My two scents

My daughter smells like Fiorella.

When I took my son for his first day of daycare more than two years ago, I picked him up and he smelled like Nena. Which was not a bad thing. Nena, his new caregiver, smelled just fine. But for the first time he didn't smell like me. Or poop.

Now my daughter is starting daycare because I'm going back to work next week. And I was feeling really good about everything. Very impressed with Fiorella. My baby napped and drank her bottle on the first day. Can't ask for better than that. And she wasn't super splotchy on her face so I knew she hadn't been crying much. I thought, great. This will be fine. She's fine. I'm fine.

Until I realized that my little girl smelled like Fiorella. A perfectly acceptable smell. But Fiorella nonetheless. Now I'm sad.

Thankfully Fiorella doesn't stink. But going back to work does.

Like mother like daughter

I think it's safe to say that my mother is my biggest fan, which as it turns out is both fabulous and irritating. Because we all would rather Oprah or Bill Clinton or Sting was our biggest fan right? That would mean we'd really arrived. Alas, none of those people have heard of me yet (unless Sting has been googling about potty training lately). So it's mom. Which is fine. I totally appreciate that she thinks I'm great. I have always felt her love and support and for that I'm grateful - at least now anyway. It wasn't always the case. There were many years that her unconditional devotion and blind admiration was no match for my self-doubt and insecurity. For every compliment I had a snarky response.

Her: I wish I had your hair.
Me: My hair is disgusting.
Her: I wish I was tall like you.
Me: I'm not tall.
Her: I wish I had your creativity.
Me: I haven't had an original thought in years.
Her: I wish I was as organized.
Me: You mean neurotic?

Every time I came home to visit, she'd want to know where I bought whatever I was wearing. When she came to visit me, she'd look through my goodwill pile and want to take things home. It felt like she was trying to be me. Which of course I hated. Why would anyone want to be me after all?

And then I had my own daughter. Baby girl is only six months old but I can already see the beginnings of total devotion and admiration. I actually found myself asking my hair stylist to make my hair color match my daughter's. Her hair is so dark and shiny. Make it like that. I just think everything about her is so perfect. And of course I would - I made her.

So now I get it. Thanks ma.

Mother of Invention

Sorry to all (both) of you dedicated readers. My family went camping last week so I was incommunicado. It was a superb trip replete with volcanic fields, cascading waterfalls, canned food from Trader Joe's, s'mores, hide and seek in the forest, emerald (freaking cold) lakes, and a lot of dirt. Our baby girl had a touch of the croup when we left (she'd caught it from big brother) which made her a snotty, barking, and wretched mound of fevery baby flesh for the first half of the trip. But then it subsided and she was a happy camper too. Or at least she humored us. But it was our capricious son who took camper of the year award. He was a joy. Played hard all day, did his share of trail walking, ate like a champ and slept 11 hour nights inside his big boy sleeping bag in a tent for four days without a peep. Well, one yelp when he fell into the crevasse between the blow up mattress and the tent at 5am and couldn't get out, but that's happened to me and it's indeed frightful. Especially when you're dreaming about being sucked through the drain at the bottom of a pool by a great white shark...but I digress.

And thanks to a moment of maternal genius, he even found the courage to poop in the woods.

I was worried that we would have another lavatory incident that would set us back months when he saw those outhouses. Truthfully they were pretty nice outhouses with real toilet seats, just no flush. But he walked in there and was appalled. He doesn't understand how to only breathe through his mouth. So he refused. He even told me he didn't have to go anymore. But I knew he had to go because when he has to go he gets nervous and starts to pace and dart his eyes around. But there was nothing I could do to get him in the outhouse short of brute force, which I knew would end with me covered in pee pee and a son with an anal complex. So I relented, we packed into the car, and left for our hike.

Quarter mile into it my son starts to get twitchy and kvetchy again. I knew it was time. I told him we would go poo poo in the woods like bears. He just had to squat down and I would hold him. We could growl like bears too if he wanted. He wouldn't do it. By now he was starting to cry and pace. I said he could sit on my lap (what the hell was I thinking?). He said no. But then a few seconds later he asked to sit on my lap. Now there was no turning back. So I found a big fallen log (so metaphoric), sat down with my legs wide apart and scooped him up with my hands clasped under his knees so he was sitting like a swing between my legs. Lo and behold, the kid actually pooped. And none of it on me. It was my greatest hour. And his.

Lessons from a Temporary Diabetic

I'm going back to work in a few weeks and I still need to shed a few baby pounds. In fact, I'm actually down to my pre-pregnancy weight but it's all accumulated in new places. Like my gut. And my boobs. I'm okay with the boob part since the "Breastaurant" is still open 24/7. But what the hell am I supposed to do about my gut. My old clothes basically fit I guess, if I were into the "shoved myself into these pants" look. Not super professional.

I'm just not a good dieter. I mean, if there are chocolate raisins in the house, and there are, then I will eat them. And if there are not, I will buy them. And I get super hungry toward the end of the day. Like right now. It's 10pm and all I want is a bowl of cereal. And that's after eating yummy salmon, fresh corn, cous cous and some salad.

But during pregnancy I was an expert dieter. At least for the latter part. I had gestational diabetes so I had to adhere to a super strict diet so that the baby wouldn't get too big inside that lovely sugary environment that my whacked out endocrine system had created for her, unbeknownst to me. I found out at around 30 weeks after my glucola test. My numbers were crazy high. I had been seeing a midwife so if I wanted to keep my midwife I needed to get my sugar levels low without the aid of insulin (once you're on insulin you're deemed a high risk pregnancy and then I would have had to go with an ob/gyn). At that point I had already gained 25 pounds. And with ten weeks left till term, I was on my way toward gaining upward of 40 pounds which could have resulted in a ten pound hypoglycemic baby and a C-section. No thanks. I'll stop eating chocolate.

If only it were that simple. I had to be so strict. Limited carbs, no sweets, no milk or fruit during meals, no fruit after dinner. And no cereal. But I was motivated by this baby inside. I was able to stick to this diet for her, deprive myself the joy of eating whatever I wanted during pregnancy so that she would be healthy. And in fact she was healthy. Only 8.5 pounds. No hypoglycemia. No C-section. A wonderful birthing experience with the guidance of my fabulous midwife and the encouragement of my supportive (and foxy) husband. Because of the diet I didn't gain another ounce from my 30-week checkup. I was essentially losing weight - just instead of dropping it, I was converting it into chubby baby. And I actualy felt much better during the end of this pregnancy than during the end of my first pregnancy. And I was really happy to be more mindful of the food I was putting in my body. Since I had to write everything down and check my blood glucose levels four times a day, I became a super conscientious omnivore.

But now that she's out and my system is back to normal I can't seem to stay on that diet or any diet. The diet wasn't even too bad and some things I even looked forward to (like my low carb fudge ice-cream bar for after-dinner snack every night). But I'm back to drinking juice (big no-no for diabetics). I'm back to eating bigger meals instead of my six small meals. I'm back to gorging on cherries and grapes. (I mean it's fruit for god's sake). But that stuff is pure sugar. And now that I've had gestational diabetes, I'm more prone to get Type 2 (adult onset) diabetes later on. So I should be watching what I eat for my own health. But I don't.

I think it's a mom behavior. I'll do anything for my kids. Even give up cereal. But my own health and well-being doesn't seem to be a strong enough motivator to keep me away from the chocolate raisins. Maybe the threat of looking like a stuffed sausage at work will get me back on track. The imagery alone is probably enough...

King of the Potty

Well our son is potty trained. And it only took two weeks really. Two weeks and nine months. I made the mistake of listening to a colleague of mine at work who potty trained her three boys using an intensive behavioral modification method. She said it would take a day. Read the book, she said. Buy the pee pee dolly. You'll be diaper free in no time. Not the case.

I made my first attempt last November when my son had just turned two. I was about six months pregnant and thinking it would be really super to only have to diaper one child. So I designated a weekend for potty intervention. I bought "Potty Training in less than a Day" or something like that, and I bought an anatomically correct doll named Paul who came with underwear, a diaper and a mini-potty. I bought all kinds of treats to reinforce positive behavior - brownie bites, popcorn, chocolate raisins. I bought a ton of chocolate milk. I made notes from the book to keep us on track. And my son was a pretty good sport for a while. But the constant asking, "do you have to go to the potty?" "Are your pants dry?" - I started getting a headache. And it was a beautiful day and he was desperate to go to the park. So we did and he peed on the slide. I gave up after he soaked the bed during his nap. I figured I'd try again after the baby was born. Which I did.

By then he was about two and a half and could follow directions better. Plus some of his friends from school had started using the potty. I bought him a new potty, which we called Baby Paul's potty. Whatever. He started peeing in it which was very exciting, but he was terririfed to poop in that thing. I didn't push the issue but I must admit I was getting pretty tired of pulling big poops out of his underwear. His teachers weren't thrilled about it either so I started sending him in pull-ups, those evil diaper substitutes that are twice as expensive and half as absorbent. Then, since he was basically wearing a diaper, he started wetting his pants again.

Anyway, we decided two weeks ago that we would just forget about the diapers and forge ahead with underwear. And it worked. We had a handful of accidents but for the most part the kid is now doing his business in a designated receptacle. Even in public places. I bought a little fold-able plastic potty top that sits on a regular toilet to make the hole smaller (so tiny tushies don't fall in) with elmo and friends on there. He's willing to poop on elmo. Now he's even going by himself and taking down and pulling up his pants. So overall we're thrilled. Except for a few things...

I can't say I'm super happy about having to dump his poop in the toilet after he goes in the potty. First of all, it splashes and then I have to wipe down the toilet. It also stinks like all get out. It's amazing how much the water in a toilet really masks a lot of the smell. And the wiping isn't going that well. I can't get him clean enough. I ask him to bend over so I can be thorough but that feels like a little invasive. And then I have to clean the poop streaks off the potty. Nasty. And not to mention the pee which he insists dumping by himself. This morning he completely missed and poured a quart of piss on the far side of the toilet and all over the seat which I then had to mop up. And that's if it even goes in the potty. If I don't hold his penis down with my finger, he literally sprays straight ahead.

But he's trained. Gone are the days of diapers and Desitin - the last remaining vestiges of his short time as a baby. Another milestone achieved. Another notch on the belt of parenthood. Another reason to adopt a five year old next time around.