After Defeat Comes Victory

I have some great recipe posts brewing for later this week: cheese souffle, canned nectarines, and homemade granola to name a few. I also will be reporting back from our thrill a minute trip to Iowa for the Indy 250 race and checking out Taste of Chicago, but tonight's post is dedicated once again to my kids and their swimming. It seems fitting that as the meets have taken over our nights and our schedule, it should take over my blog for a few days.
Last night I wrote about the lessons they took away from the pain of defeat on a cold and rainy night.

Tonight these pictures tell a different story.

Deep Breath.

What a difference a few days can make!

Unlocking the Power Within by Losing

When we headed out to our swim meet on Thursday evening, the sky was dark and threatening. I had a feeling it might be a difficult evening, but I didn't expect that we were about to have an epic night of great defeat. No matter how many sweatshirts you pack, there's some life lessons you can't protect your children from.

This is our first summer as a swim team family, with the exception of a short stint in Ohio last year. My kids are confident swimmers, happy frolicking in the deep end, but not very familiar with the different strokes. They have learned so much in a few weeks of daily swim practices, and propel themselves across the pool faster every day. They are loving the camaraderie around the pool and the games played during the long swim meets. Receiving ribbons for third and fourth place in their second swim meet was a huge thrill, and we expected the fun to continue on Thursday night.

As soon as we walked into the other team's pool club, we sensed the tension and confusion in the crowd. Kids were huddled together, shivering in the 65 degree temperature. Trains were whipping by every few minutes, and the announcements of upcoming races were muffled. Coaches were running around, calling out kids' names frantically, and chaos reigned. It was all too much for Jack and Bella; they came in last for each of their races, shivering under their damp clothes late into the night.

I felt powerless to ease their disappointment. I rubbed their shoulders to generate a little heat, complimenting them on their smooth strokes and their progress in just a weeks. But at the end of the night, when we finally piled into our warm mini-van, the tears didn't flow as I expected. Instead the kids talked about what a lousy night we'd just had and how the next one would be better. Somehow, they had learned to say, "I'll get you next time."

So many sports nowadays reward kids just for showing up, but swimming lets kids experience the bitterness of defeat. It can be a tough lesson, but with the right reinforcement, can also teach perseverance and the value of hard work. My kids are learning the power that lies in their bodies, the strength they have to push themselves across the pool. There will be other swim meets, warm nights playing with friends on the thick summer grass. There will be more ribbons, more victories to erase the memories of our dismal Thursday night. Race by race, lane by lane, they are unlocking the power they carry within.

a Cruel Parenting Fatwah

Do you remember the items your parents denied you? That toy or clothing item that your parents didn't understand you simply had to have to be in with the cool kids? For me, it was a second CB jacket, a red one with white stripes, significantly different than my teal one. My mother simply could not understand that it was completely uncool to have the same winter coat two years in a row. My tears and pleas could not sway her. The coat still fit and there was no need to spend another $125 for a new one. Oh, how I hated that once beloved teal CB jacket that second year!

Having put my own kids through two moves in two years and consequently three different schools, I've tried to be sensitive to their demands for stuff. When Bella came crying home from second grade because she was made to play Ugly Doll tag with a blade of grass, I ran out to buy her a ridiculously expensive Ugly Doll. I'm the first in line when Justice has a sale, silently grateful that Bella hasn't gotten the Abercrombie memo yet. Within weeks of moving to Chicago, both Jack and Bella were sporting Cubs sweatshirts. And don't even get me started on how many packages of Silly Bandz I ran out to buy when my connection at Hallmark called. I want to ease their social transition as much as possible, and if the right possessions will make them more popular on the playground, then I'm happy to spoil them a bit. Within reason.

Moms have to pick their battles, and for some reason, I always take a stand about shoes. My French-American heritage influences me in the most random ways, in this case, giving me the conviction to forbid children's plastic shoes. No Crocs have ever been worn by my kids, and not for lack of begging. Not only do I find them unattractive, but I also think they don't provide children with enough support. It took my kids years to accept my No Crocs Fatwah.

The latest shoe showdown was over another must have plastic shoe trend, this time by a French manufacturer. It seems every kid in town this summer is sporting Adidas flip flops. I heard about them for weeks from Bella before finally taking her to Dick's to buy what I thought would be a branded version of regular flip flops. I should have googled them. When I saw her eagerly grab a pair of what looked like men's shower shoes, I didn't think twice before shaking my head categorically and expanding my Crocs band to include Adidas plastic footwear.

Bella's face quickly went through a number of emotions. Shock led to anger before finally settling on tears, torrential tears. I was accused of being the cruellest mother in the world, but I didn't budge.

I rebutted each of her pleas:

• "You'll drag your feet." 
• "They're ugly." 
• "They'll make you sweat." 
• "They won't be comfortable." 
• "We might as well stop talking about this, I will not change my mind. Discussion closed." 

I was unmoved that my daughter, or at the very least her feet, might become a social outcasts this summer. History was repeating itself. I was proudly, unhesitatingly, becoming my mother.
Sometimes a mom has to take a stand.

A Glorious Bonus Day in Chicago

Every once in a while, you get a bonus day, a true unexpected gift filled with memories. Yesterday was such a day. Two very inconveniently scheduled doctor appointments at opposite ends of the day forced me to clear our schedule and spend the day in Chicago with my 4 year old in tow. Vicious thunderstorms were predicted, but the sun held out, and we cruised through the city, Ferris Bueller style.

After a requisite stop at the American Girl Doll Store to pick up a little outfit, we hit some more Mommy-pleasing stops: the Art Institute and a walk through Millenium Park. The Cloud Gate is always a great spot to get a few fun shots.

Lunch at the Art Institute was like being transported to Paris. The museum serves small plates in its fountain garden, but seems to publicize it poorly, because we were the only ones enjoying the beautiful space.

Having the place to ourselves just made it easier to pretend we were crust-less grilled cheese eating princesses.

After an hour lunch, I felt more relaxed than after a week in the Carribean, soothed by the gurgling fountains and a stroll through the Impressionist floor of the Art Institute before walking out past the dazzling blue Chagall windows.

Happy Wordful, Five Minutes Wordless, and Way-back wednesday.

The Ghost on the Ultrasound Screen

"Do you need my crib?" she said helpfully, "I can bring it over this week. It's just collecting dust in the garage."
I smiled and thanked her, but changed the subject before arranging the delivery of the crib.
We do need a crib, along with so many other long-discarded baby gear items, but I'm not ready to bring any of them into my home. Setting up a room for this child, preparing in any way beyond taking my pre-natal vitamins, just seems too much like tempting fate, something I already feel like I've done too much of by conceiving again.

Since I lost the baby I carried before I gave birth to Bella, each of my pregnancies has come with a certain degree of fear, an emotional frost to keep hope and love at bay. That fear usually faded by the end of the first trimester, knocked down with the echo of each strong heartbeat in the sterile doctor's office, but many times, the fear was warranted, numbing me from the pain of other miscarriages.

This time around, the fear did not dissipate with the steady rhythm of my unborn child's blood coursing through his veins. I've heard his (or her) heartbeat, have seen him (or her) do somersaults on the ultrasound screen, have counted his fingers and toes, and have marveled at his unique profile, so different than his brother's and sisters. And even as I marveled, the fear has retained its clutch on my heart, nagging me not to get attached, not to hope, not to plan ahead too far.

The baby's room remains an office. The bins of clothes remain undisturbed in the basement. And no crib is being hoisted into the house. It's just too soon, too scary, too tangible. I want to hold this baby. I want to know him, want to guide his chubby fingers around a fat red crayon for the first time, want to see the joy on his face when he bites into his first birthday cupcake. I want to see him laugh at the antics of his brother and sisters, I want all of this so much that it terrifies me, as I cradle my growing belly, powerless to protect its contents.

I communicate my eagerness and hope with a gentle stroked response to his evening flutters against my belly. Stroking back confirmation that we're all waiting for his arrival. But I can't shake that fear, that nagging, freezing fear, that this baby, like so many others, will remain just a ghost on the ultrasound screen.

Simplifying End of Year Teacher Gifts with Groupit

I dread the end of the school year, probably with as much passion as my kids look forward to their days of summer freedom. It's not that I fear having them on my hands all summer, although there's always a bit of anxiety transitioning to a new routine, it's more the stress that comes with the end of the year, coordinating all the teacher gifts.

I have three kids, each with multiple teachers, and if you factor in their extra-curricular activities, the number of people to thank for contributing to my children's lives is astronomical. It's bad enough just remembering everyone to give a gift to, but in a few cases, I actually have to coordinate all the parents in the class for a group class gift, and then things get very stressful.

This year, to streamline the process and minimize the wads of bills thrown at me at school pick-up, I'm using Groupit to collect Jack's class gift. Here's how it works:

1. On the Groupit website, I set up our class gift with a target gift amount, a message to all the parents explaining we wanted to give a gift card, and inputting the emails to the parents in the class.
2. Groupit sends a message to each parent with my note.
3. Parents donate on Groupit using Visa, Mastercard or Discover (so sad not to be able to use American Express to replenish my Membership Miles).
4. In a week, I can either purchase the gift card on Groupit, or have them cut me a check so that I can get the gift card on my own. If this was a baby shower or another gift occasion, Groupit partners with retailers and lets you purchase the gift directly on their site. I'll be using it to set up my baby wish list for sure.

I haven't gone through the entire process yet so I can't comment on whether the other moms will be suspicious of the site and how easy the buy the gift or gift card process is at the end. But I can tell you how relieved I already feel having sent the email out and having one convenient place to check the progress of the responses from the other moms. It certainly beats frantically searching for that little half ripped piece of paper where I scribbled people's names that I always end of losing.

Maybe, just maybe, I won't feel quite so frazzled, drained, and thoroughly exhausted on that last day of school. I might even have time to get our pool bag organized before we even need it. A girl can dream, can't she?

First Cubs Game

When my kids were babies, our lives were filled with firsts. First smiles. First laugh. First word. First step. They came so fast and furious that just capturing them all was hard.

But as kids get older, the firsts become few and far between, especially after the teeth start falling and the training wheels are banished. But this weekend, we had a big first, one that, as usual, brought tears to my hormonal tear ducts.

We went to our first baseball game. A Cubs game.

When the seventh inning stretch rolled around, and the entire stadium broke out into Take Me Out to the Ballgame, the kids looked around, completely amazed that so many people knew the song their dad had been singing to them since their birth. When they joined in, my tears started flowing, surrounded by big guys with beer bellies.

Happy Wordful, Five Minutes Wordless, and Way-back wednesday.

Motherhood in 100 Words

I wish I had taped the little song Juju sang to me as she gave me this card this morning.

Happy Mother's Day to mothers everywhere! Whether you're celebrating your first mother's day with a tiny newborn, or skyping with grandchildren around the world, motherhood is a bond we all share, regardless of language and culture barriers.

When I gave birth to Bella nine years ago, I was just anxious to meet my child and to hold her safely in my arms. I didn't realize that I would be joining a special club, uniting women around the world with a common bond,. When a woman becomes a mother, she becomes much more than a mom, she takes on close to a hundred job titles.

A mom is ...
a banisher of bad dreams,
a nurse,
the perfect cushion for sleepy heads,
a short order cook,
an expert blanket tucker,
a snack machine,
an impartial judge,
an evil dictator,
a wish granter,
a lie detector,
an inspiration for leaps of faith,
a prison guard,
a storyteller,
a teacher,
someone you can trust with your secrets,
someone who guesses your secrets,
travel planner,
a personal shopper,
a wardrobe consultant,
a stylist,
a hopeless fashion embarrassment,
an ATM machine,
a groomer,
a baker with an expertise in chocolate chip cookies,
a birthday cake artist,
the tooth fairy,
Santa Claus,
the Easter bunny,
a playmate,
a party planner,
cheerleader,
photographer,
a social director,
a tutor,
a housekeeper,
a laundry expert,
a chauffeur,
a magician,
a best friend,
a Mommy.

This month, the Yahoo Motherboard challenged us to define motherhood in 100 words or less. This list of titles was my attempt. What's yours?

My mom likes to make fansy food: crepes with mustard and ketchup.

Wishing you all a very happy and relaxing Mother's Day.

Building a Mother's Day Dream at the Peninsula

I've always had this fantasy of taking my daughters to tea at a really fancy hotel. It's one of those images I had in my head when I first got pregnant, one of those parenting moments I dreamed of having. But as a mom of three, including a restless boy, I know how quickly those types of dreams can turn to a disappointment, when kids are bored or misbehave, oblivious to how it perfectly everything played out in your head. So I always held back on making a reservation, preferring to keep the dream intact.

Uh, oh. Faux pas. Pinkie clenched in.

Today I went to a special tea at the Peninsula Hotel in Chicago for members of the Chicago Moms. I drank delicate teas, ate finger sandwiches, nibbled on beautiful little cakes, and I heard with growing excitement about all the child-friendly Peninsula activities. Not only does the tea and the brunch come with a special children's buffet served at child height, but they even have baking classes in the kitchen.

The top tier of the tea tower: Sweets!

I was so excited that I made a reservation for Mother's Day Brunch, finally (somewhat) confident that it would be an experience we would all enjoy, not only the girls but the entire family.

The children's tea platter. Kids can choose between hot chocolate and tea.

I'll eat my fill of little quiches, raspberry financiers, and salmon sandwiches while they'll enjoy visits from characters, brownies with bears, and their choice of hot chocolate or tea. I hope that it's a Mother's Day we'll all remember for a long time!

Wishing everyone the Mother's Day of their dreams. Happy Wordful, Five Minutes Wordless, and Way-back wednesday. A special thanks to the Peninsula Chicago for hosting the bloggers of the Chicago Moms for this beautiful tea today.

a Shadow of Fear Amidst the Rejoicing

I was at my ob-gyn's office on 9/11 when I heard the news that a plane had crashed into one of the twin towers. My hand resting on my swollen belly, wedged in uncomfortably in one of the antique chairs in the waiting room of my doctor's Park Avenue office, I thought the receptionists meant that a small recreational plane had grazed the tower accidentally, just as had happened recently. I was anxious to hear if my baby was still in jeopardy due to low amniotic fluids and I didn't pay much attention.
 
An hour later, when I walked back out into the waiting room, it was filled with crying patients and nurses. Cell phones weren't connecting. The radio was turned up loud but the commentators knew little. A small TV in the corner of the nurses' station showed two columns of black smoke billowing ominously into the bright blue sky. The unthinkable had happened. There was a war zone just sixty blocks away. I grabbed my husband's hand and curved my other arm protectively around my unborn baby and we made our way out into the morning sunshine, into a changed world.

We had only one thought, to get home to our little apartment, to close the door and the curtains, and to be safe. Two weeks later, I brought my first child into a world full of fear. When she was six months old, she was frisked thoroughly by white gloved TSA officials as I stood helplessly five feet away. Her powdered formula was sniffed suspiciously and her car seat was taken apart and examined. It was terrifying and reassuring at the same time, the price of safety.

Reuters Photo

Last night, President Obama announced that justice had been carried out. Osama Bin Laden was dead, after a decade of hunting, he was killed by a squad of US soldiers. But instead of bringing relief and an end to the fear of terrorism, his death has just increased my sense of unease.

When I sent my children off to school this morning in a similar pale sunshine as that day we'll never forget, I fought the urge to keep them close. I told them about Bin Laden's death and they cheered, just as many others are doing in New York and DC. But I did not feel like joining them. It seems that Al Qaeda must be poised to reassert their continued strength, to make a statement about the death of their leader. Terror lurks all around us: in the water, on the commuter trains that pass my children's school, and on the planes that fly above.

When my last child is born this fall, will the world feel any safer? Or has Bin Laden's legacy changed us forever?

Confronting the Unthinkable with Imperfect Birds by Anne Lamott

My kids are 9, 7 and 4 and every day they give me more glimpses of the terrible teenagers they'll soon morph into. Bella rolls her eyes at me like a pro, Juju dances to Party in the USA, and Jack recently requested a balloon sculpture in the shape of boobies. Yes, boobies. We're laughing now, but I'm terrified of what will come all to soon, terrified that my kids will turn into strangers who despise me and count the days til they fly the coop to the freedom and kegs of college.
 
I just finished Anne Lamott's latest novel, Imperfect Birds, and it rocked me to my core by making me face one of my greatest fears: teenage drug addiction. The novel features the same characters in Lamott's two previous novels Rosie and Crooked Little Heart: Rosie, her mother Elizabeth, and her step-father James. She alternates between the mother and daughter viewpoints, describing each of their flaws poetically and unflinchingly, in her signature style, yet creating characters with whom it is easy to empathize.

I found the novel particularly shocking when Lamott speaks in Rosie's voice. Rosie is a straight-A student with a 4.2 average, described by her science teacher as a star, one of the ones he didn't have to worry about. She loves her parents, yet coldly calculates how to manipulate their emotions to hide her dependence on being high. She's not addicted to a particular drug, but is high most days on speed, cocaine, ecstasy, ADD medication and valiums bought off of other students, shrooms, and even cough medicine. In one scene, when Elizabeth confronts Rosie and makes her take a urine test, Lamott paints the firestorm of her complicated emotions:
"Rosie faced her mother, eyes narrowed with disdain even as she felt the ground beneath her turn to sand. Her heart pounded the way it did after the cheapest cocaine, going so fast that she felt like she might be having a stroke, and yet she still sneered with disbelief at such bald-faced foolishness, at her stupid, stupid mother who stood there in the bathroom holding a cup of pee like it was plutonium. Rosie's mind churned as she desperately tried to figure out the angles. If she went ballistic, she could beat her mother down, deflate the story into something more manageable, and continue her life as it had been."

Imperfect Birds is about more than the struggles of a teenager with drugs, it's also about relationships, and marriage in times of extreme hardship. I loved how well Lamott described the constant fine tuning a relationship requires for two individuals to stay in sync, to continue communicating even as careers and identities change. In one paragraph, she described the music of marriage so perfectly by saying, "She knew every single personal noise James made - grunts when he got up, light snores when he went to sleep, medium snores throughout the night, groans from repositioning, occasional farts, all part of the marital soup."

This is by no means an easy read, but it delivers an important message and it delivers it in Lamott's beautiful prose. I have a good friend who is an ER doctor who recently shocked me by telling me how often she treated overdosing high schoolers who came from well-off two-parent homes. Kids whose parents had no idea were doing drugs. Kids who began getting high by taking prescription medications from their parents' bathroom.

I heard Anne Lamott speak a few weeks ago, and she said, "The stakes are high with our girls and that's why we need to be their lighthouses. We need to show them that the respect they are so desperate for can only come from within." My kids are still little, but middle school and high school are just around the corner, and I feel a little more prepared from having read Imperfect Birds and having confronted the unthinkable.

Wordful Wednesday: Tell Me Their Stories

"Tell me their stories," she demanded from the back seat.

I peered at her through the rearview mirror, looking at me earnestly in her princess pink booster seat with her halo of uncombed hair and I asked, "whose stories do you want to hear, sweetie?"

"Their stories, Mom, the stories of all the dead ones with their names on the stones. I want to hear them all!"

Her request in the parking lot of our supermarket, was so unexpected, torn from the wilds of her 4-year old world, that I pressed her to clarify, but she insisted. She had chosen that particular moment to call upon my memories, to learn about those connected to her by blood but blocked by time. "Mom! I want to know all about them: their names, their stories, and where their stones are. Tell me Mom. Tell me now."

And so I told her about her great-grandmother, my Lola, her namesake who so resembles my Juliette in spirit and determination. A woman who would be shocked to have a descendant who eats corn dogs and walks out of the house with wild hair but who would no doubt see herself in my little dictator in the making.

I told Juliette Loreau's story in Disney terms, painting a picture a 4-year old would appreciate, the story of a rich little girl who grew up with her baby brother in a big castle. She had a friend who lived nearby, a best friend who she married when she got older and he wore a handsome costume like Cinderella's prince because he was in the army. They had four pretty daughters who loved to eat cherries, right from the trees in their backyard. And later on, when she was old and living in a little house on a hill by the sea, her baby brother came to live with her again, with a little yellow bird who sang pretty songs to them in the evening from its golden cage.

She listened to the story, rapt, with her mouth a little open as if she could drink my memories. When I stopped speaking, she let out a soft, "oh," and looked dreamily at the window, no doubt imagining the life of this woman she'll never know, happy to be filled with the stories that she craved.

Happy Wordful, Five Minutes Wordless, and Way-back wednesday! 

How to Pass On a Love of Reading

Curling up with a good book is one of my favorite things to do. On a drizzly Sunday, I love to burrow deep in the couch with a fuzzy blanket strategically draped over me, and lose myself in the pages of a great novel, periodically reaching for a chilled glass of wine. I always expected my kids to be bookworms like me. Always pictured us spending quiet afternoons reading together. But passing on my passion for books has been a tough sell. A very tough sell.

We Should Have Cloned Dr. Seuss
The problem is that there are not enough people writing books like Dr. Seuss. The Cat in the Hat, Fox in Socks, and even Go Dog Go are entertaining, funny, and amazingly illustrated. They're fun to read, act out, and the perfect beginner reader book. But there's not enough of them! In Kindergarten and First Grade, when my kids are just beginning to read, they're bored stiff by all the early reader titles. Reading becomes a painful chore. They squirm in their seat, picking their teeth, the lint on their shirt, shifting in their chair and losing their spot on the page. Those early reading sessions are torture for them and me. I hate them as much as they do. And we all end in up in tears, with me hoarse from telling them to sit still and READ, JUST READ SO WE CAN BE DONE FOR PETE'S SAKE!

It Just Takes Time and Patience
Bella is now such a passionate reader that she tries to sneak books under the table at dinner, just to get a few more pages in of Percy and the Lightning Thief.  She's been known to turn the light back on after bedtime to read a little more Harry Potter and to still be up at 10:30. But it took time, and many fruitless sessions suggesting different book titles at the library and the bookstore before she caught the reading bug. Her reading ability needed time to catch up to her interests. When she discovered the Rainbow Fairies Series, she was hooked. It's just a matter of finding the right title.

I've spent the last two years fighting with Jack about reading, periodically deciding to give it a rest every few months or so, for his sanity and mine. I saw him try the same squirming tactics as Bella, bopping up and down in his chair, sucking his shirt, all to avoid getting to the end of the page.


But we hung in there. And finally, this week, we made the breakthrough, and a reader was born. He looked up at me on Wednesday night and said the most miraculous, beautiful words I'd ever heard. "Hey Mom! You were right! Reading is so fun. This is a great book."

A Miraculous Breakthrough
The book we have to thank for this miracle is the Ballpark Mysteries: the Fenway Foul Up. David A. Kelly is the author and I am considering building him some sort of monument in my front yard. Thanks to his creativity Jack is giving me breathless updates about what he has just uncovered in the last chapter and his latest theories about who stole the bat. It's the perfect book for little boys, combining mystery and baseball trivia. I only wish that David A. Kelly were further along in his series as there are only two titles published so far (the Fenway Foul Up and the Pinstripe Ghost). Book three, The LA Dodger, comes out in July. Get writing Mr. Kelly! We need to keep this boy's love of reading fueled with your work.

YouTube, Stingrays, and Nose Picking

My children's classrooms have little to do with the classrooms of my youth. Blackboards have been replaced by interactive smartboards. A flat screen TVs hang from the corner of the room. And during freetime, the kids take turn doing reading exercises on four iTouches. Technology not only helps them play, but it also fuels their learning.

One of the big milestones of first grade is an oral presentation project about an animal of their choice. The kids also got to pick a variety of formats to enhance their presentations. Jack selected stringrays and was thrilled that one of the options was doing a video. He was adamant that we needed to upload it to YouTube so he can finally show the world how much cooler he is than his nemesis Justin Bieber.

Complete with creative math and nose picking, the video just might go viral.

Thanks to the staying power of the Internet and YouTube, it will make a memory with more lasting power than one of the dioramas I painstakingly put together when I was a kid.

Questions About Babes Out of the Mouths of Babes

When I told my kids that I was pregnant, I expected a barrage of questions. I expected silly and shocking questions. But somehow, they still managed to surprise me. Here are a few of the most memorable.

Juju: "Will the baby be born in an Africa hospitable?"

Jack (after seeing a black and white sonogram): "Is the baby going to be black? Are you sure, because it's black in this picture, and that would be neat."

Bella: "Are you going to make me share a room with the baby?"

Juju: "Can I stay four until the baby is four so we can play together?"

Jack: "Will you bring me back the electrical cord from the hospital? I want to see it."

Bella: "If I have to babysit the baby, will you pay me? How much? Five bucks? TEN bucks? You know Mom? I'm getting really excited for the baby to come."

Bonus points if you can guess what type of cord Jack really wanted me to bring home. I would have preferred to reach for an electrical cord.

Happy Wordful, Five Minutes Wordless, and Way-back wednesday.

Announcing our Bonus Baby

For the last few months, I've been holding a secret nestled deep inside me. A tiny kernel that has shrouded me in a fog of nausea and sent me to the couch for deep naps every afternoon. About a week ago, the nausea finally ended, and I finally stopped consuming industrial quantities of cereal and crackers, and started really enjoying the life growing inside of me.

I had been wrestling for a while about whether we were done having children, torn between a continued hunger to once again feel a tiny hand in mine and the worry that our family would be stretched too thin. Finally we decided to just see what would happen, to let fate decide.

The powers that be have a pretty good sense of humor, as it turns out. Not only did I get pregnant fairly quickly after deciding to roll the dice, but I conceived a child with a due date on the birthday of two of my children. Thankfully, only 10% of babies are born on their due date. When my daughters turn 5 and 10, respectively, on October 3, their new baby brother or sister will hopefully already be born, or birthday planning going forward will get even more complicated.

Even though the kids had often told me that they didn't want any more babies in our family, they shocked me with their thrill with the news. They immediately began debating names, trying out every possibility with theirs, "Bella, Jack, Juju and Jane. Nope, doesn't work. Too many Js." This is so different than my previous pregnancies, when my oldest was still in diapers and preschool. This is the family's baby, eagerly awaited by three kids who can dress themselves and pour themselves a bowl of cereal.

I'm ten years older than I was when I carried Bella like a promise inside of me. Ten years wiser and 10 pounds heavier. The odds of complications and abnormalities are more than 10 fold higher, and I'm much more conscious of all that could go wrong. But when I stroke my belly as it stretches one more time, and I reach for my cache of maternity clothes again, I can't help but feel as giddy as I did ten years ago.

I can't wait to meet my ultimate indulgence, this bonus baby. Can't wait to meet this person and see whether he or she will be a charmer like Juju, a joker like Jack, or a dancer like Bella. Can't wait to hold his or her tiny head cradled in my hand and look into those trusting solemn eyes for the first time.

a Truce in Sibling Wars

My children fight. They call each other names, elaborate insults like stupid smelly idiot moron and stinky buttface meanie. Being smelly somehow always seems to feature prominently in their colorful name-calling.

At home, they fight over toys, looks, and who ate the last cookie. They draw demarcation lines outside the door of their room, and they kick, hit, and bite whoever comes across.

But every once in a while, they forget about all their sibling rivalries, their turf battles, and their unsettled scores. For a moment or two, they are one, united.

United in refusing to pose for another picture.

United in huddling for warmth

United in wondering what happened to the Florida sunshine

And every once in a while, I even happen to have my camera to capture one of those beautiful moments of sibling warfare truce, proof that they really was unity and harmony. Something to look back on when war breaks out again.

Happy very belated Wordful, Five Minutes Wordless, and Way-back wednesday.

Terrible Parenting Moments: Missing the Bus

In a few weeks, the Silicon Valley Mom Blogs will be permanently redirected to Technorati.com. I'm indulging in a walk down memory lane, reading my old posts there, filled with the angst of juggling motherhood. As I work, the kids are at home, enjoying their first day of spring break with a babysitter. A few years ago, having a calm afternoon was just a dream.

Last fall, on a beautiful September day full of lingering summer heat, Bella stepped onto the bus for her first day of kindergarten. She had been a shy and often tentative child for the first five years of her life, but she didn't hesitate as she skipped onto the bus. She had been looking forward to kindergarten all summer and she was thrilled to be riding the bus to school. She was ready.

When Bella returned that first day, she walked off the bus slowly but proudly. I could tell that she wanted to run into my arms, but was self-conscious about acting as cool as all the second and third graders around her. Her beaming grin, however, was not tempered by any inhibitions. She'd had a great day and was thrilled to find me at the agreed upon spot to tell me all about it. She'd stepped out into a new world, confident that the security of home would be awaiting her triumphant return.

Our neighborhood is the only one in our town to enjoy the benefits of busing. Most of my friends rush around town, dropping off their kids at preschool and elementary school, moving slowly through drop-off and pick-up lines while anxiously calculating whether they'll be late for their next pick-up. I have it easy. After picking up Jack from preschool, I bring everybody home for a quick lunch. I walk Bella out to the end of our driveway, the bus picks her up, and I walk back into my house. I then put Juliette down for a long nap, and use the next three and half hours to work out, write, and have some quality one on one time with Jack. Life with the bus couldn't be more convenient.

So I really had no excuse when I forgot to pick up Bella. I had been having a nice afternoon. I had caught the end of Gossip Girl while working out on the elliptical. I had completed the latest mission on Club Penguin with Jack. When Juliette had woken up, smiling and babbling, I had picked her up and walked over to my neighbor's for a playdate. I had even remembered to bring a clean diaper and sippy cups with cold water. Juliette was soon crawling among a new set of baby toys, while Jack was playing trains nicely with his playmate; once I had assured myself that all my children were happy and accounted for, I settled in to catch up with my friend.

My friend interrupted me in the middle of a story to ask, "When does Bella get home on the bus?" My heart literally skipped a beat as I realized I had committed my worst nightmare: I had forgotten one of my children. In my dreams, it had always been the baby in her carseat that I forgot next to the car. Instead, I'd forgotten my eldest, the one who would remember.

I sprinted out of the house, barefoot, and started running after the bus as it went along its route through our neighborhood. If I didn't catch it, the driver would return to school with Bella, a fifteen minute ride, and leave her with the secretary. As I ran faster than I ever had before, I was picturing a large empty yellow school bus echoing with Bella's sobs as the stone faced driver rode on.

I caught up with the bus a few blocks later. Bella came down the steps, tears streaming down her face. I gathered her into my arms and held her tight, apologizing over and over again. She just kept repeating, "You weren't there. You forgot about me. I was so scared." I showed her my bloody feet, but my silliness of running down the street without shoes did not cheer her up. I had broken her trust and it would take a lot more work and time to repair. I hadn't been there when she counted on me.

Kicked Out of the Kitchen and Loving It

For the last few months, I've been kicked out of the kitchen more and more frequently. My daughter's been bitten by the baking bug, and she is staking her claim to the family kitchen. She picks out the recipes, takes out the ingredients, and gets cooking, and she is determined to do it alone (at least until it comes time to deal with the hot oven).

If I close my eyes, I can picture her chubby little hand and her giant smile when I first hoisted her up on a kitchen chair and handed her a wooden spoon. She was my eager assistant, first alone, then with her brother and her sister, for years, until she lost interest, too tween and too cool to hang with her mom in the kitchen.

But now she's back. On her own terms. Without mom at her side. And I couldn't be more proud or excited that she's chosen a path to independence that produces sweet treats, even occasionally sharing the dough with her brother.

Bella's current favorite cookbook is Teens Cook Dessert written by Megan and Jill Carle, two teenage sisters with gorgeous photographs. It's real baking from scratch with personal introductions that really speak teen/tween. I'd love to meet these inspiring young women and thank them for getting my daughter so excited about cooking.

Happy Wordful, Five Minutes Wordless, and Way-back wednesday.

Tacos and the World Around the Corner

We live in a typical suburban neighborhood where kids bike to school past lush green lawns and the crossing guards know them all by name. But just a dozen blocks down the street, our suburban island of colonial houses with wide front porches gives way to gas stations and fast food chains.

I love the reality of our location and the fact that you can't tune out the rest of the world. It gives us quick access to Chicago and all of its museums and restaurants, and it also provides some pretty amazing experiences within a brisk walking distance.

My favorite taco joint, Don Alfredo's, is tucked away out of sight behind some Citgo gas pumps. I pumped many tanks of gas there before even noticing it. I never would have guessed that the tiny restaurant served up homemade tortillas filled with freshly grilled skirt steak, delicately marinated chicken, barbecued and fried pork. Everything is served with vibrant tomatoes, cilantro, onions, and avocado. The green and red sauces available on each table pack a gentle yet complex heat that thrill my mouth.

Juliette and I go there at least once a week to get our fill of tacos, rice and beans. She loves to hear me stumble through my order in Spanish and shouts, "Gracias!" Seeing the Dora vocabulary in action never loses its entertainment value. It's a whole different world of tastes, sounds and smells, just minutes from our house.

Happy Wordful, Five Minutes Wordless, and Way-back wednesday.