?’”

Not a bad start. I requested some more examples.

“ I can say 'please' and 'thank you' and 'may I ' and …”

I was glowing at her responses, until ...

“ ... and I can say ‘I’m sorry I kicked you in the leg.’”

My glow came to a screeching halt. While it’s nice to apologize, even when it's an accident, I asked her if we could agree NOT kick anyone in the leg at the party. She smiled, shrugged her shoulders, said okay, and skipped off down the block to our friend's house.

While we were there, I am proud to say I heard some May Is and Pleases and Thank Yous and even a Bless You after the host sneezed. I'm also proud to report no one got kicked in the leg.
 

Any regular reader of my column in metroparent (Tales from the Crib) is well aware that amy normal relaxed self become a little Type A before we travel with the family.

So, as we are approaching our first road trip of the season, I'm trying something new: relaxing. I'm just going to do it, no matter how hard I fight myself to do otherwise.

I took a full day off work before my vacation, so I can have eight child-free hours to clean my house, find the kids' swimsuits, pack our bags and run any last minute errands.

The morning was perfect. I slept in a little and then watched my little angel, Anika, sleeping peacefully.

When she woke, we played some games and shared lots of giggles. Then dressing her was the battle of all battles. Her little voice yelled, "NO! NO! NONONONO..." for almost a half-hour. All she wanted was her pajamas (which were the chosen boycottelast night).

After changing her diaper , I decided I was completely OK with losing this battle. I put on her shoes and hat , brought her to daycare in herpajamas and hoped for the best.

But before we got to the daycare,  I couldn't get her buckled in her carseat. She just wouldn't let me. And this is one battle I won't lose.As I'm reaching my limit, I see a friend walking down our block. He came over to the car, gave Anika a hug and buckled her in with not even a flinch from the screaming thrashing Anika I saw just moments ago.

At daycare, it was another screaming fit to UNBUCKLE her. Excuse me, Anika, but isn't this the buckle you DIDN'T want five minutes ago?

Well, I got her unbuckled ... sloooowly .... dropped her off ..... slowly...... and went shopping for a new pair of flip flops and sunscreen. It felt like it took an hour to find the sunscreen, don't ask how it's possible because I don't know.

So, hours later than I expected, I'm starting to clean the house and pack for everyone - as minimally as possible. I just made a super-strong pot of coffee and I'm going to try again. I'm going to relax (no matter what!), pack (for everyone) and  try not to feel bad about how many times I've called the office on my day off.

What do I have in common with President Obama? Neither of us like ketchup.

Last week, Barack Obama was seen ordering a burger in Virginia – without ketchup. It sparked some controversy, generally among the political blogging scene (most of which I hope was tongue in cheek, no additional pun intended).

I too, like President Obama, can’t stand the sight or smell of the popular condiment. Maybe it started in my teenage years working at a fast food joint. Or maybe it’s just because “it’s really, reeeeally yucky,” to borrow a quote from my 5-year-old stepdaughter.

Realistically, it’s just a smell I can’t stomach. And I think are far more superior condiments out there – mustard being one of them.

In sticking with my total avoidance of ketchup, I try not to let the kids have ketchup (even though it’s a discussion I sometimes lose). I don’t believe that everything needs to be smothered in ketchup or cheese to be kid-friendly.

I do, in fact, love just about everything in ketchup: tomatoes, vinegar, salt, but I can pass on the high fructose corn syrup. Give me a chopped tomato salad in vinegar with a pinch of salt and that’s fine.

But when it comes to burgers, I’m mustard all the way.
 

The first person to give me an insight on children was my college professor. He told our class that the terrible part about childhood was that kids have no free will. They don’t have a say in what they wear or what they eat. Every decision is made by their parents.

At the time, I was a childless 20-something college kid and it made sense. Now, as a 30-something mother, I know that is untrue, if not purely ridiculous. Sure, maybe a kid can’t pick out or buy her own clothes, but she can certainly have her say about which pants she will wear on which day — or else!
 

My daughter Anika is at the great age of 18 months, when the most mundane activity becomes an adventurous event, complete with a clapping finale. As wonderful as this stage can be, it is equally frustrating — for both of us.

Clothing conundrum
Anika asserts her independence often, from choosing which banana she eats (the one next to the one I’ve peeled) to how close her sippy cup sits to her plate (the right side only) to which socks she wears (the un-matched pair).

For example, I challenged her fashion sense as we prepared to go outside. While she was ready with her jacket, hat and shoes, she refused to wear pants or, more importantly, a diaper. I offered her a choice of pants, but  nothing appeased our fashion diva. As she waited at the door, she looked directly at me, as if to say she was completely offended at the sight of pants.

Nate wants me to pick my battles with our kids. But I think I have to insist that everyone wear pants when leaving the house.

Bathtime battles
Sometimes it takes a while to figure out exactly what is causing Anika’s tantrum. Often it’s something logical, but just as often it’s not.

While getting ready for bathtime, she ran in circles and then hopped into an empty tub as her screaming escalated to a higher octave to let me know she was now really upset. I was clueless. It turned out she didn’t want to take off her socks in the tub. Thinking she would change her mind quickly, I let her have her way. But she kept them on, giggled and playfully kicked her feet in the water. After the bath, she kept them on, until I intervened.

Delirious driving
It would be harder on me if I didn’t get it, but, strangely, I do. My professor had a point: It’s not easy to be a kid. Anika can communicate with us — sort of. She can be independent — sort of. She can state her needs — sort of.

And honestly, if it were socially acceptable to lie down and kick my feet on the ground, there are days I’d want to do it, too.But there are still times when Anika’s tantrums consist of seemingly random wailing and endless kicking. And then I have to do something extreme. I walk away.

It’s tough, but I remind myself we are setting a good example for her, and for her sister Mia, who learned long ago that tantrums don’t get our attention.

During one of these meltdowns of unknown origin, Anika slowly crawled into her green push car.
We bought the Flintstone-esque car with a long handle from a rummage sale last year for five dollars. Who knew it would be the best five bucks I ever spent?

The only thing that comforts Anika is being pushed back and forth in her car through the living room, dining room, kitchen and back again. Over and over. I’ve tried to make it interesting for myself by singing childhood songs, but Anika has a one-track mind when it comes to her push car. I’ve even tried lifting weights with my free hand and doing lunges as we move through each room (for up to 45 minutes). Eventually, the car ride has to stop and the tantrum picks up where it left off.

Continuous compromises
I don’t want the tantrums to run our lives, but I also don’t have it in me to engage in a battle of will at every turn, every day. It’s just not fun. I refuse to spend this great time in our kids’ lives fighting with them. Nate and I can’t have our way all the time and neither can Anika or Mia. We have to figure out how to compromise and work together, and that’s what being a family is all about.

I’ve decided if everyone is smiling and no one’s safety is at risk, I don’t care if everyone’s socks match.
No matter how many tantrums happen throughout the day (most days I prefer not to count), there’s one thing I can count on: Anika playing peekaboo under her covers, often way past bedtime. While I want to be strict on bedtime, I want even more to end the day with giggles. So for now, I’ll let bedtime pass without blinking an eye.
 

It???s been one week and I???m proud that I???ve adhered to my new fitness routine, and as minimal as it is ??? it???s better than nothing.

18-month-old Anika has her own ideas of how I should spend my time. And ???Exercise for Mom??? is not on her agenda.

But on Sunday afternoon, Anika was completely entranced by a puzzle, so I took advantage of the opportunity and did some sit-ups.

I did ten reps before noticing the potential situation developing in my kitchen. Anika opened the refrigerator and in her hands was a bottle of hot sauce with a flaming skull on it. She ran to me, jumped on my stomach and touched the bottle to my cheek.

I splashed water on my burning skin and grabbed the bottle away from her. But before I was able to get the bottle, she had opened it up and spilled it all over the kitchen floor.

After I wiped up the spill in record time, I saw it ??? a huge fingerful of hot sauce heading directly into her mouth. I tried to stop it, but she was too quick.

I waited for the reaction.

No tears, no crying, but instant puking all over my shirt and her dress. Cough, cough repeat. Cough, cough, repeat.

I tried to get her to drink milk, knowing it could tame the burn. I cut up a banana, but Anika didn???t want anything near her mouth.

I didn???t know whether to call the ER or Poison Control, but I was not looking forward to explaining this to anyone. I was ready to dial Poison Control when it stopped. She cuddled up next to me and we sat there for a half hour.

Eventually, she got her energy back and returned to her favorite puzzle.

I sat right next to her and played with the puzzle, too. I did not go back to sit-ups or any other exercise promise I made to myself for the day. I did not pass go, I did not collect $200.

By dinner, the trauma wore off and Anika was back to her hearty appetite.  Me? Well, I'm still trying to recover.

We all know what those days are like, so in case you missed my last post, read below for some contest info ???

If you ever have those days when you feel your life has turned upside down, know you are not alone. In this month???s metroparent, there are two pages that have been turned completely upside down. Send us a picture of you or your kids reading metroparent upside down and I???ll send a few winners some tickets to Betty Brinn's Children Museum! Send your pics to me at rchristman@metroparentmagazine.com. 
 

Yesterday, I didn’t need the calendar to tell me it was a Monday. I could tell the moment I woke up, got out of bed and put water in the wrong compartment of the coffee pot. I didn’t realize it until it started pouring out everywhere.

I know, it’s a clear sign I should start getting more sleep. But instead I drank an extra cup of coffee.

When it was time for us to leave the house, Anika ran to the door screaming with her hat, sweater and jacket, socks and shoes. What was missing? A diaper and pants.

A full-on tantrum ensued at the mere suggestion of putting on pants and a diaper. Every part of her little body participated in the veto of pants and diapers. I like to choose my battles, and I choose very few, but diapering my 18-month-old is one thing I’m going to stick to.

A few tantrums later, we eventually made it outside, clothed kids and all. As I tried to lift Anika into the car, she gave me The Look – a look I know I’ll see again when she’s a teenager with a curfew. But instead of staying out all night, all Anika wanted to do was climb into her carseat herself. Despite our impending lateness, I caved and let her do it (and was surprised at what a good job she did).

While she tried to buckle herself in, I began the task of cleaning the snow off the car. What I thought was fluffy snow was a solid mass of ice that had formed into my car’s windshield. My scraper broke while I tried to remove the ice mass, but I was still able to use it – until it broke again and was as useful as a toothbrush in removing the ice mass.

I turned on my windshield wipers to remove the remainder of the ice/snow/iceberg. They broke, too!

Expecting that to be the worst of the morning, as I parked at the daycare, another mom informed me my tire was almost flat. I ran to the gas station to fill up the tire with air, hoping it would last until I got home from work.

It was an eventful Monday morning and I was thankful it didn’t get any worse as the day went on.

So if you ever have those days when you feel your life has turned upside down, know you are not alone. In this month’s metroparent, there are two pages that have been turned completely upside down. Send us a picture of you or your kids reading metroparent upside down and I’ll send a few winners some tickets to Betty Brinn's Children Museum! Send your pics to me at rchristman@metroparentmagazine.com.

We’ve only had one day of great warm weather this year. It was refreshing – and a sign that spring really is almost here!

All the kids on our block reunited with their scooters and bikes and began going up and down the block, corner to corner, yelling gleefully with each other.

My favorite things in spring and summer are outdoor playdates and cookouts in our yard. I started the first step in making our summer kid-friendly yard: patching up the holes our German Shepherd, Ruby, dug this winter while we weren’t looking.

But this week we are looking at a snow forecast. As much as I’m not ready to revert back to snow, wind or temperatures below 50, I am slightly relieved that it is going to stay cold for a few more days.

Why? Well, to be completely honest, I have some work I’ve been postponing.

The first warm day of the year is the day we learn what foods the kids have dropped on the car floor over the last few months. Foods that were once fresh, then frozen are now thawed, rotten and smelly. Yep, the first warm weather day brought about not only a rise in spirits, but also a smell in my car that I could not identify.

I do try to keep an eye on the food coming and going in the car, but sometimes I’m sad to admit it’s just not possible. I’m even sadder to say I haven’t made the time to clean out the car, although I’ve taken the winter blankets inside and washing the blanket underneath the carseat. I’ve been slowly getting rid of the garbage that had accumulated on the car interior and bought some upholstery cleaner.

So, the cold weather has bought me some time to investigate while the smell doesn’t get any worse. I’m ready to fit in the annual cleaning of the car (AKA finding the food). I am determined, this weekend, to find the source of the offensive smell in the car — before it warms up again.
 

\People don’t know what to say when someone has a miscarriage because there are no real words to say. While we were fortunate to have supportive people all around us after my miscarriage, what people don’t talk about is what happens next.

Although I took some time off work, allowed myself to experience the grief and pain of the loss, I still couldn’t keep myself together. In fact, I’m a complete mess — physically, emotionally and hormonally. Apparently, this is more common than I knew.

I cried all the time, and not a teary kind of cry, but constant crying fits that are usually accompanied with some hyperventilating or throwing up. After two weeks of physical pain, emotional meltdowns and the general feeling that my body was working against me, I went to my doctor.

I was pretty certain there was nothing I could do medically speaking – no medications because I’m still nursing my daughter a little. I just wanted my doctor to be aware of the situation.

I told her that I was NOT myself. I couldn’t describe it, leaving me more frustrated. I felt out of control, as if there was an erratic, emotional stranger inhabiting my body. 

I was exhausted, agitated, depressed and anxious. I would go to sleep with the girls at 8 p.m., but wake up at midnight and stay up through the next day. Once, after Nate and I had a minor disagreement, I threw dishes around the kitchen.(Luckily for us, we have already replaced our “nice” dishes with plastic ones until the kids get older.)

While I know part of me will never be the same, I felt I should be able to leave the house without getting sick, that I should be able to slowly get back to my normal life. Sometimes I thought I was doing OK, most of the time I knew I wasn’t.

Well, it turns out my doctor had plenty of advice, reassuring me how common this is. It made sense: the combination of first trimester hormones and exhaustion come to a screeching halt, and then add in the postpartum hormones. It’s just not the natural progression of things. Along with the roller coaster of hormones, my doctor said I had some signs of postpartum depression along with the natural grieving process. She opted against treating the depression for now, but started me on a heavy diet of vitamins, some diet observances and a mild medication.

In under a week, I’m seeing the differences. I’m sleeping soundly, but not so deeply that I snore through crying children or a barking dog. I’m rested, maybe for the first time in years. The physical pain finally stopped and the whirlwind inside of me has started to calm down.

It would be a lot easier if the grieving process had a set time frame. But it doesn’t, so I’m thankful I listened to my body, talked with my doctor and took action that didn’t involve heavily medicating myself.

And I’m finally getting better every day.