Best mom moment ever.

Like many two-year-old boys, my son struggles to verbally communicate. In fact, most of his meltdowns stem from his inability to tell me what he needs or wants. Much of the time he uses pointing and grunting to communicate, and today he used his non-verbals to melt my heart.

I was putting him in his crib for his nap, and as I set him down, he leaned into me, offering me a kiss. I was so touched. I leaned down and gave him a giant smooch on his head, and then he leaned into me again, this time wrapping his arms around me, offering me a hug. I nearly died. Never has my son offered me a kiss and hug without prompting. I couldn't believe that he initiated it.

Could. Not. Believe. It.

And here's the kicker. As I walked away from my most precious son, tears in my eyes, I said, "Oh, Henry baby, I love you so much it hurts." And you know what he said in return?

"Ouch?"

Though he didn't understand what I meant by love-you-so-much-it-hurts, he does understand that hurt and ouch go hand-n-hand.

Henry Duran Hooper, thank you for providing me with the absolute best mom moment ever.

And Henry, one more thing, Ouch, baby, ouch.

*Thank you, Gabe Taviano, for capturing this amazing picture of my son.

Non-Maternal Instincts

Mommy makeover shows are for the birds.

You know Mike Rowe, the crazy host of Dirty Jobs? Well, I'd like for him to join me for a day.

No, I take that back. Five minutes is all he would need to get some footage.

You see, yesterday, as I was rushing to get my kids out the door, I scooped up Harper and ran upstairs to change her diaper. We quickly bounced back downstairs, and as I made my way over to her car seat, I felt it. And I heard it.

Splat.

She puked. All down my back and all over the floor.

It was typical baby vomit - curdled and stinky.

And here's the best part. I was so far past the point of caring that I grabbed the grungy washcloth from the kitchen sink and haphazardly wiped it up. I didn't even change my shirt. Nor hers. Take that, Mike Rowe!

After my I-don't-care-if-I-smell-like-vom clean-up job, I grabbed my son to put on his shoes, and "Ka-Choo!"

He sneezed all over the front of my shirt, covering me with green snot boogers.

Lovely.

And once again, I grabbed the grungy, baby vomit stained washcloth. I really didn't care.

And this is why mommy makeover shows make me batty. Because they grab these snot-covered, sweatpants-wearing moms from the grocery store and transform them, making them unrecognizable through designer clothes and hair dye. But the reality is that no mother is ever going to look like that on a daily basis. And no mother is going to stop living her vomit-soaked reality because she smacked on some department store grade make-up (seriously, why is make-up sold from behind a counter under lock and key?) No practical mom is going to allow her makeover-show, fancy-expensive outfit to be covered in vomit and snot. Heck no! That's why we wear our grungy sweatpants everyday (that and because we can't fit into anything else, but that's another post).

So Oprah can go on making mommy's look all hot and stuff, but those mommy's are just going to sell those clothes on eBay when they get home. Trust me. If I looked so bad that some t.v. show producer had pity on me and awarded me with a $500 outfit from Nordstrom, I'd swap those overpriced clothes for something that could really make a difference.

A maid.

Non-Maternal Instincts

Desperate.

I was so desperate that I didn't foresee the aftermath.

Of course he was happy, so I accomplished my goal.

Yet the mess and clean-up that followed sent me right back over the edge.

But when two babies are screaming and the dog just puked up a sock, momma will do anything to bring peace.



And let's face it, chocolate is peace.

Non-Maternal Instincts

I swore I wouldn't be this way.

Having spent two years studying childhood development, specifically the personal, social, emotional, and academic development of children, I became quite disgusted with parents who overbearingly forced their children to be (or to not be) a certain way. For instance, the mom who shows up at school in hysterics when her daughter doesn't make the cheer squad in seventh grade. Yeah, it sucks and it hurts, but seriously lady, who wants this more? You or your working-on-building-self-esteem, yes-I'm-going-through-my-awkward-stage pre-teen? Dude, just give her a hug, let her shed a few tears on your shoulder, and help her move on. Don't make it worse.

And I think it can be even uglier with boys. Let's face it, most dads don't want to see their sons playing dress-up with mommy's lip gloss and stilettos. But it happens, trust me (Sorry, honey, that's just what the little guy does to stay entertained while I'm in the shower.)

But I swore I would not be that way. I would not flinch when my son started trying on my bra or asking to paint his toenails. You will not hear me say, "No, buddy, boys don't wear nail polish. Boys wear dirt and play games that result in bruises and blood shed." No, ma'am. I will let my son explore life no matter how, no matter what. Let him play with dolls and try-on jewelry. He's only a kid. So what?

Ha.

Ha.

Look what happened when I found this picture on my sister's facebook wall:

Ali Hooper

Is Henry playing with a princess crown?

about an hour ago · Delete

Morgan Nameth

He was taking the stickers off Ellas crown

about an hour ago

Ali Hooper

Okay, so he was destroying the pink princess crown? And that baby doll in the corner, I take it the boys were playing WWE and she was an innocent bystander. Am I right?

15 minutes ago · Delete

I couldn't help myself. I saw my boy, I saw the pink crown, and I just had to know. Had to.

And I swore I wouldn't be this way.

I'll just chalk this up to one more thing that I swore I wouldn't do once I became a mom. But now that I am a mom, that list was sent out with the dirty diapers. Also on that list was co-sleeping, letting my kids watch cartoons all day long, feeding my kids processed and pre-packaged foods, and allowing my kids to play with the dog food and water. I could go on and on. It was a mighty long list.

But let me make one thing clear. I will never be like that mom who freaks out when her daughter doesn't make the cheer squad. That is where I draw the line. Why? Because my daughter would never try out for cheer, that's why.

{wink}

Non-Maternal Instincts

You know you have a toddler when . . .

His forehead (and elbows, knees, shins, and hands) require you to constantly tell of his most recent tumble simply so that no one suspects you of child abuse.

Your husband comes home from a long day at work and says, "Somebody's been sitting in my chair." (Shh, don't tell.)

You experience a moment of, "Oh Dear Lord, I've lost my child!" only to find him giggling away right under your nose.

You find him watching cartoons from the most unusual of surfaces.

And in the most uncomfortable of positions.

Once again, you think that you have lost him and will surely find him knocked unconscious somewhere in your house only to find that he's wiggled his way onto the back porch and is having the time of his life.

He begins to emulate you. (You might find this to be cute at first, but it soon becomes frightening.)

Your dining room table was last seen in 2008 and can now be found buried underneath this:

You begin to accumulate items such as this:

You often find your dog communicating to you, "it wasn't me this time, I promise."

Your once well-fed dog has given up on eating and drinking for fear of what he might find in his bowl.

So instead, he has retreated to this:

Non-Maternal Instincts

Whose hair is it anyway?

We took the plunge.

We cut my son's hair.

And by "we," I mean my sister cut as I supervised and my husband took pictures (in case there was a snafu requiring photographic evidence). My sister is a professional, and by golly, no one other than an experienced, knowledgeable, and licensed hair-cutting professional was coming within a mile of my son's precious locks with $200 scissors (I'm not kidding. Her scissors cost $200. They're magical scissors).

Before I share pictures, let me back up.

Once in a blue moon, when I get my hair cut, the interaction with my sister goes something like this -

Morgan: "So what do you want done today?"

Me: "I don't care. You're the one who told me I needed a haircut."

Morgan: "I know, but do you want layers? Are you growing out your bangs? Do you want to be able to pull it back?"

Me: "Yeah, all that."

Morgan: "Seriously, Ali, you have to tell me what you want."

Me: "Okay, fine, I want the haircut that will take the least amount of time and makes me look 20 pounds lighter. Go."

Morgan: {tosses my head back in the sink, turns on scalding hot water, and shampoos my head viciously} {something tells me she is slightly annoyed}

On the contrary, when I finally broke down and agreed to have my sister (her official title is Artistic Director) (she graduated from the Vidal Sassoon Academy of L.A.) (you know, L.A., like Los Angeles, the heart of fashion) cut my son's hair, the interaction went something like this -

Me: "Okay, fine, you can trim it, but I mean trim it. Not cut it. There's a huge difference."

Morgan: "I know, Alison {it's never good when she uses my given name}; I do this for a living."

Me: "But mostly just the front; he just needs a little taken from the front. Only a little. And just a teensy bit from the back and sides. You know, just clean it up. But nothing dramatic. I don't want people to notice."

Morgan: "Okay, but he needs that hair out of his face and ears, so you're going to notice a little bit."

Me: "But then don't leave the back too long because then he'll look like he has a mullet."

Morgan: "He's not going to have a mullet."

Me: "But you don't see it every morning when he wakes up and the back is all smashed down. It sometimes looks mullet-ish."

Morgan: "Okay, Alison {oh dear, there she goes again with that Alison crap}, I'm not going to give him a mullet."

Me: "And don't you dare take off any of his curls. He can't lose his curls. Promise me you won't take any curls."

Morgan: "No curls, I promise."

Me: "I'll be so mad if you take his curls."

Morgan: {she gives me a really stern look that, when translated, means something that I cannot repeat}

Me: "Okay, I trust you."

Morgan: {still staring me down}

Me: "And just a trim."

Morgan: {still staring}

Me: "And leave the curls."

It went well. It really did. But hey, let's face it, we've all cried over a haircut before.

Oh, and for the record, I think she took a curl. I'm just sayin'.

Non-Maternal Instincts

Originally published in December, 2008

Cherries, cats, or penicillin?

Thursday night, as I was lifting my son, I noticed a blemish under his shirt. Not thinking much of it, I lifted up my son's shirt, and HOLY CROW! What is this? What in God's name is going on here?

My son's usually smooth and pale-peach belly was covered in dots! He was spotted! My baby boy's spots were bright pink, round, and most importantly, there were hundreds of them!

I rolled up his pant legs, and spots! I scrunched up his sleeves, and spots! I pulled down the neck of his shirt - spots! Spots! Spots! Everywhere!

They were overtaking him. And I had no idea why.

Fever - nope. Was he itchy - nada. Respiratory symptoms – nothin’. Just stinkin' dots everywhere.

So naturally I freaked out. And then I checked his temp again (no fever). So I freaked out some more.

And amidst all the freakin’ out, I managed to narrow down the causes of the mystery dots to three things: cherries, cats, and penicillin.

He had cherries for the first time on Thursday. He pet a cat for the first time on Thursday. And just a couple days prior to Thursday, he was on a penicillin-laced antibiotic.

But after speaking with everyone and their mother (and my mother, and my husband’s mother), I (we) decided that the most likely cause of the mystery spots was the antibiotic.

But, crap. That’s scary, right? Because after the hives comes shortness of breath and then comes wheezing and then comes anaphylactic shock and then, AHHHH! This is scary stuff.

Not to mention my son’s belly looks like a fourteen-year-old boy’s face during wrestling season. Minus the pus. Thank God there’s no pus.

But he’s spotted. Very spotted. And I want my smooth, pale peach baby back.

Dear Lord of all things pure,

HELP! My baby boy is covered in spots! Have you seen him? It’s bad, no? And please don’t tell me it’s not, because I don’t want to turn into one of those moms who freaks out about the littlest thing and all her friends roll their eyes because, “oh, here she goes again, freakin’ out because the baby sneezed.” Too late, you say? Darn.

But this is worth freakin’ out about. Did you ever find Baby Jesus covered in spots? Can you ask Mary? What did she do? Because her baby was perfect. I mean, my baby is perfect. But her baby was perfect-perfect. So was she freakin’?

The nice lady at the pharmacy recommended an oatmeal bath to soothe my baby's spotted skin, but I’m leaning toward holy water – got some you can sprinkle across his belly? Thanks, that’d be great.

Oh, and before I forget. Thanks for holding off on the pus. Which reminds me, is it to early to start praying that my son never comes home with any of that?

Non-Maternal Instincts

This is why I pray for a self-cleaning baby.
 

Baby, I don't blame you, chocolate should be smeared madly across the face . . .

. . . hands, arms . . .

. . . legs and body.

Frankly, I'm jealous that I don't give myself the freedom and opportunity to eat chocolate like that more often (if ever). God knows I wear enough of it on my hips, why not make it my elbows and knees while I'm at it.

But the difference between you and me, son, is that I have the ability to clean myself. As for you, well, it is up to my ability to clean you. 

And that is why this chocolate-covered pretzel debacle drives me wonky. 

Not to mention that too-cute-for-words mini Buckeye chair (equipped with a cup holder!), and your brand-spankin' new blue onesie that makes you look more precious than I could have ever imagined. Yes, those things don't clean themselves either.

So one teeny, tiny chocolate-covered pretzel disaster later (thank you, mother, for indulging him), I'm busy at work cleaning baby, baby chair, baby clothes, and myself (because chocolate-covered baby equals chocolate-covered mommy).

It's days like this that I thank God for warm weather and a sturdy hose.

Non-Maternal Instincts

Because Honor Student bumper stickers make me batty.

We are women. We compare. Everything.

And it only gets worse when we become mothers.

We pretend it doesn't, but oh-does-it-ever. 

We've all heard the advice from pediatricians, counselors, friends, relatives, websites, teachers: "All children are different and develop differently at different rates. They have different strengths and weaknesses."

But we let that advice go in one ear and out the other. We see the freak show one-year-old prodigy on Oprah - a mere baby who can name and locate all 50 states and capitals while balancing Tiffany china spinning on her head.

Admit it. You DVRed it and had it ready to play for your husband when he got home. And then you rushed out to the bookstore and bought a mural-sized map of the United States so that you could immediately start teaching your lil' smartypants a wealth of good for nothing knowledge. Seriously, when's the last time you referenced the location of Cheyenne, Wyoming? (My deepest apologies if I offended all seventeen people living in the Western frontier.) 

So why do we do it? Why do we compare?

I'm terribly guilty of it. There is a little girl at our church who is two weeks older than my son. She can sign and sing and dance and speak and skip - on command. My son can grunt. And grunt some more. I'm learning that "uh" means more and "eh" means more, please. So technically my child can communicate quite well, thank you very much, but dang it's hard not to speed dial the pediatrician for reassurance that my son is not actually a caveman (my son's ped has the number three speed dial slot, second to my son's shrink and stylist - you know, just in case the little dude is having a bad day and needs to reconnect with his happy place or look good to boost his confidence).

Honestly, I wish I could bottle up my son's innocence. If he could talk, he would absolutely tell you that he wants to be a garbage man when he grows up. My son is fascinated by trucks. Every Wednesday morning we stand outside waiting for the garbage truck to come, and when it finally does, my son is captivated. I can see it in his eyes, "Holy moly, flinging trash in a giant abyss behind the back of a humongous truck is COOL!" 

But at some point my backward influence and society's flesh-eating ways taint him and he begins to believe that it's not cool. 

But does it really matter if my son is a garbage man? To whom? Not to God. I've looked. The Bible doesn't say a darn thing about job rankings or salary scales. God doesn't care if your child makes a dollar or one hundred thousand. All He cares about is intent. Is he/she glorifying God as he flings garbage or performs a heart transplant?

So in an attempt to teach my son that he really can be ANYTHING he wants to be when he grows up, regardless of status, prestige, or fame (and regardless of what the little church girl grows up to be), I'll have to start renaming these photos in his baby book. 

Chris Spielman in training - Watch out, Michigan!

My future scholarly professor

The next Dog Whisperer

Ty Pennington, here he comes!

Michael Phelps in training (God, I hope not!)

My future economist (hopefully not in this economy!)

A mini Larry Byrd

On his way to win the Kentucky Derby

Because worst case scenario is really best case scenario. My son doesn't amount to one of these, rather he turns out perfectly handsome, respectable, mannerly, and God-fearing, just like his Daddy.

Amen!

Non-Maternal Instincts

BMB - Parenting skillz that will save your life.

I'm not above bribery. I'm not above manipulation. And I'm certainly not above blackmail.

I'm a mother and a wife. Aren't these the skills that mothers and wives have learned (out of necessity, of course) to do frighteningly well?

Before you judge me, take this quiz.

1. Have you ever said to your child, "If you eat the disgusting dinner I nuked in the microwave nutritious meal I graciously prepared, then you can have a scoop of the ice cream that I bought (only because I had a coupon - do you really think this green momma would buy her children ice cream just because? Okay, yes she would; she's not above that either)?
   
2. Have you ever said to your husband, "Wow, you really are getting stronger. Is that definition that I see penetrating your beer belly flat abdomen? Oh, by the way, I spent $65 on shampoo, but like I was saying, you are looking so buff these days." (But in my defense, I get my hair done for pennies because my sister is a stylist, so I can splurge on fancy shampoo, dang-it)?
3. Have you ever said to the members of your household, "If you dare tell a soul about Mommy's little chin hair problem, I will post these pictures across the Internets like nobody's business" {flashes pictures of the boys playing with sister's Barbies}?

If you answered yes to these questions, and you know you did, then you, like me, use bribery, manipulation, and blackmail as a means to always getting your way lifesaving parenting tools. 

So the other day, when my son was a bit fussier than I wanted to deal with, I pulled out a special treat that some might argue is inappropriate for a young child of his age (and they call themselves experts; what do they know).

A bright blue sugar ball on a stick (also known as a sucker).

And boy, did it work!

"Look, Mom, I'm happy now."

You know it's good when you drool blue.

"See, Mom, sugar and sharp sticks in the mouth make everything better."

"That was delicious, can I have another?"

"What do you mean it's all gone???"

"No more? Say it ain't so."

So what I didn't prepare for was the even fussier baby I would have after the sucker was all sucked away. 

I never said that bribery, manipulation, and blackmail never backfire. 

But what I am learning is that when my mad parenting skillz do backfire {swallowing pride}, I simply need to be prepared with another equally deceptive brilliant form of BMB (bribery, manipulation, blackmail). 

Caffeine-laden, cotton-candy-filled chocolate marshmallows, anyone?