It’s pretty safe to assume that at some point “potty talk” will worm its way into all kids’ vocabularies. And we parents act stern, while maybe holding back giggles ourselves, because “we don’t use words like that.” And “potty talk does not belong at the table.” Because, regardless of what we did as kids, it’s a parent’s job to reign in the potty talk. It’s just what we do.

So the other night, my husband and I enjoyed a nice dinner out with friends. As usual, the men and women both congregated into our respective groups, and launched deep into conversation. As the men joked around and debated which Star Wars film is the very best, we women talked and talked and talked…mainly about our kids.

It wasn’t until we’d already spent a good twenty minutes comparing potty training notes and tips and horror stories that we realized we’d been speaking very loudly. About poop. And various other potty-related topics…all while surrounded by many other people trying to enjoy their dinners. Oops.

“No potty talk at the table” we tell our kids? Apparently, “Do as I say not as I do” is more appropriate!

Sorry, fellow diners!

Posted by Shannon, a Dot-arilla Blogger

One month ago, my husband and I started our Lamaze class. I was 33 weeks pregnant and loving it. Mine has been an admittedly easy pregnancy with minimal morning sickness, no complications, and weight gain centered where it should be—my middle. At 33 weeks, I sometimes struggled to catch my breath or maintain my balance, but I was wearing any pair of shoes I wanted, delighted in watching and feeling my baby move inside me, and eagerly decorating a nursery. I remember that first day of class hearing some of the women further along say, “I just want it to end” and thinking to myself that I could never possibly feel the same way.

Well, I was wrong. The class is now over, the nursery is finished, and all the gifts from our baby shower have been put away. It’s a little like those days between Christmas and New Year’s: a state of suspension waiting on the “Next Big Thing.” And yet, it’s so much worse than that! Not only am I suspended between events, but I’m uncomfortable to boot. My feet and hands and face have swelled with excess fluid and, far from wearing “any shoe I want,” I’m stuck with the same pair of Croc flip-flops day after day. I sleep on a mound of six pillows every night to keep the fluid from pooling in my face, and I spend my evenings with a hot pad wrapped around my back and three throw pillows beneath my feet. I pout regularly.

And yet, I know this is a time to treasure. A time to revel in my husband’s closeness and my little girl’s still-developing life inside of me. I know that all too soon, my “couple time” with my husband will be much rarer and my little girl will one day grow up to tell me all the things I did wrong in raising her. But for now—despite the swollen feet and sore back—I have my husband all to myself and my little girl is still safely and lovingly stowed away inside me.  These things alone are worth putting off the Big Event a little while longer.

Posted by Stacy, a Dot-arilla Blogger

When I was small, I always felt very badly for the kids in school who had summer birthdays. They never got to bring in treats to share with the class. They never got to sit there(slightly mortified) while their peers sang a birthday song just for them. Birthday party invitations couldn’t just be brought to school and handed out. “I will never,” I proclaimed, “Have a kid with a summer birthday. Those kids have got it rough.”

Fast forward (quite) a few years, and…I’ve got TWO kids with summer birthdays. Less than a month apart. How did I let this happen??

I carried those pitying feelings for poor summer-born kids right up until it came time to plan my daughter’s first birthday party. And that’s when I realized the power of the summer birthday: you can hold it outdoors! Picnics! Swimming pools! Bonfires! …I wouldn’t have to clean my house!

To say my husband and I have embraced the summer birthday would be an understatement. We’ve taken the old bit of truth about first and second (and third?) birthday parties being more for the parents than the kids, and run with it.

That first party was a doozy. “We never did have a housewarming party,” we reasoned. “This can take its place!” “It’s outside, we don’t have to worry about how many people we invite,” we said. “She’s only going to turn one once,” we rationalized. And then we proceeded to hold a (wonderfully) massive backyard barbecue birthday party for our sweet girl ourselves. It was crazy and festive and a whole bunch of fun.

And we really, really want to do it again this summer when our son turns one. Three weeks after his sister’s birthday.

Which is why we’d decided that this year, her fourth, would be the year we begin hosting a small, simple “kid” party for our daughter. We figured we’d let her invite a couple friends, play some games, eat some cake—you know, keep things simple.

And then, last week over lunch, our girl announced that she wanted to have a garden party for her birthday. “We’ll need ribbons and bows and flowers EVERYWHERE!” she said. “And I’ll invite everyone I like and they’ll all dress up!” She went on to outline her ideal menu (dessert-heavy) and flesh out her guest list (well over 30 when all was said and done) while I dutifully took notes (humoring her.)

 Now obviously, we’re not going to indulge EVERY party whim our daughter has, and we’ll be cutting her guest list down to a third or so, but she was so sweet as she relayed all her very special plans that we’ve agreed to a slightly larger party than we originally had in mind.

Which is making it a little tough to rationalize the raging blow-out we want to throw for ourselves our son just three short weeks later. Hmmm…we never did have that housewarming party…

Posted by Shannon, a Dot-arilla Blogger

I’ve mentioned here before that my daughter often wears kitty ears and a tail for most of the day. Her ears are a simple construction paper project she and I did together. We actually made the ears a couple years ago, and though she is incredibly careful with them, they are made from construction paper…so they’ve certainly seen better days.

It became time to make new ears…but how to convince her to give up her beloved pink and black paper pair?

The tail she wears is basically a strip of knit pink yarn (think tiny scarf) that she tucks into the back of her pants and skirts. I decided that some knit ears would be a perfect match for her tail…and much more durable than construction paper! So, as phase one of Project Kitty Ear Replacement, I innocently took her along on a trip to the yarn store. As we walked through the store, feeling the soft yarns and exclaiming over the beautiful colors, I started a conversation about which yarn she thought would make the best kitty fur. She immediately latched onto a soft, fuzzy burnt orange yarn, gushing “Oh! A ginger kitty! That’s the best kind!”

Luckily for me, she’s (practically) four, and completely ok with the idea of buying a skein of yarn just because it reminds you of a cuddly ginger kitty. (Oh, who am I kidding? I’m in my thirties, and I’m completely ok with the idea as well.) Anyway, I got the yarn home, and began experimenting on the sly with some ear shapes and styles that would allow her to slip them on a headband just like her trusty paper ears. 

Once I had perfected the design, it didn’t take long to whip up a pair of fuzzy ginger kitty ears one night while she was sleeping. I decided the best way to (hopefully) replace her paper ears would be to just leave the new ears for her to discover on her own when she got up in the morning. I left them at her place on our kitchen table, where she would see them at breakfast, and I crossed my fingers she wouldn’t toss them straight into the bottom of her dress up trunk.

Really, I had no reason to worry.

When she got up the next day, she walked directly to them like she had kitty radar…and froze. Her eyes got huge, and she wordlessly looked up to see whether they were really for her or not. Her daddy gave her the go-ahead, and she pretty much wore them for the next four days straight (taking them carefully off to sleep, of course.)

A few days later, she and I were chatting over lunch, and she said “You know what’s funny, Mama? …I wear my new ginger ears, and I still wear my old tail. Even though it’s pink.”

(pause, pause)

“…would you like me to make you a ginger tail, Baby?”

“YES! YES! YES!”

And back to the knitting needles I go!

When my daughter walked for the first time, it was a beautiful summer day. My husband and I sat across from each other in soft green grass and took turns alternately holding her up and encouraging her to walk the three small steps over to us. Eventually, magically, she took those steps, and we all beamed at each other and gushed over how brilliant she was.

Such is life with your first child.

My son took his first steps the other day. I think. I mean, when I looked in to check on him in the family room, he was standing there grinning at me from near the coffee table, at a completely different angle than he would have been if he’d simply been leaning on the table. And he was a foot and half or so away from the table too—so I’m pretty sure he walked there. Or maybe he just stood up without holding onto anything? That would be a first too. Well, either way, he almost definitely had some sort of first that day. And it only took me until the next night to remember to tell my husband about it, at which point we beamed at each other and gushed over how brilliant he is.

 Such is life with subsequent children.

Posted by Shannon, a Dot-arilla Blogger

With a little over three weeks to go until D-Day, I’ve spent increasing amounts of time in my baby’s new nursery. A large bay window lets in lots of sunlight, brown satin drapes shimmer against pale pink walls, and a light aroma of baby powder  drafts from the diaper cake I received at my baby shower. A white metal bird cage with toy canaries hangs from the wall in the corner, the Moses basket holds fluffy blankets and a set of three cloth ducks, and the new shag rug invites toe curling. But by far the highlights of the room are a dark wooden toy box and matching rocker. These were my husband’s contributions to our little one’s nursery and I’ve never seen him so proud of anything in his life.

I’ll admit I wasn’t sure how he’d take to the idea of building a toy box and staining a hand-me-down rocking chair. Though he eagerly took every other shop class available to him in high school, he avoided woodworking class like the plague, too impatient to bother with carefully sanding each piece of wood. But within an hour of me broaching the idea to him over dinner, he had me packed in the car and on my way to Home Depot to shop for lumber, circular saws, stain finishes, and other supplies.

The projects ended up being more involved than I think either of us anticipated. For nearly an entire month, my sunporch was requisitioned as a workshop and fumes from the stain and wood managed to creep in despite closed and locked windows and doors. My husband sanded and stained only to find that he needed to sand and stain all over again. But he didn’t complain. Far from it. He rather seemed to enjoy himself sweating out in the sunporch getting fume headaches. It was his way of nesting, the best thing he had to begin bonding with our soon-to-be daughter. Each minute he spent working on that toy box and rocking chair was another minute he spent thinking about her and how she would use the furniture and the kind of person she would grow up to be. And now, spending a part of each day in her room, these are the things I most enjoy touching.

Posted by Stacy, a Dot-arilla Blogger

For the past couple years, my daughter (Eva) has spent most of her days insisting we call her by whatever name she’s dreamed up for herself. Among others, we’ve had periods of “Evie Cat,” “Gina Kitty,” “Jen,” “Carol,” and “Fancy Cat.” She’s been many different kitties, duckies, puppies, meerkats, chickadees, and bats…not to mention multiple characters from her favorite story books. At her kindergarten (4K) screening last week, she introduced herself to the school secretary as “Kitty.”

And it’s not just her own monikers she’s been dictating—each morning (and then many more times throughout the day) she announces roles for the rest of us. I’ve spent so much time as Mama Cat (or Mama Kitty), it’s become somewhat of a nickname. And her little brother has been dubbed “Wayne.” (Don’t ask me where that one came from.) However, this all pales in comparison to the personas she’s been coming up with lately.

Last week, she proclaimed herself to be a “Fancy Pirate Kitty Princess.” (And if you give her a minute (or 10), she’ll share with you an entire back story to go along with that name.) Pretty much any multi-word combination of “kitty, fancy, ducky, princess, fairy, and Ariel the Mermaid” will do. And she often throws in a few “robots” and “ninjas” for good measure. I’m beginning to have trouble keeping up!

I couldn’t be happier about her active imagination. I just need to hire a consultant to create a database of names so I know what to call my daughter when it’s time for lunch.

Posted by Shannon, a Dot-arilla Blogger

I’m usually not a boxed cake mix kind of girl—I tend to make our food from scratch, and there’s just something about a homemade cake. Yum. I’ve been known to make innocent recipes much, much more complicated than they need to be because “I can make that myself—why buy it?”

However.

These Pineapple Cupcakes are so light and tasty and perfectly simple just as they are…I don’t even mind buying a boxed cake mix to make them. (I do, however, whip the cream to put on top of them—highly recommended!)

Pineapple Cupcakes

(Makes 24-30 cupcakes)

These cupcakes are delicious as written below, or they can be enhanced by the addition of ½ cup shredded coconut to the batter. Create a beautiful display for your baby shower by adding a few fresh berries or flowers to the top of the whipped cream and presenting the cakes in these cupcake pedestals  or this tiered cupcake stand  from SimplyBabyStuff.com

1 (16 oz) package angel food cake mix

1 (20 oz) can crushed pineapple with juice

Whipped cream to top

Preheat the oven to 350º F. Line a muffin tin with cupcake papers (or, alternately, spray a 9×13” pan with cooking spray.) In a large bowl, combine the cake mix and pineapple  (with juice) and stir until it’s well blended. Fill the cupcake papers 2/3 full with cake batter, and bake 15-25 minutes until the tops are golden brown. (Refrigerate the remaining cake batter until you’re ready to bake the next batch of cupcakes.) Remove the cupcakes to a rack and cool completely. Serve topped with a dollop of (real!) whipped cream.

Yum.

Posted by Shannon, a Dot-arilla Blogger

When we first decided to start a family, my husband and I were foolish enough to think that the hard part of raising baby would be sharing our religious beliefs with her, teaching her how to love and respect others, instilling within her a proper moral compass. We spent hours talking about how we wanted to approach discipline, what we would answer when asked questions like “Where do babies come from,” and which examples from our parents we wanted to mirror and which we wanted to avoid.

Silly us! We have since learned the hardest part of raising baby may very well be how to glean important safety information while weeding out unnecessary causes of panic. It started with the H1N1 vaccine. My OB said, “Get it.” My family practice doctor said, “Get it.” Almost 100% of the mommy discussion boards (as well as most of my friends) said, “DON’T get it!” After doing some research ourselves, we got it.

That decision was fairly easy to make; two very trusted physicians recommended I get the vaccine (one of them was pregnant herself at the time and had also gotten the vaccine). Others are more tricky. For instance, there’s the range of options in baby monitors. Do I want a monitor to tell me my baby’s breathing movements or am I okay with sound only? (I decided I’d be worried enough without laying awake watching the movements monitor.) After reading that used breast pumps are an absolte “no-no,” I returned the one I’d borrowed from a friend and added a new one to my registry. If I really scrubbed all those tiny tubes well enough, it’d probably be okay. But I know me; those tiny little tubes are not going to be scrubbed well enough. Then there’s the issue of paint. We’d found some paint samples we liked but a friend told us we really should get VOC-free paint for the nursery; it’s a little more expensive but not much and we figured it’d be alright. And it was—except that when we put it on our wall it was definitely not a “pink reef” shade but more a “lilac fields.” So, VOC paint it is; hopefully the room will be aired out and our daughter won’t be a wall licker. We’re still on the fence about our used crib mattress, though. Some sources say new mattresses off-gas, which may cause SIDS; others say used mattresses have bacteria in them, which may cause SIDS. I’m in favor of buying a new one but my husband, the finance guy, is in favor of keeping the used one. We’ll have to see what other expenses add up before we decide.

Ultimately, parents can’t control everything. Sure you can buy that all-natural organic wool rug for the nursery, but what will you do when you’re visiting out-of-town relatives with (gasp!) synthetically dyed rugs? It’s a balancing act, and all you can do is your best.

Posted by Stacy, a Dot-arilla Blogger

Holy cats. Ok. I know I say this a lot. A lot, a lot. But seriously? I am tired. Amazingly, I have discovered something that drains this mama’s energy (And has caused me to whine even more! Unprecedented!) way faster than a  newly-mobile infant who seems intent on injuring himself hourly combined with a three-and-a-half year old who never. Stops. Talking.

I’ve spent the past week and a half being the “Official Nose Wiper” for not one, not two, but three individuals, simultaneously. And people…the mucus is winning.

Somehow, both kids and I caught a Spring cold at the same time—we each took turns nursing a sore throat and a fever…then the snot arrived. And it will not leave! My pockets are bulging with soggy handkerchiefs, and there is a string of used tissues marking my trail through our house, Hansel and Gretel style. I have to wrestle the baby down to the mat each and every time I take a swipe at his nose, and his sister can’t seem to master the idea of blowing through her nose as opposed to her mouth, so each blow requires about five takes.

Both of my children (and myself) have raw, red noses and chapped upper lips from all the wiping. And still, the kids (and not myself) (I swear) have perpetual slimy booger tracks smeared on their faces. If we venture into public (Give me a break—it had been a week and a half, we needed groceries!), other people give us a wide berth…and slightly horrified glances.

I realize I probably shouldn’t base my worth as a mother on my ability to keep my kids’ noses wiped…but come on! I should be able to handle this! I think I’m going to file this whole ordeal in the “Things I Should Have Been Given a Heads Up About Before I Ventured Into Parenting” file.

I’ll put it right next to that time I had to clean grapes-and-hotdog vomit out of my washing machine…right after having been puked upon. Twice.

Posted by Shannon, a Dot-arilla Blogger