Milestones- are they just for kids?

When our first son was 6 days old, I called my husband at his office in a panic.

"I've....Made....A....HUGE....Mistake!" I managed to blurt out between ginormous, postpartum hormone-fueled sobs. Fearing our newborn baby boy's very life was hanging in the balance, I explained that in my sleep-deprived fog, I had scheduled the all important 1-month well baby checkup for the wrong day, and that our precious cargo would in fact be 33 days old at the time of his visit. I didn't know how this could have happened, because I had taken my planner (this was the pre-smart phone era, back when a pad was still made of paper and had no "i.") with me to the 2-day visit and carefully scheduled out the next 6 months worth of checkups, each one clearly noted and annotated on my calendar. And now... this.

What about all the critical development that would take place in that span? What about all the milestones? The all-important MILESTONES! You know the ones you read about in What to Expect When You Don't Know What the *&^% to Expect So You Cling Onto Those Books For Dear Life?

Less than one week into baby ownership and I had failed to stick to the recommended maintenance program. Did this void the warranty? Would child protective services come after me and take the baby away?

Three phone calls, a lot of pacing, and half a jar of jelly beans later, the very kind staff at the pediatrician's office had talked me down off the ledge. I called my husband back with the good news- those 3 days would not be the determining factor in our child's future.

"Hmm," he said thoughtfully.
"Hmm," I agreed.

Fast forward nearly six years and two babies, and the conversation was a little different.

"The pediatrician's office just called and it looks like we're three months late for Eli's 18-month check up. Did you know we were supposed to take him in for an 18-month checkup?" I asked my husband in a remarkably calm voice.

"Did you know he's 21 months old?" he asked.

"Hmm," I said thoughtfully.

"Hmm," he agreed.

Now trust me when I say I'm not exactly proud of my Slacker Mom tendencies with baby #3 and I did get that appointment in right away (much to Eli's dismay, since even his advanced age was not enough to get him out of the shots required at the 18-month appointment). And while I am confident in his development I still sat there and filled out the detailed surveys checking each and every last milestone. Yes, the MILESTONES.

There are the large motor milestones: Can your child walk up the stairs while holding on to only one of your hands? Only if you can catch him. Can your child climb onto a chair, a stool, or a bench, or stack pillows on top of each other in order to reach things in higher places? Yes, and I'd appreciate if you'd stop giving him so many ideas.

And the fine motor milestones: Does your child pick up a marker or crayon and imitate writing/scribbling? Your Honor, I submit the dining room wall as Exhibit A (I think it's an A. It might be a dog). Does your child eat independently using a spoon or a fork to feed himself? Uh-huh, and I can't wait for him to be able to pronounce the "r" in "fork" because it's a bit embarrassing when Mr. Independent Eater screams out for his desired utensil in the middle of a restaurant.

There are cognitive milestones, communication milestones, creative milestones, social milestones, sleeping milestones, waking milestones. 4 full pages, front and back, of questions about milestones.

Contrast that with my own recent annual appointment, which was all of 3 minutes long and most of that was devoted to an ill-fated battle between a very full bladder and a very small container. Let's just say there are certain milestones that a woman who has birthed 3 babies should not have to meet.

But you see, there was no discussion of milestones at all, and considering I have a very big birthday (the kind that ends in a 0) looming in a few months, I think I could have used a little milestone check-up.

Sure I've hit the traditional societal marks: college? Done. Grad school? Got it. Career? 4 and counting. Marriage? Check. Kids? Check, check, and check. But what about the more subtle milestones? The things we feel we "should" be able to do by a certain age?

If only there was some sort of roadmap for being an adult, a handy chart or list of milestones to check off to make sure we're staying on track, or an easy prescription to fill when we fall behind. But I guess that's just for kids.

Because part of growing up means that you're now in charge of your own milestones, of deciding for yourself what is important and what isn't, what constitutes success and how to measure growth.

So even though I'm approaching age 40--or 480 months, if you prefer--my large motor milestones might be slightly lacking (I can't fold a fitted sheet and if you can, you just might be a witch), my fine motor skills could use some work (I can't apply eye makeup without looking like a victim of domestic abuse), and my social development might be a bit off the mark (giving a speech to hundreds of people = cake. Making new female friends = brutal), it's taken me nearly 4 decades to realize I am who I am for a reason. And that's one heck of a milestone.

On the way back from my doctor's appointment I called my husband.

"So what did the doctor say?"

"Not much, but I'm right on track," I told him.

"On track for what?" he asked.

"Me." I said with a smile.

"Hmm," he said thoughtfully.

"Hmm," I agreed.

Eli demonstrates the all-important self feeding milestone. 

It was just lunch: how one meal rekindled old feelings

We made plans to meet in a place miles from home. It's just lunch, I told myself.

I'd never done anything like this, so I suppose it was normal to be nervous. I was excited and hungry. It felt wrong, and yet right. With first date-type jitters I put on fresh lipstick in the parking lot, checked my hair one last time in the rearview mirror, and headed in.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted some ladies from the office and instantly got nervous. Would they see us? What would they think? Would they tell someone? Should I just turn around and leave? It's just lunch, I reminded myself. 

Then I saw him, took a deep breath, and decided to go for it. 

And just like that, for the first time in our ten year marriage my husband and I met for lunch in the middle of the week.

We've always worked far away from each other, with commutes that take us in opposite directions, so I guess the opportunity never really presented itself, or we never presented the idea to each other. But on this particular day, an otherwise unassuming Thursday in January, business brought us to the same part of town at the same time.

"Why don't we meet for lunch?" he suggested the night before, and we agreed on 12pm at one of our favorite locations (Let's just get all the "nooner" jokes out of the way right now, it was JUST lunch, people).

I thought about it all morning. 9:30am meeting = 2.5 hours until my lunch date! 11am conference call = get to the point people! 11:45am traffic jam leaving the office parking lot = SERIOUSLY???

And then there we were. He was waiting with a pot of my favorite tea and that same floppy hair I fell in love with more than a decade ago. 

Sure, we have regular date nights, but there was something so easy about this. No babysitters to arrange, no racing around to prepare dinner for those staying home so that we can leave and go sit somewhere and talk about those staying home before heading back home. No toddler clinging to one leg on the way out the door, leaving a firm coating of guilt and goldfish crackers on my skinny jeans. No warnings to stay on your bottom or else and no complex negotiations involving a requisite number of bites took place. No referring to oneself in the third person, and no third, or fourth, or fifth person at the table. It was just lunch. 

I'd love to say we discussed something deep and meaningful, but we didn't. Just some basic talk about work, about home, about plans for the weekend and an upcoming vacation. It was ordinary, and yet not. The same, and yet different.

In our every day lives we are so entrenched in the roles that we play: Mom, Dad, daughter, son, sister, manager, employee, etc., that it's easy to forget that were are also just us. Two individuals: Mona and Mark, who very much enjoy each other's company. And lunch.

So for 48 minutes we gobbled up as much we could. Then we put our many layers back on- coats and gloves for the cold, multiple hats for the roles we play, superhero capes for good measure. We went our separate ways: back to the office, back to business, and eventually back to the home we've created together.

I was just lunch, and it was absolutely delicious.

And for the first time in a long time, I felt perfectly full. 

Tofu: It's What's For Dinner (Really. And You'll Like It. Really. I Promise)

Many of you have asked over the years how I get my kids to eat healthy foods, and I know a lot of you have also made New Year's resolutions to change your diets for the better, so I thought I'd start sharing some of our favorite recipes here.

Keep in mind that I am Egyptian, which means I was born without the exact measurement gene. I grew up surrounded with incredibly delicious food and incredibly vague instructions. If I ever dared to ask how long to bake a certain dish, I'd hear "Just cook it until it's done." Duh. So what did you use to flavor that dish? "Enough salt so that it tastes good, but not so much to make it salty." Perhaps it was all an elaborate ploy to ensure that the recipes were not replicable and the chef was the only one capable of producing the desired results. Well played, Egyptian ladies.

Somewhere between there and Martha Stewart-esque precision is my happy place, which we'll call The Land of Non-Recipes.

I'm a firm believer in meal planning and spend most of Sunday afternoon prepping meals for the week ahead, but tonight's non-recipe, Tofu Veggie Unfried Rice can be easily and quickly thrown together after work.

Start with some tofu. That's right, I said "some." We're very technical around here. However much comes in a package. Drain the water then cut it up in cubes, or better yet- buy the stuff that's already cubed. Some people go through an elaborate ritual of pressing the tofu between plates and freezing it for better texture. Some people are also professional lion tamers.

And that's right, I also said "tofu." I know you've heard it before, but I'll say it again- it's good for you, it takes on the flavors of whatever you put on it, and it really CAN be delicious.

I brown the tofu in a wok with a tiny bit of canola oil. Resist the urge to push it all around the pan with your fancy Top Chef moves, and instead open a bottle of wine. Let it get nice and brown on one side, then stir a bit, then drink more wine.

Take the tofu out and add some aromatics. That's a fancy term for stuff that smells good like garlic, ginger, and onions. I use "some" of each. A handful of chopped green onions, a clove or two of minced garlic, a little grated fresh ginger. Add some veggies, whatever you have on hand. Crunchy stuff like carrots need longer to cook. Try to chop everything the same size, or else the food police will come and arrest you. Or your food won't cook evenly. I'm not sure which, so I don't take chances. Also try not to chop your fingers off.

Meanwhile, make some brown rice and set it aside. (You'll note that "some" is a fairly standard unit of measurement in my non-recipes.) I usually make a big batch of it on the weekends and use it in recipes throughout the week.

Then comes the sauce. Mix a few tablespoons of soy sauce (I like the low sodium stuff), a few more of rice wine vinegar, and a heaping spoonful of hoisin sauce. If you haven't tried hoisin, I highly recommend it. It's thick and molasses-y and oh so flavorful, and best of all you get to sound like a bona fide foodie when you say it. Like this: "Honey, I need to run out to get more hoisin sauce." Now you're cooking!

Add the rice and the tofu back into the wok with the veggies, then add the sauce. I like to thrown in some frozen peas at this point because they add color, and because my 18-month-old needs more projectiles to throw at us during meals. Let it all cook for a few minutes and then you're done. It took much longer to write this than it did to prepare it.

Examining the 12 Days of Christmas

Trust me when I say I am all about Christmas.

And believe me, I love me some Christmas music.

But there's one song that baffles even a Christmaso-phile like myself, and it's a classic. I'll give you a hint... in fact I'll give you 12 hints, one for each day of one of my least favorite Christmas songs.

Because really, could anyone handle the shopping and the wrapping and the baking and the cooking and the cleaning if we had to keep it up for TWELVE consecutive days of Christmas? That's nearly two weeks of Christmas, in case you're keeping score. It was hard enough growing up in a culture that celebrates Christmas on December 25th but a church that celebrates the birth of Christ on January 7th- and that's only two Christmases. So again, TWELVE?

Clearly this song was not written by a woman (9 ladies dancing- need I say more?), and sure, I know it's the thought that counts, but come on. Pipers and drummers? Have you ever heard of a little thing called naptime? Shhhhh already!!! And what in the world am I supposed to do with leaping lords? With three children ages five and under in our house, we currently have all the circus action we can handle.

Let's delve a little more deeply in the specifics of the 12-day extravaganza as laid out in the festive tune. Each year the U.S. Bank calculates the cost of the 376 gifts in the song, and this year the total comes in at $107,459.72. That's a lowball estimate, assuming minimum wage for unskilled workers in the milking department, and not taking into account things like the cost of the cows. Last time I checked, the cows constitute a rather integral part of the milking operation, and don't be looking at me because after having 3 babies in less than 4 years, I can assure you that my personal milking days are behind me.

But the biggest problem I have with song is all the poop. That's right, poop. While it's not explicitly mentioned, please note that between the partridge, the hens, the geese, the swans, and the other members of the menagerie, there are 23 birds gifted to the lucky recipient. And because the song repeats the previous verses, by my calculations that yields:

12 days X 1 partridge/day = 12 partridges 
11 days X 2 turtle doves/day = 22 turtle doves 
10 days X 3 french hens/day = 30 french hens 
9 days X 4 calling birds/day = 36 calling birds 
7 days X 6 geese-a-laying/day = 42 geese a laying 
6 days X 7 swans-a-swimming/day = 42 swans a swimming 


...for a grand total of 184 birds. Nothing says Merry Christmas(x 12!) like 184 flapping, squawking, e-coli carrying, feathered creatures flying around the house. Pooping everywhere. Did I mention the poop? Because what woman hasn't at some point said "You know, the one thing we need around here this holiday season is more poop. Now THAT would make for a Merry Christmas."

To make matters worse, apparently the cost of these foul fowl is up significantly this year, because the nation's drought drove up the price of bird feed. Let's just be clear: you can save yourself a whole lot of cash because the only bird welcome in this house is the $4.99 rotisserie chicken from Costco.

Perhaps if we gave this some thought we could come up with a more satisfactory, less expensive, and less poop-filled alternative:

On the first (and only) day of Christmas my true love gave to me... a nap. Repeat for 12 days. Now that's what I call true love.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good nap.

Firsts and Lasts

My son doesn't take baths anymore.

Now, before you call the health department, rest assured, he does still bathe, but he's switched to taking showers. All by himself. All of a sudden.

I can't even remember exactly when it happened. I just know that there used to be three little wet, wiggly ones in the tub in need of a scrub, and now there are only two, with one increasingly independent boy down the hall, singing to himself under the spray. For so long they were all in there together and now they're not, nor will they likely ever be again. It's just soap and water, but with it comes a tidal wave of independence that's sweeping through our house. And somewhere, lost in the shuffle, was one last bath.

Had we known it was going to be the last one, would we have done anything different? Added extra bubbles? Perhaps. Let them splash a little longer? Possibly. Saved a vial of tub water? Umm, have you seen our tub? I don't think so. But the fact remains, we didn't know.

Parenthood is marked by the celebration of so many "firsts." Look no further than Facebook for proof of that. Status update: Baby's first smile! Mobile upload: First taste of solid food! New album: First Day of School! But the "lasts" don't often get mentioned, much less "liked," because we rarely if ever know they're happening until it's too late.

I can describe in great detail for you the first time our littlest little one walked, but not the last time he crawled. I remember the first time our biggest little one sat at the kitchen table, but not the last time he was in a highchair. I know what my daughter wore on her first day of preschool, but not on her last day of whatever you call that time before a child goes to preschool. You'd better believe I remember the first time baby slept through the night, but not the last time I held that fuzzy head against my chest for a 2 am feeding. First teeth, yes. Last gummy grins, not so much.  

Recently, I attended the wedding of a dear friend. As I watched the glowing bride dance with her father, I found myself overcome with emotion. She was so happy, he looked so serious. I was instantly taken back to a day almost a decade ago, when another ecstatic bride danced with her very serious father. Both were nervous- it was actually his first time on a dance floor, he had even taken lessons to prepare. But neither knew the twists that life and health would take, and that their first dance would likely also be their last.

I don't think we're supposed to know when "lasts" are happening. If we did, we'd never have the strength to move forward, which is the only direction worth going. But perhaps if we were a bit more aware that each "first" comes at the expense of another "last," maybe we'd appreciate the "during" just a little bit more.

Parenting is hard work, and we've all had the feeling of wanting to hit fast forward and skip over a particular experience, or a tantrum, or a phase... or a year. "Just get me through the teething," we say. Or "If I can just make it until they're all in school all day." We look to the "firsts," the major milestones, we use them to pull ourselves up from the muck of daily life. But it's those "lasts," from the most routine ones that happen naked in a tub, to the ones that are covered in sequins and lace, that sneak up on us and knock us down.

There may not seem like that much difference between a shower and a bath, but for me there's a big reminder to be more aware.

Because all of this eventually washes away.

Back to School Blues

'Twas a few nights before school starts
And all through the land,
The packing of backpacks
Was almost at hand.
(And making lunches, and remembering gym shoes on Fridays, and oh by the way Mom, there's a bake sale today and we're supposed to bring 4 dozen cupcakes)

The kids were all sleeping,
Bedtime stories were read.
But one mom was still up,
She was tossing in bed.
(And that says a lot given how freaking sleep-deprived she is)

She's not sad because school
Marks a milestone so big;
Her 5-year-old boy
Is so up for that gig.
(And so, for that matter, is her 3-year-old who keeps telling everyone she's also going to kindergarten. Nice try, Preschool Princess.)

She knows of many moms
Who've been counting the days
'Til school bells would ring
And they'd have their turn to play.
(That includes the 3 separate "First Day of School Champagne Toast" parties she'd been invited to, but had to decline because office policy doesn't really allow for boozing it up at 10am on a Tuesday.)

No, this mom's head danced
With a mixture of dread and of fear;
It'd been such a sweet summer
In the midst of a very tough year.

There was the week at the lake
And all those times at the pool,
Long nights in the yard,
Movies inside to stay cool.
(Not to mention the teething baby and his endless puddles of drool. Hey, it rhymes, and it was certainly a big part of the summer.)

There were moments, though brief
So easy and free;
Times of respite and pause,
When she could finally just BE.
(As much as a mom of 3 kids ages 5 with a Type-A personality, a full-time job, and overtime neuroses is ever capable of just being)

In those moments so fleeting
She forgot to be stressed,
Or to worry, or struggle,
Or sometimes to even get dressed.
(Hey, working from home a few days/week has its advantages.)

Two kids mastered bikes,
The third can now walk.
They all splashed and they swam,
And all of them talk.
(OK, one of them mostly screams, but he does have a handful of words.)

Now with school will come changes:
New faces, new places.
Between preschool, kindergarten, and daycare-
It's off to the races.
(In which the goal is not to win, but to just successfully transport all children to their respective dropoffs  and somehow make it to work before noon.)

And once the clock runs out
On those summer delights,
She'll find it hard to ignore
The darker corners of life.
(Though still easy to ignore the darker corners of the house when it comes to cleaning.)

There's illness and pain
And suffering so great,
In loved ones, and it seems
It's now all up to fate.

There's the feeling that
She is always two steps behind,
At home and at work,
In and heart and in mind.

But she must keep on going,
Can't live in the past,
Because time is too precious,
Childhood too fast.

So she hoped all the warmth
And sunscreen and chlorine,
Would trigger some sort of reaction
In ways unknown and unseen.
(Because it definitely did a number on the carpet in the front room, but that is neither here nor there)

She prayed that summer would stay
In their hearts all year long,
That she could feel that soft breeze
When she needs to be strong.
(And also on those days when the AC goes out in the office and it starts to smell like a mixture of desperation and feet.)

And she prayed the new season
Would bring lessons for all.
So farewell sweet, sweet summer,
And happy school days this Fall.

The Olympics and parenting- what do they have in common?

It's the most wonderful time of the year!

Make that the most wonderful time of the quadrennial! (And yes, I did just Google "What do you call a four year period of time?"

Chills? Check. Shakiness? Check. Am I ill? You bet- with a massive case of Olympic Fever!

I absolutely love the Olympics, particularly the summer games. I love the pageantry, the absurd choreography of the Opening Ceremony, the flags, the uniforms, the excitement, the simple fact that Bob Costas is everywhere, and oh yes, the competition isn't bad either.

It's a love affair that began early in my life. Though I was only 3 years old in 1976 when Nadia Comaneci landed that historic perfect 10, I firmly remember in the years that followed, my mom, with her heavy Egyptian accent, would proudly introduce herself as "Nadia, like the gymnast," and everyone understood. 

I remember my dad's furrowed brow as he watched news reports in the months leading up to the 1980 summer games, and his patient explanation of how "boycott" did not refer to a gender-specific type of bed.

My brother and I spent much of the summer of 1984 reenacting key moments from the Los Angeles games in either our backyard swimming pool, or in the basement on our then state-of-the-art Apple II+, where we'd fight over who got to be Bruce Jenner in the Olympic Decathalon game. We scarfed down Wheaties from the Olympic edition box in preparation from the extreme thumb workout that would follow.

I've closely followed every summer Olympiad since then with a growing passion. 1988- remember all the sidebar stories about unusual street foods in Seoul? The 1992 Barcelona games took place just as I was packing my own bags for a year abroad in Europe. The shootings at the 1996 games in Atlanta nearly sent me over the edge. Sydney was one of my favorite Olympics, probably because Sydney is one of my favorite places (and it probably didn't hurt that at one point I had carried an Olympic-sized torch for a certain tall, blond Australian). 2004 in Athens- the modern day Olympics in Greece? Oh, the fabulousness. And who didn't spend the summer of 2008 holding their breath through each flip turn as Michael Phelps splashed his way through Beijing?

Which brings us to now, the start of the XXX Olympiad. And I mean that in the roman numeral sense, not in the "Debbie Does Diving" sense, because fortunately the Olympics are the essence of good, clean, televised family fun.

I'll watch because I love the sports, even though I'm not exactly a typical sports fan (I also have to Google "Who is playing in the Super Bowl" on a certain Sunday in January. Or is it February?), I'm definitely not what you would call coordinated, and I have a massive fear of games that involve flying balls (I was hit in the head with a baseball at my brother's 9th birthday party, which explains a lot in my life). I'm passionate about fitness in general and running in particular, but the only time I've ever won a race was at age 28, when those numbers were somehow reversed on my entry form. Eat my dust, octogenarians.

It's not just the sport but the sportsmanship of the Olympics that draws me in. I love that for this brief moment, regular competitors become team members. They are part of something bigger than themselves, if only for 2 weeks. I love watching the tears well up in their eyes as they hear their national  anthems played, a rare moment of patriotism for our increasingly polarized planet. I particularly love the demonstration sports, the ones played often just to show off something that's popular in the host country, like Icelandic wrestling in 1912.

I love the Olympics so much it made me wonder what the world would be like if we had something similar for parenting. What if there was a time and a place, every four years, where moms from around the world would come together, not to compete against each other, but to just show off the great feats of strength we're capable of and to learn from each other? (Sincere apologies to dads- you are just as integral a piece of the parenting puzzle, but in this case someone needs to stay home with the kids) It would be one giant demonstration sport.

Just like the traditional games, the Organizing Committee would scour the globe for an appropriate location to hold the Momolympics . It would have to be a place with all the required features to host such an elite bunch, somewhere desirable and accommodating, somewhere far from the distractions of daily life. Somewhere like Club Med Bora Bora.

We'd wear momiforms to level the style playing field, preferably something universally flattering, functional, and fun from our official sponsor, Target.

We'd march into the stadium with our flags and heads held high, having had a good night's sleep in our Momolympic Village and a massage from a guy named Sven.

And then, the games would begin. The "Making Grilled Cheese Sandwiches While Emptying the Dishwasher" event would bring out some of our nation's fastest hands, but might perplex the Europeans who don't necessarily share our rushed pace of life. We could discuss further over cocktails. The "Getting Babies to Sleep" event would highlight marvels from around the globe. And don't forget the always popular "Tantrum Taming" event- I can't wait to see what the Brazilians have to offer this time around.

Perhaps if we had the chance to celebrate our accomplishments, as well as our differences, we'd stop fighting "Mommy Wars" that have no winners.

Perhaps we'd understand that if our goal is to raise a world full of happy, healthy children who contribute to a global society, we need to stop tearing each other down.

Perhaps we'd see that we're really playing for the same team.

Perhaps if we felt less threatened and more supported, we'd stop trying to hold our children up as some kind of trophy. 

Perhaps if we could have a round of applause for sticking a landing (or sticking to our guns when it comes to enforcing bedtime), we'd see that what often feels like thankless, exhausting work is actually a gold medal worthy performance.
 
Perhaps we'd remember that we really are part of something bigger than snot and playdates and bake sales. Something bigger than ourselves.  

Perhaps we'd have a little more fun along the way, because parenting really is the greatest demonstration of love, of sacrifice, and of joy in the world.

 It's a lot to hope for, this Olympic dream of mine, but once every four years, once a quadrennial, it all seems so very possible.

And so I declare with a shiver of anticipation and a glimmer of hope, let the games begin.