Graduation Day

Well, it's official: Addie has graduated from pre-school. Oh, the pomp, the circumstance! Briarwood pulled out all the stops for the graduation ceremony... right down to caps, gowns, music, entrances, songs, poems, announcements. Kleenex boxes were passed around. There wasn't a dry eye in the house.

There Addie stood, hair freshly cut the night before at Chandler Salon (translation: our bathroom... I've become quite the home hairstylist), looking impossibly handsome and confident as he marched in to the swelling music. He filed in to his seat, a proud and self-conscious smile playing on his lips as he surrepticiously glanced at me. Me, with my video camera and my tear-stained cheeks. I've never seen him so proud. He was placed front and center, and we soon discovered why; every song they sang, every announcement they made, he spoke clearly and without hesitation. He knew every word of the Pledge of Allegiance. He sang "God Bless America" and "United We Stand" with flair. My favorite selection was a rewritten version of "New York, New York", aptly re-titled "Kindergarten" ("If we can make it there, we'll make it anywhere, so here we come, Kin-der-gar-tennnnnnn!") complete with the required kick-line and big arm finish. Addie didn't miss a beat. The choreographer in me was not disappointed.

I watched my boy, this kid named Addie who has grown before my eyes... from the beginning, so very much his own person. Verbal and expressive at eight months; by eighteen months, speaking full sentences with the maturity of some five-year-olds. Addie, whose huge pools of blue eyes were keenly observant from the moment he was born, and whose eyes continue to see the world in all its miracles. I am honored to get a glimpse of the world through those eyes. They never fail to notice a full moon or the first twinkling star, a homeless man, a pretty girl, a scary billboard, a perfect grey morning. They fiercely protect his baby brother, they notice anytime something too small or dangerous gets in his hands. They burst with excitement. They flash with anger. They fill with tears that he tries so hard to hold back. They break my heart. I fall into them when they look at me with love and devotion; I never want to leave them. Too often, I let him stay up late, just so we have our famous "snuggle time", and those beautiful, deep eyes are all mine... just for a little while.

It does seem as if five and a half years has passed; I can't exactly say it has gone by in a flash, because I cannot imagine a moment when Addie wasn't a part of my life. But I also recognize that I will blink and he will be ten, blink again, fifteen, blink again... I cannot even bear to think how empty I will feel when he is not stumbling into the family room to greet me each morning. Sometimes I catch a glimpse of Addie at the breakfast table, his long, spindly legs dangling from the chair as he slurps his Cheerios, and I wonder when it was that my child got so impossibly LONG. When did his feet get so big? Perhaps all this is made more pronounced by the fact that he's so skinny... now more so than ever because of all his recent illnesses. But the lack of meat on his bones makes him seem even more lanky, like a piece of taffy stretched before my eyes. I hold him, and he is all arms and legs. He still weighs so little (35 pounds!) that I can easily hoist him up and cradle him, and I simply rejoice in the feeling of this amazing child. It will not be long before he will stop asking me to hold him. A few years after that, he'll even request that I don't. So I drink it all in now. I kiss and hug and try to bottle the feeling of these young cheeks, so soft and sweet, before they give way to pimples and roughness and resistance.

I see how eager Addie always is to share his accomplishments, his emotions, his everything... with me and with his father, with all those he loves. There are times when the last thing I want to do is hear how many Droids he has won in his Wii Star Wars game. I do not care in the least about Droids. But God, he wants me to know, and that is reason enough for me to drop whatever I'm doing to become his rapt audience.

I relish his profound communication skills, and watch his effect on others. He has an uncanny ability to draw people in and captivate them. He considers many of my friends his own best friends, insisting that they are invited to his birthday parties and special events. He cares deeply about his relationships. He strikes up conversations at Target with people in line ahead of us. He shows genuine interest in their lives and shares his own life with abandon. Every once in a while, he will run into someone with no interest in connecting. It throws him for a loop every time. I can feel his heart sink, as surely as if it was my own.

Now, Addie moves onto the next milestone... forging his way through the trials and trevails of elementary school. I know I have to let him find his own way. He did it with aplomb in pre-school. He'll do it again. I wish I could shield him from any hurt. I know I cannot.

But I will tell you now that if any kid ever bullies him, that bully is TOAST.

In a couple of months, my firstborn son will start Kindergarten. He's ready. I may not be, but he is. The passing of time is never experienced more acutely than through the world of your children; these hallmarks, these landmarks, these moments, captured- and gone. My heart tries to hold on, but I cannot stop the growing up. So off he'll go, unleashing his spirit on a new set of humans. I hope they take care of him. I hope he takes care of himself. I have a feeling he will.

As the song said... if he can make it there, he'll make it anywhere.

A Matter of Death... and Life

I don't really know how to make sense of all that has happened this week. It feels like sadness is everywhere. A member of Stan's family committed suicide... and nothing anyone can say or do will bring him back. I saw so many Facebook postings this week from dear friends who have lost someone close to them, or are having "the worst week of their lives". A colleague was called away from work because one of his family members is dying. It seems that every once in a while, bad news comes in tumbles. Giant heaps of things too overwhelming to process. All at once. Why does life do that?


I'm not one to immediately leap to the "lesson"... in fact, sometimes I think our world has gotten so New Age-y that we are overly anxious to skip about ten steps to get right to the relief. For those left behind, there isn't relief. There just isn't. Maybe grief will de-intensify over time, but maybe it won't. Maybe they learn to live within the grief. They'll carve their lives around it, build their ships around the anchor of it.


I've always been someone who treasured life, clung to it even in my unhappiest of moments. A part of me has always inherently understood that even heartache has its place in the grand experience. I can't imagine choosing to leave this wondrous place. I know its troubles, I know its tragedies, I know its cruelty and I fear its evil. But I have lived its incredible beauty in so many ways, and those far outweigh the bad things.


How could anyone want to leave the smell of snow in winter, the sound of a bat connecting with a baseball, The Beatles, fresh-squeezed lemonade, the twinkle of Christmas lights, bowling, rollercoasters, the sound trees make in a breeze, the memory of a first kiss, pumpkin pancakes, cinnamon rolls, a really good slice of pizza? Wherever they think they're going when they choose to leave this world, I would venture a guess there is not a good slice of pizza to be found.

Where DO they think they're going?

If it has proved too painful to be here, what relief do they suppose is waiting on the other side? If there is a God, do they think He or She is waiting for them on the other side of that suicide, congratulating them for giving it all up? No, I suppose if it all has gotten too bad for them here on Earth, they don't much care what anyone thinks anymore. Certainly they have proven they don't much care about devasted mothers, heartbroken sisters and brothers left to pick up the pieces...

What if reincarnation awaits them? Oh goodie, guess what? You tried to take yourself out, sir, but get back in line, because now you're starting over! And just for a little karmic comedy we're gonna throw you into a third world country! Then maybe you'll appreciate how nice you had it last lifetime. Have fun! Back to the same lesson, until you get it. You escaped NOTHING.

And what if all they're after is the nothingness? Just silence from their unbearable pain? Are they counting on the nothingness, praying to GOD there IS no God to receive them and hold them accountable? Praying reincarnation is just a figment of Shirley MacLaine's imagination? And if they are right that there is nothing beyond death, HOW could the nothingness be better than the living? I'll take the heartbreak, every time. The glorious heartbreak is proof that I'm alive. And oh, to be alive...

There are a few instances where I understand a choice to leave this world. Disease, unbearable physical pain... the loss of a child. I don't even like to entertain these horrific thoughts, but perhaps the closest I can come to understanding suicide is to realize that for some people, their emotional pain might be akin to those extremes...? I don't know.

This incident has catapulted many of us right back to the darkest hours of our pasts. We've all had them; moments of being a quivering fetal mess, bathed in worthlessness. Moments where the pain seemed insurmountable. But as Stan so eloquently said to me, "If I had thrown it all away back in my darkest hour, I wouldn't have you. I wouldn't have these two beautiful children. I wouldn't have this life. I wish I could have told him to just hang on. Tough it out. Look what can change. Look what can happen."

I think about a friend of mine who is currently battling breast cancer. She's fighting to stay on this planet for all she's worth, enduring chemo, radiation, overwhelming nausea, fatigue, baldness. There are days where she can't leave her bed or hug her kids. She's forced to cut off both her breasts. This is what she must do if she is going to stay alive. But she is willing to pay that price, ANY price, for the gift of seeing her children graduate high school, college, to someday hold their children. What a stark contrast to the example before me of a perfectly healthy person who took himself out of this world by choice! What would my friend make of this? Would she consider it a personal affront to her?

I am filled with questions, and not many answers. In this time of desperation and uncertainty, I can only cling to the things I do know: that I cherish my own life in all its messiness, its joy, its anger, its boredom, even. Oh, for the luxury of being bored! I am grateful. I hug my children extra hard and send a prayer to God, to Karma, to Darkness: please keep them safe and happy and healthy... and PLEASE let me help them understand what a gift life is.

Valentine's Daydreams

My husband has never bought me flowers or chocolates for Valentine's Day.

Anybody who knows me is well aware that I am an incurable romantic, filled with all the typical preconceived notions of how holidays as potentially luscious as these should go. I have scripts in my head that put Shakespeare to shame, romantic dinners plotted from soup to fondue, years of daydreams logged. Many of these daydreams once involved blood-red roses and a hefty box of nuts and nougats. But trips to the local florist and See's Candies don't even enter my husband's consciousness. I have had to let those dreams go. Instead, I have been forced to wrap my heart around the gifts I do receive. Here is a glimpse of what I get instead:

My husband wakes up with the kids every other morning, without fail. He often decides it doesn't matter whether or not it is "his day" to sleep in. Without a word he is pulling his robe on to answer the baby's waking cries... and I am free to snuggle back into the deep covers and catch another hour.

My husband pulls me up to dance, and suddenly I am whisked away to the Catskills, my name is Baby, and nobody's putting me in a corner. He takes total command of me with ease and grace. He isn't a trained dancer, but when I'm on the dance floor with him I would swear he was the master instructor from Arthur Murray. The world falls away in a blur, I am spinning and completely surrendering my body to his movement, his steps, his rhythm. He carries me away, and I scarcely remember returning to earth.

My husband writes poetry. He fills the most elegant cards with words and images that make the angels weep. I have piles of these poems, I have kept every one; over the years, he has described his singular devotion to me in a thousand different ways.

My husband calls me "My Dear". He calls me "Honey". He calls me "Mrs. C".

My husband lets me put my freezing cold feet in between his legs every night. He never compains.

My husband can fix anything. He can unclog a drain, open a jar of pickles, paint a room, mow-and-blow a lawn, build a closet, sew a button, core an apple, sharpen a knife, fix my glasses, find my keys, polish my shoes, sump-pump a flooded driveway, and stencil a glow-in-the-dark milky way on our son's ceiling. I challenge anyone to hand him a household problem he doesn't know how to remedy.

My husband cooks for me. He knows how to look in our fridge and pantry and throw random ingredents together to make a savory feast. My husband awakened my passion for food. He encouraged me to taste- and savor- more of life than I ever was willing to before I met him.

My husband is my best friend. We commiserate, we debate, we laugh, we daydream, we cry (well, okay, mostly I cry). We share sodas and cake. We look at menus and decide what two meals we're going to share. He reads me politics. I read him the advice columns. In the safety of our cozy companionship, we are free to gloat and to cower, to brag shamelessly and to admit our deepest sadness.

In a world where I hear too often all the ways a spouse "brings his partner back to reality", my husband unfailingly thinks I can do whatever I set my mind and heart to. No matter what the job or task, he thinks I am the woman for it. Doesn't matter if it's teaching, choreographing, performing a role that's completely out of my range, writing for Oprah magazine, or joining Cirque Du Soleil. "You'd be great at that", he says.

My husband has never tried to change a thing about me. If anything "bugs" him, he has never let on. Imagine that.

My husband stared at me while I was pregnant like I was the most amazing human on the planet. It didn't matter that billions of women had successfully done this pregnancy thing before me. To him, I was the only one who could ever pull it off.


My husband gave me the gift of our two precious little boys. He held my hand as each of them came into the world. My husband has been to hell and back with me. We've navigated the trials of parenthood, the short tempers, the sleeplessness. We've argued, we've listened, we've grown, we've clung to each other through the worst of it and reveled together in the best of it.

My husband often wanders into the bedroom while I am putting on makeup. He turns to our son and says, "There she goes, gilding the lily again. It's just unfair to all the other women of the world, Addie. Because you see, the moment your mom walks in the room, nobody else exists." I stare at my reflection- at my nose that's always been just a little too big for my face, at the early stage of crow's feet around my eyes, at my often disheveled hair... and I smile because I am beautiful in my husband's eyes and that is all that matters.

My husband makes me want to be this extraordinary woman he sees.

My husband has never bought me flowers or chocolates for Valentine's Day. It's not his style.

Yes, I have had to let that dream go. There was a much bigger dream awaiting me; my husband wakes up each morning intent on giving me his very heart. And because of this, as the song goes...

"... each day is Valentine's Day."

Remembering ONE

I cannot believe you are a whole year old, Mr. T! Where did the time go?! The first year of Addie's life (and our new life as parents) was a bit of a haze much of the time, marked by long, drawn-out hours of no sleep, paralyzing fatigue, emotions high and low, adjustment to the new normal. But that change- the overwhelming transition into Life With Kids that had me reeling- happened long ago, and now, amazingly, it is simply who I am and what I do. Thus, I spent the first year of your life relaxed and embracing every moment, hyper-aware of every precious memory we were creating with you, relishing every one of your passing fancies. I was able to feel the whole experience from a more centered place, free to drink it in and savor every drop. Maybe part of the reason I held each moment so dear is because I'm pretty doggone sure you will be our last baby... a thought that fills me with sadness for so many reasons. But whatever the cause for my revery, it all flew by in a flash.

I look at you, and can hardly fathom that you were that little peanut inside me when I had my bleeding scare at nine weeks, and Stan rushed me to the hospital in tears. After hours spent waiting and worrying, the nurse finally came in to look and listen, to see if you were still with us. That was YOU, Tucker... you on the ultrasound, that tiny, foggy clump with the super-strong heartbeat that seemed to shout, "YES YES, I am still here!" That was you seven months later on February 1st, 2009, pressing relentlessly on my cervix, scoffing at epidurals one and two, making your presence known as I begged for mercy and the anesthesiologist panicked at my off-the-chart pain levels. And then when I was finally allowed to push, that was you at the ready, popping out effortlesly in a minute and a half... a Chandler record (Addie took three minutes). As soon as the door was open, you plowed right through. You're still doing that, to this day.

You are very different from how I remember Addie at your age. He seemed more adult somehow, what people like to call "an old soul". You, in contrast, are a bundle of exuberant, youthful energy. Addie was already speaking words, calmly calling out for me from the crib each morning, already verbalizing his needs with one-or two-word announcements. You are more demonstrative, full of noise and babble, but aren't in any hurry to make words yet (though I admit you've said "Mama" in passing, you've started saying "Ada" for Addie, and today I could have sworn you reached out and said "apple").

Here are some of the glorious things I don't want to forget about you at age one:

You motor-crawl around the house at lightning speed, evoking the image of a wind-up toy on overdrive. You are usually headed for your favorite play areas: the refrigerator, where you love to hang out and remove all the salad dressings from the door, the pantry where you remove all the pasta boxes, my desk drawers where you remove all the envelopes, and the toilet, where if we're lucky there is nothing at all for you to remove.

You love the shower, absolutely adore it. I take you in there with me most nights, and sing songs to you (how about that? The most singing I do these days is in the shower! I must say, the venue has its perks; so far, no critics). You have no trouble at all getting soaked, face and all (note to new parents: dump buckets of water on your baby's head daily! I avoided this with Addie, and he still hates water in his eyes to this day), and there is nothing more amazing to me than staring at your sweet baby-face when it is soaking wet, your big blue eyes blinking up at me under glistening wet, long, dark eyelashes. Sometimes you put your soapy head on my shoulder while I sing. Heaven on Earth.

When you are falling asleep in my arms, you put your hand on your head and twirl your hair... then you reach up and twirl mine. I look forward to this at every nap and every single night before bedtime. I already know I will ache for this when you stop.

You are a chowhound. There is nothing you won't eat... including some rather unsavory items like dirt, rocks, and tissue paper. Your favorite foods include cantaloupe, baked potato with sour cream, chicken breast, halibut, grapes, yogurt, peas- and today, for the first time, you wolfed down your first peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

You have six teeth- two on the bottom, four on top. They look like mini-Chiclets.

Not long ago, you turned yellow from a little condition called carotenemia. Apparently, some babies react to having too many yellow or orange vegetables, so for a while it was sayonara, sweet potatoes. Lately we've been plying you with peas, string beans, spinach, zucchini and broccoli (lucky for you babies don't turn green). You're less yellow now, but I kind of miss it; everybody thought you had been to the Bahamas.

You're sleeping through the night- finally! It took a full year, but we've strung together two solid weeks of eleven-hour stretches. Hallelujah!

You adore Addie. And he absolutely adores you. My sister-in-law Sharon once told me that one of the best things about having two children is seeing how they love each other. She was right. Watching Addie wrap his [amazingly careful, gentle] arms around his baby brother fills me with a joy I could never have imagined before.

You flat-out REFUSE to lie still for a diaper change. I have never encountered such a struggle. You flip, you fuss, you will not be restrained. Things can get awfully messy if there's poop involved.

You love people, and are easily held by others... but you always look to me first for "friend approval". Someone will approach you, and you'll smile tentatively, look right at me with inquisitive eyes that wonder, Is this person OK? Yes, I'll nod. I approve this friend request. Your whole body instantly relaxes and you're free to have fun.

You're needier than Addie was. More physical. More stubborn- and that's saying something. I've got two very strong-willed kids. I am glad.

You give the best hugs. Your face melts me. Your animated eyebrows make me laugh. You can lift one up so high, it looks like someone snagged it with a fishhook.

Though your spirit is young, you have a light in your eyes that is impossibly bright. You draw people in; they turn their faces to you like the sun, and you happily shine your light on all of them. How lucky I am to be bathed in that light every day! You are a miraculous little soul, Mr. T... and I am so honored to know you.

Happy First Birthday, Tuckerman. What an adventure this life with you will be.

Resolution Solution

Inevitably, the start of a new year brings on all those thoughts about self-improvement. Some folks look forward to the feeling of a new beginning, others find resolutions debilitating, some have sworn them off for life. Me, I'm a dyed-in-the-wool list-maker, so I relish the idea of making resolutions each year. I make them (and take them) with a grain of salt, hoping each year to make good on them as best I can, knowing full well I will break some and also trusting I will not beat myself up for it. I approach resolutions with the same whimsical spirit I keep when I read my horoscope. For the most part, the resolutions - like the predictions - are there for entertainment purposes only. I approach them with reverence, interest... and a healthy dose of humor.

It is with this spirit that I continually resolve, every single year, to stop drinking so much Diet Coke. I fail this one every year, miserably. And yet with each fresh January, I write it on my list, almost scoffing as I do because I know I am doomed to disregard it. My dear friend Bonnie calls Diet Coke "the Nectar of the Gods", and I couldn't agree more. The two of us are dangerous with the stuff when we're together, a couple of addicts who can't be in the same room without using. We'll go for a walk around the block just to justify the need for a thirst-quenching beverage. "Diet Coke?" I'll say innocently. Her eyes will roll back into her head, and I'll know I have my cohort in carbonation. We'll sit on the sofa drinking together in silent reverence; in the can or on ice, there is absolutely nothing like it. But the resolution to kick my habit is there at the top of my list year after year, decade after decade. I'd like to think it keeps me to the one-soda-per-day limit I've imposed. But really, the one-a-day rule goes to hell when I'm face-to-face with a good pizza or a bowl of Cheetos. Hit me with the salt, and I can gulp down four cans without blinking.

I used to resolve every year to stop picking my fingers, something I've done since I was four years old. I was trained well by my thumb-bitin', skin-pickin' mother. She's worse than I am, God love her, and she sure made it look fun. Besides, I had alot of nervous evergy to burn off early on; Bio Dad gone AWOL, different home every few years, new father to integrate... I had to find an outlet for all that anxiety. Other addictive behaviors have been shed, but this one remains, and in 2010 for the first year ever, I wrote a different resolution: instead of promising not to pick, I promised I'd stop giving myself a hard time about it. I'm forty-one, for crying out loud. There are worse things. I've done this for thirty-seven years, and I've come to realize it actually doesn't bother me. The only time it's a drag is when, as my husband says, I "go amateur" and draw blood (he considers me such an expert at the art of finger-picking that he can't imagine I'd make such a rookie mistake). It's the only thing he ever says about it, by the way. Never once has he told me to stop, and never once has he (God forbid) yanked my hand out of my mouth (word to the wise,: if you are in my presence, you will never EVER do this, or you may get a couple of shredded fingers shoved up your nose). Yet another reason why I adore Stan. He utterly accepts me, rough cuticles and all.

Where new year's resolutions are concerned, I find them helpful because they serve as gentle reminders of what I'd like to do to become a better, more efficient human. It's a way of checking in with myself. How'm I doing? Where can I improve? I resolve to have more patience as a mother; it remains to be seen whether I will remember this when I'm on the phone and Addie starts in with his steady stream of "Mama. Mama. Mama. Mama. Mama. Mama. Mama", but it's there, and I've written it. It's in the world. I resolve to cook in more, and eat out less. This is a tough one for me... but if it cuts just three trips to Cheesecake Factory out of our annual expenses, it will have done its job. I resolve to stop dwelling on that which cannot be changed - events, past or present, which haunt me because I wasn't able to right them then, or I have no control over them now. HUGE. But with every passing year it gets easier, and I figure by the time I'm fifty, I'll have this one aced.

I think people tend to forget what a resolution is. To many, it's a duty people are supposed to execute at the beginning of every year, an annoyance, a curse even. But a resolution is a living, breathing thing; it cannot exist in a vacuum (Oh! Vacuuming! But I digress). The things that I consider to be my truest successes came with a great measure of resolve. I've looked inward all my life, but that is not enough. To understand oneself is not enough; my father taught me this. No, it took sheer resolve to transform the qualities in myself that were intolerable to me, for whatever reason. I've found that I have great strength in this area when I want to. And when I don't...

Pass the Diet Coke.

Paging Dr. Ferber...

I am up at 2:25 am, typing this blog while I listen to the anguished cries of my ten-month-old.

We're sleep-training here at The Chandler Chateau.

For those of you unfamiliar with this harrowing ritual, let me offer the Cliff's Notes: when the exhausted parents of an infant finally decide it is time they got more sleep, or, when the weary breastfeeding mother is convinced her boob is going to fall off from over-use, we enter the world of Dr. Ferber, Sleepyplanet and all related schools of thought: we gently ignore the baby at night. I'm not quite sure there's a gentle way to ignore a baby, but in the sleep-training world that means that when the baby wakes and cries, instead of picking him up, you enter the baby's room once every ten minutes or so to let him know you are still there, you love him, but it's time to go to sleep. You do not touch the baby, but lean in to his room and offer in a gentle tone of voice: "Hi sweetie-pie. It's time to go back to sleep now. I know you can do it. I love you. Night-night." You feel quite silly doing this, but you get used to it, as these books insist this will be the key to your sanity. Then you leave the room quickly, covering your ears as you go, because your child will inevitably let loose with a wail that could wake the dead. You climb wearily into your bed and wait another ten minutes, and repeat. Lean in, gentle tone of voice: "Hi sweetie-pie. It's time to go back to sleep now, or Mama's going to have to take heavy medication. Mama doesn't want to do that, so go to sleep, sweetie. Night-night." Ten minutes, repeat: "Hello, sweetie pie. Mama's ready for a straightjacket, so it's best we get right to sleep! Love you, you little bastard. Night-night." In theory, your baby will eventually get the message that you are indeed right there in the next room, but it's time for him to learn to soothe himself to sleep without the help of you or your weary boob.

Addie was a snap to sleep-train. It took two days tops; in fact, I could swear he saw reason the first time we wandered in there to "gently" tell him he was on his own. I could almost hear him thinking, "Oh, okay. I get it. They want to get some sleep. I guess they deserve that. I guess now's as good a time as any to learn to count sheep." By the end of Night Two, he was down at 8:30 pm and waking at 7:30 am, which he does to this day. Wow, we thought. This Ferber stuff really works.

Judging from the ten-month-old who is still wailing in his room as I type this, I'm now convinced Dr. Ferber is full of crap.

With Tucker, we have attempted to sleep-train him almost every single week since he was seven months old. I suppose "attempting" to sleep-train was our first mistake, as the advocates of this method will insist that "there is no TRY". You have to just DO, and if you falter, you will be back at Square One. This puts an inordinate amount of pressure on the parents. As with all things parental, the first lesson you learn is that the easiest route is almost never the best route. But the easiest route is SO tempting. (Example: Family is shopping at supermarket. Kid wants box of animal crackers. Mom says no. Kid screams at top of lungs. Easy solution: give kid box. Avoid full-blown tantrum. Tough solution: teach kid that throwing fit will not get him what he wants. But as kid is throwing himself on the Barnum's Animal Cracker display and passers-by are staring, the easy solution is right there, hovering like a demon... "It's only one itsy-bitsy little box of cookies...") And so it goes.

We parents spend every day resisting temptation (and also picking our battles and deciding when it's OK to give in). This lesson starts with sleep-training. When the baby cries, you realize that the EASIEST thing to do is just wake up and nurse him. It works like a charm every time, the demon whispers seductively. Baby settles back down, and in twenty minutes you can be back in your cozy bed...

But you cannot succumb, say the books. Succumb, and the baby gets the message that all he has to do is cry- for five minutes, twenty, forty-five- and you'll come get him. The only solution is to NOT pick him up. Be consistent, they tell you. It's the only way. Easy for them to say. They aren't in your house, listening to your child do his best Mercedes McCambridge impersonation down the hall.

While I'm on the subject, I must tell you that in general, I no longer read books when it comes to raising my kids. When I'm truly in a mental pickle about a particular behavior, I might look something up... but most of the time, my instincts usually steer me in the right direction. Moreover, I have found that these books are missing one key element. Sure, they offer tricks, tips and solutions. But they never go that one step further and tell you what to do when the tricks, tips and solutions don't work. And so often, they DO NOT. I remember when Addie was two and flat-out refusing to be put into his car seat. The books offered many sound techniques. "Make it a game! Say, 'Let's see how fast we can put our straps on! Ready, set, GO!'" Cute. Except when I tried this adorable little game with Addie, he looked at me as if I had three heads. In the end, you're still standing out in traffic with a child who is arching his back with the strength of ten men and will not comply. What then? The books don't address that. And ladies and gentlemen, THAT'S the book I want. The one that says, "If the game doesn't work, take your right elbow and gently but firmly push it into your child's abdomen. Press down until child's buttocks touch the chair. Ignore screams of protest. While holding child down with right elbow and forearm, take left hand and quickly shove strap around child's writhing right shoulder, taking care not to dislocate shoulder. Quickly lift right forearm and snap restraints before child has a chance to wrench body up again. Once restraints are securely fastened, calmly tell child that if he ever does that again he will be arrested and sent to jail."

But back to our sleep-deprived household. In our defense, we have had a few natural disasters thwart our efforts. Travel messes it up, and we've done our fair share of that. Illness messes it up, and we're convinced that just when we were on the right path, Tucker decided that the best way to combat Dr. Ferber's evil was to simply come down with swine flu. The boy couldn't have been more right; his scheme worked, and we sat up with him night after night for a solid week. The baby gets used to this star treatment, so that when he's well again and you the parent are walking into walls from lack of sleep, he just can't understand when you change the rules and suddenly won't pick him up every two hours.

May I take this moment to mention that just to make it confusing for parents, there are a host of specialists who will tell you there is nothing worse you can do for your baby's sensitive young brain than sleep-train. They will tell you you are damaging him for life by ignoring his primal needs. They will convince you that you are going against nature, and the results will be potentially devastating. As you listen to the plantive cries of your child in the wee hours of the morning, you will wonder if Charles Manson was sleep-trained. You will be certain the Unabomber plotted his revenge from his crib between ten-minute check-ins.

The advocates for sleep-training tell you the opposite is true, that to allow a baby to wake and feed at night after a certain age is disrupting crucial REM sleep, which is essential to brain growth. Who do you believe? In the end, you gotta go with your gut.

For the Chandlers and many others, ultimately the quest for parental sanity wins. Let it be known that an infant with a sleep-deprived mother is also in danger of being damaged for life. I agree with most experts that a three-month-old is too young to be ignored at night, but more to the point, that choice wouldn't have felt right for me. But my sturdy, pizza-and burger-eating ten-month old? He is fully capable of sleeping through the night, damn it. He just doesn't know it yet. He doesn't trust. I will make him see. I have vays of making him sleep.

Silence through the household. Not a creature is stirring. I have been typing for an hour. He's finally given up. It worked... this time. He may begin to cry again in fifteen minutes, an hour, two. And our mettle will be tested yet again. Every cry is a new test, from now until forever. It would be so easy to just sit in front of my Netflix of 30 Rock Season One, and knock out an episode or two while I nurse him back to sleep...

I better go get some ZZZZZ's while the gettin's good.

Thankful

In honor of Thanksgiving, 26 things I am truly thankful for (one for each day in the month leading up to the best feast of the year!):


1. An almost-five-year-old who sleeps like an angel, and always has.

2. So You Think You Can Dance... especially Mia Michaels' inspired routines.

3. Parmesan cheese.

4. Peet's Coffee, and Peppermint Mocha Coffeemate.

5. My health, and the health of my loved ones.

6. That we bought this house when we did and get to live in this neighborhood, complete with its parades, block parties, and amazing neighbors.

7. My parents, who are there for us- and our kids- in every imaginable way.

8. Target.

9. The Original Pancake House's glorious, melt-in-your-mouth buttermilk pancakes.

10. My ability to overcome the emotional roadblocks and insecurities that might have taken a serious toll on my happiness, had I not tackled them.

11. Aroma Cafe's heart-shaped blueberry scone.

12. That I took a job choreographing for a high school five years ago.

13. That my high school sweetheart introduced me to the Beatles when I was 17, and thus opened up my heart to a world of music.

14. James Taylor.

15. The day I hear the first Christmas song on the radio.

16. Friends who stand up for what is right.

17. People who have forgiven me.

18. One amazing architect, who has given us the house of our dreams... and one miraculous mom, who deserves that amazing architect.

19. My friends... many of whom feel like family.

20. My family... most of whom feel like friends... and how miraculous is that?!

21. A husband who makes my insides go all gooey just by laying a gentle hand on my head.

22. That I listened to a deeper calling within me, and decided to have kids.

23. Addie and Tucker, the lights of my life.

24. A good shower.

25. A great pizza.

26. A fantastic... well, let's just say if I'm lucky it comes right before the shower and the pizza.


And, because with every yin there comes a yang, 26 things I truly dislike:


1. That we still haven't sleep-trained our nine-month old, and I have the bleary eyes to prove it.

2. Tyce Diorio.

3. Fruit Roll-Ups.

4. Gristle.

5. That certain people I know are sick, suffering, or scared.

6. That when somebody says something mean, I think of the perfect comeback... three hours later.

7. People who cut in line, or cut me off; people with entitlement issues in general.

8. People who call me up, and then answer their own call-waiting a minute later.

9. Scientology, and similar cult-ish groups.

10. Fear, worry, and sleepless nights.

11. Katherine Heigl. Come to think of it, Grey's Anatomy. But still, I watch. What is wrong with me?

12. That I will probably never be able to stop picking at my fingers.

13. Being misunderstood, or misrepresented.

14. My own impatience.

15. Clutter.

16. My allergies.

17. Ultra-low-rise jeans. Why do these exist? Nobody looks good in them. If I accidentally grab them to try on, I look like I'm wearing my son's pants.

18. People whose way of connecting to others is by commiserating in negativity and mean-spiritedness.

19. When people don't train their dogs, say pit bulls aren't dangerous, or put the comfort of their animals above that of humans.

20. The existence of evil on earth in any form.

21. Earthquakes.

20. Blind hatred of any kind.

21. People who use weddings, pregnancies, and other joyous family events to make it all about them, what they need, and how they can find ways to be offended or otherwise unhelpful.

22. Undercooked chicken.

23. Halitosis, or other unsavory body smells.

24. The phrases "It's all good", "Everything happens for a reason", and "Whatever".

25. Lack of common sense.

26. People in charge who don't know what they're doing.