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

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

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

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

With today’s modern technology, every parent-to-be finds themself wondering whether or not they should ask to learn the baby’s gender before giving birth. When I told my grandpa at Christmas that we intended to learn our baby’s gender, his response was, “Oh, c’mon now! Don’t do that.”

There’s a lot to be said for the fun of suspense and the playfulness of making the announcement. But just because you want to know your baby’s gender (after all, there’s a lot of shopping to be done!) doesn’t mean that you have to miss out on any of that. Since neither of us are phone chatters, my husband and I agonized over how to tell everyone what we were having…until a friend of mine told me about “Gender Reveal” parties.

The concept is very basic. Bake a cake using the color that corresponds to what you’re having (pink or blue), frost it all over with gender-neutral frosting, and keep the gender a secret until the big cake-cutting moment arrives. Everyone had such a great time at my Gender Reveal (we titled ours “A Celebration of Chromosomes”), that other pregnant friends have also decided to throw their own cake-cutting parties. And we got a few small gifts out of the deal.

Posted by Stacy, a Dot-arilla Blogger

(Our friend’s Gender Reveal party featured these cake balls, catered by The Sweet Touch.)

When I was a girl, I had a pet cat who looked just like a black and white spotted cow. Naturally, I named her Bessie. Bessie lived to be an unprecedented nineteen years old…and just this past week, my parents had to put her to sleep.

By the time my own kids met Bessie, she was well into her “old lady” days—a gentle, fragile kitty who spent most of her days sleeping next to a heat register. But still, she was a cat…and to my kitty-loving daughter, that fact was enough to endear Bessie to her forever (she even named one of her own stuffed kitties “Bessie.”)

When my mom told me that Bessie was gone, I knew I had to prepare my daughter for the next time we visited Grammy’s house: she was sure to notice Bessie was missing. Death, however, can be a tricky topic to discuss with an almost-four-year-old. And, while death is not a new topic for her, this was a cat she’d actually known, and I expected a string of questions about what happens when we die and why people die and when will we see Bessie again?

So last week, with a trip to Grammy’s looming in the coming weekend, I took a deep breath, and told my daughter that Bessie had died. Bracing myself for the question barrage, I watched the wheels turn in her head.

And then my sweet, sweet girl said something that just blew me away. She said, after much thought, “Oh. Grammy must be sad. I bet she misses Bessie. But I’ll tell her it’s ok, because when I come and visit, she’s got me. And I can pretend to be Bessie for her.”

I just sat there, bursting with pride over her empathy and thoughtfulness…while snorting back laughter over her very simple solution to her Grammy’s problem.

And, believe it or not, she’s never yet asked a single question about why Bessie died.

Posted by Shannon, a Dot-arilla Blogger

As her brother has been more and more mobile,  my daughter (Eva) has become increasingly concerned about her stuff. She spends a good amount of time moving her things out of her brother’s path, and putting small items (or what she deems to be small items) up on shelves and tables, “so he doesn’t eat them.”

Eva’s always been very specific about where she keeps her belongings and exactly how they should be organized…but having her brother (whom we lovingly refer to as The Wrecking Ball) around has driven those tendencies to new heights.

Case in point: the other day, as I was changing my son’s (poopy) diaper, I noticed something bright pink and shiny…um…mixed in. I did a huge double-take, and then discovered that he’d apparently found a sequin on the floor at some point. (Yummy.) I laughed out loud, which caught Eva’s attention, and she came running into the room to find out what was so funny. When I told her about the sequin, she giggled, but then got very concerned about why I wasn’t digging it out of his diaper.

She wanted to keep it. Because it was, after all, hers.

I think this may become a problem.

How do I explain to a three year old that there are certain material possessions you REALLY need to let go of?

Posted by Shannon, a Dot-arilla Blogger

My husband and I decided last summer that it was time. Time to take the plunge, create a life, dare to be parents. I thought I was ready. I read all the fertility books, adjusted my diet to include lots of Omega 3 fatty acids, and worked out diligently.

Two months later, when the pregnancy test came back positive, I realized I wasn’t ready. My knees buckled. I couldn’t speak and cried when I handed the results to my husband.

Now, almost 8 months after that momentous day, I feel more confident but no more prepared. I laid in bed last night counting Braxton-Hicks contractions and thinking, “Oh my God, I’ve gone into per-term labor and I don’t have a bag packed.” (I hadn’t, of course; I only had two contractions in 30 minutes.)

What I’m worried about isn’t my ability to raise a little girl (yes, we’re having a girl!). I’m not worried about my husband’s ability to play dolls with her, teach her to throw a softball, or scare away unwholesome teenage boys. I’m worried that we’ll bring her home from the hospital and be missing something vitally important—that there won’t be enough onesies, that the breast pump won’t work, that our savings account will run dry and we’ll end up on the streets. I’m worried we’ll run out of diapers at 2am. I’m worried the synthetic dye in our rugs or the chemicals in our walls’ paint will send her into fits of epilepsy. I worry over whether I’m supposed to put a bib on her when she breastfeeds. I worry that not having a wipe warmer means I’m a bad mother.

But ultimately, our little girl will arrive. And ultimately, we will meet her needs and she will turn out just fine. Because ultimately, I know that we are responsible, mature adults with hearts so full of love that we needed to create another person just to keep from bursting.

Posted by Stacy, a Dot-arilla Blogger