New Jersey Moms Blog

I will thank a vet

As I drive in and around town over the past few days, I have been noticing these handwritten signs that say, "thank a vet."  Often times, we are guilty (myself included) of forgetting what Memorial Day is about.  If you ask most people, they will probably say "the unofficial start to summer."  Well, it may be that to many people, but I am glad the scribbled poster boards reminded me that this weekend is about those who gave their lives in a time of war/conflict.  And as the sign says, it is also an opportunity to thank a veteran.  Today, I will do just that I will thank my brother a veteran of the Iraq Conflict for putting his life on the line for others.   

I remember the time like it was yesterday because it was probably the worst month of my life. My brother John, a Marine, was the first to battle. In the days leading up to the start, we received a few short but sweet letters from him.  John was never much of a writer but the words were meaningful and simple.  He gave us each a message of love.  It was the type of message you hold on to forever.  When the start of the war was announced, my heart sank and my anxiety levels rose.  Life changed that day for me, as I am sure it did for my family, and most certainly, my brother.  Some of the change was for the good, like learning the lesson of never taking those you love for granted, but I know a lot of change in my brother can never be repaired and I wish it could. 

Old Man Kamienski

Every neighborhood has one.  You know the neighbor, and if you don't your children certainly do; the neighbor who looks out the window hoping some child will step on his lawn.  Once that poor innocent child does, he can reprimand them or worse yet call the cops because how many time has he warned the children of the neighborhood not to step on his lawn?!  You know you have one and you know exactly who it is.  I never thought my current neighborhood of 11 years had one until Saturday night when the "old man on the block incident" transpired right before my very eyes. 

Often referred to as the block's busybody, I think if we all look back through the recesses of our minds we can remember who that neighbor was, and probably better yet, instantly remember the nickname all the kids on the street pegged him with eternally.  My neighborhood crotchety old man was "The FBI."  Why FBI you ask?  Well, because he was a spy as the rhyme we created went: FBI your a spy.  Go eat some apple pie or something like that.  One summer, the kids on the street were into marathon sessions of kickball.  Every now and then, the ball would end up on the FBI's lawn and without fail the FBI would come out to yell at the kid who was brave enough or stupid (not sure which) to retrieve the ball.  I remembered hating to play the outfield because of the tongue lashing that you would inevitably receive.  Getting back to my current block and the story at hand, what came into blaring view on Saturday night is that my husband was the neighborhood's FBI. 

Am I Pretty?

If you know me well enough, you know the infamous night in my life often referred to as the "Am I Pretty Night."  The Am I Pretty Night happened after I had downed a few Long Island Ice Teas at a place called Fatso's (if you were/are a party girl living in Northern New Jersey you know the place).  That week, I had just broken up with the guy I thought was the "love of my life", and to add insult to injury, I was not gaining the attention of any of the eligible men that graced the bar that night.  As friend after friend hopped up on the bar dancing with any man that would buy them a drink, I began to get more bitter and drunk as the time passed.  After my fourth or fifth potent cocktail, I locked myself in the bathroom and began to cry "am I pretty?"  Friend after friend assured me that, "yes, of course you are pretty."  I eventually came out the bathroom somewhat believing my friends and nursed a mean hangover the next day. While my friends laugh and so do I at the thought of that night, recently I have been feeling like that college girl locked in a bathroom asking myself "am I pretty?"

There Are No Return Policies On Children

Who hasn't said to their kid, "if you don't blank (feel free to add in the latest issue you are struggling with your child), I am going to send you back"?  Maybe you won't admit it, but I know I have said it.  I know my mother has said it to me and my brother.  I know my mother's mother has said it to all seven of her children and I have also witnessed countless others saying this to their children in my presence.  Another favorite phrase, "I am going to send you to the gypsies."  Not sure what that means but it is something my mom used to say to me that I now have mentioned to my son when he has gotten on my last nerve.    While most of us jest about this topic, I have never heard of a child being sent back. Until now, when a mother in Tennessee actually did it - she sent her kid back.  Which has left me to wonder, I thought children had a No Return Policy? 

A child is life's biggest joy but a child can also be life's biggest misery.  They can fill your heart and break your heart all in one gesture.  Raising a child has been my greatest accomplishment and it has also been the toughest, most frustrating things I have ever done.  While I know other mothers have it worse than I do, the thought of giving up my child is beyond comprehension.  If the "gypsies" ever came to my door and heard I been asking for them to take my son away, I would send them to the neighbors and bolt the door behind them.  Even in the first three months of his life, when I thought to myself "what did I do? Am I really cut out to be a mom?", you would have had to rip my child from my cold dead hands to take him away from me.  How could any mom return their child?

Can You Hear Me Now?

If you happen to be around me when my son is present, the word you will hear me utter more than anything else in the english language is listen.  My son just doesn't listen.  I can say the word listen either in a soft-nurturing tone or in harsh "I have had enough" tone and it still doesn't matter either way.  Having just got his hearing checked, I know the problem isn't medically-related -- he actually has better than average hearing.  So I am left to ask myself, what is it?

I'm not the only one to be using the word listen quite a bit these days.  My husband has also moved the word listen up the list of Words Most Often Used to the number one spot.  I'm not sure who is more frustrated these days me or my husband?  It is a bit of toss-up.  All kidding aside, I've become a bit worried about my son's ability to listen.  So concerned that he might have a learning disability I brought up the issue to the doctor at his last visit.  The official diagnosis I received from my doctor is The Trying Three's Syndrome.  Now, I have heard that three can be worse than two but coming from a medical professional I knew we were in for a year filled with phrases like, "Ben can you just listen to your Mother?" or "Listen to me Benjamin Mommy is talking to you!"  or just plain old "Ben LISTEN!"  The "medical diagnosis" made me want to cry.

Kids Plus Nuptials Don't Equal Wedded Bliss

When my brother asked my son to be the ring bearer for his wedding, the thought of seeing him in a mini-tuxedo brought me to tears but little did I know the tears would come from another source that day... 

Whoever came up with the role of ring bearer and flower girl in a wedding party I highly doubt was ever a parent, because if they were they would have never thought this was a good idea.  In fact, it is possibly the worst wedding idea running a close second behind the donning of hot pink taffeta bridesmaid dresses.

I've been to a number of weddings in my lifetime and leave it to a flower girl or ring bearer to ruin the ceremony.  At a very dear friend of mine's nuptials, the flower girl thought it would be a good idea to scream at the top of her lungs the entire time when the couple exchanged rings.  Till this day, friends still talk about the debacle of a wedding ceremony all thanks to an adorably obnoxious little girl.  For years after that fiasco and additional incidents to reconfirm my belief, I thought maybe I have this opinion because I don't have a darling future ring bearer or flower girl myself.  However, after my brother's wedding my thoughts are still the same - maybe even stronger now.  Although, what has changed is I now have compassion for all parties involved, including the child who is asked to partake in the day's festivities. 

My New Top 40 Minus Ryan Seacrest

I have always tried to keep up with the "latest" music.  While I wouldn't consider myself a music aficionado, I would say I have always tried to listen to a wide variety of music and stay in tune with who the "it" artist is at any given time.  Enter my two-and-a-half year old and my music tastes have undergone a lobotomy over the last year.  I have went from singing along to Beyonce about man troubles to singing along with Laurie Berkner about family gatherings. 

When my son Benjamin was a baby, I played the occasional classical music (you know, to help make him a baby genius) but for the most part I played what I wanted to listen to including lots of top 40 hits and 70's disco classics and my son seemed to be fine with my choices.  As time went on and Ben became a bit antsier in the backseat, I started to play child-friendly music to make his journey in the car more enjoyable.  The result: any musical pleasure I used to enjoy has gone out the driver's side window along with my CD collection.  It all started one fateful day when I purchased the Cars soundtrack...

Pardon me, is your child a boy or a girl?

Last week, I was faced with one of those situations where I couldn't figure out if a child was a boy or a girl.  The child had long, bouncy blonde hair like a girl.  His or her toddler face could be either - both pretty and handsome.  The child was dressed in a boy-like outfit but the child's name was Skylar.  Before I could get a text response from a number of friends asking the question, "could a boy be named Skylar", my two-year old had decided that this child was a girl.  "Mommy, can I play with the little girl?"  Still not knowing and fearing he had made the wrong gender choice, I ushered my son to another section of the children's museum we were visiting.  I later found out that yes a boy can be named Skylar but spelled Skyler and that indeed this child was a boy.  The situation got me to thinking, should children be called by androgynous names? Should parents bestow on children names like Payton and Dylan that can cause a world a confusion throughout their lives?

When I was pregnant, my husband and I decided that we would not find out the sex of the baby until he or she was born.  So of course that meant making a list of names for both boys and girls.  At the time, one of our absolute favorite names for a girl was Riley.  Miracle of all miracles we both agreed on this name.  However, as time went on and we let the name marinate in our minds, we both came to the conclusion that Riley might not be the best choice of names for gender bender-reasoning.  In my mind, I thought of having my baby girl Riley in my arms in a gender neutral onesie and someone saying, "what a cute little boy!" and me regretting the choice of names.  Though, I do know that "what a cute baby girl, when it was a boy" situations have happened to everyone, I just didn't want to perpetuate the situation for this child I was bringing into the world.  I also know how angry people get when you call a child by the wrong gender.  So lucky for my husband and I, we didn't have to worry about making that decision we had a boy and named him a very male name - Benjamin. 

One Mom's (Guilt) Trip to Find the Right Daycare

"Mommy I was crying for you," said my son Benjamin.

"I know Benjamin I was crying for you too," said me.

Next, remove heart and stomp on it.

And so has begun the ultimate guilt trip for this working mom, putting my 2 year old in day care for the very first time. 

Ironically enough, the trip started about three weeks ago on an another trip this time the "girl's" weekend trip. My Mom, also known as Benjamin's caregiver, called to inform me that with a heavy (and guilty heart as well) she had accepted a new job and would no longer be able to watch Benjamin.  What happened after the call is a bit of a blur.  My friends rallied around me and told me it would be "okay" but it didn't feel that way.  It felt like I was an inadequate, part-time not deserving of having this precious gift of motherhood Mom.  I immediately called my husband to inform him, who was just as flabbergasted as I was - maybe even more so.  However, in the end, we couldn't be angry with my Mom.  She needed to think about finding a job that provided health insurance, something we couldn't, in anticipation of my Dad going on permanent disability.  I also couldn't be mad.  How could I be mad at the person who has saved me from feelings of "mom guilt" and who has ultimately helped me raise my son? It just wasn't possible to be mad, but I sure had a lot of other feelings that came pouring out during the next three weeks. 

Beach Etiquette

Living in New Jersey all my life, many a day has been spent down at the Jersey Shore. Before having my son Benjamin, I would plant a beach chair in the sand, slather on some sunscreen, open a good book and just relax.  However, every now and then my daydreaming would be interrupted by some misbehaved child whose parents didn't understand proper beach etiquette.  

As I would sit on the beach, after having had an incident happen like a beach ball thrown at my head by some overzealous five year old, I would say to myself, "if I ever have my own child things like this won't happen - not with my kid."  After a recent visit to the beach with Benjamin, I got a cold smack of reality in the face and realized teaching beach etiquette isn't so easy. 

For starters, Benjamin tore on the beach and hopped right into someone else's baby pool.  Not only did he dive into another child's blow-up pool, he also brought enough sand with him to fill a sandbox.  After scooping Ben up, reprimanding him for his blatant disregard of beach etiquette and saying enough apologies to last a lifetime, Benjamin started to wreak havoc in a new location.  This time, he was playing with another child's sand toys.  I pleaded with Benjamin to give me a chance to unpack his things, but add some sand and sun, and my otherwise patient, well-behaved child became Ben-zilla.  The mother whose child's toys they were, who also happens to be family member, tells me it is more than okay for Ben to play with her children's toys.  Because I am now losing patience quickly, I lash out at the mother who was just trying to be nice and say something about how her children get upset when my son plays with their toys so he can just wait and play with his own.  Rightly so, she talked about me behind my back for the rest of the day.