I think bears have it right. Carb-load like crazy then find a comfy cave to sleep off the gray days and bitter cold nights of winter. My own desire to hunker down, curl up and stay cozy at home all started during the kids’ holiday break from school.

Sure playing in the snow was fun after the first couple storms, but isn’t the après sledding hot cocoa the REALLY enjoyable part anyway? And who wants to stand on the corner waiting for the school bus to arrive when it’s -2 outside? Um…not me!

So I plan to bust out some board games, work on my Wii skills and discover some more indoor fun with the family. Maybe it’s even time to start planning our summer vacation so we can begin dreaming about sunshiny days and excitement-filled nights!

Are any of you feeling as crazed as we are here at Any Mom? Hmm…thought so. I’m making a very serious effort to slow the days a bit and enjoy tiny moments with my tiny ones. That’s what the holidays are really all about, right? 

That said, it always amazes me that the smallest things I do make the biggest impact. One day last week, when I asked my five-year-old his favorite part of that particular day (a daily ritual of ours), he answered, “Sitting in front of the tree with you playing Go Fish.”

I don’t need any more than that.

Wishing you and your family an abundance of tiny moments.

I’ve recently been reminded that keeping up with the Joneses begins at a very tender age. Just cast yourself back to fifth grade. Remember telling your mom how you “have to have” a pair of Jordache jeans because “everyone has them”?

Well over the last several months, my own fifth grade son has unleashed a rather aggressive campaign trying to persuade his father and me that he “has to have” a cell phone because “everyone has one!” Ugh!

We have, of course, countered his begging-and-pleading requests with practical rebuttals like: “You never talk on the phone at home, so why do you need a cell phone?” When he tries to play the in-case-of-emergency card, we very reasonably state: “You don’t need a cell phone to reach us because we’re either with you or you’re in school and the school can call us.”

He’s even offered to pay for the phone with his own stash of cash when we’ve chalked it up to being a “waste of money.” This forces us to continue our stroll down Sensible Street by pointing out that it’s not just the cost associated with attaining the device, but also the significant financial commitment to making monthly payments for a calling and/or texting plan.

Bottom line? The cold, hard facts are clearly on OUR side. But colder, harder peer pressure is definitely on HIS side. (Other kids have disbelievingly confronted him with, “YOU don’t have a CELL PHONE?!?”)

So I gotta ask you other moms…do your kids have cell phones? If so, at what age did they get the phone and why?

When I was a kid, the first thing my father did when he got home from work was to turn on the TV. He kept it on during dinner and gave it his full attention. If we tried to talk, we were shushed. My mother was forced to eat at the corner of the table so my father had a clear view of the TV. (Can you say “dysfunctional”?)

Because of this, as an adult, I developed an intolerance for the TV as background noise. My attitude toward the TV is that if you want to watch something, you go watch it. Then you turn off the TV and do something else. You don’t leave the TV on during dinner, you don’t leave the TV on all day, you don’t leave the TV on while the kids are playing.

Many families I know don’t have this same sensitivity to the TV. Countless times I have been at someone’s home where the TV seems like another guest at the party. Sometimes this guest gets attention, sometimes it’s ignored.

I have pretty strict rules at home for the TV. My son is only allowed to watch TV for one hour a day. We’ve had this rule in place since he was old enough to want to watch it. To enforce this rule, we choose a one hour program to watch or we set the kitchen timer for one hour and we turn off the TV when the time is up. The beauty of the timer is that it puts the blame for the end of TV time on the timer, not on the parents. Yes, as parents we enforce the hour time limit, but only because the timer said the time is up, not because we have arbitrarily directed our child to turn off the TV. It’s a subtle distinction, but an important one.

Some of my friends think I’m a TV Nazi, depriving my poor child of his inherent right to soak up endless hours of screen time. I, on the other hand, think my friends are doing their children a severe disservice by all this TV time. For example, when my son goes on a play date, I expect him to PLAY. I can’t tell you how many times I have picked him up from a friend’s house only to find out that they sat around and watched a movie for two hours. Not to mention the fact that other parents let my son watch PG-13 rated movies without asking my permission.

But the science is on my side. Numerous studies have linked an excess of TV watching with childhood obesity. Now a new study has uncovered a link between hours spent watching TV and mental health and social behavior. As reported in Time magazine, kids “who spent more than two hours a day in front of a screen were more likely to have emotional difficulties, hyperactivity or problems relating to other people, compared with kids who had less screen time.” (October 25, 2010)

So yay for me. I’ve been doing something right. Now I just have to convince all my friends.

I don’t think it’s ever too early to start grooming little boys into kind-hearted, well-intentioned men. In fact, I would argue that you MUST start early. So, here is the checklist that I’m working from right now…please feel free to add to it…I can use all the help I can get…

1. Pick up after yourself.
“Clean up, clean up, everybody clean up…everybody do your share…” is a song that my oldest learned when he started preschool, and has since seemed to have forgotten now that he’s almost 5. But my 20-month old, who hasn’t been exposed to this song yet, has shown a sudden interest in putting his toys away, so I’m jumping on that bandwagon with a suitcase and a forwarding address.

He claps his hands each time he puts a toy away – which is something I hope his future wife finds endearing and not-at-all strange. The best part is that my oldest has started putting his share of toys away, too – not to be outdone by his younger bro. Sweet.

(Disclaimer: Talk to me a month from now and this entire scenario will probably be a distant memory.)

2. Mind your manners.
Phrases like “excuse me” go a long way in forgiving involuntary (or, in most cases, voluntary) bodily functions. My oldest may think it’s hysterical when he burps or farts, but by god, he excuses himself every time he does, and it just makes the whole situation a bit less unpleasant.

Others that make my list include “thank you”, “please”, and “god bless you” because, if you ask me, we’re just not a civilized society without these simple, courteous phrases.

3. Eat what is put in front of you.
Ok, this one is a real work in progress, probably the most challenging on my list. Rarely is there a night that both kids will eat what I’m making for me and my husband. And my oldest will willingly go hungry before being coerced into trying something he claims he doesn’t like. “You’re not getting anything else to eat tonight, so don’t ask” is flippantly met with “That’s ok, I’m good.” And don’t you know, there have been too many nights to count that the little bugger stays true to his word. I’m still trying to come up with clever ways to expand both of their palates and the foods they will allow to grace their plates – any suggestions on this are most welcome.

A sub-bullet that goes hand-in-hand with this point is “Learn how to cook”, because who doesn’t love a man who can cook? Hot diggety – after a long, hard day, walking through the door to incredible smells coming from the kitchen – that’s some good stuff right there, and I will score major points for giving these boys the tools they need to do just that.

4. Talk about your feelings.
I will go down in the Mother-in-Law Hall of Fame if I can master this one. So when something goes wrong in their day, I encourage them to talk about their feelings. I know it’s very “Dr. Phil” of me, but I think it’s important to encourage open communication about their feelings. Along with this, I ask them about their day on the drive home from school or at the dinner table (on the off-chance I am successful at getting everyone around it). I often get a blank stare or “nothing” response when I ask “what did you do today?”. So I’ve gotten wise and now I ask the question like this instead, “what was the best part of your day?” This generates a more useful response for carrying on a conversation that lasts longer than a minute.

5. Always treat the ladies with love and respect.
I think this one is the easiest and I think I have it nailed. I shower them daily (heck, sometimes hourly) with affection and in return, I get big hugs and kisses (often unexpectedly) throughout the day. I know I’m doing this one right – no question about it – and I am sure that will count for something with the ladies who steal their hearts from me some day.

Let me lay this out for you…my grocery cart does not overflow with organically grown vegetables. In fact, I defy you to find a single, solitary leafy green in there. Oh sure, I waltz through the produce department merrily tossing juicy apples or bright yellow bananas into the mix on a weekly basis, but that’s about it for anything that began its life as a seed.

What you will find in my cart, guaranteed, are packs of lunch meat in those convenient disposable storage containers, boxes of Reduced Fat Cheez-its (a personal weakness of mine), cookies and cold cereal with a tad more than one gram of sugar per serving.

So…does that make me a bad mom? I say, “Heck no!”

My children have no love for veggies but they are about the farthest thing from childhood obesity poster kids as you can get. They’ll have applesauce from a jar as a side dish to their grilled chicken, thank you very much. And they sweat it out in a karate dojo four times a week in addition to truly PLAYING outside. (I’m talking old school running and jumping here!)

Still every time I load my weekly food purchases onto the conveyor belt, I feel like I’m under a microscope. I’ve had fellow shoppers blatantly eyeball my items then look upon me with undisguised scorn more than once as they prepared their reusable canvas shopping bags for packaging up their own wholesome haul.

But I’m not gonna let these judgmental types rattle me anymore. From this day forward, I’ll stand strong in the decisions I make as a mother…even the ones that allow my kids a pop tart from time to time!

Back in the late 90s, when I worked full-time at a very corporate corporation, senior management (or the hoo-ha’s as I liked to call them) made us attend a very corporate, feel-good session to make us work better as a team (in theory). The brainwashing started with a ridiculous number of cheesy catch-phrases and ended with us falling backwards into our teammates’ outstretched arms while singing kumbaya.

My 20-something self did a lot of eye-rolling and not-so-quiet sighing that day, which is why I’m shocked that recently, I have been thinking about one of those stupid phrases just about every day.

You guessed it…BE HERE NOW.

It’s about being present in the moment – not just physically – but mentally and emotionally. And lately, it’s taken on a whole new meaning for me as I teeter back and forth between my roles as mom, working professional, and just plain ol’ me.

Since I don’t have 9 to 5 office hours, the hours I work during the day are often blurred, meaning I can be answering calls and emails at any hour of the day. I’ve realized this has its pros and cons. The flexibility is great, but its randomness sometimes makes it hard to be here now.

But the distractions are not limited to work. There are replies to friends’ emails, Facebook and other social sites, and your average, run-of-the-mill Internet surfing to occupy countless minutes (if not hours) of my time.

I hear the voice in my head chanting “be here now” each time I check my email when I’m home with both kiddos. I hear it when I’m thinking about my to-do list and simultaneously setting up train tracks or reading story books. I hear it when my husband gets home and he starts checking his email.

Kids aren’t stupid. And, despite the crazy stuff that usually comes out of their mouths, they don’t always say what they think. So I shouldn’t assume that because my kids aren’t verbalizing their annoyance with me on my laptop, that it’s ok to keep burying my head in it.

That said, I’ve started to hold myself to a certain set of rules – no email, Internet, or chat between the hours of 5 and bedtime. Some days I’m good. Some days, not so much. And I’ve tried to hold my husband to that too, although it’s sometimes a tough sell.

So I’m wondering, do any of you struggle with this too and do you have any suggestions for being here now?

One afternoon my son overheard me loving it up with my cat Tigger. “Mommy’s wittle Tigger wigger wugger,” I said in my smooshiest voice. “Mommy’s little baby kippens. Precious wittle Tiggy wiggy whitepaws.” I’m embarrassed to say that this went on for a few minutes. My son got a big kick out of it and started rhyming words with Tigger. Methodical child that he is, he started at the beginning of the alphabet and worked his way through. “Tigger bigger, Tigger cigger, Tigger digger, Tigger figger,” and so on, skipping all the vowels because he’s way smart and knows they won’t work in this instance.

I listened with half an ear while I cleaned up the dishes and scrubbed at unidentifiable stains on my kitchen countertop. “Tigger ligger, Tigger migger, Tigger nigger, Tigger pigger…” Oops! I shot a glance at him to see if he giggled or smirked or looked horrified at the word nigger. Nothing. No reaction. He plowed on through the alphabet: “Tigger wigger, Tigger yigger, Tigger zigger.” He stopped and looked at me triumphantly. I looked back at him uncertainly. Two voices appeared in my head. The conversation went something like this:

“You’d better stop him and tell him not to say that word.”

“He didn’t even blink when he said it. He obviously has no idea what that means.”

“If he says it at school you’ll be sorry. Everyone will know he learned it at home and they’ll think you’re a racist pig. You do realize that both the principal and vice principal are black, don’t you?”

“Tomorrow he won’t even remember that he said it. It’s no big deal.”

“What if some of your black friends come over and he says it in front of them? How will you get out of that one?”

“That damn cat will be dead soon, anyway, and he’ll forget all about the way you fawn all over the skinny thing and how you make up stupid baby words to rhyme with his name.”

And so on. I literally swayed back and forth, toward and away from my son, as I tried to decide what to do. Finally, I decided to act. “Uhm, sweetie,” I start. “The word nigger is a bad word and you should never say it.”

“What’s it mean?” he wants to know.

“It’s just a bad word and I don’t want you to ever say it.”

“How bad?” he persists.

Let me just say right here that my son is one of those kids who needs to have everything explained to him in great detail. Because I said so does not work with my son. But I really don’t want to get into this because so far in his life I have skillfully avoided the entire discussion of race relations and plan to continue to sidestep this topic for many more years to come. Yes, I am a wimp.

“Very bad.” I say. “The worst word you could ever say.” I’m hopeful that this will end the conversation.

“But what’s it mean?”

He’s not just being a pain here. He really wants to know, so that he can categorize it in his brain, probably next to shit and asshole, which I have already taught him to say. But only when driving.

So I fall back on the only answer I know will satisfy him. “It’s just a really bad word to call someone and I don’t want you to ever say it. We can talk about it more when your dad gets home.” This is a genius answer in so many ways. First, it lets him understand that it’s a bad name for someone rather than just a curse word. So when we are driving down the road and someone cuts in front of us, he’ll know not to yell “Nigger!” when it’s completely obvious that he should be yelling, “Asshole!” Second, it makes it clear to him that he is not to say it, ever. Even when driving. Third, it tells him that I am willing to discuss it in more detail at a future date. Unfortunately for him, he is still young enough to forget to hold me to the discussion and so I know that I am safe. We will not be talking about niggers with daddy over meatloaf and potatoes.

In a perfect world, this would be the end of the story. Sadly for me, it’s not, because my son did repeat the word. Over dinner. Flank steak and salad. With guests. We were talking about whether Iron Man 2 was appropriate for our kids and the conversation turned to bad language. Our friends get freaked out about curse words in movies while we are more upset by violence. Iron Man 2 has few curse words and more action than violence so it passed muster for both our families. At this point my son leaned over to the other family’s kid and whispered: “Nigger is the worst word in the world.” The other kid, a year younger and not yet having learned sneaky ways, turned to his parents and asked loudly: “Is nigger the worst word in the world?” His poor mother practically choked on her carrot shreds while his father got a thunderous look in his eye. My husband and I slunk down in our seats and turned unbecoming shades of red.

My first thought was: Shit! Now our friends think we are assholes who teach our child the word nigger. My second thought was: Shit! I should have never said anything about this to my son. Better for him to find this out on the playground or the bus. Anyplace I am not around and cannot, therefore, be held responsible. My third and final thought was: Shit! I’ll have to figure out a way to blame this on the cat.

_____________________________________________________

What about you? Have you had any embarrassing moments with bad language and your kids?

A little over a month ago, I got involved in a situation that would make McGruff (you know, the cartoony bloodhound who wants us all to take a bite out of crime) either immensely proud or tail-between-the-legs embarrassed.

Let me lay it out for you. Our good friends who live a few doors down from us were away on vacation. Upon arriving home from a doctor’s appointment with the kids, I registered an unfamiliar car entering our quiet little cul-de-sac. No problem, I figured the driver would see that he’d hit a dead end and simply turn around like everyone else. Nope! He proceeded to park his car near my friends’ empty house and sit there…for awhile.

So, obviously, I’m keeping an eye on this guy (from the safety and anonymity of my living room window at this point). Well, he finally gets out of his car to stand directly in front of my friends’ house and make a call on his cell phone. And what’s in his other hand? An unmarked black duffle bag. Now I’m REALLY suspicious because we all know what’s carried in an unmarked black duffle bag…cat burglar tools! (Seriously, what else would you carry in an unmarked black duffle bag?!?)

Of course, my kids are also watching these events unfold with great interest and, when I express my concerns, they start encouraging me to call 911. By this time, I need no encouragement. (After all, doesn’t the unmarked black duffle bag say it all?) But I’m rational enough to declare this a non-911 event. So I look up the regular township police station number in the phone book to report my concerns. I’m told a patrol car will come to “investigate” the situation.

So the kids and I continue our observation out the living room window (although now we’re crouched down lower than the line of shrubs planted at our home’s foundation) and we’re awaiting the arrival of said patrol car. Before that happens, however, the mysterious cat burglar is inside my friends’ truck and pulling it out of the driveway.

YIKES! What do I do now?!? The cops aren’t on the scene yet and this guy is probably committing grand theft auto!!!!

But here comes the unbelievable part. He pulls the truck back into the driveway. Then he proceeds to start washing it. Uh-oh! He’s not a cat burglar. He’s not an auto thief. He’s…a car detailer. And by now the police are on their way to “investigate” the situation.

In fact, the local authorities arrive moments later as the guy is sudsing up the truck’s driver side door (probably with supplies from his unmarked black duffle bag). They begin questioning him (thankfully, not up against the hood of their cruiser with his hands cuffed behind his back.) The patrolmen drive away shortly thereafter, clearly satisfied with the car detailer’s explanation.

Now before you hand down a verdict of “hysterical housewife”, you should know that I live in a small, tight-knit community that has had its share of minor burglaries (golf clubs out of an open garage, cash from unlocked cars, etc.) and the local police force has always encouraged us to call in anything that seems even slightly out of the norm. (Nonetheless, I still felt semi-ridiculous after the whole cat-burglar-turned-car-detailer affair.)

OK…now you can call it as you see it. In this particular scenario, would my actions fall within the “concerned neighbor” or “hysterical housewife” category?

When I get a night out on my own, the gust of air generated from me hightailing out the door can power a small town. But at the end of the night, the wind in my sails is gone and I develop a twitch in my left eye wondering what’s waiting for me on the other side of that door.

Case in point, a few nights ago I came home from a relaxing dinner with friends – greeted the husband on the couch watching tv, detected no sounds coming from either of the boys’ rooms, and surveyed a (relatively) tidy living room. All seemed well – at least that’s what I went to bed thinking.

The morning after, within ten minutes of waking up, I noticed the following in no particular order:

• scraped chin and bandaged knee on my big guy
• purplish, red bruise on the forehead of my little guy
• a handful of aquamarine splotches on the living room carpet that smelled curiously minty fresh.

The conversation that came next went something like this:

Me: What in the hell happened here last night?

Husband: What do you mean?

Me: For starters, why are the kids all banged up?

Husband: We were playing outside – they got a few scrapes – it happens.

And then he launched into his usual speech that by the time he was five, he had about a million stitches and neither of our kids have gotten any yet (pause for my knock on wood), which can only mean that they’re not living life to the fullest and are downright being deprived of fun.

Me: <MY “IT’S 6:30AM” SIGH> Well…why is there toothpaste all over the carpet?

Husband: What toothpaste?

Me: <AN ENCORE OF MY “IT’S 6:30AM” SIGH> Are you kidding me? Here…here…here…and…here.

Husband: Huh, yeah…I have no idea.

Me: Really? Huh.

Moments later, as I’m scrubbing the inexplicable toothpaste out of the carpet, I’m supposing I should be thankful that the fallout from the evening didn’t include a trip to the emergency room.