Do babies come with by-laws?

I went to my first babysitting co-op meeting on Sunday -- we met to formalize by-laws for the group, because apparently that's what you're supposed to do when you start a babysitting co-op. Basically, it's a group of neighborhood friends who would like to be able to have date night with their spouses without having to spend additional money on a babysitter. Because trust me, when you find a wonderful babysitter (and we are so fortunate to have one we love), you will pay whatever it takes to keep her. But that's fodder for another post.

At the end of the meeting, one of my clever friends commented that reviewing our six pages of by-laws was like attending a childbirth class.

You know, she went on, the class where they give you pages and pages of information about what to expect when you arrive at the hospital, all the details about your stay, how to install the car seat so you can take the baby home, when to call the pediatrician about concerns, and so on. But they don't even begin to prepare you for how to actually take care of the baby.

Out of 65 items in our list of by-laws -- including items about requesting a sitter, serving as secretary for the group and voting families off the island -- there was just this one item about childcare in section E, number 11:

"Children should be given loving care and proper supervision. Watch other people's children very carefully."

That about covers it. Any questions?

My big boy

I'm not exactly sure when he crossed over, but somehow my baby boy has turned into a big boy. I guess it's been happening gradually, but in the past week there have suddenly been so many signs.

• Thanks to a recent growth spurt, he is now tall enough to climb over the baby gate at the bottom of the stairs without assistance.
  
  
• He had his first check-up at the dentist. All four of us were there (three for cleanings -- Pippi doesn't have enough teeth yet), so that we could take turns sitting with Junius. But when the hygienist called his name, he trotted on back by himself, climbed up into the chair and acted like he'd done this a hundred times before. And no cavities!
  
  
• He says he likes the movie Toy Story because it's scary.
  
  
• He can throw a frisbee well enough to actually play "catch" with his dad. (Not so much with me -- terrible at frisbee.) And he's fast on those long legs.
  
  
• We took down the safety rails on his bed -- he doesn't need them anymore.
  

But perhaps the biggest sign incorporates two major accomplishments: potty training and learning to sleep through the night. A few nights ago, my husband and I heard a noise as we were falling asleep. When the light suddenly came on in the hall bathroom, we realized it was Junius -- he had climbed out of his bed without calling for anyone and gone into the bathroom. We listened, amazed, as he peed (standing up, no less), put his underwear and pajama pants back on, turned off the light, walked back to his room, climbed into his bed and went back to sleep. No assistance needed.

But in spite of all this growing up, or maybe because of it, he's added a new regular saying to his repertoire that became an immediate favorite: "Mommy -- know what? I love you TOO much!"

That's my baby!

Let's go... Tar Heels!

Like most parents, we've been working hard to raise our son right since the day he was born -- maybe even before then. We try to teach him about the big stuff, instruct him about the difference between right and wrong, help him to make good decisions, tell him about the importance of saving money and getting a good education. At our house, that means being brought up in the ways of Dean and Roy, of Hark the Sound and the Old Well, of Pepper's and Sunrise Biscuit Kitchen.

We are a Tar Heel family, with three Carolina degrees between us, and we want to be sure our children understand the significance. We also teach him about the Pirates (he's very good at saying "Argh" for his father's alma mater) and the Hokies (his grandfather's alma mater), but even his Daddy and his PopPop pull for the Tar Heels in most settings.

So it pains me greatly to share the following stories.

The first sign of failure occurred last Thanksgiving. Shortly after arriving at the grandparents' house, Junius was playing with the old Fisher-Price cash register (those old-school toys are still the best) when my sister-in-law asked him what he was going to do with all his money. He promptly responded, "I'm saving it for college" (so far, so good on the parenting). But when she asked him where he wanted to go to college, he quickly and clearly replied, "NC STATE!"

What?!

This is not what we've been teaching him. This is not what we talk about when we read I Want to Go to UNC. This is not why we bought him a Tar Heel National Championship onesie when I was six months pregnant. No no no, NO...

At first, I convinced myself it was a fluke, that he had the school names confused. Then I decided he must be spending too much time with our Wolfpack neighbors -- should have known those boys would be a bad influence. Now, it's happened enough times that I'm afraid he might actually mean it.

Okay, so I'm willing to cede a little ground to N.C. State. I actually like the Pack, as long as they're not playing the Heels (or the Hokies). We know some very nice, smart, successful people who went to school there. And if he decides he wants to be a graphic designer or an architect or an engineer, I'm all for sending Juni to NCSU.

But we draw the line at Dook. And we were pretty proud of ourselves for teaching him to say, "Boo Duke!" (although it sounds strangely like he's saying Bo Duke, as in the Hazzards, but I digress into my own childhood). There's even a Duke Street in our neighborhood and he says "Boo Duke!" every time we drive by. It was all going so well.

And then we went into Omega Sports over the weekend. Junius saw the Tar Heel display and said, "Look, Mommy -- it's Ramses!" (very nice, focused on our mascot). Then he ran to the Wolfpack display and announced, "It's N.C. State!" (Okay, fine). But then, as he walked past the Blue Devils paraphernalia, he said, "Yea! Go boo Duke!"

Argh. Back to school.

Growing boy

I think consignment sales are great for baby and toddler clothes -- especially in the first two years, babies grow through the clothes so fast that they hardly get messed up and it doesn't make sense to spend a lot on new clothes. Every time I go to a consignment sale, I think about all the things I have stored away in closets and the attic and I promise that next time I'll bring some items to consign.

And so now that Junius is 3 1/2, I'm finally forcing myself to make good on that promise. Earlier today I started wading through the three large storage bins filled with baby boy clothes -- I've already passed along the generous hand-me-downs we received from friends, but there were plenty of things left that seemed like good candidates for a sale.

As I sorted through the clothes, I realized I was putting more pieces back in the bin than I was pulling out. Every time I looked at a little striped romper or tiny velcro sandals, all I could see was my sweet baby Junius. It was the outfit he wore on his first day of preschool, the swimsuit he wore for his first trip to the beach, the shoes he wore when he started walking on his own. I was amazed at how many things I'd forgotten that came rushing back, the clothes serving as photo reminders of how much he's grown. Keeping the clothes makes no sense, but somehow giving them away started to feel like letting go of my baby.

And that's exactly what I have to do.

He's trying so hard to be big -- writing his name (or at least a backwards "jumpin J"), riding his bike, using the potty, sleeping through the night (thank goodness!) -- and it's my job to help him, even if that just means getting out of the way. Even though it's scary sometimes, it's also exciting to watch him grow. And keeping his baby clothes isn't going to slow anything down.

The clothes he's wearing these days aren't likely to make it as hand-me-downs -- his jeans have holes in the knees and his shoes are so stinky that I have to keep them outside. So I will keep just a few favorites from those crazy baby days and let go of the rest.

Who knows? Maybe one day I'll have a grandson who can wear that seersucker onesie from Junius' first portrait -- it's the one that my mother-in-law saved from when my husband was a baby. Guess I'm not the only mommy who had trouble letting go of her baby boy.

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.

Bye-bye baby

My baby girl turns one this weekend. She is beautiful and amazing and I love to watch her proud smile as she walks around, trying desperately to keep up with her big brother.

But I am not yet ready to let her charge head-long into toddlerhood. Not that I really have any say in the matter.

With my first baby, it was not this way. The transition to motherhood overwhelmed me in unexpected ways -- I was much more afraid of life with a newborn than I thought I would be. When his first birthday finally arrived, I was so happy. After a year of insane sleeplessness, it seemed like a milestone that might finally mean we were past some of the exhaustion. Each new stage with him was like some kind of miracle -- as if he were the first baby to tackle the world -- and I couldn't wait to see what magical thing he would do next.

I was reminded of this feeling reading a friend's blog last month as her son approached his first birthday. She was right when she wrote, "Babies are hard. And often not fun. They are needy and demanding. They are exhausting." They are all of those things and then some -- and watching them grow up is such a thrill.

The second time around, I was just as tired, but also much more relaxed, less afraid, more able to enjoy her newness. I thought maybe it would last longer, that I'd remember it better this time. Instead, time seems to pass even faster, and I'm so busy trying to keep up with her that I take fewer pictures, post fewer moments online, write less often in her baby book.

Now, with every new step, Pippi is literally and metaphorically moving away from me. She doesn't want to be carried, pushes away when I pick her up. She wants to walk everywhere now, all the time.

And so I will cheer for her as she grows, while also cherishing every little baby moment that I have left... the bedtime nursing, the mostly toothless grins, the wobbly toes-out walk, and yes even the 4 a.m. cuddles. She's my baby and I'm holding onto her as long as she'll let me.

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."