New Jersey Moms Blog

Be There Now

We are finally here. All year, while driving, and doing dishes, and getting up before it’s even light to make breakfast, I’ve been dreaming of the beach. Though I love my house, and my friends in New Jersey, my thoughts often drift back to my own childhood summers spent on the beaches of Long Island.  There’s something about the ocean that makes me feel more, well, me. This year, because of the kids’ camp and my husband’s work schedule, summer is winding down by the time we make our annual trek to the Hamptons. I could barely wait.  The thought of digging my toes into the warm sand, feeling the sun on my skin, and having nothing to do but watch the waves swell had sustained me through the most difficult moments of mothering during the school year.

All the ingredients for a perfect beach day are in place.  The skies are still and blue, there’s just a hint of a late-summer breeze, and the water temperature is just right. There’s plenty of food, and I remembered to bring the book I’ve been wanting to read. We have lots of fresh towels and there’s even a bathroom nearby. The kids are set with brand new skimboards to surf the shoreline. We have the whole afternoon in Paradise.

So why aren’t we enjoying it?

Suspicions of Strangers

The other day when I was out to lunch with my two kids, I stood up to pay while Nicholas sat at the table with his baby sister.  An older man walking past our table stopped and smiled at the kids and went to touch Madeline's feet.  Such a simple gesture really, but I watched as Nicholas moved a little closer to her in a protective way and started sternly looking at the man.  Stranger danger notwithstanding, he is very protective of his little sister, no matter who is doing what to her. 

I came back to the table (I was only 2-3 feet away) so Nicholas wouldn't worry, and as the man was leaving, he said, "Mom, that man touched Maddie!"  "I know, sweetie, it's ok."  "But we don't know him," he said.  "You're right, we don't.  But I was right here and it's ok.  He just thought she was cute and stopped to see her.  It's fine.  I promise."  "But he might be a bad guy."

Stupid boy tricks

I don't understand the male mind.

I have two boys and two girls. My girls I get, I know where they are coming from, we are connected in the sisterhood of femaleness. When Susan wants to be alone, doesn't want me to see what she's writing or wants the kitchen free to make coffee cake without me watching, I get it. When her little sister cuddles her baby doll and stuffed animals, carrying them around the house as their mommy, I understand that too. I see myself in their actions. 

But do I relate to my boys? Not so much.  Boys are a mystery. The thought processes leading them into their crazy tricks- where does it come from?

The following are a sample of their eight and six-year-old antics from the past few months.

 

New Jersey and You, Imperfect Together!

My husband, Garth (not his real name) and I were born, raised and have lived all of our lives in New Jersey and -- though, the state of our economy may not be in the greatest shape -- as a Jersey Mom, I still can't help but defend living in the Garden State.

Until, we starting thinking about moving.

"I hate this!"

6 people, 2 cats and 1 sock-eating Doofus-dog, living together in a 7 room house will do that to a person.

"Nothing works right and there's NO room for anything!"

I mean, we moved into what was supposed to be our "starter home" when I was pregnant with our 1st child, almost 15 years ago.

"Aaaand, traffic sucks I can't even get out of my own driveway, it's so busy!"

The housing market, not unlike the rest of the United States, pretty much sucks in New Jersey, too!

Still.

There are people who are building these ginormous houses and buying up land like...well...it's gonna run out real soon, dammit and raising 4 kids makes us sort of feel like we're stuck in between a rock and a really hard place to keep clean.

Gone Fishin'

I’m on vacation this week. It’s a real vacation, not one of those “I have a few days off to catch up on some housework and maybe take a day trip” vacations. This vacation is made up of a quaint waterfront cottage, fishing poles, loads of sunscreen, and an endless supply of fried clam strips. It involves waking up in the morning and knowing that the biggest decision I have to make all day is whether to go whale watching or take a pirate cruise. Now that, my friends, is a vacation.

A Mom's Worry

My son starts Kindergarten in a week and he's prepared. He has his backpack ready, his school supplies ready. He awakens each day asking, "is today THE day Mommy?"

I should explain that my son has been looking forward to his official start of "big boy" school for ages now. From preschool, practically. In fact, when he graduated from Pre-K back in June, he thought he would be starting Kindergarten the very next day, and was somewhat sad when I explained he still had summer camp to enjoy.

I appreciate the fact that he is ready. I however, am not ready.

I'm not a worrywart, really. But with this new chapter in my son's life I've been reduced to one. Since my son has been used to school/daycare outside of home for the last four years, he's a lot more independent than other 5 year olds. "Mommy, I can do it myself!" he implores, when I try to help him. He's stubborn too, just like his Daddy.

It's Over

Summer, that is. I have been avoiding the fact, but there is only so much evidence that can be overlooked. There’s the calendar, but I just haven’t turned the pages very far. There were the letters from work (I am sure welcoming me back!) but I just didn’t open them. The letter from the preschool—who needs to meet the teacher?! Office store sales? I’ve been pretending they were just really nicely laid out garage sales (because they are just too good to pass up). Friends in other states have gone back to school—that’s just because they don’t know any better.

But the evidence is too strong. I have begun to think about the inevitable.

Two-year-old vs. thirty-something mommy

Two years ago on August 16th I gave birth to an angelic, 11 pound, 1 ounce baby boy.  I looked into his face, thought "WoW!  He looks just like my Grandpop. I will love him forever and he will love me forever"  I have kept my end of the bargain, Cheeks not so much I think.

When he awoke this past Saturday with a smile, I greeted him with a "Happy Second Birthday Cheeks", it was downhill from there.  To say Cheeks has entered the terrible twos is an understatement.  It started a few months ago, right around his 18 month birthday but it has been getting worse and on his birthday, it entered in full mood.  From the minute I tried to change his diaper, to the minute I put him to bed, he had one temper tantrum after the other or whined all day. 

Mom's hamster wheel

It's a beautiful summer morning. Two of my kids just got on the camp bus, my 14-year old is out, and I have the house to myself.

I look out my window and think about taking a walk, or doing yoga outside. But then I think of "The List." You know the one--the same one you have in your datebook, on scraps of paper, or like me, in your journal. The list that says things like: "grocery shop, get school supplies, call the allergist, dentist, pediatrician, orthodontist for appts., go through closets and see whose grown out of what, figure out what clothes shopping needs to be done, do laundry, arrange for a babysitter for the weekend, and so on....and on.....and on.....

My list has grown to epic proportions.

Sometimes Labels are a Good Thing

I'm considering joining a new group, the MOMS Club. But reading over their welcome letter, I have to question whether or not I really am welcome. The group is for stay-at-home moms. I'm not a stay-at-home mom. But I'm not a working mother, either. I don't know who I am. I'm adrift in a sea of Mommyhood, stuck somewhere in between the shores of SAHM Island and Working Mother country. I stay at home with my daughter, but I also work two days a week. So where does that leave me? Mothers who stay at home with their children are proud of that fact (as well they should be), so sneaking into that group through the back door is tacky.

The Great Carousel Rip Off

I am still steaming from my recent visit to the mall to buy Becca some new shoes.  The trip started innocently enough.  Stride Rite was having a sale on shoes (buy one, get one 50% off) and Becca desperately needed a new pair.  I figured this was the perfect opportunity to get her a new pair of sneakers for the fall and pick up another pair of shoes at the same time.  When I searched the Stride Rite website for store locations, I had the choice between two local malls.  I purposefully chose the smaller mall because it tended to be less crowded and I tended to get better service there.

As Becca, my mother-in-law and I arrived at the mall and made our way to the Stride Rite store, it was necessary to walk past the mall's carousel.  Naturally, Becca immediately began pointing and gesturing at the ride trying to convince me that this was indeed where we should be headed.  I explained to Becca that we were there to get shoes and that she could go on the carousel before we went home. Fortunately, this seemed to appease her so we entered the store without too much commotion.

Learning to Live with Fear

A year ago, my mother called me on a Sunday evening. I should have known that something was wrong; her voice was so small and she was calling when she would normally be winding down from a packed weekend of golf. I didn't pay attention at first, as I was busy entertaining friends and didn't want to be rude to my guests. I greeted her and told her I would have to call her back, but she cut me off and quickly told me that she was sick. She had just been diagnosed with breast cancer.

We talked a while longer, about biopsies, test results, doctors, hospitals, and next steps. I tried to comfort her through the long distance line. I just wanted to reach out to her across the Atlantic and the six hour time difference and just hold her, squeeze her, and reassure myself that she was still there. But I couldn't. I was mired in New Jersey, caring for my three children, living my life in the suburbs. Our weekly conversations became daily updates, supportive calls when we discussed news from her doctors and anything we had learned on the web.

Lady of the Flies

Two black flies occupy my house right now. My children brought them home, inviting them to stay with a wide open front door.  “Shut the door!” my constant call of the summer. 

I've tried hunting down the flies like I'm on an African bug safari, but these insects are of superior intelligence.  And fast. The cheetah flies of Hunterdon County, defying my bright green swatter. I swear they have evasive maneuvers that would serve them well in a war zone.

I stand at the kitchen sink rinsing dishes and they bounce against the window pane. When I cook dinner, work on the computer or sit at the table, making a to-do list, a fly passes from the living room into the kitchen. I write Kill Flies on my list. It's a wonder I have yet to be bugged when I'm sleeping.

I Have a WIC Child, Part II

When I posted Part I of this blog about a month ago, I realized that there were many women that had either used this program as a Mother or when they were children.  I also wanted to thank Trudi, a WIC employee for commenting and providing us with some good information.

But it was the comment of Sandy, speaking about feeling embarrassed when she was using WIC that made me realize that I had another story to tell.  Something, that when it happened the first three times, made me come home angry and upset and when it happened the fourth, and hopefully final time, made me come home blazing mad!  Made me want to not, as Trudi has suggested, contact WIC, although now I may do that, but actually want to write to the corporate headquarters of the large supermarket chain about what has been going on when I use my WIC checks at one of their stores. 

So to kill two birds with one stone I am going to write my letter (more or less) in this blog, without the supermarket, my name, or this one employee.  This is more so for my own privacy as I do write under a pen name anyway.  The names have been changed to make me feel better.

National Go Back to Bed Day

You know those mornings that you just can’t seem to get out of bed and seriously consider calling in sick, if you had a job?!?

It's not that I'm a "bad" morning person -- not by choice, trust me -- as long as there's a cup of coffee handed to me within the first few minutes of entering the bathroom with the morning paper...I'm good.

When I finally do regain the power of speech -- typically, this happens soon after taking a very hot shower -- and after ridding myself of stray facial hair and morning nose...I'm better.

Then, the kids wake up.

This is about the time when -- after careful consideration of the vast amount of demands that will undoubtedly be put upon me physically, mentally and/or emotionally that hasn't already been compromised from the day before -- I seriously think about petitioning for:

"National Go Back To Bed Day!"

Family Trip

We returned home to a wet basement and a couch on which our cat had peed. It seems that it had rained a lot and we had a negligent cat sitter. It took us most of the week and multiple visits by professional cleaners to restore the basement and couch to their original condition. This was all pretty unfortunate. The couch is the only place where more than one person can sit at a time in our house and almost all of the girl's toys were trapped in a basement that was first too wet (rain), then too loud and windy (humidifiers and air movers) and then too smelly (deodorizer).

Despite all of this, however, our week was more relaxing than our vacation. But... I was ok with that because long ago, I re-named the vacation and it made it all ok. We were not on a vacation. We were on a family trip.

Send me a dolphin

Yes, we're watching the Olympics. My son likes the swimming and the diving; he counts twists or rotations before the divers hit the water. My daughter likes swimming, too, and gymnastics, though she worries for the women's safety on their extravagant tumbling runs. She's right; it's dangerous.

I love the swimming, too. Partly, of course, because of Dara. Partly because it feels good to watch your country win, to watch those green world-record lines get their come-uppance almost every time. But also because I love to swim.

Giving Thanks, Getting Chuckles

Half my summer has been spent in doctor's offices. On some of the most gorgeous days, I have handed over wads of cash to the babysitter and made my way to the city's upper East Side. To sit in air conditioned offices clutching copies of my records. For one more visit. One more test. One more consultation.

After a year and a half of trying, my husband and I are up against the wall known as "Secondary Infertility." I have been unable to blog. Unable even to bring many of my friends up-to-date on the situation and all the myriad facts. But other women have been writing here, and on other blogs, and support lists, and in books, about facing the same problem, and I have to say, it has given me strength.

Commando

I am not referring to the movie Commando with Governor Arnold. Which by the way is a very entertaining movie. No, I am referring to the idea of wearing no underpants while dressed. 

I am currently training for a half marathon and it is requiring many hours at the gym to get my miles in. I belong to a beautiful gym where I am able to drop my children off in a sitting room and I am able to shower after my workout. This involves packing a bag with a change of clothes. Today as I got my stuff out of my locker ready to take my shower, I realized I had left my underwear at home. Uh oh.

This Week's Hot Posts

The Olympics are in full swing and many posts across the sites are full of Olympic and Phelps fever. It turns out that Olympics fever manifests itself in many different ways: ranging from lust to gratitude. We also have plenty of HOT parenting posts this week including a mom who dodges date night, another who embraces her connectivity, one who ponders whether to expand her family, and one who got into the groove at a kiddie concert. And last but certainly not least, we also have a hippo looking for a lawyer. Enjoy!

• Joanne from 50-Something Moms Blog recruits for a big case in Happy the Hippo Needs a Good Lawyer.
• Shannon from Chicago Moms Blog rationalizes not doing date night in We're Date Night Flunkies.
• Gayle from DC Metro Moms Blog embraces her connectivity in We Web 2.0 Moms Have It Easy.
• Lollie from Deep South Moms Blog is glued to the screen in Lusting After Olympics Swimmers.
• Amanda from LA Moms Blog gets into the groove in Peace, Love and a Portable Potty.
• Melissa from NJ Moms Blog ponders an important question in To Three or not to Three?
• Amanda from New York City Moms Blog chooses peace over hell in Confessions of an Uptight Mom.
• Alison from Silicon Valley Moms Blog sheds new light on America's favorite hero in a Close Encounter with Michael Phelps.

To Three or Not to Three, That is the Question

“So when are you going to try for a girl?”

I’m asked this question at least once a week. I’m not sure what it is about having two preschool age boys that compels people to inquire about my reproductive agenda, but they do.  I've recently decided to have a little fun with prying strangers by coming up with clever responses like,

"You'll have to bring that up with my husband's sperm."

Or

"Oh we actually have a little girl, but she's ugly so we don't bring her outside."

As much as I love messing with people, I think now is a good time to put an end to the madness and come clean. I do want another baby.  Boy or girl.  There’s no doubt about it. I also want a flying car, flowing blond hair, a pet giraffe, six inches off my waist and a winter home in Aruba, but not necessarily in that order.

Teeny Tiny Torture

I have three girls so maybe you all-boy moms can shed some light on a little something I'm wondering about: how big are your boys' toys? As I recall, when my nephews switch from playing kill-the-guy on their complex video game system to playing kill-the-guy-who-shares-my-bedroom, they use large implements such as light sabers, Incredible Hulk hands, nerf rocket-launchers, etc. When they were younger, there were blocks and balls and remote control cars. The playroom in my sister's house has large baskets and big plastic bins to hold all of these materials, as well as a t.v. much bigger than ours so the boys can keep track of their cars, warriors, and athletes in their virtual world.

Switch over to my playroom. I have a few big bins to hold our wooden building blocks, divalicious dress-up clothes and the menagerie of stuffed animals. Then there are the medium sized baskets holding the Groovy Girls and the inappropriately proportioned plastic dolls whose names I don't even want to dignify with a link, and finally, the intricate network of baskets, bins and shelves holding the plethora of toys that range in size from merely small to microscopic: Polly Pockets, tiny ponies, Littlest Pets that someone decided weren't little enough so the company had to create even more minute versions that your child is guaranteed to lose within 24 hrs. of opening the package.

The 5 Do's of Divorce When it Comes to Your Kids

In my almost 43 years on this planet, I can say without a doubt that getting divorced three years ago was the most difficult, stressful, scary, gut wrenching experience of my life.  When it began, I couldn’t even bring myself to saying the D – word.  Actually, looking back I don’t know how I got through it. I don’t know how I got up the nerve to go through with it (Did I mention that I lived next door to my Inlaws at the time, Oh yeah.) That year of living together while the divorce proceeded is a blur to me. I think I must have been in shock. Now, almost three years later, the dust has settled, somewhat, and I can look back and share my advice on how to make the nasty business of divorce as painless as possible for the little ones we worry about the most.

I Wanna Hold Your Hand

... cross posted from our sister site, Los Angeles Moms Blog.

It was bound to happen sooner or later. I guess I just assumed it would be later.

For the first time ever, my daughter, Bella Bambina, refused to hold my hand in public. Not because she was angry with me, not because she was in a hurry, not because she was being ornery or contrarian. Just because. Just because she’s nine-and-a-half. Just because she’s growing up.

As she and her brother and I walked down a busy and very public street in Beverly Hills, and as my son sweetly slipped his little paw in mine, my daughter committed her first sin of omission (at least that I know about). She simply did not take my hand. My heart took a little dip. I walked a few more paces without saying anything. Finally, weenie that I am, I couldn’t take it and asked if she wanted to hold my hand. She looked around quickly and then shook her head, no. Not wanting her to realize how hurt I was, I pretended to pretend to pout (meaning I wanted her to believe I was pretending to pout, but in reality, I was sort of pouting) and asked why not? One beat, and then another without an answer. I could tell she was trying to think of some reasonable explanation that I would buy. “I have a book in my hand,” she finally replied. Not one to give up, I said, “Well, why don’t you put it in your other hand?” She just shook her head again.

I let it go, and with it—a little piece of my heart and her childhood.

Click HERE to continue reading at Los Angeles Moms Blog.

Taking the Plunge

My husband has just informed me that we are going to have a second child. Cool. We have been having The Discussion for a few months now. It's become a little more serious in the last month or so. As serious as we can be, anyway. The conversation usually goes like this: Me: "Do you want to have another baby?" He: "I don't know, do you?" Me: "I don't know", and then it usually dissolves into something about the weather or what's for dinner. I'm just glad somebody made a decision. It's like we've both been standing together at the edge of the gene pool, holding hands, toes curled, looking at each other blankly, waiting for somebody to do something already! Obviously we both wanted to jump in...it's just really scary when you can't see the bottom.