Simplified Mom

This blog is moving...

noreply@blogger.com (ay) — Thu, 05 May 2011 13:00:00 +0000

It has been fun here up until now... but...

time for something new.

Please come visit me at my new site so you can keep up with the latest Ada and Iain fun.

www.simplifiedmom.com

Be sure to say "Hi" when you get a chance.

Thanks for reading!

Amanda

The Sticker Chart

noreply@blogger.com (ay) — Tue, 26 Apr 2011 18:14:00 +0000

Disciplining a child sucked. It wasn't fun. It often didn't actually work and just frustrated everyone involved. I was a firm believer that discipline was a form of teaching and didn't have to always be negative. Unfortunately, Ada entered a stage where she didn't want to do anything we said. Every other word from her mouth was "No!". And it was often screamed from the top of her lungs while she was flailing her arms in a windmill motion and kicking her legs in a desperate attempt to hurt me for trying to reason with her. Not knowing how to deal with her, I started throwing tantrums of my own and putting her in "time out" just so I would have three minutes to calm myself down instead of punching holes in our walls or throwing things.

Tired of yelling and fighting and counting to three and doling out "time outs", I moved on to the sticker chart. Ada got a sticker for anything that she did well. She got ignored for anything she didn't do well. I still tried the counting and the "time outs", but I also tried the "If you do this for me, you can earn a sticker. Remember, if you earn ten stickers, you get some ice cream." It has worked so far. Now I just had to figure out how to keep doing it. She earned her first ice cream cone last night, and then threw so many tantrums that she wasn't allowed to redeem it. Maybe redeeming it can be the goal for today.

Moral of the story: There are many ways to discipline children. Finding a method that works for you and your child, and making time to reinforce it is key. Don't expect a miracle overnight.

Construction Curiosity

noreply@blogger.com (ay) — Tue, 26 Apr 2011 18:00:00 +0000

What is it about watching construction workers that is so fascinating? The gas company was laying new pipes in front of our house and the kids watched the contractors for hours on and off all day. After our walk, Ada refused to come inside (as per usual) and stood there watching the digger as it loaded, spun and dumped its contents. She was in awe. I bribed her with hot chocolate to get her inside (which she never drank since it was too hot and then she forgot about it—since she was too busy watching the guys work outside our front window. I did not need to drink two hot chocolates, but I did. Don't ever tell me moms don't sacrifice.) Once she was inside, she went right back to watching them work.

Me: Ada, do you want to (insert anything fun here)
Ada: No. (Or silence as she ignored me.)

Repeat. That's how it was for over a week. Contractors must have some sort of magical fairy dust they use to mesmerize children everywhere. Maybe that's why Bob the Builder was so popular.

Moral of the story: Construction sites can be sources of cheap entertainment for hours. If you describe what is happening, they could even be considered educational.

Sucker Bunny

noreply@blogger.com (ay) — Tue, 26 Apr 2011 17:48:00 +0000

I was not a fan of suckers. I was even less of a fan of suckers on hard sticks. And especially opposed to them when they were passed out to kids by men dressed as giant bunnies on playgrounds. I didn't have a problem with the man in the bunny suit. It was the idea that he was passing out suckers on a playground. SUCKERS ON A PLAYGROUND!

Growing up, I was taught that suckers were a choking hazard. I was only allowed to eat them while sitting still. If I ran with them, they were taken away. My mother was so afraid I would trip and shove the sucker stick so far down my throat that I would end up in the hospital for days, if not dead from choking on the candy part itself. It was rare, but it could happen.

If there was even the remote possibility that a child could fall and get injured by something you gave them, would you still give it to them? I wouldn't. And if I did, I would watch them very closely to reduce the risk of the situation. That's called close "adult supervision". That isn't something you always get at a playground. I surely wouldn't give my kids a sharp pencil, a knife or scissors and tell them to have fun at the playground. Maybe someone will put a little more thought into this for next year. There must be some sort of gift they can find that won't be a choking hazard or a dangerous allergen or candy. Might I suggest a sticker? Or a stamp on their hand would work and be more forgiving to the environment.

Moral of the story: As a parent, you constantly need to think about your children's safety. They might not like the outcome, but it could save you a trip to the emergency room and that should be worth it.

Seven Eleven

noreply@blogger.com (ay) — Thu, 14 Apr 2011 16:10:00 +0000

Dear Iain,

Seven hours of sleep isn’t the new eleven. Just because you wake up refreshed from your eleven, uninterrupted hours of sleep, doesn’t mean the same applies for the rest of us. You go down at seven, I go down closer to eleven. You get eleven hours of sleep, I maybe get seven.

Mommy really loves you, and hopes you will agree, more sleep is necessary for your daddy and me. Even eight would be great.

Love,

Your mother

Moral of the story: Parents sleep is inversely proportional to the number of kids they have and their ages. The more kids and older they get, the less sleep for Mom and Dad. Hopefully this phenomenon will reverse itself in the coming school years

Pinball

noreply@blogger.com (ay) — Thu, 14 Apr 2011 16:08:00 +0000

Ada recently became obsessed with computers and computer games. One day she was sitting innocently at the computer playing with the mouse and clicking on random things. Then next day she was demanding games, games and more games. I was trying to limit her total screen time since she also loves movies, but it wasn’t working. As a persistent toddler, she would inevitably wear me down after hours of begging and whining and having tantrums for “puter” games. When I finally gave in, she was on a computer without an Internet connection. Her game options included Solitaire, Hearts, Minesweeper, and Pinball. Pinball won. The bouncing of the ball, flashing lights and sounds, flapping of the flippers had her hooked from the start. Her name was entered in the top five highest score slots (previously empty since we didn’t even know Pinball was on the computer). She was in love…for a day…until she got bored and wanted Sesame Street.

While Ada was busy playing Pinball, Iain was playing his own version of Pinball around the house. He was the ball bouncing from the bookcase to the coffee table to the dining room table and down the hall. He started crawling and was so excited to explore with his new-found freedom of mobility. If I stepped out of the living room to wash my hands, I returned to a quick round of “find the baby”. He was never in the same spot for long.

My hope was that Ada would find Iain more entertaining now that he was mobile. Maybe it would distract her from the “puter” just a little while. Anything to reduce her screen time would be good.

Moral of the story: Kids are meant to be entertained. Know that having a second child might eventually provide entertainment for the first, but be patient. And understand that they are competing with more high- tech gadgets than ever.

New New New

noreply@blogger.com (ay) — Sun, 10 Apr 2011 22:33:00 +0000

Change is a good thing right?

We recently changed dishwashers, windows, and nannies at our house. The dishwasher was good to us and lived a good life. After several years of making our silverware sparkle, it finally stopped cleaning and told me where to go. The new dishwasher took some getting used to but seemed to be working well.

The windows weren’t ever all that great to us. Some were missing storms and screens while others weren’t able to stay open. They all had to go. The new windows had child safety stops at two and four inches to prevent our precious little monsters from falling out of our house. Not something I put much thought into, but I was sure glad I had them and could rest more easily now. Ada was excited that she could see out of them more clearly since the installers actually washed them.

And the nanny. We were sorry to let her go but we learned that hiring a non-English-speaking nanny for an infant worked for awhile. Once you added a toddler into the mix, things started to fall apart. After three months, we realized that we needed a sitter to speak Ada’s native language to discipline her and teach her to communicate more clearly. She was a great nanny and no doubt loved our kids. The new nanny was fluent in both English and Spanish. It took a few days for Iain and Ada to accept her, but that was the same for most things in life.

Moral of the story: Change can be a good thing. Especially when it makes your children more clean, safe, disciplined and smart.

Ada = Choking Hazard

noreply@blogger.com (ay) — Sun, 03 Apr 2011 19:12:00 +0000

Iain wasn't the one I was worried about putting things in his mouth that he shouldn't. Ada was. I mean that Ada was the threat because she was putting things in Iain's mouth while I wasn't looking. We knew she liked to feed my parent's dogs. Apparently she liked to feed Iain too. And it wasn't anything I would ever expected her to feed him. She had pealed foam sticker letters off an art project DD gave her and started stuffing the bits of foam letter into Iain's mouth while I was in the kitchen. I came back and noticed pink foam on the floor. Then I noticed Iain chewing on something and Ada looked at me like, "What mom? I didn't do anything wrong." Uh huh. Right Ada. Sure.

What would come next? Sticking crayons in his ears? Shoving his head in the toilet? Surely she would find a way to draw on his face with Sharpie markers at some point. Time to activate the eyes in the back of my head.

Moral of the story: Don't expect your older child to behave around siblings because they know better. They don't know better and are testing you to see what they can get away with.

Dollars, Euros, Yen, or Tickles?

noreply@blogger.com (ay) — Thu, 24 Mar 2011 18:37:00 +0000

Things haven’t been going very smoothly these past few weeks. Ada hasn’t been cooperative at all. I have been stressed out and distracted. She has wanted all of my attention and I have wanted to give her a lot less than that. It was a recipe for disaster. Major meltdown was exactly what we got. And I do mean “we”.

I have tried to blame the challenges on being a mother and a daughter and the stereotypes about how we aren’t supposed to get along. I’ve written our fights off as Ada going through the terrible twos now that she was three. The reality was that I wasn’t paying enough attention to her, didn’t know what motivated her, and didn’t have the patience to figure it out. That was why I married Rick.

Somehow, in his seemingly infinite wisdom, Rick figured out that Ada’s main motivation in life was to be tickled. By observing that one thing that ruled her world, he was able to create a currency of tickles. If we wanted Ada to change her diaper, put on her shoes, or stop yelling, we just had to pay her in tickles. Amazingly, it worked. It didn’t solve all of our problems, but it sure helped with a lot of them.

Moral of the story: Find what motivates your child (other than money or food) and use it to encourage good behavior.

Shouting Matches

noreply@blogger.com (ay) — Thu, 24 Mar 2011 18:36:00 +0000

I’m not a yeller. I’m not a fighter. I don’t like confrontation or conflict. But if you really cross me, I will remove the gloves and throw down.

Unfortunately, that applies to Ada too.

She pushes my buttons, says “no” as her default response, and refuses my every request to do the simplest tasks. When my repeated requests and explanations don’t work, I shut down. Not knowing how to deal with her, I’m ashamed to say it but, my blood boils quickly. I lose it and start yelling back at her. It doesn’t work. It doesn’t make me feel better—I actually feel worse and end up apologizing later. And to make matters even worse she calls me out whenever I am mad by getting really close to me with her puppy dog eyes and saying, “Mommy crabby.” It is kind of cute in the “Boy, I wish I could give you away sometimes” kind of way.

So why do I yell? Because the things I’m trying, like timeouts and counting to three, aren’t working either. My parents yelled and swatted our butts when we were bad so maybe there is something to that. I don’t want to start swatting her, but I do want her to start listening to me and stop aggravating me so much. Maybe I’m just not implementing the timeouts or the counting properly. Or maybe she just wants more attention. Maybe this is just a phase. Maybe I need to start reading a book on discipline. And maybe a solution will present itself. Surely I’m not alone in this battle.

Moral of the story: As parents, it is our job to remain calm. We don’t always succeed but we must always try. When in doubt, give yourself a time out.

Iain the Bruiser

noreply@blogger.com (ay) — Thu, 24 Mar 2011 18:31:00 +0000

Iain fell off the bed. Well, he actually crawled off the bed, fell on his cheek, possibly landed on the corner of a hard-cover book (about making parenting easier of all things), and was fine. He didn’t look so hot the next day though…

It was completely my fault. I got distracted—my life was one long string of distractions—and although I left him on the bed with Ada to entertain him, he must have tired of her antics and he went looking for something more exciting. Hitting the floor with his face probably wasn’t what he had in mind.

I knew I needed to be more careful. Just seconds before he fell I was checking in on him to be sure he wasn’t getting close to the edge. Looks were deceiving and it only took a few seconds for him to fall off. We were at orange alert level and being cautious but obviously red alert—constant safety watch—was more appropriate. I should have been at that level two weeks ago after he jumped out of the high chair. Apparently my interpretation of safe wasn’t safe enough. Safe was now defined as right next to me in the same room or locked into an apparatus with safety straps, and even then still within my sight.

Moral of the story: The line between being overly protective and safe is a fine one. Try your best to keep your child safe and when in doubt, error on the side of being too cautious.

Our Little Lefty

noreply@blogger.com (ay) — Tue, 15 Mar 2011 16:00:00 +0000

Apparently, Ada's a lefty. We've had our suspicions but this leads me to believe it really is true. She purposely moved the computer mouse from the right side of the keyboard to the left side so she could play more easily.

Obviously, I don't have any say in the matter so I will be supportive of her "handedness" either way. If she really is a lefty, I intend to do a lot of research on how her brain functions differently and what we can do to make things easier for her. My brother is a lefty and I've seen him struggle with math specifically because he does it differently and his teachers always marked his grade down since he didn't do it their way or couldn't show his work. And I remember going to a left-handed shop in St. Charles, Illinois that had sissors and notebooks designed for left-handers. It is such a right-handed world that, as parents, we'll have to be sensitive to her environment. More so than just having Ada sit on the left end of the table so she doesn't knock elbows with Iain.

Moral of the story: Parenting is more than feeding, clothing and protecting your children. It also entails providing them with an evironment conducive to learning and development based on their needs. We as parents have a lot to learn.

Iain's Flying Leap

noreply@blogger.com (ay) — Tue, 15 Mar 2011 01:52:00 +0000

I know better. I know I'm always supposed to buckle Iain into his high chair. Especially when I have it in the kitchen on the tile floor. But occassionally, I get distracted. This time, I got distracted by Ada doing something on the computer. As I was working with the mouse, surely trying to prevent her from deleting important files, I heard a loud thud behind me. I turned around to see Iain laid out on the ground with his mouth wide open taking in that big inhale that comes right before an enormous scream. And then the ear shattering wale followed as I scooped him up, checked for signs of major injuries and consoled him. He wasn't happy, but I was relieved to see that he wasn't hurt. I think he rocked himself free of the chair, hurdled himself over the plastic divider bump between his legs, laid himself out in a sort of side flop, and then dropped his head to the ground after the initial impact. He had a light red mark on the back right side of his head which didn't appear to be serious.

For the next ten minutes I just kept thinking, "Dumb, dumb, dumb. You knew better. Your gut told you this would happen. You didn't listen. You're lucky he's okay you moron of a mom." I then promised not to ever do it again and went on with my day, being sure to give him extra cuddles to make up for my mistake. Then I justified my carelessness by admitting that something like this was bound to happen since Ada fell off the bed a few times--once landing on the charger for the Dust Buster which made a nasty indentation near the base of her skull--and the couch a couple times too. This was Iain's first major wipe out, and surely won't be his last.

Moral of the story: Always buckle all safety harnesses for anything you would not want your child to fall from. Those harnesses are there for a reason. Use them.

Ada's New Words

noreply@blogger.com (ay) — Tue, 15 Mar 2011 01:16:00 +0000

One of Ada's new words this month is "big". That's good because she's learning to be more descriptive and becoming more expressive. That's bad when she comes up to me, puts her hands on my mommy tummy and says, "big belly." Cute, but not all that funny. I laughed anyway and didn't take it personally. I did use it as motivation to attend pilates class that night though. Then, while Rick was getting her dressed in the morning, she was in front of our bedroom mirror looking over her shoulder at the reflection of her butt and said, "big butt." Rick immediately corrected her (while laughing hysterically mind you) that she in fact had a "little butt." No need to give her a complex at age three.

Another new word of hers is "crabby". If Iain is crying, she says "baby crabby". If I'm having a rough day, she crawls up on my lap, looks at me with a frown and says "mommy crabby". And while looking through pictures of my family, she came upon Grandpa Bobpa and said "Bobpa crabby". It fits him perfectly even if it is just his tough outer shell that gives way to his much softer inside.

At least her expressive language skills are growing. Now we have to help her learn how to use all of these new words a bit better.

Moral of the story: Once your child starts talking, you'll likely wish they wouldn't and will surely be surprised by what they finally say.

Creative Damage Control

noreply@blogger.com (ay) — Tue, 15 Mar 2011 01:03:00 +0000

While at lunch today, Ada had an accident. Her diaper overflowed soaking her pants and the bottom of her shirt. Of course I didn't have a backup outfit for her in the diaper bag. I didn't even have a full backup outfit for Iain and of the two of them, he was way more likely to need it.

What's a mom to do? If you were me, you took your daughter into the ladies room, removed her wet clothes, changed her diaper, washer her down with paper towels, and then re-dressed her in your zippered sweatshirt, rolled up the sleeves and pretended it was a toddler dress.

Yep. That's what I did.

Moral of the story: You can't prepare for every mishap that might happen as you go out and about with your kids. You can, however, wear layers and get creative when you need to.

Stupid Car Alarms

noreply@blogger.com (ay) — Sun, 13 Mar 2011 20:14:00 +0000

Surely I've complained many a time before about how we have this car alarm that we don't want and can't seem to get rid of on our Honda CRV. My mother-in-law gave us the car because she hated the alarm so much that the benefits of trading us for our Honda Civic that was half the value of the CRV was worth it to her just so she could maintain her sanity. I completely understand her frustration since the siren goes off at the worst times for the most random reasons. The worst times being when I am trying to be really quiet unloading bags from a weekend trip or groceries while the kids are asleep in the car. And stupid reasons being that we opened a door thirty seconds after opening another door, without first pushing the unlock button to disarm the alarm, and the car screams at us with horns blaring and lights flashing as if to say, "Don't touch me!". We can't win.

I've tried to get it disarmed and have a plan to take care of it myself with limited guidance from an online mechanic's suggestion, but I haven't had the time to start dismantling my dashboard and was hoping our mechanically inclined neighbor would be available to supervise. Since that hasn't happened yet, I am even more upset to learn that someone was in our car and stole a few items from it this past week. It doesn't bother me that someone took a few things since they didn't damage the car and the coin purse and tool kit they took weren't of any value to us. What irritates me most is that we never heard the car alarm. If the sirens went off, we didn't hear them. (Maybe I did since I thought I heard an alarm in the middle of the night, but it didn't sound like our alarm at it shut off too quickly. I can only hope the thief managed to disarm it permanently. In that case, I would have given him more than just the empty coin purse and the tool kit.) The alarm seems to only work when it wants to and it didn't want to when it would have actually been convenient for us.

We aren't sure what exactly happened. We assume Rick forgot to push the lock button when he used the car last but either of us could have bumped the keys and unlocked it accidentally. It was parked on the street right in front of our house in clear view of our front window which means two things. First, if we did bump the unlock button, it would have been in range to unlock the car. Second, the thief stole our stuff from almost right under our noses. Even if we didn't lock the car, the alarm typically arms itself and will sometimes lock the car for us as if to say, "Hey, idiots! You forgot to lock the car. Don't worry. I'll take care of that for you." That's when you find yourself in a situation where the keys get locked inside the car and you're in for way more drama getting the car unlocked again than you would have been if the car had just left itself unlocked. You can only hope you don't have the kids inside when it does decide to belittle you.

This all makes me reflect back on a time when we didn't have to lock our cars. Life was a bit more simple then, or at least a lot different. I think parenthood must have been easier or at least a little less stressful then too. I just can't imagine how it could have been much worse than it is today. Surely "the good ol' days" were different from today's parenting. My hope is that all of these technological advances will one day actually advance us in a way that makes parenting easier.

Moral of the story: Car alarms can do more harm than good. Consider that fact when shopping for your next automobile.

Speech Therapy Update

noreply@blogger.com (ay) — Thu, 03 Mar 2011 14:55:00 +0000

I met with a speech therapist a few weeks ago with Ada. She was very nice and suggested that we consider taking Ada to a group speech therapy class to save money and see if that helped her. The catch with that being that she couldn't be the most advanced in the class or she wouldn't really be learning much. That seemed like a challenge since Ada isn't really all that delayed and doesn't qualify for speech therapy through the city's Early Intervention program.

Her other suggestion, assuming we could afford it since our insurance excludes speech therapy, was for us to do one-on-one therapy for a little while just to see how it worked. Point being that, Ada doesn't need a lot of help and will probably correct any delays she has on her own with time so we don't have to worry about it too much, but some sort of speech therapy would benefit her. It can't hurt unless our wallet has feelings and then maybe the wallet will be thankful for the lighter load?

Another speech therapist contacted me with referrals for three other places to look into that were closer to our house but she noted that many of them had waiting lists. I really didn't want to take time away from other kids who really needed these services when Ada wasn't all that bad.

After being preoccupied with other things for a few weeks, I finally called the woman I originally met with and had her get started. She gave us a discounted rate and their first session was this week. She got Ada to talk the whole time. It was great. Just seeing her interact with Ada and her suggestions at the end of the session were worth it. I'm optimistic that things will really improve and Ada will be talking our ears off. We'll have to find a different solution for that when the time comes.

Moral of the story: A little speech therapy can go a long way. Be sure to research your options to find a solution that is right for your child and your budget.

Potty Training Continued

noreply@blogger.com (ay) — Thu, 03 Mar 2011 12:58:00 +0000

When I say "Potty Training Continued" I really mean "This is the potty training that never ends...yes, it goes on and on my friends..." Sorry. I know that was mean and that song will be stuck in your head for days. But then maybe you'll better understand just how annoying potty training is when your child isn't quite ready.

Ada might be close to "getting it" when it comes to grasping the concept of potty training. But then again, she might not. The fact that every pair of underwear she puts on gets a little wet and has to be changed every time she uses the toilet, leads me to believe she isn't what most people would call "trained". The other clue is her failure to successfully or consistently wear pants without going to the bathroom in them. And the final nail in the coffin is her inability to actually poop in the potty on her own.

So, as much as I'd love to admit it was a successful attempt and we are done with diapers for her, I'd be lying. My new strategy is to wait another month or two, let her use diapers or underwear or whatever she wants, and then try again later. I won't stop her from using the potty. I might let her run around the house half naked. I will encourage her to poop by feeding her high fiber foods and plenty of liquids while banning bananas and cheese from her diet as much as possible. But I won't beat myself up over it. She'll be ready when she's ready and I'll be ecstatic when it happens.

Moral of the story: Potty training takes time and a child that is ready to be trained. Don't rush it and stay positive.

Weekend Air Travel

noreply@blogger.com (ay) — Mon, 28 Feb 2011 19:56:00 +0000

I was tired before I went to visit my sister-in-law, Heather, for the weekend but now, I'm exhausted. I got several funny looks this morning from neighboring passengers as I slogged through the airport with my sunglasses on. I even wore my sunglasses in the underground tunnels. Getting up at two in the morning to catch a flight after being up early and out late the night before does not agree with me. And the one hour time change completely kicked my butt. But I had fun, got a break from the kids, and got to visit Boston for the first time.

For those of you who may attempt to fly while nursing at some point in your life, take note.

The morning we left for the airport, I had to wake Iain up to eat and get into the car. In hindsight, I should have pumped while he slept and gotten a bottle ready to feed him on the way. Instead, I tried to encourage him to eat and when he didn't, I gave up and said, "I'll just nurse him before I go into the airport." That might have worked had we not been confused about Continental being bought by United, and what terminal I was supposed to be at, and the security folks moving the cars along in the departure drop-off area, and me just completely forgetting that I hadn't depleted the milk supply in my chest yet. Despite the recommendation of several friends to check my luggage, I followed my gut instinct and carried it on.
At bigger airports like O'Hare International Airport in Chicago, chances of being stopped and searched for your breastpump are more rare. They let me right through with not even a second glance. (The woman next to me bringing Greek yogurt with her wasn't so lucky.) I remembered to chug my bottle of water right before going through the TSA line, and then forgot to take off my shoes. Luckily, the guy in line behind me let them pass through the x-ray machine in the bin with his laptop. The whole process made me really nervous.

Being that I was boarding a small plane that didn't have much storage space and I really didn't want to lift anything overhead for fear of injuring the herniated discs in my neck, I checked my bag at the gate. Things went well on the flight until we had about twenty minutes to go. The captain turned on the "fasten seatbelts" sign as I realized I had to go to the bathroom thereby foiling my plan and forcing me to hold it. Then, about five minutes later, I also realized that my chest was starting to hurt from the buildup of un-pumped breastmilk. It dawned on me that my right breast had gone sixteen hours without being drained. Youch. Not good. Somehow, I survived the twenty minutes until we landed, and didn't bulldoze the twelve rows of passengers in front of me as they removed their bags from the overhead bins. As I stepped off the plane I was given two gifts from the gods; my bag was there waiting for me and the bathroom was right next to my gate.

Peeing was my first priority and was easy to take care of. Pumping was going to be another issue. The handicapped priority restroom was being cleaned and the main women's restroom didn't have an outlet within reach of the bathroom stalls. I had read a suggestion somewhere to bring along an extension cord but didn't pack one. And I wasn't sure how long it would be before I reached my next destination so I figured pumping now would be the best option. Not wanting to set up a public pumping session in the main women's restroom, I went out to ask the janitor if the airport had a nursing room or other space where I could pump. She suggested the handicapped priority restroom she had just finished cleaning and I set up shop.

I learned a few things while in that airport bathroom...

Don't set things in the automatic sinks as if they were a countertop. They will turn on whenever they want to and you're stuff will get wet. (In my case, it was my makeup in a Ziplock baggie so I was okay.)
Bring along a small hand towel or two. Not every bathroom will have paper towels and you'll need something to dry off yourself and your pump supplies after you rinse them.
If you are carrying on your luggage, use the handicap stalls whenever possible. The extra space is great for storing your bag.
If there is any chance that you might, maybe, possibly need to pump even the slightest bit before, after or during your flight, carry-on your pump. The stress of worrying if it will be lost in your luggage or stuck on the plan during a delay isn't worth the convenience of not having to carry it.

Twenty minutes later, I was feeling much better and on my way to meet Heather outside the security entrance for our weekend adventure to begin. Since Iain was eight-months old, I was able to get by with only pumping twice a day. I was disappointed with how little I actually extracted, but thankful that I didn't have to carry a lot of milk back with me.

On the way back home through the much smaller Bradley Airport in Hartford, Connecticut, they did a much more thorough search. As I loaded my luggage on the belt, I explained that I had a breastpump in my suitcase, and breast milk with frozen gel packs in the cooler. I was a bit surprised when they pulled me aside to search my entire suitcase, cooler and pump. The TSA employees were very professional and explained that they would be taking my cooler of milk away for a minute to test it but that the test would check the air around it, not the liquids inside. I was sure they would make me toss out the gel-filled ice packs but they said those were okay. I had extra Ziplock baggies and was ready to ask a vendor on the gate side of the security line to fill them with ice for the rest of my trip if that was needed. After a thorough search of my suitcase (during which I noticed the chocolates I had purchased for Rick and Ada had melted into a blob since I left the packed suitcase near the wood stove overnight) they removed the breastpump and took it away for testing as well. Then the TSA gentleman returned, repacked my luggage and set me on my way.

I'm pretty sure I have a bit of anxiety when it comes to dealing with authority because the entire process made me very nervous. When they were done, I wanted to sit down and cry. It wasn't that I felt violated or anything like that. The experience just made me very emotional. Blame hormones. Blame exhaustion. Maybe it is just the seriousness of flying these days and the fact that we need such a long list of rules to follow for the TSA. Anyway you slice it, it was stressful.

On the way home, I wasn't worried about needing my pump so I again checked my bag at the gate. I didn't realize that I'd then have to retrieve it from the baggage claim since this was a bigger plane and they only did gate pickup for United Express service. Either way, I was home. I took a train to a bus and then walked three blocks back into reality, complete with hugs from Ada and a napping Iain.

Moral of the story: Traveling while nursing isn't always easy, but it doesn't have to be impossible. Plan ahead, ask friends for suggestions and try not to stress out about it.

Composty

noreply@blogger.com (ay) — Sun, 20 Feb 2011 23:03:00 +0000

Now that I know how to cook, one of my New Year's Resolutions was to learn how to compost and get a compost bin started. I've been researching it for a few months and originally thought about getting a big rolling compost bin to set up behind our condo building. The biggest issue I had with that idea was the cost of the bin since they are a couple hundred dollars, and the fact that I'd need two of them. One to "cook" the compost, and one to add to while the other one "cooks". I still might eventually go that route if I find bins on an amazing sale but until that happens, I ordered worms.

Worms?

Yes. Worms. I ordered a cute terracotta colored worm factory that has five bins to hold worms and compost and compost tea--which is supposed to be a great fertilizer. And I ordered a set of starter worms--about a thousand. I'm not going to count them. Unfortunately, the worms were delayed since it has been too cold for them to survive the shipping and at twenty dollars a thousand, you don't really want these things to arrive dead or frostbitten.

While I was explaining my recent purchase to my neighbors at a blizzard party, our friend Kelly expressed her displeasure with the word "Compost Tea". In typical man behavior (always finding a solution), our neighbor Stephen suggest we call it "Composty" to make it sound "cute" and less disgusting. In a few months, we'll be able to have Compost Tea parties. It's going to be great.

Moral of the story: Composting can be cute, educational and fun.

Our Tiny Bathroom

noreply@blogger.com (ay) — Sun, 20 Feb 2011 22:40:00 +0000

My plans have all been foiled by this whole potty training experiment. I used to be able to hide in the bathroom at least for five or ten minutes with a book without anyone really noticing that I had disappeared. Not anymore. Now that Ada needs the potty urgently and her stepping stool blocks the door from shutting unless I take the extra effort to move it over, privacy and my bathroom sanity sessions are gone. All gone.

To make matters worse, the door doesn't lock. Even if she doesn't need to use the potty, Ada comes in to check on me every chance she gets. I know I'm cool and fun and "mommy" and all but there comes a point where I just want a few minutes of peace and quiet all to myself. Our bathroom was that place for me and now I too have to learn to share. Not cool.

And this potty training thing isn't helping in other ways. Our bathroom is already really small. By the time you have Iain's cloth diaper pail, Ada's potty step stool, Iain's diaper covers waiting to be washed, and all of the clothes soaking in the sink that Ada has soiled during various accidents throughout the day, we don't have much room to turn around. Ada had an accident in the kitchen and ended up getting poop on herself and on the leg of my pants somehow. We then dumped her in the shower to wash up. After she refused to stand up and let me rinse her off, I turned off the shower and threw a towel over her while she was still in the empty tub. I thought she would give up and want to get out of the tub, but after half an hour thinking she was with Rick on the couch, I realized she had fallen asleep in the tub under her towel. And, of course, while she was in there sleeping, I had to go to the bathroom. I tried to be quiet about it but she stirred and Rick moved her to her bed, but not until after taking a picture of her passed out in the tub. That's something I expect from a college kid after a good party, not a three-year-old after lunch.

Now I get it. I know why everyone wants a house with two bathrooms. And I get why they want a place with a bedroom for each kid too. It just makes life easier when everyone has their own space.

Moral of the story: "The more the merrier" applies to having bathrooms, too.

Potty Training Weekend

noreply@blogger.com (ay) — Sun, 20 Feb 2011 22:39:00 +0000

Last weekend, Rick declared an all out war on Ada's use of diapers. She's three-years-old and he thought she was ready to use the potty. I wasn't so sure about that but was willing to at least watch him wage war and offer ground support. To my complete surprise, she was ready, but I'm not sure I was.

Potty training can be a lot of work. We started on a weekend knowing that we would both be home and that we had completely cleared our schedules. We rolled up all the rugs, covered the couch and chairs with waterproof tablecloths and reusable hospital bedding pads, and found a potty dance video on the Internet. I spent much of Friday doing all of the laundry so we would have plenty of clothes and towels to clean up any messes made along the way. We had a bag of Pull-Ups in Ada's closet, several pair of underwear in her drawer, and enough elastic waist-banded pants to get us through a few days at least, or so I thought. I didn't really inventory our supplies since I wasn't confident that she was ready or that this was going to work. After all, the experts said she was supposed to tell us when she was going pee pee or poo poo in her diaper and she wasn't. She never told us when she was pooping or poopy, and a soiled diaper never bothered her. Diaper changes were still a big struggle in our house, as was the occasionally bout of constipation which is common among children.

Even though she wasn't showing the typical signs of being "ready", she was interested in watching us use the toilet and she would sit on her little potty and pretend to pee or poop. Occasionally she would have little successes but very rarely and never while pooping. At least she could say pee pee and poop so there was that.

Rick and I didn't really know how to train Ada to use the potty, but we'd heard a method that involved letting her run naked for a few days until she got the hang of it and started using the potty. So that's what we did. She ran naked for two days and understood the urge to pee very quickly. We had her use the big potty from the start since she didn't seem to like her little potty much. And it worked. She was ready, we just didn't know it. Each success brought cheers from Rick and I, and then the potty dance video. We really only had to spend the first morning encouraging her to use the potty and she was pretty well trained as far as peeing on the potty goes.

That first afternoon, I thought it would be good to introduce pants and underwear as a trial. Unfortunately, almost all of the underwear we had was too small. The few pairs we did try got wet pretty quickly. But only a little wet and then Ada realized what she had done and ran to the potty. Rick insisted on two days of naked to make this work so I acquiesced. She was making a lot of progress and at least understood the concept. We were elated... until it came time to poop anyway.

Pooping was a whole different story. Ada has been constipated in the past and doesn't really like to poop for fear that it will hurt. And when she does poop, she doesn't want to be changed since the wipes tend to hurt even though they are "sensitive". She fights diaper changes and doesn't deal well with pooping in general. Not the best scenario for anyone involved. Potty training didn't help matters. She dealt with pooping by just bearing down wherever she was and pooping. If we caught her, we'd swoop her up, run to the potty, hold her hand and encourage her to "put the poopies in the potty". When we didn't, she pooped in the hallway, the living room, and the bathtub. Thank goodness for the tablecloths covering the rug. Unfortunately we didn't notice one incident where she had pooped until it was too late for her furry pink rocking unicorn, which later got a series of serious scrubbings.

In two of my attempts to swoop her up and onto the potty, she fell in. I didn't make a big deal of it and quickly showered her off while mentally chanting "bad mommy" and holding back belly laughs as best I could.

I spent so much time figuring out if she was showing an interest in using the potty that I didn't check to make sure we had enough underwear for her. When Monday finally arrived, Rick got to go shopping for little girls' underwear on his lunch break since we didn't have enough in her current size. What a great dad. He came back with Dora the Explorer and Princess undies for her. She's a lucky girl.

After two days of nakedness, I didn't have a plan for how we were going to get her to wear clothes again. Whenever I tried pants and underwear, she would wet them. I added a PullUp over the underwear and that helped contain the accidents when we went out of the house. But we kept trying.

A week later we were still in training. Maybe there was some truth when people say their kids were potty trained in a day. That wasn't been the case for us. Eventually the training will officially be over. When? I don't know. We'll just have to be prepared to clean up the accidents along the way. We'll get there.

Moral of the story: Potty training is a lot more complicated than it might originally appear. Accept that there will be accidents, be patient and stay positive.

Flying Anxiety

noreply@blogger.com (ay) — Sun, 20 Feb 2011 17:13:00 +0000

I don't consider myself someone who is afraid to fly. Maybe a tiny bit, but not enough to worry about. I don't like to fly, but I'd much rather fly somewhere than drive. That all dates back to my frequent bouts with motion sickness as a kid. I used to throw up on every trip over forty minutes. Not fun. And on airplanes, I threw up on every landing until I was in high school. But this isn't about motion sickness.

My current flying anxiety is about traveling by myself with my pump and frozen breast milk and clothes for the weekend while following the three ounce rule and carrying on my luggage in case I get laid over and have to have access to my pump. Stack all that on top of my herniated cervical disks being on the verge of getting really, really aggravated if I make even the slightest move to set them off--such as lifting said luggage--and I'm a mess. Just researching suggestions for how to manage getting the pump and breast milk through the TSA screening process has me on the verge of tears.

I have to learn to accept that my days of being a pack mule are over. I'm no longer able to pick up anything more than about twenty pounds, and even that can be a stretch. Imagine how I feel with twenty and forty pound kids. There are still times when I have to risk it and pick them up to get them out of the tub, up to the sink, into the crib or into bed after they fell asleep in the car. Sanity ranks higher on my list than having a painful back episode. I don't think you can easily come back once you've gone crazy, whereas a back flare up can be short lived, or at least managed with rest and medication.

Ah. Deep breath.

I've flown before with a pump and milk. I just didn't have to worry about my back...and I borrowed a soft-sided cooler from my in-laws...and it was summer so I didn't have to lug winter gear with me...and I stayed with a friend with a freezer instead of a hotel where I have to either clear out the mini fridge or ask for them to store it in the hotel kitchen. But at least I've done it before. I can do it again. And it will be fun, right?

I don't understand why breast feeding has to make travel and life so difficult. And why someone hasn't already figured out all of this and gotten everyone else on board to make it easier? Motherhood is hard enough as it is. If breast feeding really is better for our children and the experts want more women to nurse their children, then we need to make the entire process more easy, acceptable, and supported as a society.

Moral of the story: Breast feeding is a huge sacrifice as a mother. To be successful, seek out other nursing mothers for support and advice on how to make it manageable.

Three Carrot Noses

noreply@blogger.com (ay) — Thu, 17 Feb 2011 17:10:00 +0000

Ada's first snowman was quite a hit in the neighborhood. During the snowfall a few days after the blizzard, Rick took Ada out to run an errand and returned to say, "Quick! Grab the camera and a carrot." He tagged into the house while I tagged out since Iain was just waking up from his nap and hoping to be saved from his evil crib. Ada was all bundled up waiting in the vestibule for me to document her latest masterpiece. I quickly donned my coat and scarf, grabbed the camera and two carrots, and ran to see what they had made. I handed the carrots to Ada as I steeped outside and looked all around expecting to see some huge snowman under our front tree. Surprisingly, there was no snowman to be found. I asked Ada where it was and she pointed him out. He was tucked into a nook next to the front entry to our building. Standing half her height, her little snowman was in desperate need of some facial features. I went to get the carrot back from Ada, but she had already eaten it. And his back-up carrot was in her mouth. I buzzed the door for Rick to bring carrot reinforcements and he appeared with two almonds too. Ada had already picked out his stick arms so the hard work was done. I added the almonds and carrot to his head and she posed with her new snowman friend (alternate nose in hand).

Moral of the story: Keep extra carrots in the fridge during winter in case your child likes to eat snowman noses.

Snomagedden 2011

noreply@blogger.com (ay) — Thu, 17 Feb 2011 16:54:00 +0000

Earlier this month, on February 2nd, we were blasted by quite the winter storm. All told, we were just shy of two feet of snow in twenty-four hours. It was amazing. So amazing it's being called "Snomagedden" since the city went into emergency mode and virtually shut down. It was deserted and a bit creepy, but beautiful and serene all at once.

Being the snow-loving people that we are, we went to our neighbor's house for a blizzard party the night it started. We took the kids, cosied up to the fire with good food and drinks, and hunkered down with a great third-floor view of the world outside. We spent hours watching traffic fishtail down the main street near our house. We watched as emergency vehicles crawled past on their way to a rescue. We listened to thundersnow for the first time in our lives. And we cheered on dozens of people pushing stuck cars out of their snowy entrapments.

Ada loved being allowed to stay up late and celebrated the blizzard by running up and down the hallway around eleven at night. The neighbors in the unit below our friends didn't really appreciate her method of celebration and came up to complain that we were being too loud. I immediately blamed Ada, but they didn't really care that it was just a tiny little three-year-old having a little fun. She spent the last hour of the party tip-toeing back and forth down the hallway to compensate for her previous thunderous footsteps. It was adorable.

At midnight, we decided to call off the fun and get our kids home to their own beds. We bundled up to walk down three flights of back porch stairs, through snow drifts up to our knees, and up a flight of stairs to our home. Iain wasn't excited about having a blanket tossed over his head but it was that or cold, wet, whipping snow in his face. I thought the blanket was the better option by far. Our friends had to shovel the snow mounds from the stairs just so we could get home. Thankfully we lived that close.

After a warm evening all nestled snug in our beds, we awoke to a snow covered calm on the streets. The street in front of our house was completely impassable with four foot snow drifts stretching the entire block. The sidewalk in front of our condo appeared as if it had been shoveled, but was really just blown clear by the intense winds. I went out to explore a bit before the kids woke up and enjoyed the peacefulness of it all. A quick check of the weather report explained that we still had another big wave of snow heading our way so it was best to stay home. Within just a few hours, we were blanketed with another five or six inches. At that point, I took Ada out just to see how she would react.

Eh, she's not such a big fan of snow whipping up into her face and she didn't really like walking through snow up to her knees. She wanted to hold my hand the whole time so she didn't slip and fall. When I was a kid, all I wanted to do was slip and fall into the snow. That's what made it fun.

Somehow, I coaxed her into the middle of the street to show the drifts. She wasn't very excited about that plan either and quickly insisted we go back inside. So much for our snowbunny adventure.

After seeing these drifts, it was clear to me that we would not be getting our car out of its parking space on the street for a few days. It was in the back corner of a dead end side street that was surely on the bottom of the snowplower's list. With a thousand cars stuck on Lake Shore Drive overnight, the plows had other priorities and us going anywhere in our car wasn't one of them.

The brunt of the storm came between Tuesday night and Wednesday morning. Rick had to get the car out for a Friday morning meeting in the suburbs so he dug it out Thursday night and deemed the street passable. Unfortunately, the maintenance crew for the parking lot at the end of the dead end street we were parked on decided to shovel their snow onto our car sometime during the night. Rick again had to shovel out the car at six in the morning while dressed for a client meeting. And his fun didn't stop there. Once home Friday night, he had to shovel a new spot for the car to be parked in since there weren't any shoveled spots on the street and most cars had yet to be moved. After forty-five minutes of shoveling, he finally had a parking spot fit for a king. It was beautiful. That's what happens when you have a perfectionist digging out the spot. You can imagine, after shoveling parking spaces three times in twenty-four hours, Rick wasn't about to move that car for anything. And he surely wasn't going to let me move it the next day (I took a cab). From now on, if a blizzard is predicted in the city, we will hide our car in a covered parking structure with an entrance on a main city artery so we can get to it if we need to.

Moral of the story: Snowstorms are a time for being patient, helping others, and having fun. Be prepared to stay put for a few days and stay safe.