Momservation: It’s not the size of your diaper bag that matters, it’s what’s in it. 

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I’ll always remember the day my daughter, Whitney, was born. Because two years to the day after she was born I got rid of the diaper bag for good and celebrated by buying a new purse.

Go ahead and laugh, but you always remember the day you got to trade your pack-mule hump for a trendy purse again.

It’s been more than seven years since I’ve had to tote around a survival pack of diapers, wipes, Desitin®, changing pad, extra onsies, clothes, and Bob the Builder underwear,  sippie-cups, Goldfish®, bottles, formula dispenser, Cheerios® dispenser, back-up carseat clip, sunscreen, Mylicon® drops, burp cloths, teething rings and favorite toys.

I still get a tear in my eye remembering the joy of being set free from the weathered pack of infant/toddler gear (actually an REI backpack chosen for its gender neutral coloring –for Daddy toting - and quick-serve sippie-cup holders built in to the front).

It was Monday, March 31, 2003 and Whitney had kept her underwear dry for over a week (as noted in her baby book – unfortunately her last entry). I didn’t want to jinx it by saying it aloud, so I sent a note to my husband across the dinner table. It read:

IF WHITNEY MAKES IT TO THURSDAY KEEPING HER PANTS DRY, I THINK WE CAN DITCH THE DIAPER BAG.

Hubby looked up at me, arched an uncertain eyebrow, then scribbled something back. It said:

ARE YOU SURE WE’RE READY FOR THIS?

I nodded. One more check that my 2 and 3 ½ year olds were still busy getting spaghetti everywhere except in their mouths, then I wrote back:

YOU’RE WATCHING THE KIDS FRIDAY. I’M GOING PURSE SHOPPING.

See, tears again! It really was a life-changing experience.

I still have that purse – a beautiful, chocolate leather Jack Georges shoulder bag with handle option – and it will always be ranked up there in nostalgia with first kiss, first love, and first car.

Even though the purse still has Goldfish crumbs crushed in the bottom and the scent of fermented apple juice. Despite the Dora the Explorer and Bob the Builder emergency underwear, wipes, favorite toys, sippie cups, sunscreen, extra car seat clip and bribery candy stretching it out a bit, it still looks great!

Momservation: There’s no such thing as friends and family when it comes to getting a good seat at your child’s school talent show. 

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 That's my kid! I gave birth to her! That's all the credit I can take for her talent.

I was so stinkin’ proud it brought me to tears.

Not just for my kid, but every kid up there at the Mariemont Elementary Talent Show.

From the kindergartner who lisped his way through an unintelligible poem, and the pigtailed baton troop dropping batons left and right, to my own eight year-old daughter, Whitney, who I was worried hadn’t prepared enough.

But when Whitney stepped on stage I realized she was born ready.

As I watched with absolute pride, Whitney brought the house down shimmying, shaking and singing to Smash Mouth’s “All Star.” No help from Mom – my suggestions and sample dance moves were cast aside like a baby Barney video. It wasn’t Whitney’s vocal skills that made her shine – unfortunately she did get that from Mom.

But it didn’t matter. What she lacked in vocal talent she made up for in confidence and charisma.

God love her, whose kid was that up there? My friends may know me now as a gregarious, fun-loving personality but it took a lifetime to reach this comfort in my own skin. And even though Hubby is an easy-going natural comedian he would’ve rather had you pin him down and make him listen to Jonas Brothers CD’s before ever dreaming of taking a risk like that as a kid.

And that’s what I absolutely loved about all the kids up on that stage. Instead of balking in the face of potential public ridicule from peers and parents alike, these kindergarten through sixth graders soared on the wings of courage determined to put on a show.

Who cares that there were missed steps, warbled keys, cringe-worthy notes and jokes that fell flat?

These kids rocked the house just because they had the guts to stand up there under the spotlight of scrutiny and choose to shine instead of hiding in the shadows of uncertainty.

They were true acts of courage regardless of talent.

Although, I must say, I think my Itty-Bitty-Whitty-Little-Girl-So-Pretty stole the show!

Okay, maybe she didn’t steal the show, but if that kid with the amazing karate skills had dropped one of his swords, she could’ve nudged him for the title.

Stay tuned for the YouTube video I’ll post after tonight’s encore performance! Or not. Just realized my apparently prehistoric digital camera came with a useless USB port and no uploading capabilities. Looks like I'm off to get a new video camera...

Momservation: Is there any other animal species that will turn their offspring's stinky, crusty socks inside-out for them on laundry day?

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I don’t think enough complaints about laundry can be written. After all, laundry is never ending so shouldn’t my gripes be sorted along with the lights and darks?

I thought cleaning bathrooms was the bane of my existence, but you can put off bathrooms with a good tub of Clorox Wipes® for weeks. Unfortunately, continuing to purchase extra packages of underwear and socks only buys you so much time before people are drying off with toilet paper.

No, laundry is my arch nemesis and skidded underwear its most lethal weapon. Actually, make that my son’s soccer socks – I really need to contact the military to see if those qualify as weapons of mass destruction.

As it is, I think I should be able to file for disability or at least get hazard pay for my parenting duties associated with laundry. I’m getting carpal-tunnel syndrome from spraying stain remover on ALL my son’s clothes. The kid spends more time brushing his teeth than he does with his feet on the ground.

And I’m not naming any names, but let’s just say someone in the house needs a refresher course on how to wipe a bottom. Either that or I’ve got to change the kid’s diet because it’s producing end results that just can’t be contained.

Please, don’t get me started on pocket surprises. I actually screamed aloud and hit my head when I staggered backward the other day. I thought someone had saved a giant booger in their pants, but it turned out to be a little squishy cow pencil topper.

What I wouldn’t give for a day when I don’t have to think about laundry. I’ve even had fantasies about it – drifting off to sleep, the clothes that still need to be folded at my feet, dreaming of a nirvana where clothes don’t get dirty and stinky crusty socks don’t need to be turned inside-out.

As I float along in my fantasyland in a pointless laundry basket, children are eagerly folding and putting away the Immaculate Collection clothing. Wrinkle-free pants and shirts are being joyfully hung by helpful husbands. Underwear and sock drawers are bottomless and pit-stains are nonexistent. And instead of owning a washer, dryer, iron and plethora of “h.e” safe cleaning products I am released from the bondage of laundry to frolic in a field of daisy’s with Orlando Bloom.

Okay, see you guys later. This is a whole other fantasy now and I’m not sharing Orlando. 

Momservation: Only with kids and dads is a good fart a crowd pleaser.

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So there we were, sitting having a nice family dinner and conversation like we do every night there’s not soccer/basketball/baseball/softball (I guess this would make it a Thursday or Sunday).

Suddenly, there’s the distinctive muffled rumble and scent of somebody who just ripped one.

Followed by laughter.

From Daddy.

Which then of course gets the culprit and her approving brother rolling.

Trying to set a better example and appropriate table manners I ask toward the offender - who instead of blushing with embarrassment is now high-fiving her dad, “What do you say?”

In response, rather than an “excuse me” her brother interjects, “Nice one!”

More out of control laughter. My daughter goes for an opportunity to garner more laughs by pretending to choke on her milk in mirth, spraying it all over her unfinished plate.

Before I can admonish her, a louder chair muffled, “rrrrrrnnnt” comes underneath the table from her.

The sound of pure joy breaks out around the table. “Dude, you better check your shorts on that one!” says Daddy nearly in tears. My son, beaming with pride, falls out of his chair in hilarity onto the floor.

While down there he gasps out between guffaws, “Aww, man, I think the dog farted too!”

This time, Whitney really did choke on her milk at this new assault on her funny bone. Everyone’s gasp-for-breath laughing except me, but I can fill the corners of my mouth twitching as I resist the contagious amusement not wanting to cave to such poor manners.

Now of course, the king of farts can’t resist an opportunity to show his loyal subjects why he is the ruler of the land. My husband, at the dinner table, dramatically shifts his weight and lifting his left butt-cheek from the chair pollutes our ears and noses with the Hiroshima of fart bombs.

The kids explode with laughter. Hubby looks across the table at me, grinning from ear to ear, but with the look of a child who knows they’re about to get in trouble.

Only now does it occur to my family of dinner table farters that they may have crossed over the lines of decency. The kids apprehensively turn toward me, trying to reel themselves in by smothering giggles.

Looking at each person, letting the moment of reckoning settle over them I finally say,

“Daddy’s got nothing on me. When you come snuggle with Mommy tonight right before bed, I’m gonna hot-box you all like you wouldn’t believe.”

And to punctuate my point I ripped off my own fart and joined the laughter.

*If that hasn’t grossed you out enough and made you not want to join the Wheeler’s for dinner, then you obviously haven’t read Family Ear Wax Night…

Momservation: If you could bottle up the combined energy of kids and puppies, there would be no need for nuclear energy – it’s already wiped out my house.

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                        You’d think this would be the face of innocence.  
                                            

There’s been a lot of frustration, tears and anger at our house lately, and I’m not just talking me losing it with puppy training.

No, it’s kids vs. puppy and the casualties are mounting.

Nothing has been chewed up or destroyed, at least not on my watch, thank goodness. There is no way I want to deal with the fall-out of a favorite blankie or stuffed animal meeting a vicious and untimely end.

It’s been more like sniper shots. Quick, lethal and totally unexpected.

Like a baby, Darby – 12 weeks, gets overstimulated, overtired and overexcited and rather than crying, she gets nippy. I’ve learned to watch for the signs and remove her from the situation, but the kids still need to learn to watch their backs.

What my kids, Logan - 10 and Whitney – 8, just don’t understand is their behavior affects Darby’s behavior. They’re hyper, she’s hyper. They run, she runs. They’re loud, noisy and full of energy – she’s right there with them barking, jumping, eager to play – rough and with razor sharp baby teeth.

And as hard as they try to be the boss and redirect her behavior, she sees them as big puppies, playmates, equals. They can try to give their deepest and most authoritative “No!” but their young, high pitched voices just don’t carry any weight.

So in the fight for who’s the Alpha Dog in the bunch, well, Darby’s winning.

I can work on her manners all day with great success, but the second the kids come tumbling in the house from school all excited to play with their puppy, everything goes out the window without their cooperation and consistency.

I don’t blame my kids. Who wants to be calm and authoritative around a fuzzy, adorable, excitable lump of squirming love?

Unfortunately, they’re learning the hard way they need to be.

To date Logan has 30 scratches, 3 bites (one on the nose) and one favorite football jersey with a hole in it. Two of those incidents brought my tough guy to tears.

Whitney has 29 scratches, 2 bites and about a dozen shirts with holes in them plus a nightgown. My rough tough cream puff has also been brought to tears twice.

So what have we all learned from this?

Either learn to play by Puppies for Dummies rules or be dominated by a 24-pound deliciously cute pooch who isn’t afraid to bring you to tears with an innocent, yet perfectly placed sniper shot of puppy teeth.

Either that or keep a low profile until the puppy teeth fall out.

Momservation: Today was such a tough day to be “Mom” that I needed my mommy.

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    Ever wake up and want to call in sick to being Mom?

Maybe it was because I went away for a girls’ weekend and got a taste of nobody needing me, whining my name, expecting me to do something for them or having to drive somebody somewhere.

Getting away from it all for a weekend in Tahoe with some skiing thrown in was supposed to recharge my batteries so I would return a pleasant Mommy again, happy to my job.

It didn’t take.

It’s not just that you can never escape from the never-ending laundry, the constant bickering and it being the right thing to do to feed your family on a regular basis. It just hurts my brain and instantly fatigues me before I even open my eyes in the morning when I start processing all that needs to be done free of charge, unappreciated and without hazard pay.

Then the worst part is instead of still dreaming about being stuck in an elevator with Orlando Bloom, my rising pulse is now caused by guilt about being a bad mother. What mom doesn’t want to see the beautiful, sweet faces of her children first thing in the morning?

How about a mom who knows those faces will be whining for their favorite shirt at the bottom of the dirty laundry, panicking that a field trip form isn’t signed and due today, and demanding that her brother get out the bathroom and leave her alone? And that’s only the beginning.

Copy, paste, repeat until the weekend when they then wake me with fighting over the remote, demanding to know where an athletic uniform of some sort is, and thinking the only way to eat food is if Mom leads them like a pack of starving wolves to the refrigerator.

Now don’t get me wrong – on a general, overall, everyday basis I like my life, I love my kids, I adore my family, but MAN is it exhausting to be so happy. It’s just some days you wake up and the ol’ tank is empty and it’s overwhelming to think there are no days off when you’re a mom.

Even if you have a heck of an excuse like being trapped in an elevator with a young, delicious, Brit who wants you to take him to Cougartown.

Momservation: If your kids aren’t mad at you or hate you at some point, then you’re not doing your job as a parent.

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After recently bringing a puppy into our lives, I’ve come to realize there’s not a lot of difference between raising kids and dogs.

(Cat’s don’t count because they just want you to leave them the hell alone – which I guess would mean there’s not a lot of difference between raising teenagers and cats, but I’m not quite there yet.)

When your kids are little it is so important to teach them what the rules are, what’s expected of them and what won’t fly. Then you have to reinforce the behavior you’re looking for with repetition, consistency and praise.

And treats are key.

Sounds about the same as training a dog, right?

I like to think I’ve got good, obedient kids. I take great pride in knowing we made it through the early years without one of them being known as “The Biter” or being blacklisted from any parks. So applying the same obedience strategy, I’m working hard to make sure our puppy, Darby, doesn’t ruin my streak. Here are my basic rules:

Ten Rules for Obedient Kids and Dogs

1. Nobody likes a biter. Zero tolerance policy on aggression. Nip it (HA!) in the bud with severe consequences that don’t include more violence.
2. Play nicely with others. If you can’t play nice, then it’s time to go home or have some time alone. If you want to have a friend, be a friend.
3. Do what you’re told the first time. You undermine your authority if you allow anything else.
4. Manners count. Being on your best behavior at all times will earn you affection and respect.
5. Don’t beg. It’s a nuisance and it should never be given in to.
6. Good behavior = Reward. Positive reinforcement is a powerful tool. Love, affection and praise are basic cravings. And who can resist a good treat?
7. Share with friends. Selfishness should be discouraged because it can lead to other antisocial behaviors.
8. Everything has its place. Have designated areas for eating, sleeping, going potty, keeping toys, playing, etc. Consistency with these boundaries creates security.
9. Make good choices. Make it clear what your expectations are and reward for resisting temptation. Soon they’ll be able to do it on their own.
10. Set a good example. Keeping your temper and frustrations in check will teach appropriate response and behavior and keep anxiety levels down.

Momservation: “You need a license to buy a dog, or drive a car, hell you can get a license to catch a fish, but they’ll let any butt-reaming a**hole be a father.” Keanu Reeves, “Parenthood”
 

  
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I work best from a manual. I like to have step-by-step instructions on what to do and what should happen next. I also like the security of knowing if I forget something or it doesn’t pan out right I can just go back to the book.

For example, I was all over those What to Expect When You’re Expecting, The Girlfriends Guide to Pregnancy and What to Expect The First Year books with my first baby. I ate those books up like Jared eats Subway.

If the book told me to keep an eating and potty journal I did. If it instructed how to best get an infant to sleep through the night, I followed it to the letter with unwavering consistency. When it showed a chart graphing how babies gradually cry less and less the older they get, I wrote on my calendar the date when there would be more laughing than crying in my house (Mommy included).

Go ahead and roll your eyes, but I’ll have you know both my children walked well before a year, spoke complete sentences at 18 months, were completely potty trained by 20 months, and learned how to ride bikes when they were three.

Call it Type-A personality, good genes, or baby boot camp (that would be Hubby), but I’ll tell you it was a good instruction manual. In my effort to be a good parent I’m not ashamed to seek out advice, help, or use a book that has the word “For Dummies” blazed on the cover.

Now there are some people (read Hubby here) who like to wing it. Whether it be assembling a 50-part game table at midnight on Christmas Eve or throwing together beef stew sans recipe, some people flat out don’t like someone telling them their business.

Unfortunately, opposites attract and those of us who do like instructions are usually stuck with people who keep us up until three in the morning reassembling game tables and eating beef stew that tastes like chicken.

So imagine my surprise when prior to bringing home our new puppy Hubby brings home the book Puppies for Dummies. And it wasn’t for me – it was for him!

Knock me over with a feather, he actually read the book too! This from a man who won’t read anything unless it’s in a bathroom and he’s got some time to kill. But it was great to see him finally subscribing to my theory that life just seems easier when it comes with instructions.

Obviously, the book is great – as I knew it would be. When nine week-old Darby started getting nippy with the kids we turned to the book and learned she was overtired and over-stimulated. When Darby started stealing socks the book taught us a technique to squelch the behavior. We have turned to the book for issues with clothing assault, object envy and crate training and we continue to have success with raising a well-mannered puppy.

Oh, and I’m claiming fully potty-trained by 10 weeks.

Don’t think I can do it?

Did I mention both my kids at ages four and five were riding their bikes 12 miles a week next to me while I went jogging? Okay, that might just be good athletic genetics, but check Parenting for Dummies – I bet it’s in there under How to get Your Kids to Go Right to Bed.

Momservation: They say the true pain of childbirth fades otherwise mothers wouldn’t have more children. Obviously we also forget the pain of infancy and toddler years or else we wouldn’t ever get puppies either.

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 Darby Diamond Sky Wheeler, 
                                                           8 wks, 12lbs, 20 in. 
                                                                          Momma and fuzzy baby are doing well.

Right now I am dashing off this blog while the baby is sleeping. I only have a limited amount of time to try and accomplish anything because once she wakes up the baby demands my full attention.

There’s the feeding. Then making sure she’s gone potty. Some playtime for stimulation. Close supervision so she doesn’t hurt herself or break something. Realizing there’re more things I need to do to baby-proof the house. Hopefully after a few hours of that she’ll be ready for her nap and I’ll be able to sneak in a shower.

New baby? No, new puppy. But really, it’s the same.

Oh, how quickly we forget the tied down, all consuming, rigorous schedule of babies, toddlers and puppies once we have left those years safely in our rear view.

I have always said the newborn years weren’t my best genre. I still occasionally suffer some Post Traumatic Stress when I smell Desitin.

The toddler years I did better, because they’re much more interactive and receptive to bribery.

The pre-kindergarten years I was like a relay runner sprinting to the next leg, giving it all I had because I knew I was almost done and I could pass the baton to California educational system.

And the school years have been my favorite yet. I still celebrate every year’s Back to School day doing absolutely nothing unless it involves chocolate.

So why on earth would someone, who was so desperate to not go through all of that again that she had her Hubby get a vasectomy on Father’s Day weekend because it was the first date available, get a puppy?

Because puppies are the Clif Note version of early childhood. All the joys of adding another family member but with a quicker learning curve and they don’t talk back.

Before I know it Little Miss Darby won’t need to get up in the middle of the night. She’s well on her way to being potty trained. She already will eat whatever I put in front of her. I don’t need a babysitter when I leave her, just some good crate training. And after I play with her for a little bit, she just sits at my feet and lets me work. At nine weeks old.

My non-fuzzy kids are eight and ten years old. I still haven’t gotten them to do that.