The Daily Fuss

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.

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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.

Don't Tell Dr. Weissbluth

If you would have told me that, unlike Leighton, my second baby would be a "sleepy baby" I wouldn't have believed you. Unless you also promised me that, unlike Leighton, the little deuce would be difficult to feed. That trade-off may have captured my attention as decidedly plausible.

From her first night in the hospital, Leighton has never been much of a self-soother and we never did get up the nerve to let her just cry it out. 

At twenty-two months old, she still loves her nukka at night. She also still prefers her "cozy" spot comfied up a "certain way". And, she still comes into our bed at 2am and drills us with her little toes and elbows until 6:30.

However, she maintains 11 hours of sleep at night plus a two-hour nap during the day, making her incredibly well-rested and happy. And Lei has always been a SUPER good eater. Bless her that curried mango-glazed salmon, steamed broccoli and shitake mushroom risotto is her undisputed FAVORITE meal. I cannot wait to take her, and her rather sophisticated palate, wine tasting in twenty years.

You win some. You lose some. The sleep experts wouldn't advise you based on some of our tactics, but it's working for us in more ways than it isn't.

For her first two weeks on the planet, our experience with Little Sis has been just the opposite. We were all well-rested in the hospital and it continued initially when we got home. Mairin will sleep through the night, every night (at least for five straight hours) unless I wake her for feedings. Her startle reflex is fierce, so we still employ the time-tested practice of swaddling. In fact, last night's swaddle was so award-winngly amazing, I would have taken a picture for you had my camera been handy. I felt like a pro.

With our "sleepy baby" comes a few unforeseen issues that are actually, kind of a pain in the ass - all of which are related to feeding our sweet little bug:

1) Even if Mairin sleeps longer than three hours, I still need to wake her to feed her. If that doesn't work, I must get up to pump or suffer the unpleasant consequences. I figure, at least everyone else can wake up fresh in the morning. I'm on maternity leave, so waking up every three hours is actually in my job description. Bummer.

2) In light of #1, I must tell you that it's ALMOST IMPOSSIBLE to wake Mairin to eat. We tickle her, change her diaper, wipe her little cheeks with a cold baby wipe, talk to her, walk around with her ... Even when I get her to start eating, she usually falls right back to sleep a few seconds later. Thus, dragging a ten minute feeding out for sixty more.

3) The tomfoolery involved with #2 sometimes leads me to fall asleep sitting up at the Boppy, inadvertently soaking Mairin, her PJs, the Boppy and any nearby blankets once she dozes off too. At this point, I can only put towels on the bed or try to convince Ryan and Leighton to get up so I can change the sheets because (as you will see in #4 below) sleeping in a bed soaked in wet breast-milk is wholly unappealing to me.

4) Even when I do manage to get the requisite amount of milk into the baby, she falls asleep while I burp her. If I don't get a good burp out of her, then she spits up, repeatedly, for the rest of the night. Because this grosses me out completely (I was like Leighton and never would have been able to sleep in damp, stinky spoiled-milk pjs) I change her, then she poops, then I change her diaper, which causes her to spit up again and the cycle continues until she's actually awake and hungry, at which point I will feed her and most likely fall asleep at the wheel again anyway.

5) If I just let Mairin sleep (which is what you've been mentally wishing I would do while reading the first four items of my sad little list), please know that I probably won't wake up to pump, thus soaking the whole bed eventually anyway. Or, she'll wake up just after I've put the freshly-pumped bottle in the fridge, thus dragging my nocturnal experience out another forty minutes. Either way, I will curse myself for not trying to wake her.

Letting her sleep just isn't that cut and dry of decision. Plus, my ability to make sound decisions is heavily warped by my lack of sleep and I just can't be held responsbile for my own inconsistent ballyhoo until I come up with some sort of solution.

6) If any of this ridiculum wakes up Leighton, then she needs to kiss her baby sister, make a trip to the potty and spend a few minutes begging to watch Annie. She will finally compromise on the movie by having me tickle her back with her blanket ribbon until she falls back asleep. 

This routine can last for quite some time. In fact, this very set of circumstances escalates the evening to a "Code Red" for which no amount of training can prepare you and no amount of red wine and girl scout cookies can fix the next day. Only irrational bickering with my baby daddy, a profuse shedding of tears and a four-hour nap will right this ship. Good thing the "Code Red" is incredibly rare so far.

Sound familiar? Have any advice? Please leave a comment and share your fuss with us! I'd love to hear from you.

Mee-Nee-Ban

You may recall the consternation caused by our family's need for a new car that fits a tall dad, picky mom and two tiny chicks in car seats. 

I was so irritated by the whole, preliminary, car shopping ordeal that I went into denial about it and was such a waddling whiner at every dealership we entered that I left it to Ryan to boil the options down to two before I got involved.

He actually banned me from joining him at one point - no lie.

Ryan was online, every night, checking specs and consumer reports and message boards and blogs, desperately wanting to avoid the minivan at all costs.

When he came to me with the inevitable "Odyssey-or-Sienna" final decision, I didn't say "told-you-so". I just said, "I'm fine with either one." Admittedly, on the inside, it was more of a "WOO HOO! We're gittin' a minivan." Or, as Leighton calls it, her "Mee-Nee-Ban." It's like she's put a cute little Cuban spin on it.

Only the minivan can do what this family needs a vehicle to do. We need sliding side doors, room for two car seats (or five if need be), third row, remote ignition, back up camera, USB hookup, blue tooth, a zillion airbags, latch systems, room for luggage, comfy ride with lots of space. Nothing else made the cut.

So, we went with the 2011 Honda Odyssey. It looked a little odd from the outside, at first, and there's a little less room in the interior than the Sienna, but it's super slick, handles like a car and I wouldn't trade it for the world. I will say that I get passed more frequently in the minivan - regardless of my speed. I guess other drivers (mostly impatient city-folk) just figure I'm a dumb-ass minivan driver and do their best to stay away from me. Admittedly, that had always been my feeling.

I'm a whiz with the key remote - I have the car running with doors opening as I approach my transport. I can get Lei in and out quickly and have even less of an issue going to the grocery store because I get to play with the back hatch, automatic opener for the bag-loader guys at Sunset.

The only thing we decided to skip was the entertainment package. I know. You're thinking "WHAT? Are you crazy?" We try not to let Lei watch too much TV, but she does like movies. And it's annoying enough that she knows the Annie soundtrack is on the iPod Touch in the car. She's like a little dictator. I'll be damned if she's going to watch Annie or Toy Story 3 or anything else every time we get in the car. I'd rather talk to her or play her Music Together tunes.

If we need movies for a long road-trip, we'll just hang an iPad off the back of my seat for little Lei.  That way, we can remove it when we're done and have it on reserve for special occasions ONLY. I know it seems like the most obvious feature for kids, but we felt differently about it at the end of the day - that it would do more harm than good to include it.

So there you have it - one more way we have slipped further into suburbia. However, this slip was a good one and didn't take much adjustment on my part. The only problem is that now, I look positively drunk trying to back the Jeep out of our driveway without a backup cam. Oh well. If you see me, just mutter under your breath (dumb-ass minivan driver). I won't be offended at all.

Money Honey

I've been stewing for a week now since I saw my decimated benefits for 2011. My company was recently sold. The old parent company was a bohemoth, and the benefits were truly amazing. The new parent company is interested in maximizing our profits, and that coupled with corporate reactions to new medical insurance regulations means that my upcoming benefits are lean.

To put it plainly, I'm taking a significant pay cut with no real discussion as to how that's going to go down. If I were having this baby at the end of December 2010 instead of the end of January 2011, I would save a substantial amount of income in the form of health care, leave and other benefits.

I know I'm not the only one in the reduced benefits boat. It's just that I've never been one for timing could have caught a break had I gotten pregnant four weeks sooner. Still, Leighton's prenatal care, delivery and maternity leave only cost me $220 in 2009 and I received 100% of my salary for three months, so I guess I'll just mentally split the difference to keep from lamenting my perceived misfortune every five minutes until baby #2 is attending the college I can't afford.

The long short of this whole ordeal is that it created a big, unexpected, monthly expense for my family. In response, we are looking at ways to make up the difference and it's not a simple task. If it's tough for a family with two people gainfully employed with decent salaries ... how do people with less make it all work?

We try hard to not be wasteful, to buy what we need, and to save money. But, I have a sneaking suspicion that Suze Orman would still rip us a new one if given the opportunity. So we decided to take a closer look at our financial situation.

We have a master spreadsheet. We've had it for years, and I'm in charge of updating it. Much like the spreadsheet I created to plan our wedding, I sometimes refer to it as the "disrespect sheet". Thankfully, we have now recommitted ourselves to actually using it to measure progress.

The disrespect sheet has a separate tab for each thing or category "Savings" "Retirement" "House" "Condo" "Revolving" "Student Loans" etc. All information for that account is on each tab and the total in or owed on each account is at the bottom. Then all of those totals are linked to a "Balance Sheet" tab that also has a box for other monthly expenses - utilities, groceries and the like.

The Disrespect sheet is encrypted. And, if anything ever happens to me, the only password Ryan needs to remember to get our affairs in order is the one that let's him into this damn document.

Then, our paychecks are automatically deposited into our join account minus an allowance that we each give ourselves, that goes straight to our individual checking accounts. Expenses are paid from the joint account. If we want to go out to dinner, buy new clothes, take a vacation or buy presents, that money needs to be saved up from our "allowance". This is the hard part.

The whole regime is somewhat exhausting, and there's not much left over at the end of every month anyway, but at least we can see where our money goes and try to figure out where we're going to come up with the extra cash we need. It keeps us from ever arguing about money because it's all out in the open and we're both responsible for it.

Money issues are a leading cause for divorce and unhappiness in marriages, so I guess I'm wondering how other people limit money disputes or what methods are employed to solve them. Does one person in the house handle the finances? Do you keep every receipt? Use Quick Books? Do you have a disrespect sheet too? What happens when the unexpected occurs?

Do you clip coupons? Ride a bike to work? Buy second-hand toys? Shut off the cable? Pause retirement contributions for a while? Use credit cards? Sell some stuff on eBay?

We've done all of these things at one time or another and I know there are better suggestions out there. Or, maybe we're just players in a fixed game - floating along, business as usual, hoping this whole economy thing blows over before the bills come due.

Whine. Ohh.

I'm an oenophile in the best possible way. Not the snobby I-don't-even-get-out-of-bed-for-bargain-wine kind of way, because even two buck chuck serves his purpose. Somewhere. But, in the way that says "Hi honey, I'm home" or "The long work day is winding down" or "I'm slightly warmer and calmer after a glass of Cabernet" or ... feel free to insert your own adventure here.

Wine is yummy and sexy and artful when produced properly. Plus, it's respected. You never hear about high-schoolers lining up shots of vino. Slamming wine coolers, yes. Wine, not so much. Coeds don't fire up a round of Asshole with a case of Pinot. And, you'll be hard-pressed to find "fitty cent taps" of Merlot on any college campus. It's simply not done.

I was going to do a post about how the economy has turned many Americans into smarter spenders - perhaps even this superconsumer - and how I need to cancel my wine clubs to comply with this new brand of limited consumerism. I just haven't been able to pull the trigger on that yet.

Even in the twenty-sixth week of my pregnancy, delayed at the Minneapolis airport for the second time in two weeks until well after ten pm, I am having a glass of Pinot Noir ... at the airport ... in front of people. Yep - pregnant, airport wine in public. The reactions are mixed and I'm taking it all in stride.

I'm no poser; I imbibe in public. Women will overwhelmingly affirm my decision to partake, "Good for you", or "I drank when I was pregnant and my kids are fine" or something else tantamount to the fact that our moms were probably shit-faced when pregnant with us. "You go girl." Woo Hoo!

Conversely, men and any server (of either gender) under the age of twenty-three will inevitably give dirty looks. Mmm hmm. The non-baby-havers are the judgmental ones, for the most part. Go figure.

I personally don't care, and I don't judge other people - especially women. It's not in my nature to harm my child and I do not have a drinking problem, so I assume others are capable of deciding when and where a drink is appropriate.

However, a pregnant woman enjoying a glass of wine or a beer at diner raises more eyebrows than your average thirty five year-old Chicago boy polishing off several car-bombs following a continuous stream of cocktails on any given friday night, while groping the ill-formed butt cheek of some strange, young and equally shit-faced girl. It's truly something to behold.

So do you, or don't you indulge while pregnant? Please post a comment and share your fuss with us.

Training Day

The thought of having newborn and toddler girls in diapers simultaneously freaks me out. With Leighton, we used Fuzzibunz until we were done nursing and then decided that Huggies Little Movers were the best-fitting disposables. This has worked just fine.

At our 18-month visit, Dr. Li said that it's time to ditch the diapers and potty train for real. It stands to reason - we've been flirting with potty training for months now.

We know all about the potty. Read books about the potty. Are very interested in the potty. We even call potty. Well, we effectively did this for a while and then decided that we will call potty so that we can take off our diaper and pee on the floor, then put a clean diaper on so we can poop. Lovely.

Be "we" I am certainly referring to Leighton, although I feel responsible for the latest goat-like behavior. I am the mommy, after all. And, if my precocious tot is aware enough to accomplish the aforementioned potty-related tricks, then she surely possesses the ability to become fully potty-trained soon. The "goat" routine appeals to me about as much as disposable diapers do.

How and at what age parents decide to potty train involves a number of factors including: 1) How well the child can communicate bodily sensations and functions; 2) The child's command of said sensations and functions; and 3) How committed the parents are to the training.

The third factor I enumerated above creates some controversey so let me clarify by saying that I am not judging anyone for not potty training an eighteen month-old. I merely think Leighton is fully capable of being trained.

However, I can't overlook the fact that the average age for potty training kids in the US has risen from 18 months to three years since the dawn of disposables. They're certainly more convenient than cloth and hunting around for a lavatory every forty minutes at the mall can be a chore. Let's face it, parent-convenience has always been at the core of potty training. Cloth diapers were a pain and parents trained toddlers so they wouldn't be forced to deal with the insideous task of washing them. Now, the opposite is true. Why wory about accidents and searching for a potty when dispoosables do the work? It's jus easier.

Still, the mere act of soiling oneself runs afoul of optimal behavior required to remain an elevated member of the animal kingdom, and we humans are supposedly the smartest of the lot. A toddler can consume (and eliminate) quite a bit of product in a relatively short period of time, making diapering at this age less attractive than running around the mall looking for a restroom.

Maybe it's us and maybe Freud was on to something. I was wearing underpants by 16 months and so was my husband. In fact, both grandmas say that one day, we were just "done". Hence, the thought of having Lei poop her pants for another eighteen months ... it simply cannot happen.

Lei is ready and so are we. We're doing this!

Wish us luck and stay tuned ...

Have any thoughts or tips on potty training? Good stories? Please post a comment and share your fuss with us.

Mini-Vain

I've never wanted to own a car, much less two - which is where this post is headed. 

Well, maybe I had a few delusions of car ownership when I turned sixteen, but I stopped giving a rip about it relatively soon after that. Borrowing my parents' car suited me just fine. Two years later, I arrived at the UW in Madison, Wisconsin where I definitely didn't need a car AT ALL.

I moved to Chicago after graduation, where the cost of all car-related expenses is legitimate deterrent, thus relieving me of any desire or real need to own an automobile. A decade of cab fare doesn't rival the cost of monthly parking and guaranteed parking tickets - not to mention the fact that my twenties involved plenty of cocktails, making driving illegal much of the time. To this day, I'm convinced I played it right - no need to own a car in Chi-town.

Until Leighton was born.

I didn't marry Ryan for the sole purpose of inheriting co-ownership of his Jeep grand Cherokee. However, I will admit to falling head-over-heels in love with her over the years. She's was fully loaded in 2000 and even after a decade, still purrs like a kitten. She's been good to us.

Her looks belie her 120k-mile experience. With still-supple leather, functioning heated seats, new shoes, fresh brakes, new air conditioning/heating block and nary a scratch on her silvery-taupe exterior, she's a sweet ride. Sure we're missing a few key features of the latter part of this decade - like the latch system, to name one - but, Leighton sits content, rear-facing in the back-middle spot and we all get along just fine.

What's the problem? The problem is that once little sis comes along, the Freeman family will no longer physically fit in our beloved Jeep.  < PLEASE INSERT THE MOST DRAMATIC SIGH YOU'VE EVER HEARD RIGHT HERE>.

Ryan is a tall drink of water. At six-foot-five-inches tall, you can't squeeze a car seat behind his seat, lest you chance jamming up his incredibly long shank, thus forcing the vehicle into a light post on your journey. He's too careful to allow the possibility of such a scenario, so we're in the market for a new family car.

In the search for suitable transportation, our criteria is limiting. We need enough room for Ryan to drive comfortably, space for at least two car seats, room for baby/kid gear and any presents we will undoubtedly accumulate at either of the grandparents' houses, the ability to move around the vehicle with relative ease on a long road trip to St. Louis and some entertainment for little ones.

"Get a minivan, dumbass,"  is the obvious answer to this dilemma.

The prospect of minivan ownership actually doesn't bother me at all. I've demonstrated my couldn't-care-less-edness about the whole car thing, so "whatever works" is fine with me. I swear.

Ryan, is another story, another breed - the kind that swore to NEVER EVER own a minivan under ANY circumstances whatsoever. Probably because minivans didn't exist back in the day when his parents were hauling three giant man-boys to various sporting events, but the underlying reason doesn't much matter. He's cemented his position even moreso after spying the 2011 model of our beloved Jeep and, after seeing it for myself, I can't find a reason to NOT show up at the nearest Jeep dealership with two car seats in tow - ready for a test run.

The millennial counterpart to our trusty transport is nothing if not gorgeous. I think it would be a stretch to shoehorn this family into it, but I'm willing to try. The girl who finds cars to be an incredible waste of money is now faced with a monthly car payment (something we haven't had in years) so the giant mass of metal we choose better bring the goods.

Any advice you have, dear readers, is most welcome. To minivan, or not to minivan is the ultimate question. Please post a comment and share your fuss with us.