On the Blog Again...

So last summer I took an unexpected break from blogging for a couple overwhelmingly busy months (as if I have any other kind).

After the summer was over and the fall routine settled in again, I sat down to write my "sorry I was MIA all summer" post. Then it dawned on me: no one - not friends, family, or distant readers - had commented about the fact that I disappeared for months. I thought about this for a while and realized that Facebook was sufficient for keeping loved ones up to date and my blogging life had probably reached its natural end. I decided to write a final post and call it good, but that post just wouldn't come.

For some reason, people have recently started asking me what happened to the blog and it got me thinking about why I started it in the first place. Certainly not for the fame and glory and money (although if anyone wants to offer me that, I won't refuse). Mainly it's a diary of our life. I realized that so much of the boys' first few years were documented, while Miren's first year will soon be fuzzied by mommy amnesia.

So I'm back - even if it's just to satisfy my own navel-gazing and family journaling needs.

With that in mind, here are a few of the most important moments of our last year...

We got the world's coolest bike. And despite my tricycle past, I can actually ride it:

Took a trip to Mackinac Island with my parents:

In front of the Mackinac Bridge.

Held Miren's Dedication:

Celebrated Robbie's 30th Birthday:

Had one family reunion or family party after another:

Celebrating Grandma Marion's 80th Birthday

We remodeled our only (and incredibly tiny) bathroom, forcing us to travel to our neighbor's empty bathroom (they were in Europe) every night for bathtime for months. Our children decided that most of the trips needed to be done naked, which our neighbors doubtless appreciated:

The crappy "Before" picture.

The equally crappy "After" picture.

Fionn started his first year of preschool:

  

 

Emerson made huge gains in all areas and got a wonderful kindergarten placement for next year. I pushed for more testing in the fall and - as I suspected all along - he qualified for autism spectrum services. More on that later:

The handsome man himself.

Miren learned how to do all the important baby things:

Miren also learned that her smile could help her get away with pretty much anything:

Once mobile, she quickly dispelled the myth that at least one out of three kids is bound to be easy:

Miren enjoys her first Popsicle.

I celebrated my 30th Birthday. It was not quite as exciting as Robbie's :) :

We lost our beloved "Mama:"

Mama meets newborn Emerson for the first time.

Fionn earned the title "World's Best Big Brother:"

Fionn shares his Valentine's sucker.

We enjoyed visiting friends and drinking good beer in Wisconsin:

Fionn enjoys the view of Milwaukee from his "bubble" in Discovery World.

We decided to rip up our entire yard and fill it full of edible plants and perennial flowers (pics coming).

The boys got to go on their first fishing trip thanks to dad and papa:

I continued to slog through grad school classes and finally decided the focus of my ministry will be the environment:

I started a Michigan chapter of Kidical Mass (kidicalmass.org):

The kids help me run the booth at "Bike Bash."

Families setting off on our first ride.

And in general we had some crazy fun:

Miren's first Easter egg hunt.

April Fool's Parade

Robbie brought the boys some wrestling masks from Mexico.

Christmas chaos.

Feel more caught up than you ever needed to be? Good. Now hopefully I'll write again before next year.

Be True to Your School

These days, I spend most of my time like this:

I have many fascinating and brilliant things to write about (stop snickering), but lately I've been so swamped with three kids and three classes that I just can't get to it. Seriously, I'm so sleep deprived that I developed what I call a "slutter" - a slur and a stutter mixed together. You could arguably add "slut" in there, but that's another story from another time period.

For the most part I love being in school and wish I could be a professional student (unfortunately Robbie curls into the fetal position whenever I say the word "Ph.D.") I'm in no hurry to graduate, but when I have insane weeks like the past couple weeks, I find myself obsessively checking how many classes I have left until graduation. The answer is always the same: too many. 

I spent the first half of grad school at a seminary on the University of Chicago campus in Hyde Park. I loved commuting there for intensives every January, but the commute - combined with major changes that the school made after the recession hit - became too much for me last year. I transferred to an ecumenical seminary in Detroit that I was already attending as a guest student. 

Hyde Park could look rough if you went too many blocks in any given direction, but for the most part it was a gorgeous, affluent campus. Many of my classmates affectionately called our seminary "Hogwarts" after the old gothic building and the old rumpled staff. 

Now I go to school in an old church in downtown Detroit where most of the neighborhoods are rough. I'm only one of a couple non-Christians, which can be frustrating and lonely sometimes. But there are a lot of things I love about the seminary: the energy, the activism, the racial diversity...the groundskeeper whose name really is Willie. 

Last Saturday after class I took some pictures of the Heidelberg Art Project going on next to the school. The shoes represent people living on the street, but you can find better information about it here.

Typical of the area - one abandoned, one beautifully renovated.

While I was at it, I took some pictures of our school. It's no Hogwarts...but it has a magic all its own. 

Third and Final Step: Run Away...Return Rejuvenated

This past December, while visiting family in Utah, Robbie decided to pull out some of my old memory books. Among the reams of vacation photos and elementary art work was a binder I created over several years - my "inspiration" binder. After flipping through a few pages of images cut out of magazines and books - images of passionate (and as I was soon to learn, unrealistic) kissing, dream homes, dream dresses, collages of words like "HOPE" and "DREAM" - he repressed his gag reflex and tossed it over to me.

I made my way through it, sighing a jaded sigh over the relentless romanticism, until I came to a section that stopped me cold. It was a magazine article that featured pages and pages of women in their 20s who had already "made it big." Actresses, CEOs, athletes, activists...women of all sizes and ethnicities, dressed in sleek shades of black and white, projecting power and confidence. I remember spending hours reading and re-reading their biographies, determined to be worthy of such a list in my own time. And here I was, 28 years and 1 week old, and I was not even close.

It wasn't so much the lack of accomplishments that sent me into a quarter-life crisis - I knew I was slowing my career by having two kids so young. I also take consolation in the fact that I'm at least working on a Master's and have time in the future to conceivably write the great American novel. Conceivably.

No, what scared me was the realization that this incredibly ambitious, confident girl I used to be had nearly been pushed out of existence by the anxious, self-deprecating woman I had become. Corny maybe. But true.

This is perhaps a long way of explaining why, when it was time for me to go to an intensive class in Chicago last week, I did not fret over leaving my kids behind. It was only four days, but it would be the first time I had slept without Fionn next to me since his birth 14 months earlier. I had to wean him the weekend before, to his great dismay, and neither child has let me out of sight without immediately screaming a frantic "MAMA!!!!" When it was time to leave for the train station, I literally had to peel a crying Fionn out of my arms to get out the door.

I should have cried and mourned and worried. But I knew that I was long overdue for some alone time - and I needed all I could get if I was going to recover some of that teenage optimism. As the train huffed and groaned away from the station, I sat back in my seat and luxuriated in the realization that for the next four days, I could eat when I wanted to eat, sleep when I wanted to sleep (in a bed all to myself!), I could pee when I needed to pee, and I could think entire thoughts without interruption. The train may have been filled with worn seats and loudly snoring passengers - it may have lurched from side to side like a drunkard - but in my mind it was as good as a golden litter held aloft by four shirtless men carrying me off to a private beach.

For the next four days, I did yoga, listened to whatever music I wanted, participated in intense class discussions, ate community dinners with my classmates, went to a Vesper service without worrying about kids in the nursery or being the one that had to preach, I thought about my future and made major decisions. After a class presentation, I was told by two different people that I could have been a lawyer (one was a lawyer, so I know at least that one was a compliment). One of my professors, who used to be president of the UUA and a major NGO, told me I had the potential to be an amazing preacher. It was awesome.

When I came home, I admit I was a little sad to leave it all behind, but I also saw our family with fresh eyes. With a little distance, I had the ability to put albinism and apraxia and house renovations and potty training and temper tantrums into perspective. In case you're wondering, part of my ability to enjoy the week came from the fact that my parents watched the boys for me. There may have been dramatics as I said my goodbyes, but once I was gone, they were just fine.

I'm not naive enough to think this euphoria will last, but I'm hoping it will be a catalyst for change. On several occasions, my considerate husband has offered to take the kids for me so I can have a day to myself. But I know that his (and let's face it, most men's) definition of watching kids is literally taking care of them and nothing else. A quick cost-benefit analysis always convinces me that it would be a more efficient use of time to stay put. I realize now that I need to do a long-term cost-benefit analysis, weighting sanity and personal growth at least as heavily as a clean bathroom or a newly-painted wall.

With only two years left in my 20s, I'm afraid I've got no shot of making that magazine list. I'm sure my 16-year-old self would be extremely disappointed - this is why my 16-year-old self disavowed marriage and kids, instead dreaming of a house in Maine and four dogs. But my 28-year-old self knows that marriage and kids are pretty amazing, careers can't be rushed, Maine is even colder than Michigan, and four dogs means a hell of a lot of dog hair on the couch. Live and learn.

Deep Breaths

Emerson at Rosh Hashanah

This month has been building momentum, like a frothing wave curling up behind me. The giant wall of water paused long enough for me to realize that I was going to drown. And then it came crashing down full force.

Back in my brief newspaper days, I earned the title of my generation's Andy Rooney. I didn't dress in bad brown suits or begin my columns with, "Have you ever wondered what the deal is with (fill in the blank)?" but I might as well have. I was and still am a champion complainer. A Debbie Downer. A glass half-empty kind of gal. I even preached once on the positive power of negative thinking - with mixed results.

All this is to say, I am going to do my best not to detail all my complaints. It's been a ....full few weeks. I've been dealing with births, death, weddings and a sermon. I've watched with excitement as Emerson achieved new milestones like giving up the bottle for good and making progress in speech therapy. I've also resisted the urge to smash his precious noggin as we battle over potty training and his epic temper tantrums. I've been trying to figure out where the hell I am as a mother and where the hell I'm going as a minister.

The other day, I had a dream that I was given a package of cigarettes and for some reason I had to smoke them all in a short period of time. I HATE anything even remotely connected with smoking. I will readily admit I'm the type that exaggerates my coughs and sends death lasers out of my eyes every time I pass a smoker. I have never tried smoking- the closest I came was after a night of sipping wine when I decided to play the empowered female and smoke a cigar with a group of men. Except I couldn't even get the nerve to pull the smoke into my mouth much less inhale. (insert Clinton joke here)

Despite all this, I have to admit that the act of sucking in and then exhaling deep billows of smoke was immensely satisfying. I luxuriated in the motions of it and felt completely relaxed despite my imaginary deadline to finish them all quickly. After I woke up from this dream, I spent the rest of the morning trying to figure out why this came to mind. Somewhere in the middle of a walk through the neighborhood in a failed attempt to get the boys to nap, I realized it was the deep breathing that I found so relaxing. I tried it, sucking in the brisk Fall air and then exhaling slowly. Obviously it only created a ghostly steam instead of the dark plumes of smoke in my dream, but it was still satisfying.

In all my attempts to stay afloat, the easiest solution was right there - just keep breathing. Deeply. It's sad that as a minister in training I so often forget the most universal of relaxation techniques, but at least my subconscious and Philip Morris teamed up to remind me.

See You in September

Well, Fall has undeniably begun...school for the boys starts tomorrow and mine has already started (although I've been pretending it hasn't so I can get more done on the house). The noise of neighborhood kids playing first thing in the morning has been replaced by the frantic shouts of parents as cars idle, last night's homework is collected and book bags are slung across reluctant shoulders. And the most cliche but romantic sign of all - the trees are starting to blush pinks and golds and even the occasional deep reds.

The other day I decided to take advantage of the delicious weather was by taking an afternoon walk - an activity that would serve the dual purpose of putting Emerson to sleep while giving me the chance to try out my new camera.

This "relaxing" walk ended with Emerson demanding to play at the park instead of napping and I took very few pictures. In fact, I learned two important things:

1) Taking an SLR camera on a walk with kids makes one look like a buffoon on safari. Emerson was in his stroller, the backpack diaper bag was slung across the back of that, Fionn was strapped into a sling on my chest, and the large camera (compared to a point and shoot) was strapped to my side like a messenger bag. I garnered quite a few comments and even more raised eyebrows. Trying to bend over to pick something up or frame a shot was downright comical.

2) Children have no respect for artistic integrity. Every time I would try to "compose" a shot with my camera, a lot of whining and shrieking ensued. I guess I will just leave it on "sports mode" and try to take pictures on the run.

So here are the lame fruits of that first walk (I spared you the pictures where I attempted artistry, but I'll post them later on flikr):


I tried to explain to Emerson that socks and sandals are a major fashion faux pas. He didn't seem to care.






Fionn is now crawling, which makes the mulch-covered playground a blast.


After I chide Fionn for eating mulch, it becomes his sole focus in life.

A couple Robbie took of the boys. He enjoys the fact that you can press the shutter and take continuous pictures - hundreds if you wanted. Therefore we try to hide the camera from him as much as possible:

When Momma's Happy....

My parents gave me the best gift in the world.

Free time.

For the past two days, I've had 6 glorious hours each day to go to the UU General Assembly by myself. I got to ride the train downtown and instead of wrangling children, I was able to just sit and observe the world around me. I watched the long stretch of businesses and industrial sites that line the train track whir by - many covered in murals and graffiti. (My favorite was a Diego Rivera-esque mural of iron workers that someone had spraypainted with the phrase "When you burn down paradise, you can blame it on progress.")

I noticed the glittering squares of compacted scrap metal at the recycling center, the thick patches of thistle weeds blooming misty purple, the woman in the seat next to me trying to hide three squirming kittens down the front of her shirt.

I was able to get ready by myself...no sunscreening or pinning down squirmy bodies to put pants on. I walked from place to place without 50lbs of children to haul around with me. I got to eat lunch with my classmates and feel like a seminarian again - an intelligent adult who can carry on a conversation and finish a meal without being interrupted.

In short, it was heaven.

When I got home the first night, I told my mom, "I really need to find a way to get more alone time. I'm such a better mom when I come back."


Then I proceeded to put my child in the bathtub with his diaper on.

It took me several minutes before I noticed the giant swelling mass barely clinging to his body. He looked up at me with an expression that clearly said, "What the hell, mom?"




So maybe I'm not a more alert mother....but a happier one.

School's out for summer!!

My final paper is floating around in cyberspace somewhere and I officially have two months off school! That time is already spoken for by too many things to list, but right now I am focused on a 3-week trip to see my family in Utah. Besides the obvious benefit of seeing my friends and family, there is the added benefit that Robbie gets all that time to work on the house uninterrupted!

Since I leave Friday (send positive thoughts that I will survive a plane ride alone with two babies. Or send some strong tranquilizers), Robbie and I have been working feverishly to finish the garden. I will post pics tomorrow, but I am pretty proud of all we've done so far. And Robbie is especially proud that all the neighbors stop and comment on his artful bed-making skills. I thought two rectangles would be good enough, but apparently not for him.

Speaking of gardening, we recently went to a local farm to get heirloom starters and it turned into quite the adventure.

When we pulled up to "Destiny Farms," we saw a large house that had so many strange additions it was almost Escher-esque. We finally found the owners in a maze of gardens, greenhouses, several chicken coops and a couple of ponds. The husband, Mike, his twin sons and the customer he was currently serving immediately swarmed us as we walked up the garden path. I'm used to questions and comments about the boys' albinism, but these people wasted no time in bombarding us with every question in the book. Besides feeling overwhelmed, I was cringing at one boy who kept jumping up and down screaming, "Their eyes are so cool...I want a baby with white hair! I want one of those!" I knew he meant well, so I didn't say anything, but situations like these always make we wonder how I will react when the boys are old enough to understand. Which for Emerson is coming soon.

Anyway, Mike was exactly the kind of guy I picture when I think of small farmers - missing several teeth, smells like grease and manure, wears faded jeans with holes in the knees, has an easy-going manner and of course, has a look in his eye that suggests he's just a touch crazy. In fact, Mike reminded me of a younger version of my late Grandpa - who once owned his own mish-mash of a house and gardens. That's why, despite his lack of tact, I instantly liked him.

He took Robbie around to see the plants and offered him a wealth of information while I struggled to placate the kids. After we loaded up on plants, his wife took us around to see the chickens, including some amazingly beautiful exotic breeds and a few pheasants.

As we drove home in the milky pink dusk, we talked over our adventures that night:

Robbie: Mike told me that he spent a year in a coma when he was younger.

Cassi: How did that come up?

Robbie: I don't know.

Cassi: Did you ask him why he was in a coma?

Robbie: Yes. His response was, "Well, have YOU ever known anyone whose pituitary was crushed?!"

- pause -

Cassi: That's a very strange response. What are you supposed to say to that?

Robbie: I don't know.


That exchange left me laughing and puzzled at the same time. I'm not sure why, but that story seems to explain a lot about Farmer Mike.

In any case, we'll definitely be back next year.

PLEASE read this book

If you find it wasn't worth the fast read, I'll personally come to your house and clean your toilets...or whatever else you might have done with that time. Within the bounds of decency of course.

the website: Ishmael

Cheating Death, Cheating Life

Last night I got home from school at eleven and found a red-eyed, sniffling Emerson waiting for me at the front door. Apparently he had been crying for me for the last ten minutes, so I bent down to give him a kiss and listened to the string of babble that was the story of his evening. Then he wrapped his body around me in a koala hug and I carried him upstairs to bed.

After we giggled our way through a couple of books, I turned off the lights and snuggled in (we always stay in his bed until he falls asleep). As I lay there - listening to his breath get slower and feeling his cold feet poke around for a warm spot in the crook of my knees - I couldn't stop the stream of thoughts rolling through my head.

I thought about the NPR story I heard on a man who successfully predicted many of the major modern technological advances (such as the internet) before they happened. His prediction for our future now is that by 2045, humans will have merged with their technology and we will likely be able to overcome death itself. A lot of this prediction is based on computers so small they can go inside our brains and even blood streams, which - according to him - we are not far from right now.

I thought about the class on ending oppression I had just been in - especially the image of my teacher with his arms stretched out in a circle as he said, "This is the pie. When you get a raise at work, you praise God. But in order for you to have more of the pie, someone else has to have less. Your wealth is putting poor people in an early grave, do you think that's what God wants? How far are you willing to go to keep the poor from heading to early graves?"

(And keep in mind this is at the conservative ecumenical seminary in Detroit, not my liberal school in Chicago.)

I thought about the book I was reading on the environment. Even though it was written 10 years ago, it warns of the current ecological crisis and the disastrous results of waiting too long to make changes to save the ecosystem. I wonder if the author has keeled over from a coronary after witnessing what's unfolded in the 10 years since he published this book?

When I think about all these things, I can't help but feel humanity is like a ball catapulted into the air. In the history of the world as we currently know it, our existence has been short and our rise fast. And like a ball, we seem to be gathering speed with time. But now we are nearing the end of the arc, we are about to reach impact. What I don't know is whether that impact will be in the form of a positive, peaceful revolution of sorts, or something...catastrophic.

I am no philosopher by any stretch of the imagination, but I'm struggling with these ideas and feelings because laying in the blue glow of a toddler's nightlight, watching his dinosaur pajamas softly rise and fall, I feel completely responsible for bringing him into this world. I feel completely responsible for ensuring I did everything I could to create a future worthy of him and his brother...and every other child in the world who has parents watching them sleep and worrying about their future.

And yet I don't know what to do. I do things in fits and starts...I get motivated, inspired, energized...then I get discouraged, lazy, complacent.

Right now I am struggling to stay somewhere around the energized part of this cycle, which means I am being extremely annoying and self-righteous to everyone around me. Hopefully they will be patient with me and try to see what I see:

A tiny hand wrapped around my one finger. Holding on tightly....expecting.

Scenes from Daily Life

Emerson handed me his bottle of water (the child is very well hydrated at all times) and indicated that he wanted more - even though it was half full. I knew he wanted me to add some juice for flavor, so I said, "Emerson, say 'juice.'" He gave out a guttural sound that resembled a German sneezing. I had to at least applaud his effort.

Robbie heard all this and started laughing.

"Emerson, your in-apptitude is so cute."

I burst into uncontrollable fits of laughter.

"Do you mean ineptitude? Gee, I wonder where he gets his difficulty with words from?"

********************************************

Before Fionn was born, I purchased as many new pj's as possible since I knew I'd be spending a lot of time in them after he was born. The other day I was wearing one pair that I scored at the Salvation Army. (They look like this except powder blue)

Robbie had seen them several times before, but with my mom as a captive audience, this time he announced that Blanche Devereux had called - she wanted her pajamas back.

My mom snorted her coffee and told me I should buy some fur-covered heels to complete the ensemble.

I'm not sure what concerns me more - that my husband doesn't appreciate my sense of style, or that he knows so much about the Golden Girls.

********************************************

Every Saturday I've been taking an intensive class at a local seminary entitled "Reformation History and Thought." I'm not a Christian Unitarian Universalist, but since my denomination is historically Christian, we have several history requirements that I need to fulfill. Needless to say, learning about 16th century theologians for 8 hours on a Saturday is enough to make anyone want to stab themselves in the head with a mechanical pencil (I've come close on a few occasions) Luckily my professor is a very enigmatic German woman who knows a lot of odd stories about Martin Luther and who makes humorous analogies every once in a while that help me stay awake.

For example, the other day she announced that "children are the perfect examples of the fact that we are born with original sin." For a split second I was horrified at this comparison...then I thought about my little caveman of a toddler throwing tantrums and I saw her point.

She also made an analogy that compared good people without sin to Jonathan or Granny Smith apples while people with sin are "crap-apples."

Her inapptitude is so cute.

Introducing Mean Mommy

We survived January. For those of you who might not know, I have to spend the entire month of January every year in Chicago for intensive classes. I had been working my stomach into knots over this for months because this time Emerson stayed home. It was just too much to ask my parents or Robbie to entertain a one-year-old in a studio apartment for 4 weeks.

I stressed about weaning him in time (especially when one of my psychology textbooks casually mentioned that improper weaning could be the most traumatic experience of a person's life - no pressure there), I worried about how he would react being away from me that long, and I worried about how we could accomplish all the things we needed to work on with him (teaching him to walk, getting him in the crib at night, getting him to wear his glasses, etc.). And of course because I stressed so much, everything went perfectly.

Weaning happened over Christmas break in Utah - we just kept passing him around and my family took turns giving him a bottle. The boy who was nursing 30x a day went completely to bottles in 2 weeks without even realizing it! When we got back to Michigan, we had one day to unpack, clean and repack before heading off to Chicago as a family. Robbie and Emerson spent the first four days with me and then took the bus back to Michigan. As I watched them pulling away and saw Emerson's tiny hand pressed up against the window, my heart broke. I cried as I waved goodbye, I cried when Robbie's text message telling me everything would be great popped up a few minutes later, I cried during the cab ride all the way back to school. Luckily I chose a cab that was playing mournful jazz on the radio and the view was the lonely lakeshore against a blue-black sky - it matched my mood perfectly.

After a couple of days, the sadness lessened and I was able to enjoy being a full-time student in Hyde Park. It was so nice to be around my like-minded classmates, to have endless intense adult discussions (no patty cake here), and most of all, be able to focus on only one thing at a time! I had also been looking forward to a whole month of good sleep without Emerson around, but my apartment building conspired against me. Between the traffic outside and neighbors who indulged in "relations" on a creaky bed at all hours of the night EVERY night, I was more sleep deprived than ever.

Of course, being in Hyde Park lent itself to many interesting encounters throughout the month. One of my favorites was when I was coming out of my aparment and a mentally disabled man was just coming in. We struck up a conversation and he told me he had lived in this building for over 10 years. Then he proceeded to pull out a small metal flute from his pocket and play a Christmas Carol. When he finished, he asked if anyone in my family took music lessons and I told him no- we thoroughly lacked musical talent. He said we should take lessons and always carry a small instrument with us "so you can bring music to people wherever you go."

Another encounter was at the local co-op grocery store that was closing down. Despite being several blocks away, I ventured over hoping that their close-out prices would be better than the mugging I was getting at the tiny markets by my apartment. It was an eerie feeling to shop in this large grocery store with only one or two random items scattered on the shelves. It was almost post-apocalyptic. As I was scavenging through the hearts of palms and canned herring to find worthy deals, I struck up a conversation with an elderly African-American woman. She told me that the co-op was closing because the university wanted to clear room for a big chain grocery store that would lure people from downtown to Hyde Park. She told me how this store had started as a small group of community members trying to help each other out. And she told me how she herself had struggled as a young mother until she was able to start a co-op with the people in her neighborhood. "You have to fight against the man," she said fiercely, and I agreed.

Meanwhile, back in Michigan Emerson and Robbie were living it up. Robbie told me smugly that being a stay-at-home parent was so easy, so I left him a "to-do" list to accomplish in all his "spare time." I wasn't suprised when I came home for a visit that weekend and discovered that NOTHING on that list was done. He and Emerson spent the entire week together sleeping in, watching tv, and going out with our work-at-home friend across the street. I suppose if I could live that way, staying at home would seem pretty fun too!

That same weekend my parents flew in to take over baby duty for the final two weeks. My mom is a compulsive cleaner, so she asked me to leave a list of household duties in addition to suggestions for fun things to do around town. The five of us ate out and did some fun shopping together for the first two days, but when I went back to school, my mom got down to business. She organized cupboards, sewed torn clothes, repaired odds and ends, salvaged our houseplants, got Emerson onto a schedule, got him sleeping in his crib, got him to use his walker without crying, slyly guilted Robbie into accomplishing the many little tasks he was putting off - in short, she and my father accomplished more in two weeks around my house than we had accomplished in a year. I was grateful and humbled to say the least.

After they left, we had one day of normalcy before we all got sick and my mother's perfect schedule and hard work with Emerson went out the door. Let me tell you, if there is a hell, it is getting sick as a whole family and being stuck indoors for 2 weeks with nothing to do but watch television during a writers' strike. I am still trying to get over a twisted addiction to "Make Me a Supermodel."

The worst part was that Emerson was barely sleeping unless we held him in our arms and he ate almost no solids. We eventually all got better, but he was still deeply entrenched in some bad, bad habits. Then I went to a playdate last week with a friend who has a little girl that is equally dramatic and stubborn. I realized that if she can get her daugher to eat and sleep, I can do it with Emerson. Thus "Mean Mommy" was born.

After one 45-minute long scream session that first night, Emerson settled back into crib life and even slept 6 full hours one night (halleuia!). We cut down on the formula and increased his solids to three full meals a day (the trick was to mix everything with his favorite food - hummus), we started making him wear his glasses again, and I put him back into a mostly regular routine. I never thought I would like that word - routine - but motherhood has broken me down.

And so Mean Mommy trudges on...basking in the small victories and praying that she doesn't traumatize the child for life.