{Originally published on SmartWomansGuides}

Today I had an interesting and educational experience. One of the great bloggers I follow on Twitter introduced a friend of his to the community. This friend is apparently well-known by many but, unfortunately, not me. But, since I trust the blogger who recommended him, I went to go check out the newbie’s profile. But I was foiled – the newbie didn’t have a profile! Gasp!

In an effort at brevity, I joked that the newbie’s Twitter profile was a little slim – no website link, no bio, nada. Just his name and a picture (which was a nice picture, admittedly). Frankly, I didn’t want to have to google the newbie to find out about him. Maybe I’m too focused on instant gratification, but well, fair enough, maybe I am. The web is all about instant info and ease and convenience and I’ve bought in.

One of my other Twitter buds messaged that this newbie was already so well known that he didn’t need to create a profile to get followers and he was busy. Wow. Not only did I still not know about this newbie (who now I wanted to know about even more, since he’s so busy and great) but now I felt like an outside, the only one left in the world to not know who he was just on his name and picture. The big capital “L” for loser felt squarely tattooed to my forehead.

After a moment of being stunned, the conversation got me thinking – are you ever so big that you don’t have to introduce yourself? You can guess my answer – a resounding NO.

Being focused on beginners, I try to be aware of the idea that there are people who aren’t living in my personal world, who don’t live in my bubble of experience. Like meeting people who’ve never heard of Twitter, or who have never purchased anything online, or don’t know what RSS is, it’s easy to think that maybe they’ve just been living under a rock. That’s not very kind or compassionate and it’s a bit foolish from a marketing point of view. It gives the impression that you don’t care.

{Originally published on Foolery.}

The ability to put a child down to sleep for the night is one of the most important skills one can attain as a parent or babysitter. It is also the most elusive one.

Let’s start with bathroom stuff. First up: go to the bathroom. No, not you, though with the amount of time this operation will take, you may want to consider it first.

Get the child to go potty. Plan to run water in the sink for the child to spur her imagination — at least enough water to wash a Suburban with. Don’t be at all surprised if child announces a secondary plan, for which more time and toilet paper will be necessary.

After the toilet is flushed, the child will attempt to escape, but you must INSIST that the child first wash her hands. This usually involves at least as much water as you ran to make her tinkle, and about a quarter of that will end up on the counter and floor.

Before the child can run away, grab her by the waist and say, “Time to brush your teeth!” as brightly yet firmly as you are able with a squirmy, uncooperative and toothbrush-hating child in your grasp. You must let go long enough to uncap the toothpaste. After you’ve experienced once or twice chasing your child through the house while forgetting you have uncapped toothpaste in hand, you’ll be smarter and have the toothbrush loaded and ready to go while she’s washing her hands. This works even better once she has become territorial about the toothpaste, insisting upon doing the squeezing herself. (Don’t sweat the mess; you have to mop up after the hand-washing anyway.)

I like to allow the child to brush her own teeth, emphasizing “Don’t swallow the toothpaste — spit it!” about every five seconds. Plan to be spat upon. It also helps to pick a funny little tune to la-la while you brush her teeth: a personal favorite is the theme music to the old Benny Hill show, Yakkety Sax. This will not be your child’s favorite, however.

{Originally published at Mommy Tracks}

We stood outside the school, hand-in-sweaty-hand, waiting for the bell to ring. I clutched a folder of multi-colored paperwork. He swayed eagerly from foot to foot with his Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles backpack hanging light and empty over one shoulder (“the way the big kids carry them.”) We were about to embark on a new adventure – school age, the next era in parenting. But I wasn’t really thinking about all that.

I was thinking about Owen Wilson.

In the movie Armageddon, as his character prepares to launch into space and save the world from certain destruction by a huge asteroid, Owen Wilson delivers this line:

“I’m great, I got that “excited/scared” feeling. Like 98% excited, 2% scared. Or maybe it’s more. It could be, it could be 98% scared, 2% excited but that’s what makes it so intense, it’s so – confused.”

And that’s exactly how I felt about the first day of Kindergarten.

People told me this would be hard. Kindhearted friends gave us relevant books. The school sent me a parable printed on purple paper about kids climbing giant beanstalks and leaving their parents at the bottom. Neighbors stopped to commiserate. “I remember that day,” they said. “That’s a tough one. I think that was almost as bad as sending them to college.”

Pshaw. I thought.

Originally posted on Mommy’s Martini.

One of my most vivid childhood memories is sitting in the dark, on the screened-in porch of my next-door-neighbor’s house, and listening to the grown-ups talking. In the moist, heavy heat of a Georgia summer, the little ceiling fan on the porch would force a breeze, and the crickets would begin to chirp as night fell. The puffs of wind beyond the screens carried the faint scent of magnolia blossoms, and the asphalt twinkled with embedded sparkles in the pools of golden streetlamp light where hard-shelled Junebugs gathered. There was no light on the porch, so as to avoid attracting insects, and as the darkness gathered closer and enclosed our little room, I felt cocooned in an almost magical place.

We lived in a house on a horseshoe shaped block of homes that had been built for returning GIs after WWII. Every single house on our street had the same front bathroom (what had once been the only bathroom), with the identical pattern of black-and-white tile on the floor and walls. You know the pattern; it’s very like the “retro” one you can buy at big box home DIY stores now, except there is something different, a bit glossier, and better, about the original. We all had the original.

These were small houses — two front rooms, a kitchen, bath, two bedrooms — that had been added onto over time so that by the time we lived there in the early 1980s, they all had a slightly different footprint. Except for three things: that central black-and-white bathroom, the wide front stoop, and the porch. Some houses (like ours) had enclosed the porch. But not next door.

{Originally published on T with Honey and titled A Moment Almost Missed}

The little curly haired girl crawled out of her mother’s lap and headed over to the box of toys. It was time to pick out a special friend to take to bed to be cuddled through the night. After careful consideration she picks up Baby Bop.

As per her usual habit she lays the toy on its tummy, finds a little blanket and begins to tuck Baby Bop into bed. The blanket doesn’t go down right the first time so she lifts it up to try again. As she does the little girl notices that Baby Bop has a friend. In the pocket on the front of Baby Bop’s outfit is a little stuffed piggy.
The little girl picks up her toy and asks “What this?” Her mommy repies, “It’s Baby Bop’s toy.”

“Oh, what this called?” she said pointing to the pink toy. “It’s a piggy”
The little girl is curious about the piggy. She wants to pull it out, look at it and ask more questions. Her mommy just wants her to crawl in bed and go to sleep. It’s getting late.

The toddler’s inquisitiveness takes a stronger hold. She points at the little animal and asks for the fourth time, “What this called?”
The mommy flatly states, “It’s a piggy.” Then with more than a little exasperation in her voice she says, “Princess, it is time for bed. You need to stop this. Lay down and go to sleep.”

The little girl’s arms sag and she glances at her mommy’s face. Her mother’s eyes meet hers for just a fraction of a second but the girl’s frustration and sadness comes across in that look and stab into her mommy’s soul.

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