The Daily Fuss

House Part II: City or Suburbs?

Over lunch this week, a client brought up a familiar subject I love to discuss - the mental and emotional struggle that ensues when a couple faces the decision to move from the city to the suburbs.

This move is generally spurred by the prospect of trying for baby #2 and the inevitable realization that there is just not enough room in the condo for toddler stuff and baby stuff.

The question: Do I upgrade from a condo to a house in the city, or move to a suburb with award-winning public schools and more square footage for my money? SIGH.

I have made my past preference known for the urban over the suburban. My most comprehensive comparison of the two can be found in a post entitled House. I published this post on August 18, 2010, just weeks after moving into our Highland Park home.

My pro-con list is better informed now that we've been here for a few years, so I figured it was as good a time as any to update my comparison.

To recap, the 2010 points in favor of city condo dwelling were as follows:

1) neighborly anonymity

2) can walk almost everywhere

3) ease of internet grocery shopping

4) taxi cab prevalence

5) accessibility of Midway airport

6) common elements are handled by someone else

7) calming familiarity with urban sounds

Points in favor of the suburban home:

1) yard

2) more space for stuff in the house

3) free guest parking

My tune has changed since August 2010. For starters, I love my neighbors, a few of whom in particular have become good friends. We walk plenty in the warmer months and make good use of the Green Bay trail, says the girl who trained for and ran two half marathons this past year.

Thankfully, Peapod has beefed up its delivery schedule to HP. I have also converted back to United as my preferred airline (yay O'Hare) and have American Taxi on speed dial, sometimes last minute. Finally, I faintly hear the train in the distance and it's all the reminder I need that I still live quite close to civilzation as I once knew it.

Additional 2013 points in favor of our suburban situation include:

1) close proximity to the commuter train - a stress-free ride to work

2) Ravinia Outdoor Music Festival and the Chicago Botanic Garden are a mile up the road

3) Anthropologie, Pottery Barn and Paper Source are a half mile down the road along with one-of-a-kind boutiques and restaurants

4) gardening is now my relaxing way to be sustainable - I also have a wormery

5) grilling without having to take an elevator ride to the patio is a bonus - plus our backyard never closes so winter grilling is an option

6) sandboxes and swingsets - we have a little park right in our own yard

7) ability to entertain in our home - we have thrown crazy elaborate birthday parties and even hosted thanksgiving and Christmas this year

8) ability to hang and perpetually admire outdoor lights and Christmas decorations

Finally, one of the most fun things about our suburban dwelling is that it has such potential for greatness. We spend countless hours pouring glasses of wine and poring over Houzz, in an effort to determine exactly how to majorly renovate our house. We'll most likely do a mojor renovation in the next year or two.

If it doesn't happen, it's likely because we've found the perfect "new" house a block or two from here, into which we will move. And the list of things we love about Highland Park will continue to grow.

How about you? Is city living your thing or do you prefer the burbs? Post a comment and share your fuss with us.

Is Life Better In Your Twenties or Thirties?

A friend posted today on one of my favorite topics - which decade is "better" age-wise, the roaring twenties, or stable thirties?

It's a good piece and immediately begs the question "what does better actually mean"?

I will tell you that I am happier and more fulfilled now than I have ever been, but I can't put my finger on exactly why I would refer to this decade as better. 

Evie, the author, points out the seemingly obvious trade offs. As a paraphrased example, feeling truly and desperately alone after a breakup in your twenties versus rarely enjoying five peaceful minutes of alone time in a locked bathroom when you have little kids, for example.

When I think of who I was, personally and professionally, in my twenties, juxtaposed against the person I am now, I have no sense of regret. I always live my life as fully and honestly as I can. I make decisions and I don't look back. If I make a mistake, I convince myself it was a necessary and teachable moment. I move on.

Evie makes a point about wanting to pull back some personal time and it's not lost on me.

My biggest issue with the current decade is that with little kids, there aren't enough hours in the day to do what I want, and so I am forced to compromise with my own wants and needs. I like projects - writing, entertaining, discussing politics and other things that really don't matter for endless hours over too much wine ...

Still, you couldn't pay me to be 24 again. Have you seen Girls? The slightly more realistic Sex and the City type show about twentysomethings in NYC attempting to live the dream?

It's taken me the better part of the last decade to resolve my inner Carrie Bradshaw. I find Girls to be an hilarious expose on why being a woman in her twenties is comically and emotionally BRUTAL - even if you're pretty and popular and smart and thin. Or ... not so much. Lena Dunham is a real-life genius so definitely tune in to season two later this month if you are so inclined.

I love the 36 year-old me more than any other me. I'm not as hot as I used to be (working on that), but I'm smarter, happier and have more money and more responsibilties in all areas of my life, than I did in my twenties.

A lot of pain and growth went into the last decade and I wrote about it so I can remember it all one day. Here are my thoughts: 

On having my first child

On suburban living

On identity crisis

On homeownership

On being the neighborhood hilljack

On minivan-ownership

On baby #2 and the worst anniversary EVER

On treading water

On a new job

I love my life and I sincerely hope I feel exactly the same way when I turn 40 three years and five months from now. And, I hope I'm still enthusiastically inclined to tell you about it.

Jump

Life before marriage and kids allowed for a fair amount of risk-taking. Settling down to feather and fill my nest set me on the familiar, working-mom trajectory.

I just turned 36 and somewhere in the month leading up to that birthday, I had an exhausting realization:

Unless I regain control of my fate, the only difference between birthday 36 and birthday 46 will be the fact that I'm an older wife and mom with an older husband and kids and a REALLY old house that STILL needs a new roof.

I vaguely remember once saying that I wanted to retire at 45.

Something happened when I had my babies. I instictively felt the need to maintain status quo with every other aspect of my life and focus the remaining 99.99% of my efforts on getting each of those babies, my husband and I through their first years.

And I didn't bother to lose the baby weight between having the girls.

And I wasn't able to put the finishing touches on the renovations we had done to the house.

And I didn't stick my neck out for what I wanted in my job.

It's as though I was afraid to do anything to provoke the gods of change. I needed to muddle my way up to Mairin's first birthday to find freedom from the shackles of post-partem hormones and adjustments and rapid-fire pediatrician appointments and breastfeeding and sleep deprivation and the like.

Working out in any way other than gardening was simply not going to happen from either a scheduling or committment standpoint. I'm not one to set myself up for failure, so I didn't even bother to engage myself in earnest to attempt weight-loss.

The house? Our half bath still lacks switchplate covers and caulk. And I just hooked up the sink a few weeks ago. You'll find more of the same throughout the house.

I passively moved through my baby-having years with my job too. I certainly wanted to keep it, and I maintained my desire to excel. Yet, somewhere between two maternity leaves, dramatically shifting compensation plans and a drastically different subset of clients, my give-a-damn cranked itself down into a regrettably lower gear.

I've been making my way out of the haze since Mairin turned one.

I've flipped my perspective on the inability to wean her - I'm still nurturing her while maintaining a bond she's clearly not ready to break. Yay me.

I'm happily busy with work and clients and all predictible aspects of business development.

My nanny and I are in stride most days. The kids and the house are cared for and I have what I need to be fully present when work is over for the day or the week.

I'm running the North Shore Half Marathon on Sunday, fully expecting to finish it at a 10 minute/mile pace.

My garden is in full swing and my lovely (albeit timeconsuming) landscaping project is coming together.

With all of this momentum building behind me, I need something to push me to the proverbial next level. If I really want to shake it up, I need to stay uncomfortable. Existing within my comfort zone won't produce any real satisfaction; It won't make me smarter or stronger or a better wife and mother.

Pain and growth are closely aligned and no matter the tiedious preparations made for change, the final bit always requires a leap of faith.

I've done the work. All I have to do now is ... JUMP.

Once I figure out exactly what that means, you'll be the first to know.

Mom Enough

I must admit that my first reaction to the cover of this magazine was, "I don't get it. What's the problem?" My nanny then pointed out to me that the child is "quite old," to which I slowly replied, "Huh. I guess he's probably four-ish."

This cover and the title of the related story "Are You Mom Enough" is causing more of a stir than Alicia Silverstone's premastication video blog.

The article is about attachment parenting and Dr. Sears - the man who defined it. Key components of attachment parenting include (among other things) co-sleeping, breastfeeding, letting your child dictate its schedule and the like.

You can take the TIME quiz on parenting styles here for free if you are wondering where you fall on the attachment parenting spectrum.

Questions swirling about the blogosphere fall largely into the category of, "What is TIME trying to do?" and "Has TIME gone too far?"

Shock and awe aside, the article and its provocative title/photo combo illuminates a heightened sense of parenting in our culture these days. And it makes sense, as a wave of "natural parenting" has washed over us in the last decade.

Breastfeeding is back in vogue - to the point that we have a secondary market for human milk. Organic food has become more widely available and less expensive. The BPA scare boosted the sale of glass baby bottles and spurred the elmination of its use. Baby wearing  is all the rage. Throngs of children are not properly vaccinated, either timely or at all, due to fear and mystery surrounding autism.

The list goes on.

In the wake of the women's liberation movement, the main devisive issue for moms was whether or not to work outside the home. The debate pitted the working mom against the stay-at-home mom and many an Oprah-esque argument ensued.

It was so much simpler then, when one side felt it damaging to leave children without mom for more than a few hours and the other felt that children need to see their moms do more than just take care of them.

I really do believe that we Americans are culturally enlightened enough to get past our own jealousies and insecurities to see the positives and drawbacks inherent in either situation. We now have the SAHM (Stay At Home Mom); the WoMo (Working Mom); the WAHM (Work At Home Mom) and seemingly no apology from any party as to the label.

With progress comes new challenges. And, as we open up the idea of "natural" motherhood we rely on "mother's intuition" in ways that, frankly, piss off our pediatricians. Maybe we shouldn't believe everything we're told. Maybe we shouldn't trust the system as much as we do.

With rapid exchange of information in these times, we've seen that the system doesn't always work. Is controlled breathing all I need to get me through childbirth? Can I have a glass of wine? What's in that formula? What's in that vaccine? If the risk of SIDS is really higher when baby sleeps alone? What hormones were fed to that cow? Does the sugar in juice really cause obesity and eat your brain?

The motherhood playing field has shifted dramatically and it's more devisive than ever. It's become the game of mothers judging each other for doing specific things that will ostensibly harm their children in some way. For me, this article is less about Dr. Sears, and more about jumpstarting that dormant conversation.

You know ... the one I'm having right now.

Moms, in honor of our upcoming day of motherly celebration, let's all relax. Being a mom is a tough job and we shouldn't judge each other for the choices we make.

I take the un-apologetic approach to parenting. We do what works for us and the kids always come first. Here's our parenting style in a nutshell:

The girls have a routine. They behave better when they know what's coming next. Our nanny is better at keeping the routine than Ryan and I.

Mairin comes in our bed between midnight and two am. She still nurses at night at 15 months. We eat as well as we can. We try different foods. If we don't like it, we need to try it again later. We drink juice on occasion. We have dessert.

We have rules and strive to be orderly, but our house gets messy. A lot. In the name of projects and art and more projects, we get messy.

We don't tolerate meaness. We allow for self-expression and understand that we need to choose our battles and try not to make a big deal out of too many things.

We have Disney movies and princess stuff and sports stuff and instruments and try to maintain a balance. We don't say things are "boy things" or "girl things". We have dance parties and movie nights.

We always say "I love you" and never NEVER EVER take each other for granted.

So take that Dr. Sears, Time magazine and defiant breastfeeding cover mom. You can't define my parenting style in such strict terms. Even if you are just trying to sell some magazines.

HBO Girls

Wouldn't it be great to be 24 again?

Absolutely NOT.

In a commentary clip preceding HBO's new series Girls, the creator, Lena Dunham describes the age of 24 as (and I'm paraphrasing here) "not old enough to be in a position to get what you want" and "not savvy enough to know what you should want for yourself."

Eleven years senior to Miss Hannah Horvath, the main character, I can sympathize with her journey of good and bad decisions that will likely inspire personal growth along the way.

At 24 I was just out of school, dating the wrong guy, staying out too late, spending all of my money on shoes and ... let's just say I do a decent job of painting that picture here.

My parents didn't need to support me at 24. I had already graduated from law school and was working at a big firm in the city. Unlike others who have panned the show, I am not going to get bogged down in the whole "Generation-Y-bad-economy-excuses, can't-get-a-job, parents-support-me, I'm-entitled thing."

I don't relate with Lena to that degree, but the age of 24 felt vague to me, just the same. I didn't know where I fit into the bigger picture of life. To that end, 24 year-old Hannah isn't much different than 24 year-old Jen.

One of the characters kicks off her exposition with a diatribe about which Sex and the City character she's most like, "some Charlotte, definitely some Carrie, with a little bit of Samantha" from time to time.

I can relate. It took me years to resolve my inner Carrie Bradshaw. I just can't believe 24 year-olds are still identifying with that show. Moreover, those Carrie worshippers will likely have trouble identifying with HBO's Girls. Hannah, Marnie, Jessa and Shoshanna don't embody anything a 24 year-old girl wants to be. In fact, even after a few episodes, the viewers have no handle on the girls' potential.

Girls focuses intently on the opposite and champions the the painful art of "becoming" a woman - something that you can only truly appreciate with (at least) a decade of distance from the reality of your former 24 year-old self.

Life, like any good TV show, is so much fun when you can look back after a few years and say with full sincerity, "Look how far we've come."

If Girls can stick it out for a few seasons, we will review it fondly in retrospect. Good job HBO. I think you have a winner here.

Photograph courtesy of the New York Times.

{Debatable} Kiss Feeding

Last week, Alicia Silverstone caught hell for mouth feeding (kiss feeding, birding) her son Bear Blu on YouTube.

A throng of websites and bloggers immediately lambasted her for "unsanitary" behavior. Days later, commentary has cooled some, with a even a few experts making an argument for the unorthodox practice.

A video clip Alicia posted to her blog set the frenzy in motion. The YouTube clip can be seen here:

 

My first reaction to this is that I am a mother and I try not to judge other mothers. This isn't illegal or abusive or even mean. It's just a kinda weird for some people.

I am still nursing a fourteen month-old and plenty of people have an opinion about that. I can assure you, Mairin sees nothing wrong with it.

As for kiss feeding (or what is actually referred to as pre-mastication) I like the other side of the discussion in defense of the practice. For example, author Natalie Wolchover is happy to point out a few facts about pre-mastication in her piece Should You Chew Your Baby's Food Like Alicia Silverstone? She writes:

"Babies start requiring non-milk food in their diets at six months old, but they don't develop the molars they need to chew most foods until age 18 to 24 months. According to research led by Gretel Pelto, an anthropologist at Cornell University, pre-mastication was the solution to feeding infants during this interim period for most of human history, and remains the method used in many cultures today. Rather than being unhygienic, Pelto and many other scientists think the feeding method carries on the immune-system-building process that begins with breastfeeding. By exposing infants to traces of disease pathogens present in a mother's saliva, it gears up their production of antibodies, teaching their immune systems how to deal with those same pathogens later."

Read the full article here.

As the article suggests, maybe dear Alicia is just ahead of the curve in finding "natural" ways to keep our kids happy and healthy. Or, maybe she's a simple nut. Either way, she's a mom and is doing what she feels is best for her baby that she's obviously head-over-heels in love with.

Who are we to judge?

Bleeping Haters

Oh boy. Apparently, Modern Family is eroding what's left of the Leave-It-to-Beaverishness in America.

I should have known better than to watch that show. Prudish 18 year-olds are all the rage these days, anyway.

Admittedly, I would be a much better parent if I just pretended certain words don't exist and joined the no cussing club.

This is just so silly.

FUCK.

It's a word. It's part of our lexicon. I've studied language and literature extensively prior to studying law. I'm smart and funny and use the f-word from time to time. Okay. Let's be honest - several times each day.

I truly appreciate language (structurally, contextually, historically and culturally). I also have an affection for the 1st amendment as it relates to creativity.

I'm thirty-five years old and have two small children. I work and watch this show with a glass of wine when it's time to relax. Modern Family is a smart show. It's hilarious and far more family-centric than the commercials bookending segments of children's shows airing on ABC (Viagra etc.).

Once McKay Hatch has lived some real life, I'm sure he will look back and see what a useless and ill-placed crusade this is.

To be clear, let's remember one more thing - this is just my fucking opinion.

Pin It

Bad Dog Ma

Luella, my four pound Yorkshire Terrier, is our first baby.

She has a full wardrobe, gets her chicken treats in the morning and sleeps in our bed at night.  

She is allowed up on the furniture, uses the outdoor "facilities" during the day and has a potty paper upstairs to use at her discretion in the evenings.

Lue is going to be eight years young this year. Although, we have found her to be a bit of an old soul from the start. If Luella were a human, she'd play bridge, drink dirty martinis, curse like a long shoreman and (quite possibly) smoke.

She has her vices.

Historically, Lue has gone to the fancy vet in the city every year for her checkups. I like this particular vet because they do blood work before dental cleanings to make sure Lue can handle the anesthesia. During the dental, Lue is fully intubated and receiving fluids to quickly flush the drugs out of her teeny system.

Hundreds of dollars later, I have peace of mind and Lulu's teeth are clean.

I have yet to find such a vet in Highland Park - not because one does not exist, but because I keep making appointments in the city and then canceling them because I work and spending four hours taking Lue to the vet isn't feasible.

Here's a tip, I am rarely realistic. Most of the time, I deliver on my overreaching overachieverness. Sometimes ... not so much.

It's a vicious cycle, much like the one my hair is experiencing right now because my colorist is in the city and I actually can't find ANYONE in Highland Park that can highlight me like Tracy. I look like hell.

Happy Holidays.

Luella's last cleaning was shockingly only as recent as May 2010. Unfortunately, I have brushed her little pearls maybe ten to fifteen times since Mairin was born. Her teeth are so dirty and A FEW ON THE BOTTOM ARE LOOSE!

I feel so guilty. I am the worst dog mom ever. I have sacrificed the dental health of my very first baby for lack of time and attention. I have sacrificed Lue's adorable little teeth for my other children.

It's not the only notable difference for Luella from B.K. (before kids) to A.K. (after kids). Lue waits longer than ever between trips outside. She is ignored for a spell during the day and gets bounced around at night when the little sisters meander into our bed.

On the bright side ( and because the prospect of rotting dog teeth should have a silver lining) she islearning to hang with the squad in situations where she should have normally slunk off to bed midday.

For example, visiting my inlaws this past weekend, a friend was first to the party with her six and eight year-old boys. No less than four minutes into the visit, I heard the older boy say, "Look  mom! I finally caught him!" As I turned in movie-slow-motion, I saw a blur of black and tan fur and grey and pink argyle sweater vest (yes, Lue's) leap from the boys arms and tumble to the hardwood floor head first.

I freaked out, snatched up poor Lue and ran out of the room. She was fine, but so scared that she pooped all over me. The only clean shirt I had left was a loungy pyjama top. Out of choices, I sucked it up and rejoined the group as other guests began to arrive.

Lue sucked it up too. She jumped back into the fray immediately, barking at the kids and mingling with with the crowd, hopeful that bits of barbeque would fall from a plate or two down to her domain.

This behavior is atypical for Ms. Luella. Both Ryan and I were proud at her newly-found resilience.

I convinced myself that Yorkie teeth are notoriously bad and that no matter how much I brush, they will become harder to maintain as she ages. I also decided that rehabilitating what was once a painfully shy little dog is more important and that I'm not such a bad dog mom after all.

That's my story and I'm sticking to it.  

We'll see what our new vet has to say about it.  We have an appointment with the Highland Park vet at noon.

Ha Ha, Sucker!

We try to eat well. I try to limit sugar - although I do allow Lei to drink half-water/half-juice. And, we do have gelato or ice cream on occasion.

Candy, however is TOTALLY off limits.

If that were true, then I would not know with full certainty that a Blow Pop lasts up to 200 miles in the hands of a two and a half year-old.

Thank you, Charms.

 

Big Girl Shoes

She begged me to let her try on my shoes.

I said, "no". And she asked, "why?" And I told her, "I don't want you to ruin them before I even get to wear them."

And she asked, "why?"

I didn't have the time to explain that I felt I deserved to wear them for the first time - damage free.

And, I didn't have the heart to tell her that with those sparkly Badgley Mischkas comes much more responsibility than she could possibly understand.

I would have to tell her that those shoes come with a job ... nay ... a career attached to them.

I would say that I must drive to and from meetings in the city, in my minivan on conference calls while pumping and doing my makeup so I can wear those shoes.

I would explain how desperately I try to wrap up my work work day by 5:30 so I can send the nanny home and be truly present while getting the little ones fed and bathed, so daddy can get some quality time in before putting Lei to bed.

Those shoes come with a tremendous amount of concern over bumps, bruises, choking, cavities, sunburns and bug bites and excessive fear of the day my kids will be old enough to drive a car.

Those shoes come with mortgages and retirement accounts and a roof that needs fixing and a garage that needs rebuilding and condo tenants in need of a brand new dishwasher because they somehow managed to break the one we have.

Those shoes ignore my husband sometimes and that isn't fair. 

I suppose I could have couched my denial of her request in terms that she'd somewhat understand - such as, "Those shoes are worth a thousand poopy diaper changes and hundreds of 2 a.m. feedings." But it wouldn't have mattered. She really really wanted to try them on.

Admittedly, tied to those shoes is a strong desire to be more fashionable than I actually am at this phase of my mommy life. The shoes do help that cause. I swear.

I still need to lose the baby weight I packed on with Mairin and those five inch heels make me look two pounds thinner than my four inch heels. Somehow, five minus four equals two in this instance.

I need those shoes.

And they need me.

And I promise you, those are the ridiculous things that went through my mind when she begged and pleaded and whined until I let her try them on.

She struggled a few smiling, shuffling steps on her tippy toes in those shoes and then gingerly stepped out.

She assured me, "These are too hard mama. These are your shoes."

I smiled and nodded and said "no shit" to myself. Someday I will explain the whole thing to her.

Someday.

Tour de Fuss

We moved to Highland Park from the city just under one year ago. We spent the several weeks after the move unpacking and painting and basically ignoring (or maybe just not fully appreciating) the most annoying phenomenon in our glorious suburb.

I'm referring to the goddamn bikers.

I don't hate them based on the numbers. In fact, I'm not overly bugged by the throngs of helmet-capped heads out and about on the weekends - sweating profusely all over their $3000 racing bikes that never make it out of second gear.

It doesn't really bother me that they all appear to be over 55 and aren't in the appropriate physical shape for even the most leisurely of bike rides.

I don't even care much that every last one of them is decked out in full tour de France regalia. I mean honestly, it would be like me putting one of those shrinky-dink bus wrap ads on my car to take a relaxing drive up LSD on a Sunday.

Truthfully, I hate them because they don't obey a single rule of the road. I'm not even sure they realize how ridiculously dangerous it is to NOT stop at an uncontrolled intersection no matter the mode of transportation.

I would love to pull up alongside one of these posers and say "Love your jersey. You must have to kick some serious biker ass to get sponsored by Energizer." Unfortunately, none of these inconsiderate a-holes bothers to stop at a sign or light allowing me to strike up a candid conversation about how their alleged "sponsorship" is tantamount to my 5'9" dad showing up for a pickup game in the "hood" wearing a Jordan jersey circa 1998.

Admittedly, Highland Park boasts some of the most beautiful trails in the area. Still, that fact alone cannot excuse the hoopla and utter weirdness that brings me a daily dose of frustration, April - October.

Miss Nomer

Um. Lady. I don't know how to tell you this (again) but my name's not Stephanie.

She's a mom at Leighton's school and we'll call her Céline. She knows everyone, talks super loudly, is always running late and still stops to chat.

Plus, this brief story just wouldn't be the same if I failed to mention that she has French accent as THICK as molasses.

Yes. Molasses.

So let's go ahead and mentally call me Steffah-nee', shall we? Because that's the imported, sing-songy pronunciation that makes my ears bleed every morning and/or afternoon.

I met Céline on Leighton's first day of school. She seemed incredibly nice and introduced herself immediately in the parking lot during drop off. "I'm Say-leen - Collette and Dah-veed's muthair." You get the idea.

"Hi. I'm Jennifer," I said as a prelude to warning her that she will rarely see me in anything other than yoga pants. She laughed in an empty, superficial kind of way and we bid farewell.  And now that I think of it, I've never, ever seen her in anything other than matchy-matchy sportswear complete with headband herself so I seriously doubt she was judging me.

I see her every single day. More often that not, she rolls into the parking lot honking at someone as if to say Wait. Don't leave yet. I need to talk to you. It's my guess that each time, the victim sees Céline coming up the drive and is desperately scrambling to load her kids and pull away before Céline's too close for the woman to pretend she's out of ear shot.

She's never honked me down, but somehow, I frequently manage to pass her on the way in and out. And, she's always got something to say. And, it always ends with comma Stephanie.

Bonjour, Stephanie! How are you, Stephanie? Leighton has such cute shoes, Stephanie. Where is your coat, Stephanie? It's freezing out here, Stephanie. Are you coming to the birthday party, Stephanie?

I have corrected her no less than three times, "My name is Jennifer [Dzen-ee-fair], Céline." But it matters not. As I initially suspected, Céline doesn't really listen to a word anyone else says. So, this past week when she asked if Leighton was coming to Collette's birthday party, I simply said, "Yes. We'll see you Sunday."

So my question to you, dear readers, is this ... Has my window to correct Céline expired? If not, when will that be? And, should signing the birthday card "Jennifer" be enough of a hint to her? Please leave a comment and share your fuss with us.

Latte Batte

I weaned Leighton from her bedtime baba in one protest-filled evening last August,  in much the same way I recently helped her break  her pacifier habit. 

She's been able to drink from a straw since eight months. This little trick came in handy when I forgot to pack an extra bottle or was out and about for a longer stretch than anticipated. And so, we replaced the bedtime baba with warm milk in a straw cup to be consumed prior to brushing teeth and heading up to bed.

This beverage started as straight whole milk, but somewhere along the line, we began adding a splash of Very Vanilla Silk to add some interest. On the rare occasion we were out of Silk, I substituted with hazelnut coffee creamer. It's nuts, I know. This sophisticated version of the nighttime baba was Leighton's evening latte - or batte (bah-tay) as it came to be called.

To add to the ceremoniousness of the whole thing, I would make a cup of hazelnut decaf for myself half hazelnut creamerand Lei and I would sit on two bottom stairs and drink our latte/batte while recounting the events of the day. Both Lei and I looked forward to our latte/batte ritual.

Notice I said "looked" as in past tense. There's a reason. Let me explain.

Leading up to the potty training fiasco, Leighton and I discussed the difference between "Big Girls" and babies and listed many of the activities in which a big girl may or may not engage.

A big girl articulates her needs using her words. Babies cry and babble.

A big girl dresses and feeds herself. Babies need lots of help doing both.

A big girl drinks from a cup. Babas are for babies.

A big girl sleeps in a bed. Preferably her own. Babies sleep in cribs.

A big girl doesn't need a nukka. Pacifiers are strictly for babies with no teeth.

Most obviously to suit the purpose at hand, a big girl wears underpants. Babies wear diapers.

Come on Leighton, you're a big sister now. It's time to start acting like one.

Leighton communicates better than some adults. She dresses herself and buckles her shoes. She feeds herself and drinks from a cup. She moved from a crib to a toddler bed without flinching and although it was painful at first, and she's likely holding a bit of a grudge, she lets her sister sleep in her old crib without a fuss. 

Lei reluctantly ditched her baba but made the best of the batte substitution. By the time she was forced to forfeit her nukka, the big girl sacrifices and big-sister talk began to seriously piss her off. Once we added the underpants pressure, Lei reached her breaking point.

All of this "big girl" talk intesified the difference between baby Lei and big girl Lei and the way she sees herself. The flat out refusal to potty train is my toddler taking a temporary stand on that issue and putting the breaks on growing up. However, she added a few big girl objectives of her own and met them at once with nothing more than self-imposed restriction.

Leighton stopped asking to be carried up and down stairs. She quit asking for her silky ribbon blankets (we have at least fifteen that my mom made) in bed, in the car and even at nap time. And, perhaps to punish me by depriving me of one of my favorite Leighton/mom rituals, she just gave up the batte. Bummer for mama.

I'm still hoping she changes her mind.

Turning Two Part II: Baby Pants

This is the face of a child who just decided that she is NOT going to use the potty and is telling me all about it. I took a series of these shots - some of her stomping, some with her lying on the floor like a noodle and some of her spitting in her tent to get her point across.

I'm sure she'll find it as amusing as I do ... someday.

Leighton has used the potty periodically since the age of one - mostly upon waking and before going to bed. She would lean toward obstinate when we would discuss wearing big girl pants full-time, so we backed off when it seemed we pushed too much.

In the days leading up to her second birthday, we talked about how we'd wake up on that birthday, say goodbye to diapers and wear fabulous underpants forever more.

"Deal," she said.

Lei's actual birthday was the tuesday after her big party. I was exhausted and it was the second day of the week-long spring break that nearly killed me. I had two kids by myself, all day, every day, for the first time.

Sidebar: Some people are cut out for this job and are just fine, all by themselves, with multiple kids. However, I have a two year-old that has had constant stimulation, nannies, school, grandmas, grandpas, cousins, aunties and the like, so that Ryan and I would have a fresh bundle of attention to bestow upon her when we finished our work days. Leighton is super fun, but she's also the proverbial handful.

Sidebar 2: Leighton is obsessed with babies and likewise, her sister. She wants to hold her, carry her, rock her, squeeze her cheeks, cover her face with blankets and pull her upright by her limbs. You can't leave the two alone for a minute or two - even to pee.

Sidebar 3: If I have yet to earn your sympathy, please let me remind you of my exhausting party prep for sunday and the acute sinus infection I was suffering from.

Despite the foregoing, I learned never to change things up on my child at the last second. I was determined to proceed with potty training. Fresh from the dryer, we pulled out twelve pairs of training pants (the cute Hannahs with patterns on them), several pair of Babylegs and a waterproof FuzziBunz cloth for nap time.

We talked about who wears diapers and who doesn't and how equally empowering and comfy it is to be diaper-free. The first potty of the day was a success, as usual. It happened on the big potty upstairs on the little seat that nests inside of the bigger seat. Easy peasy.

For the rest of the day, we set up camp (literally - there was a tent involved) in the family room with our Fisher Price singing potty and Baby Bjorn Little Potty for backup. I mentally noted that I would ask Lei to try the potty after 25 minutes or so and go from there. The very first time I asked if she had to go, she told me she neither wanted to use the potty nor would she use it today. Then she shot me a look as if to say, please don't make me try this or I will punish you.

When I reminded her of the deal we'd made and the birthday and underpants and babylegs and empowerment of the whole situation, she looked me dead in the face and said, "Tomorrow. I'll go on the potty tomorrow."

I stood firm. And, she sat firm. She sat on the potty on and off for three and a half hours without peeing. She can hold it like no one I've ever met. When she did get up, she walked around with her legs half-crossed, in obvious discomfort.

I didn't know how else to get the ball rolling, so I did what I always do with her when locked in a desperate parent-child power struggle. I cry.

I told her, "Mama really wants you to be a comfortable, happy and independent little girl. And, it makes me sad that you won't do it because you're mad at me."

She cupped my right cheek with her little hand, cocked her head to the side, furrowed her brown and said "Don't cry, Mama. It's going to be okay." And then her potty sang and sang and sang.

Unfortunately, that's the last time I heard that tune. She intentionally peed her pants for the rest of the day. The day before, my mom put her in the corner for ten seconds until she apologized for being too rough with Little Sis. She very quickly claimed the power of that corner because every time she peed, she'd watch it run down her leg to the carpet, say "Sorry Mama" and go stand in the corner, as if to say, I don't much care for your rules or requests. Rather than honor them, I prefer to stand in the corner or throw a tantrum.

At one point, I was so frustrated, I told her, "I don't care if you wear baby pants for the rest of your life. You can go to college in them and get married in them for all I care."  The ridiculum I can spew forth when frustrated by a toddler is amazing.

I taped a giant size 5 on her little butt and threw in the towel. I put the potties on the other side of the baby gate so she could see them, but made it clear that they were off limits. At that moment, I decided that I would make her beg to use the potty before school let out for the summer.

She wondered a few times that day "Where is the potty? Can I use the big potty." Even for the few days after, I turned her down. I reminded her that it's an all-or-nothing decision at this point. I told her, "I'm sure you'll let me know when you're ready. Deal?"

We shook on it. "Deal," she agreed.

Nukka Detox

I believe we're good parents. We try to follow the rules. We make sacrifices to ensure that our kids eat well, sleep properly and are stimulated to the level required by their individual dispositions.

They appear to be intelligent, well-adjusted, happy and doing the things they should be doing at their respective ages.

Except that we let our almost two year-old suck on a pacifier when she's sleepy. Shame on us. 

We introduced it to her way back when to get her to sleep, since she was never much of a self-soother. By six weeks, she was hooked.

At our year dental and doctor appointments, we were told to wean her from it, but we were weak. She gave up her baba and eventually her crib and almost her diapers. But the nukka ... come on!

The recent faceplant incident brought about the change we needed. Because she caused trauma to her front gums and teeth, she couldn't have the nukka anymore. Holy hell.

I knew that first nukka-free night wasn't going to be a walk in the park. We got ready for bed, brushed our teeth, gathered up our best books, took some Advil and climbed into the big bed. The big bed is our bed - the bed she's been falling asleep in and sleeping all night in since Mairin came home.

Once the books were read and we'd called for a cup of warm milk and we went potty three times and inquired as to Mairin's whereabouts, Lei began begging for her nukka like a crackhead for her pipe. "PUH-UH-UH-LEASE can I have a nukka mama?"

It was so sad. She sobbed and wailed for 97 minutes before finally accepting my explanation that the booboo to her mouth would get much worse if I let her have her nukka. I explained that babies can have them because they have no teeth - they need them. Big girls don't.

"I'm not a big girl MAMA. Sniff. Sniff. I'm a toddler."

A solid point, but not one that would sway me, unfortunately.

She wore herself out at minute 96, wiped her tears, rolled over dramatically on her tummy and said, "Tickle my back." So I did.

And she fell asleep.

And that was the end of that.

The next day, Dr. Yum explained to her, as I had, that a nukka simply wasn't appropriate for a toothy toddler - especially one with an injury like hers. This appeared to help her make sense of her loss and she didn't mention the nukka all day.

Later that evening, as we prepared for bed I (and what I was sure would be another bedtime catasrophe) Leighton handed me one of Mairin's nukkas (that she stole right from her little mouth) and said "Here mama. It hurts."

Brilliant. I thought of trying that, but what if it didn't hurt that bad and the whole thing backfired? Then I'd really be screwed. Still, I'm glad she gave it a shot and nutching that damn thing was too painful to continue, because Leighton went to bed that night without asking once for the addictively soothing little device.

And so did Mairin. I prefer NOT to go through that 97 minutes of nukka detox hell ever again, if possible. I'm proud to say that Little Sis is already learning to self-soothe.