The Mamahood

Lice Isn't Nice

For the third time this year, an infestation of the icky little brown bugs has occurred on an unfortunate preschooler in my littlest's class, so the school (and we) have been checking heads with a fine-toothed comb. Literally.

Because in my head, even though I know lice are a fact of life, they infest young and old, clean and messy alike, there's just something skin-crawlingly icky about the thought of little brown bugs scooting around on your scalp.

And so, Mommy's been engaging in an on-going Avoid Lice 101 course for her kiddos, trying to scare them out of the types of behaviors—sharing hats and hoods, combing each other's hair, etc., that could lead to making all of my nightmares are true. We talk about how you get BUGS IN YOUR HAIR! (Exclamation point required.) That you will then need to sit and have your hair brushed for hours, and have icky-smelling stuff poured into it. Fortunately, my oldest, whose thick, dark hair reaches nearly to her waist, seems to have gotten the hint, and shudders right along with me at the mere mention of lice. (She is my target audience anyway—it'd be relatively easy to pull the bugs from my youngest's baby fine, shoulder-length hair, but my oldest will likely lose her locks if she ends up with lice.)

Some of the moms in the school have taken extreme measures—boys with razor short hair, coats placed in plastic bags (those coathooks are apparently too close for comfort), rubbing herbal potions that are said to repel the bugs onto their heads. I'm not quite ready yet to take it that far. But after one session of delousing, I may start to see the benefits of putting my kids in a lice-free bubble.

A Wedding and a Funeral

My daughter likes to plan ahead. As in, her whole darned life. She's 5 1/2, and she already has a fiance, and a career path (an actress, or a writer like mommy if that falls through). And very specific ideas on how she will tie the knot, and what her funeral will be like (the mere mention of this is enough to make it hard to swallow). 

Since she was two the only time she's attended a funeral, her whole basis for comparison is a pair of funerals from the Star Wars saga (thank you, dear husband, for showing her that funeral scene from Episode 3, by the way). She has decided that she wants to be "carried around in a tub like Queen Amidala" and not burned, like Qui-Gon. I just hope I'm not around to see those plans carried out.

What I'm most shocked by is how adult and frankly thoughtful her wedding plans are. She wants a white sparkly dress (no surprise there), but her bridal party (her best pals from kindergarten, and her sister) will all get to wear their favorite colors and dresses—whatever they want. She wants to have Chinese food because she is Chinese, and American food because H., her betrothed, was born here and I couldn't give her a very specific answer about his heritage. (Plus, as she says, "That way, people can eat Chinese food if they want, or American food if they want.") Several songs from the Star Wars soundtrack made an appearance on her playlist for the wedding, and Beatles music as well. I'm half expecting her to start picking china patterns and putting her piggybank funds toward a down payment on her starter home..she'll need a large one to share with her babies. She plans on a daughter that she will name after herself.

When Good Kids Go Bad

We just got back from a fabulous DisneyWorld trip (a more detailed review to follow on my review site), and we're still dealing with the Disney hangover here—after days and days of racing all over four parks to ensure we ride the Tea Cups 10 times (my youngest's favorite) and every other ride on the planet, and staying up later than usual and eating my daughter's weight in sugar—we're all crashing hard. Everyone's out of sorts, cranky and not too pleasant to be around. And the dregs of the luggage, which still sit on the floor of my living room, aren't helping matters.

Kids seem to realize that on vacation, they can push their boundaries farther—because Mom and Dad aren't going to take them back to the room for a timeout if it means that they miss that fabulous dinner reservation that they'd been planning for months. And so, by the end, my kids were behaving badly—and as a result, I was as well. 

I'm hoping that by the weekend, everyone will have gotten enough rest to feel better, and my kids will be back to their more sane and normal selves.

Best Gift Ever

The best gift under my Christmas tree wasn't the most expensive, the most beautiful or the most practical. But it was the kind of gift that brings a smile to my face every time I look at my hand.

My oldest daughter's school held a Christmas shop, so kids could choose from a vast assortment of dollar-store type items and "shop" on their own for the perfect gifts for family members. We sent our daughter in with $24 and a list of six relatives to buy for. She was the perfect bargain hunter, scoring all the gifts (plus a little something for herself) for $16.75.

For my dad, it was a ball filled with glittery blue water that sloshed beautifully as it rolled. My mom got a bejeweled pad of paper and a fancy, feathery pen to jot down her to-dos. For her little sister, my oldest scored a petite red purse fashioned after the Louis Vuitton line, except about five inches long and obviously not made of fancy leather. (My youngest doesn't care.) For her daddy (a noted softie), my daughter found a tiny teddy bear hugging a silk flower. Nothing practical—but something that's displayed proudly in our living room.

According to the notations made by the volunteer-mom shopkeepers, my daughter lavished most of her budget on me—and found a beautiful "diamond" ring that's very reminiscent of my wedding band (silvery metal, a long strand of sparkling jewels). There were so many reasons to find joy in that gift—the excitement and happiness on her face as she presented me with the treasure she'd found all by herself, the realization that she'd obviously put a lot of thought into what I'd like and hit on something great, and the fact that I'm so lucky to be receiving a gift from this wonderful little girl.

And so, even though four of the six "diamonds" have fallen loose from their moorings, and the band makes my skin itchy and inflamed, I wear that ring on my right hand every day. It is the perfect embodiment of the idea that "it's the thought that counts," and it is, without a doubt, the most wonderful gift I have ever received.

Tales of a Scatterbrained Mom

This is the time of year when already overloaded moms the world over add another billion to-dos to their lists. Among them:

• Figuring out what to get for the various and sundry relatives—both hers and his.
• Working through the delicate set of equations necessary to determine if the number and size of gifts presented to each child looks about even, mirrors their wish lists at the given moment and won't cause tears if the children get different gifts and suddenly, one decides that she likes what the other one got instead. 
• E-mailing furiously with the other completely overwhelmed moms to see if there's a mutually agreeable tiny chink in the overpacked schedules of holiday shows and pageants, shopping, visits to Santa and cookie baking to squeeze in a little visit. If only to allow said moms to drink coffee/eggnog/tequila and take a minute to breathe.
• Trying to remember who moved in the past year, trying to locate the change-of-address e-mail, then sending a sheepish, "Sorry, I'm a dolt who couldn't take the time to copy and paste your new address into my computer address book...send it again" e-mail to the person.

(And I have found, invariably, that the dads of the world simply don't worry their pretty little heads about this...their brains are way too busy trying to figure out what to get their wives, who don't need or want anything and don't have any time for the foolishness of "hobbies" because they're too busy figuring out what to get their kids and filling out 95 Christmas cards.)

And so, inevitably, with all the work a mom's doing, her brain becomes overheated and melts. Just a little bit. Which allows things to happen as they've happened this week. I've forgotten an appointment or two. I purchased not one, but two of the very same amazing (and not so cheap) gift for my dear husband. (He won't need but one.) I marched away from my daughter's school with her backpack and lunch one day. And I've been calling my cats/dogs/children all by a string of all of their names—Matty/Turkey/Boo/etc./etc. Somewhere in there, I hit on the right one.

I still have many cards to send out, several gifts to buy, and not a single cookie baked. And yet, I've agreed to take on a last-minute, tight-turnaround project for a brand-new client. We'll see if I have any brains left come 2010.

Why Christmas With Kids Rocks

I've always loved Christmas the most, whether I was a kid hoping against hope that I'd pulled my behavior together enough for Santa to grant me my wildest wishes, a single girl starting out and feeling very grown up when she sent out her own Christmas cards and bought gifts for her family on her meager income, or a young married woman opening gifts on a quiet holiday celebration with her husband.

But better still is seeing Christmas through the eyes of my daughters. I was practically giddy last night waiting for my daughters to come home and see what I'd been up to (putting up our tree and stringing on the lights). After dinner there was a mad rush to load every branch with ornaments—sometimes two or three per branch, but who's counting? And then there was dancing around the tree, as our youngest giggled and proclaimed, "I love the tree sooooo much." She was genuinely shocked that the tree was still there this morning, as if she thought she'd dreamed up the whole thing. There was a little reconfiguration of the ornaments, as she lovingly grasped the ones within her reach.

The girls are spending a lot of time plotting out what they want Santa to bring, worrying about whether we'll have cookies made in time (the concept of a month doesn't really compute at their age), and snuggling on the couch to watch the same Christmas specials I watched when I was little. And when we all laugh at the antics of Snoopy or the Grinch, it's pure Christmas magic.

Why We Adopted

It's happened many times—when friends share the news that they're expecting, they seem almost sheepish. As if I'd burst into tears at the memory of years of infertility and inability to produce a biological heir. But that is not the story that brought us to adoption—and for us, adoption was never a last resort.

I have a medical history that excites every new doctor I see—I have survived an illness that most people in the world don't. And since then, I have been at the mercy of a malfunctioning immune system, the kind that decides to go full-bore against things like grass and my kidneys, and somehow, fails to catch the stomach viruses and other illnesses my daughters bring home.

I have known for most of my life that pregnancy would be a long shot—and more than a little dangerous. So when I pictured motherhood, I imagined ballet classes, kissing boo-boos and homework help—but it never involved maternity clothes and a baby kicking from within (which always sort of creeped me out, in an Alien sort of way). And if I think about it, I don't know that I ever imagined a child with my eyes or my husband's smile.

When we decided to start a family, we figured we'd talk to my nephrologist, just to see what she thought. My wonderful doctor said she would get us through a pregnancy if we wanted to try, but the potential issues—significant kidney damage, bed rest, the constant talk of "we'll get you to 30 weeks"—made us wary.

We tried one last-ditch effort to correct my haywire immune system. But a few months on high-dose steroids brought me nothing but 40 extra pounds, acne and a little internal bleeding. So before the prednisone cleared my system, we were talking with our adoption agency. 

And six years later, I have exactly what I always dreamed of—two amazing girls who make our family  complete, two amazing people who I can help grow up and fulfill their own dreams. And that is why I adopted.

Why It Stinks to Be a Good Mom

I had big plans for today—playing hooky from work, picking up my oldest from her half-day of school (teacher conferences), and heading out for a fancy, just-the-two-of-us lunch and shopping trip.

Now, instead, we'll be scarfing down leftovers—and maybe hitting the stores for groceries. And all because my daughter simply couldn't stop with the 'tude this morning, despite repeated warnings.

At this point, I have probably spent a good 24 hours of my life saying something along the lines of: "If you listen and behave, we get to do cool stuff. If you don't, we get to stay at home and glare at each other." And yet, inevitably, she keeps crossing the line, keeps pushing and pushing until I have absolutely no choice but to make her face the consequences.

And so I miss out, too. So far this year, I have stayed home from a party, our town's fireworks display, a trip to my favorite ice cream place and countless small excursions and treats due to my daughter's rude 'tude. And I doubt today's lunch will be the last time I stay home from something spectacular to teach someone a lesson.

Don't feel too sorry for me, though. Consider this a payback for my years of doing the exact same thing to my mom.

What a Working Mom Really Wants for Christmas

My darling husband has been asking for gift ideas for me for Christmas. And I'm kind of hard pressed to figure out what to tell him. Anything I need (and pretty much anything I want), I buy for myself. My jeans-and-tee lifestyle isn't conducive to fancy jewelry. And I've just forced myself to make the appointment for the much-needed massage that was my birthday gift (back in April, people), so I should be good until at least my birthday.

Now that I've put my diaper days behind me for good, perhaps I could ask for a swanky purse, but I'd feel a little ridiculous sporting a $300 bag with sweatpants. And since I recently upgraded all of my tech (I get to indulge my passion for the hottest laptop and call it a business expense), there isn't even a cool computer I'm salivating over.

What I'd really want, my husband couldn't wrap and put under the tree. Here's my wish list for Santa:

1. An off button for my brain. So I don't waste those precious few moments I have available for sleeping worrying about my to-do list for the next day. 

2. A housewife's services, for at least a week or two. She could take care of those nagging issues that make me grumble under my breath, like the tomato sauce spatter on the kitchen walls, the air conditioner that's still in the window, the pool gear that's still sitting outside under several inches of unraked autumn leaves.

3. A get-out-of-guilt-free card. One that could be reused over and over again. For those times that I feel like the worst mom in the world when I'm shushing my daughter so I can listen in to a conference call, or nudging a deadline so I can read a story to my daughter's class. A breather from the constant feeling of being pulled in a dozen different directions and the incessant mom guilt would be wonderful.

4. Someone to force me at gunpoint to take free time for myself. Because, honestly, that's the only way to get me to do it. I always see something else on my to-do list that can (and should) be done, and so I won't skip the laundry folding or the work assignment so I can paint my nails or squeeze a workout in.

What's on your list this year?

A Swine Flu Survival Guide

My oldest spent Halloween on the couch, suffering from the first onslaught of what became a lost week for the Mamahood household, as each of us was felled in turn by what the pediatrician called "one of many viruses going around, possibly H1N1." (Not that he'd do the test to figure it out.)

But since we've suffered through a week of some sort of swine-like virus, I can give you a few pointers to help you through the flu.

1. Don't expect to get through unscathed. The whole thing about quarantining the sick person to one room away from everyone else seems a little far fetched to me. If your child (and let's face it, it always starts with the child) is one to willingly be separated out from the crowd to a sick room, you're a lucky person. But mine just want to crawl in my lap and cough right into my face. And I can't exactly blame them.

2. Have your takeout menus at the ready. No one was really up to cooking for the duration of the flu, so we ended up calling in several cultures' versions of comfort food to keep us going. For me, the two quarts of wonton soup I downed this week was like a big shot in the arm of Tamiflu.

3. Remember: What happens during flu season, stays during flu season. Your house will look like a disaster (as will you). Your feverish mate will likely do something to tick you off—and you will do the same to him. And you may just decide to let your kids eat lollipops for lunch, because they're sick anyway and you can't get up off the couch. But none of it should ever be brought up once the quarantine is lifted. You get a free pass. You have the flu.

4. Hope your stars align and it happens when there isn't a whole lot going on. I was lucky, in some respects, as this came when my daughter's school was closed for the bulk of the week (darned teacher's conference). She didn't miss much. But it did occur during a key week for several of my clients, which meant I got a lot of, "That sucks that you and your family have swine flu. So when are you getting that to me?" e-mails.

5. Remember that there's no rest for the wicked—or for moms, apparently. You will still be expected to keep the family in some semblance of civilization. Even if you do wear the same pajamas three days in a row.

Good luck to you.