In Praise of the Lazy Snuggle

One of my favorite things to do with my dad when I was a kid was to sit on his lap, lay my head on his chest and watch TV. In fact, I watched a lot of stupid, crappy, low budget TV shows just so I could snuggle up with my daddy.

I vividly remember a time when I was no older than four, when I snuck out of bed and sat at the end of the hallway in our house on Fernandez in Arlington Heights, IL and watched Poltergeist with my dad. I snuggled with my blanky and my thumb and watched a horror film about dead people and little girls getting sucked into TVs and told to “not go into the light, Carol Anne!” I watched an extraordinary amount of science fiction for a little girl including shows like V, Star Trek, Star Wars, and Dr. Who. I watched golf, football, and nature shows about insects who eat their babies. And I did it all just to be close to my daddy.

A few weeks ago when David and I went out for a mid-week date, my dad came over to babysit for Finny and Charlie and he only did half the job he was asked to do. When we got home around 10 p.m., Charlie was in bed, but Finny was sitting on my dad’s lap with his head on his chest, watching TV. They were watching Black Stallion. I glared, disappointed that now I would have to put Finny to bed when all I really wanted to do was go to bed myself. But then I saw it. I recognized that look in Finny’s eyes, that feeling of absolute bliss to be staying up late snuggling with Pop-Pop. My dad had the same look in his eyes, excited to have his little grandson curled up under his arm, excited to show Finny this “classic” movie. And when it was over, my dad stayed to put Finny to bed, because, you know, I think he wanted to do that too.

And it’s not just my dad; it’s David’s dad too. A couple weekends ago when we were staying the weekend in Louisville, Finny and Pop-Pop would disappear, like two little peas in a pod sneaking off to go love each other. Inevitably, we would find them swinging together in the hammock. One morning Finny was out there until close to lunch time donning sandals and pjs, swinging with Pop-Pop. Two generations of big-lipped, duck-mouth smiles just grinning side by side.

Now I see it with David too. The joy of a lazy snuggle. As much as possible, I try to keep TV to a minimum when I’m home with the boys all week and if it is on, it’s a show for Finn while I empty the diswasher or make dinner, but David shamelessly and unapologetically camps out on the couch some Sunday afternoons with a beer and a golf tournament and a Finny or a Charlie or both under the crook of his arm. Sometimes I think they should be outside playing or using their imaginations building tunnels with blocks or doing puzzles. Sometimes I can’t help but think, “Be active, you couch potatoes!” But the truth is, the sight of the daddy and the little daddy all snuggled up eating out of the same snack bowl talking about Tiger Woods…it’s kind of adorable. The real truth is, I wish I could do it too. Sit, relax, be lazy, snuggle.

A few nights ago, when I walked in the door from my run at 9 p.m., I started to get fired up when I realized that David was STILL putting Finny to bed. When I had left them at 8 p.m., they were crawling into bed to read stories, so what happened? Did he fall asleep in there? Were they reading Moby Dick? What?

When I walked in, I found the two of them snuggled up side by side watching something on David’s iphone. “What’s the story?” I probed once again with a scowl and a glare.

“We’re waiting for the moon.” David said.

“Yeah, Mommy. Daddy is laying here with me and we’re waiting for the moon.”

“Oh, okay.” I softened, “Well, it’s out now. Let’s walk across the street and we can see it from Doris’s driveway.”

And the only thing more glorious than that huge, bright, glowing, yellowy-orange moon, was the sight of Finny’s wide eyes as he just marveled at the sight of it. “The moon! The moon!” He shouted. “That’s a big, yellow moon!”

Sometimes, I’m all business. I always have a list, a chore, a busy mind, busy hands, busy feet. It’s the nature of my job. But the daddy, the glory and beauty of the daddy is that he has figured out how to be a little lazy without guilt or shame or apology. He has figured out that sometimes seeing the moon is more important than going to bed on time. And that time spent lying on the couch or swinging in a hammock is not wasted time at all. It might not be on the list or part of the schedule, but it is real, quality, snuggly time to hold and be held. Two generations of men just loving each other.

Happy Father’s Day to David, Pop-Pop Finnessy and Pop-Pop VanHimbergen. How blessed we are to have such affectionate, loving, lazy men in our lives to show us how to have a proper snuggle.

Zen and the Art of Mommyhood Madness

I’m on the hunt. The temper tantrums, the throwing, the slamming, the yelling, the crying—it’s all too much. “But, he’s two,” you’ll say, “These are all normal things for him to do. He’s learning to express himself.” But it’s not the two-year-old I’m talking about—it’s the thirty-two-year-old who’s the problem. It’s the thirty-two-year-old Mommy who had two kids and has suddenly forgotten how to express herself. Appropriately. In front of her toddler. So, I’m on the hunt. For patience. Anybody seen it? It’s just got to be here somewhere.
Finny, the toddler, is actually a barrel of laughs right now. He has a great sense of humor, a wild imagination, a delightful curiousity, and an affectionate nature that just lights me up, especially after enduring a month of illness where he whined and cried and pouted all the time because he was tired and achy and not feeling himself. But, Mommy, the adult, is having a hard time joining him there in the sweet spot, the carefreeness, the joy. So, I’m looking for my Zen, my enlightenment, my “Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff” demeanor.

Yesterday, I looked in the card catalog for anything on patience and motherhood and I found these titles:

• 1, 2, 3 Magic by Thomas Phelan,

• The Happiest Toddler on the Block: How to Eliminate Tantrums, and Raise a Patient, Respectful, Cooperative One to Four-Year-Old by Harvey Karp,

• The No-Cry Discipline Solution: Gentle Ways to Encourage Good Bevhavior without Whining, Tantrums, and Tears by Elizabeth Pantley.

So, I reserved them in hopes that I can glean some wisdom from the experts, but the discouraging thing is, I wasn’t really looking for a book on how to encourage good behavior. I was looking for a book on how to model good behavior. I’m hoping these books will teach me how to “raise a patient, respectful and cooperative child,” by indirectly teaching me how to be a patient, respectful, and cool-headed parent.

The camel’s back broke two nights ago when dinnertime madness ensued. Charlie was screaming bloody murder on his blanket and Finny spilled a full cup of milk all over the kitchen floor and then continued to splash milk all over me as I wiped up the milk on hands and knees below him. This was just after I had mopped the floor and just after making dinner with one crying kid strapped to my chest and the other hanging off my leg as I carefully tried to open the oven door and manage the spaghetti on the stove.

After Finny dropped the milk, I dropped the F bomb. Loud as can be, across the kitchen. Maybe even across the cul-de-sac. My neighbor, Barbara, may have even looked up from her Us Weekly and her Maker’s Mark. That’s right. There was no “Golly darn!” no “Oh, fudgsicles!” not even an “Oh, s*%t!” I went straight for the big dog. It seemed in the moment to be the only truly proper way for me to express how I was feeling. And then I put Finny in time-out. But, the truth is, I’m not sure that the milk spill was even intentional; the time-out was for me.

So, I reserved these three books from the library and I purchased a copy of Soft Spoken Parenting: 50 Ways Not to Lose Your Temper With Your Kids by H. Wallace Goddard.

And then today, at a playdate with four girlfriends, I discovered I’m not the only one who loses her cool with her kids. I’m not the only one who has yet to master the art of “Soft Spoken Parenting.” And it helped. It lightened the load in my big bag of guilt and helped me to forgive myself a little bit.

But, I’m still on the hunt. Deep breaths. Eight hours of sleep. Yoga. A quiet walk. A Bible Study. A glass of Pinot Grigio. Two glasses of Pinot Grigio. Maker’s Mark and Us Weekly with Barbara. A swim. Enya. A night out with the girls. A night out with David. An antidepressant. A multivitamin. A viewing of SNL’s The Best of Chris Farley. A prayer. Serenity Now.

Maybe it is some combination of all of these that will lead me to that sweet spot, the Zen of Parenting, where discipline does not involve a raised voice, a swat on the bottom, or an F bomb dropped over spilled milk. I’m still looking. In the meantime, it was tremendously helpful this morning to discover that some other moms whom I have the greatest respect for also occasionally do and say things in front of their toddlers that they are not proud of. Sometimes even the best mamas need a time-out, a moment to search for the patience that always seems to run and hide right around dinnertime.

Throaty Little Giggles Burst Forth

There are dark times in parenting young children. Dark, sleep-deprived days and nights filled with heavy sighs, creased foreheads, rolling tears, and sometimes great big, heaving giant sobs in front of the bathroom mirror where you have closed the door so you can have just a minute, just one freakin’ minute to yourself. There are days when things get spilled and slammed and thrown and time-outs come flying out of the kitchen faster than you can count to three because let’s face it, sometimes you don’t need to count to three. Sometimes you’re way past three and moving fast towards ten Hail Marys and an Our Father.


It’s hard to remember during those dark, bone-tired days that just around the corner is a day like today. A day when I could not seem to get anything done because every time I peaked around a kitchen cabinet, old Charlie was giving me the biggest shy-guy smile he could throw my way and I would just fall over with joy. I kept trying to get this kid to take a snooze today, but for some odd reason, Charlie would not nap. For some odd reason this five-month-old could not keep his eyes closed longer than twenty minutes. I was puzzled by how alert he was until I realized what was going on.

Today was the day Charlie finally realized that his mommy is hilarious.

I mean the kid simply could not stop laughing at my jokes. And I was shameless. I made noises I’ve never made before just to hear that throaty little giggle burst forth out of his giant baby duck mouth. I found every tickle spot—the crease just inside his chubby little thighs, the spot just beneath his giggly little chin, and the underarmpitties, those delectable little underarmpitties that he leaves open and vulnerable for just a little tickle-tickle.

When I would pick him up after one of our rollicking, stomach-aching, comedy hours, he’d attach himself to my face with a wide, slobbery, open-mouthed smooch. I mean the kid adores me.

There are dark days in parenting young children, but today was not one of them. Today was filled with giddy laughter and slobbery kisses and prayers of gratitude. I mean I can only guess that behind that goofy grin, Charlie was thanking the good Lord above for blessing him with the funniest mommy on the planet.

And the Bees Buzzed On

*  Disappeared from blogging about motherhood for a while and this is the story of why.  Sometimes being a mom leaves little time for doing anything else.

It all began with the buzzing of a tiny bee. At four o’clock in the morning. The night of the storm.


I had already been up twice that night nursing a congested Charlie who had decided after a few eight, ten, twelve-hour stretches that sleeping through the night was just not his bag. Then we were up with the tornado sirens accompanying the bang and the flash of the thunder and lightning, trying to decide if we really needed to wake up the kids and bring them down to the basement.

Right or wrong, we decided to stay in bed, we decided to try and get some sleep, but an hour later, the bees came. Buzz, buzz, buzzing, as they crept through a tiny crack in the wall, hovered above the mattress and then dove one by one down into Finny’s tiny little sleeping ear.

“There’s a bee in my room! There’s a bee in my room!” Desperate cries from his new big boy bed. We both went running. He was hysterical. A nightmare? A new fear of the storm? Of the dark? Of his new room? We didn’t see a bee, but he heard the buzzing and did not want to go back to sleep. David went into the bathroom to get him a drink of water and discovered water on the floor below the bathroom fan. The roof was finally giving in. We brought Finny into bed with us. 4:30a.m. Just as we all started to fall back asleep, coming down from the excitement of the bee, the storm, the leaky roof, Charlie was up again.

5 a.m. Crawled back into bed after nursing Charlie; closed my eyes. 5:03 a.m. David’s phone rang. Wrong number. I started to laugh but tears came instead. 5:30 a.m. David’s alarm. 6:30 a.m. Both kids awake. Dread.


A week before the bees came, life and parenthood seemed to be skipping along rosily. Finny was using the big boy potty and loving it. All of us were thrilled by his accomplishments and excitedly preparing for the upcoming transition from diapers to underwear. Check! Finny had also moved into his big boy bed in his new train-themed room and was loving that too. Check! Check! And Charlie, who had started sleeping long stretches through the night was now out of the Pack-n-Play and into the crib in his own room. Check! Check! Check!

Then suddenly, in mid-April, the storm began. There was no calm that followed. Just more storm. And the bees buzzed and thrived on every last raindrop.

At the first doctor’s appointment, that next day, she said there was a clear fluid in his middle ear, likely caused by allergies and causing him to hear a constant buzzing, that worsened when he laid down. She suggested Claritin and Benadryl to treat the allergies and clear up the fluid.

We tried this, but Finny is two and stubborn and despite the grape and cherry flavor and my best Mary Poppins, I struggled to get the medicine down. Every night, Finny was in our bed or David was in his and Charlie was getting up every four hours. The rain was unceasing.

A week and three $7,000 roof replacement estimates later, we decided to have the roof repaired. The water was off the bathroom floor, but it continued to pool in Finny’s tiny little Eustachian tube and the bees nagged and nagged. When we went back to the doctor, she looked in his ears and cringed. Puss, she said, was nearly busting out his eardrums. She prescribed Amoxicillin. I picked up the thick, pink, bubble gum flavored liquid from the pharmacist. More dread. How on earth was I going to get him to take this?

Tried shooting it down the back of his throat with the dropper. It all came back up. Tried a cup and a spoon. Both got thrown back in my face. Tried orange juice, M&Ms, chocolate syrup, chocolate ice cream, but he would only ever eat or drink part of it. Had some brief success with some encouragement from Daddy and a cheering section of friends, but then, the novelty of that wore off too.

Three days later, back to the doctor to have the nurses give him another antibiotic via shots to the leg. It would be awful, but at least that way I knew he would get the full dose. One shot in each leg, three days in a row. The nurses warned me that this was a thick and painful shot, but what else was I to do? I was to hold his arms, while they pinned down his legs. The second day, Finny was stronger than I anticipated and he broke free of my grasp and yanked the shot out of his leg. Scratch up his leg. The nurse yelled at me. We had to start over.

A week later, it was still raining and the bees buzzed on. Back to the doctor.

The infection lingered in both of Finny’s ears. Charlie remained congested and she found some fluid in his ear, and I had a sinus infection. I started getting serious about allergies. Bought allergy covers for our beds and pillows. Put an air purifier for Finny’s room. Vacuumed. Dusted. Got quotes on air duct cleaning.

My mom, who has always been serious about allergies, started snooping around our basement and began tearing apart our humidifier, which she discovered had a filter and tubing covered in black and orange mold. “You are breathing this stuff!” she shouted, horrified as she flung the moldy tubing into the sink. I became filled with anxiety that my house was making me and my children sick. I called our heating and air guy out to check out the humidifier, which he discovered had been leaking water all winter. Everywhere I turned there was water seeping in. In our ears, in our sinuses, through the roof, in the basement. And it would not stop raining. Everyday in the seven-day forecast offered more and more rain. No spring. No sun. Just wet.

Now all three of us were on antibiotics. Charlie and I on Amoxicillin. Finny on his third round, a chewable from of Augmentin. All week I crushed up this nasty pink pill and tried to sneak it into his favorite foods. He rejected his Augmentin grilled cheese, so I made brownies and snuck it into chocolate icing. He ate every last bite, so I actually contemplated giving him a brownie for breakfast, lunch and dinner but instead offered him peanut butter sandwiches. He ate the sandwiches, but turned down usual favorites like ice cream, milkshakes, yogurt and mac and cheese. Once again, he was only getting half of what he needed and I prayed that this infection would just clear up on its own.

Then, the plumbing went out. In Finny and in the house. It was almost like Finny and the house had some weird ET-like connection to one another. One leaked water, the other couldn’t drain water. The second antibiotic gave Finny diarrhea and made him dread a diaper change on his raw bottom. So we backed off the Miralax which he had been taking every day for months to help him battle his constipation. A combination of less Miralax and a diet of peanut butter sandwiches stopped him up again and we had three days of agony as he strained and strained to poop. Too much fluid in his ear, not enough in his intestine. WE COULD NOT WIN.

Then, it was time for the grand finale. The day of Charlie’s baptism, Finny spiked a fever and broke out into hives and the pipe beneath the kitchen sink sprung a leak. By that night, his temperature was up to 103.6. By the next afternoon, what began as tiny little red bumps on his legs and torso had spread to his arms, head, face and neck. His ankles, knees, hips and knuckles all began to swell. Serum sickness, the doctor called it. A hypersensitive allergic reaction to penicillin. She said it would get a lot worse before it got better. More medicine. A steroid for the joint swelling, which she said would cause him arthritis-like pain. Benadryl for the itching hives and Ibuprofen for the fever, inflammation and discomfort. He slept with us at night, tossing and turning , feet in the air, itching and scratching his head, his neck, his feet. One day he took three baths just so he could feel some relief in the water. In the bath, I watched him bite his itchy knees. He woke up with swollen eyes and bruising. David and I and my mom struggled to hide our reactions to how awful he looked. The very medicine I had been tearing my hair out for weeks to sneak into his system to fight off the ear infections ended up causing him the worst discomfort I’ve ever seen him in.

And then I saw it. On Wednesday, as the plumber repaired the leaky kitchen sink, I turned on the weather channel and I saw it. Friday, May 20, on the seven-day forecast had a full, bright sun on it. No clouds. 75 degrees.

That Thursday night we went to bed and I did not wake up until 4 a.m. when Charlie woke up hungry. Finny slept in his own bed all night long for the first time in a month. No bees. No itching. When I went into get him that morning, he looked like my little boy again. No swelling. No rash. No bruising. No crying. Just jumping up and down begging for an egg on toast.

The storm had finally passed. We rejoiced over our eggs on toast and celebrated a day with no medicine and a morning filled with sunshine. We ate almost every meal on a blanket in the yard that weekend and celebrated how lovely it was to see each other at 6:30 a.m., rather than 12:30 a.m., 1:30 a.m. and 4:30 a.m.

God bless all those mamas who have children who struggle with chronic illnesses like asthma, diabetes, blood disorders, etc. My son had an ear infection for a month and my world was turned upside down. I believe that God never gives you more than you can handle, but sometimes it feels like we’re getting close.

You Might As Well Stop Whining and Just Enjoy It

Yesterday morning, Finny and I did not like each other very much. We both got up on the wrong side of the bed and spent the morning stepping on each other’s toes…literally. No matter how hard I tried, I could not quite wake up despite my giant mug of coffee, and ordinary things like changing diapers and unloading the dishwasher seemed to be taking an extraordinarily long time.

Somehow, we watched nearly two hours of cartoons, while I puzzled for way too long over whether or not I should fold the clean laundry or try to pay some bills. Charlie moved from seat to swing to blanket and back again and could not seem to find a comfortable spot to play and Finny, it seemed, was everywhere. While I nursed Charlie, Finny hung on my knees. When I peed, Finny followed me into the bathroom, hung on my knees again and waited anxiously for the opportunity to flush. While I emptied the dishwasher, Finny leaned on the rack and attempted to shuffle breakable plates around. My brain, which seemed to be out of the office, struggled to devise a creative way to entertain him or have him entertain himself while I tried to get a few silly little things done, and the result was just a constant shooing him away.

“Finny, don’t touch that! Go do…something.” So, he walked around the corner and climbed up on the kitchen chair to see what fun awaited him on the counter. First he found the tomatoes to fondle and drop and bruise. “No, don’t play with those, honey! You’ll ruin them.”

Then, he poured salt on his hand and licked it repeatedly. “Do not play with the salt! That’s wasting!”

Then, he hopped down and began licking the dirty mop cloth which was hanging and drying from the oven door. “Finny, that’s yucky. Don’t touch that!” More fondling and licking of the mop cloth. “Listen to me, Honey! Don’t touch that!” Even more fondling and caressing of the mop cloth. “AAARRGG!!!! Listen to me or you’re going to your room!” And at that, I firmly grabbed my two-year-old by the shoulders and moved him into the family room. Tears.

So, I decided we needed to go for a long walk. The heating and air guy was coming in an hour, so we couldn’t go far and we just needed a little peace and quiet and a cool breeze.

The cool breeze was sticky and hot and the peace and quiet was accompanying someone else on their walk, but did not show up on ours. After twenty minutes of screaming, crying and whining in the stroller, I finally said, “Finny, you cannot get out of the stroller right now, so stop whining and just enjoy it.” It did not escape my attention, that I too needed to figure out how to do this. Life with a toddler and an infant: difficult and trying, but I needed to figure out how to stop whining and just enjoy it.

A couple hours later, when lunch was eaten, the humidifier was fixed and it was finally time for a snuggle and a nap, I kicked off my shoes and laid down with Finny to read him some stories before bed. About half way through our story about Piglet and Pooh and rain puddles, Finny, propped himself up on his elbow, took out his Tissa, puckered up and gave me a big kiss on the cheek.

I literally felt my heart of ice melting all over the sheets and I let out a huge laugh. Delighted by my delight, this adorable two-year-old who really just wanted nothing more than to be close to me all morning, propped himself up on his elbow again, took out his Tissa, puckered up and kissed me again smack on the tip of my nose. I laughed even harder. And so, he grabbed my face between his two baby hands and showered me with kisses all over my nose and face until I was practically dripping with his sloppy little kisses.

“Finny!” I said between breathless laughter, “Do you want me to finish the story?”

His reply. “No, I just want to kiss you.”

And we finally found something we could both agree on, because I just wanted to be kissed.

Tales from the Potty

Finny has gone at least pee-pee or poopy on the potty everyday now for the past week or so. The sticker chart is simply overflowing with his accomplishments.

Today he went pee-pee and poopy on the potty both before and after lunch. He likes for me to leave the room, as I suppose most of us prefer not to have an audience. I stand outside and listen carefully to what’s going on in there while he has the room to himself. Sometimes I have to walk in so that he does not decorate the bathroom in toilet paper or spread David’s deoderant all over his face, though this does leave him smelling fresh and manly.

Today, as I listened outside the door, I heard a little grunting and then… “I made it! I made it!”

As if he had just scuplted an ashtray in art class.

I peeked in and there it was. His proud little poopy glistening in its little white bucket.

“You pooped! Way to go, Finny!” I exclaimed with sincere enthusiasm. It was better than an ashtray.

“It’s a jellyfish!” Finny beamed.

I carried the little white bucket over to the toilet to dump it in so he could flush it down and as I did, he talked to it in a sweet, gentle voice, as if the poopy were, well, as if the poopy were his baby brother.

“Hi, Mr. Poopy. How are you, Mr. Poopy?” So endearing, so gentle, that I hurriedly scooped it into the toilet for fear he would try to give it a “gentle pat” on the head as he does to Charlie.

Then we ceremoniously flushed Mr. Poopy down the toilet and Finny, beaming with self-satisfaction, exclaimed, “Touchdown!”

And there you have it. Six points for Mr. Poopy. Three stickers for Finny. And one day closer to an extra thirty dollars of diaper money for Mommy.

Wonder of Wonders, Miracle of Miracles

It is hard to explain how wonderful it felt yesterday when I looked down and saw a little splash of pee-pee in Finny’s little potty. I wanted to gobble him up with pride.

Then, eight hours later when I discovered a little poopy in the potty, I practically wept with joy.

Why? What on earth is it about these basic bodily functions that made me want to twirl around in a brown linen dress singing to the hills of Austria? I don’t know. I only know that there was a fear deep within me that Finny would never figure out how to pee or poop on a toilet. Logical reasoning tells me that the odds are in our favor that Finny will someday use the bathroom and not a diaper, but there’s this whole other part of me that just can’t for the life of me understand how this is all going to go down.

And then he did it. Twice in one day. Pee and Poop. Number 1 and Number 2. Wonder of wonders. Miracle of miracles.

Clearly I need to get out of the house more. Maybe do a little travelling. Attend the theater or an art museum. Engage someone in intellectual discussion over just what is the right approach to our handling of the whole Libya debauchal.

In the meantime, I am going to sweep Finny off his feet every time he leaves a little present in his little toilet and shower him with kisses and sticker charts.

In the meantime, I am simply going to rejoice over the miracle of pee-pee and poo-poo in the potty.

(Note: I chose not to document this momentous occasion with a picture or video, but to quote Finny, post-poopy, “It’s a big one, Mommy!”

If this blog still exists on the world wide web when he is fifteen, he is no doubt hating me right now for writing this.)

(Another Note:  I just figured out how to connect the blog to Google's Feed Burner so that readers can subscribe to receive an email when I have updated it if you should so choose.  There is also an option to receive Musings on Motherhood in an RSS feed.  See the links to the right.)