A Letter to Santa

Junius wrote his first letter to Santa this week. I'm not sure who was more excited about it -- Junius or his daddy.

Thanks to some really wonderful coaching from Abby, they did a great job -- not sure if you can read Daddy's translation of Junius's drawings in the letter (shown left), but here's what it says:

Dear Santa, I have been good this year. Lightning McQueen and Chick Hicks [illustrations of the cars that he's asking for]. Please bring toys to other children too. Merry Christmas to Santa.

After they wrote the letter, we all went up to North Hills (a convenient substitute for the North Pole) and mailed the letter in the special Santa mailbox outside the toy store.

The whole thing was very sweet, but it left me feeling a little conflicted. I grew up "believing" in Santa the same way I "believed" in Pippi Longstocking, the Narnia siblings and the Muppets -- another great character to enjoy. I never felt deprived of the magic of Christmas, but also never had the crushing he's-not-real-and-everything-is-ruined moment.

As a kid, I loved watching Christmas specials, singing carols, decorating the house, waiting for my grandparents to arrive (which really signaled the beginning of the holiday for me). On Christmas Eve, we'd go to mass, then come home and open one present. Once we were in our pajamas, Granny would start looking anxiously out the window declaring, "Oh my stars! I think I see some reindeer out there -- you kids better get to bed!" In retrospect, I'm sure our holidays were filled with plenty of stress for my parents, but for me it was all fun and good times -- even though I didn't really believe that Santa was real.

Now as a mom, I'm at a total loss about how to create that same fun-without-the-pressure for my own kids. They'll be excited about Christmas morning no matter what -- doesn't matter who the presents are from. What I worry about (after listening to my 4-year-old for the past month) is my kids believing that Santa will automatically bring them every gift they want. I'm more worried about their disappointment in Christmas if they believe too much.

At the same time, I don't want to ignore Santa completely -- and I couldn't do that, even if I wanted to, given that he's everywhere and that so many people really want to believe. It's a tough call -- wish I had the answer. I know I'm not alone in this struggle -- see Erin's post at Triangle Mamas.

So tonight, after the kids go to bed, we'll put out a couple of presents under the tree from Santa. And I'll watch them in the morning to see their reaction. And then I'll be thankful that I have another 364 days to figure it out for next time.

Merry Christmas everyone!

Mama Wisdom for the Holdiay Break

Preschool is closed until the new year.

I should probably be excited about the opportunity to spend two whole weeks with my beautiful children, playing and celebrating the holidays. Instead, I'm a little bit terrified.

Did I mention it's two whole weeks, plus two more days?

But instead of quaking in my slippers and trying to figure out how to get Sesame Street to play on continuous loop, I'm making plans with friends and remembering this note that came home from Junius's preschool teacher last week:

"As my children get older, I struggle more and more to fit into their schedule. It doesn't seem that long ago that they were happy to sit with me on the sofa and watch Charlie Brown or read a Christmas story. At the time, I remember thinking that what I really needed was time to run to the mall or wrap a gift. I didn't realize how quickly the time would fly. While your children are small and still think you are the greatest thing ever, please take the time to make those memories that will last. Make cookies together, let your child help you wrap gifts for the family, read a Christmas story, sit on the bed and tell your child what Christmas was like when you were a child. Before long your children will be grabbing the car keys and running out the door. You only have them for a short time -- make it count!"

So now we're heading out for a fun morning with friends at the Museum of Life and Science, where I won't be distracted by my computer or the 782 things that need to be done around the house before everyone arrives later this week. We'll have a great time with minimal whining (by me or them) and lots of activities.

And hopefully all this fun togetherness will have another side benefit -- a good naptime for the kids so I can still have a few minutes to myself when we return home.

Friday's Five: That Lovin' Feelin'

Just in time for the holidays, here's a super mushy mama post for you...

Too often, I find myself wishing time away, wishing that my kids were older so that they'd be less needy, so that I could go to the bathroom without an escort, so that I could sleep past 7 a.m.

And then I realize that they're doing just that -- growing up way too quickly -- and I remind myself to savor the sweet moments that I know will disappear all too soon.

Here are five of my favorite baby moments to savor, some already passed and some that I'm still (literally) holding onto:

1. Nursing: After the first few awkward weeks, nursing came easily with both my babies (thankfully). That's Pippi in the photo, fresh at the hospital. We were still getting the hang of it there, but nursing felt like the perfect connection to me. (Side note: If nursing doesn't work for you, don't do it and don't feel guilty about it. I loved it because it was easy -- but that's another post.)
2. Sleeping on my chest: Junius mostly liked to be held when he slept as a baby -- there were certainly times when this was exhausting, but it was also such a sweet feeling with the weight of his little body all warm and snuggled against me.
3. Tucking baby's head into my neck: Whether it's the newborn snuggle under my chin or the toddler tucked into the side of my neck, I love this move -- feels like a hug, even when they're too young to know how to give one. Plus, you get to smell their sweet little heads. And where they're old enough to slide one hand around the back of my neck, it's even more lovely.
4. Reading in my lap: Pippi never has been much for the snuggle nap -- but now that she'll finally sit long enough to read a book, I get to enjoy the weight of her leaned back against me in the rocking chair before bed. It's about the only time she gets still all day.
5. Holding hands: There's something about that tiny hand tucked into mine that just melts me. It's a sign of complete trust that they have in me -- such an amazing responsibility.

And now I think I'll go pat their sweet little sleeping heads one more time for good measure. Before I know it, they'll be teenagers and I'll be that mom telling stories of how they used to fit on my lap and want me to cuddle with them before bed. Sigh.

There's a Reason Babies Are So Cute

Last week, I got the happy email news that a close friend had delivered a healthy baby boy.

To say she's had a challenging pregnancy would be an understatement, so her news brought great relief as well as joy. In addition to a range of craziness at home -- caring for her toddler, listing and selling her home, and working with her husband through a job change -- the last nine months included the following:

• 18 weeks of all day and night "morning" sickness
• 1 bout with the stomach flu
• 1 second trimester hospitalization and surgery for a kidney/bladder blockage
• 12 inches of a coil stent to open the blockage for the remainder of the pregnancy
• 3.5 months of pain and contractions
• 16 weeks of partial bed-rest
• 7 ultrasounds
• 7 days of home quarantine with attack of the H1N1 flu
• 11 hours of induced labor
• 1 epidural that came out and stopped working between the 4 to 10 cm dilation
• 7 pushes

Despite those painful numbers, she still got some beautiful results: 6 lbs. 4 oz. of perfect baby boy. And even though that baby has caused her an awful lot of pain over the past few months, she's already in love with him.

Unlike my friend, I'm really good at being pregnant -- I get enormous and round, but I had it so easy both times (until about week 39). Turns out I'm not so good at the delivery part -- both babies required c-sections to make their entrance into the world (see photo of Junius, fresh after his arrival). I still struggle at times with the fact that my babies' beginnings didn't match up with my Hollywood vision of what delivery would look like -- that dramatic moment when I squeeze my husband's hand, push the baby out, and immediately get to hold him close and love him. (And in that vision, of course, I'm wearing make-up, looking flushed but lovely. And the baby is all clean and beautiful, with no cone-head. And I instantly lose 40 pounds so I can wear my regular jeans home from the hospital. But I digress.)

I know it's a cliche, but my friend's experience reminded me that it doesn't matter how you become a mama, as long as you get to love the baby that makes you one. Whether through c-section or induction or adoption or marriage or fertility treatments or a drug-free birth, those babies arrive in our lives and they love us and they make us love them back. And it's a damn good thing they're so cute -- they have the power to make us forget everything else.

Round 1 Goes to the Pip

Today I thought I would be writing a post about how I spent my first night away from Pippi last night -- I had to be out of town for a meeting, so she and Junius were home with my husband and my in-laws. Although I've spent a few nights away from Juni, it was the first time that Pippi and I slept under different roofs in her entire little life.

But as it turns out, my night away was pretty uneventful for both of us -- and I had to be up so early for the meeting that I didn't even get to enjoy some extra sleep.

So instead, I'm going to write about this cute little outfit (shown at left), which is what Pippi was supposed to wear to preschool today. As it turned out, she wore the pants -- along with the pajama top she'd slept in the night before.

Why? Because she flat-out refused to take off her pajamas. I wasn't here to witness the struggle, but apparently neither my MIL nor my husband could wrestle her out of the jammie shirt. My husband (wisely) determined that it was not a battle worth waging.

After I stopped laughing at the vision of Nonna and Daddy trying to pin down our not-yet-two-but-thinks-she's-a-five-year-old daughter, I tried to figure out two things:

1. What about the cute outfit was so offensive to her? Did she remember that (although it's a Carter's brand) I bought it at Costco? Does she think mixing pink with chocolate brown is too trendy? Was she worried the leggings made her tushie look big?

2. How many battles are she and I going to have about her clothes over the next 16 years? And will I have enough sense to let her win the ones that don't really hurt anything so that I have the energy to conquer her stubbornness in the wars that make a difference?

At the end of the day, it really didn't matter what she wore to preschool today. In fact, some of her toddler clothes aren't so different than her pajamas -- and I'm sure her teachers love her no matter what she has on. But I can see the day coming when what she wears (or doesn't wear) Is going to make a difference in how others see her -- a skirt that's too short, a shirt that's too tight, a face-piercing. Ugh. I am so not ready for her teen years.

So I think I'm going to start working out now. Because clearly I'm going to need to be a lot stronger than she is if I'm going to win the wrestling matches yet to come.

Friday's Five: Motherhood is Hard

Today's Friday's Five takes a different approach -- not favorites this time, but still a list of five things you might need to hear. Or that I, at least, need to get off my conscience.

A friend called me a few weeks ago and I knew the minute I heard her voice that something was wrong. Long story short, her 1-year-old daughter had fallen down the stairs, she was panicked about what to do and immediately called me. Why me? I'm not a nurse, pediatrician or doctor of any sort -- but I am a mom who had done something we moms don't do often enough. I had admitted to my friend, about a year ago, that Pippi had fallen down our stairs -- so I was the first person my friend thought to call.

In our ongoing efforts to be Super Mom (and Super Wife, Super Friend, Super Daughter, Super Sister and Super Employee, all rolled into one), I think we often forget (or are afraid) to confess our disasters to friends who need to know that we're not as perfect as we're trying to be. But the truth is, none of us is alone in these failings -- and it's so much easier to bear when we know that.

So when Pippi fell down the stairs that day -- after she had stopped crying and I had recovered from the agony of watching her tumble and bounce 14 times onto the (faux) wood floor, racing behind her but unable to catch her -- I called my friend, told her the story, and said, "One day, this, or something like it, is going to happen to you and Baby L. And you will cry and gnash your teeth and think that you are a bad mother. And then you will remember this conversation, you will remember that it happened to me, and you will know that babies with very good mommies still sometimes get bumps and bruises."

It turned out that Baby L, just like Pippi, was fine -- and it took both of us moms much longer to recover than it did our daughters. But after the fact, Baby L's mom reminded me what an important gift of friendship it was to know we are not alone in our less-stellar parenting moments.

And now, in the spirit of friendship, five failings in my 4+ years of motherhood so that maybe you'll feel less alone in yours:

1. Pippi fell down the stairs: I think we've covered that story, but it was totally my fault and I can still see her face as she fell. Thank goodness she has such a hard head.
   
2. Junius fell off the bed: He was probably about 18 months, jumping on my bed. I reached to grab him, he thought we were playing chase and tumbled off the side, hitting his head on the table on his way down. A heart-breaking sound.
3. Pippi fell off the couch: She was less than 6 weeks old. I don't know how she wiggled off, but she did. Face plant on the hardwood floors. Even as a second-time mom, I was terrified that I had broken her forever.
4. Junius rode in the car unbuckled: He was a few months old, riding in his infant car seat snapped into the stroller through the mall. I unbuckled him to nurse while we were shopping, then put him back in. When we got home, I realized I never clipped the seat belt back and had driven home that way. The "what-ifs" nearly drowned me.
   
5. Pippi ran into the parking lot: We were at the N.C. Farmer's Market with friends, all four kids playing so nicely. Suddenly, my friend shouts Pippi's name and I realize she's somehow about to step into traffic. Don't know how she got there, but I nearly broke my ankle racing to snatch her out of the road. Took hours for my heart rate to slow back to normal.

I am so thankful that all of these disasters had happy endings. I'm touching, knocking and pressing on wood now in hopes that I haven't jinxed myself. Feel free to leave comments of your own moments to share, but find solace in knowing you're not alone.

Thursday Soapbox: The Public's Schools

I have a confession to make: As the mother of a rising kindergartner, there's a tiny part of me that hopes all the "neighborhood schools" candidates get elected to the Wake County Board of Education on Oct. 6. You see, as a mom, I'd really love for my son (and, in a few more years, my daughter) to attend the elementary school in our neighborhood.

What's not to love? We could walk to school in 20 minutes, joining with our friends along the way to form a daily elementary school parade. He would be in school with kids he knows, whose parents I know. He'd be at a "good" school that's safe, familiar, stable and on a traditional calendar. Norman Rockwell himself would probably want to paint a picture of it all.

Even before I became a mom, I couldn't fault the parents who complain about (and then form yet another group to fight) annual reassignments that resulted in instability, uncertainty and sometimes long drives for families around the county. Now that I am a mom, I understand their concerns in a whole new way.

But I know too much. I am more than a mom -- a former teacher, a public education advocate, a citizen, a taxpayer -- and I cannot in good conscience support an approach that will lead to the re-segregation of schools, no matter how lovely my personal scenario might seem through the eyes of motherhood.

As a parent, my job is to do what is in the best interest of my own child. But the teachers, administrators and elected officials in our community? Their job is to do what is in the best interest of ALL children, regardless of what neighborhood they live in or who their parents are.

There are plenty of arguments on all sides of the debate around "supporting diverse schools" or "supporting neighborhood schools" (which aren't mutually exclusive in theory, but generally are opposites in practice). I don't have the time or energy or clarity of thought to wade through them all. But here are few things that, from research and personal experience, I know to be true:

• Schools with high concentrations of poverty have a harder time being successful than schools with fewer low-income students. It's not some kind of hogwash about having poor kids sit next to rich kids so they can learn better. It's simply that students living in poverty, no matter how smart they are, come with additional challenges (like being hungry or not having adequate health care or having a single parent who can't be home much because she's working two jobs) that schools must try to address.
  
  
• Schools with high concentrations of poverty tend to have higher rates of teacher turnover because they're tougher places to teach. That usually means more teachers with less experience and a general instability within the school culture, which means that teachers suffer and students suffer. And that's all students in the school, not just the poor ones. Studies suggest that students in poor and minority schools are twice as likely to have an inexperienced teacher and are 61 percent more likely to be assigned an uncertified teacher.
  
  
• Advocates for a "neighborhood schools" approach who claim that additional funding will be given to schools in poor neighborhoods to help them overcome their challenges are full of crap. Particularly in today's world of slashed budgets, the money won't be there -- or if it does come, it won't last long. And, unless you're Geoffrey Canada in the Harlem Children's Zone, it won't be enough to make a difference.
  
  
• Wake County's diversity policy is imperfect -- and I think the district sometimes does a poor job of implementing the policy, leaving families feeling ignored and snubbed -- but maintaining integrated schools is the right goal. The district is not "out to get" anyone and derives no pleasure from disrupting parents' vision of how school should be. They are simply wrestling with making the best decisions they can in support of the nearly 140,000 students in the district.
  

As for the election on Oct. 6, unfortunately I don't get to vote because I don't live in one of the districts on this year's ballot. If you are eligible to vote, I certainly don't presume to tell you who to vote for and am not endorsing any candidates. But I hope that, regardless of where you live, you'll consider that, as parents, we have the luxury making decisions based on our own children. Our school districts must consider all the children at once.

* * *

I may have to write on this topic again -- I've been struggling with this post for weeks and am still not satisfied. It's a complicated issue and I'm inclined to wander off on a million different tangents. In the meantime, if you'd like more information, read Making Choices, a report I co-wrote in 2003 when I worked at Wake Education Partnership, or Striking a Balance, a 2008 report from the same organization. And feel free to comment, argue, debate -- just be polite about it.

My Other Writing Gig

Haven't had much time for blogging this week because I've been busy working on this (released today). It's not nearly as much fun to write, but the pay is better. If you're looking for information about gifted education in the U.S. (or, more specifically, in Guilford County), follow the link.

In the meantime, I've been storing away ideas about all the posts I'm hoping to write now that this project is finished -- funny quotes from my kids, books from my childhood, articles from my year abroad and a soapbox post about public schools.

Hope to get to some of them soon -- my head is getting crowded. Or maybe that's just the allergies that seem to have attacked me today.

Also, in case you were wondering, I have it on good authority that the recent change in barometric pressure is what's making my kids act extra crazy this week. Thank goodness it's not bad parenting.

Back to School

Is it tacky to do a big dance in the preschool lobby after dropping your kids off for the first day of the new year?

I mean, I know that it can be a tough day for mommies (and daddies) taking their little ones for the first time. I remember that day, three years ago -- Junius was delighted with all the toys, but all I could think about was that my baby didn't need me anymore.

But today, I am positively overjoyed to take them both to their very lovely preschool with their very wonderful teachers and come home to get some work done for paying clients. And it's not their first year, which made the dropping off even easier. So yes, I did a little dance groove on my way out of the school, humming the Sesame Street "Preschool Musical" song to myself.

This summer I learned that I'm really not cut out to be a full-time, stay-at-home mom (I had already suspected it, but this was my first extended period of time home with two children when we were not in the midst of moving). Most of the time I'm okay with that, but occasionally I have pangs of guilt and inadequacy about not wanting to be with my children all day every day. Then a friend reminded me yesterday that being a SAHM is a skill (and a talent), one that she and I have never had to develop because we've always been working a part-time or full-time job. Those moms who do it -- and do it well (bless them!) -- know that it takes serious effort to make that time at home work for everyone. My friend assured me that we could both learn how to be full-time SAHMs (without the help of preschool) if we had the opportunity.

It made me feel better to hear her say that. For now, I'm going to trust that she's right. And I'm going to say a little prayer that I not have the opportunity to prove her wrong.

P.S. The photo above is one of several I tried to take this morning before we left for preschool. Why oh why is it so incredibly difficult to get both kids facing the camera at the same time? I'm not even asking for smiles -- just both of them showing me their faces. Argh.

Definitely Not the Duggars

Four summers ago, we met the T and H families here at the beach. They had come down together from Charlotte, but it was a happy coincidence for us that we were staying next-door to families who each had a one-year-old like us. We bonded over early morning playtime on the beach (why can't these little ones understand the joy of sleeping in on vacation?!) and had so much fun that we made plans to return to the same place same week every year.

Since that first summer, our group has grown from three babies across three families to nine kids and four families (two with three kids each). For my children, it's all the fun of having seven extra cousins without any of the work. For me, it's a joy to have interesting people to talk with and share life with, outside the busy context of our "regular" worlds back home.

One of the topics of conversation this summer has started with the lead-in, "So are you guys done?"

Over the past year, my husband and I seriously considered joining the three-is-the-new-two approach to family planning (I mean really, I have SO many friends with three kids now). In fact, it was a tougher decision than I expected. After growing up in a family of four, I always assumed I would have two kids as well -- but it's such an amazing thing to create a tiny person out of nothing and then watch him or her grow, it's almost addictive. Our children are beautiful, healthy, funny, smart and interesting (if we do say so ourselves), so why wouldn't we want more? Plus, maybe if we had another one, I'd get one who looked even remotely like me (although probably not).

But my response to the question this week has been, "Yep. We're done." Followed immediately by a long-winded explanation of why we made that choice, including a host of reasons like...

• our age (I was already "advanced maternal age" when Pippi was born, which is still several years younger than my husband)
• our cars (which are paid for, but can't hold more than two car seats)
• our energy levels (severely depleted after not sleeping through most nights for the past four years)
• our marriage (which doesn't get nearly the attention it deserves while we try to manage everything else)
• our concerns about a third c-section (which means a longer, more painful postpartum)
• our finances (which are holding on for the moment, but would get thin with more family members requiring food, clothes and college funds)
  

I'm not sure why I can't just answer, "Yes -- our family is complete," and leave it at that. Maybe it's because, ultimately, I'm afraid I can't handle a third -- just not organized enough or patient enough or creative enough to manage any more than the chaos I already have. My tenuous hold on sanity and good parenting might not survive two more little hands pulling me in every direction, accompanying me on every trip to the toilet, making demands on my every waking (and sometimes sleeping) minute. If I'm honest, I think we're done because I'm done.

But then I hold a sweet new baby, sniff that fresh baby head, cuddle those tiny rolls and creases. In that moment, I think maybe just maybe we rushed into the decision to stop, maybe there's another baby in my heart, maybe we really could manage three.

And then that sweet new baby starts to cry or spit up or fuss and I remember how hard and exhausting and lonely those new babies can make me feel. And I'm over it.

Thankfully, our beach friends aren't done yet, so maybe there will be more sweet babies to hold and snuggle and sniff next year -- and then (thank goodness) quietly hand them back to their parents.

Note: If you don't get the title of the post (or if you have suggestions for a 19th "J" name), go here. And if you haven't commented on my post for the contest at Triangle TRACKS yet, Friday is your last chance.

You Might Be Cute, But Your Sh*t Still Stinks

When Junius was about 10 weeks old, we took him to my cousin's wedding. Because he was prone to spitting up in quantities that defied his tiny body, I didn't dress him in his fancy clothes until we were in the church parking lot -- didn't want to ruin the look. It was one of those beautiful white, pintuck oufits that requires ironing and has impossibly tiny buttons up the back -- one that my husband had worn when he was a baby and his mother saved for us. Completely impractical, but Junius looked so sweet.

So sweet, that is, until his enormous pooplosion leaked out all over the fancy clothes (did I mention it was white?) and onto my husband's suit. Thankfully, we had a change of clothes in the car so that Junius didn't stink at the reception (see photo of him dancing with Nanna) -- and that turned out to be the worst of Juni's poop messes, even counting potty-training last year.

Pippi, however, is another story.

Today, when she woke up from her afternoon nap and started crying for me to come get her, I was on the phone with her Daddy. Apparently, in the few minutes it took for me to get upstairs, she had despaired of ever being rescued and decided to stage a protest... by removing her diaper, squatting on her blanket for a poop, and then smearing it all over everything in her crib. Seriously -- her diaper was clean, but her sheets, blankets, lovey, books and stuffed animals were covered in shit (pardon my French).

After scrubbing her down in the tub, putting on a dry diaper and taking her downstairs to play with her brother, I headed back upstairs to deal with everything in the crib (did I mention it was even on the books? and the pashmina blanket that we got as a gift for Junius and I never let him touch it but thought it was so sweet and girlie for her to have her own baby pashmina?).

I'll spare you the details from here (and be grateful I didn't stop in the midst of all the crap to take a photo -- you don't want to know). But I'm hoping against hope that this is Pippi's one poop disaster. Is it a bad sign that I'm already afraid about potty training with her?

Now it's your turn to share a poop disaster story so that I can feel better (or at least not alone) about my parenting. And feel free to make your own puns about hitting the fan.

Lost in Marbles

As Pippi strolled past me with her miniature grocery cart, I waved to her and she tossed me a big flirty grin. Then I turned back to Junius, who was fixing a plastic breakfast of eggs, bacon and spaghetti with meatballs.

After a moment, I noticed that Pippi hadn't circled back to us when she got to the corner, so I stood up to check on her. That's when I realized there was no corner, just another opening that connected to the rest of the play area. And Pippi was nowhere to be seen.

It was a busy Saturday morning at Marbles Kids Museum, the kind of day when I would have preferred to go to the pool and avoid the crowds. But Junius had asked so nicely and I was tired of always saying no. So we went, just the three of us.

My eyes darted around the chaotic space, searching for her shaggy little head among all the other toddlers -- how do you find someone so short in a crowd? I raced around the loop twice before grabbing Junius by the hand for fear that he might disappear, too. After a third frantic circle, Juni struggling to keep up with me, I could feel myself starting to panic.

Surely she was in here somewhere, I tried to rationalize. But what if she'd followed someone out of the gate and they hadn't noticed? How far could she wander without being stopped? What if someone had taken her?

We dashed to the information desk, telling the woman there that I'd lost my child. I started spouting out details, which she relayed through her earpiece to the other staff members -- 18 months old, sandy hair, pink shoes, flowered dress. As I described her, she sounded like any one of a million little people playing in the museum. I wrestled with my lungs to make my breathing stay at a normal rate.

After making Junius promise he would stay at the desk, I darted back into the play area to search again. Another staffer met me there, saying, "I think someone found her." I looked up, expecting to see her crying for me, searching as desperately for her mommy as I had been for her.

But she was playing happily at the little cash register, just a few feet from where I'd been sitting for our pretend meal. She must have been two steps behind me the whole time I was searching for her, not even knowing that she was lost.

When I scooped her up, thanking the staff and heading to the desk to retrieve Junius, it felt like she'd been missing for hours. In reality, it had been less than five minutes -- but it was the longest one of my children had been lost, and it was more than enough time to leave me shaking and exhausted.

Friday's Five: Girl Names

Among the many difficult things about having a baby is deciding on a name for the little pumpkin. In fact, this was one of the most stressful parts of becoming a parent for me.

So much pressure to find just the right name that suits the child and recognizes the family and works with our last names and isn't too strange or too common and something we could both agree on.

My children remained nameless for their first day in the world while we got to know them and tried to decide, finally caving under the pressure of the repeated calls from the person in the hospital's birth certificate office.

Several of my friends are expecting new babies in the coming weeks and months -- got me thinking about all the names we didn't use. Here are five of my favorite girl names that didn't make it onto Pippi's birth certificate:

1. Leland: This name from my husband's family had been used for men and women in his South Carolina heritage. I liked that it sounded like a girl's name without being girly. And it's also the name of a town we pass on our way to the beach, which makes me happy. But somehow it just didn't suit our baby girl when she arrived.
   
   
2. Tallulah Clare: We (I) chickened out and didn't use this one, but we seriously considered it. Not sure if we would have ended up calling her Tallie or Lula or TC. I loved how sweet and Southern it sounded, plus the names were a nod to each of our families (Lula from my husband's side and Clara from my side). But in the end, I worried it was too much and wussed out.
   
   
3. Zella: I always liked Ella, as in Fitzgerald, and also thought it would be really cool to have "Z" as an initial. Then I started hearing all these new babies named Ella, Bella and Stella (all great names) and worried that it would be too confusing.
   
   
4. Lila: This name just sounds so lovely in my ear and feels so sweet in my mouth -- it's so beautiful. I thought it was a nice compromise for Lula, but couldn't sell my husband on the name.
   
   
5. Carson: Boy names as girl names are fun, although I'm sure some people (mostly the boys with those names) find it an annoying trend. Having a rather girly name myself, I often wished for a more neutral name like Spencer or Carson. Plus it worked for author Carson McCullers, but we knew too many boys named Carson and I couldn't convince my husband to go for it.

What's your favorite girl name that you couldn't or didn't get to use?

One sick mama

To call it a stomach bug would make it sound small and cute and easily squashed. It was none of those things. This was an evil nasty virus that grabbed hold of my body last week and would not let go. After eight straight hours of losing everything I'd eaten and then some, I finally collapsed into sleep.

When I woke up three hours later, weak and weary, I was thankful for two things:
1. The worst seemed to be over.
2. I had my mommy to take care of me.

There's nothing like getting sick to make you want your mommy -- and I was lucky enough to be staying with mine. During the night, my mother (and my father, to his credit) got up to check on me, bring me a clean wash-cloth, offer me water. And in the morning (and for the next two days), my parents took care of my children so I could sleep.

If I hadn't been visiting my parents when all this broke loose, there would not have been time for sleep. Instead, it would have been time to come downstairs with the kids, make breakfast, pack Juni's lunch, and get us all dressed to take Juni to preschool, then come home and find ways to entertain Pippi. Thankfully I have a wonderful husband, who would have wanted to help -- but he has his own full-time job and would have needed to get to the office.

This was my first time getting really sick since I became a mom. As I healed (very) slowly over the next few days, I kept thinking about how I would have survived if I hadn't had my parents to help me. I'm sure it would have involved lots of toddler videos and a crabby baby -- and a mama who was desperate to sleep. It wouldn't have been the end of the world, but it might have felt like it.

Meanwhile, thousands (probably millions?) of mothers all over the world are coping with illness and worse without any support system to give them a break. They struggle to keep their children safe or to meet their basic needs without the time or energy or ability to stop and take care of themselves. I hate that I can't send myself -- or my mom -- to help each of them.

So instead I'm reminding all my friends in town to call on me when they need help. Hopefully I haven't passed along my virus to anyone else, but I can at least share my time and support for another mom in need. It's a small thank-you to my own mom and reminder of how lucky I am.

That is the question

To the pediatrician? Or not to the pediatrician?

Of all the many parenting dilemmas, that question has been one of the toughest for me. Runny noses, hacking coughs, raspy breathing, itchy rashes -- how do you know when something goes from usual yuck to seriously sick?

Today I took Pippi in after listening to her cough up goodness-knows-what for the past three nights. Our sweet pediatrician listened patiently as I described the symptoms that surely meant she has asthma or a respiratory infection or SARS. He checked her lungs, ears, nose and so on, chatting with her as he went. Then he looked at me and said, "I've got good news and bad news."

"The good news is it's just a cold. The bad news is it's just a cold."

And then he outlined the things to watch for in case she got worse and suggested I try saline nose spray, if she would let me. As I listened, I realized he had given me the exact same speech when I brought Pippi into his office with the exact same symptoms about two months ago.

Three years earlier, when Junius was born, I was determined not to be one of Those Moms. You know, the ones who rush into the doctor's office for every sniffle and scrape. I would be a Relaxed Mom, a Cool-Calm-and-Collected Mom. The little snorts and bumps that come with babies wouldn't freak me out. And although we had the occasional sick-baby visit, Junius obliged by generally being a healthy baby (a fact I like to attribute to my magical breastmilk, but it's probably just because he was mostly around grown-ups for his first year).

When I took him to the pediatrician around age three for a runny nose and cough that just wouldn't go away, I fully expected the doctor to say, "He has a cold. Use saline nose spray. Love him. Feed him. Wait for him to get better." Instead, the doctor started asking me other questions... "What's going on with those scabs on his chin?" (He scratched himself and won't stop picking at it, but that's not why we're here.) "How long has his eye looked like that?" (Hmm, not sure. Is that gunk from naptime?) Turns out, Junius needed two weeks of broad-spectrum antibiotic to help heal the impetigo in his chin, the conjunctivitis in his eye, and, oh yes, the raging infection in his right ear. (And no, I had never heard of impetigo before that moment.)

Then, as if that weren't bad enough, we were back three months later for a diaper rash spot that just wouldn't heal. Despite all the creams and ointments I could find, this one spot kept getting worse and was threatening to bleed. Long story short, that doctor's visit was our first of what would become three bouts with Community-Associated MRSA. I won't gross you out with the details, but trust me when I tell you it's not fun to hold your toddler still while a doctor squeezes puss out of a boil on the toddler's tushie.

So yes, I took Pippi to the ped twice in two months for the same ordinary symptoms that would send me looking for cold medicine for myself. But I no longer trust my Relaxed-Mom radar to tell me when my kids need a doctor. I just take them in and then count my blessings everytime one of our wonderful pediatricians sends us home saying: "Nose spray and love -- that's all you need."