Snow day!

For the last two days; we've been snowed in. Well, not literally, but post has been "closed" to all but "key and essential" personnel; and despite my visions of grandeur, I am neither. So what have I been doing? Being a stay-at-home mom. I've baked cinnamon raisin bread from scratch; I've sat idly by as Cam sat on the potty (to no avail I might add, though I'm sure I was pretty close before I got a phone call from the publisher, and frankly with the sound of Backyardigans in the background - don't judge me! and the threat of urine getting on the phone I may or may not return, I thought it best to leave the room); I made fried okra, smothered porkchops, marinated chicken with gravy and mashed red potates; and besides nearly going out of my mind, I played in the snow with Cam. And it was fun.

But I did learn one thing: I am NOT cut out to be a stay-at-home mom. And for those of you who are, God bless you.

Crystal Clear: Dental visit sets mom's teeth on edge

Unlike my husband, when it comes to dental health, I tend to be somewhat lax. My dentists almost always make a remark about whether I floss regularly, though what they observe during exams makes it obvious that I don't. And because I'm almost always between dentists, I don't always keep to the recommended six-month cleaning plans.

Because of my own habits, I wanted to make sure my husband and I started our son on the right path. I followed all the suggestions: no sleeping with a bottle, not too many sweets and brush his gums, and later, his teeth. I was ecstatic when I found out the daycare kept toothbrushes and toothpaste in the room so that the children could brush there, too.

So when I noticed that one of his front teeth appeared to be darker than the other, I was disheartened. Googling the symptom didn't do me any good: By day's end, I was convinced that his tooth was dead and if it didn't fall out soon, it would have to be pulled. I frantically called my son's godmother, a dentist, and filled her in. Her calm voice did little to reassure me. It's probably fine, she said. And if not, the worst that could happen is that the tooth would be pulled.

And since it was a baby tooth, he should have no problems with his permanent tooth coming in about five years from now. That's when vanity got the best of me; would he have to go through the next five years with one tooth missing? I imagined the story shared in whispers around the school. "Oh, he hasn't had a front tooth since he was 1. His mother allowed the poor boy to hurt his tooth."

The situation was made worse by the fact that my son did not yet have a dentist. He had not, in fact, ever been to a dentist. For once, the oversight wasn't a product of my procrastination; I could have sworn my dentist said that he didn't have to be seen until 2. Not so, said my dentist-friend. He should have been seen once the first tooth bud popped out. Bad Mom.

So I did what any mother who has fallen from grace and is seeking to redeem herself would do: I immediately set up an appointment with the dentist, making sure to measure my words so as not to draw attention the fact that at almost 2, the boy had never set foot in a dentist's office. To the receptionist's credit, even if she thought I was the worst parent in the world, she didn't let on.

She didn't even let on when she called our house and left a message saying that despite what I'd told her when I made the appointment, our son did not actually have dental insurance. Sigh.

For some reason, I assumed that since we had signed him up for medical insurance, the dental was done automatically. As my husband would say, "When you assume, half the time you're right and the other half you're wrong." In my case, I was wrong. And as if to prove that Murphy's Law does exist, ("Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong") it turns out that my phone call to sign up for the insurance came two days too late. We'd missed that month's deadline, which meant that my son had to go another month (with a possibly dying tooth!) before he could see the dentist.

But this story does have a happy ending. On the first workday of the new year, my son had his first dental appointment. He was the best patient of the day, the staff said, and his teeth were perfectly fine.

So while other folks make a myriad of New Year's Resolutions, I think I will make just one: Stop freaking out. And I'm pretty certain I can keep it.

Until it's time to floss his teeth, that is.

Making it rain ...

I never thought I'd be happy to be peed on. But two days ago, urine sprinkling my new Victoria's Secret sleepshirt (thanks, Santa!) I was grinning and high-fiving like nobody's business.

Anyone who knows me knows that I don't like doing anything that takes me more than 10 minutes to figure out. So the fact that Cam's supposed potty-training readiness started about two months ago has done little to endear me to this next phase of his life. Two months ago, excited by the boy's interest, we bought the little potty seat that sits atop the regular toilet. And for the next few weeks, he'd sit on the sit for a few minutes, wipe himself with toilet paper, flush the toilet and wash his hands. Then he's promptly "go" in his diaper.

A month after that, I figured that what he really needed was a more exciting potty seat, so I went all out (well, as much as you can go "all out" at the PX) and got him an Elmo potty. Soon he was sitting on the potty making Elmo praise him until he got tired of sitting. Then he would stand and pee on the floor. And a couple of weeks after that, the daycare folks declared him ready and my $30 worth of diapers became worthless as they were promptly replaced with $30 worth of pullups.

I admit that I kinda thought the boy would be a potty-training savant. I'd sit him on the potty with a book (probably something like Lord of the Rings or the Chronicles of Narnia) and he promptly do his business, wipe, clean himself up and declare, "Mum, dad, I'm finished!" (which may or may not happen in Mandarin Chinese). Instead, we're going on almost 3 months of admittedly half-hearted training on my part and the only thing he'd learned is to take off his diaper/pull-up/underwear, often to disastrous consequences.

So last week, I decided Christmas week would the week! I hit the library nearly every day before the holidays, loading up on books. A Potty Training for Dummies and Busy Mom potty training manual for me, and two potty books and a DVD for him. I hit Target and got Yo Gabba Gabba undies, and threw in a pack of those rubber ones, too. The following day, they were all in the wash, along with his sheets. And my exubertant rendition of the "Go, Potty Go" song and my made-up dance, weren't having any effect on the boy. And then he peed on me.

Well, technically, he was on the toilet and seemed to accidentally let go before realizing what was happening and moving abruptly, spraying me in the process. It was what I'd been waiting for. We laughed, we hugged, we cried, we high-fived. It was like winning the potty Superbowl. Since then -- two days later -- I've tried to get things moving again, but so far, to no avail. But at least now, I have a little bit of hope that we're on the right track.

Plus, I know the Potty Dance.

Loser

Years ago, as a college sophomore, I did something I had never done before.

I failed a class.

I’d taken statistics, and between my social life, my sorority and my sleep, I had little time left for another “s.” I recall showing up for class after a weeks long hiatus to find that my classmates were taking a test in a statistics program I apparently missed during one of my off weeks.

Oops.

Though I knew it was coming, getting that grade in the mail made my heart drop. Last week, that same feeling came over me when I realized I’d failed the President’s Challenge, in which I was enrolled as part of Team IMCOM.  In August, I declared my intentions; now, one week away from  finishing my eight weeks of physical activity (30 minutes for at least 5 days a week), according to my computer, I’ve done nothing.

The problems began right away; The Monday I was to start the challenge, I was recovering (badly) from a nasty stomach bug and overdosed on Pepto Bismol, causing a trip to the on-post urgent care later that week.

“I have to run today,” I remember wailing to coworkers, “Or I’ll let the president down.”

I was only half joking.

The first week was a wash for gym-going, but I still got four of those five days complete by doing 30-minutes of housework, which is included as one of several activities from which participants can choose.

The next several weeks were a breeze. Between my 5K training and my gym training sessions with my husband, I easily made the five-day minimum. Those days I didn’t feel like hitting the gym, I corralled the family together for a half-hour walk around the neighborhood. I had one other minor slip-up; between work, family and TV time, I couldn’t slip in that fifth day of activity one week. But still, I was on track to meeting the challenge goals and getting my President’s Challenge award patch.

But although I was hitting the gym three times a week and running the other two, I was getting consistently behind in logging my workouts. I put it off days at a time until, eventually, a week passed, then two. Last night, I finally propped my computer on my lap, clicked open my iCalendar and retraced my last two weeks of workouts. But – apparently – there is a 14 day limit on how long I had to log the workouts.

Oops.

My computer screen showed – right there in black and white – that there was no way I would make my goal. “But I DID make it,” I whined to myself. I saw there was a reset button and  clicked on it, thinking it would skip my two lost weeks and let me start fresh at week 6. Nope. It was gone; all of it. Each of the days I’d worked out, the last  6 weeks of workouts, were wiped clean. It’s as though I hadn’t done a dang thing. For a few moments, I stared at the blank charts, disappointment growing as I clicked tabs trying to regain my lost weeks.

But then I realized that whether I actually “won” anything was irrelevant. I HAD gotten out there and done more physical activity than I have in probably the last four years. I could run longer than 3 miles without stopping. I could do 10 pushups (at least!). And – most importantly – I could fit into those jeans that I hadn’t worn since my mom dropped me (and them) off at the airport in 2005. When I complained about letting the president down, my coworker assured me that the president didn’t want me to work out sick, he wanted me to be healthy.

And I am.

Potty-mouthed boy ready for next step?

The other day, my son took a diaper from our portable caddy and handed it to me. He then grabbed the box of wipes, a changing pad and laid down on the floor. And just this week, as I picked him up from the day care, he said, "potty," and raised his shirt, indicating that he needed to be changed.

If the kid can do all that, I thought to myself, he is ready to be potty trained. But the question is: Are the rest of us ready?

My mother has been encouraging us to potty-train my son since before his first birthday. And my excuse was always that he couldn't be fully trained until he moved into a day care room with bathroom facilities. But when that happened a few months ago, he still didn't seem ready. My next excuse was the pediatrician's assertion that 18 months would be a good time to start. And now that 18 months have come and gone, I'm still unconvinced that it is time.

I understand that there are clear advantages to taking him from Pampers to Pull-ups: Every time I look over my receipts, I'm always in awe at the sheer amount of money we spend on diapers each month. And one can only change a wriggling toddler on the bathroom floor or picnic bench so many times before it grows old.
Each weekend, I pore through my books and search the Internet looking for a solid answer on the appropriate age at which a child should be fully potty trained. And every week, I am shocked to find that there is no one answer. A Google search for "potty-training tips" yields nearly 2.5 million results. Is it any wonder I'm so confused?

I even took a quiz that was supposed to gauge a child's readiness to be potty trained. My results? "Remember that there are no hard and fast rules about when a child is ready that will work for every child."
Sigh.

Some of the signs are there: He says potty, pulls up his shirt and is always ready to hop up on his new potty seat. But as my husband and I encourage him, the water running in the sink - I've been told it helps; it doesn't
- he seems content to simply sit there for several moments before snatching off a bit of toilet paper from the roll and holding it out for us to dispose.

My experience with him reminds me of a story that has made the Internet rounds in several different adaptations.

While out to sea, a large boat became shipwrecked and there was only a single survivor. This man prayed and asked God to save his life. Soon thereafter, another boat came by and offered the man some help.

"No thanks," he said. "I'm waiting for God to save me."

The men on the boat shrugged their shoulders and continued. As the man became more deeply concerned, another boat came by. Again, the people aboard offered this man some help, and again he politely decline. "I'm waiting for God to save me," he said again.

After some time, the man began to lose his faith, and soon after that he died. Upon reaching Heaven, he had a chance to speak with God briefly.

"Why did you let me die? Why didn't you answer my prayers?"
"Dummy, I sent you two boats!"


Through all of my research, I am waiting for an answer - a sign - that meant my son was ready for this next step. And like the drowned sailor, I've already received my answer. Now it is just a matter of whether I will be brave enough to accept it.

A different world

For last two or three months, I've been trying to figure out what direction I want to take in my life and in my career. What I've come up with so far is slim. With the hubby's help, I decided last weekend that I want to live in a coastal town, have a boat and walk to gourmet grocery stores and wine shops at which I will ask the salespeople to order me whatever new wine/cheese/rare ingredient I have decided I must have in order to make some elaborate dish I discovered on Top Chef.

And with the help of my 10-year-old sister-in-law, I came up with a bare bones plan to write a bestselling novel. Written in crayon on red construction paper and adorned with stickers, the three-step plan is as follows: 1) Come up with great idea (at this point, my sister-in-law conducted a scientific poll that included herself, me, her brother and her mom to decide the book genre); 2) Write the book; 3) Have Oprah endorse book. Underneath the three steps is the ultimate goal: Success! (Written in bubble letters in that way in which one begins writing too big at the beginning causing the last "s" to be squeezed in at the very edge of the paper).

A shaky plan, I know; even for someone like myself who has held approximately 20 different jobs since I was about 15 years old, excluding those jobs that didn't require me to file taxes. What I do know, however, is that I still ultimately want to teach at the college level, which has been my goal since graduating with my B.A. The issue is how  -- and when -- exactly I plan to do that. But I know that getting a doctorate must fall within that plan at some point.

While I enjoy my job, and hope to progress in it, it feels overwhelming when I think about going back to school while juggling a husband, a toddler and a somewhat stressful full-time job. And all the while, I have to keep myself trained up at work to make the paper better and become a better editor.

I hoped that writing this would provide some spark, some idea as to what would be the best point of action to follow. Didn't happen. But that's OK. Whatever path I decide to take, I know that my family is behind me. In the meantime, I'll just try to have a little fun doing what I enjoy best - cooking and writing. And the midst of that, maybe I will figure something out.

Big boys don't cry? Not quite

FORT JACKSON, SC -- I always heard moms talk about how difficult it was to leave their children in the care of another person for the first time. And each time I would hear such a story, I found it hard to believe.

At six weeks, I'd already enrolled him into the on-post CDC for the first time. At seven months, my husband and I left him with my mom for a long weekend as we went on a cruise. And we have been fortunate enough to have friends who don't mind inviting him over for a sleepover to give us time to ourselves. Don't get me wrong, we weren't necessarily jumping for joy when we left him with others. The sound of another baby would have our heads turning involuntarily. And in certain situations, we would find ourselves wondering how our child would react.

But I never really experienced that heart-wrenching feeling of separation that I have heard other moms describe; until this week, that is.

A couple of weeks ago, our son moved into what I've playfully dubbed the big kid's class. Whereas his previous room included newborn babies to brand new walkers, the toddler room may range in age from 15 months to nearly 3 years. Before his one-week transition began, my husband and I met with the room leader. She showed us around the room, my eyes widening at what she said the children would learn. After lunch, the children brushed their teeth. This room even had toddler-sized sinks and toilets.

Having always been drawn to older children - no doubt enchanted by their ability to do things he was not yet big enough for - he took to his new room immediately. He seemed to pass his former infant class with trepidation; peeking in ever so slightly but shrinking away from his former caregivers lest they whisk him away from his new class.

I learned quickly that the toddler room was a far cry from the infant room; a romper I put in his backpack as an extra outfit sat untouched for days. Big kids, apparently, didn't wear rompers. They also didn't carry diaper bags. But despite all of the differences, my anxiety quickly faded. At drop-off time, I was soon forgotten as my son rushed to open the safety gate to begin his day.

Until two days ago.

He was already fussy when I woke him that morning, seemingly bothered by the arrival of two top molars. He settled enough to eat a small snack before we headed toward post, but midway through our walk to his class, he was sniffling. Once we got into the classroom, he was openly crying. And as I spoke with the caregivers, I saw him run past us with a book, bawling his eyes out. By the time I left the room, I didn't see him, but I could still hear his wails. As I passed the room's window, I spotted him in a corner where he paused from his cries just enough to take in the fact that I had left him and build up enough momentum to cry even harder.

At that moment, as I weighed the pros and cons of going back into the room, a pain pierced through my heart. In my mind, I ran back in and hugged him tightly, telling him it would be OK. But I knew that rushing in, and leaving again, would do more harm than good. Besides, I knew the ladies (and man) would be able to handle it without getting emotionally involved. I was in awe at how the caregivers wrangled a dozen or so toddlers through the center, on the playground and through mealtimes. I still wonder how they possibly brush each of the children's teeth when I can hardly get just one to sit still as his teeth are brushed.

As I left the center, still hearing his cries in my head, I knew that was one in a long line of heart-wrenching decisions I would have to make. Because as much as we may try to delay it, my son is no longer my baby; now, he's a big boy.