I'm a new mom, and many of the decisions I've had to make have been pretty obvious (should I give him solid food? should I find a way to get him to sleep better?), I still agonize over some things.

 Instead of looking at where we've screwed up as parents, share stories about some of the decisions you made that you take pride in. Where did you go right?

 

The other night, we discovered that we've been buying toys for the wrong members of the household. To get Henry giggling, we don't need any new rattles, things that beep or goofy gadgets.We just need to play with the cats.

A few months ago, Henry and I were playing in his room when one of the cats walked by. He laughed and laughed and laughed.

We went to visit friends on Monday night, and they took out this goofy feathery toy and started playing with their cats. I have never seen Henry so amused.

He giggled. He belly laughed. He even snorted.

So, instead of buying something new for Henry, we're going to hit the pet store and pick up some new toys for the cats.

What makes your kid laugh? How do you get them giggling?

 

I can’t remember the last time my entire family had the whole day to spend together and do nothing.

My husband’s business means he has to work Saturdays and Sunday mornings, but is off on Monday. I have a traditional weekend. So although we have Saturday night and Sunday and Monday afternoons together with our children, we haven’t had a full day off together in MONTHS.

So last week I told my husband we were not making ANY plans for Memorial Day. We planned to have a group of friends and their children over for a cookout Sunday, but I wanted to leave Monday wide open. And we did.

It was the best day. I finished my planting while the baby napped. My husband ran errands with the boys. Then we all relaxed in the backyard. The boys ran through the sprinkler.

Our family ate breakfast, lunch and dinner together. It was wonderful.

What did you do this weekend? Did you enjoy a lazy day too?

-Marci

A few weeks ago, I had a break-down. Once Henry hit 5 months, he pretty much stopped sleeping. He was eating every three hours again.

I coped pretty well during his newborn days, primarily because I could nap all morning and afternoon. Back at work, the twice-daily naps weren't an option anymore.

I was a zombie.

We started feeding Henry solid food at 5 1/2 months, hoping that would help. I don't know if it did or not. I was still too foggy.

One night (a Friday) he fell asleep around 9, woke up at midnight and 2:45, and then refused to go back to sleep. After 90 minutes of him fussing in his basinet, I was done.

I picked him up, carried him to his room, laid him in his crib, gave him his pacifier, and left, shutting his door -- and our door -- behind me.

He bawled. He screamed. I refused to get up.

Eventually, the baby's noise woke Scott up. I told him what was going on, and he went and put the baby to sleep.

Shortly after that, a friend loaned us Healthy Sleep Habits, Happy Child.

We started putting Henry to bed at 7. He cried for about 15 minutes the first night, then fell asleep as soon as we put his pacifier back in his mouth. Every night, he cried a little less, until now, he almost always puts himself to sleep. And, he's unswaddled.

He's been waking up only once to eat, and I can handle that. Some nights, he's sleeping pretty much straight through. Last night? He woke up a few times, but as soon as I gave him his pacifier, he fell back asleep. No midnight snacking!

The one thing I worry about, he invariably flips himself onto his tummy to sleep. Since he's doing it himself, there's really nothing I can do about it.

But he's also quite the mover, and sometimes he winds up pressed against the crib rails. One morning I came in to find him against the side of the crib, with one arm hanging down between the mattress and the wall.

I know that as soon as we think we've got him figured out,  he'll change. That doesn't mean we'll stop trying!

 

Christmas presents for the grandparents? Done! I finished them this weekend. Altogether now: Yay me!

But before you roll your eyes at my obnoxiously superior advanced planning, let me just make one thing clear: The Christmas presents to which I am referring? Last year’s. As in Dec. 25, 2007. As in five months ago.

See, last November, I got this great idea from Wondertime magazine for a simple project kids can make for grandparents. You know grandparents always love (or pretend to love) handmade gifts from their grandchildren. And my children really like making stuff. But how many handprint-covered vases, paper flower bouquets, and painted-cereal-box letter trays does one mother-in-law really need? So when I saw these towels in Wondertime, I thought, now there’s an easy, useful thing that even I can finish.

Now, I had never actually made anything I found in a magazine. I usually just look at them and think, "That’s kinda cute," or "Wow, people have time to make that?" But I knew the grandmas would love these. And I was determined.

The project — for those of you who actually are crafty

Here’s how it was supposed to work: You ask your child what food Grandma or Grandpa makes that she likes best. Then you ask her how she thinks it’s made. Next, she writes her version of the recipe on a sheet of paper (or you help her) and she draws a picture. You take the paper to a copy shop, have them make an iron-on transfer, and either pay them to transfer the image to a dish towel or iron it on yourself.

The whole thing should take about two hours and $10-$15 ($5 for the towel, $5 for the transfer, $5 for them to iron it on).

My kids did a great job with their drawings. My youngest wrote adorably absurd recipes for Grandpa’s Eggs and Grandma’s Peanut Butter Cookies. My then-5-year-old wrote equally absurd recipes for Grandma’s Cookies and Grammie’s Deviled Eggs. I chose some simple white dish towels and headed to Kinko’s.

I opted to save some money and iron them on myself. That decision? The wrong one. I couldn’t get the stupid iron-on transfer thing to work without scorching the fabric. They told me I was using the wrong fabric. So I bought my own fabric and sewed four dish towels. Still couldn’t get the iron-on to transfer. So I sewed another two towels (since I ruined two in my attempts) and finally paid the copy shop to just do the stupid heat transfer. By this time, I was so annoyed by the whole project that I was going to make those towels no matter what. I was NOT going to let them defeat me. I was going to win.

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I admit it. I'm guilty. We really do only have perfect, arty baby photographs. And I’m not going to apologize for it. Being married to a newspaper photographer has few benefits, but his picture-taking skill is one of them.

(As for those Sunday pictures, however, my father-in-law, even when directed to look at the Local cover, missed our picture a couple of times. Maybe it was a little too arty.)

With about 10 minutes of notice, we can have two remote flash units set up, ready to fire with a radio transmitter hooked up to the camera. We’ve got studio umbrellas and a seamless green backdrop. We’ve got camera lenses as big as my head.

But most of all, we’ve got Scott’s eyes, brain and instinct. He can’t cook a traditional Italian meal or put a matching outfit on the baby (I’m lucky if the socks match when Scott gets Henry dressed), but he can shoot.

Even casual photos, when Scott takes them, aren’t so casual. I am rarely asked to smile for the camera. Instead, he’s snapping photos as Henry and I do whatever it is we’re doing – with gorgeous results.

There are some where Henry’s screaming, but they’re beautifully lit, well-composed pictures of a screaming baby. His tears glisten.

For now, while Henry’s too young to really cause problems in photographs (who expects a baby to do what you want anyway?) I’ll bask in the beauty of our baby photos. There’s plenty of time for monkey faces later.

I went through a phase, when I was 7 or 8 years old, where no one could get me to make a remotely normal face in a photograph. There’s an entire summer of photos where I’m twisting my mouth out of shape into the strangest sideways grimace. My parents never loved me more, I’m sure.

We’ll get there, sometime in the not-so-distant future, when Henry is old enough not to think that being snuggled by his mom is the best way to spend his time, when he thinks I’m dorky and stupid and doesn’t even want me picking him up at school.

I’ll always have this record, these images, that I can pull out and say – See? You do love me. There was a time when all it took to get you to smile was me walking in the room. Once, you slept best cuddled to my chest.

Even when my little baby is a tantrum-throwing two-year-old, a face-making second-grader, a surly adolescent, I’ll have these perfect baby photos that show immense love – in front of, and behind, the lens.

OK, to say that I wasn’t happy with the photo of me and my kids in the newspaper on Mother’s Day is an incredible understatement. It was awful.

 

But it was the best of about 15 awful shots taken in – ahem – strained circumstances. Let me explain myself, even if it’s just to make myself feel better.

 

Thursday was the longest day EVER for me. I was up at 3:30 a.m. and at the police department by 4:15 a.m. to ride along during a raid. I didn’t leave work until 3 p.m. I picked up my children, met my husband at home and then headed out the door about an hour later to attend a banquet for Big Sisters of Greater Racine, who I volunteer with, and also am writing a story on for this weekend. My work day officially ended at about 9:08 p.m.

 

Bright and early Friday morning I got dressed to go to the farm. I escorted my 4-year-old and his preschool classmates of boundless energy on a trip to Green Meadows in Waterford. We went on a hay ride, held baby chicks, milked a cow, rode a pony, chased baby pigs, chased baby kittens, chased roosters and chickens, and chased goats and sheep.

 

By the time we picked up my oldest son from school Friday afternoon, we were all DONE. Tired and crabby doesn’t even begin to describe us. My 6-year-old was worn out from a long day at school and wanted a snack. I and the little guy were tired from tromping around in chicken poop all morning. The baby was due for a nap.

 

But we had to take that picture. My husband stopped home in the middle of his work day to do it. He had all of about 15 minutes.

 

My hair at the farm had been in a ponytail. I didn’t have time to flat iron my whole head, so instead I just did the front. If you could see the back side of these photos, it would reveal the curly rats’ nest that is my normal undone do.

 

I figured I wouldn’t fuss with the kids’ clothes, praying that the farm dust and chocolate cookie crumbs wouldn’t show. We sat down on the staircase. “Say cheese!”

 

The camera batteries are dead.

 

Plug the camera in. “Everyone look at Daddy! Smile! Cesare please don’t strain your neck like a goose! Roman please don’t lean backwards! Josie! Look at Daddy!”

 

The first five frames no one was looking at the camera, except mom. The second five frames someone coughed, put their hand up to scratch their nose, or closed their eyes, except mom. The third five frames no one smiled, because no one was happy about sitting on the stinkin’ steps anymore, except mom.

 

Here are some of the outtakes. Notice how everyone does their own thing, and there I sit, almost like a statue.

Behind my frozen smile, I’m sweating. I’m irritated. I’m tired. Frankly, I’m pissed at myself for not remembering we needed the photo earlier in the week.

 

I was even more irritated when I opened the newspaper Sunday morning and saw Liz’s beautiful photo with her girls and Janine’s beautiful picture with Henry.

 

Why didn’t I plan better?! I berated myself after the fact. I know Janine’s husband is a professional photographer who takes nothing but wonderful pics of their baby. I know Liz’s husband is “perfect guy” who makes her gourmet meals, cleans the house and knows how to color coordinate their children’s clothing. Of COURSE, he would be patient enough to keep snapping photos until they took one that was gorgeous.

 

I think it made it worse that EVERYONE I knew at church, at brunch Sunday afternoon and at the preschool program Monday, kept coming up and telling us that they had seen our picture. I felt like I needed to explain why it was so awful.

 

Then, on Monday, while I was out covering a story, a friend of mine told me he saw the photo. When I started to explain myself, he turned and said, “But Marci, that’s real life. It just means you’re like the rest of us.”

 

Real life. Of course. Why would I want to explain that away?

 

Real life is giggles and uncontrollable sobbing. It’s bed head and goofy faces. It’s mismatched socks and creative costumes. It’s a face full of spaghetti and a diaper full of poop. It’s hugs and kisses, sometimes with chocolate smears. It’s love, even when the picture isn’t perfect and the whole world knows it.

 

 

 

 

So for Mother’s Day, JT editors decided to publish some of our favorite Mommy Talk columns in the paper. Janine, Marci and I were each told to bring in a family photograph of ourselves with our kids. I thought, sure, no big deal -- until I went home and opened up my iPhoto library.

In three years of digital photographs, there was not a single photo of myself with my two daughters that I would ever want published in the newspaper. In three years, there wasn’t a single photo in which we were all smiling, had our eyes open, weren’t wearing face paint, or otherwise looked somewhat normal. In fact, there were only a handful of photos that even included me.

Apparently I’m not the only mom lacking in the family photo department. I shared my woes with several other mom friends. "I have no photos of myself with my children—" I began.

"—because I’m always the one with the camera!" they finished.

(Well, except for Janine, who is married to a JT photographer. Unfair advantage, I say. She’s got all these gorgeous gallery-worthy baby photographs. I’m crazy jealous.)

So on TWO separate nights last week, I grabbed the camera and led (read: dragged) my daughters and husband outside. "You need to take some pictures of us that don’t look stupid," I told my husband. To my girls, I warned: "You need to smile and not act crazy."

What happened next you can see in the outtakes.

Our poor neighbors were treated to a chorus of nagging, whining, laughing, cackling, giggling and scolding. We started with sweet encouragement and stupid phrases like "Sassafras Tea!" — only to end up resorting to desperate pleas for laughs. (If we want to guarantee laughs from our girls, potty talk is really the only option. So there we were in our back yard, shouting out things like "Tooting!" "Say, ‘Toilet!’" and "OK, fine: POOP!")

Instructions were either barked by my losing-his-patience husband or muttered from between my gritted, smiling teeth:

"Sit down." "Sit still." "Get your fingers out of your ears." "No, we do not need all the ‘High School Musical’ dolls in the picture with us." "OK, now try one with your eyes OPEN. You too, Mommy." "Hey, get back here." "Do you want to be in the newspaper making a goofy face?" "OK, please stop cartwheeling over Mommy." "We will keep doing this until you can sit still and stop acting crazy, and if you miss snack, well, so be it!"

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So, fellow moms, remember That Guy? That guy at the bar who had too much to drink and suddenly realized he was head-over-heels for you? That guy who got all mushy and sentimental and honest about his feelings after his sixth or seventh beer? That guy who never realized your eyes were so blue, your lips so full, your words so poetic … until now?

Well, a few weeks ago, I had a flashback to That Guy -- and it came from my 4-year-old daughter.

We were at a birthday party in Illinois, having traveled out of town for the weekend to stay with my in-laws. My Isabel had too much to eat -- cake and chips and fruit snacks and ice cream -- and too much fun to handle. Shortly after 8 o’clock, she got a little tipsy on all the activity. I hoisted her onto the kitchen counter for a juice break.

Her hair was sweaty from running around with her cousins. Her eyes were red-rimmed from crying (she had just fallen and skinned her knee). Her eyelids were heavy. Her dress was wrinkled. She knew that we’d be leaving her cousins and grandparents the next day, and she started to get weepy because she’d miss them. And then she looked at me -- you know, like That Guy always looked at you.

"You know," she slurred, "you know I love you, Mommy. I love your hair. I love your face. I love you so much."

I giggled and handed her a juice box. She missed her mouth with the straw a few times, poking herself in the cheek, on the chin. She finally managed a sip, and then set the box heavily back on the counter.

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Last week we celebrated my daughter's first birthday. We had a big family party, everyone clapped as she smooshed cake from tip to toe and aawwwhhed when she hugged the baby doll my sister gave her for a present.

Now that the party is over, it's time for her to walk. Or so it seems. Just about everyone I talk to wants to know if she's walking yet.

Obviously the answer is no, or I wouldn't be so defensive about it.

My baby walks around the furniture, even from the ottoman to the couch. But she refuses to let me hold her hands and walk. She sits down or hangs there with her legs bent if I even attempt to try it.

Both my boys, now 4 and 6, started walking later than usual - around 15 months for both. But I always assumed it was because of other circumstances. My oldest had surgery on one of his feet at 6 months old and spent several months in a cast. The younger has a medical condition that impedes his growth, so his physical development all around was slow until he started medications around 12 months old.

There's nothing holding my daughter back. And yet, she's showing no signs of wanting to walk.

I understand that all children develop differently, and that a lot of kids don't start walking on their first birthday. But many do.

It made me wonder if there was something we were doing that delayed our children's walking. We encouraged them to crawl and let them explore. We don't hold them constantly. We use a walker in an effort to get them to strengthen their legs.

I'm starting to wonder if the walker is part of the issue. I've heard from some folks that walkers hinder walking. I always thought they allowed kids to get the movements of walking down pat, kind of like a test drive.

Am I wrong? Could the walker my daughter uses be delaying her walking on her own?

I’m posting this for a local dad who shall remain anonymous …

The first phone call made me laugh.

It was a teacher from my 5-year-old daughter’s pre-school. I was at work. Another little girl stuck her hands in my daughter’s pants for a few seconds, the teacher explained.

I told a co-worker and we burst out laughing over how crazy things have become today – teachers calling to report kids playing doctor.

But then things started happening that made me nervous. First, we were on a family trip when we got call from a police detective. He wanted us to know the preschool had reported the incident and we had the right to pursue it. To pursue it? To pursue what? A couple of little kids sticking hands into ears or noses or pants or wherever? Who cares?

Next, we sat down and discussed the situation with our daughter. It turns out the other girl, also about 5, told her not to tell.

We started to wonder what this all means. Then, as we were spending a few days figuring out how we felt about it, it happened again.

This time, it was in the bathroom at school. The other girl approached my daughter and rubbed her underwear on her ankle.

With this, we started to consider pulling her out of school and sending her elsewhere. But it’s not that simple. She loves it there. Her friends are there. Plus, she starts kindergarten in a few months and we’re not looking to start over with another preschool right before such a big transition.

We’re not sure if we’re overreacting or under reacting.

We’ve made the school aware of our concerns. They’ve agreed to mostly split the kids into two different classes. We’re continuing to send her to school and teaching her to say “no.” We figure she’s a girl. She’s going to have to learn how to say “no” eventually. She might as well learn now.

What would you do?

- Concerned father

This weekend is my first Mother's Day as an actual mother. Last year, I was incubating. We went out for brunch at one of our old Milwaukee haunts, something we knew wouldn't be happening quite as much once the baby arrived.

It was kind of odd, being in that restaurant as a couple, surrounded by intergenerational diners. But it was nice. We got to dream, to look forward to the days when we could take our son there, years from now, when he had table manners, to share it with him.

This weekend, luck of the draw, I'm scheduled to work. So we aren't making any real plans for Sunday. We've invited my parents to town for dinner on Saturday, and my husband will likely see his mother during the day on Sunday, and she'll get some time with her son and grandson.

I'm sure we'll do something at least a little special on Sunday night. Maybe I'll get dinner cooked for me, so I can snuggle the little guy. Maybe there will be a card, or flowers, or a special hug.

If I had the day free, I know what I'd want: Time with my little family. Just the three of us, doing something fun. It's finally nice out. I want to show the baby the world -- the flowers blooming in the back yard, the crazy dog down the street, the monkeys at the zoo.

But that's my wish list. What's yours?

"Draft a will" has been on our to-do list for six years, since our first daughter was born. But we still haven’t done it, mainly because we can’t decide on guardians. Who should raise our daughters if something happens to us?

It’s a horrible thing to think about in the first place. And then the entire topic, at least for me, is rife with emotion, guilt, judgment, politics, religion, stress, logistics ...

For some families, the choice may be easy. For many families, it’s not. All these factors come into play when you’re choosing substitute parents.

Do you choose guardians who share your parenting style? Your religion? Whose politics align with yours? Should they live nearby, so your children won’t have to move? Or should they live near other relatives, so your children will be with as much family as possible?

Should your first-choice guardians have their own children, or is it asking too much for them to add more to their brood? Surely you can’t dump children on a couple who has none — would they even know what to do?

Should potential guardians’ age come into play? Their household income? Do you ask your children for their input? (Our daughters are 6 and 4 — so they’d probably base their decision on who has a pool or the biggest playset.)

If the big stuff is all too big or equitable, do you turn to the little stuff: "They let their children go to bed without flossing, so they’re definitely out." "They buy natural peanut butter; there’s no way our kids would eat that."

And once you make a decision, you sort of need to clear it with your guardians of choice, right? What if they say no? How does a family recover from that awkwardness?

And say you choose your sister instead of your brother- and sister-in-law, or your brother instead of your mother — do you tell the rejects that you’ve chosen someone else? Or do you just wait for tragedy to make your decision known, adding insult to injury?

See what I mean? Emotion, guilt, judgment, religion, stress, logistics. This is why we don’t have a will.

What about you?