4 BAD MOMMIES

You know you have a picky eater when . . .

March 1, 2011

by Aimee Carson

There is a certain amount of pressure you endure when you’re a mother and a pediatrician. Professionally, my patients ask for advice on a whole range of topics, and health issues constitute just a small proportion of their questions. How do you deal with temper tantrums? What should be the daily limit on electronics/online time? Potty training, academic problems, teaching a teen to drive—you name it, and I’ve been asked. I just wish I had all the answers!

Take the feeding dilemma . . . (What? It’s not a dilemma at your house?!?)

When it comes to picky eaters, I’m just as helpless as the rest of you. One of my children is a particularly difficult. As a toddler she ate everything. And in my foolish younger days I thought it was a reflection of my stellar parenting skills. Oh, the hubris! And then the Powers That Be decided to teach me a lesson, and when she turned three she became the pickiest of the picky. So picky in fact, while visiting China to adopt daughter #2, we had a devil of a time finding Western food that seven-year-old daughter #1 would eat. Amazingly enough, despite everything we tried, she went five days without eating.

FIVE. DAYS.

Fortunately, we finally found a restaurant that would serve spaghetti noodles minus the sauce. Hurray, we were saved! My father, a retired pediatrician, always told me my kids would eat when they got hungry enough. When we got home from our exhausting overseas trip, I shared the story with him. And what did I get in response? A totally unimpressed “She would have been hungry enough by the end of the week” comment. Sheesh, as the father of five he really has NO sympathy.

So, in honor of all those suffering parents dealing with eating dilemmas, here are my top five signs you have a picky eater:

5) Your family visits two different drive-thrus for one meal.

4) The only one getting a well-balanced meal at the dinner table is your dog.

3) On vacation, while searching for a restaurant that meets the ungodly, Olympic-sized needs of your family, you finally find one that will serve individual pizzas. Unfortunately, when it’s delivered, you know your child won’t eat it. Not because there are anchovies or mushrooms or any other variety of hated toppings. No, your child won’t eat it because the flecks of dried oregano in the sauce are too large ie VISIBLE to the naked eye. That’s right, all green things are despised so vehemently even the tiniest speck is inedible.

2) For the least picky eaters, you scrape off the onion and cheese or whatnot to satisfy their gustatory requirements. The pickiest won’t touch anything if a hated ingredient has come within a twenty mile radius of his/her utensil/plate.

And here is my number one sign you are the parent of a picky eater (drum roll please):

1) Instead of fantasizing about Hollywood’s latest leading man, the hottest rock star, or even that good-looking guy sitting next to you at Starbucks, you eye the potbellied, short-order cook at your local diner with a gleam in your eye . . .

So, is planning dinner a painful experience in your home? Does it require the coordinated attack strategies of a wartime general? Please, make me feel better by sharing your horror stories.

Share on Facebook

Tweet This Post

A FEW BAD MOMMY MOMENTS…by Jennifer Probst

February 22, 2011

Last night, I couldn’t sleep.

Now, I am not one of these women who can’t sleep when they’re stressed. I LOVE sleep. In fact, most of my life I feel as if I’m scurrying around to make more time to write, read and sleep. When I pull myself out of bed and find those three dreaded figures flashing on my alarm clock, I hurriedly scan through the day to see if there is any possibility of taking a nap. Of course, there rarely is, so I tell myself I am going to bed as soon as I get home from work and let my husband take care of the kids. Sort of like getting those glossy magazines in the mail with expensive, cool clothes and pretending you are actually going to BUY half of what you marked. Then, two weeks later, you find it on the bottom of your messy kitchen counter and you snort and throw it away.

Back to my sleep.

OK, so my little one was plastered to my side and my husband snored away contentedly and I thought the following:

I don’t think I’m as good of a mother as I should be.

Yep. Don’t you just love it? The sneaky, sly voice of doubt having some fun with you when you just want to turn off your brain and sleep. I lay on my back, stared at the ceiling and made a list of all the things I feel bad about.

1. My younger son is still in my bed. I leaked this information to someone and was met with a surprised, “OH! You’re still allowing him to SLEEP with you?” Ummm, yeah. I am. I had a big talk with him when he turned four last week, and he made two attempts to sleep in his own bed, but it was too stressful for him and he ended up back in mine and I was too damn tired to do the proper Super Nanny thing and make him go back. Will he be in my bed when he’s 10 years old? No. That’s what I keep telling myself. My older son did the same thing and about 4 and a half, he suddenly stopped being scared and slept by himself. It will work out. But the night guilts cackled and tore through my mind with glee…bad mommy….
2. I am not spending enough time doing schoolwork with my older son. Yes, he’s in kindergarten. He’s amazingly eager to learn, and does his assignments quickly, and is involved in an after school reading program, but last night I remembered he wanted to read 3 of his library books and I told him I was busy. I then began an endless list of things I remembered I did not do with him: I’m supposed to practice with him counting to 100. I was supposed to drill those flash cards to learn site words. I was supposed to have him practice his name because he keeps putting the J in the opposite way. Now, remember, this was not the: I am the worst mother in the world I suck syndrome. This was the: I could be better if I just step it up a bit.
3. Religion. I am not a strict religious type. I believe in kindness and nonjudgment. I have practiced yoga and meditation, been involved with Buddhist concepts and come from a strict Catholic background. But, I have been reminded that this is the age to talk with them around bedtime. Teach them prayers. Talk about God or whatever is on their mind. Instead, after a certain threshold of time, I’m done with them. I kick them off to watch a movie before bed, or play, and then tuck them in. Done. The day has been long enough and I don’t want to extend it. So, I have been feeling bad about not taking the extra time and effort to help them learn more.
4. Miscellaneous Stuff:
1. a. My boys sing the Spongebob song “Idiot Friends.” This is not a good thing. Whatever happened to Disney?
2. b. My oldest got a children’s digital camera. We were looking at some of his photos and this handsome man came on the screen. When I asked who it was, he said, “Mommy, that’s Brad from The Bachelor. I took his picture when it was on tv.” OMG, he knows it’s my favorite trashy show on Monday nights and that his name is Brad. And what does this say about women? Will he think he needs to give them a rose when he’s older?
3. c. My youngest tore into his birthday gifts and after a million presents I waited for him to say thank you. Instead, he looked up and said, “Is that it?” I swear he’s not a brat but where did that come from?
4. d. I didn’t sign up to go read to the elementary school children for Reading Week even though I am an author. I want the day for myself.

All of these wonderful thoughts crammed their way through my brain. Instead of beating myself up, I decided to take it as a good lesson. My intentions are good – I aspire to be the best and give the best. Sometimes I will succeed. Most times I won’t. And being a mother means an occasional night going over the current list of bad mommy moments.

Does anyone else lose some sleep over the bad mommy moments? Drop me a comment and share. We are all in this together.

Share on Facebook

Tweet This Post

The F Bomb

February 14, 2011

By: Wendy S. Marcus

I am a firm believer in leading by example. I want someone to be on time, I make sure I’m on time. I want respect, I give respect. I want people to work hard, I work hard. It’s served me well for years as a manager, and it continues to serve me well at home…in all areas but one. Profanity.

To look at me, you’d never guess my ability to curse like a street gang member. (No offense to street gang members intended.) I can control it when I’m on my best behavior and thinking rationally. But there are times…for example:

I text my son who is up in his room: Please come down and remove your cleats from my office. (which is right next to the front door) They stink.

My son: K

(Five minutes later) Me: Eyes watering. Can’t breathe. Come quick. (No. I don’t use abbreviations because I text him from my computer.)

My son: K

A few minutes later I get up to look for something in my filing cabinet, trip on said cleats and whack my head. (Knocking out my rational filter.) I storm to the bottom of the stairs and scream like I’m calling the troops into battle, “Benjamin Leonard Marcus turn off that d*mn XBox and get your a*s down here this second or I’m going to toss your fu*ken cleats into the trash.”

My son comes down. Gets his cleats. Eruption over. I move on.

Despite my outbursts, I’ve never heard either of my two older children curse. But my third one, (13) she’s the toughie! Time after time I catch her on the verge of potty-mouth or just after and she covers it up. “I said FUDGE mom. You really need to get your hearing checked.”

Cursing is a terrible, terrible habit and I DO NOT want my daughter to succumb. But how can I reprimand her when I’ve been known to utter a string of obscenities in similar situations?

Like any good parent, I’ve found a way. You see I’ve enacted, with regard to cursing, a do-as-I-say-not-as-I-do policy. Because I’m the mom, that’s why! And when you’re eighteen you can do what you want.

So far it’s working.

So what about you? Have you been known to lob a profanity here and there? Or do you have an equally vile habit you’d like to share? And how do you handle it when your children start to mimic your disreputable behavior?

Share on Facebook

Tweet This Post

Faking It

February 8, 2011

by Aimee Carson

Six years ago I tried to take control of my life (ha!). After eight years as a working mom in a busy pediatric clinic, I decided to go part-time. And not just a three-day workweek kind of thing. Nope. That would be too normal. Cue me traveling once a month from my house in the Black Hills of South Dakota to the Alaskan bush to work as a hospitalist. It was gonna be GREAT. One week on, three weeks at home being superdeeduper, June Cleaver, stay-at-home mom. *cough*

Delusional dreams are wonderful, aren’t they?

Now on paper all this sounds wonderfully exciting. And it is. Mostly. Well, sometimes anyway. But for those of you who are thinking “wow, I wish I had HER schedule” (and trust me, I KNOW it’s great), I thought I would post a 24 hour snippet from my diary (had I been ambitious enough to keep one).

6pm, Friday night: exhausted and irritable after eight days of almost nonstop work, check out to oncoming doc. Make sure they know to follow up on the kid in room 103. Cranky kid. Crankier mom. Me, the crankiest of all.

6:30 pm: rush back to apartment to pack and get to the airport on time. Ticket messed up again. Smile at Alaskan Airline attendant who knows me by name and how to fix my chronically screwed up travel. Thank her profusely and promise to send her wine, cuz—hey!—it’s a dry town. No damp, actually. But mostly just really, really cold.

7:30 pm: through airport security where I must unload my TWO laptops, my bag full of (supposedly) potentially lethal cosmetics, my shoes, my belt, my mongo-sized coat, oh . . . and my pillow. Everyone behind me in line is now complaining. Honestly, a not-so-friendly frisk or a we-can-see-all scanning machine sounds like heaven.

10 pm: arrive at Anchorage airport with three hours to kill. And I know JUST what to do. Whip out pillow and traveling alarm clock and sleeeeeeeeep!

1 am: feeling like one of many dazed and drugged farm animals, shuffle aboard plane bound for Salt Lake City. The airline staff is NOT as friendly. But who is friendly at one am? And why oh why, with my travel often made MONTHS in advance, do I wind up in the ninth circle of hell middle seat? Passenger to my left doesn’t smell so nice. Then again, I’m sure I don’t either. Passenger to my right is taking up her seat—and half of mine. Three hours later my neck hurts, my back aches, and I’m exhausted and too uncomfortable to sleep. With one more hour to go, enter into “I would sell my liver for a bed” phase.

7 am: two hour layover which is just long enough to wish I were dead.

9am: board last flight bound for home. Manage to catch fifteen minutes of sleep. Or maybe I simply slipped into unconsciousness.

11am: crawl out of last plane and into the arms of my waiting family!! Three teens talking at once while my husband and I are trying to hold a conversation. Nonstop chatter ensues on the forty-five minute ride home. My ears have NOT acclimated to the constant talking. Husband smiles at me, sensing my pain. “Welcome home,” he says. My beautiful house comes into sight, and I hear my bed calling to me like a siren. And as we all tumble out of the car, my twelve-year-old son turns to me with his trademark impish grin, happy I’m home (absence does make the heart grow fonder, you know) and says . . . “Mom, come jump on the trampoline with me!”

So what do I do? Well, I’ve been gone for eight days, so guilt prevents me from putting him off. So I spend the next hour pretending I’m not an over-the-hill mom in desperate need of nap. When play time is over, I gratefully drag myself to my glorious, glorious bed.

Now, I love being a mom and I enjoy my kids. But some days are harder than others. And although the above example is pretty extreme, every time I fake the joy, I feel guilty.

So how often do you pretend you’re having fun with your kids? Once a week? Once a day? Every thirty minutes?

And what I really want to know is this: am I allowed a certain number of I’m-not-really-having-fun moments before I DON’T have to feel guilty about it?

Aimee Carson

Share on Facebook

Tweet This Post

MEAN MOMMY… by Jennifer Probst

February 4, 2011

I must admit, lately, I feel like a mean mommy.

I have many excuses. Endless snow and ice. Mid-winter blues and lack of sunshine. Non-stop days of having my children home and nowhere to take them. No energy to take them anywhere.

As a mother, one of my best qualities is my patience. I have an abundant supply because of my personality, and many times when a normal person would snap, I am able to take a deep breath and ride through the bumps.

Not anymore.

I find my temper a fragile loose thread on a sweater that a child pulls. And pulls. And pulls. Slowly, steadily, the sweater becomes frayed until there is a gaping hole in the center and the child explodes with laughter at such an amusing game.

The mornings are especially difficult. How is it they do not hear my consistent warnings of time, and to hurry up? As I tug on winter clothes and snow boots, jackets and hats and gloves, they walk like two turtles, even though the frigid wind whips in our faces. The car seats don’t buckle and my language is getting more and more colorful with each winter day. Every moment I am shouting, “Hurry up – for God’s sakes, move!” My easy yogic tendencies are no more.

My little one is going through a testing period. My sweet, gentle hearted little boy is getting in touch with his inner monster. He wrecks the rooms and says “NO!” when I ask him to clean up. He marches up to me and DEMANDS juice or milk without the magic word. He rarely wants to play with himself when his brother is gone, and haunts my every step with pleas of reading, playing games, or jumping on the bed. When I tell him, “Leave Mommy alone for a minute, please!” I feel the guilt. As I write this, I expect him in my office any moment, his brows drawn in frustration and a wail of “MOMMY!” on his pouty lips because I was able to sneak away for a few precious moments.

I correct and discipline in the proper way. I urge and cajole when needed. I complete the needed parental steps a good Parenting magazine would advise, but feel the impatience and frustration burn away at my control and I lose it.

The other night, my children wanted to sleep with me. I told the older one to go back to his bed. I told the younger one on his birthday he needs to begin sleeping in his own bed. They wrestled and fought to see who would be the one to be next to me. Desperate for some peace and quiet, I bellowed “No one is sleeping with Mommy! Mommy is sleeping on the couch!” I stormed off and they both burst into hysterics. My husband came running in, looking confused. As usual.

Because there is nowhere to go, the toy boxes are continuously emptied. Then it takes threatening and endless time to get them to clean up. Then they fight over who cleaned up more and who gets to have dessert. Again, I lose it and just begin yelling like a crazy person: “No one gets dessert because no one listens around here!” Then they both start crying again.

Does anybody else out there feel like a mean mommy?

Does anybody else out there need a vacation alone with no children on a sunny beach somewhere?

My time is officially up. My little one just came in and is pulling my fingers from the keyboard and needs anlhaldhahdhhdahg

HELP.

Share on Facebook

Tweet This Post

What do Teenagers Have Against Winter Coats?

January 25, 2011

By: Wendy S. Marcus

In my house, gone are the days I bundle up my cherubs prior to them leaving for school on a cold winter morning. There is no hustling to find a missing glove or a favorite hat, no arguments over hat head and static hair. Why? Because my children, ages 13, 16, and 19 refuse to wear winter jackets or any other warm protective outerwear! It was -11 degrees F this morning and, as if wearing even a hat and gloves may expose some sort of weakness, my son ran for the bus wearing a T-shirt, thermal shirt, and sweatshirt. And it’s not only him. Drive by my son’s high school and you’ll be hard-pressed to find one of his schoolmates wearing a jacket. And yet dozens of catalogs offering junior-sized winter coats clog my mailbox each winter season. Who is their client base, I wonder? How does the teenage coat-making industry remain afloat?

Back in the day, my mother would not allow me to leave the house without a jacket. Does it make me a bad mommy for taking on the philosophy: They’re old enough to make their own decisions. If they get cold enough, they’ll put on a coat?

It worked for a few days. Then the sub zero temperatures arrived. I fought with my daughter to put on a coat…like a good mommy should…before bad mommy took over and said, “Fine. Do what you want. But don’t blame me when you come down with pneumonia!” Then I stood at the front window watching my daughter out at the bus stop, counting the minutes until the bus arrived, imagining her shivering, icicles dangling from her nose and the corners of her eyes, her systems slowly shutting down due to hypothermia. I have driven her to the bus stop each day since.

So how do you handle it when your teenagers refuse to wear coats, even on the coldest of days? Even when recovering from strep throat? I’m afraid if I tell my son to put on a coat or don’t leave the house, he’ll log on to his Xbox and never come out of his room!!! If I try it with my daughter she’ll be more than happy to stay home and “keep me company” in my office…All…Day…Long.

Share on Facebook

Tweet This Post

CHILDREN AND PARENTS AND WINE…OH MY!

January 11, 2011

By Jennifer Probst

I had the pleasure of visiting my brother this past Fall, a highlight with my boys who adore their three female cousins. We were also joined by my brother’s girlfriend and her two children, and my brother’s best friend, and his two children.

Yikes. Lots of children.

9 in all. But this wasn’t just a normal weekend visit. My brother had won a private wine tasting at a local vineyard for six adults – quite an expensive prize. When he invited us up and told us about the tasting, there was a single moment when my brain connected with nine children and wine.

“But what are we going to do with the kids?” I asked innocently.

My brother, who is the flowy type, kind of like me, answered, “Oh, don’t worry. They’ll be fine.”

Hmmm. Interesting.

Needless to say, we took the trip and Saturday reigned bright and true. Blue umbrella skies, a warm sunny October afternoon before Halloween. Golden light bathed fall leaves and we felt drunk on nature, before we even reached the vineyard. We stopped for some pumpkin picking at a local farm and feasted on apple cider donuts while the kids rode on play tractors and fed the baby goats.

The vineyard was quite beautiful. Seemingly like an ancient barn that was converted, the wooden beams and open space boasted two large bars, and endless picnic tables which held families with baskets of food and bottles of wine. Delicious, expensive desserts were displayed, along with author signings, crafts and a gift shop. We began making our way into the vineyard and were told to wait in the small shop for our private guide.

And so….it began.

“I’m hot, mommy.” My boys threw their jackets on the floor and began to get antsy. “I want a brownie,” one whined.

I smiled sweetly. “Mommy will buy you a brownie and anything else you want after mommy drinks some wine.”

The other kids smelled weakness. After all, nine kids to six adults is an uneven battle. They banded together and began to whine, moan, twitch, and make everyone in the small gift shop miserable. I looked at my brother with the beginning of blame lighting my eyes. “How are we supposed to do this?” I hissed under my breath as my little one hung on to my arm like I was the momma ape and started swinging around, dangerously close to the bottles.

“It’ll be fine,” he promised.

The guide brought us to our next destination. A long flight of stairs led to a large balcony where two round tables were set up. She looked down at all the children huddled around the steps and immediately looked bitchy. “Are these all your children?” she asked in mock amazement. We laughed and nodded as if we could handle it.

Then my brother brought the adults together for a pep talk.

“Ok, team. This is what we need to do. We’ll buy them anything they want. The tasting is exactly 30 minutes. They need to stay in their seats at their own table for 30 minutes. We can do this. We need to bribe, threaten, and do anything possible to MAKE THIS HAPPEN.”

I could tell my husband wanted to bail immediately. I knelt in front of my boys, two admitted chocoholics. Forget the threats, I needed the big guns. “Sweeties, did you see the big chocolate cupcakes and brownies at the door?” I asked. They nodded, eyes large as saucers. “Well, I will buy you BOTH. All you have to do is promise mommy you will stay in your seat and not move for a little bit. OK?”

They nodded eagerly and we all trudged up the stairs. We settled all the children, dumped some dry crackers in the middle of the table and gave them THE LOOK. You know, the look that says behave and I won’t beat you and will buy you anything you want?

Then an amazing thing happened. Eight of the children sat in their chairs, and began quietly talking. The adults settled at the table and the tasting begun.

Notice I said 8?

That’s because my oldest took that moment to burst into tears, horrified at the idea that he was not sitting next to me but behind me at a separate table. He clung to my leg, squeezed on my lap, while I acted charming to the hostess, watched everyone else get into their wine, and hissed threats under my breath.

And then the thought came again like a neon sign.

WHY IS IT ALWAYS MY CHILD????

I told him no cupcakes. I told him he would go to bed and not play with his cousins. But he squashed his body as close to mine as possible as if drinking my wine would make me disappear. So, I did what I always do: at every party since he was born, at home, at every big holiday I ever attended.

I ignored him and drank my wine.

Eventually, it worked. He quietly faded to his seat and stayed with the other kids. When I glanced at him, he smiled and I gave him the thumbs up sign. A quick conference ensured he would get the brownie and cupcake because he only disobeyed half of the time. My brother agreed.

At the end of the tasting, the hostess had been turned. She gave us a genuine smile with warmth and said, “My goodness, you are the best parents in the whole world. I could have never done this with another group. Nine children and not a peep!!”

The three moms preened and put every peacock to shame.

We bought a few bottles and took the kids for their sugar rush. Then they ran through the fields of the vineyard, and watched kites fly through the air, and petted strange dogs, and had races in the cornstalks. We relaxed and drank and ate cheese and laughed. I remember thinking to myself: this is a great moment. And it was.

Then my brother’s girlfriend turned towards me and motioned toward the children in the corn stalks. “What’s that guy doing over there?”

I glanced over and saw one adult man, watching our big group, dressed in some black jacket. We sipped and watched. “Hope he’s not a pedophile, “I commented. She nodded. “Yeah, that would suck. We would need to go right away, then.”

We looked at each other and made a quick decision.

We rounded up all of the husbands to go chase the strange man out of the cornfield and went about our business.

The moral of the blog?

Sometimes, we just need to relax. Do something out of the ordinary and hope it works out. Sometimes it won’t. Sometimes it will.

But when it does work out, it’s so worth it. Isn’t it?

Share on Facebook

Tweet This Post

Welcome Bad Mommies…

October 19, 2010

YOU MIGHT FEEL LIKE A BAD MOMMY IF….

Your son needs his soccer uniform for the big game and you find it in the laundry. What do you do? Pick it out of the hamper, spray some Febreeze, and send him off…

Share on Facebook

Tweet This Post