VIPs in Manhattan

Last week, I took Erika and Hilary to New York City to see the premiere of "Fly Me to the Moon," the new 3D kids' movie I kept referring to as "Bugs in Space," because I could never remember the real name. I got the tickets when the manager of Strollerderby - the Babble blog I write for - sent an email to the listserve asking if anyone was interested in attending the event and reviewing the movie. Even though I will be paid the impressive sum of $10 for this post (assuming it doesn't get a thousand hits, which seems unlikely, given that it won't possibly include any dead babies or aggressive breastfeeding propaganda) I jumped at the opportunity. I thought it would be really fun for Erika and Hilary to go to a movie premiere, and to see the stars on the red carpet (we only saw Buzz Aldrin, since Kelly Ripa made a quick, early appearance minutes before we arrived). But more importantly, I wanted them to go to a movie premiere with Mommy knowing it was for her work.

The kids see me in my capacity as Mom - getting them up and ready each morning, chauffering them around, snuggling with them at night, etc. They see me dashing off to tennis or to the gym. But I really want them to see me as a professional person as well, especially the girls. I want them to grow up expecting not just to be mothers, but to have careers as well.

Maybe all girls today have that expectation. But I can't help remembering, when Erika was about three years old, and she said she wanted to be just like me when she grew up. I asked her what that meant, and God help me, I can't remember exactly what she said, but it was something like, "I want to play tennis and have nice jewelery."

But I think I accomplished my mission. I took the girls to the nail salon the morning of the premiere, so we could all get mani-pedis for the big event, and while Erika was drying her nails the nice lady next to her asked if she was getting primped for a special occasion. Erika said yes, that her mother "wrote for the computer" and had been invited to see the very first showing of "Fly Me to the Moon." Which, I have to say, is a lot nicer to hear your daughter say about you than that you play tennis and have nice jewelry.

Molly, My Irish Molly

Our First Video Attempt

Amy and I both just bought nifty new devices for easy video taking on the go, so expect lots more where this came from... Enjoy!

Declan in the Middle

Whether middle child syndrome is real or something cooked up by The Brady Bunch writers to give Jan a plausible storyline remains to be seen. All I know is my experience with Declan, whose birth order puts him right in the middle of the 8 kids in the house, but whose personality makes him youngest of the big kids or oldest of the little kids, depending on the day.

Declan is truly the best candidate for middle sibling in our household, because he's so adaptable. He's equally at home in an elaborate pretend world with Erika and/or Hilary as he is pushing a stroller with Gretchen or striking a sword with Aaron and Ronan.

Instead of being neglected, as is the stereotypical case with middle siblings, Declan seems to have the most options. At almost 4 years old, he's still young enough to play with the little ones, but mature enough to play with the big kids.

I can't help but wonder how his position in the family will change as all the kids get older. Will he spend more time roughhousing with boys Aaron and Ronan as they mature? Or will he gravitate toward the more creative play favored by Erika?

I've been thinking about this more as I grapple with the decision of whether to send Declan to kindergarten when he turns 5 (which is the last day before the cut-off) or to wait and hold him back a year and send him right when he turns 6. If he starts kindergarten when he turns 5, he will be the absolute youngest kid in his class. He will also be just one grade behind Hilary. But if I wait until he turns 6, he will be two grades behind Hilary, but just one grade above Ronan and the twins.

Does it matter? I'm not sure. As the kids get older and spend more time at school and in their various after-school activities, it seems their playmates at home will take more and more of a backseat. When Declan is in first grade, and Hilary in third, and Erika in fifth, their worlds will be so completely different, I can't help but think this separation will transfer to the home as well.

But until then, I'm enjoying watching Declan in all his many roles: big brother to Ronan (who adores Declan, even when clobbering him over the head), doting cousin to Gretchen, prince to Erika's princess, puppy pal to Hilary's puppy.

I'll enjoy it while it lasts, because all too soon I won't be worrying about whether the kids are playing together, but whether Declan is dating Hilary's friends or Gretchen's friends. And I'm certainly not ready for that.

A Rude Awakening

Yesterday, Keri took Declan, Hilary and Molly to a playdate. Andy and I had a tennis match scheduled at our club, so we just piled everyone left into the minivan and took them with us, so Ronan, Aaron, Gretchen and Erika could enjoy a little swimming under the capable supervision of Marina and Oat.

Andy and I didn't play our best tennis, but we still had a great match against our friends Ricki and Andy Eisenstein. When it was over, we went down to the baby pool to hang with the kids.

In case you're counting, that now makes four adults watching four kids (one of which is a very capable swimmer) play in about ten inches of water. Plus, a friend of Andy's from work was there watching her two-year-old and chatting with us. Not that she was in any way responsible for our kids, but she does represent another set of eyes that you would think might notice if something went wrong.

Which it did.

Erika had helped Ronan climb into a little floatie meant for a baby to sit in, and somehow, he managed to tip himself over so he was upside down in the water, and couldn't right himself.

And the first person to notice? Andy Eisenstein, one of our tennis opponents, who was sitting at a table near the baby pool with his family and dashed into the water in full tennis attire (including his shoes and socks) to grab Ronan and haul him on to the deck.

Ronan was fine - he was crying, and scared of course, but he didn't cough up any water, so I don't think he was under more than a few seconds. But it is scary, that so many of us were there and nobody noticed what was going on. I feel like we had just started to react when Andy jumped in the pool, but maybe what we were reacting to was the drama of Andy jumping into the pool - it's hard to know for sure, given how fast everything happened.

I've written before about how nice it is to have as much support as I have from Keri and Matty, and how they remind me of things I need reminding about and keep me from screwing up too badly. But, as I learned yesterday, there's a flip side to having so many responsible adults around - it can breed a false sense of security, the assumption that someone else is paying attention. I see it all the time at the house - Ronan or Aaron or Gretchen finishes breakfast or lunch and wanders out of the kitchen, and Keri and I don't scramble to retrieve them, because surely if they start to do something too destructive or dangerous, Marina or Oat or Iza or even Erika or Hilary or Declan will notice and call us.

And we've paid the price a few times, nothing too bad - mostly unwanted marker scribbles on the carpet, the dining room chairs, even on Erika's crocs.

But the pool is a different story altogether. And maybe we were less vigilant because the water is so shallow, and the kids navigate the pool so confidently, and we didn't appreciate how dangerous it still was. But now we know. I'm still not sure what specific strategy we should employ: assign specific children to specific adults? Just constantly remind the adults present to be more vigilant? Don't let the two-year-olds play in floaties meant for infants?

I am sure of one thing, though: we owe Andy Eisenstein a new pair of tennis shoes.

The Modern Brady Bunch?

That's what NPR host Bill Radke called us on Weekend America... Listen to the full story here.

But It's A Great Opportunity, Dammit!

Last summer, Andy and I joined a . . . I hate to say a "country club," because that sounds so snooty, and this club will basically take anybody, but that's pretty much what it is. We signed up for the tennis, but I really fell in love with the swim team program they offer for the kids. The coaching staff runs practice six times a week (I think they hope the kids will come two or three times a week, but of course they can come as often as the parents want to take them), where they teach swimmers as young as five or six the correct form of freestyle, backstroke, breast stroke and butterfly. There are meets every week, in which even the beginners get to participate, so all the kids get to feel like they're part of the team.

And did I mention that all this instruction and experience costs a grand total of $50 per kid, for the entire summer?

Amazing, right? Fantastic value, right?

So you can imagine how frustrated I am now that Erika has decided SHE DOESN'T WANT TO BE ON SWIM TEAM.

This was Erika's second summer on the team. And she is only seven. So of course, it's hard work. She doesn't have the technique or the endurance of the older swimmers - not yet. And I think even I would be exhausted by the number of laps of the Olympic-sized pool the kids complete every practice.

But it's just so good for her.

This is how I look at it: swimming is great exercise, one that strengthens virtually all the major muscle groups. Even if Erika chooses to spend her summers exploring more sedentary activities, such as drama, or zoo camp, or playing with farm animals, at least I know if she goes to swim practice several times a week she's staying active (which is a huge priority for all my kids, as so many relatives on both sides of their family have struggled with their weight, including both their parents). Plus, consider the fact that swimming is one of the few sports people can do their entire lives (how many outlets are there for adults to play field hockey, lacrosse or even soccer?) and that there's no substitute for early instruction when it comes to learning any skill. Factor in the discipline, sportsmanship, and yes, the price and convenience, and it seems like a no brainer that I should MAKE Erika be on the swim team.

I know, I know - I sound so autocratic. And I always thought I'd be the kind of parent that encourages my children in their unique abilities, and helps them pursue even their most idiosyncratic dreams. (As far as Keri claiming in an earlier post that I'm forcing Hilary to take the exact same activities as Erika, when she really wants to be a ballerina, I will just say that Hilary is somewhat of a dilettante at this point in her life, and decides from day to day that she wants to take ballet, to take soccer, to become a fairy, to live on an island with Barney, etc., but that I can say for certain that ballet is definitely not one of her unique abilities) But you know what? That unconditional enthusiasm has to be tempered with the fact that Andy and I are adults, and we do know what's better for Erika than she does right now.

But I'm all for compromise, and Erika and I already have a tentative deal on the table: she'll do swim team next summer, and I'll let her go to horseback riding camp (a sport I've always resisted, because it's relatively dangerous and, from what I can see, builds no skills that can be applied to anything other than horseback riding - furthermore, and most damning, should she excel at this sport it would eventually require us buying A HORSE). Hopefully, we can continue this kind of negotiation with all the kids, this balance between passion and practicality, so that we will all be happy.

Thanks, Dr. Doom and Gloom

At the pediatrician practice we go to there are two doctors. One is laid back and amenable, quick to dismiss the occasional rash or runny nose, happy to go along with our own delayed vaccination schedules. The other one? Well, we call her Dr. Doom and Gloom. She's a bit, shall we say, overenthusiastic about tests and hospitals (this isn't always a bad thing; when Matty and I thought something was wrong with Declan since he was so small, she's the one I went to see, knowing she would order the full battery of tests I needed to assuage my fears; he was fine). She has sent Amy's kids to the hospital on more than one occasion, once to the Children's Hospital of Philadelphia since our local hospital apparently isn't good enough. She has literally begged me to get my kids vaccinated on the right schedule. Oh, and she told me at Molly's one month checkup that she might have Down Syndrome.

With the benefit of hindsight and negative test results, I can almost laugh about the whole thing now. But when Dr. D&G told me of her concerns, I began crying and barely stopped for 4 days. Matty and I examined Molly from every angle looking for the markers the doctor had seen: wide-set eyes, epicanthal folds, low muscle tone. That's it. Those were the only markers. Sometimes we saw them. Sometimes we laughed dismissively. We pored over websites and message boards looking for clues. We imagined our future with a child with Down Syndrome and suddenly began seeing kids everywhere with Down's: a tween skater dude at the movie theater, an adorable child on the pages of the Nordstrom catalog.

After 4 days, Molly began to be more alert and awake for longer periods. Her eyes, epicanthal folds and all, no longer looked even remotely Down's-esque. The wide spacing of her eyes looked like her brothers', nothing more. By the one week mark we were already fairly convinced that Molly did not have Down's; that night, the other doctor in the practice called and told me he very much doubted that she did.

By the time the tests came back on Friday, confirming that Molly did not have Down Syndrome, I was relieved, but not surprised. Though (I hope) it goes without saying that we would love Molly no matter what, life is hard enough without starting out with the deck so heavily stacked against you. Down's kids have a myriad of health problems to contend with, not to mention the social inequity from being so different. I'm sure Molly will have to endure many social hardships in her life, whether she's a purple-haired tattooed Goth chick or nerdy straight-A student. Or both. I'm just happy that this is one hardship she won't have to endure.

Pictures of Molly

There are 568 photos of Declan during his first 3 months of life. In the months that followed, there are whole folders of pictures on my computer with titles like, "Declan's First Meal," "Declan Goes to the Children's Museum," "Declan Goes Apple Picking."

There are far fewer pics of Ronan, of course, though we managed to snap him meeting his big brother the first time, watching his first marathon (we were living outside of Boston at the time), petting a goat at the zoo, traveling to Florida to visit the family.

And Molly? Well, here's Molly at the hospital:


Here she is her first day home... Oops, never mind. Here she is with all her siblings and cousins... Um, scratch that. Here she is during her baby naming, an important ritual in a baby's... Ok, forget that, here she is on her first trip to... No, don't have those either. Oh, wait, here's one, Molly at 1 month old:

Cute, isn't she?

I know I'm not the only parent to photographically neglect subsequent children, but since I've always given Amy so much grief about it (C'mon, she's got 5 kids! How many pictures do you think there are of Aaron?) I thought I'd be a bit more conscientious.

But here's Molly, 6 weeks old, and I'm already neglecting her. Does she really need her diaper changed in the middle of the night? I'll change it twice in the morning. Tummy time? Eventually. Music class? Ha!

I hope this early recognition of my neglect means I won't repeat it as Molly gets older. I hope that I can still mock Amy as her younger children suffer from tag-a-long neglect. (Yes, Amy, I'm sure Hilary really wants to play tennis and take drama, just like Erika (even though she told me she wants to take ballet); and yes, I know Hilary told you she wanted Erika to come along on her first ever trip to the American Girl store (which I'm told is a big deal to little girls), but was it really such a surprise when she decided at the last minute that she wanted to go with just you?) But I digress...

Admitting you have a problem is the first step, right? So here's my pledge: I will take lots of pictures of Molly. Though I have no problem with hand-me-downs, I will buy her a new dress to wear for her first birthday. I will not force her to play soccer and take drama, just because her older brothers do it. I will not...

Well, let's just start with the pictures for now.

And in This Corner, Weighing in at 28 Pounds...

My boys won't stop fighting. Actually, only one of them won't stop fighting, the other one won't start. And I'm pretty upset about it. Though probably not for the reason you think.

Ronan likes to hit Declan. So does Declan hit Ronan back, sucker-punch him in the jaw, kick him in the kneecap? No. Declan cries. Not cry in pain, but cry out, as in, "Ronan hit me!"

Needless to say, Ronan finds this hysterical.

I know I should be happy that Declan is such a good kid--he's the least likely of all the kids in the house under 6 to hit or kick or punch or pinch--but frankly, I think he needs to toughen up a bit. I heard the following exchange from their room one morning:

Ronan hits Declan. Declan cries.

Declan: "You are mean!"

Ronan: "I not mean!"

"Yes you are!"

"No I not!"

Et cetera, et cetera, ad infinitum... Not once did Declan raise his hand in defense. Or offense.

I was at my wit's end the other day, after a long car ride to Baltimore with the boys sitting far too close together. We've tried every sort of reproach with Ronan and nothing seems to work. But there's not much you can do in a moving car when the boys are strapped in right next to each other. This resulted in the following exchange:

"Ronan hit me!"

"So hit him back." Swat.

"Ronan hit me in the face!"

"So hit him in the face." Swat.

Unfortunately, Declan didn't really have the heart to continue, and Ronan found Declan's feeble attempts at revenge even funnier than his whining.

I don't really want to encourage the boys to hit each other, so now I've come up with a new approach. When Declan whines that Ronan hit him, I tell him, "You and Ronan need to work it out."

Declan's the smart kid. Hopefully he can figure it out. Because I certainly can't. Anyone have any better ideas?

For The First Time, All 8 Kids Together

Jonah finally met Molly this Independence Day, as we took the whole crew down to Baltimore for the first time since she was born.

He was underwhelmed, to say the least. If I had to guess what he was thinking, it was probably something along the lines of, "Another baby in the house? Great. Can I have a lock on my door?"

Jonah did enjoy the pirate adventure we took on the Fearless, a ship that sails several times daily from Fell's Point. We all thought it was great, in fact - costumes, treasure, water cannons, singing and dancing (Jonah kept asking for "more dancing," which, I have to admit, was something of a surprise. I think this is a taste he acquired on the NBU, where they have dance parties all the time, and where, to my chagrin, he's developed a passion for the Macarena). We were very lucky in that no one else signed up for our time slot, so we had our own private excursion.

We all also decided that Fell's Point was by far the coolest neighborhood we'd seen in Baltimore - much nicer even than the Inner Harbor, which is more slick and commercial, flush with chain stores. We didn't have a lot of time to walk around, but it looked like there were plenty of quaint shops and restaurants, along with an open square where you could relax and enjoy soft pretzels, if you're Jonah, or shockingly blue ice cream, if you're every other kid in the family. I just can't believe no one suggested we check out Fell's Point before this. I mean, it's literally down the exact same street Kennedy Krieger is on. Oh, well. Better late than never.

In Defense Of Hilary - And Myself

I was cut to the quick by Keri's claim, "I've asked Amy to teach Hilary some tact, but to be honest, I think Amy finds it all too funny to put to an end."

Although I do find some of Hilary's questions funny - such as, "What would we do if there were no bathrooms?" and "What if cars didn't have tires?" - I wouldn't find it at all amusing if she, in her quest to solve all the mysteries of the universe, said something hurtful.

But the reason I haven't taught Hilary tact is that I just don't know how. How do you teach a five-year-old that some things shouldn't be said, even if they're completely true? Why is it okay to say, "That man is tall," but not okay to say, "That man is fat?" Why is it a compliment to say, "That lady looks young," but an insult to say, "That lady looks old"?

The fact is, Andy and I have spent so much time drilling into Erika and Hilary the importance of always telling the truth, that I'm not sure I want to complicate matters by trying to explain to Hilary the exceptions to this rule. Hopefully, as she gets older, she'll become more socially savvy, and she'll begin to understand why she shouldn't announce, upon opening a present, "Oh, I have this already."

In the meantime, if anyone has any tips on how to help develop this kind of social awareness, please pass them along!

The "Whys" Child

Hilary is driving me crazy.

I know you shouldn't say that about a child, much less your own niece, but the fact is Hilary's got a new habit that just makes me nuts.

Lately, all that comes out of her mouth is question after question after question. I'm all for encouraging curiosity, but for the most part, these are questions to which she already knows the answers. (I'm more tolerant of the questions she actually doesn't know the answers to, like "What if we didn't have any skin?" Really, what if we didn't?)

On a recent 90 degree day when Molly was crying in the car: "Why is Molly hot?"

After Gretchen pinched Aaron's face: "Why is Aaron crying?"

When Ronan's in time-out after pulling Hilary's own hair: "Why is Ronan in time-out?"

And a classic: "What's a bathtub for?"

Usually I just respond with, "What do you think?" and she answers correctly each and every time.

Then there are the questions that she might not know the answers to but still shouldn't be asking:

To her grandmother: "Why is your skin like that?"

To me, a few weeks before Molly was born: "Why are you fat?"

To me, just the other day, pointing at my still-recovering belly: "Are you growing another baby?"

To a family friend: "Why do you eat so much?"

I've asked Amy to teach Hilary some tact, but to be honest, I think Amy finds it all too funny to put to an end.

Goodbye, Uncle Bob

Last week, our great-uncle Bob died. It wasn't sudden or unexpected; Uncle Bob was 91 years old and celebrated his 71st wedding anniversary the day before he died. He also welcomed his 11th great-grandchild that week, and died in his sleep with his wife and youngest son by his side.

Uncle Bob was a typical, corny sort of uncle, always telling the same jokes (Did you stick your finger in this drink? Because it tastes so sweet!) and repeating the same old stories each time we saw him (When your mother was about your age...). We never discussed politics or current events; he never asked about my boyfriends or studies or work. We each had our part in the family: he, the affable patriarch; me, the zany youngster, and we rarely strayed from our roles.

Now, of course, I wish we had. I never asked him about his days as a shipbuilder during the war, or his photography hobby, or his uncanny knack for fixing anything that was broken. When I was a kid, I was more interested in getting airplane rides from him than hearing stories about his youth. As an adult, I was too busy chasing around my kids to sit with him for more than a few minutes. Just when Amy and I started planning our final trip down to Florida to visit him, it was too late; his mind and body alike were wasted away with cancer, emphysema, old age.

At Uncle Bob's funeral, I learned more about him than I had during my entire life. I never knew about the shipbuilding or the photography, though of course his family reputation as the fix-it man was legendary. But as each person rose to speak about Uncle Bob, I realized there was a lot that I did know about him. His kindness. His absolute devotion to his wife, my Aunt Rose. His complete satisfaction and happiness in his life, a life that gave him more than 30 years of retirement, and allowed him to die in his own home, surrounded by those who loved him.

I didn't cry when I found out Uncle Bob had died. Instead, I thought about lucky he was, about how jealous I was of his life and death. Uncle Bob wasn't a wealthy man, but his life was rich with friends, family, and happiness that few people ever get to experience. I will never spend 70 years with my one true love. I will never be completely satisfied with my life. I will certainly never have 11 great-grandchildren.

And I will never forget Uncle Bob.

Good Ronan

Nothing gives me more pleasure than when I see Aaron walk up to Gretchen and smack her in the face, or Gretchen walk up to Aaron and grab his cheek and pinch really hard. I'm not a sadist, but I am happy to see the twins go through exactly the same phase that Ronan was going through when I wrote about what a terror he is here, and here... and here. Why am I happy? Because it means A) I'm not a bad mother, and B) Ronan is not the devil child I thought he might be.

Of course, Ronan still has his moments. He's still 2, after all, and if the first 4 months of his terrible twos are any indication, the next 8 will be very long indeed. But he does seem to be learning. Sure, he stabbed his brother in the eye with a bubble wand the other day, but it turns out he was only trying to defend Aaron, from whom Declan was trying to snatch something (something very important, I'm sure). And yes, he did pull Hilary's hair this morning, but that was only because... well, okay, that was for no reason. You can't expect miracles overnight.

But Ronan is starting to talk a lot more, and he's just so darn cute about it. Last night he was helping Matty clear the table, and he kept picking up plates, bringing them to Matty, and saying, "Here you go, Daddy!" The other night Andy was engaged in his nightly ritual of giving the kids Noble Duke of York rides, and Ronan stood patiently at Andy's side, announcing after each ride, "Getchen's turn!" "Hilly's turn!" "Aa-on's turn!" until finally, "Ronan's turn!"

He's trying so hard, at everything. He wants to do everything "my-sef," from buckling his carseat to climbing in the bathtub to putting on his shoes to changing his own diaper (I don't actually let him do this last one). He so wants to be like his big brother and cousins. And every day he gets a little bit closer.

At his preschool/camp, the teachers call him "Spicy." At first I thought this was just a euphemism for "bad kid," but after spending some time there the other day for Ronan's camp open house I saw how much these teachers love him. I used to ask them about Ronan's behavior at school, and they would dismiss his hitting or pushing with a wave of the hand and say, "He's 2... All the kids in the class are like that."

I thought they were just saying that to make me feel better. But now that Gretchen and Aaron are turning 2 I see that those teachers were right.

It's going to be a long year.

Gretchen Loves Aaron

20 Years Later

Two weekends ago, while Keri was crankily awaiting Molly's overdue arrival, I was at my 20th high school reunion (yes, Keri gave me permission to go, knowing that might necessitate my missing Molly's birth - and yes, I understand that, should I have missed the birth, Keri would have made me feel guilty about it the rest of my life, but I went anyway. I still ended up missing the birth the following Tuesday, incidentally, because the freakin' nurses kept me in the waiting room while Keri was "getting an epidural," when what they really meant was, "birthing the baby at that exact moment." But at least she can't be mad at me for that.)

The reunion was amazing. It's funny how potent those old relationships can be, how resilient. I saw friends I hadn't seen in ten years (since the last reunion), and when we all got together for dinner the night before the reunion, it took about five minutes before it felt like we were back in high school.

Back in high school with important jobs, spouses, and about 14 kids between us.

It's interesting . . . I think for the past year I've been feeling pretty depressed about getting old. Forty is fast approaching (two years away), and I've been spending a lot of time wondering if people pass the second halves of their lives watching the clock tick down and thinking about everything they thought they would have accomplished by now.

But the reunion didn't make me feel old. It made me feel energized. It made me want to track down everyone who had been once been important in my life and catch up. So I started by finding two old friends who had missed the reunion, and had great conversations with them - hopefully, we'll get together sometime this summer.

I could make some kind of crazy resolution to contact one of those old friends each day, but I know myself, and I know that any project requiring consistent follow-through is doomed to failure. Still, I hope to get through my list. Because what I've learned is that, for me, there are few things as revitalizing as feeling a lifetime of relationships tighten around me like a net rising out of the water.

Molly at Rest

Third Time's a Charm

For those of you considering a surprise pregnancy while on Depo-provera that you don't find out about until 17 weeks, I highly recommend it. Not only did I have a nice short pregnancy, but I gained less than 25 pounds, all of which came off in the first week post-partum.

But the real prize is Molly. Sure, I love her and all that, but what's really great is that all she does is sleep. And eat. And then sleep some more. As I write this, she's sleeping in a pack-n-play next to my desk. Soon, she'll whimper and I'll nurse her while I do research for an article online or catch up on my celebrity gossip. Then I'll put her back in said pack-n-play for another few hours of sleep.

I know what you're thinking. 1) You bitch. Stop gloating. 2) Just you wait.

And you're right, of course. I'm sure I'll look back on this post in 2 or 3 weeks at 3am in the middle of a 2-hour crying jag and bemoan the unfairness of it all. I'm sure Molly will get harder before she gets easier, as she finds the strength to stay awake for more than 10 minutes at a stretch and wonders what on earth to do with herself.

As for the "you bitch" part, I'm fine with that, too. I gained plenty of weight with Declan and Ronan during their insufferably long (40 weeks!) gestations, and frankly, was just on my way to losing the last few pregnancy pounds when I found out I was pregnant with Molly--2 years after Ronan was born.

So is my miracle recovery and easy baby my compensation for getting pregnant when I wasn't supposed to? Of course not. Molly herself is all the compensation I need. As I might have predicted, the very first time I looked at her sweet face, I fell in love.

And I'm sure once she opens her eyes long enough for me to look into them, I'll fall in love a little more.

Good Golly!

Miss Molly Isla made a very quick entrance into this world on June 3 at 9:24am after the world's fastest induction (less than 2 hours!). The speed demon clocked in at 10 pounds and 21 inches.

Welcome Home Molly!

Project Declan

On Monday we took all the kids to the Devon Horse Show and Country Fair. Erika couldn't wait for the Border Collie exhibition, Hilary loved the pizza and candy, Ronan wanted to ride the carousel over and over again, and Declan... well, Declan wanted to buy some shoes.

We passed the shoe stand on the way to the rides and Declan fell in love. They were nice and reasonably priced, so we told Declan we would buy them later, on the way out. We went to watch some horses.

"I want to buy the boots."

We went to ride the carousel. "When can I buy the boots?"

We offered him ice cream. "Can we buy the boots first?"

He was a boy obsessed. And when he slipped his little feet into those chunky black boots, his face erupted in joy, much like Ronan's had when we let him ride the swing in the carnival.

Declan is obsessed with fashion. I don't think he realizes this; to his mind he just knows exactly what he wants to wear. And what he wants to wear is a plain, long sleeved shirt (which he calls a "down-sleeve shirt"), long pants, and his new black boots. The plain shirt fetish began several months ago, coincidentally right after I discovered a treasure trove of adorable little boy t-shirts that had been Jonah's, all decorated with age-appropriate pictures. But then, Declan announced that he did not want to wear shirts with pictures, or with stripes. Defeated, I tucked the decorated shirts in Ronan's drawer and bought Declan several plain long-sleeved t-shirts. All was fine.

Now that it's finally getting warm (okay, hot), I try to dress him appropriately for the weather: shorts and (plain) short-sleeved t-shirts (which, by the way, are a lot harder to find than you'd think). But that's not what Declan wants to wear. He doesn't like shorts, doesn't like sandals, and still really, really wants to wear down-sleeved shirts every day. I don't want to stifle his aesthetic, but I don't want him to overheat on the playground either.

What I find most interesting is that Declan's clothing preferences are remarkably similar to his father's. Declan would be the first to tell you that he's a Mommy's boy, but I guess even at the ripe old age of 3, he knows that capri pants and tank tops are not appropriate for young boys. Matty's never discussed fashion with Declan (shocking, I know), but Declan must have just noticed that Matty never wears shorts or t-shirts but rather pants and a long-sleeved, button-down shirt all summer long, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. (Amy even immortalized this quirk of Matty's in song at our wedding: "You could wear a t-shirt once in a while!")

I know that I'm supposed to let Declan pick out his clothes in an effort to trick him into thinking he has some control over his life, but I always thought that meant letting him go to school in plaid shorts and a striped shirt with a feather boa and cowboy hat, not letting him swelter in 85 degree heat under heavy khakis and shit-kicker boots.

In an attempt at compromise, I bought Declan a couple of long-sleeved button-down shirts, just like his father's (also surprisingly hard to find in size 4T). His face lit up when I took them out of the bag, and he begged to put them on immediately. And this morning, we let him wear one to school, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, with shorts and sneakers. He wasn't 100 percent happy. But he was pretty close.

Oops!

Well, it finally happened. I forgot one of my kids.

Given the number of children I have, combined with my complete lack of organizational skills and poor short-term memory, I suppose something like this was bound to happen: I went to a haircut appointment, assuming that Marina would pick Hilary up from preschool as she often does - only Marina had recently had shoulder surgery and couldn't drive, so Hilary sat unclaimed in the synagogue lobby.

Fortunately, the preschool has an after care program, so Hilary just stayed at school while the director tried to track me down. She reached Matty at home, who picked Hilary up just as the school was closing at four o'clock for Shabbat.

Of course, I apologized profusely to Matty and to Hilary. Hilary had a great time at after care, where she was fed ice cream, so she didn't feel abandoned at all. I can't really say what Matty thought of the whole thing, since he was his usual nonchalant self, but I imagine he and Keri had a big laugh about it (as I deserved) in the privacy of their own room.

This, in a nutshell, is what I love most about having Keri and Matty here. It's actually not that they're both professional chefs and do all the cooking - although that's what I tell people. What I love is the security, the knowledge that I can't screw up too badly without someone covering my ass, putting me back on track, and generally making the world right again. While Andy is usually good for anything involving my ass, he's working a lot of the time. But Keri and Matty remind me that the kids have to dress in blue and white for Israeli Independence Day and nag me to call the pool people, the electrician, the milk delivery guy and other various service providers. They let the dogs out in the morning if I'm late coming down, make sure I register the kids for day camp, and (incorrectly) diagnose my children's contact rashes as parasitic infections. OK, so Matty was wrong that time. But hey, nobody's perfect.

Because I Love Him

Declan: When is Jonah coming back?

Me: Probably in July.

Declan: Is that in a week?

Me: No, it's in the middle of the summer.

Declan: I want him to come back right now.

Me: Why?

Declan: Because I love him.

Jonah Update

Jonah has been at Kennedy Krieger for almost four months now, and as you can see, he's changed a lot. He lost twenty pounds due to a combination of med changes and crappy hospital food. For a while there, Jonah was looking so much smaller and more vulnerable with each visit that Keri kept joking that one day we'd show up and he would have turned into Aaron.

More importantly, Jonah's mood has been pretty well stabilized. It turns out, as his psychiatrist here suspected, Jonah has bipolar disorder along with his autism. Lithium and abilify have drastically reduced his aggression, irritation and spontaneous crying. Although he can still be provoked into fits of mostly self-injurious behavior (hip-banging and hand-biting) when his therapists deliberately try to push his buttons, when he's just hanging out on the unit, his violent outbursts have pretty much dropped down to zero. And the members of his behavior team aren't resting on their laurels - they're still working out a behavior plan to clean up the lingering problems. Jonah definitely learned some bad habits over the past six years since he started school.

Still, as happy as we are to finally understand the neurological reason behind all those violent tantrums, the bipolar diagnosis definitely scares me. The cover story in this week's Newsweek is about bipolar kids - kids whose conditions aren't compounded by autism - and the situation seems pretty bleak. One boy has been on 38 different meds trying to control behavior that sounds a lot like what we've seen from Jonah in the past - meds that have only partially controlled his rapid mood swings, and haven't completely prevented suicide attempts and other self-destructive behavior. The piece closes by acknowledging that this boy's most difficult days may still be ahead of him, as he attempts to navigate the hormonal crisis that is adolescence. I've also been reading "An Unquiet Mind," a book by Kay Redfield Jamison, a psychologist at John's Hopkins who has written extensively about her own lifelong struggle with manic depression, and she describes moods so black, and others so frantic, that I can't even imagine what Jonah has gone through, or what lies in store for him in the future. It's ironic isn't it? As Keri pointed out, maybe autism is the least of his problems.

But this kind of speculation is counter-productive, I know that. For now, we're just relieved that Jonah seemingly has found some peace. Keri, Matty and the boys were in Baltimore last week to see a Red Sox-Orioles game and they took Jonah out to dinner afterwards, and Keri told me the next day it was the first time she really saw how sweet Jonah is. I told her what I always believed: that the sweetness and affection represented Jonah's natural temperament, and the tantrums were aberrations - albeit frequent aberrations. Hopefully, when Jonah gets home (at the end of June or at the beginning of July, it looks like), that sweetness will be obvious to everyone, instead of something many of our friends and family members could only experience indirectly, through our own accounts and assurances.

Letting Go

Sometimes, I have no patience for my kids.

Sometimes I don't want to be silly or let them ride the merry go round for the 7th time or let them play for just 5 more minutes before bed or read them yet another story or tickle them until they can't stand it any longer or watch them run around in circles until they fall down dizzy or play in giant rain puddles.

But then I realize how much happiness it brings them and then sometimes, just once in a while, I let them.

And even though the practical part of my brain knows that being cold and wet for so long can give them pneumonia or that dank standing water can carry all sorts of bacteria and that I shouldn't teach my kids that it's okay to play in rain puddles, I couldn't help but feel my heart swell as I watched Ronan yesterday, so full of joy and excitement, as he splashed through the puddles in the driveway and was quickly joined by Gretchen. They were thrilled.

And so was I. We only want our kids to be happy, and if that means breaking the rules once in a while, so be it.

But I still made him eat his asparagus at dinner.

For Love of the Game

I finally realized how to get my kids to love baseball as much as their father does: feed them crap.

Last week the Murphy clan journeyed to Baltimore to watch the Red Sox play the Orioles. Both the boys had been to a couple of games before, though they had been so young they remembered little. We went last summer, when Declan was almost 3 and Ronan 1 1/2. So when we told the boys we were going to a game, Declan got very excited.

"We're going to see the Red Sox, Ronan!" I was thrilled Declan was so thrilled. Maybe we could actually stay for the whole game this time.

"Yay!?" Any time Ronan sees any sport on TV, he points and says, "bay-ball?" So clearly his "yay" was merely a function of Declan's enthusiasm.

"We're going to get cotton candy!" Ah, of course. To keep Declan quiet and sitting last summer at the game, I told him he could get cotton candy. He had no idea what it was, but anything with the word "candy" in it had to be a winner. I had seen the vendor halfway across the stadium and figured it would only be a matter of time before he neared our seats. Time, I may add, that Matty and I could use to watch the game.

Declan was obsessive about the cotton candy, and after 45 minutes of pointing out the approaching vendor and discussing the merits of said candy, the vendor disappeared. Finally, I sent Matty to buy it.

I'm sure it will come as a big surprise to learn that Declan did not like the cotton candy. (I ate it.) But he sure fell in love with the idea of it, because it was all he could talk about in the days leading up to the trip to Baltimore.

Of course, I bought the boys cotton candy as soon as we got there, paper cones of purple sugar that were bigger than their heads. Ronan dove right in (literally), and Declan managed a few bites before passing it to me. "I don't like it."


Without the cotton candy to distract him as it had the last game, Declan was a bit fidgety. And Ronan, well, Ronan was difficult. He had zero interest in the game. But he did have an interest in the food. So, we kept feeding them. After the cotton candy came Edy's ice cream bits. Then, pretzels, followed by Cracker Jack, and finally, chocolate milk.

From the game we went to take Jonah out to dinner for his favorite food: ketchup and French fries. So, to top off their nutritious lunch, Declan and Ronan had hamburgers, French fries, and sugary fruit punch for dinner.

Not 5 minutes after strapping Ronan into his stroller, the vomiting began. He threw up three times in quick succession, and was fine immediately afterwards. Never have I seen such incontrovertible proof that eating too much crap can literally make you sick.

Declan waited until that night to throw up in the comfort of his bed, and was also fine immediately afterward. By morning, the sickness was forgotten and only the fond candy-coated memories remained.

They can't wait to go to their next baseball game.

Happy Birthday, Hilary!

Today is Hilary's fifth birthday. And on the kids' birthdays, I always try to fulfill their wildest desires, whether it's shelling out almost a hundred bucks for two American girl horses for Erika, or taking the entire extended family swimming in January for Jonah.

But this birthday of Hilary's has really tested me. Because I don't want to give her what she really wants.

Barney. Dora. An entire collection of Teletubby dolls. These are all things Hilary has asked for. But I've been resisting, because, frankly, I think five is too old for Barney and Teletubbies. Dora is . . . marginal.

Hilary has always been socially and emotionally immature for her age. And I worry about her. I just don't want her to be, you know, THAT kid. The one who picks her nose, wears pants that are too short, and has no friends.

Well, she may be guilty of two of those things, but she seems to be making friends just fine. In fact, I ended up inviting our friends the Hirsches over for birthday cake tonight after Lauren IM'ed me to tell me that her daughter, Maddy, who's been great friends with Hilary since they were babies, was distraught because Hilary's other BFF, Katherine, has been mean to her (Maddy), and Maddy was sure that Katherine was with Hilary on Hilary's birthday and Maddy wasn't.

Hilary wasn't with Katherine at that moment, she was at drama with Declan. But it did make me feel better about things to hear that Hilary was at the center of this little preschool triangle.

Which makes me wonder whether I should just step back and let Hilary make her own choices. If she wants to play with Teletubbies and her friends either don't care or also secretly love Teletubbies, then what's wrong with that? I mean, it's one thing to go to bat for your kids, but it's another to club them over the heads with it.

By the way, it's four o'clock on Hilary's birthday and I still haven't bought anything to give her tonight - that's how conflicted I've been. I suspect I'm going to go to Target and find some adorable toys that are not Dora-, Teletubby- or Barney- themed. But I did tell my mother-in-law when she asked that it was okay if she bought Hilary a couple of Barney videos she wanted. So, hopefully, everyone will be happy.

Where Did I Come From?

Last weekend at a book sale I stumbled across this classic from my childhood, and snatched it up for 25 cents.


"Where Did I Come From?" by Peter Mayle (yes, that Peter Mayle, author of the books "A Year in Provence," and "A Good Year"), published in 1973. This, my friends, is the very same book our mother used to teach me and Amy about the birds and the bees. And, like many books of its time, it's hilariously frank, honest, and straightforward, with adorable x-rated illustrations (oxymoronic, but true).

The illustrations are made all the more adorable by the captions.

Under a picture of a baby boy staring at his penis: "It gets bigger as you get bigger."

Under a picture of a girl skipping rope with her dog: "Making love is like skipping. You can't do it all day long."

Under a picture of a baby about to sneeze: "It feels a bit like this, but much better."

I was expecting some questions from Declan about babymaking when I got pregnant with Molly, but so far our only conversation about it has been limited to this, in the car one morning on the way to school:

"Mommy, how is Molly going to get out?"

"I'm going to push her out." This was followed by a brief discussion about how Hilary and the twins were cut out, while Jonah, Erika, Declan, and Ronan were pushed out.

"Where are you going to push her out? Your belly button?"

Pause. "Where? At the hospital. Look, a school bus!"

Okay, so I can't put him off forever, but I'm certainly not ready to talk to him about sex. Especially because right now, he thinks it's so funny. In the morning, when I'm getting dressed, he often looks at me and shouts, "I can see your nipples!" His penis is now his best friend, and as such he likes to play with it whenever possible. This all makes me think he's a borderline perv, but Matty tells me it's perfectly normal... and will only get worse.

This weekend I took him in the shower with me because I was alone and needed a shower. He looked at me and said, "Is that your penis?"

"No, it's my vagina," (rhymes with Carolina, as the book says).

"What's a 'gina?"

Pause. "Look, a school bus!"

Maybe next year...

Oh, the Irony

Sunday is Mother's Day, and my little boys have been busy at school making heartfelt homemade gifts that are sure to make me cry. Declan's teachers went so far as to write down verbatim what the kids love about their moms. Declan wrote:

Mommy takes me to drama class and I love that and to soccer too. Mommy tickles me. Mommy is going to give me Molly and I'm going to be a big brother to 2 kids. She made me matzoh pizza, and it was soo good. Mommy reads me books. Mommy gives me swords and I pretend they're weapons, but only at home. I love mommy's kisses.

Too cute, right? That's why I feel so guilty about what I really want for Mother's Day: a day without my kids.

Ironic, isn't it? The day on which we honor moms for all they do, and now that I'm a mom, I know the truth: moms just want some time to themselves.

I know I'm not the only one who feels this way. Some friends of mine are organizing a Mother's Day eve outing Saturday night, with the dads the ones getting to spend some QT with the little ones while the moms go out for massages and Chinese food.

I love being a mom, I really and truly do. But I love it even more when I get a break from my kids, when I can think about them through rose-colored lenses and forget about the whining and hitting and fighting and screaming and did I say whining?

When Amy and I were kids, each year we'd ask Mom what she wanted for Mother's Day and each year she'd say, "All I want is a day without you two fighting." Since that was never going to happen, we gave her the next best thing: animal-shaped candles and coffee made with hot water from the tap. And Mom always smiled and acted like she really liked the kitten candle and pretended to drink the coffee.

This year, I'm sure, Matty will get up early with the boys and let me sleep in (as much as I can with an 18-pound bowling ball on my belly). He'll guide them in preparing real coffee and bring it to me in bed, along with the handicrafts from school that I promised them I wouldn't open until Sunday. And for a few wondrous moments, we'll all snuggle in our big bed and give each other lots of kisses and giggles and feel like a Hallmark family.

But then, Ronan will "accidentally" kick Declan in the head. He might even take off his diaper and poop on the floor, like he did this morning. Declan will give Ronan an "affectionate" smack on the cheek, after which Ronan will try to pull Declan's pajamas off by the neck. Declan will cry that Ronan gets to lay down closer to me, and then Ronan will cry because... well, just because.

And Matty, in all his infinite goodness and patience, will take the boys away to calm down and let me enjoy a little bit of quiet solitude, the best present I could ask for...

(although a gift certificate for a massage is good, too)

The Truth About Franks and Dogs

Ever wonder what food actually tastes like to kids? Well, if the blind hot dog tasting I just held is any indication, we're probably better off not knowing.

I held the tasting (for the parents as well) for an upcoming article for The Philadelphia Inquirer. There were 8 brands for the grown-ups to taste, but I offered just 4 to the under-5 set. The four were powerhouses Nathan's, Hebrew National, and Oscar Mayer, and then, just for kicks, Applegate Organic Uncured Beef dogs.

Here's what the kids had to say:

"Tastes like candles."

"Tastes like bad apple."

"Tastes like lemon."

No wonder kids never want to eat. I wouldn't want to eat either if food tasted like candles.

Some kids had a more positive spin:

"Tastes like chocolate."

"Really yummy."

"Thumbs up."

And from Declan, clearly a connoisseur: "I like D best because there is a D on the cup."

I'm so proud.