Today's post is brought to us by Mammatalk.  She introduces herself as follows: For years, I peered over my teacher's glasses at those Stay at Home Mommies and wondered about their elusive world. What do they do all day? Where do they go? Well, I finally met my prince (at a slightly panicky 32) and turned in my chalkboard. Watch me as I infiltrate their ranks….

I have always thought blue blood coursed through my veins. I strongly suspected that a tiara rested on the regal heads of my female ancestors. I considered the possibility that my pedigree, somehow lost in the royal shuffle, had the noble family crest imprinted at the bottom….(in fine print)…for all to see…(provided they have a magnifying glass).

And, now I know it’s true.

When I enter a room, music plays.

“Can you tell me how to get
How to get to Sesame Streeeeet.”

All occupants of the room rise upon my arrival.

“Pick me up! Pick me up!! Mommmy! Mooooooommy!”

When there is a crisis, I am always the first to be beckoned.

“She BROKE my dolly!!! AHHHHH!”

I have a full wait staff.

“Ahh…So, yeah…hon, can ya pick up a pizza?”

My ladies in waiting circle when I call…

“Yeah! Ya better pick up those Cheerios, Missy!”

I live in a prestigious palace…

“I don’t know how we fit all these toys in this crackerjack box of a house !”

…surrounded by sprawling grounds.

“Babe, is that some sort of weed experiment gone wrong in the backyard?”

I gracefully rule while perched atop my throne.

“Close the door!! I am on the can!”

Of course, I always bow to the Queen Mum.

“Yeah, yeah. I know. Blog less. Cook more. Gotcha the first time, Ma!”

And, it is my sincere hope that I pass my tiara on to my little princesses…

“Harvard Law. Harvard Law. Harvard Law.”

Here’s to all the other royal mommies out there.

Fake kiss. Stiff wave. Curtsy. Fake kiss. Stiff wave. Curtsy.

This post was originally published on January 29, 2009 at Mammatalk.

If you would like to be considered to be featured in A Dose of Humor, email Rachel at doseofhumor (at) gmail (dot) com.

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My computer is DYING - I can't presume that I'll have more than a few seconds on it before it suddenly flutters off, which makes writing on it more exciting than usual. So while I'm practising my karate kicking on my computer, please enjoy this post from two summers ago.

From some of my earlier posts, you might get the impression that I wistfully regret my children getting older, that my favorite time with them was when they were small babies.

Oh, ha. No.

I'm very GOOD with small babies - I'm laidback and comfortable spending a whole day doing nothing but rocking and nursing some ungrateful little twelve pound human being - but I always felt a sense of monumental and guilt-stricken relief when they turned one. Babies are HARD. And then there was the miserable post-partum depression that I had in varying intensities EVERY SINGLE TIME, which wasn't much fun. I love my older kids - my eight-year-old daughter, in particular, is such a fun, sensible girl, full of innocent big plans and so kind-hearted and reserved and book-loving that I could not be more pleased with her. I didn't go into child-raising to make better versions of myself, but if I had, I would be feeling pretty smug right now.

So would I wish her smaller again? Kind of. I'd like a do-over - obviously, however we've been raising her is working out very well, but I'd like to go back and hold her on the first day of her life again, full of the love that I have now for her. I would like to go back through her childhood again, and this time be conscious that time was fleeting. I spent so much of her very early years in a sulk, just trying to get through those endless molasses-timed days that I did not really notice that, as the old ladies were constantly warning me, this time would be gone before I noticed.

We used to live in a small city with a nice waterfront and friendly fat ducks that liked to be fed, so one day The toddler Girl and I went down with a bag of stale bread crumbs and threw them onto the water, silver in the sunshine. She was so happy, and I thought to myself that it was such a fun thing to do with her that I should really bring her back more often. And then we never went back again. If I had known that would be the one time we would ever have thrown bread to the ducks, I would have frozen that day in my heart, frozen the image of her toddler hand generously full of bread for the fat swimming ducks, the sound of her laughter. As it is, all I have is the vague memory of pleasure, this fleeting thing that happened one time and then never happened again.

“Mom, I’m done eating. Can I go play now?”

I scanned the plate across the table and the excited seven-year-old next to it.

“Sure honey,” I acquiesced. “Have fun.”

And with that, my daughter was out the door, on her way to fish. Or maybe swim. Or possibly make some sand art. Or play on the playground.

I wasn’t sure. And honestly, it wasn’t that important. I knew I’d find her later.

For now, I was content to sit and drink my coffee, stare into space and think deep thoughts. (Or finish my salad, clean up the fruit left on my kids’ plates and try to keep Teyla from eating the stray croutons under the buffet line. Take your pick.)

Such is life at family camp.

If you haven’t been to family camp – or intergenerational camp, if you’re feeling pretentious – don’t be fooled by the moniker. It most definitely isn’t camping. It’s more of a vacation designed to promote relaxation and family togetherness. And it’s a trend taking off.

According to the American Camping Association, the number of family camps has grown by a whopping 215% over the last 15 years. In comparison, the number of traditional, kid-centric overnight camps has stayed the same.

The reasons? They are as plentiful as fireflies on a summer’s night.

Affordability – It’s the Economy Stupid

Probably the number one reason families consider family camp is its affordability, especially when compared to a traditional vacation. My family just got home from family camp, and for our family of five, it cost a little more than $1,000 for an all-inclusive week of fun. That fee included our hotel-like room, our linens, two mid-week “cleanings” (to get rid of the sand on the floor and trade out towels), 15 fabulous meals and activities galore on a crystal-clear Minnesota lake.

Luxury family camps can run into the $4,000 range, but most middle-of-the-road camps can be customized to fit your budget. Need to save money? Choose a no-frills cabin with a bathroom within walking distance. Want more privacy? Stay in a lodge, where you’ll sleep on a real bed in the comfort of air conditioning. Either way, chances are good you’ll spend less for five nights at camp than you would for five nights at a hotel.

Togetherness – Focus on YOUR Family

This is your chance to leave the laptop, the iPod, the Blackberry at home and try social networking IRL.

Teach your kids to fish. (Or let your kids teach you.) Play foosball. Take out a canoe. Jump off the end of the dock. Build a sand castle. Attempt a ropes course. Sing some silly songs. Eat a s’more or three. Say “yes” when your kids ask you to push them on the swing or play UNO or read them a book.

It’s all about being together without the distractions of modern life. Don’t worry about making the distinction between quality and quantity. At family camp, you can have both.

Freedom – Kids Rule

Last year was our first family camp experience, and it blew my mind that I could release my children from lunch to go do whatever they wished without me having to worry about them. (Try doing that at Olive Garden. Something tells me they don’t mean it literally when they say, “When you’re here, you’re family.”)

Obviously, this depends on the age of your children – as I learned firsthand last week when I spent the majority of my time chasing my toddler off the fishing dock. But if your kids are at least five years of age, camp offers a taste of autonomy. Typically, the camp grounds aren’t big enough for them to get lost. Fun things to do are around every corner. And there is a plethora of adults watching them. Which segues nicely with the next point….

Counselors and Staff – Your New Best Friends

Most family camps come staffed with wonderful, wacky counselors who are there to help you and your kids have a great time. They do everything from lead the weekly variety show to lifeguard the waterfront to teach arts and crafts. Your kids will adore them, and you’ll love having an extra set of eyes and hands to get through the week. If you’re lucky, you might also end up at a family camp that schedules child-care hours, so the parents can be free to indulge in a nap, a ropes course or a water-ski challenge without having to worry about their little ones.

Choices – To Schedule or Not

Depending on your personality, you might want a week free of schedules and agendas. Or you might want something more planned. Family camp accommodates both ideals.

Our camp puts together a calendar for each day – 8:20 Flag Raising, 9:30 Chapel, 1:00 Water Olympics, 4:00 Canteen Opens – but guests are free to participate as much or as little as they want. There’s no pressure to put in your time just because you are there. After all, it’s your vacation. Make it fit you.

Returning Guests – The Real Reason It’s Called Family Camp

Sound ideal? It can be. That’s why many camps find that the same families return year after year. Spend a week eating, laughing and playing with strangers, and you might find yourself with some new friends.

Or you might bring your own friends. We first heard about family camp from some friends who were recruiting other families to attend with them. A big part of family camp for us is the lure of seeing those same faces each summer.

Some even use family camp as a mini family reunion. At our camp, there is an extended family who’s been coming to family camp for 30+ years. It’s a great time for grandparents to see their grandkids, cousins to reconnect with cousins and adult siblings to renew the rivalry (kidding) at a place where you can dictate the level of togetherness and personal space.

To be fair, family camp has a few cons to balance the pros. It can be difficult for a family with very young children to navigate the free time without the comforts (read: restraints) of home. Some parents might not be comfortable with their kids having that much freedom. And a few might be startled by the level of craziness camp seems to inspire.

But in the end, the fun of camp seems to knead the knots out of even the most stress-out family. And that’s the whole point of vacation, isn’t it?

You can see pictures from Kelly's week of family camp at her personal blog, Love Well. Please note that sand lip gloss isn't offered at all camps.

I write this from one of our city's most beautiful parks. Families pass me on bicycles shaped like Model Ts. Some of these bicycles seat six, the perfect number for our family. They remind me of the foot-powered cars in The Flinstones, and I have always wanted to be one of these families, piled together into an improbable vehicle, laughing, struggling to pedal up the hills of the park.

It is on my list of Things To Do When the Children Are Older.

There are a lot of things on this list: take a sleeping compartment in a train to D.C., go on an archeological dig together or camp in the Rockies. Some of the items are little - drink tea with my girls, roast smores in the fireplace, read Tennyson aloud - and some of them are the endeavors of years - teach Hebrew or Akkadian to whoever is interested (oh please let ONE of them be interested!), learn a needlecraft together.

Last week, I gave each of my daughters a special day alone with me.  Each got to choose the activity for the day, and most of the choices were as expected: the museum, the park or a few stores. But my oldest daughter asked to begin her day by visiting the grave of a child from her Sunday School. A little girl named Regan died on Christmas Day in 2007, and my daughter wanted to walk through the cemetery to her gravestone and lay flowers on it.

When a child dies, what happens to the list of Things To Do When Our Children Get Older? Can imaginary numbers still be checked off? Or do unrealized longings drift invisibly in the air, only to show in the smiles tempered faces missing from the awaited picture. We don't make the world, and our plans are only plans.

The bicycles still roll by and the families are still laughing. There are children of all ages around me, some on bicycles they brought to the park, some carrying towels to play in the water fountains. Everywhere I look there is action and life. And which hearts have a stillness inside them, the quiet place held for the unheard laughter, is known only to them.

It is finished. The potty training, that is. I know, last week I said that I was giving up. Throwing in the toilet paper. Tossing out the baby with the bowl.

And it felt good. The giving up. I placed the Pampers back in the changing table cabinet, while whistling a happy tune. I stuffed the super hero boxers into the dark recesses of the sock drawer. I Lysoled the Diaper Genie, just for good measure.

I had my baby back.

But then, a couple of days later, the baby walked up to me, looked me square in the eyes, and said, “Mommy. I need to go to the bathwoom.”

Cwap.

I sighed, popped a couple of Extra Strength Tylenol, and dutifully opened the bathroom door by squeezing the baby safe door knob thing-a-ma-jig (a technical term).

Let the games begin.

Junior flung open the door, banging into the well worn wall. He climbed upon the potty, fully clothed. “Nice try, Junior. Drop ‘em.” Before accomplishing his mission, he rolled and unrolled the Charmin Ultra Mega Roll toilet paper, knocked all of the shampoo and conditioner bottles into the nearby tub, pulled the bath mat down and flung it across the small room, and managed to pee on my foot. Then he got down to flush. And flush. Flush yet again, for good measure. And flush once more.

Please don’t get the idea that I stand idly by, manicuring my nails. This child, lickity split, can dismantle an entire bathroom facility, all while I hold his hand. He should have been born to an octopus.

And on the last and final flush, he sticks his head into the toilet. To watch the water go down. Up close. Once I pry his head out, he slams the lid down hard. I’ve warned him, more than once, to make sure he stands back far enough to avoid Mr. Happy. Something like that could set potty training back a few years. Just sayin’.

Then he loves to pretend like he’s Nakey Boy, being chased by the super hero underwear, carried by the evil stepmother. After I’ve wrestled him into Spiderman, Superman, or Bob the Builder boxers, I tell him to wash his hands.

“A dot is a lot,” referring to the soap dispenser. His definition of a dot, and my definition of a dot are not in the same dictionary. After the perfunctory splattering, showering, and rinsing, he dries his hands on my shirt.

And then announces that he has to poop again.

That’s when my head explodes, and the brain matter is scattered to the far reaches of the house. Which, fortunately is just about the only mess I have to contend with. Since he has not had any accidents. Which I hesitate to say out loud.

Fiddledaddy was blissfully working out of town during the brunt of potty training. And upon his return, he put an abrupt end to the bathroom shenanigans of his young son. Except for the sticking his head down the toilet part. Some habits are just hard to break.

Jensen is still wearing a diaper at night, since he’s trapped in his jail crib. The one with a net over the top to prevent a daring escape. And that is fine with me. Because I intend to keep him in the crib, even if I have to saw leg holes to accommodate him as he grows even bigger.

Now I am wrangling three offspring in the public restrooms. My joy knows no bounds.

I thought that when I was through with diapers, once and for all, I would throw a potty party. But alas, I’m just a party potty pooper.

Looking for a glimpse of my baby, as he dashes away from me in Spiderman underdrawers. Trailing toilet paper behind him.

DeeDee blogs at Fiddledeedee.net.

Here's an oldie but goodie. Happy 4th!

Noah had his first sleepover at our house the other night. His little friend, just 6 years old, will celebrate the 4th today while his Mom serves in Iraq. She serves to protect my freedom while I complain about having to sweep the floor for the third time today. While I count the minutes until bedtime for the kids. While I dream of having a moment of peace so that I can breathe think function blog uninterrupted.

She's in physical combat for me, and I've made it my own declaration to go into prayer battle for her. While her son slept sweetly on the top bunk in my boys' room, I just cried and prayed.

I pray for his Mom's safety. For her heart. For his heart. That he knows God's love and that he doesn't suffer from any emotional harm while his mom is away. I pray that everyone serving our country can come home This lump in my throat hasn't gone away all week.

My, how I've seen life in a new perspective.

Originally published at Adventures In Babywearing.

Stephanie Precourt is the managing editor of 5 Minutes For Parenting and also blogs at Adventures In Babywearing.

Hi! This one's from me this week.  Hope you enjoy!

Have you noticed that there are a lot of different theories on teaching toddlers about anatomy?

They are all very different, all have their pros and cons, but it is imperative that you take one of the strategies and run with it, because we all know that toddlers find the naming (and exploring, especially boys) of anatomy very important.

Some parents take the medical approach. When you are around these toddlers, you will hear them using quite grownup and shockingly anatomically correct terms. They will leave no question in ANYONE'S mind regarding EXACTLY what they are referring to.

Then some parents take the cutesy approach. These toddlers can be heard saying things like "wee-wee", "hoo-hoo", "hiney", "booty" and "booby".

The third approach (that I know of - please let me know if I've left out your preferred approach), which is the one that we have used so far, is the vague approach. We call things "parts", and your tummy begins below your neck (or "neck sugars", as Ali calls it) and ends at your "parts".

There are definite pros to this strategy - one being that you don't turn red from your toddler yelling out "my (insert body part here) hurts!!!".

Or, as one of our friend's children went through, finding great joy in yelling out the word "BOOOOTY!!!" at the top of their lungs. Or, when feeling especially gleeful, yelling in quick rapid fire, "BOOTYBOOTYBOOTY!!!!!!"

Because let's face it: booty is much too fun of a word to not be tempted to say it.

(Go ahead. Try it. Give BOOTYBOOTYBOOOTY!!! a shout and you'll see exactly what I mean.)

At any rate, as I was saying, yelling out "PARTS!!" isn't going to cause too much of a stir. Nor is it going to be as tempting to yell out in the first place.

However, there are certainly downsides to this vague approach as well. Lately: tummy confusion.

Since approximately 97% of my friends are pregnant right now, I have been having a lot of conversations with Ali about "babies in bellies" and how people with babies in their bellies have bumps on their bellies where the babies are.

(I know that you think you know where this is going by now, but trust me - you don't.)

(Unless you are Alice, then you do).

Anyway, we were at lunch with my neighbor Alice at Edgar's Bakery on Thursday. A nice, cultured, girly place. We had finished eating and were chatting. Ali was down and running around, inventing games for herself.

Then, all of a sudden, she felt the need to come over and inspect me.

She was looking intensely at my "upper tummy" (you know, right below my neck sugars), and, as if she had just noticed this for the first time, started stroking my, ahem, bumpy chest, and saying confusedly (and quite loudly - somewhat exclamatorily even),

"Mommy has a baby in her tummy? Mommy doesn't have a baby in her tummy. Mommy's tummy bumps? Mommy doesn't have a baby in her tummy."

Then she would point to her bump-less tummy. "Ali doesn't have a baby in HER tummy."

Then would jab me forcefully. "Mommy doesn't have a baby in her tummy?"

I kept trying to tell her that I did not, in fact, have a baby in my tummy, but she was determined to get to the bottom of this bumpy mystery.

This went on for quite some time, and Alice was highly amused and giggling across the table.

So of course, I tried to deflect at her, for revenge.

"Does Alice have a baby in her tummy?"

No luck. Ali looked at me, said with a rather bored and know-it-all tone, "uh uh", and kept poking at my bumpy tummy, and repeatedly asking questions about what was housed inside it.

So the moral of this story is: there is no approach to anatomy that will keep your child from trying their darndest to embarrass you.

Just accept the fact, pick your strategy as best as you can, and brace yourself.

This post was originally published on May 23, 2009 at Grasping for Objectivity in my Subjective Life.

If you would like to be considered to be featured in A Dose of Humor, email Rachel at doseofhumor (at) gmail (dot) com.
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"MOM! THE BABY IS EATING THOSE LITTLE BEANS GROWING IN THE FRONT YARD!"

I went into the living room to find my son freaking out and my youngest kid with her hand full of little green seed pods, plucked from a tree in our yard.

"I thought they were little baby green beans!" said the Baby, pouting. I told The Girl to help The Baby rinse out her mouth and looked up the plant online.

Locust plant, I looked up. Okay, I knew it wasn't the honey locust… what was the other type? The black locust. That's the one.

And what I read next had me frantically punching in the numbers for Ontario's Poison Control hotline and desperately saying into the phone that I thought that my four year old had eaten something REALLY poisonous.

All mothers have that moment, I think, that split-second thing that changes an ordinary day into stark, unbearable terror. My oldest child got rushed to the hospital before she was 1, suspected of having the same stomach problem that killed my mother's youngest brother when he was just a toddler. My son fell down the stairs and was unconscious before he hit the bottom step, pulled a free-standing dishwasher onto himself, caused me to call poison control a dozen times. And each time it was the same feeling, this moment of utter heart-racing horror.

The poison control nurse was upset too, but was trying to keep me calm. Could I get someone to quickly verify that it was, in fact, a black locust plant? And then I was to call an ambulance as quickly as I could. I ran out of the house, straight into an acquaintance carrying her newborn baby in her arms.

Do you know plants, I said, probably rather hysterically.

Yes! she said. I do. Her baby looked at me with his solemn grey eyes.

Each time I've been so scared with my kids, there has been that moment when it became obvious that things had turned around, that everything was going to work out - the doctor walking down the hallway with the relieved look on her face, the stupid dishwasher being lifted up to reveal that my child had been so quiet not because he was gravely hurt but because he was FURIOUS, and the moment when a friend held a flowering plant in her hand and said, brow furrowed, that she didn't think it was a locust at all.

"I wish you'd TOLD me that you thought that was a poisonous plant," my husband said to me later that evening. "I ate those beans all the time when I was a kid. Siberian Pea Shrubs are everywhere around here."

I called back Poison Control after everything was all figured out and The Baby had been comforted ("You mean I'm not gonna die?" she asked me, lip quivering. OUCH.). Another nurse picked up the phone, and I told her who I was. "Oh, she told me about you!" she said. "She was real upset, and said some poor little girl had eaten something really poisonous." She thanked me for calling back and then went back to her work, telling other mothers sensibly - and impossibly - to calm down now, to just tell her what happened.

Ever since I was a little girl, I've been fascinated by cotton candy.

Maybe it was because it was such an rare treat. In the days of yore (read: the 1970s), cotton candy was reserved for the circus or the fair or some other infrequent-but-storied event. I loved to stand next to the cotton candy booth and watch the proprietor swirl a thin, paper cone in a seemingly empty bin and emerge with a cumulonimbus cloud of gossamer pink, precariously balanced on a tiny point.

"Here you go, sweetie," he would say to the lucky buyer, who would carefully take hold of the beautiful concoction and delicately try to find a place to bite.

So it goes without saying that, when our church was looking for volunteers to work at various booths during the annual community picnic, I jumped at the chance to work in the cotton candy booth.

It was a gorgeous Sunday night in late summer. The sun shone brightly; the light already held flecks of autumnal gold.

After the outdoor service, Corey and I gathered the kids and scooted through the dinner line (hot dogs, carrots, watermelon and chips) since I was first shift at the booth.

And that's how I found myself standing next to a machine that was spinning a cloud of pink sugar, clumsily wielding paper cones around the circle, passing off lopsided mounds of cotton candy to a throng of eager children.

The night was breezy, and I was near the edge of a picnic shelter. The wind caught errant wisps of candy and blew them into the crowd. Kids waiting in line opened their mouths to pluck a sparkling sample right out of the air. Delicate strands stuck to my arms, my face, my hair. (So intent and gleeful was I as Cotton Candy Maker Extraordinaire that I discovered this fact only when small children grinned my direction and shouted, "Mom, look at her hair!")

Halfway through my shift, I looked up and saw my daughter before me. Natalie was wearing plaid sherbet-colored shorts and a pink polo shirt. Her skin was tan, her hair pulled back in a pink headband. She looked utterly delighted.

“Why Natalie!” I exclaimed, as if she were my favorite customer, which, in fact, she was. “So happy to see you here tonight! Here you go!” And I handed her a cone heavy with sweetness.

“Thanks Mom,” she giggled, before turning to find Uncle Jon among the crowd.

Later, on the way home, when she was crashing like a little addict from an overdose of sugar, she sat in the back of the minivan and sobbed because the snow cone booth had run out of syrup before she'd gotten one. Suddenly, she sat up straight, found her composure and said, “Mom, do you know why I stood in your line to get cotton candy, besides the fact that yours was pink and that’s my favorite color?”

“No, Natalie," I answered, scanning her face in my rear view mirror. "Why?"

“Because you are my favorite person, Mom,” she said. "And I love you."

This post was originally published August 2008 on Kelly's personal blog, Love Well. She's at family camp this week, where she is too busy following her toddler around camp to write something new. But she'll be back next week, rested and refreshed, and extra happy for the toys at home.

1. When I was pregnant with my first child, I visited a friend who had two kids. She had a lovely home, and a dining room set that still looked like new. So new, in fact, that the upholstered seats of the chairs were still covered in their original plastic.  She kept it on so they were easier to clean.

And I thought to myself, "That looks tacky. I would rather clean a chair a hundred times than leave plastic on the seat like someone out of Mama's Family."

Now that I have four small children, and have scrubbed and scrubbed the upholstery of our dining chairs a hundred times, I want to say to my old friend C, wherever she is: I wish I had left the plastic on my chairs. You were a wise, wise woman. I was a fool.

2. Every time you think you have finally become used to the stench of soiled diapers, it gets worse. The progression of hellish stink goes like this: breastfed infant < formula-fed infant < infant who eats solids < infant who eats meat or cheese < infant who drinks cow's milk < multiple diapered kids.

You have been warned.

3. You may think that tv show you love has nothing inappropriate in it, but the first time you watch it with your children around, the plot will take a sudden swerve to include the murder of a prostitute by a foul-mouthed, racist, embezzling schoolteacher with herpes. The big networks plan it that way.

4. A brontosaur is no longer called a brontosaur. If you call it that, your dinosaur-loving children will look at you like you are speaking Martian, and you will lose all credibility with the four-year-old set.

And what about you? What have you learned the hard way?

Veronica can usually be found documenting her steep learning curve at Toddled Dredge.