I Just Wanna Know Why

My children were born nearly three years apart. My daughter is just older enough to mother (translation: boss) her little brother around. My son is just younger enough… Let’s face it, he’s a rascal!

Sometimes it’s difficult to remember the different stages of development with this age gap. You know, like the inquisitive stage, where youngsters constantly ask the question “why?” My nearly 6-year-old son currently fits comfortably in this category.

Each day we start off with a new slate and a new slew of questions, some hurled one after another at me like the constant fire of a machine gun. So fast, in fact, it’s nearly impossible to keep up and I simply stagger under the barrage.

Why is there frost on the grass? Why is sissy crying? Why do I have to wear a seat belt? As the day wears on, my patience tends to wear out. Why? Why? WHY?

“BECAUSE I SAID SO!” I say, grimacing under the weight of this oft-used, time-worn parental response to another of my son’s innocent inquiries.

I feel worse when my little cutie pie adds with widened eyes, “But, I just wanna know why, mommy.”

Ask me again tomorrow, son, ask me again tomorrow. 

written for http://blog.sacramentoparent.com

We Are Santa's Elves

Nothing like a major holiday to add one more thing to the parenting plate!

Already we are moms or dads, chauffeurs, chefs, economists, stylists and personal assistants. Bless those single parents who juggle dual roles as mother and father.

Sure there’s the stress of shopping and cooking, but holidays such as Christmas take our parental duties to the next level - one filled with imagination and magic!

My third-grade daughter asked the other day whether Santa Claus was real. The stock answer my husband and I give to inquiries such as these is: “If you believe it, it’s real.” But when your child tells you all her classmates think the bearded one is a fake, you have to work a little harder.

We have tried to make holidays and losing one’s teeth special ever since our kids have been old enough to appreciate morning surprises such as full stockings, overflowing baskets and a shiny new coin. We eat the cookies and drink the milk, put green food coloring in the toilet (those naughty leprechauns!), toss a trail of plastic grass and sprinkle fairy dust. This is the fun part of being a parent!

Each year it seems my husband and I have done something different to step it up. One Christmas morning, our daughter woke up to colorful lights adorning her vanity mirror. Another year, our kids found dozens of stuffed animals circled around the tree. And now they look forward to decorating the tiny trees they found in their room upon waking one holiday morning.

I was delighted when I ran into my friend Viv at the neighborhood grocery store, who told me about and later forwarded me the link to this free website portablenorthpole.tv/home. Parents simply send a photo and some information to the site and, in turn, get a very realistic and personalized message to their child directly from Santa. The results are amazing and we can’t wait to try it for ourselves!

Ho ho ho.
Ho ho ho.
We are Santa’s elves. 

written for http://blog.sacramentoparent.com 

A Little Perspective

“…you know what I’m craving? A little perspective. That’s it. I’d like some fresh, clear, well seasoned perspective.”

-RATATOUILLE (2007)

Some people quote literature, others classic films, but me? I like to quote animated Disney movies meant for children.

This past week I caught myself referring to the movie RATATOUILLE on three separate occasions, specifically the line: “A little perspective.”

As people, parents and partners, we often get wrapped up in the little dramas of everyday life. Criticizing others and the world around us comes too easy. C’mon, who hasn’t had a word or two to say about Tiger Woods?

We could all use a little perspective.

In recent years the winter months have kind of been a struggle for me. I like to blame it on seasonal affective disorder, a type of depression caused by darker days and not enough sunshine. But, honestly, sometimes life can just get overwhelming what with holiday preparations and everything else that gets tossed our way.

This year, I gave myself an early gift. I got myself some perspective.

A child almost dies, a couple divorces and a friend balances close to losing their home to foreclosure. Nothing like putting yourself in someone else’s shoes, to gain some “perspective.”

So fond of this newfound perspective, I find myself sharing the concept with others (hence the referrals to RATATOUILLE). Times are tough for many, for so many different reasons, do we really want to dwell on the negative?

Today, I am thankful for my beautiful children, my supportive husband and the roof over my head. These blessings are so much more important than all the other things that swirl around us and distract us on a daily basis.

I choose to have perspective.

written for http://blog.sacramentoparent.com

What Was Your Favorite Part Of Today?

The other night I crawled into my daughter’s bed, put my arm around her and did something I haven’t done in awhile. A little something that had been part of our bedtime routine for years until my ailing father came to live with us and displaced my daughter from her own Tinkerbell room to share one with her younger brother.

“What was your favorite part of today?” I whispered into the dark.

“Seeing Calista,” she answered with a smile in her voice. “And ‘Mr. Fox’.”

We held each other close as together we listed our favorite daughter, favorite mommy, favorite brother, and favorite daddy. This is something we used to do every night when I put Barcelona to bed, when her younger brother still slept in her old crib. A routine set aside when my parenting role unexpectedly extended to caring for my daughter’s grandfather.

Things do not come easy for my little girl. She walked late, talked late, and now struggles with school work. In the past, asking my daughter her favorite part of the day became a touchstone for both of us, a single moment each day when everything else fell away and we reveled in what brought us joy.

Earlier in the day, someone made my daughter cry. Don’t get me wrong, the kid is no stranger to tears. A sharp word, a troublesome brother, a playmate at school, and math homework have made my daughter cry and likely will again. But today it was an adult, someone I would expect to be a friend to children and, more importantly, to mine.

When I turned off my daughter’s light that night and crawled into her bed, I took a chance asking about the day. (More recently she has tended to dwell on the negative.) It crossed my mind that perhaps, by not asking her “favorite part” of the day these past months, I have not allowed my daughter to erase those things, both challenging and hurtful, from her mind.

So we rediscovered our touchstone together, a moment in time to share what makes us happy and to open the door to sweet dreams.

written for http://blog.sacramentoparent.com

There Is Something About Family...

While growing up I lived with my mom, making occasional visits to Phoenix, Ariz. to see my dad. When I was younger, the age my kids are now, I usually stayed at my grandmother's home.

The family recently took a trip to the Southwest, where we visited my dad and grandmother (pictured here with the kids). My dad and I even drove by the old family home. It looks the same, with a fresh coat of paint.

A lot of time has gone by. A lot of memories. I tried to share some of those with Barcelona and Berkeley.

Lazy, Hazy Days of Summer

Why must we fill our days with activities

I remember long, lazy summers growing up.

My days were spent walking barefoot, playing with friends, and countless adventures fueled by my own imagination and the freedom to roam at will. I spent one summer as a teenager at Bible camp, but for the most part my three months off from school I was home or hanging out in the neighborhood.

As Barcelona wrapped up her first year of grade school, I found myself chatting with other moms about how we planned to spend the summer break. My approach was simple: A week at the coast, swimming at the pool pool, free family films at the Natomas Marketplace movie theater, play dates with friends, and a few family day trips.

When I posed the same question to my peers, I found myself bombarded with lists of preplanned activities designed to occupy every spare minute of their children's' two-month break from school. Bible School – twice. Gymnastics camp. Soccer. Swim lessons – twice. Summer school. Art camp.

Due to poor planning on my part, I booked our trip to the coast during the one week my children normally attend a neighborhood Bible school program. But that was only one week out of the eight. I considered swim lessons, but the idea of having to be somewhere everyday for two weeks did not appeal to me.

And I began to wonder, was I being a good mom? Should I have signed my two children up for a bevy of activities to fill their summer days? Truth be told, I started to feel more than a little inadequate.

That was until I talked to my own mom, who lives a mere 10 minutes from us. She quickly poo-pooed the idea my children would not be doing enough.

“They only have two months off,” she reminded me.

So while many of my kids' friends were at Bible camp, our family was hanging out in a speck of a town on the Mendocino coast called Anchor Bay. We took hikes as a family and spent hours on the beach where we collected shells and played in the sand. I pretended to read a novel, but mostly I enjoyed the quiet the comes with not being in the city.

When we returned to Sacramento, many of the children we knew were on their way to a second Bible school camp. We instead donned our swim suits and the children practiced swimming and made water footprints on the hot cement. My little ones picked blackberries and nectarines in our own backyard, filling their tummies with sweet, homegrown fruit. I made juicy cobblers and froze the extras for later. My son played dragons and my daughter filled pages with her colorful artwork.

Above all, we enjoyed the time spent together. We relished not having to jump out of bed every morning and rush out the door to be somewhere else. My children grew stronger from chasing each other in the yard, climbing the furniture, and eating a lot of freshgrown food. Our skin got tan, our hair a little messy, our hearts full of love for each other.

In the end, it was better for my children to have some long, lazy summer days to do what they do best – be children. There will be plenty of time for the rest.

Parent Tales Column ~ August 2007

Potty Talk

Get a group of moms together and inevitably the conversation will turn to a handful of ever popular parenting topics. For some unexplainable reason, us women cannot talk enough about our birth stories, breastfeeding woes, sleep deprivation, and potty training adventures.

It's no wonder these topics are consistent fodder for parenting magazines. After all, someone is always having a baby, most women give breastfeeding a try, and by the time our kids get to kindergarten they should be both sleeping through the night and toilet trained.

My admiration goes out to those moms who diligently teach their offspring how to the use the toilet at an early age. One gal I know had each of her children trained earlier than the previous one. Her third child was pooping on a baby potty months before she turned 1 year old thanks to the concept of "elimination communication." Elimination communication is a when parents tune into their individual child's body language and pre talking sounds to know when to place said infant on a toilet. Talk about dedication!

I have met more than one mom who swears by this technique, but personally I prefer the path of least resistance and anyone who has children knows potty training is met with resistance more often than it is not. Like eating and sleeping, whether or not to go potty on the toilet is one of the few things children can control.

For those of who chose not to go the elimination communication route, there are countless parenting books which tout the importance of several cues when it is the “right time” to tackle potty training. Some say little ones who stay dry through their naps are ready. Others will tell you a child able to communicate their need to go can be trained, whether it is with spoken words or sign language. Theories vary with each child and, truth be told, successful toilet training depends on the demeanor of the child and their parents.

I ventured into toilet training Barcelona like someone dipping their toe in a swimming pool before diving into the freezing water. My daughter was about two years old and attending an in-home preschool when I first put her in training pants. I asked her frequently whether she needed to go, but she always shook her head and not long after she would be wet – or worse – and in need of a change.

We potty trained like this off and on for a few months when I decided potty training was not a task I could tackle along with morning sickness. After all, I had read somewhere, children can regress and have accidents upon the arrival of a sibling. So I decided to wait until after Berkeley was born to try toilet training again.

Our family had become the proud owners of a carpet cleaner and Barcelona's fourth birthday loomed on the horizon when I decided to revisit potty training. I vividly remember a four-day weekend during which my husband and I ran our daughter to the toilet, took turns steam cleaning the carpet – and couch – and changing our kid's clothes again and again. At some point we stopped putting any clothes on her and then we were done. I held my breath during our first official outing on day five, and Barcelona held her bladder.

With Berkeley I had hoped he would be inspired by his older sister and toilet train on his own. After all, some of my friends' children had done it! But, alas, my son was not motivated by seeing his sister sit on the toilet. When it became apparent Berkeley would not train himself, I copied another one of my friends and offered to buy my son a “big boy” bed if he used the potty instead of diapers. “No big boy bed!” was his adamant response. I tried rewarding my son with M&Ms, but that only worked until later the same day when I found he had climbed up to the kitchen counter and eaten every candy on the sly.

One day I went to the store and stocked up on several pairs of cartoon character covered underwear. But the possibility of wearing Nemo, Lightning McQueen and Spider Man on his bottom did not delight my son the way it did other little boys we knew. A few months later, I drove to the IKEA store in West Sacramento for the express purpose of buying a large stuffed dragon which I told Berkeley he could have when he went on the potty and no longer wore diapers. The thing gathered dust atop the wardrobe in Berkeley's room as he continued to shun the toilet.

Then, one day when my kids were taking a bath together, Berkeley climbed out of the tub and sat on the toilet. After that I would ask him if he needed to go whenever I changed his diaper, sometimes he did and sometimes he did not. I reintroduced the reward system and started giving him chocolate chips for his positive trips to the potty.

Something shifted in my son and one day his preschool teacher suggested going to the bathroom, like she always did, but this time he ran in there “like it was no big deal,” to quote Miss Dina. Suddenly, Berkeley started talking about chocolate and when he would get to play with his dragon. Since we do not have four solid days to stay homebound, I know the potty training process will not be complete overnight. But as Barcelona would say, “Berkeley, I'm so proud of you.”

Now, if only I could get him to stop saying the word “poop."

Parent Tales Column ~ July 2007

The Secret Language

Every home has its own lingo

My home is multilingual.

Oh, it's not what you are thinking... My family of four do not converse with each other in a lyrical foreign tongue, we speak a language of our own making.

I am certain an evening in our abode would make a linguistics aficionado's head spin like that poor girl in “The Omen.” For our little language lacks structure and there are no grammatical rules to dictate how we speak to each other.

I blame it on the children.

My husband, Bill, and I started this odd talk after the arrival of our first born. We never did speak the stereotypical baby talk – think goo goo, ga ga, ba ba – to Barcelona. But almost as soon as we brought her home, we started to call her everything but her given name. First, we called her Boo Boo, but this became confused with my own identical nickname. So we switched to Little Boo and eventually settled on the shortened version: Boo.

Before Barcelona found her own voice, Bill and I communicated with her using baby sign language. After she started to talk to us, we incorporated her little Boo-isms into our own language. One overnight trip to the San Francisco Bay Area, we booked a hotel room. For some reason Barcelona translated “hotel” to “hotower” and the word stuck. When discussing up a recent trip to Disneyland, both my husband and I could be heard talking up the hotower where we would be staying. I am sure anyone eavesdropping on these conversations would wonder whether our accommodations were real or imaginary.

When Berkeley came along three years ago, we started off calling him Baby Brother. Somehow that moniker evolved and now we often refer to our family's youngest member as Turkey. You would have to ask my husband to explain this one, but I suspect it has something to do with my son's mischievous nature as in “He's such a little turkey!”

Berkeley's translations of words are typical of most children's language development. There is “bapple” for apple, “biper” for diaper, and “pider” for spider. Funny thing, though, the grownups at our house can be heard using these same interpretations in our everyday conversations with each other. I am just as likely to ask if anyone wants bapples with their peanut butter and jelly sandwich as the kids are to request them. The other day I was a little shocked when I asked Berkeley if he wanted a bapple and it was my preschooler who corrected me.

“No bapple, mommy.”

“No?”

“No, I want apple.”

I was equally surprised the time I overheard a dispute between my two youngsters. When Berkeley started to talk, we taught him to say “sissy” instead of Barcelona. He still uses sissy when he speaks to her, when he is looking for her, and when he is tattling on her. But one day while they squabbled, I was shocked to hear my son say “Barcelona.” For some reason I mistakingly assumed he did not know his own sister's name. They grow up so fast – sigh.

Then there is the way I talk to my children. There are times I question my college degree in communication. Instead I sound like a military sargeant barking out orders or someone just a little on the side of crazy when I say things like “Take the dinosaur out of your mouth!”

Children have selective hearing when it comes to their parents and for this reasons I can often be heard repeating the same command over and over again. I can be heard saying “go go go” when the children are dawdling, “no.... No... NO!” when they are being naughty, and several other variations all equally aggressive. Sometimes I cringe when I hear my voice say the same word over and over again like a broken record.

Yes, there is something about having children that changed the way my husband and I talk. We refer to our children by their pet names, we incorporate their made-up words into our own language, and we say things we never could have imagined -- “Don't lick daddy's feet!”

My solace is the knowledge other families are also multilingual. They say things that sound a little weird to outsiders and often have to repeat themselves. For this is the language of parenthood.

Parent Tales Column ~ June 2007

Reflections of Motherhood

On friendship, magic and cherishing the moment

I was chatting with a friend this afternoon, comparing busy schedules and our desire to do something more with our time, when she leaned forward and said, one mom to another:

“I completely understand. After all, we would not be doing any of these things if we did not have children.”

Her statement, an epiphany of sorts for me, was so obvious, I resisted the overwhelming urge to smack myself in the forehead with the flat palm of my hand. Duh!

Volunteering in the classroom, shuttling from Daisy meetings to horseback riding lessons to gymnastics classes, memberships with MOMS Club and Mothers of Preschoolers, the babysitting exchange; I would not orbit from one to the other and back again if it were not for my children. And my plane of existence likely would not include writing assignments about education policy, parenting issues – this very column, for that matter!

When I first joined mother's groups and signed up for the SacramentoMommas.Com online chat board, I did so to meet other women. Women who had children. Women like me.

Over the years I have maintained wonderful relationships with girlfriends from high school, those I met at the women's college I attended, writing groups, and past jobs. After I gave birth to my first child, I still craved the company of women, but at the time I felt something was missing from all those B.C. (before children) relationships.

Six years later I understand each friend – whether it's someone I met 20 years ago or just last week – brings something special to my life table. I hold on tight to the notion friendships are for a reason, a season, or a lifetime, and look for the value in each.

With spring showers, come May flowers and Mother's Day. This is the time of year I catch myself reflecting on my station in life as mother to Barcelona, nearly 6, and Berkeley, 3. After all, I gave birth to my first born just days before this annual holiday and found out I was pregnant the second time just two years later. For this reason, Mother's Day is more than a Hallmark holiday for me, it is a day which marks a significant transition in my life.

I find myself doing things now, my high school self would have never imagined! For one, I became a card carrying stay-at-home-mom when I decided to try to write from home. Also, I am technically just a minivan shy of being the quintessential soccer mom. Not to mention the daily cuddle sessions with my offspring and all the magical touches I try to incorporate in their lives.

Last month, I was playing Easter Bunny late one night when I asked my husband, “Would it really bug you if I sprinkled Easter grass on the floor?” This to the man who earlier that same day had vacuumed and scrubbed said floor surface. When he nodded, I asked, “Can I do it anyway?” Then clapped my hands happily when he nodded again.

I assembled the kids' Easter baskets and set them on the family room coffee table then proceeded to create a grass trail from the table back to the front door. I tried to feign surprise the next morning when my daughter discovered the grass and ran through the house to tell her little brother, “Berkeley, the Easter bunny came last night! Do you want to come see?”

The magic is the Easter grass, colored eggs, silver coins underneath pillows, mini Christmas trees left decorated in my children's rooms, and their stuffed animals circled around the tree with piles of gifts on Christmas morning... One of the best things about being a mom is reinforcing their childlike wonder and I loath the day my children stop believing in the Easter bunny, tooth fairy, Santa Claus, and worse yet, in everything I may say to them.

I know real challenges of parenthood loom on the horizon. After every sunset, the sun will rise again and bring with it another day. My children will continue to grow and evolve.

In the coming years, I expect to log many more miles driving my kids from place to place and later I expect to wait up once they are – God forbid! – driving themselves. I would be surprised if my children did homework and chores without being asked repeatedly to perform these tasks. And I do not doubt there will be the dreaded “sex talk” as well as tangles over shaving, make up, dating and curfews with both children.

This Mother's Day I resist imagining my children as their future selves. Today they are still so small and fit so easily within my arms. I fight the urge to hold them tighter in an effort to fend off the inevitable. Instead, I focus on the knowledge there is a reason to enjoy this very season. I may not always be my children's best friend, but for a lifetime I will be their mom.

Parent Tales Column ~ May 2007

It Takes a Village

The business of childhood is learning

The African proverb “It takes a village to raise a child” appeared to be everywhere in popular culture almost as soon as Senator Hillary Rodham Clinton used it for the basis of a book by the same name published in 1996. I never realized the validity of these words until my own daughter started kindergarten 10 years later.

My husband and I were among the dozens of parents who turned out for that seasonably warm first day of school. Even those with older children, already kindergarten “veterans,” walked their children to Mr. Turner's classroom door and stood huddled together in anticipation.

The call for parent volunteers went out immediately in the form of a sign up sheet posted on the outside wall next to the door. I never imagined myself in the role of “class mom” even after I had children and decided to write from home.

But on that first day, after most parents finally kissed their little ones farewell, I stayed behind. Those first 3 ｽ hours of school were filled with more than 20 children going about the business of being official kindergarteners. There was some dancing to get the wiggles out, there was a story to ease their minds about the first day of school, and there were projects, projects and more projects.

This is where the parent helpers were to come in handy.

Everyday in Barcelona's class, there is an hour or more dedicated to what has been dubbed “workshop” time. It is during this period when children rotate between four to five different stations to work on everything from writing their letters to reading to creating art to performing scientific experiments. At times, the children perform these necessary tasks with the precision of well-tuned machinery. At other times, chaos reigns supreme as they struggle to stay on task.

I volunteered more than once that first week of school in part due to my own separation anxiety, but mostly to aid Mr. Turner and his teaching partner with the daily juggling of active learning. Finally, another mom and I agreed to take turns watching our younger offspring so the other could volunteer in the classroom only once a week (something I was happy to sign up to do after that exhaustive first few days).

It was surprising how quickly I learned the names and faces of all the 22 kindergarteners in my daughter's class. It probably didn't hurt I already knew a few from preschool. Each child presented a unique personality from the offset and each brought with them to kindergarten some strengths – as well as a few weaknesses.

I remember early on in the school year when one particularly advanced child turned to her peer and asked, “How old are you anyway?”

The quiet girl replied somewhat timidly, “I'm 6 years old.”

“Then why are you scribbling?” asked the girl who carefully colored within the lines on the page in front of her.

I was appalled, but truth be told I was also surprised how much the some children struggled to hold crayons and scissors while others already appeared to be masters of these skills, a few of them already budding artists. I quickly assured both girls they were doing their projects correctly and later slunk over to Mr. Turner for advice. How much should a parent volunteer say or do in these situations? I asked.

Six months later, my child volunteered me to work the dreaded workbook table where children practice writing upper case and lower case letters and try their hand at sounding out and writing down words. One of the students, who started the school year not speaking much English, was among the group of children still writing down only the starting sounds of the words. At Mr. Turner's encouragement, I asked this student to sound out word one word, then another until he completed both pages in his workbook.

I probably could not have been more excited if it had been my own child and I was bubbling over all day as a result!

There is no question in my that mind teachers are people who answer a special calling. Their ability to instruct a group of children – with learning styles and abilities at opposite ends of the spectrum – continues to amaze me. And the patience with which they handle the occasional unruly child and classroom dispute is also admirable as I myself struggle daily with two of own bickering children at home.

At the same time I realize what an important role parents play in the learning process. Those of us who are lucky enough to help in the classroom and those who make time to sit down and do assignments with our children at home have front-row seats. We can applaud all the children's accomplishments, for we are part of the village it takes to raise a child – not just our own.

Parent Tales Column ~ April 2007

The Changeable Child

Nothing stays the same where kids are concerned

As soon as we announced we were pregnant with our first child, people were quick to enlighten my husband and I with: “A baby will completely change your lives.”

To this oft-heard quip, I resisted the urge to reply, “Duh!” I mean, really, how would a person not know that becoming a parent is a life-changing event? Instead, they should have said, “Enjoy each moment because children are always changing.”

I mean always changing.

These transitions start very early on. I remember when I first started to distinguish the different sounds my first born made. There was one to eat, there was one for a dirty diaper, and there was one – a cute little high pitched squeal – which translated “come pick me up, Mommy!”

With my son, I recall how during a visit from out-of-town family he slept through each night of their stay. “Finally,” I thought to myself, “I can get some sleep.” That all changed the day (or should I say night?) my inlaws left and the little guy switched right back to wanting those two early-morning feedings I so hoped he had outgrown.

Nearly all the changes I have witness in my children are positive and mark exciting new milestones. The more they talk, the more physically daring they become, how they play with each other, what they like to draw with crayons... These things come with each day as my son and daughter grow into their unique selves.

But I do not welcome all aspects of their growth with open arms.

Sibling rivalry, for one, is just something I do not get. As an only child growing up I always yearned for a brother or sister with whom to play. Now, as my children bicker over everything from who gets to turn off the television to who can get out of the car first, I can actually feel my hair graying.

The other day I was talking to a woman whose daughter and son are a few years older than my own. When my little ones started tousling over who could open the door to leave, I asked over my shoulder, “Tell me: is this what I have to look forward to the rest of my life?”

My friend laughed. “Oh, yes, just this morning my daughter complained her brother was looking at her.” The horror!

My husband, one of four boys, is adamant we do not allow the bickering and teasing which comes with sibling territory to go unchecked. And I agree, for the simple fact I cannot bear to listen to it.

I choose not to ignore the wailing and accusations of “Mommy, sissy not nice,” but rather I have started to lay down the law. Unless one of them does something glaringly wrong – like hit the other – I am resolved not to pick sides. Thankfully, the threat of being sent to their rooms, where there is no one else to play with, still carries enough weight in my house to work. Most of the time.

Another change for which I was ill prepared was my daughter's recent shift from sweet little girl to sassy kindergartener. Seemingly overnight she started picking battles with me whenever I ask her to do something. Lately, I am faced with resistance whether I tell her to get dressed, pick up toys or go to the bathroom before we head out to school.

Each encounter plays out pretty much the same way. I say something like, “Sissy, in 10 minutes we have to get ready to go to school so please help clean up the toys.” Her response almost always starts with her little arms crossed “that's not fair,” she “doesn't like (getting dressed, picking up toys, going to the bathroom – fill in the blank),” topped off with a rousing “I'm not going to marry you anymore!”

I have tempered my response to these outbursts because I do not believe a negative reaction on my part will change the behaviour. My husband, my mother, and even my daughter's kindergarten teacher have spoken to her about “being nice to Mommy.” Just the other day I overheard one of these conversations while I was preparing dinner, when my daughter confessed “I don't know how.”

These words would have broken my heart if not spoken so candidly by my own offspring. Who among us has not experienced moments when our mouths say something before we have thought it through? I know I am guilty of both saying and doing things I later regret, but am unsure how to make amends.

I trust our pediatrician's diagnosis which is my daughter is testing her boundaries. Perhaps she wants to make sure I will love her no matter what, much like the little girl in the book I read to her “Mama do you love me?” by Barbara Joosse. I am still trying to figure out the best way to let my daughter express her frustrations while still being respectful, but I know once I do something else will change and I with it.

In the meantime, when these battles start to weigh me down, I remind myself I am facing the same little girl who is just as quick to tell me I am her “best Mommy ever” as she is to pick a fight. This is the same little girl who likes to give me nose kisses. And I love her.

Parent Tales Column ~ March 2007

The First Step

The End of Babyhood Starts at the Preschool Door

Not so long ago I picked Berkeley up from the St. Francis Parish nursery. After signing him out, I was handed a blue piece of construction paper covered in a pattern of lines drawn with colored pens.

“Berkeley was really into this today,” said Carole, the nursery coordinator.

My son's caregiver explained the little ones in the nursery worked with stencils that day and my son, in particular, spent a lot of time on his “project”. She pointed to areas on the page which alluded to possible designs, telling me these were from tracing stencils.

“He starts preschool tomorrow,” I said with a resigned sigh. “He turns 3 years old in a few days.”

Carole offered her mother-to-mother condolences and gave me a hug of reassurance. Even though our family had been talking about Berkeley starting preschool for several days at that point, the reality he was no longer a baby was not a concept I was quite ready to embrace.

My daughter started her preschool career on the earlier side. Barcelona was only 2 years old and a few months on her first day.

The decision to enroll my first born in preschool at this age was influenced by several factors. A child development specialist suggested she would benefit from peer modeling when it came to her speech and gross motor development. I was also pregnant with her little brother and decided I did not want his arrival to be associated with the start of preschool. The fact we already knew most of the other children in the class did not hurt either.

Within a month of starting preschool Barcelona's use of sign language started to give way to spoken words. As the only girl in her class at the time, she was physically challenged to keep up with all the boys though, thankfully, they refrained from wrestling her as they did each other.

By the time Berkeley was born five months later, Barcelona had graduated to a big girl bed and could say “baby brother” clearly when referring to our newest family member. She was only 2 ½ years old at the time.

Flash forward to the night before Berkeley's first day of school... Whenever one of us in the family asked him whether he was ready for preschool, he said without pause, shaking his head, “No, not yet.”

“What about tomorrow?” We inquired.

“Yes, tomorrow.” And he continued playing with his sister unconcerned with the fact we had broached the topic of his passage from toddler to preschooler.

The next morning I remembered to put Barcelona's backpack in the car, but forgot his – probably in a subconscious attempt to delay the inevitable. After we dropped his sister off at school, I told Berkeley we would have to swing back by the house to get his backpack.

“What happened? Mommy lost it?” Asked my little guy, clearly lacking confidence of his mother to keep track of his Nemo backpack.

“No, no, mommy just forgot it,” I said, referring to myself in third person the way most parents find themselves doing when conversing with their children.

Berkeley accepted this answer in silence and lifted his window shade to get a better view of the neighborhood whizzing by him at a mere 25 mph. He sat in the same car seat as his sister had before him, clearly unfazed by the fate facing him, while I thought waxed nostalgic.

On the way to preschool, I tried to remind Berkeley of his new teacher's name. But instead of practicing “Miss Dina” my munchkin repeated “Dina dude” and “teacher dude” to my chagrin. I could thank his older sister for bringing that particular vocabulary word home with her from kindergarten and worried, though briefly, what kind of impression this would make on my son's new classmates.

When the two of us pulled up to the preschool I immediately recognized one of the moms making a drop off of her own. Our daughter had taken dance classes together when our boys were much smaller. Her presence comforted me and I started to feel excited about Berkeley's new journey.

Ever the big boy, Berkeley pulled his wheeled backpack behind him as we walked up the path to the school door where he briefly hesitated before crossing the threshold. Once inside, my son surveyed the room and before I knew it had removed both his Stride Rites and quickly made his way over to the toy bulldozers. Berkeley's new teacher gave a little chuckle at the ease with which he made the transition.

I showed Berkeley his cubby where he placed his shoes and I tucked in his backpack. After Miss Dina and I reviewed the necessary paperwork, we looked over at Berkeley who had since reunited with the bulldozers.

“I think he will be OK,” I told her with a resigned tone and a slight shrug of my shoulders.

“I think so,” she agreed with a nod. I tried not to look back on my way out the door, but turned around to steal a quick kiss from my little guy before sneaking out the door.

Parent Tales Column ~ February 2007

The Love of Books

Passing the passion for reading down to kids

A couple nights ago I found myself among a group of women talking about books. Literature was the topic of choice and not by chance; the gathering was that of a book club.

The air was filled with overlapping voices as we discussed the dark novel most had read prior to the meeting, the first after an unplanned hiatus. I was excited for the evening out with my peers and for the excuse to have read a book more than 300 pages long which was not considered “chick lit.”

As a stay-at-home mother of two young children, I find my lifelong passion for literature has taken a backseat and been reduced to reading the “People” column on page A2 in our daily newspaper and snippets from the monthly periodicals I subscribe to about parenting, housekeeping and scrapbooking. I am forced to read these bit by bit, often falling behind, leaving me with a pile of half-read magazines destined for the recycle bin.

Being invited to this book club meeting forced me to read something out of my self-imposed comfort zone and pick up a thought provoking book and embrace, if only for a couple of days, one of my favorite past times prior to having children.

For as long as I can remember, I loved to read. Good thing, too, because there were several years growing up my mother and I lived without a car or a television. As a child I had an active imagination fueled by a voracious appetite for the written word.

In our single-income household, books were a luxury we could rarely afford. My mother and I were library card carriers in nearly every city we lived. I remember when we lived in Hilo, Hawaii, where the nearest library was a bus ride and a long walk from where we lived. To satisfy my literary thirst, I frequented my middle school library and often strolled home with arms loaded down by books.

I developed a penchant for bookstores during my teen years; I loved to walk among the stacks browsing titles and sneaking peeks in tomes a little mature for my age. Later, while my husband and I were still dating, we would often spend time together at bookstores and even now, often times a night out together ends with a stop at one in our neighborhood.

Growing up, I considered books special gifts. Those that sparked my imagination and had me dreaming of becoming a writer were some of my most prized possessions. Today my bookshelves are still home to titles such as “Charlotte's Web,” the Little House and Narnia books, “The Pigman,” “Island of the Blue Dolphin,” “The Grapes of Wrath”...

As a mom, one of the ways I like to spoil my children is by buying them books. Thanks to two neighborhood bookstores, school book orders, and annual sales at the Scholastic Books warehouse here in town, I have ample opportunities to pick up new titles for Barcelona and Berkeley.

A few months ago, my kindergartener started selecting and checking out books from her school library. She gravitates toward non-fiction titles about the planets, sodium and stars; she picks these books because she wants to be a doctor when she grows up.

My youngest has finally slowed down long enough to sit down with a book. He likes to look for hidden pictures in his cardboard books. A new lift-the-flap book about dragons is one of his favorites.

Both my children have small bookshelves in their rooms overflowing with titles. Thanks to their parents and my mother, who now works as a school librarian, Barcelona and Berkeley have a wonderful collection of fiction and non fiction at their finger tips. It is such a delight for me when I catch them reading to themselves and I am eager for them to really appreciate these books for the words as much as the pictures.

Just recently, my husband started reading chapter books to Barcelona. He started with “The Hundred Dresses” and is now reading “Charlotte’s Web's” -- both classic tales about acceptance and friendship. My daughter listens to her father with rapt attention, absorbing these stories and declaring her disappointment when he finishes a chapter and it is time to go to bed.

Barcelona likes to sleep with the books she is fond of tucked behind her pillow. Some mornings, when the day has barely started, I can hear her in her room reciting these stories to herself. I have taken my daughter's lead and put a couple of indestructible titles in Berkeley's crib for him to look at on those days he is awake before the rest of us.

I know it is only a matter of months before my daughter will learn how to read on her own and her brother is sure to follow suit. Will Barcelona and Berkeley both love the written word as much as their mother? Will they one day sit with friends and talk about the latest best seller? More importantly, will books open the doors to my children's imagination and inspire them to dream?

This is my hope for them.

Parent Tales Column ~ December 2006

Our Happiest Place

For this family, Disneyland never gets old

I do not remember my first visit to Disneyland. From all accounts it was with my then still married parents and I was a toddler. For years, the only proof of this amusement park foray was a partially used ticket book my mother kept tucked away in the family cedar chest.

The first time I clearly remember going to “the happiest place on Earth” I was about 9 years old and on an early summer road trip from Ashland, Ore. to Phoenix, Ariz. with my mom. Disneyland was just one of several stops along the way.

My next visit to Anaheim, the summer I turned 16, made a lasting impression on me. I had one of those Kodak disc cameras which I used to document my days at Disneyland. The photographs from that trip are not the best quality, but my memories of lazy days riding the PeopleMover with friends still linger two decades later.

Suffice it to say, I really love going to Disneyland and I was lucky to meet and marry a man who also shares my affinity for the theme park. We took our first trip together to Disneyland one summer while I was on break from college and we visited a couple times after that, despite meager finances, thanks to a friend who worked for an affiliated company and was able to get us into the park for free.

We took several years off while school, careers and our relationship took priority. During that time, most of our travel was international and we relished it! Then we started a family.

Barcelona was barely a year old when my husband had to be in Anaheim for a work-related convention. My daughter and I tagged along and we built a mini-vacation around his business trip. Some people may not believe this, but Barcelona seemed to enjoy it as much as we did. She posed unafraid with the larger-than-life characters, ate her very first ice cream, and happily spinning around and around on the Mad Tea Party ride. We also celebrated a major developmental milestone when our little one crawled for the very first time across the floor of our room at the Sheraton.

The following spring, we decided to make an annual trek to Disneyland one of our family traditions and spent Barcelona's second birthday at the park. True, she acted more shy around Winnie-the-Pooh and his friends than she had the previous year, but she still loved riding those tea cups! Barely pregnant at the time with my son Berkeley, I braved morning sickness and fatigue to visit our family's favorite vacation spot.

The arrival of little Berkeley less than a year later pushed back our annual trip and we didn't make it to the park again until November. Disneyland was gussied up for the holidays with colorful lights, Christmas trees and faux snow flurries following the fireworks show. Berkeley, like his sister before him, approached this make believe world unafraid and for the third year in a row, we had the resident artist on Main Street cut our daughter's silhouette portrait – this time with our son, too.

The following year was a difficult one for our family and a trip to the Magical Kingdom was not in the cards for us until earlier this year, some 18 months later. Now people may consider us a little loopy for wanting to spend precious vacation time ensconced in one of our country's largest trappings of tourism. And I admit there are times I imagine our family would be better served by expanding our cultural horizons past those defined by popular animated films.

The reality is, we are the parents of two young children, and for us a trip to Disneyland is much like one to a foreign country. But unlike the overseas jaunts of our childless days, the theme park is familiar country for us. We know the lay of the land, speak the language, and do not have to worry about getting a good exchange rate for our dollar.

I write this column fresh on the heels of our second trip to Disneyland in less than a year. My husband calls it “making up time” and even the difference from our visit six short months ago is amazing. Our daughter definitely has her preferences when it comes to rides and she now poses for photos with her favorite princesses and conducts pin trades with the newfound confidence of a kindergartener.

At 2-1/2 years old, our son also has his own ideas what rides he considers fun and is talking in complete sentences. Imagine a little toddler voice his worry about the Anaheim mass transit system – repeatedly – when my husband and I decided to drive our car one day.

“Why we not take the bus? What happened? It broken?”

Truth be told, the more time the four of us spend as a family at Disneyland is more time spent in touch with our own youth. Days and nights are carefree and fun; the smiles on the faces of Barcelona and Berkeley forever priceless.

Parent Tales Column ~ November 2006

Dragon Tales

On finding the perfect Halloween costume

I love living in a city where the seasons change.

Sure, it might be a toasty 90 degrees outside as I write this article, but soon enough the temperatures will cool and fall will come to Sacramento.

The leaves will change colors and litter the city's streets. It will be time for a trip to Apple Hill, time to carve pumpkins, time for Halloween.

One of the great things about being a parent of young children is how much they enjoy holidays. My daughter gets excited about every festivity from Valentine's Day to Christmas. She often acts as my conscience reminding me when I am due to decorate our home.

Not so long ago Barcelona refused to accept it was the Fourth of July because “mommy hasn't put up decorations yet.” Shortly thereafter I was digging through boxes in our 200-degree, three-car garage in search of all things patriotic. But I digress...

The other day I was in my neighborhood craft store where holiday-related paraphernalia had taken over the center aisles. My children were duly fascinated and asked question after question about the orange-and-black themed decorations. At one point, my daughter asked me how many more days until Halloween.

“Three months,” I told her.

“Three months!?”

Even to a 5-year-old this answer seemed absurd. Technically, though, it was true. It was still August.

To prove my point I recited the months of the year with my precocious kindergartener placing a lot of emphasis on August, September, and October.

Excitement about the pending holiday quickly overshadowed our conversation and even my 2 ½ year-old son Berkeley started chanting “Halloween, Halloween, Halloween” in his little toddler voice.

My daughter informed me, “I'm so excited for Halloween! I want to be a fairy!”

“Fairy,” my son echoed.

For about half a second, I considered reminding my daughter she dressed up as a fairy last year, but my inner voice quickly interrupted me saying, “What are you thinking? You won't have to buy her another costume this year.”

With an audible sigh of relief, I outwardly praised my daughter's choice of costume albeit a bit on the early side. At the same time I hid my crossed fingers in hopes she would not change her mind in the weeks to follow.

That left finding a costume for Berkeley.

Up until this year, my son has worn his sister's hand-me-downs. His first Halloween he squeezed into a giraffe getup and last year he was outfitted as a duckling. Were he to wear Barcelona's costume from her third Halloween, he would be dressed as a ladybug.

Although I personally have no problem putting my little boy in a ladybug costume, I know in my heart the little guy would not go for it. I am constantly reminding him “ladybugs are our friends” in an effort to keep him from killing these tiny beneficial bugs.

I wondered what kind of costume to get Berkeley until I had an “aha!” moment a few days later. I was flipping through a children's catalog when I saw a precious dragon costume. I was really excited – until I saw the price.

“Eighty-nine dollars!” I said aloud to no one in particular. The costume was cute, but definitely not worth the price. So I started searching the Internet.

I was browsing web pages one afternoon when my telephone rang. The caller was a woman I asked to speak to one of my mommy groups. We exchanged pleasantries, then she asked me what I was up to, and I told her.

“Are you kidding me?”

Turns out Isabel's daughter dressed up like a dragon the previous year. Not only did she still have the costume, she had just dug it out to sell at an upcoming consignment sale.

Suddenly, I felt like Isabel was my new best friend. What are the odds she would have exactly what I was looking for? I thanked her profusely for agreeing to bring the costume with her the following week when we were to meet in person for the first time.

A week later I instantly fell in love with the fuzzy, three-piece costume complete with little dragon wings. I knew my son would love wearing it. Knew he would want to live in it once he saw it. And you know what I loved? The fact it only cost me $10.

Happy Halloween!

Parent Tales Column ~ October 2006

What's in Your Bag?

The Search for the Perfect carryall

My search for the perfect bag started prior to my daughter's birth. Armed with a list of should haves for every new mother's diaper carryall, I went shopping.

In the end I chose cute. One trip to Babies R Us and I came home with a stroller, infant carrier and diaper bag all made of matching fabric. Each piece was not as practical as it was aesthetically pleasing.

Reality hit not long after Barcelona entered the world. Hauling an infant carrier and a diaper bag the size of a large piece of carry-on luggage is not very realistic for a woman with only two arms and hands. True, I needed all the spares – diapers, onesies, outfits, wipes, diaper cream, binkies – but did the bag need to be so dang BIG?

With a baby already in tow I decided it would be easier to embrace my initial selection and not spend any more time looking for or money buying a different diaper bag. After all, it wouldn't need to carry it forever!

But for our first trip with Barcelona, my husband and I dug out the backpack we bought in Europe. It was roomy and hung comfortably over one shoulder, or both, leaving two hands free to push a stroller, change a diaper, or put our baby in her car seat.

For several months we bounced back and forth from the gigantic diaper bag to the not-so-small yet versatile backpack. This worked for us until Barcelona was about 18 months old and our family went to New Orleans together. I knew the city was a lot more urban than what we were used to and I wanted something that could hold everything we needed, but be small enough for easy maneuvering and sightseeing in a crowd.

I found the perfect bag at an Eddie Bauer store. It had just enough room for my wallet, a couple diapers and wipes, as well as built-in compartments for a bottle and my mobile phone. It was worn across the chest, making it also a perfect shelf for my daughter's little bottom when I carried her on my hip.

My Eddie Bauer bag was a mainstay until the arrival of my son more than a year later. My diaper needs quadrupled overnight when Berkeley was born and once again I needed more space for all the newborn paraphernalia. I searched online and found the Un-Diaper bag on sale and bought one. I nearly fainted when it arrived; it was beautiful but cavernous compared to its predecessor – “too much of a good thing,” I thought to myself. The Un-Diaper Baby was returned and a nice mid-size brown with pink trim model, bought at Target, took its place.

There came a time when Barcelona was potty trained and Berkeley no longer went through 10 diapers in a day. I yearned for a purse, a real purse, with little nooks and crannies just right for my lipstick and keys. I found one, but I also found it was not possible to be trendy and still have room for kid essentials like diapers so I graduated to two bags. Like many of my mommy friends there was now the one I carried with me and the one left stocked in the car.

Being a two-bag lady quickly grew tiresome, especially after absolutely no one acknowledge my new, cute Liz Claiborne leather number. I was in a quandary until I decided to hijack a handbag some friends had given my daughter. It was big enough for all the necessities, yet small enough to throw over my shoulder. Barcelona wasn't using it – so why shouldn't I?

For a few months now I have been carrying the beaded Minnie Mouse bag and its capacity to carry all I need never ceases to amaze me. Just the other day I was at a meeting and in need of a pen. I turned to my bag and pulled out a pair of pink leather dance slippers, four large unsharpened kindergarten pencils, a package of sunscreen wipes, a diaper, my husband's mail, my journal, a small bottle of extra-strength Tylenol, and digital camera before finding my check book with a pen tucked inside.

Would you believe this little bag still had enough room for an asthma inhaler, school supply list, hand sanitizer, package of Kleenex, a Pull Up diaper, wipes, a handful of shopping receipts, my wallet, pad of paper, favor bag from a child's birthday party, cellular telephone, eye drops, lipstick, lotion, small emery board and one pair of children's sunglasses? Even more important? The tons of compliments I have gotten since I started carrying it!

Parent Tales Column ~ September 2006

Missed Opportunities

Focusing on what's not happening, rather than what is

I have been known to keep sporadic, but pretty regular journals for both my children. Every now and then I sit down and write about Barcelona and Berkeley, their personalities, and any milestones they may have accomplished.

While the actual books themselves appear identical -- save for each child's name on the cover -- the contents tell very different stories... I am the first to admit a gap in Barcelona's journal from June 19, 2002 to April 14, 2003 is a major blip and reflects one of the most challenging periods for me as a first-time parent.

When Barcelona was 15 months old and did not yet walk or talk, our pediatrician raised the red flag. She told us most children are doing one or the other, if not both, by that age.

Over the next several months my daughter was subjected to blood, urine and genetic testing as well as a hearing test, ultrasound and MRI. She was examined by a child development specialist, audiologist, geneticist and a neurologist. Each searched for a medical reason why Barcelona's gross motor and speech development was months behind her peers. I usually left these meetings emotionally drained by the specialists' theories.

One day I realized nearly a year had gone by and I all but missed it! I was so angry when I thought about all those doctors and how they focused my attention on everything Barcelona was not doing as opposed to what she had accomplished. All the little things that made her a beautiful, unique child had seemingly gone unnoticed.

Mostly I was disappointed in myself. After all, Barcelona did learn how to walk and she also mastered several baby signs to communicate with us until she found her voice.

Despite another blip after the birth of my son, the journal I keep for Barcelona is a testament to the shift that took place after this epiphany. The entries I write, although not as often as I would like, always make note of the everyday as well as the momentous.

One of your favorite words right now is "why." So whenever you ask me a question, no matter how I answer, you ask "Why? Why, mommy?" Sometimes it sounds so silly, I just laugh!
-Sept. 28, 2004

It turns out that after my anger subsided, I found a purpose. I was Barcelona's mother and her advocate. It was my job to make sure the doctors took note of her triumphs and to be there with hugs and encouraging words in the meantime.

I remember an appointment we had with the pediatric neurologist who watched Barcelona cautiously walk down the corridor to his exam room -- something she had not been able to do the first time we met. The doctor asked me a series of questions to gauge my daughter's progress since he'd last seen her.

"Does she know her body parts?" he asked.

When I nodded an affirmative response, the neurologist leaned down and looked into Barcelona's face.

"Barcelona, do you know where your eyes are?"

Then my sweet little girl looked at me, back at the doctor and WINKED both eyes. Her smile beamed as the neurologist and I both chuckled with delight. When we stopped, he told me "she's just fine."

Truth be told, as much as I worried, I always knew my first born would be all right whatever the outcome of all those tests, good or bad. Her father and I just needed to make sure she had the tools, whether it was speech therapy or adapted P.E. classes, to help shore up her confidence so she could tackle new challenges in her own way and on her own time.

Last fall, at our annual appointment with the child development specialist, he told me there was "no reason why Barcelona cannot start kindergarten on schedule." And I was pleased to hear these words -- not just for myself as a proud parent, but for my daughter, for how hard she has worked and how far she has come.

Today, Barcelona is a happy and healthy 5 year-old girl who loves drawing, practicing her letters, playing dinosaurs with her Baby Brother, and dancing. In a matter of days she will start kindergarten and I will be there beside her, holding her hand.


Mommy Time Column ~ August 2006

A Not-So-Super Birthday Party

When a party costs more than a college education

I confess, I am hooked on a little reality TV.

My guilty pleasure is not one of the more popular shows my mommy peers tend to follow like "American Idol" or "The Apprentice." No, I watch a show which airs on MTV called "My Super Sweet 16."

This series is all about the planning and execution of parties commemorating one lucky teen's 16th birthday -- or 15th birthday, in the case of the Latina girls.

The concept sounds simple enough, but we are not talking about a DJ, balloons and a little cake. The parties on "My Super Sweet 16" are grand-scale events usually with a price tag which exceeds what I paid for four years of private college.

The girls on this show, and a few boys, are divas to the nth degree. They whine, cajole and pout their way through every stage of party preparations and, in the end, always get their way and usually a new BMW to boot.

Watching this show is like watching someone sprinkle salt on a live snail. I am horrified by what I see and hear -- you would not believe how these teens speak to their parents! -- however I am unable to tear my eyes away from the screen or change the channel to watch something else.

These teens have professional party planners and stylists at their side. One had silver coins minted in Mexico which she passed out as invitations. Another had rap artist Kanye West perform. Almost all of them have several outfit changes and some sort of choreographed entrance.

I cannot believe how much goes into these parties, I said to myself recently while watching an episode. But there, in my hands, were a pair of scissors and a color printout of Swiper the Fox body parts which I would later assemble and hide in our backyard for my daughter's Dora The Explorer backyard birthday bash.

Earlier in the year, I had gone all out for Berkeley's second birthday party. I hand stamped the invitations, stuffed tin pails with fake hay and toys for goody bags, and served an Old West lunch on aluminum pie tins -- heehaw!

As Barcelona's fifth birthday neared, I decided to take the easy route and use store-bought invitations and thank you cards. But before I knew it, I was printing personalized tags featuring Backpack for the goody bags along with a Map for the obstacle course in our backyard, CD labels and good old Swiper the Fox. Oh, let's not forget booking the larger-than-life Dora bounce house which loomed over the our single-story home and the 50 partygoers in our mingling in our backyard.

When I picked up a recent copy of a local parenting publication, I found pages and pages of advertisements for theme parties and party entertainment. Every couple of months a catalog dedicated entirely to party supplies arrives in my mailbox. Birthday parties are a cottage industry for children of all ages.

There is some comfort in knowing other parents also strive to throw a good party, even if it is for a toddler. And, honestly, at this age the party planning is for the parents because I have found that as long as there is a place to play, the little ones generally entertain themselves.

Now the shindigs I throw for my little ones are nothing to the scale of those I see on "My Super Sweet 16," but I cannot help but wonder is that where I am headed? Ten years from now, will I be one of those mom's smiling wanly as my daughter stomps her foot and shouts, "Daddy promised"? Will Barcelona's 16th birthday party cost more than my wedding?

Probably not. (Knock on wood.)

Mommy Time Column ~ July 2006

Weekend Without Kids

Children may be far away, but they're never far from our thoughts

It finally happened. For the first time since giving birth to my daughter two days before Mother's Day in 2001, I spent the night away from both my children.

I consider this recent weekend getaway a significant event in my life as a parent. For me, it ranks right up there with my daughter's first day at preschool, the first time I left her with a baby sitter, and the first time someone (other than my husband or myself) drove her somewhere without one of us also in the car.

As I write, my daughter's birthday looms in the back of my mind; she will be a 5 year-old within a week. Countless "firsts" remain in our future together as mother and daughter, but my overnighter away from her seems significant in some way.

About a year earlier I went to San Jose to celebrate a friend's birthday. My son, Berkeley, stayed behind with my husband while Barcelona accompanied me as she had on jaunts to the Bay Area before her brother was born. At night we shared a bed, snuggled together like hibernating bears. She slept sweaty and restless in the crook of my arm and I barely got any rest. When I returned home the next day, my 1-year-old son chose to ignore me -- payback, I suspect, for not taking him with us.

A year later, I looked forward to a full weekend away without either child. I would not describe myself as eager, per se, more curious than anything else. What would it be like? How would my husband do? Would I ever be able to go away again after all was said and done?

Prior to my departure I made sure everything was in order: clothes and dishes were clean and put away, the freezer and cupboard stocked with simple meals my husband could prepare within minutes, outfits for each child set aside for the next two days, a well-stocked diaper bag, and a detailed list of instructions. I even laid out fresh pajamas for my children, put toothpaste on their toothbrushes, and turned down their beds. A little over the top, perhaps, but it made leaving the house easier for me.

The three-hour drive to Monterey was smooth, no traffic and no potty breaks. I listened to music of my own choosing -- no Raffi this trip! -- with the windows rolled down and the volume turned up. It reminded me of my many road trips before marriage and children.

When I arrived to my destination, a three-story beach house in Pajaro Dunes, I found half a dozen other women eating their lunch out on the deck, their eyes fixed on the breathtaking view of the ocean. For the next two days I would either work on scrapbook page layouts, take walks on the beach, sit on the deck, or eat gourmet meals prepared by someone else. It was truly fabulous.

But admittedly, even though I was there without my children, they were not far from my mind. Most photos I placed on scrapbook pages were of them and often I would pause to show the pictures to the other women there. When I walked on the beach, I collected shells of different shapes and textures with my daughter in mind. While I dined with the other women, all moms, our conversations often turned to the topic of our children ages 2 to 20 between the lot of us.

The first night I called and asked Barcelona what she had for dinner. When she answered "cheeseburger" I joked with my husband Happy Meals were not on the list of approved dinners I left for him. In reality, I was pleased. The kids sounded happy and my husband did not sound stressed out.

A couple of women left the next day, one called home by request of a sick child and the other by a husband. When a third woman checked in, her husband uttered those words we stay-at-home moms yearn to hear, "I don't know how you do it by yourself. She did a little dance while we cheered her long-awaited validation.

When I called my home, both kids were napping after spending the morning with their dad and grandmother at the Scottish Games. That evening was just relaxing as the first, maybe even more so thanks to a dip in the hot tub and a chocolate fondue night cap.

In the morning all of us were pretty quiet as we packed up to leave the beach house, the beach, each other. Some of the other women were friends before the weekend, but those who had been strangers seemed like old acquaintances a mere 48 hours later. We exchanged hugs, some phone numbers, and of course promises to see each other again at next year's retreat.

I looked forward to my three-hour drive home not with remorse but instead a renewed of self. I brought home with me three large artichokes for my husband (he loves them!), a half flat of fresh strawberries for my children, and a bag full of sand dollars and other sea shells for Barcelona. The weekend was a wonderful respite from my mommy duties, yet I remained a wife and mother the whole time I was gone.

Mommy Time Column ~ June 2006

Let's Make a Deal

It's not easy letting go of my children's playthings

I remember a time not so long ago when I was on a transatlantic visit to see my mother. She lived in New Jersey at the time in a small one-bedroom apartment and she was trying to purge those things no longer needed.

Together we pulled one of those old-fashioned metal travel trunks from her living room closet. I flipped the two latches, lifted the lid, and opened a window to my childhood. Inside the trunk were remnants of days gone by -- barrettes adorned with braided ribbon and beads, plastic horses, Menudo posters -- all that was left over from a time that preceded my mother's cross-country move more than a decade earlier.

I left our home in Washington state to go to college here in California mere months before my mother's move. At the time she shipped to me a few boxes of belongings I had left behind in my room. The rest she took with her in this old family trunk.

That day I sat before the trunk, her charge to me was simple: Go through the contents and take out anything I wanted to keep. The rest would be tossed or donated to Goodwill.

Instantly, I felt overwhelmed and emotional. It was almost too much to bear, the idea of getting rid of anything, any of my childhood memories. Eventually I completed my task, but not without shedding a few tears in the process.

Today, a few years later and with two young children of my own, the irony is not lost on me as I try to sell their childhood on Craigslist.com. Sounds terrible, doesn't it?

The thing is, my children are 4-1/2 and 2 and already have more clothes and toys than they can possibly play with and wear, let alone need. And with each birthday and Christmas my two darlings only accumulate more. I know unless I intervene now, we will be buried in playthings sooner than later.

I have always been good about going through their clothes and purging when necessary. This task is made easier by the simple fact things my daughter outgrows -- and those which cannot be shared with a younger brother -- must go to make room for the new stuff that fits her. It has been relatively easy to pass items on to my niece or friends who have daughters younger than mine, to sell the higher end stuff to consignment shops, and to save a few favorite outfits for the cedar chest.

Toys are a whole other matter. These are the things with which my children played and snoozed. These are the things they might actually remember and ask for once they are gone! These are the things even I have a hard time letting go.

So the process of purging at my house has been a painstaking one. Around the holidays I sorted through all the playthings in our family room and in both children's rooms into three piles: keep for now, keep for sentimental reasons, and get out of the house! I made the mistake of leaving the purge pile within reach of my children and they became prone to grabbing a toy they had neglected for months with renewed interest, as if to say, "Gee, I forgot I had this Elmo doll/rubber ball/Happy Meal toy."

I finally moved everything into our office and behind closed doors, but it took a couple months before I sat down in front of our PC to start posting this stuff on the Internet. I sold some baby items this way a couple years ago, at the recommendation of a friend, and delighted in the ease of the transactions. No need to hold a whole garage sale, simply sell that which you no longer needed.

But this time has been different. Almost immediately after posting some baby equipment and toys on Craigslist.com, the e-mail messages started to arrive. And a few were a little -- dare I say? -- weird.

For the Bebe Sounds Prenatal Heart Listener, I received the message "i want it, how do it get it, pay you" signed with the sender's first name and telephone number. Already wary, I sent a generic response to which he replied with the address of the bar where he'd be serving drinks that afternoon. What?

Now I really wanted to sell this thing -- why should I care who buys it? Maybe this guy was on the up and up, but his e-mail messages were too strange for my taste. I concluded he did not deserve my children's castoffs.

A few minutes later, I received a message regarding several Elmo items I had posted which read: "Please, Please sell me all your ELMO stuff my son is really in love with him ... could you call really soon I want them all call any time, like right now."

I will not lie to you, I did not reply to this message at all nor did I call the numbers until a week later -- and when I did so, it was just out of curiosity. Suffice it to say, the two numbers given did not belong to the sender of the message.

Another person wrote "I would this doll" and my imagination ran wild filling in the missing verb. Did they plan to dress up Elmo and perform voodoo rituals? For some reason, I could only conjure up an unsavory end for our hand-me-down Limbo Elmo. Yeah, I did not call them either.

To date, I have managed to weed through the e-mail and find whom I consider suitable buyers for some of the stuff I am trying to sell. A nice woman bought the heart listener and a grandmother purchased the baby swing. I met both in the parking lot where my husband works and handed over to them small bits of my children's babyhood from the trunk of our car. In exchange, they gave me cash.

"This feels strange," said my husband, who supervised from the periphery. "It's like you're a dealer."

I laughed at the time, but thinking about it now, I have to agree. I am dealing a part of my children's past. I may not be shedding any tears this time around, but I am also not shedding these reminders of my babies' precious childhoods without reservation. It's never easy letting go.

Mommy Time Column ~ May 2006