See Ya!

My posting will be light (read: nonexistent) for the next week. We're off to Maine again and our Internet access will be patchy (read: nonexistent). Hopefully I'll return with lots of stories and pictures to share. See you in August!
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Welcome Back, Ferber

We started sleep training Savannah last night.

She's a good sleeper, but had some picky habits about how she would fall asleep. Like only with a pacifier. While being held. And rocked. And patted. For half an hour. Or maybe more.

It was wearing us out. And because she's already a little mama's girl, her falling asleep issues were making it really difficult for me to get any time away. (And you know I need my time away.)

With Chelsea, sleep training was salvation and sanity. Before training, all three of us would be in tears every night, trying to get her to bed over and over again, never knowing when the night would be over.

When we finally did it, she cried for 90 minutes the first night. Every minute of which was sheer torture for me. I had to distract myself with TV, painting my toenails, and reading motivational note cards (don't laugh! I needed them!) all at once.

I have come full circle now that I'm writing about sleep training on my own blog, because it was during Chelsea's middle-of-the-night crying jags when I first discovered blogs. I was up one night Googling something like "baby doesn't sleep" and came upon an old post on dooce. When I first read it, I didn't even understand what it was. An ad? An article of some sort? Chelsea had plenty of sleepless nights, giving me enough time to explore dooce's archives and finally figure out what a blog was.

It was an eternity before Chelsea went to sleep without tears. Anything and everything would trigger a setback and require us to start up training all over again: travel, recovering from an illness, switching to a big girl bed. Now I just count her among the ranks of most kids whose bedtime refrain is always, "But I'm not tired!"

Savannah took an hour to get to sleep last night. And then she slept FOR NINE GLORIOUS HOURS. She woke up wiggly and happy and smiley. And what did I use to distract myself from her crying? A blog, of course.

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She Got Cabbage Fever

I was a child of the 80s. The question is not, "Did you have a Cabbage Patch doll?" It is, "How many Cabbage Patch dolls did you have?"

Oh, lots. Lots and lots.

I remember when they first came out and I thought, "Ew. Who would want one of those fat-head, chubby-cheeked, butt-ugly little dolls?" (Yeah, I had a third-grade potty mouth. Jealous?)

Within weeks, I was begging for them. All of them. ANY of them.

My mom said, "Why couldn't you have asked for one a couple of weeks ago? When the shelves were full of them? Now that you want one, they are impossible to get!"

She tried. And we couldn't get one.

So I did what any self-respecting, potty-mouthed, future-blog-writing third-grader would do: I wrote the manufacturer a letter. I think it was Coleco (yes, thank you, Wikipedia). I told them how much trouble I was having finding a Cabbage Patch doll and that it would be oh so lovely of them if they would just go ahead and send me one. The redhead. With the blue eyes.

Yeah, that didn't happen.

Eventually, the stores got them back in stock. And I got more than my share of those dolls. My classmates and I brought so many to school that Ms. Starkey had to make a "doll daycare" for us to leave them in, lest they take over the building.

Now that I'm a mom, my girls are still too young to beg for the latest hot toy. But I know what I'll give them when they do: paper and a pen. Or a twenty-year old collection of pre-owned, fat-head, chubby-cheeked, butt-ugly little dolls.

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This post inspired by the Parent Bloggers Network Blog Blast and the Hasbro Toy Event.

The Hothouse

I recently finished reading A Nation of Wimps: The High Cost of Invasive Parenting by Hara Estroff Marano. Marano explores the current upswing in "helicopter parenting" and its many damaging effects on children, parents, and our society.

Some of the effects on the "over-parented" children are obvious: kids whose parents shelter them in the extreme grow into adults who lack all sorts of emotional and practical skills. Some effects are less obvious, but equally harmful: anxious parents deprive their children of adequate play time, opting instead for Little League or Italian classes or even just staying at home, safe from imagined hazards.

Marano explains how easy it is for parents to fall into this trap. When we wait longer to have children and have fewer of them, they become overly precious to us. Those who over-parent do so with only the best intentions: to protect their children from danger, to provide their children with opportunities.

In the end, these parents create stunted, damaged adults. Adults who overburden university counseling centers. Adults who fail their frustrated employers.

I do not believe I am a "hothouse" parent. Marano cites an example of a mother of a 4-year-old who had never been away from the child for more than a couple of hours. I sent my 2.5-year-old to California for a week! And was happy for the break!

But I can understand how easy it is to let your child become your life. Especially when that child is your first. Especially when you stay at home with that child.

Marano writes about parents being hyper-concerned with their OWN children and uninterested in children in general. She warns that instead of working to create unfair advantages for our kids, we should try to improve conditions for all kids.

Is this blog a reflection of my own selfish obsession with my children? Look at me! Look at my kids! Aren't they smart/cute/hilarious?

Or is it my attempt to hold on to some semblance of my adult self? To have a place where I can focus on things that I like. A place where I can be a parent, yes, but also a wife, a daughter, a reader, a writer. To avoid becoming a helicopter/hothouse/snowplow parent. To have a life outside of my children.

The latter. Please let it be the latter.

Now If I Just Don't Sit Down. Or Eat Anything. Or Breathe.

Behold!

I have found the missing jeans!

And? THEY FIT!

So I had to lie back on the bed and suck it in to get them zipped. And yes, the result was an unsightly muffin top. And technically they're so tight I can't really walk in them... BUT THEY FIT! Ha-hah!

Click-Blocked

In case you never noticed, I've got me some Google Ads over on the right side of the screen. Now here's how they work: Google magically matches up the ads based on what I write about, because presumably, if you are here reading this, it must be because you are so deeply interested in what I'm writing about, yes?

After I wrote about our trip to Six Flags, the Google Ad was:

Thomas Toddler Bed!
Design your own Thomas Nursery!
Click here for more Thomas crap than you ever dreamed of!

I saw it and thought, "Hey! I would like some more Thomas crap, I mean, stuff! Maybe they have one or two things that the super Thomas emporium in Thomastown did not have!"

But wait. I'm not allowed to click my own ads. That's part of the deal. Google sends me a penny (or some fraction thereof) any time a visitor to my blog clicks on one of the ads. (Disclaimer: I'm also not allowed to suggest that you might enjoy clicking on my ads. Or encourage you to do so in order that I get some Google pennies in the mail. I'm just explaining here, ok?)

So, I don't click the ad. No Thomas crap for me.

Then I wrote about what we should do before leaving Boston, and Google blared:

64 Boston Attractions!
Museums, Excursions,
Trolley Tours, Historic Sites!
For 1 Low Price!

Hey! I want to see that! I want to pay 1 low price! But alas. Still not allowed to click my own ads. *sigh*

When I wrote about Tim Gunn's book, Google started to piss me off:

Little Black Dress
Dresses that Fit & Flatter You.
Get $25 off plus...
(Why am I typing this? If you just look over there, it's probably still there.)

Hey, Google! Here's the problem with your ads: No one is visiting this blog because of their deep and abiding love of Thomas, Boston attractions, or Little Black Dresses. They are simply here to humor me. Or keep track of how ginormous my husband's facial hair is getting. The only person interested in all of those things is... oh yeah, that would be me. Ah, the Googlicious irony.

Time Wasters

Three reasons why my carpet is so dirty:

Gosselins Without Pity
This blog is devoted to the rights and interests of the kids on Jon & Kate Plus 8.

BSYTYCD
Blogging So You Think You Can Dance. 'Nuff said.

Project Rungay
Two queens going on and on and on about Project Runway. Plus pictures! And video!!

Hmmm... I sense a theme here. Who knew I was such a sucker (and pimp, apparently) for blogs about reality TV? Go enjoy, and I dare you not to spend altogether too much time at these sites.

Tim Gunn's Top Ten

Over the weekend, I borrowed Tim Gunn's style guide from the library. It's a short little book, easily finished in a day (even sandwiched between nursing, cooking, folding laundry, etc.).

I checked it out mostly to see the list of top ten clothing items that Gunn recommends for every woman (although I could have found them via Google, had I bothered to look). Gunn's top ten are:

1. Basic Black Dress
2. Trench Coat
3. Classic Dress Pants
4. White Shirt
5. Jeans
6. Cashmere Sweater
7. Skirt
8. Day Dress
9. Blazer
10. Sweat Suit Alternative

Of these, I have approximately one and a half. I have a pair of jeans that I love, but they do not currently fit. And they are missing. I also have a beautiful cashmere sweater. With a hole at the neck. Oh! I do have a little black dress. Two, in fact. One that even fits!

Gunn's Closet Diagnosis section really got to me. He recommends ruthlessly dividing your clothes into four groups: dump, donate, repair, and keep. The only items allowed in the repair and keep piles must fit, flatter, and inspire. He calls the keep pile the "soul-stirring" pile. If I'm honest (and ruthless), I would not keep a single thing in my closet. My clothes don't even poke my soul, much less stir it.

Tim provides exceptions for what he calls "radical shape-shifting" i.e. pregnancy and dieting. In these cases, he generously allows you to keep clothes that should soon fit again.

Having just been pregnant somewhat recently (five months ago is recent, right?) and being on a diet right now, I qualify for this minor exemption. Yes! But even the stuff I want to get back into (mostly just my old jeans and that other black dress) are not all that fantabulous.

I'm tempted to pull a Clinton and Stacy and just dump everything I own into a bin. Now, who is going to show up with my 5 grand for a new wardrobe?

No Regrets

When we first moved to Boston, we thought we'd be here two, maybe three years tops. Jeremy is in a Post-doc, so we knew it wouldn't be forever. Now that he's accepted a job, the end is in sight. By the time we move back to San Diego next summer, we will have been here five years.

Five years is the longest we've been in any place since leaving home. I was in LA for 3 years, we spent just under 2 in DC, another year and a half in Atlanta, and 3 more in Savannah. We've been here so long, we're almost locals. (Don't tell the real locals that.) I can actually give directions when people ask and I haven't gotten lost in Salem in a long time.

Now that the end is approaching, I'm thinking of everything in terms of a countdown. This fall will be the last time we go apple picking in New England. This winter will be the last time we can sled right outside our door (and the last time to shovel out the cars. and shovel them again. and again.).

So I started thinking, is there anything really obvious, really Boston-y, that we haven't done yet? If we move home and talk to people about living in Boston, is there anything we've missed that will cause them to say, "You lived there for five years and you never...?"

What have we done? We've been to Fenway, the Aquarium, the Museum of Science. We've been whale watching and apple picking. We've seen Quincy Market, the Common, and the Public Garden. And yes, we've walked the Freedom Trail. (In the rain. While I was pregnant.)

We've walked through downtown Salem on Halloween night. We've dressed our kids up as ducks for the Duckling Day Parade. We've eaten amazing Italian food in the North End.

One very obvious thing we've never done is the duck tour... but c'mon. Isn't that really for the tourists?

What's left? I've got an entire year to cram full of must-see Boston adventures. I just need to figure out what they are.

(So leave me a comment already and tell me!)

De-Evolution of Language

Chelsea's language development seemed to follow a pretty normal pattern. She started out as most kids do, saying stuff like, "Ball!" No verbs, no pronouns. All nouns, all the time.

When she was able to string a few more words together, it was, "Chelsea ball!" Could mean "I want the ball," or "I have the ball," or "Give me that damn ball," but she knew her name and used it.

Recently, she's been working on pronouns. For many months we've heard lots of, "YOU WANT THE BALL!" You meaning Chelsea. This is a tricky one to fix because you have to say something like, "If you want the ball you have to say, 'I want the ball.'" And then her eyes cross and her brain explodes.

She's been getting the hang of it though and we are hearing more and more sentences that start with "I" such as, "I CAN DO IT MYSELF!" or, "I'M A BIG SISTER!!!" (which coincidentally also means, "I CAN DO IT MYSELF!").

We thought she was right on track to figuring out this whole how-do-I-talk-about-myself thing. And then she started what I can only describe as narration. Now, when she says something, she also SAYS that she said it.

Wha-huh?

For example, if Jeremy is saying something that she doesn't understand, she'll say, "What are you talking about daddy, she said." (Did you follow that? She actually SAYS "she said." Like her life is a book. And she's reading it to us.)

She even adds to the already unnecessary "she said" (or often, "she asked") with even more unnecessary modifiers: "I would not like to go to bed, she said sadly."

My dear child, you don't need to tell us you said it, because we heard you say it. And you certainly don't need to tell us you said it sadly, because we also heard your pouty tone of voice. She wrote. Exasperatedly.

Six Flags New England or The Most Expensive Playground in Massachusetts

Jeremy has been wanting to take Chelsea to an amusement park since, um, like, FOREVAH, so when we found out that Six Flags New England had a Thomastown, we were so there.

Once in the park, she lit up just seeing the sign that pointed the way to Thomastown. In the sacred zone of all things Thomas, the first thing she saw was the Harold the Helicopter ride. Harold and Thomas share the top spot in Chelsea's pantheon of imaginary friends, so she ran right to it... and was promptly denied entrance by the attendant. For being too short. (As if!)

I was so flustered because we had checked online in advance to make sure she met the height requirement for all the rides, but I was also eager to placate Chelsea, so we moved on to the next ride: Bertie the Bus. As soon as we sat down on the bus, she stood up and said, "I don't like this!" Strike Two!

We then headed to the last and most important ride in Thomastown: the Thomas train. And just as soon as we got in line, Thomas stopped running. Why? Nobody knew. For how long? No one can say. Good times!

Luckily, there is more to do at Six Flags for a toddler than Thomastown.

We headed to Wiggles World and Chelsea spent an obscene amount of time in the playground. It was supposed to be a big ship, but it was basically just a bunch of stairs leading to slides. Did I mention she's afraid of slides? So she was just climbing up and down stairs. And I'm following her around thinking, "We could've stayed in our apartment building, saved two-and-a-half hours in the car and $74.98 if we'd known you just wanted to climb stairs!!!"

Next, the Wiggles show. It quickly became clear that Chelsea is perhaps the last toddler in New England (and certainly the only one in Wiggles World) who has no idea who the Wiggles are. Despite this, she is mesmerized by the show and after the show is over she hugs (!!!) the two characters who come out for a meet-and-greet and asks us where the other two are. (They are hot and sweaty after "wiggling" around in the sun in ridiculous costumes for your enjoyment. They need some serious AC and about a gallon of water, thanks.)

After she made it onto all the rides in Wiggles World AND all the rides in Looney Tune Land without being dismissed due to size, we decided to try one more time in Thomastown. Screw Harold and Bertie, we need to get this child on Thomas! This was the whole point of the entire trip! And finally, almost as the park was about to close, we got our wish. And by then, we were all ready to collapse forever.

Oh, and Savannah had fun, too.

Here's Jeremy's version, which is roughly the same as mine but with lots more pictures and lots less annoying commentary.

More Conversational Genius

#1
While eating hot dogs for dinner:

Chelsea: I'M AFRAID OF MUSTARD!

Parents: ???

Chelsea: AND WATER!!

Chelsea: AND SLIDES!!!

Me: ?

Jeremy: Guess we won't be going on that mustard water slide.

#2
(File this one under "Things You Don't Need a PhD in Biology to Figure Out")
In the car:

Chelsea: Why was the 'kunk (skunk) all alone?

Me: I don't remember, sweetheart.

Chelsea: I DON'T REMEMBER EITHER!

Me: Maybe Daddy knows. Ask Daddy.

Chelsea: (breathlessly) Daddy, why was the 'kunk all alone?

Jeremy: Because he stinks.

(Duh!)