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.

Brainwashing, Schmainwashing

Both Keri and Matty intimated (read: mocked) that Erika's choice of an ice cream cake for her birthday celebration was more of a reflection of my brainwashing than the intrinsic deliciousness of Carvel creations.

Which, as anyone who's had the pleasure of even one cookie-crunch studded, artificially-flavored vanilla and chocolate bite knows, is ridiculous.

I mean, of course Erika was exposed to Carvel ice cream cakes in the first place because I love them, but that's how kids learn everything. Take their music preferences, for example. There's one song that's stone-cold guaranteed to make Aaron, Gretchen and Ronan start dancing like crazy around the foyer, and it's not the Wiggles, Hannah Montana, or anything that was even recorded in this century. Don't even bother guessing.

It's the theme from "Free To Be You And Me." That's right, the feminist, hippie anthem from the feminist, hippie movie we saw every year in grade school. Back in the 1970s.

Does Keri really want to argue that the fact that she put this on a mix of kid songs she gave out as party favors for Ronan's birthday, then played on endless loop on her car's CD player, had absolutely nothing to do with their love affair with this catchy tune?

I've heard that friends have more influence on kids than their parents do. Well, that might be true with older kids, but right now, all Erika (and, to a lesser extent, Hilary) wants to do is what I do. She wants to run, play tennis, and be a writer when she grows up. If I have graham crackers and peanut butter for breakfast, that's what she wants. She loves American Idol, Charlotte's Web and Newfoundlands.

And that's fine with me. In fact, I'm hoping to consolidate my influence by inundating her with tennis lessons, cozy snuggles with books, and mommy-and-me dates to the Villanova track, so by the time her friends tell her that tennis and writing and running aren't cool, they'll be so hardwired into her brain that she won't care.

Is that too much to hope for? Maybe. But it's worth a try.

The Scratcher and the Biter

Amy and I often pontificate about the deep bond Aaron and Ronan have, one that we feel will only develop more with time, until they are best buddies and co-captains of the football team in high school and going on double dates with the hot twins in their class. Well, if what they say is true--that little kids show their affection by teasing other kids, pulling their pigtails, etc.--then Ronan and Aaron are off to a great start.

I'm too embarrassed to actually take a picture and post it here, but suffice it to say that Ronan really, really, really likes Aaron, as evidenced by the scratches and claw marks all over Aaron's face. We noticed them last night at dinner, when Matty approached the two boys at the dinner table to remove Ronan's hand from Aaron's mouth and try to dislodge Aaron's tiny teeth from Ronan's chubby hand. Matty was aghast. "Oh... my... God...," he said. "Did you see this?"

I hadn't, but even when I did, I wasn't too concerned. I think Aaron and Ronan each give as good as they get, though Ronan's temperament and preferred method of attack make him seem tougher than little Aaron. Ronan screams and claws at the face, drawing everyone's attention and leaving indelible signs of attack. Aaron quietly chomps down on some part of his opponent's body and doesn't let go, not drawing anyone's attention (except maybe his victim) and leaving marks that quickly fade (thankfully, his teeth aren't that sharp).

I think part of Matty's shock and horror was due to the fact that Amy and Andy are away for a few days, and that we somehow failed to protect their youngest son in their absence. But the fact is, Aaron didn't seem fazed. Matty punished Ronan, despite the fact that the attack had happened much earlier, and as Matty pointed out the marks on Aaron's face, Ronan cried and held up his own hand, pointing out the fading red divots in protest.

Of course, 5 minutes later, all was forgotten as the two boys got back to laughing and shouting and throwing things, all the scintillating activities 2-year-old boys find so fascinating. Until next time...

Make a Wish!

Birth Announcement (Not Molly)

I started a new food blog called FishFood. Please check it out and let me know what you think!

Back to Life, Back to Reality

Matty and I are back from a long weekend in New Orleans, our "babymoon," as it's now known by those much hipper than we are. I was actually there to "work," or at least "network," which I'm not very good at. The event was the annual conference of the International Association of Culinary Professionals, or IACP. I did meet some editors and make some good contacts, so hopefully I'll get some work out of it.

Of course, it was wonderful to get away for a few days on our own, and of course, we missed the boys terribly. There were reminders of them everywhere: the Pyratecon convention in the French Quarter, which translated into hundreds of pirates (they really seemed to think they were pirates) wandering the streets at all times of day; the aquarium right next to the conference hotel; the streetcars and horse-n-buggies we knew the kids would love.

Perhaps one day we'll return with kids in tow, but for this weekend, it was nice to remember what we were like as a couple, not just as parents. Because, let's face it, once you have kids, they redefine and ultimately define your life. That's not necessarily a bad thing. But being alone with Matty this weekend, just thinking about ourselves for a change, made me remember our life before kids. It made me realize how fortunate we were to have those 7 years together, and how important that time alone was.

I know that in the blink of an eye we'll be alone again, with the kids away at school and then starting their own lives. And we'll discover each another anew, and remember all the wonderful things we like to do together (that don't revolve around animals or French fries). But until then, it was nice to have a window both into our past, and into that future.

Now, back to the trenches...

Plucky Girl

Erika thinks Hebrew school is "pluck."

Keri, Matty and I were hanging out in the kitchen last Sunday when Erika returned from said Hebrew school with this announcement.

We paused, considering. I know Erika hates Hebrew school, and who can blame her? She's in regular school all week, and then for three hours every Sunday morning she has more school, while her family often does something fun without her, like go to the zoo.

"What do you mean by that?" I asked. "Do you know what 'pluck' means?"

Erika explained: "I say 'pluck' because it rhymes with a word I'm not supposed to say that means 'bad.'"

I swear, three jaws hit the floor as Keri, Matty and I all realized there was only one word she could possibly mean. How had my seven-year-old learned such foul language?

As calmly as I could, I asked, "And what word is that?"

"Yuck!" she stated, thrilled at her own transgression.

There's this general consensus that kids today are growing up so fast, but I have to say, I love how innocent Erika still is in so many ways. She's seen High School Musical once, but she never talks about it, sings the songs, or asks to watch it again, and she's never even seen Hannah Montana. And although she complains that Dora and Teletubbies are for babies, she is just as entertained as her younger siblings and cousins by kids' shows like Sesame Street, Clifford, Dragon Tales and Zooboomafu (however you spell it).

Although I've considered showing Erika episodes of Hannah Montana so she won't be culturally behind her classmates, I decided that I'd already used that logic before and regretted it - specifically, when Erika was a toddler and didn't care for hot dogs or chicken nuggets. I encouraged her to try these things all the time - for stupid reasons, really, like so I wouldn't have to pay more to order a grilled chicken sandwich at MacDonald's instead of a Happy Meal, and so she would always have something to eat at birthday parties and playdates. Naturally, now she loves hot dogs and chicken nuggets, and I realize how much healthier she ate before I intervened.

I'm sure if Erika feels that she's out of the loop, she'll ask for Hannah Montana. In the meantime, I'm going to enjoy the sweet girl who doesn't give me attitude (yet); who loves to snuggle with me (still) and who thinks the worst thing you can say about something is that it's "yuck."

Bad Kid Redux

You may have read my post about Bad Ronan, but frankly, that was nothing. Ronan is becoming a real terror, and I don't know what to do about it. None of the surefire techniques that worked so well with Declan are working with his little brother. He seems to have no concept of cause and effect (first eat your chicken, then you can have grapes). When he does something wrong and gets yelled at, he smiles. When you put him in time out, he smiles. Now, I may be reading too much into this, but these smiles aren't innocent crescents of joy, they're deviant slices of mockery.


I'm firm. I never give in to him. I always follow through on threats and promises. But he still doesn't get it. And frankly, he's mean. Yesterday Andy had to bring him back to the house when all the kids were playing on the playground because Ronan was throwing dirt in the other kids eyes. And hitting them.

Maybe it's just his demeanor that makes him seem so mean. I was watching him play with Aaron this morning, and both were behaving very similarly. Aaron didn't want to share the game he was playing, so when Ronan tried to play, Aaron pushed at Ronan's neck--very sweetly, with a sad cry. Ronan responded by clawing at Aaron--madly, with a feral growl.

Matty tells me not to worry, that Ronan is in the midst of his Terrible Twos and acting like any other rambunctious boy would. Apparently Declan was an anomaly, a sweet-natured boy who seemed to grasp things much more quickly than Ronan. When Declan was wronged, he cried. When Ronan is wronged, he attacks.

So of course, my fear is that Ronan's problems are the result of bad parenting, and that 20 years down the road I'll be bailing him out of jail/meeting his pregnant 16-year-old girlfriend/seeing his picture on TV (for any reason, really) and instead of asking myself, "Where did I go wrong?" I'll say, "I knew this was coming for 20 years."

The Hardest Part About Raising 7 Kids in One House? Getting Them All to Sleep in One Bed.

Behold, the Amazing Salad Eating Baby!!

Aaron loves salad.

I discovered this when we were in Ohio and Katrina and I took the kids out to lunch. I ordered a salad, and while I was eating it, Aaron - who was sitting in a high chair right next to me - reached out and grabbed a fistful of greens right off my plate.

I never would have thought of offering him salad, even though he's always been a good eater, but once I saw how crazy he was about it, I spent the rest of the meal helping him spear pieces of lettuce with his fork.

For the rest of the week, Katrina and I experimented with what kinds of salad Aaron would eat - mostly because we both got such a kick out of watching him do it. Italian dressing - yay! Tahini dressing - yuck! We even gave Aaron some salad one night when Katrina's husband, Chris, was home, as if he were a pet with a new trick we wanted to show off.

Keri suggested I make a video of Aaron eating salad and put it on YouTube.

So, it's clear what this means, right? I don't have to spell it out for you, do I? Finally, empirical evidence that I am a better mom than Keri! Her kids don't eat salad, do they? They eat hot dogs and macaroni and cheese, just like Erika, Hilary, Gretchen, and virtually every other kid I know - and you would expect Declan and Ronan to have a genetic advantage. After all, they're the offspring of professional chefs. But I managed to create a perfect eater without even trying! Imagine what kind of super-parent I could be if I actually applied myself!

(Did I mention what Aaron had for lunch yesterday, when Keri, Lauren, the twins and I went out after the gym? Roasted red pepper chicken salad and a cold couscous salad (that I had ordered for myself) with a grilled cheese chaser (which I had ordered for him and Gretchen)).

Actually, I'm expecting any day now that Aaron will start rejecting foods he now loves - mushrooms, beans, and yes, salad. I wrote an essay for Babble on picky eaters (see the link under "Stuff Amy Wrote"), and found some research in the New York Times indicating that kids are their pickiest between the ages of 2 and 5. I wouldn't be surprised if, a year from now, Aaron's diet is much more limited.

So, you can't blame me for gloating while I have the chance. Where is that video camera, anyway?

TV or Not TV?

Amy and I both write for the parenting website Babble, which recently ran a feature about a mother who planted her child in front of the television for up to 6 hours per day so the mother could work from home. It was clearly designed to be controversial, and it was; there were more than 50 comments last time I checked. I was pretty appalled myself; frankly, it's easy to be appalled at something so glaringly extreme. But when I stopped to think about my own TV-watching policy, I had to pause. I no longer have one.

Before I had kids, I was pretty adamant about my no-TV beliefs. Jonah got hooked on Sesame Street videos when he turned 1, and Hilary probably knew more Spanish than English at 18 months thanks to hours of Dora. I never hid my feelings from Amy, and to her credit, she never laughed in my smug child-free face.

When Declan was born, it was pretty easy to stay principled. But when Ronan was born, my principles got lax. Frankly, I was tired. Declan was 18 months old, the supposed magical age when it becomes okay for kids to watch some TV (I'm not sure where I read that, but I hold that fact dear to my heart). I started letting Declan watch short Baby Genius videos that seemed innocuous enough: kids at the San Diego Zoo with classical music playing in the background; nursery rhymes sung by kids.

Thanks to his older brother, Ronan started watching TV at a younger age than Declan. I'm not sure when exactly he started paying attention, but now, when he comes into our room each morning he says, "ah-wah," which translates into, "Please, Mother, may I watch some TV?"

So now I've got two boys aged 2 and 3 1/2 who would watch TV all night if I let them. I can't help but wonder if their fascination with television is due to the restrictions I place on it. You know the theory: If you don't let your kids eat any candy at home, they'll binge any time they get the chance. Now I wonder if I had a more laid back approach to the television, if they would as well. But then I look at Erika and Hilary, who both grew up under Amy's decidedly laid back approach to TV (much like her decidedly laid back approach to most things), and they couldn't be more different: Hilary is obsessed with television, Erika is not, though of course she watches her fair share. But she doesn't seem to crave it like Hilary, or like Declan and Ronan.

Of course, none of this really helps me with my current dilemma: how much TV should I let them watch? For the most part, they only watch two shows, both of which I record from PBS: Between the Lions, a Sesame Street-style show that teaches reading and letters through puppets and songs; and Zoboomafoo, a live-action show about two brothers, a puppet lemur, and lots of real animals who live at Animal Junction. They're educational, but let's face it: they're still TV.

I've come up with what I think is a good TV rule--TV only on weekends and special occasions--good because it's easily modified, since any day can be a special occasion if I make it so. They generally only watch TV at night, which means they usually watch a movie on Friday and Saturday nights and then a 30 minute show on Sunday night.

But when I read articles like the one on Babble and hear recommendations that kids watch no more than 2 hours of TV per day, I wonder if I'm being too harsh or extreme. Is 30 minutes of TV per day really so much?

How much TV do your kids watch? Am I obsessing too much over this?

The Internet Generation, Age 21 Months

Gretchen knows how to use an iPhone.

Well, "use" is somewhat generous. She knows how to take Marina's iphone (I don't have an iphone, but my nanny does), push the "ipod" button with her fat little finger, then press the icon that will start her cherished "Three Little Pigs" video, which Marina uploaded for her. Then she re-orients the iphone horizontally, and chortles contentedly as the familiar music begins to play.

I think Gretchen's a genius. Andy thinks this is just another example of what any kid can do who is properly incentivized.

Who hasn't told that old joke to their children: "When I was a kid, I walked to school uphill, both ways, in the snow, barefoot, etc. etc.?" But if we really wanted to impress upon our kids what an impoverished childhood we had, we would say, "When we were kids, we couldn't watch movies on our cell phones! There were no cell phones! No internet! No computers! No TiVo or DVD players! All we had were three channels of television, and if we didn't like what was on, we read a book!"

It stuns me sometimes, the technological gap between my childhood and that of my kids. It's greater than the gap between my childhood and my mother's childhood for sure, and maybe even greater than that between my childhood and my grandparents' childhood. And I guess what stuns me the most is that you would think there would be more of a disconnect between us and our kids because of it, a fundamental lack of understanding. But it's not that way. Because now we take those technological advancements just as much for granted as they do. Over the course of a few short years, our world was exponentially expanded, old boundaries exploded, old limits exceeded, and even though our childhood selves would view our impressive collection of gadgets as the stuff of science fiction, we just took it all in stride.

Hmmmm. Maybe Gretchen isn't the impressive one after all.

Popular

Amy told me yesterday about a conversation she had with Hilary, in which Hilary said she had to eat lunch at school by herself while her best friend Catherine was out of town; apparently none of the other kids wanted to sit with Hilary. (At least, this is what Amy thinks Hilary said. Hilary doesn't always make a lot of sense. She might have actually told Amy that she was leaving town shortly to visit Schmernia.)

But whether she said it or not, it makes me sad. It always makes me sad to see the kids slighted in any way, even if they're not aware of it. I remember a trip to Sesame Place when Erika was 2. She was playing in the sprinklers, chasing after some older kids. The kids, of course, wanted nothing to do with the pale, chubby child in a too-small bathing suit (some things never change) who followed their every move, and I just remember watching Erika, a longing look on her face, as the kids climbed and played in ways that her toddler body couldn't yet accomplish.

Now, as I watch Declan interact with other kids, I wonder how much, if any, I should intervene. I've written before about his slightings at the hands of his cousins and other children. Yesterday it happened again, on a playground outside his art class. Two of the kids in the same class, both probably 6 months or so older than Declan, were playing together and adamantly refused to let Declan join them. But they also didn't want him playing on any of the equipment that they deemed "theirs." I didn't interfere when Declan stared up at the climbing structure the other kids had called their "special clubhouse," and didn't get up from my bench when I saw Declan underneath the double slide the kids had commandeered. But when Declan came over and told me that the other kids had told him he couldn't use the slide, I had to intervene.

The kids were brats, and fought me on every front (all while their mothers ignored the situation nearby), but Declan got to use the slide and the climbing structure and even managed to avoid being struck by the wood chips the other kids threatened to throw at him. But I couldn't help but wonder what would happen next time, when I wasn't around.

The fact is, I always just assumed that Declan and Ronan would be well-liked and, well, popular. I'm not sure where I got this idea from--I was certainly not a popular child, though of course I had my friends. But with their easy-going natures and outgoing personalities--not to mention their dashing good looks--I thought they would have it made.

Kids are so fickle, however, and the fact is that Declan and Ronan could just as easily be outcast as popular. It makes me so sad to think about, because unlike now, when their young minds can't really grasp the idea of being excluded (even Hilary, at almost 5, didn't seem too upset that she had to eat lunch alone, certainly not as upset as Amy and I were), when the kids grow up and form their cliques and groups, they will know when they're being insulted or excluded or ridiculed. And as sad as it may make them, it makes me even sadder.

Until then, I'll just keep my Mommy radar on high alert. I know of a couple of kids who just might have an "accident" on the playground outside art class next week...

What Not To Wear, I Guess

Recently, I read an article about what to do if you don't approve of your sibling's parenting style. But what I really need to know is what you should do if your sibling doesn't approve of your fashion style. Because Keri is always on my case about what my kids are wearing.

Look, I don't know what she expects of someone who wears track pants every day, but just half an hour ago she asked me, pointedly, "What size is that outfit Gretchen's wearing?" Just because the top rode up a little bit to show her adorable belly! This morning Keri noted about Aaron's outfit - every piece of which, except for the sneakers, had been passed down from Ronan, "He looks cute, except for the sneakers."

Keri has also advised on previous occasions that Hilary's clothes were too small and that Aaron's ensemble was "too babyish" (she probably said that when he was about eight months old).

Honestly, Keri has no idea what kind of Pandora's Box she's opening by challenging me in this arena. Several years ago, I had a real addiction to shopping for kids' clothes. I would spend hours in Gymboree and Baby Gap, and I was an absolute sucker for coordinated socks and little sunhats. Andy thought he was going to have to send me to retail rehab.

Well, I'm happy to say that I'm (mostly) recovered, and while I still drool at the adorable peasant blouses in Janie and Jack, I'm generally content to dress the kids in whatever hand-me-downs I blindly pull out of their drawers each morning. Of course, Jonah and Erika, as the oldest boy and girl, have to get new clothes every season, so I decided to start the imprinting early and bought Erika for the spring a couple of pairs of . . . yoga pants. I wonder what Keri will think of those???

Cute Boys

Happy Birthday Erika!

Erika celebrated her 7th birthday last week in the quiet, subdued manner we've all come to expect in a household with 7+ kids.

First, we went to Bertucci's, where Gretchen screamed most of the time, Aaron screamed part of the time, Ronan threw dough at us a few times, Hilary was whining some of the time, and Erika and Declan were mean to Hilary a number of times (Me: Why is Hilary crying? Declan: Because we told her we shaved Dora's head and ate Dora and Boots).

Then we went home for Amy's favorite Carvel birthday cake (Sure, Amy, that's what Erika wanted). Erika took one bite and exclaimed, "This is delicious! Who bought it for me?"

Amy and Andy were so proud.

Longwood Children's Garden

Here's my public service announcement for today: If you have kids and live in the greater Philadelphia area, you must go to Longwood Children's Garden. As you can see, the kids love it. There are dozens of fountains for the kids to play in--yes, that's right, the kids are encouraged to get wet (so don't forget a change of clothes).

Oh yeah, there are also some nice plants and flowers.

Death Becomes Him

Declan is obsessed with death. This is not, as Amy might suggest, because of his love of swordplay (or his parents' leniency regarding said swordplay).

It's because of Gaston.

Ever since Declan saw Beauty and the Beast last year, he's been obsessed with the final scene involving Gaston and the Beast fighting on the castle. It seems that his toddler mind can't quite wrap itself around the fact that the Beast transforms into the Prince, so Declan assumes that since the Beast is stabbed by Gaston and disappears, he in fact has been killed by Gaston.

So whenever the topic of the Beast comes up (frankly, you'd be surprised at how often that is, with 7 kids in the house), Declan gets into an argument with whomever will argue with him.

"The Beast dies," Declan will say matter-of-factly.

"No, he doesn't," comes the reply from Hilary/Erika/probably Gretchen any day now.

"Yes, he does."

"No, he doesn't."

"Mo-mmy! The Beast dies, right?"

At which point I explain to him, for the 100th time, that the Beast doesn't die, that he was about to die but Belle's kiss saves him and transforms him back into a Prince.

This was only the beginning of Declan's fascination with death. If we're watching a movie or TV show and someone is asleep, or falls, or blows into a million pieces yet miraculously comes back together (as in the Tom and Jerry videos all the kids have taken a shine to), Declan will ask, "Is he dead?"

Yesterday Declan and Ronan were playing together in the family room, when they both started whacking the toy trains with their swords.

"Let's kill the trains!" Declan shouted, and Ronan eagerly followed suit. They spent the next 10 minutes happily beating the s**t out of poor Thomas and Percy.

Declan doesn't seem particularly disturbed by the idea of death, though of course I haven't really drilled into him how permanent it is. Still, he likes to talk about it a lot, so I try to be as truthful as possible.

"Declan, do you know what it means to die?"

"Yes."

"What does it mean?"

"I don't know."

Okay, let's try another tack. "Why do people die?"

"Because someone kills them. The black man dies because he tries to save his son. But no one kills him. He just dies."

Pardon? Lately Declan has been describing any man dressed in black as "the black man."

"What are you talking about?"

"The movie with the light savers." We showed Declan a clip of the duels of Darth Vader and Luke Skywalker on You Tube, along with Erroll Flynn, The Princess Bride, and Zorro so he could see some real swordplay. You can guess what stuck with him.

"That's right, Darth Vader dies."

"But he comes back."

"No, Declan, once you die that's it. You don't come back."

"Except the Beast, right?"

Sigh. I give up.

Dispatch From Ohio

So, we made it to Columbus, Ohio: me, Erika, Hilary, Aaron, Gretchen and Oat.

Besides the fact that the babies cried off and on the entire journey, and Hilary announced every hour that she really, REALLY wanted to go home, and I got a speeding ticket for going way too fast in my desperate desire to get the 8+ hour ride over as soon as possible - well, besides all that, the trip was great.

We are staying with our dear friends the Scogginses, and so far everyone is having a wonderful time. Katrina and I took the older kids to see Horton Hears A Who, and we've just been hanging out, eating a lot of Mexican food and drinking a lot of margaritas - and really, what's wrong with that?

There has been one rather ironic development, and that is that Gretchen has decided she wants to potty train. At 20 months old.

What this looks like in practice, in case you're curious, is that every ten minutes Gretchen announces, "Iwa poop! Potty! Iwa potty!" and I drop everything, run with her to the bathroom, strip her of all her clothes, and hold her on the toilet seat so she won't fall in. And then she may or may not pee (she has yet to poop), and I congratulate her on what a big girl she is, and try to re-diaper her with the most tired sticky tabs ever seen on a diaper.

Now, what's ironic about this, is that I would have sworn up and down that if there was anyone who deserved an early potty-trainer, it's me. After all, Hilary didn't poop on the potty until she was significantly past four years old. Four years old! It was embarrassing, being the mom to the oldest kid in swim diapers at our tennis club. Hilary told me once, "I will NEVER poop on the potty," and for a while there, I believed her.

But no one ever told me that having an early potty-trainer is no picnic either. If Gretchen really is going to potty train, that is. Maybe she just enjoys the way the world grinds to a halt every time she utters those magic words. Or maybe she likes ticking off the names of all the big kids she knows who poop on the potty, which we do as she sits on the toilet: Eka (Erika), Nana (Hannah), Irry (Hilary), Abna (Andrew? Jonah? Who knows? She's not even two, she can't really talk!) But the fact is, Gretchen's just too little. She can't undress herself at all, or stay balanced on the seat. She still has a bladder the size of a peanut, so it's unreasonable to expect her to be able to go any amount of time without peeing. And worst of all, she can't even have a rational discussion, as in, "Gretchen, do you really have to go, or is this another false alarm?"

If you're wondering the magic age at which I wouldn't complain about potty training, it's three. That's when Erika did it, and the whole process was over in a week - no accidents, no pull-ups. So easy.

Still, I understand the conventional wisdom is to let your kid potty train at her own pace, so if Gretchen keeps asking to go, I'll keep taking her.

It may very well be a LONG trip home.

Spend that Money!

After a prolonged struggle, Erika lost one of her top front teeth yesterday, right in the middle of her end-of-session drama showcase - which, I may add, contributed significantly to the drama.

Naturally, the tooth fairy visited our house last night, and left a dollar under Erika's pillow, with which she was very pleased.

I hesitated a bit, however, before I put the plain one dollar bill under her pillow. Erika was sleeping over at her friend Abby's house last year when she lost her very first tooth, and the tooth fairy that handles that jurisdiction left a dollar bill with a note written all around the margin. Apparently, that's a tradition in Abby's family, and her mother still has all the dollars she got from the tooth fairy when she was a kid, with her parents' witty, loving missives permanently inked on the bills.

I had my own collection of souvenir money as a child - a whole cup full of half-dollar coins, Susan B. Anthony dollars and two dollar bills I had amassed over the years as prizes for finding the matzo every Passover. They were gifts from well-meaning adults who wanted to give us something more "special" than plain old money. I'm not sure what happened to the cup - I think it was lost when I left home to go to college.

So I wondered if I should do something more symbolic with Erika's dollar - write another note she would cherish forever, or fold it into an origami flower, something like that. There's such a strong impulse to make every moment in your kids' lives memorable, saturated in meaning. My unadorned dollar looked so . . . forgettable, folded between my fingers.

Then I decided there will be no lack of special mementos from Erika's childhood for her to share with her kids - favorite toys she's loved, adorable stories she's written and illustrated - and if notes from me are so priceless, I can put aside a few of those as well. But I don't want Erika to feel bad about spending her own money. I want her to save it, and to think about what she really wants, and make smart decisions.

Unfortunately, what I've discovered recently, while probing Erika about what she wants for her birthday next week, is that she pretty much already has everything a soon-to-be-7-year-old could possibly want.

So much for my lessons about money.

Keep in Touch

I recently emailed my dear friend AJ in Boston, someone I've known for 12 years and who was a bridesmaid at my wedding (and I at hers). We hadn't spoken in months and I was embarrassed to tell her that I was more than 6 months pregnant. I felt like a big loser for not calling her sooner to let her know my news.

She wrote back quickly, only to report that she, too, was pregnant, with a girl, due May 29th, same as me.

That b***h! I can't believe she didn't call me sooner to tell me!

You would think that with the modern advantages of email and cell phones and AIM, keeping in touch would be easier than ever. But I find it harder. How hard is it to send an email? Not very. Yet I, and many others I know (hi, Amy!), find ourselves more out of touch than ever before.

My best friend, Michelle, lives in San Francisco, and I'm lucky if we talk more than twice a year. I've only seen my good friend Cat twice since she moved to Colorado 4 years ago, and only spoken to her a few more times. My friend Jess lives in St. Maarten (so you'd think I'd try extra-hard to maintain that friendship), but we've gone as long as a year without talking. Aside from my mother, who calls every few days whether I feel like talking or not (I do, Mom, I swear!), my family rarely hears from me. Am I a bad person?

I hope not. Just a bad correspondent. I hate talking on the phone, but even so, who has the time? By the time the kids are in bed at night all I want to do is lie down in our brand-new king-sized bed. I used to have a 45-minute commute each way for work, during which I caught up on many calls, but now that I have a 45-second commute from bedroom to office, my chat time is way down.

But emails like the one I received from AJ give me hope. Because they mean that I'm not the only bad correspondent out there. All my friends are just as bad.