A Boy and His Dog

I had a good thing going. It was easy. It was simple. It gave The Boy such satisfaction: the relationship he had with his beloved blue sidekick, a ragtag little dog named Bobo. I'm not sure who passed this small stuffed gift-from-God to him the day of my/his baby shower, but I know that they probably had no idea at the time what effect that precious pooch would have on Matt. Bobo is a trusted friend, never far from his side when duty calls: bedtime, belly aches, even stealing away in his backpack and secretly hanging out at preschool a few times last year when Matt was still unsure of the whole "higher education" thing.

Their pairing started out like this. A sweet, quiet and cuddly something to catch a few zzz's with.

As time passed and The Boy grew older, Bobo became a wrestling buddy.



Matt's down.



Bobo's down.



I don't think a move like that is sanctioned.



Love again.

The Boy grew older still and we decided to bring him to the land of his (partial) heritage. For fear of many sleepless nights, we paid for a seat for Bobo, and he travelled the countryside with us.

Bobo napping in the rental.

Bobo in Florence.

Bobo at The Vatican. They wouldn't let him in (pants are required).

Bobo at the Coliseum.

Bobo and The Boy, looking longingly at the land of their ancestors. Wind in their hair and all.

This dog has been faithful, loyal, obedient, and respectful of all things MINE. He never once dug a hole, peed in my living room, tore through a sofa cushion, decapitated a garden hose, or rendered an innocent screen door a doggie-door with his own brute force. So why, I ask you, WHY (other than my own stupidity and guilt over the ridiculous "only-child" thing), would I purchase THIS?!

Miss Ruby. Part good dog/part Lucifer.

The moral of this story, my friends: if you ever feel guilt over not giving your kid a flippin' sibling, get over yourself. The child will survive. Your sofa and your garden hose, on the other hand...

I'm Not A Perfect Mommy, but I'm Better Than Betty Draper

I've had mommy guilt since the day Matt was born. It started with the fact that he spent his first 10 days of life in the NICU, often without me (doctor's orders), as I recovered from bed rest. How weird is it that total strangers are caring for your little one in some far-off hospital while you're at home, lying down, watching NYPD Blue? Part of me was relieved that I had some sort of grace period--now that my guy was here and healthy--in which to gain back my strength (four months of living horizontally makes a body pretty wobbly) and maybe squirrel away some sleep before I was the main provider of everything this child might need, including midnight feedings.

When he got home, the guilt seemed to weave its way through many areas of my parenting. After much angst, and despite the LaLeche proponents of the world screaming "breast milk is best," I waved the white flag and gave up on breastfeeding three weeks into it. My little preemie just didn't seem to have the hang of it and I was obsessed over how much nourishment he was actually getting. The weight of the world (at least most of it) dropped off my shoulders when the wonderful, straight-to-the-point, no-nonsense Nurse Maureen at Matt's pediatrician's office looked at me during a well-visit and said (in her now-familiar sarcastic tone), "Contrary to popular belief, your child will survive and thrive if you formula-feed him." I so appreciated that candor, and went straight to the store on our way home to pick up some Good Start.

Of course, as soon as I closed the book on that issue, another one surfaced. The next guilt party arose when I met with a new moms group for the first time. Matt was probably about seven months old and was a wonderful baby. He was rarely sick, no colic (no major issues, in fact, beyond spitting up), but boy, the kid just would not sleep through the night. Sadly for him, he was born to a mother who needs about eight hours to feel her Doris Day-best. I was exhausted and a bit cranky. I'll never forget when one of those perky "my-baby-started-sleeping-through-the-night-at-two-months" moms approached me at this meet-and-greet, and put the question before me: "Isn't this just the most fabulous and beautiful thing you've ever done?!" I looked at her like she was from another planet. At that point I thought she was either high on Red Bull or just someone I could never relate to. And it got worse. If she had just once during our conversation said something with a note of the exasperation I was feeling, like "Ugh, my boobs hurt" or "I just need a minute to myself!" or even "I don't know what the hell I'm doing!!!" I would've forgiven her her overwhelming enthusiasm, but as it was, I never returned to that group of Stepford Mommies. And of course, the fact that I wanted to slap her silly made me feel guilty. Why didn't I feel that way?

That was over three years ago, and my miscalculations haven't stopped. I've been fumbling around this thing called motherhood since Day 1 on the job, trying to figure out which philosophies I agree with and which I don't. According to the books, I make plenty of parenting mistakes. Matt goes to bed too late. 8 pm is as early as we can get him there, because dad needs a little father-son time after he gets home. I let him watch too much TV. He makes his pointer-finger-and-thumb into a play gun and I don't freak out. He's heard Lady Gaga, though I have (I think) explained my way out of some questionable lyrics. And I yell. I'm pretty sure I'm the reincarnation of a 1950's mom, whose parenting style is more let-the-kids-play-while-I-cook-and-clean-and-talk-to-my-girlfriends than let's-make-robots-out-of-toilet-paper-rolls-together. If I liked martinis, I just might have one every now and then (as long as I wasn't driving to a play date, of course), and yes, I enjoy wearing kitschy aprons while cooking. If my own mom had written a book on child-rearing, she'd probably say I'm right on target. My mom didn't though, and all the info coming at me from today's parenting magazines and the Mommy Gurus is that all of the above is inappropriate. In the past, that made me feel rather uneasy.

I'm tired of feeling guilty, though, and I'm turning over a new leaf. As someone once told me, guilt is a wasted emotion, so as I embark on my 40th year on the planet, and my fourth year as President and CEO of Matt, Inc., I'm embracing a new philosophy. Whether I sit on the floor and play with him for hours on end, or enjoy a mere 30 minutes of mom-and-Matt time before I delve back into other things--things I perhaps enjoy more than lining up Thomas trains for a journey through Sodor--I will not regret how I raise my son. I will love him with my entire being (easy!), I will continue to smother him in hugs and kisses on a daily basis, I will do his "Frankenstein" dance whenever he asks me too, and I will nurture him in my own way. And I will without a doubt go a little easier on myself and embrace the fact that I am a good mom. After all, I love my son, and at the very least, I'm a heck of a lot better than Betty Draper.

Having a Moment, or Not

One random day earlier this month, after a very long and trying afternoon, Matthew and I were finally getting into a solid groove by the time the just-before-bed routine rolled around. I finished up dinner, got the little man into the shower off the kitchen (I don't need to watch his every move, but I like to hear what he's up to), and straightened up the war zone that had become my house just a few hours earlier, throwing every kind of toy and book into the nearest appropriate basket, bin or box. I let him play his customary write-a-story-on-the-shower-door-with-a-squirt-gun game for a few minutes before I ventured in to shampoo, soap, and rinse.

Water off. I wrapped the boy in a towel, and while I carried him upstairs to his room, Matt requested that for the remainder of the evening, I refer to him as a troll. Ah, okay. So I powdered the troll (I have a thing for the smell of Johnson's baby powder at bedtime; I'm sure he'll be dodging talcum squirts from his Mom well into his teen years), put on his jammies, and let him watch a show, then brought him back into his room for some quiet time.

We most likely read some sort of brainwashing material about staying in his own bed all night ("Back to Bed, Ed" by Sebastien Braun is my new favorite) or sharing, played a little bit, got him his requisite seltzer-and-a-snack, brushed his teeth, and then I tucked him in. He smelled so sweet, and his face was cuter-than-cute that night: eyes a soft green and his little brown hair all fluffy from the shower. He looked up at me and said "Mom, sing me a lullaby." Seriously, could it get any more "Little House"?

So I sang him "You Are My Sunshine," and as he usually does, he sang along softly with me. After such a crazy day, it was a moment that was so welcome. I was trying not to get all weepy while looking at this beautiful little boy who was singing these sweet words back to me. I was so in love. And then it happened. We finished our duet, and he paused for a moment. I could have sworn that a Disney-like twinkle reflected off his eye. He looked up at me with a smile, touched my cheek with his palm, and said, "Mom, I wish I had Leo's mother." Yup. That's right. With that, it was lights out.

And it just makes me think: this is what motherhood is all about. Looking into your child's eyes and connecting in a way only you and he or she can, thinking this is my life's purpose, this child right here. Then being knocked on your arse the next minute, and having to laugh through it all. Because if you didn't have a sense of humor before becoming a mommy, you darn well better find one now.