Giving Santa a Second Chance

Halloween hasn't come and gone, but I'm already thinking that I should send my letter to Santa Claus in a little early this year.

I'm counting on your discretion, because truth be told, I sent the same list last year and didn't get any of these presents under my tree. The eternal optimist in me is thinking Santa just didn't get my list in time to deliver the real goods.

That's why I'm giving the old man one more chance.

I got the idea for my own letter to Santa last year when my kids were working on their lists. Now it's been more than a few decades since I wrote a letter to Santa. But, since I was a young girl in the 70's, the technology Santa had to choose from was pretty antiquated.

Back in the dark ages of 1972, it was a big deal that my doll house had battery-powered lights, or that all I had to do was pull a string to get Barbie to say how pretty she was.

When you think of the technology that's at our fingertips today, Santa could really come through with a few items that would not only be helpful to me, but to mothers everywhere.

Plus there is always the chance that he would like to make amends for that Chatty Kathy doll I never got.

So without further ado, here is my letter to Santa (only slightly amended from last year).

Dear Santa:

I've been a very good mommy this year. Besides the usual cooking and cleaning that I do everyday (Please don't laugh Santa, I do all those things, I just don’t do them very well), I have taken the kids to the orthodontist, the doctor, driven to music lessons, dance lessons, birthday parties, chorus practice, various clubs, and dances.

I also went to two birthday parties at Chuck E Cheese this year, this in itself should put me on the top of the "Nice" list.

I know you are very busy, and I’m not expecting miracles, but if you get a chance and can send me a few of these items I would really appreciate it:

I would like a GPS to find the body I had before I had my three children. I have looked for it at various weight-loss programs, gyms and a host of workout DVDs, but I can’t find it anywhere. I'm getting desperate. HELP!

I would like an App that allows my children to remember what I told them five minutes ago. I realize my mother asked for something similar when I was a kid, but technology has come so far since then that I'm thinking this really should be do-able in 2011.

Extra memory would be a great gift and so helpful for my parenting. My own memory card is so used and old that I can no longer remember my own kids’ names. I call them by various terms of endearment and, of course, their siblings’ names. Now that my youngest is insisting that I only call him by his full name, I'm running out of options. 

I could really use an upgrade on my patience. I have a 12-year-old who will soon be 13… need I say more.

A "pause" button would be fantastic! My children are growing up so fast. Yesterday, my daughter put on three coats, four hats, a tiger mask, and a princess crown then said to me, "Don’t I look beautiful?" And, as I type this I can hear our 6-year-old asking his teddy bear if he needs a time-out. There are so many moments I would just like to freeze.

I would like a power cord that allows me to plug it in whenever my battery is low. Having three kids and very little sleep is starting to wear down my original power supply.

Finally, could you slip some gratitude into my stocking? I know I could use it. I have so much to be thankful for. Too often I let the day to day grind keep me from remembering.

Thank you! Please forgive the messy house. I hope you have a wonderful Holiday!

Kathy

I will let you all know if I had better luck this year!


(Author's Note: I posted my first "Letter to Santa" in December of 2010 on Momster.com where I wrote under the name "Blessed Mom Of Three." This is an updated version.)

My Kids + My Blog = Jealousy

When a new member joins the family, there are bound to be growing pains. The kids may think it's fun at first to have someone new in the daily mix, but eventually the novelty wears thin as the day-to-day care of the new addition becomes a reality.

Being a mom to three kids, I've lived through the excitement and adjustment that comes when your family expands. I totally expected it, too. What I didn't expect was that the same period of adjustment would happen when I started my blog last November. To my surprise, my kids were jealous.

Sure, at first they were very excited for me. They were even impressed that this old dog could learn a few new tricks.


Until this point it never occurred to them that I could even type, let alone use a computer. 

Heck, I barely had time to brush my teeth raising three children with a variety of special needs and issues that needed daily attention. Never mind spending my time web surfing. Personal enrichment and satisfaction were not high on my to-do list.


My kids knew I had worked in an office before becoming a mom, but I think they thought of that as more of a suburban legend in the once-upon-a-time-the-old-gal-had-a-life vein. 


Very quickly the awe and even pride my kids felt at watching me do something new was replaced with cries of, "when are you getting off our computer?"


The cries came the loudest from our daughter Lizzy, whose special needs have always included an extremely hard time with speech and language. Phrases such as "mommy, you sure like that computer," started to grow into "mommy get off my computer now."


Always thrilled whenever Lizzy can find her words, I would smile and tell her that it was great she was using her words so well, but we do not speak to people that way. Then I would go back to my blog.


Our oldest son, Tom knew something had really started to change a few weeks later. We were on our fifth attempt at taking the yearly Christmas picture when I uncharacteristically, threw in the towel.


"That's it guys. It's just going to be the year without a Christmas picture. It's really no big deal."


Then I started to sing that phrase to the tune of an old Christmas special I remembered as a kid.


Tom, newly 12 at the time, was not amused.


"But Mom, you always make the Christmas picture such a big deal."


"I know honey, but why don't we give ourselves a year off, it will be fine."


Then I launched into another round of, "It was the year without a Christmas picture."


His next statement took me completely by surprise.


"This is not like you... You are only doing this because of that blog... You want something to write about for next week."


Honestly. At the time, I hadn't thought about it, but he had a point. It would make a great story. I always knew that boy was brilliant.


Of course, the most heartbreaking reaction came from our youngest, Peter, who was five at the time my blog came into our lives. Since he was used to sharing me with Tom and Lizzy I didn't think my new passion would really affect him. I was wrong.


“Mommy, I hurt my toe! I need a band-aid.”


I looked up from the computer and gave him my sweet mommy smile. I looked at his toe, which showed no signs of trauma and comforted him with a big, long, hug. Then I went back to the computer.


He asked for another band-aid.


I’m used to Peter's need for band-aids, but I was in the middle of a great thought plus I had dinner to check. Surely, an unnecessary band-aid could wait a minute.


After several failed attempts to elicit my sympathy and attention, Peter had had enough.


“Mommy, I will see you later. I am going to the nurse!”


Yes, it's been an adjustment this last year.


Things have changed. Or more accurately, I have changed.


I no longer use the family computer. I have my own. And, I have my own office too. Well, "office" may be stretching it a bit. It really is just a corner in our bedroom, but it's all mine.


At first it was hard for everyone to realize that mom meant business about her "office" being off-limits. I've never made it a priority to have my own space. I was so happy being a mom, the space didn't seem that important.


But this was different. Funny thing is, once I stood up for my right to have my own corner of the world, the kids, and even my husband, complied.


The one exception to the no one touches mommy's computer is each Sunday when Joe edits my blog. Little did I know that when I married an editor 18 years ago his skills would become so handy.


The kids really didn't know what to make of Joe and I working together and spending time on something other than them. All of sudden three people who were perfectly happy playing and not wanting anything to do with dear old mom and dad desperately needed us the minute Joe would start to work on my site.


Now they accept the few minutes Sunday evening when daddy edits mommy's blog and no one can talk to us. They are also used to the silly exchanges that happen between Joe and I while he gently and ever so tactfully reviews my copy.


Last week was a perfect example.


"Kathy, do you really want to say you secretly read romance novels? It's not really a secret."


"Yes it is. I don't like to publicly buy them. I won't even take them out of the library. That's secret."


"Hmm, I don't think that's accurate. You should just say that you read romance novels."


"No, no, don't say that. I don't want anyone to know I'm OK with it. Why can't I just say I read them in secret? Is it really going to harm your journalistic integrity?"


"Yes, yes it is."


With that I hear Tom laughing in the hallway.


"What if I say I guiltily read romance novels, can you live with that?"


"Yes, that will work."


"You two are so cute when you do this" says a soon-to-be 13 year old Tom.


"Shouldn't you be in bed now?" I say with a smile.


Writing my blog and finding my joy in writing has changed me in ways I never expected.Without even knowing I did it, I had misplaced a part of myself. I was so attuned to my children's needs that I really let my own slide.


The truth is the real addition to our lives hasn't been my blog at all.


The new addition to the family has been me. And that is probably one of the best gifts I could give not only myself, but my family too.


Author's note: I published a blog post on Momster.com last December titled, "My kids are jealous of my blog." This piece is another look at the same topic and includes some excerpts from last year's post.

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year!

The mood in our house right now reminds me of my all-time favorite Staples TV commercial. The spot goes back about 20 years and features the festive Christmas song,"It's The Most Wonderful Time of the Year."

The commercial features an ecstatic father shopping for school supplies with his children. The children are slowly following behind, looking as if they are headed for death row.

The voice-over in the commercial says, "They're going back!"

Tuesday is the first day of school in our little corner of the world. The first bus will arrive around 7:15, and off Lizzy will go to third grade. The second bus shows up at 7:35 to take my baby Peter away to first grade.

Less than an hour later, I'll take my oldest, Tom, to middle school for seventh grade.

Oh Happy Day!

Or is it?

Now I realize that if you happen to be reading this while nursing one baby and holding another little one out of harm's way with your leg the idea of six hours without children sounds heavenly.

I'm not going to lie. It ain't bad.

But it wasn't what I thought it would be either.

I would talk to my friends whose children were at school full time and be envious. They would talk about being busier than they ever thought they would be, and I would smile and nod. Deep down I would think they really had the life. No children home, the ability to shop and do errands without anybody crying, melting down, or asking for Oreos.

I would usually have to cut short the phone call or visit. I either had to pick someone up from preschool or rescue someone from the top bunk bed because it seemed like a good idea to climb up but not so much fun climbing down.

Last year Peter started full-time kindergarten. I had visions of long lunches, long workouts at the gym, cleaning rooms that haven't been cleaned since I had him in 2005.

Turns out, my friends were right. Those six hours go fast!

With the start of school comes all that homework. I'm not talking about the children's homework. I fully accept my role as homework cop. I'm grateful that I'm the one who gets to torture them and go over their weekly spelling lists.

I'm talking about the mommy homework.

There's an endless series of forms to fill out and notices to keep track of for three kids, in three different schools. Then I have to get prescriptions for all three kids for occupational and physical therapy. After that I have to trek back to the doctors office because the original dates on the prescriptions were wrong.

Perhaps the biggest assignment is delivering the EpiPen, Benadryl, and inhaler to the nurse at Tom's school to treat emergency flare-ups of Tom's allergies and asthma.

Did I mention the notes from therapists and teachers? What about the endless teacher conferences? Or the stream of checks for PTA dues, class dues, gifts for teachers, class trips, subscriptions for various class magazines, and a million other things.

I'm tired just thinking of what's in store.

Next come the phone calls I dread.

I have to say I really enjoy the summer break from the panic I feel each time the phone rings. Once school starts all that changes. Now when the phone rings, I have a pretty decent chance of finding out that someone bumped their head, fell asleep in the middle of class, or is having an allergic reaction.

The one I dread most is the yo-yo syndrome. This is when you send your little darling to school and the nurse calls to tell you that the child who looked perfectly healthy two hours earlier while he was torturing his brother is now sick as a dog.

Sometimes I get to enjoy a little pocket of time. I was able to start my blog once all three kids were in school, and I love being a full-fledged mommy blogger. I even have had the occasional long lunch or coffee date with a friend. It's times like this that I feel extremely blessed and grateful for the life I have.

I like the crazy runaround pace of being an at home mom. Part of me is just wired for chaos. My house is cleaner when I have 10 minutes to clean it rather than when I have three hours.

The one real downside is that I'm going to miss my kids.

Please don't tell them that. It will spoil my image. But I had a wonderful summer with them, especially my oldest, Tom.

For the first time in six years, Tom didn't go to the full-day summer camp the school district has for children who need year-round academic support. His dyslexia always made him eligible to attend, and he always enjoyed it. He would spend the morning in the typical day camp and the afternoon working on his academic issues.

Tom did so well in sixth grade he was no longer eligible. While Lizzy and Peter were off to camp having a ball, I had Tom all to myself. For the first time since he was a baby I had some real one-on-one time with him. I loved it.

We would spend the morning walking with my dad, and then he would swim with friends or just hang out with them. Some days we would go for sushi or to the movies. I saw The Planet of Apes, Captain America, and The Zookeeper. All were movies I would never have attended had I not had a 12-year-old boy. I had a blast.

Now it's all over. There are school supplies to separate and put in backpacks, pencils to sharpen, notes to write to teachers, and chaos to deal with.

As much as I love to complain, I am eternally grateful for my beautiful family.

But as Peter is now asking for popcorn for the 20th time in five minutes, the thought that I may be able to finish a thought come Tuesday has me agreeing with the Staples commercial: It is the most wonderful time of the year! 

A Day at the Beach

This past Tuesday I was walking on the same Long Island beach that I have known since I was a girl. My mind was wandering aimlessly, memories coming at me in no order or direction. Just like it did years before my husband, children, and my messy laundry room occupied my thoughts most of the time.

Of course the stroll wasn't exactly carefree because I was with my three children. But they were happily running ahead of me with my dad, and I could at least enjoy a small moment of peace and time in my own head.

Because I'm an excellent multi-tasker, I could do this all while occasionally telling my six-year-old, Peter, to not go so far into the edge of the water. I also manged to be the willing receptacle of the shells and rocks that the kids would bring to me to put in my daughter's doll bag that I grabbed out of my minivan and borrowed for the occasion.

Lizzy's pink skirt was blowing in the breeze, and Tom was laughing with Peter as they would look for more shells to give me. Watching my children so carefree and happy filled me with a feeling of gratitude.

My dad's familiar bald head was in the distance. He was holding Lizzy's hand and showing her the birds.

As I was walking I willed myself to remember the details so I could replay the memory on days when I feel like a 24-hour TV channel with the slogan "All Mom All The Time."

I thought back to the many summers that were spent at this same beach with my mother and sisters when we were about the same ages as my kids are now.

Back then, I loved the sand and the water. Going to the beach was a regular summer treat, all at once routine, yet something that I looked forward to. My sisters and I would bury each other in sand or look for minnows and swim in the water.

My mother's orange and black bathing suit with the tiger lily print is etched in my memory. At age 68, my mom still has great legs, but when she was in her thirties, she was stunning. Her skin would get so dark in the sun, and she would look very exotic. Not like the other mothers with their more conservative bathing suits and white cream on their noses. I wondered if I would ever manage to look like her.

It never seemed fair to me that I got the dark hair of my mother and the Italian side of the family, yet also had the pale white skin from my German father. My blond sisters were born with skin that tanned beautifully. Somewhere in the gene mixing, something got a little confused.

Of course now, when I'm mistaken for the youngest when I'm in fact the oldest, there's a little bit of a vindication. But back then I was just jealous.

My mind went to the summer when I was 24 and walking with my parents on the same beach. A welcome change of pace from my apartment in the city.

I was in a job I didn't love, and I was unsure of where my life was going. I was casually dating a fraternity brother of my roommate's boyfriend. My dad was mad at me because I had decided to go to Pennsylvania to meet him instead of going to the annual family reunion at my uncle's farm upstate.

I turned to my mom and said that I had a feeling that I was going to go to Pennsylvania and never come back, yet I didn't think that was the right choice for me. She turned her head and said something I hadn't even considered.

"Then Kathy, don't go."

I chose the reunion over the guy. A week after I got back from my uncle's farm I found myself on a blind date with the man who has been my husband for 18 years and counting.

"Peter, get closer to the sand... the sand Peter... sand... good job."

"Mom, look at this shell." Tom hands me a few sandy shells to put in the bag.

We catch up to my Dad and Lizzy. Lizzy's arms fly around my neck as she gives me a big kiss.

I take a look at the sand bar where we have ended up and realize just how far we have walked.

And just how far I have come.

Amen.

The Guilt Market

The news has been so filled with stories about the volatility in the financial markets that it had me thinking about one market that CNBC and Bloomberg don't cover: the Guilt Market.

Mothers are very familiar with this market. It starts the minute the line turns pink on your pregnancy test. Suddenly you feel guilty for the coffee you drank that morning, or the calcium you didn’t take. Heaven forbid if you had a glass of wine with dinner, or had your hamburger rare.

Perhaps you were like me and ate sushi the night before you found out you were pregnant because surely the cramps you were feeling meant another month of the baby dance so you might as well live it up.

Now as you look at the line you have spent months waiting to see, you are convinced that all your missteps will doom you and your baby.

From there the market just takes off. This is a market where I have a better eye for picking value than Warren Buffet.

Just like the stock exchange, the guilt market has a contingent of analysts, specialists, and investors—all of whom are willing to weigh in.  It may be out of true concern, or maybe they just have a need to put their two cents into your portfolio. 

Some of my favorite guilt tips are

·         “Don’t worry about having another miscarriage, I read that stress can harm the baby and cause a miscarriage.” I had four miscarriages, and I always found my guilt index climbed anytime someone gave me gave me that recommendation.

·         “You have to at least try to nurse your third child because you nursed your other two children. It’s only fair to the new baby.” I’m pretty sure my youngest child, Peter, has never gone a day worrying about the fact that he was bottle fed while Tom and Lizzy were breast fed. I’m also pretty sure he appreciated having a sane, happier mother. I know Tom, Lizzy, and my husband did. But, I will say six years later, I still think of that tip whenever Peter goes nuts if he does not have the same exact amount as his brother and sister. I have already socked a little extra money in his “money-for-therapy-for-all-the-things-I-did-to-screw-you-up fund”, just in case this is the reason.

·         “You should talk and play with your children more. Maybe that is why they have speech problems.” A few times I wondered if raising my children in a convent where we had taken a vow of silence was a bad idea. How was I to know that most parents interact with their kids? That comment paid a high return to the original investor.

When I realized that something was wrong with our daughter, Lizzy, at only six weeks old, I racked up so much guilt I could have singlehandedly paid the national debt.

The idea that if only I had done something, anything, differently, my daughter would live a more normal life has eaten up more time than I care to admit.

As a mom, I want to believe that if I only follow the “rules,” everything will work out just fine. If I read the right books, feed the kids the right foods, and take them to their scheduled check-ups, nothing bad will happen.

When something does occur that’s not in my plan, it’s easier for me to blame myself. If I was at fault, I can control it and make sure it never happens again.

I wish it was that easy. Experience has taught me it’s not.

Or, rather, Lizzy has taught me it’s not.

Though Lizzy’s challenges were not in my plan, they’re a part of her.

As she marches through the house wearing three crowns, my shawl around her waist, a sock for a glove, and a hair tie for a bracelet, it’s hard not to admit that Lizzy is who she’s supposed to be. Lizzy doesn’t blame me for the things she can’t do. She’s too busy living her life and turning her brothers into frogs with the magic wand my cousin gave her.

Plus there are more important things that she does blame me for, such as not letting her play with my jewelry or my favorite blouse.

“You are ruining my life,” is one of Lizzy’s favorite expressions lately. She will use it for anything, whether it’s the fact that she can’t have another cookie, my good purse, or the TV channel she wants. She’s no fool, she knows how valuable a commodity guilt is. I’m no fool either, and her outbursts initiate some interesting arguments.

“Lizzy, I don’t care if I am ruining your life, you can not eat the whole box of cookies. Now knock it off.”

“Oh, but the cookie is my best friend.“

That one always gets me, but I’m strong.

“Lizzy, it is a cookie, not a friend. Now move on.”

“But, mommy… I love you so much.”

She’s learning to be very skilled at the guilt market!

After all, she is my daughter.

Finding Home

As I was sliding down the hill, I had to question the wisdom of taking the trail my 12-year-old, Tom, wanted to take. I figured that because I was with my dad, it would be OK. But my dear 71-years-young father was way ahead of me and wasn't looking back. I had lost sight of him.

Tom was behind me exclaiming that this was the best day of his life.

For a minute I panicked. We were 15 minutes from home in a state park I've known since the age of nine, but I feared we were hopelessly lost. There are few things I hate more than being lost, and I'll do anything to avoid it.

I have the poorest sense of direction in human history. I can get lost trying to get out of a paper bag.

Tom still had no idea something was wrong. Then I had a momentary flashback to 35 years ago.

I was 10 and at a sleep away camp, deep in the woods. That first morning, I woke up before anyone else and needed the bathroom. I had declined my counselor's sleepy offer to walk me to the outhouse a small distance from our cabin.

Getting to the outhouse was fine. But the return trip? I guess I turned in the wrong direction. Two hours later and I still hadn't found my way back to the cabin.

There I was in my little baby doll pajamas going from cabin to cabin hoping to find mine. Each time a counselor would give me directions to get back to my cabin. Not wanting to look anymore foolish then I already did, I acted like I understood just fine. Off I would go, only to get more lost.

Finally I stumbled onto a cabin of boys and that counselor brought me back to my group. I was lost for almost three hours.

Oddly enough I don't remember ever crying or showing anyone just how terrified I was. Even at the age of 10, far from home, completely lost, I still wanted to look like I had it all together.I was always terrified that people would know I was dyslexic. At times I felt so lost in school. It was as if I was on the wrong planet and everyone spoke another language. I was always looking for the way home. Someplace where I didn't have to work so hard to fit in.

Oddly enough, I didn't know that the place I was looking for was one that I would create myself. With the help of a guy I met on a blind date 21 years ago this month who understood and listened to me when I said I couldn't do something. He told me I could do it anyway. For the first time, I believed it.

"I can't type..." "I can't go to college..." "I can't drive..." "I will be lost." Each of my fears was countered by a "Yes you can." And then I did.

Learning to find my way home, through the doubt and the fear, allows me to teach my three children that they too can go where they want to. Even when it feels impossible, they take the steps required to get out of the forest and return home.

It doesn't matter if the challenge is learning to read for Peter, seventh-grade math for Tom, or the many obstacles of being a special needs child for Lizzy. The kids are finding their way, and I'm finding mine. 


In my heart, I know how hard it is to feel completely lost, and I know the joy when you realize you can do what you once thought was impossible.

These thoughts came to me as I was sliding down the hill at the park. With my heart beating a tad faster, I came to the end of the hill. Tom quickly followed behind me.


We were none the worse for the wear. We found our way back on the path and my now gloating dad.


Tom can't wait to do it all again tomorrow.



Neither can I.　


　

Best Management Training on Earth

The other night I was so tired, and our youngest, Peter, was just not going to sleep. It was one in the morning, and I was desperate. I brought out the big gun.

"Peter, that's it. I'm putting on All the Presidents Men".

"No mommy. No All the Presidents Men," came his plea for mercy.

I was too tired for mercy.

Yes, my secret is out. When I can't get my youngest to sleep, I bring him into my room (if he's not there already) and put on a movie that's guaranteed to bore him to sleep. All the Presidents Men is my strongest weapon. If I'm feeling a little more patient, it's Julie and Julia or Field of Dreams.

But this was a night for a political thriller.

Before Woodward met Bernstein, Peter was asleep.

I've developed such a strange skill set in 12 years of motherhood that I started thinking how I could possibly define it if I was ever looking for work in the corporate world again. How could I possibly sum up all the creative problem solving I've done as a mom? Is there a position where I could use all these skills?

As I was considering my options, I thought about CEO of a Fortune 500 company or perhaps Secretary of State.

Yes, Secretary Clinton's impressive resume includes turns as senator, first lady, lawyer, and congressional aide on her way to becoming the nation's chief diplomat. Admittedly, I've been none of these.

But, how much do you want to bet that when it comes down to the nitty-gritty negotiations she has to do with world leaders, she relies on her time as a mom as much as any other position she's held?

Who does more day-to-day negotiations than a mother? Every day we have to get our little darlings to do things that they just don't want to do. Eat with a fork, use the potty, not put their fingers in their noses, and that's just for starters.

When my oldest, Tom, was four, he refused to go into a Friendly's restaurant because he feared they might play music that he found painful to his ears. I spent almost an hour, slowly and carefully getting him from the car to the restaurant, determined that he not let fear rule his life. Now it may not be the same as getting Middle Eastern heads of state to the negotiating table, but, it's pretty close. 

Thankfully I had my own dad to encourage me and stay with a then one-year-old Lizzy while she slept in the car. But, every good executive has assistants to help her out with difficult assignments.

I have made burping noises while cutting fingernails so little people don't get freaked out but don't have cat claws either. I have sung, ate and swallowed every animal in "I Know an Old Lady Who Swalled a Fly" to entertain children while we wait for what seemed like hours in doctors' offices. I even came up with a story of a princess who learned to get out of the pool without screaming, so I could avoid a meltdown and get everybody out of said pool in one piece.

I am no pushover either. I have slashed TV, iPod, and movie privileges when the situation called for it, and I did not back down. If I could withstand the furror of a tweenager, I'm pretty sure I could handle a board room of executives.

We haven't even spoken about the multi-tasking required to diaper a baby, contain a toddler, and make an appointment with the pediatrician all at the same time as you look over a picture book with your eldest child lest they feel left out. It's perfect preperation for a board meeting. 

Motherhood may be the best training ground we have to develop strong leaders and heads of industries.

If there are any future leaders who don't have time right now to start their own families, yet would like a crash course in a) negotiating, b) improving productivity, and c) operating on time and within budget, I will gladly let them spend time with my family. Come spend a few days being in the trenches of motherhood with me. It's a sacrifice I would make for the good of my country.

Just Like Everyone Else

As a girl, I loved the story of how my parents chose my name. My mother loved the name Christina and planned to use it if she ever had a girl. But, as she would say, she changed her mind the minute the doctors put her beautiful baby daughter in her arms. She took one look at me, fell in love and decided I was meant to be a Katherine.

In my early twenties, I learned from my dad that there was more to the story. Apparently after hearing of my intended name, my maternal grandmother was so upset that she dispatched my grandfather to the hospital. He let my mother know that if she did not name me after her mother, my grandmother would never speak to her again.

I'm not sure if my poor mom was just tired from a difficult, 24-hour labor or if she just wanted to please her mother. I do know my name is Katherine Lee and that I was named for my maternal grandmother and my paternal grandfather. My mom did rebel a bit though. My grandmother spelled her name with a C.

Perhaps you can tell that I come from a long line of strong women who like to get their way. Such a personality trait will always complicate mother-daughter relationships.

My mother and I are no exception. I spoke very early and had no problem speaking my mind. This complicated our relationship, and we have had our share of heated battles through the years.

Thankfully, with age, and the arrival of my own children our relationship has mellowed.

I'll be the first to admit that I wasn't easy to raise. My firstborn, although a boy, reminds me so much of myself that at times I want to scream. At other times, I want to call my mother and thank her for not strangling me. He embodies qualities I like about myself as well as many that may make me seem... well, challenging.

When he and I fight, my mother's words echo in my mind, "I wish upon you the same thing my mother wished upon me... a child as difficult as you are."

She got her wish, I have three.

My mom had three girls, and I thought I got away easy with two boys and only one girl. I remember the wars that would occur in a house of almost all women.

My poor dad.

I also, foolishly, had the idea that given my daughter's special needs, our relationship would be easier. After all, the world is so hard for Lizzy to navigate, especially when it comes to language. Surely that would help us avoid the mother-daughter battles that were an everyday occurrence in my childhood.

All I can say is, Lizzy is one strong little girl. It's a great trait for her given all the challenges she faces. It's not so great for me as her mother.

This was apparent a few weeks ago when Lizzy participated in her first Special Olympics.

"No mommy, no hair."

"Lizzy, stand still, I just want to fix your bow."

"Noooo, you're hurting me. Leave me alone," she said very loudly.

Just what a mother wants to hear with 50 other parents and volunteers watching us.

"Very good sentence, Lizzy. Now stand still," I said in a tone that would earn me canonization.

This was only slightly more embarrassing then last year during dinner at my in-laws. "Mommy. Get off my back," she said.

The difference between Lizzy's outbursts and those of a typical child is that when Lizzy does this, my family doesn't think less of us. They're too busy trying not to laugh.

"Kathy, she is doing really well," my sister-in- law whispered to me as my husband escorted Miss Lizzy away from the table.

Lizzy has also spread her wings in shcool. One day her teacher called me, laughing. Lizzy was getting very frustrated with the math that she was working on. All of a sudden, she headed for the door and said, "That's it, I'm out of here."

My daughter's show of independence has always stirred a host of different emotions for me. First, is just plain anger and a little shock. How can my sweet baby talk to me like that?

But that anger is tempered with gratitude. It's hard for me to be too mad when I waited so long to hear her speak. What she says is less an issue because I am just so thrilled to hear her say anything.

Inside my beautiful daughter's very complicated brain is a little girl who is a lot like me. She just wants her mom to leave her hair alone and let her be.  

My job is to learn the delicate balancing act of letting her go just enough, yet still keeping her safe.  

Best Laid Plans

Ever since I was a child, I’ve had a strong maternal instinct and a strong need to use it. But my two younger sisters saw no need to have two mothers when they already had one, and I put my energy into learning all I could about parenting and proper child rearing. That just thrilled my friends who had children before me.

When at last I became a mother at thirty-three, I was more than ready to put my instincts and all my years of reading on parenthood into practice.  

Armed with my natural instincts and the skills I accrued during my ten years of working in the corporate world as an assistant to various financial executives, I set out to be my ideal of the modern educated stay- at-home-mom. There would be no soap operas and lounging on the sofa for me. I would not be running errands in my sweats without any make-up. I wanted to be a positive reflection on women who made the conscious choice to stay home with their children.

Boy was I dumb.

After I managed to get myself off the sofa from the sheer exhaustion of raising one very wonderful little baby, I started on my mission. As if my first born was just a small version of the executives I once worked for, I began scheduling our days with stimulating and educational activities.

My son and I took our first enrichment class when he was about seven months old. We started with a baby swim class, followed by a gym/swim class, then a play gym class, and several mommy-and-me classes. It’s never too early to instill a love of the environment, and that led us to do two sessions of “wee-sprouts” at a local ecological center. We rounded this out with several Gymboree classes as well as several mother-and-child music classes. This was all before he started pre-school at three.

Since my son had some speech and motor delays, he also started receiving early intervention services at home a few months before he turned two. Each week, a speech therapist, an occupational therapist, and a physical therapist would meet with him two times apiece for a total of six weekly sessions.

For fun we went to two different play groups each week, and had a host of play dates with age appropriate children.  Occasionally we even went into the city to audition for TV commercials. We never booked a job, but we always had fun meeting more moms and children. My son happily played in his stroller as we would walk the streets of Manhattan and visit old co-workers or one of my sisters for lunch. If we had the chance to visit a zoo or museum, I felt even better.

On our “down time,” I carefully structured our play to include the activities I read about in parenting magazines and books. I made petting zoos out of stuffed animals and played sensory games and read lots of books. We did watch our share of Nick Jr. and PBS, but in my defense they were always deemed educational and age appropriate. I also managed to move houses and have a second baby at the recommended spacing of three years.

Honestly, I don’t know how we survived.

I’m surprised somebody didn’t plan an intervention, perhaps luring me with the promise of a parenting seminar and then holding me in a room while more experienced mothers pounded some sense into my head. My son’s physical therapist did comment once that he had never seen a more scheduled two year old, but I foolishly took this as a compliment.

As it turned out, I got my intervention. I had more children. All my carefully scheduled activities snuck out the window with the addition of our daughter. They were completely gone shortly after our youngest son was added to the mix.

Life required me to be more spontaneous. Especially, as it became more and more apparent that my daughter’s learning delays were much more severe than my first child’s. We then added even more complexity when my youngest also required early intervention. More therapists joined the mix. Formal school programs and other peoples schedules started to replace my carefully constructed plans.  Our schedule was just as crazy.  I just had less control over it.

The crazier and more intense my life got the more I had to let go. Instead of going to formal classes, my youngest and I counted fruit and vegetables as we went to the market. We sang songs while we waited to pick up my daughter from school or read a story while we waited for my eldest’s school bus.  Fun was and thankfully still is a natural part of our life, not something I need to schedule.

I learned the hard way that motherhood is not something that can be done perfectly and orderly. Motherhood is messy, hectic, confusing, and fun. There is no one right way to parent nor is there a perfect recipe to raising a happy and healthy child. In the long run there is only one parenting expert we need to listen to, ourselves.

No Place Like Home

For a few days this week, I visited a place I haven't been in years... NoKidLand.

For four nights I slept in a bed with my husband with no children trying to sneak in between us. We even had a chance to share a kiss without anyone claiming we had emotionally scarred them for life.

No one woke me at 4:30 with a box of cereal or requests for toast, with butter. At no time did anyone spit their food in my hand or give me a half eaten apple to throw out for them.

It was heaven. It was blissful. It was the life my husband and I shared for almost six years.

We lived in my favorite place in the world, New York City. Although our one bedroom apartment wasn't large, it was on the 26th floor. I could look out my window and see the lights of the city, and it always thrilled me.

My husband and I had only ourselves to worry about. We took long walks on Madison Avenue or through Central Park on weekends. If we wanted to go to a movie or out to dinner we did. We had no responsibilities beyond our jobs and our cat.

Funny thing though, as much as I enjoyed our life, I wanted more. I desperately wanted to go to KidLand. I would look enviously at women who pushed baby carriages or were obviously pregnant.

Manhattan is famous for beautiful shops filled with designer clothing, jewelry and shoes, but I would drool over the baby shops, the maternity stores, the toy stores.

When three years into our marriage I found out I was pregnant I was overjoyed. I felt as if I was given the keys to a world I always wanted to enter. Our apartment barely had enough room for our cat, my husband, and myself, but I started planning for where our new baby would sleep.

I even took a certain amount of pleasure from having to throw-up while walking down a city street with my husband. We were going to have a baby.

When at 10 weeks we found ourselves at our obstetrician's office looking at a sonogram with no heartbeat, I was devastated. I still remember the day I had my D&C. My husband and I praying together in a small room that tried to be homey with dried flowers which only seemed to remind me that nothing was alive anymore.

Lying on the operating table, the anesthesiologist asked me to think of something happy. I started to cry because the only thing I could think of was a beautiful baby and a nursery. My doctor looked at my tears, and sensing what I was thinking, quietly said, "Kathy, think of a beautiful beach on Hawaii."

Three more times I would have the joy of seeing a positive pregnancy test only to be devastated two or three weeks later when those pregnancies ended as well. Why me? Why us?

After a little more than a year, four miscarriages, and infertility treatments, my husband and I deiced to end the baby dance. We started to research adoption. We had recently moved to a house in Queens, and the room we had painted blue for a nursery started to seem like a good place for a guest room.

Imagine our surprise when only about a month after ending our fertility treatments we were back in the office looking at a strong heartbeat. We were pregnant!

Each week, I held my breath as the doctor would do an ultrasound and each week I would leave the office feeling exhilarated. I promised myself I would enjoy every minute of my pregnancy and every minute of motherhood. Morining sickness, heartburn, and dirty diapers were the things that dreams were made of.

Three kids and twelve years later we are as far into KidLand as we can be. The chaos of the morning routine, the seemingly endless trips to the pediatrician with a sick child, and the bouts of tween attitude seem like a small price to pay for the other wonderful things KidLand offers.

The wet kisses my five year-old gives me. The look of pure pride on my special-needs daughter's face when she shows me the outfit she dressed herself in. Or the quiet conservations my oldest son and I have over hot chocolate and coffee before school. I love the whole messy package and am grateful for each day.

I would be lying, though, if I didn't admit that sometimes the memories of my old life call to me. Especially when I remember eating a meal in peace or taking a shower without someone asking me if I've seen their shoes.

And, it was lovely to be in a hotel room with my husband and know that nobody was going to knock on the door and ask what we were doing in there. To feel free to read, go for a walk, or deep condition my hair. 

NoKidLand was a wonderful place to re-visit, but, I am so glad Kathy doesn't live there anymore.