Melissa Anne Cohen

I just cut thirty tiny hearts with a cookie cutter out of Jessie’s peanut butter sandwich for tomorrow’s lunch at school. And while it made sense before I started it, mid-way thru, I started to wonder if perhaps I was one of those scary moms who’s obsessive about her children’s happiness. But what I can say??? She doesn’t like crust, and the cookie cutter is really little, and I know she’ll be amused tomorrow when she opens her lunch.

My dad was not a dad, in any sort of good sense. He just wasn’t. But today, I celebrate three different men. In order of how they came into my life…

My grandfather. I’m the second grandchild of twenty one. And from the very beginning, the best and most important man in my world was my grandfather. Everything I learned about how a man should be, I learned from him. He was brilliant, capable, strong, loving and always made me feel as though I was perfect. He taught me to love nature, and reading and family, astronomy, playing chess. He called me chicken, which is what I call my own children. I was the oldest child of a single mom, and my mother struggled with money and time, there was never enough of either. My grandfather always made a point to take me places, he brought me to every museum in New England (and there are thousands – did you know that there is actually a museum just for canoes??), he brought me mountain climbing and star gazing.

My stepdad. Paul met my mother when I was fourteen, and has loved my mother thru so much more than any stepparent should have had to go thru. I had two younger brothers and a younger sister – and he has been constant and stable and loving and never once made us feel as though he’d rather have just had my mother. Guiding four children thru adolescence is no easy feat, and doing it with kids that you are biologically related to is probably close to impossible. But he did it. But that’s not all I’m grateful to him for – he’s been the most amazing grandfather to our children. My mother and Paul have 13 grandchildren, and from the very beginning, they all worshipped Dzidzi. He teaches them to build and hammer and demolish stuff (he’s constantly fixing something). He takes them camping and to sporting events, picks them up at school, and is just always, always there.

And last, but certainly not least – my amazing husband. Who loves his kids so much more than anyone I’ve ever met. Who’s happiest when all four of them are running around, climbing all over them. Who spends HOURS every night he’s home with a curious almost three year old, answering his questions, acting out elaborate plotlines from Batman, and reading story after story. Who struggled to connect with a tiny two year old princess who loved Mommy more than anything – and finally figured out that whacking her with a pillow and letting her slam him back could be the foundation of a beautiful relationship. He’s never not willing to change a diaper, get a drink, dress a barbie, build an uzi out of legos, console a crabby pre-teen girl, or cuddle a miserable eight year old. There are many, many reasons that I love my husband – but one of the first and most important has always been the way he fathers his children.

I’m incredibly lucky – I may have struck out on the surface with it comes to Father’s Day – but I have three of most incredible men who have taught me so much about what being a father is really all about.

Sam will be three in a matter of weeks (amazing to me, my baby is going to be THREE) and he’s shown NO indication that he wants to stop nursing. And I’m perplexed and unsure as to how to proceed. I want very much to stop nursing. I’m really ready to move on – I’d like to get pregnant in the next couple of months, I’d like to have my body be just mine for a little bit. But he just really loves it.

When he was born, he was such a little disaster, cried and cried and cried all the time. He was in the ER at least four times before he was four months old, because I couldn’t figure out why he was crying. After a diagnosis of colic and reflux, and the associated meds for the reflux, it got better, but he was still really just miserable for the first six or seven months. And literally, the only thing that made him calm was nursing. And the ceiling fan – he LOVED that ceiling fan. But he learned very early that nursing made him feel better and his preferred place has always been at my breast. He didn’t nap for more than ten or fifteen minutes unless I was sitting in a rocking chair and nursing him thru it. I could get him to sleep for three or four hours, as long as I sat still and held him. He hated the carriage, putting him in the car – I literally felt as though I was abusing him by taking him anywhere in the car, he’d just scream and scream. I’m not exaggerating, I don’t think. It really was that bad.

Now he’s this sunshiney little bundle of boyhood, happy and content, drinks from a cup, eats everything he can – but still loves his “oobies.” He can easily go all day without nursing – if we’re out and about, and there’s lots going on, it’s the last thing he wants. For a good time, he’d much rather play with Daddy, or build with his blocks, or race his fire trucks around the living room, kick a soccer ball around the yard. But at night, and to take a nap, or if he falls or gets hurt, or any number of other reasons – he wants me and only me and he wants to nurse. He doesn’t want to cuddle, he doesn’t want to just sit on my lap – he wants to nurse.

I’m good at nursing – I’ve done it for almost four years, if you combine the time I spent nursing Jess with the time spent with Sam. I can tell you how to get a kid latched on, I can tell you how to treat bleeding nipples, mastitis, thrush, we’ve done it all. And I LOVE it – I’m a total breastfeeding snob. I think it’s the only way to feed babies. I silently judge moms who choose not to nurse, or even choose to wean early. As much as I love it, and as much as I value the past three years that I’ve been able to do this for Sam – I’m ready to move onto the next step.

Here’s hoping Sam gets to that point as well 🙂

Anyone have a good hermit recipe? I found one on-line and made some odd crunchy cake type things. They aren’t good 🙁

All is lovely here – kids are healthy and well, Marc is happy and content… not much going on, just a rainy, lazy Thursday 🙂

Help me out here, because I’m honestly a bit baffled. My husband is literally a genius, his IQ is off the chart. He also graced with a lot of common sense and has a been a parent for over ten years. So why can’t he figure out how to put the kids to bed by himself?

Let me back up… Marc and I decided that each week, one of us would take a night off (this is in addition to the two, sometimes three nights that Marc goes to the gym). We’d alternate, one week he’d play D&D; with his friends and one night I’d go do something – whether it was a movie or a solitary trip to the library. Just be… not here. That way I won’t resent so much that Marc is gone, and he’d get to put the kids to bed by himself twice a month. Not that he doesn’t assist and help out on the nights that we are both here, but twice a month, he’s supposed to do it solo.

And in defense of Marc, let me state for the record that he’d have a totally different bedtime routine if he was in charge of it. But since the vast majority of the time is me doing it solo, then I do it the way I want to. I like to cuddle my kids to sleep. They’re only little for such a short time, and it’s my favorite time of the day. I like to read, sometimes sing, but mostly just snuggle them until they drift off. Marc would rather put them to bed, in their own beds, kiss and hug them good night and then let them fall asleep on their own.

The routine is this – at seven thirty (or thereabouts, it’s not etched in stone), I start the process. Jammies, brush teeth, pee it out, two stories, they both pick one out, then lights out and I put on CNN. I used to do the bedtime routine in Jessie’s bed, but then Sam came along… and he wasn’t the kind of kid that I could put down to attend to his sister, and once he got too big to snuggle in Jessie’s bed, we moved it to a big love seat in the living room. And Jess usually falls asleep almost immediately. Then I lug her into her bed, and drop Sam into his – sometimes just leaving him in the chair sleeping until I go to bed. It might not work for every family – but it works for mine.

I’ve actually gone out the past two Tuesday nights, both time returning just after nine o’clock, to find my children up and rocking and rolling, thrilled to betsy and so overtired that they inevitably crash within fifteen minutes of my arrival home, and are screaming miserable messes the next day. My kids actually function surprisingly well when they’re hungry (on numerous occasions, I forget to throw food at them) but lack of sleep makes them absolutely insane. Both of them rachet up the whining, the crying, the unreasonable-ness, and it’s such a wicked pain to try and deal with them the next day. I end up mad and yelling at everyone, Marc, Jess, and Sam, because it’s so infuriating to have them not be able to just handle this when I’m not here.

Marc appears to be fine with this whole scenario. He has a great night with the kids, they love spending the alone time with him, and everyone is sunshine and lollipops until I come home and have to morph into the mean parent, who insists on bedtime and lights out and GO TO SLEEP. But bedtime isn’t a rule I made up to make myself feel powerful – it’s a basic part of parenthood. You feed them, you dress them nicely, and you make sure they get enough sleep. I guess what I’m trying to say is that I feel trapped into a hostile unfriendly spouse and parent role, insisting on a regular bedtime, especially on a school night, and I resent it.

Sam is now insisting on wearing all of his t-shirts with stuff on the front backwards. All of them. For days now. When questioned, he’ll tell you that his dinosaur, or Spiderman, or dump trucks, whatever is on the front of the shirt, is private. But you know that people are really just thinking that I’m a idiot who can’t dress my child.

Loving life this morning – all is sunshiney wonderful in my world. Hot cup of coffee, house relatively, reasonably clean, two cheerful toddlers watching Disney and I’m feeling pretty good about the rest of the day. I’m almost officially decided on Chana Eliana as a Hebrew name. I love, love, love the name Eliana and would almost want to use it if I had another baby girl, so that’s the only thing that might hold me back. I’m a firm believer in middle names, and since both my kids have them, I want to have one too 🙂

Burgers and salad tonight for dinner, in case anyone is interested. I made homemade chicken nuggets last night, with a bread crumb and parmesan cheese coating, and fresh green beans (Jessie had four helpings, very pleased, they were all crunchy and I tossed them with butter, salt and cheese). I’ll definitely be making those again.

I started a new routine last night – I had fallen into this lazy habit of letting the kids eat in the living room while I chilled out with a book during dinner. Only on the nights that Marc isn’t here, and I rationalized it by saying that I needed a little break… but I’ve been kind of immersed in Jewish teachings leading up to the conversion ceremony in a couple of weeks, and there’s one book, The Blessings of a Skinned Knee. I loved the book, and it definitely inspired me to get a little more proactive about my parenting. So I instituted a meals only at the kitchen table (snacks are still okay in the living room – it’s hard to cut that out cold turkey), and last night, we had the nicest, calmest, most relaxing dinner. The food was lovely, the kids enjoyed it, and Jessie helped me clear the table. She was so enjoying the structure, she asked if we could make a new Rules Listing.

The Rules listing is a thing that Jess devised, where I write all the family rules down on a piece of paper and we post it up on the wall. And some of them are really cute, we have all the no brainer ones, like no hitting or pushing, be kind and helpful, but we added the all meals at the table rule, and also (at Jessie’s suggestion) added a “include everyone” rule, so when all the kids are here playing, they can’t exclude anyone. She also suggested a “cuddle with Daddy when you can” rule, because frequently Marc gets the shaft on cuddling because they’re go to spot is my lap and not his.

I was nagging Jess earlier about brushing her hair and for the very first time, she said me “stop making the face.” The face?? What’s up with that?? Is she fifteen already?

Just in case anyone was keeping track. I think just getting out of the house helped. I’ve got a busy and fun weekend planned, Sam and I are going out with my mom tomorrow – we’re going out in search of yard sales. The last thing I need is to get MORE stuff… but I really love just going and hanging out with my mom. Dance recitals are this weekend, can’t wait to see my beautiful girl on stage 🙂

Honestly? It’s amazing and wonderful and exactly what I always wanted to do. I’m right there for everything, every little first milestone, the big ones like first step, first word, but the big ones took, like the first time Jess changed a diaper by herself, the first time Sam worked up the courage to jump off the porch onto the grass. My daughter’s classmates tell her they wish I was their mom, because she brings homemade cookies and muffins in for lunch. My son loves going for a nap, because it’s never meant anything other than snuggles with me, and drifting off to sleep. I teach them my values, my quirky little ways of looking at life. And I wouldn’t trade it for anything, and if, for the rest of my life, I do just this, create a home and raise my children to adulthood, then I’ll be a very happy woman.

But it’s also really, really hard. It’s lonely, it takes so much more patience than I have sometimes to parent with love and affection and care. Last night, I actually found myself wishing I had a roommate, just another adult around, someone for the kids to interact with, someone for me to chat with about their day. I crave adult contact, I crave conversation that’s not about getting someone a drink or why I’ve already asked twenty two times (I counted) for you to put on your pajamas. I grow weary of cleaning and picking out clothes and changing diapers and nursing. I love my children, I love my life, but sometimes I really need to get away for just a bit. Just a teeny tiny bit. More than that, I’d rather just have someone else be here with me. Another adult.

I have a wonderful husband who works so very hard at his job. And he’s diabetic, and that requires a lot of time in the gym. And I do my best to not complain and to support and encourage that. But when he wants more than that – when he wants to go out with his friends a couple of times a month – it just pushes me over the edge. Am I a terrible person? I feel selfish and guilty and mostly, just angry. Because what I really want isn’t a break from the kids, it’s having my buddy back. It’s having an extra pair of hands around, to help with the chores and childcare. It’s having someone who looks at me and sees me, not just Mommy. When days go by, and I don’t have that, I just get angry. And nobody wins when I’m angry – not me, not Marc, and certainly not the kids, who haven’t done anything to deserve a grumpy Mommy. So I’ll pour another cup of coffee, glue a smile on my face, and do my best to get thru the morning with sunshiney happiness.

I really do have so much to be happy about, so much to be grateful for. I’ll work harder on remembering that.