Emily James: What I Learned at Co-Op

By Emily James

If your child is nearing preschool age, you have inevitably been told many times what preschool is appropriate for your child. The number of options can be overwhelming. My decision was made for me back in 1968, when my oldest sister headed to co-op preschool. I followed in 1974, and despite lots of hand-wringing and anxiety about whether or not he would get in, my oldest son started at the same co-op in 2005.

A co-op preschool is operated by a community of parents. One advantage of a co-op is that you have the chance to meet like-minded families who live nearby. You also have a say in your child’s educational experience. Parents hire the teachers, pay the bills, and help in the classroom. Everything you do for the preschool is greatly appreciated, no matter how small it seems. (For the record, I DO clean the bathrooms on my parent help days and those of you who don’t, I consider that a dereliction of duty. And I know who you are.)

An important hurdle for the parent-helper is snack. Our parent handbook has a list of acceptable healthy snacks. However, what actually shows up at school for snack is another thing altogether. I’ve slaved away on homemade banana bread, yet my single most successful snack was Cheez-Its and Go-Gurts that I had snagged at the last minute. Not a crumb was left from the Cheez-its. Happy Go-Gurt eaters dumped their empty tubes in the garbage and gave me a big thank you. As I beamed proudly, I thought to myself, “I am never making anything again.”

As a parent helper, I spend a lot of time redirecting kids (remembering all the while that these are not my children and my usual shrieks of “KNOCK IT OFF” aren’t really appropriate in a school setting) and convincing recalcitrant hand-washers that Speed Racer really does wash his hands after using the restroom.

And what have my children learned at co-op? They’ve learned to share. They’ve learned that when the bell rings, it’s time to clean up. They’ve learned to politely decline the snack if they don’t like it and toss their garbage when they’re done. They’ve adapted to a routine. They’ve learned that even if they have a bad day, the next one can and will be better. Every situation is a chance to educate. I am continually amazed at the patience shown by our teachers each day in preparing our children for kindergarten.

As a parent, it’s hard to carve out the time to help at school or with a project when I have other children at home or at other schools all demanding my attention. But the benefits of a co-op far outweigh the occasional demands on our time. It has afforded us the opportunity to be an active presence in our child’s first educational experience; the chance to set the tone for the years of school that lie ahead.

Emily James graduated from the University of Arizona with a degree in Creative Writing in 1993. A Portland native, she now lives in SW Portland with her husband and three sons.

Jackie Sturkie: The Secret Lives of Dirty Clothes

The Secret Lives of Dirty Clothes
- Laundry exposed: What's really going in that hamper?

Remember the single life? Casual Sundays filled with sleeping in, brunch whenever, then laundry in the afternoon- if you felt like it. When I was single, noticing the habits of my dirty clothes never occurred to me. There was nothing alarming about the casual pile of jeans on the floor or a sock tossed here and there. You simply tossed clothes in the washer, dried them, and then put them away. Mission accomplished. The laundry chore could easily be accomplished once a week.

After two kids, suddenly the laundry pile became a laundry tower – billowing and throbbing like a sci-fi experiment gone awry. Doing laundry wasn't just a task anymore. It had become a demanding full-time job. I tried to uncover the source of the mayhem. Maybe the increase in dirty clothes could be traced back the easy accessibility of our laundry chute? Having a laundry chute upstairs that drops clothes at high speed into a hamper in the basement keeps our living space clean. Maybe too clean. Maybe the kids were filling up the hamper? All those pre-school fashion emergencies can create quite the pile of clean laundry they only think is dirty.

Even when nobody's home, the pile grows. Why when I just put four loads of clean clothes back in drawers do more mysteriously appear in the hamper? After obsessing over the situation, I've decided there's only one plausible explanation: Laundry is sexually active. Clearly, the dirty clothes are, well, way dirtier than I thought. I turn my back for one minute and they multiply.

Shoot the "you guys better not" look into a few innocent pieces of laundry in the hamper, they don't care. They're worse than teenagers on an empty sofa. Next thing I know, clothes have reproduced faster than those horny little dust bunnies hiding in the corners. Do sweatpants get turned on by sparkly princess pajamas? Do fuzzy little socks jump other fuzzy little socks? You know it. Don't even get me started on the exploits of bad-boy boot-cut jeans.

I know what you're thinking: Have I tried separating them? Why, yes. Yes I have. It doesn't matter because cold-wash clothes are just as attracted to other cold-wash items. Delicates seem to behave themselves, so no way am I releasing them into the general laundry population. But that machine-washable clingy polyester material strikes me as the source of real trouble. It's dainty and delicate, yet rugged enough to withstand the spin cycle. Why doesn't it stand up for itself, and just say no?

The thing is, thanks to the insatiable sexual appetites of laundry, now I have to take care of more of them. The washing machine buzzes, and I scurry downstairs to see if I can bust them in the act. Just like teenagers, they freeze. Maybe there's more to my laundry obsession than meets the eye. Maybe I'm just jealous. Because at the end of the laundry cycle, they get more action than I do. As much as I hate to admit it, I'll put off a sexual encounter with my husband because damn it, the last thing I need is more laundry.

Bio
Jacki Sturkie is a Portland mom, stand-up comedian, and owner of Sass Mouth Cards, greeting cards that take on life as a jaded mom. In her former life, Jacki worked as a copywriter and stand-up comic but quit doing when she got tired of living out of her car. Jacki also writes Daily SASSfirmations (a not-so-inspirational blog at
www.sassfirmations.blogspot.com), runs an industrial design firm with her husband (foundry3d.com), and tries to keep her two small children from impaling themselves on household objects.

TIME OUT: THE MAMALOGUES
Jacki Sturckie is also behind TIME OUT: THE MAMALOGUES, a new series of stand-up / storytelling, all by moms for moms.

"Honey, I Shrunk My Libido"
Sex. Where did it go after you had kids? If your laundry gets more action than you do, then this show is for you. If you found your libido, by all means – tell us how!

Featuring:
Sharon Wood Wortman, author of The Portland Bridge Book and one-woman show, “BridgeStories.”

Kate Haas, publisher of Miranda, a zine about motherhood.

Headliner:
Joy Wilson Band, rockin' mom and recording artist with three albums under her belt who has opened for Steppenwolf, Foghat, and Blue Oyster Cult.

Thursday, Feb. 12th, 7-8:30
Airplay Café

Judy Berck: Raining Leaves

Essay by Judy Berck

Last year, the sidewalk in front of our house cost us a whole lot of money, thanks to a letter from the city telling us to fix the cracks, or else. The contractors cost a lot and did a crappy job, leaving a patchwork of squares, some with corners cut off and jagged edges. I sometimes fret about it and curse the sidewalk when we walk outside.

And then we bought Dustin, our 18 month old, a blue mini-scooter that won’t tip over. To him, our sidewalk is a whole world to conquer. He grips the handlebars with fierce determination as he pushes himself along with one foot, quiet and proud. There is nowhere he’d rather be than on that sidewalk with his scooter. I know, because he screams when we go in. I can’t hate something that makes my kid so happy, so I forgave the sidewalk.

Last week, when I was on a walk around the block with my sons, the wind blew slightly, rustling through the trees near our house. Red and yellow leaves fluttered down all over our sidewalk. “Oh, what a pain,” I said to myself. “More leaves to sweep up before they get wet and somebody slips.” Dustin looked up from our walk and pointed at a falling leaf. “Daaah,” he said, with some urgency. “Look, mommy, it’s raining leaves,” said Jeremy, my six year old. And so it was. Jeremy grabbed a big red maple leaf from the sidewalk, and then a bigger one. “I’ll bring a leaf bouquet to school.”

Some call it grace, some call it mindfulness, the awareness of beauty and newness our children can bring back to us. In the dark season, how important it is to let our children point out to us other ways of viewing the world, and teach us about what’s in front of our eyes.

Judy Berck is a Portland writer. She lives in NE Portland with her husband and two sons.

Confessions of a Sassy Mama:"Desitin and the Monster Croc"

By Nikki Deckon

Imagine trying to put a diaper on a 9 foot, 900-pound crocodile. Picture yourself flipping him on his back, plopping your leg over his midsection to hold his body in place, lifting his bottom up by his tail and finally sliding that diaper underneath him…all the while he’s flailing and screeching. That’s what it was like to change my son Liam. He only weighed 25 pounds, but he possessed the strength of a monster croc.

From the very beginning Liam wailed and squawked and basically protested if anyone glanced his way. It was a very hard year. By 11 months, he still hadn’t slept through the night, which meant, neither had I. He and his brother (only 19 months older) turned me into a zombie.

One night, I stumbled into the dark bathroom. I left the light off because zombies are afraid of looking in the mirror. I felt around for my toothpaste and toothbrush, shoved the brush into my mouth and started to scrub away.
My first thought was, “Wow, this toothpaste tastes weird.” As I scrubbed a little more, my second thought was, “I just brushed my teeth with diaper rash cream!” It was Desitin. Ewww!

I spent several moments gagging and wondering if I should call Poison Control. I swear, Desitin tastes worse than dog food, liver and used toilet water combined. I should have just thrown that tube away right then and there. Instead I cried myself to sleep.

The entire next day I was a mess – moaning, meandering, zig-zagging about in true zombie fashion. I was so tired that I put the sandwich baggies in the refrigerator. So exhausted that I once again neglected to use the light to find my toothpaste. And for the second time, I did it. I. Brushed. My. Teeth. With. Desitin.

I spent another ten minutes dry-heaving into the sink. My husband hovered over me with worry. “Enough of this,” my husband said. “It’s time to let him cry through the night. You need to sleep.”

I gave him a weary nod as dread bounced about in my heart. I didn’t think I was strong enough to let Liam cry himself to sleep. But my husband was right. I couldn’t go on like this. Someone could get hurt. Or my teeth could fall out.

So we put the Desitin on top of the refrigerator, tucked Liam into his bed and waited. The next thing I knew, it was morning. I had vague memories of Liam crying but I never got out of bed to rescue him — my own exhaustion had knocked me out before the sun set. I’d actually slept for more than two hours in a row for the first time in a year. Freedom! The memory of that shocking morning still makes me smile.
From then on, Liam slept through the night. I stopped buying Desitin and invested in several tubes of Crest. I even ditched the groaning, meandering zombie walk. Then the most glorious thing happened.

My monster croc stopped wrestling me every time I tried to change his diaper. He got sick of me bugging him and potty trained himself!! I’d never have to worry about crocodiles, Desitin or refrigerated baggies ever again.

Nikki Deckon lives in Wilsonville with her two wild boys, a cute husband, and two snooty cats. She writes a column for the Lake Grove MOPS (Mothers of Preschoolers) called Confessions of a Sassy Mama. She blogs at nikkilee.wordpress.org.

Daddy Says: Taking the Mantle

By Pete Davis

I’m probably not the first person to make this claim, but Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. As a boy, it meant a 4 1/2-day weekend and a Cowboys game. In college, it meant a raucous reunion with friends and the annual touch football showdown. After I was married, I became part of my wife’s extended family’s traditional three-day family reunion affair, at which I had only to show up and try to hit a few golf balls. As my experiences with Thanksgiving have changed over the years, one theme has remained the same: I pretty much get to sit back and relax while others do all of the hard work.

Last year, I gave up the free ride and invited my entire family up here to Portland for the holiday. I was excited about the opportunity to host my parents and my sisters’ families from California, but a little nervous about pulling the event together. I had this weird “coming of age” feeling as I pondered becoming the Man of the House. Luckily, I had a good Woman of the House by my side, awesome shops and recipes at hand, and a great city to show off, so we took up the challenge.

Having never been responsible for the Thanksgiving bird before, I knew little about preparing one. I decided to go all out and do it Gourmet, Portland Style, so headed over to New Seasons for some tips.

I learned a thing or two about turkeys that day, the first being that you get what you pay for. Instead of serving the average, frozen-solid, block of bird for 39 cents a pound, we went all out with the fresh, organic, free-range, turkey. You’re looking at a lot more dough for your meat. Translation: I absolutely could not screw it up! I learned quite a bit about brining – work you do for your meal way before you even turn on an oven. I learned a lot about stuffing too: It’s best prepared separately, because the cavity should be filled with something called “Aromatics.” Love me some aromatics. (Please see the New Seasons’ complete 4-step recipe for perfect turkey on page 14 ).

It’s one thing to prepare a fancy dinner, but there’s a lot more to consider when playing host to out-of-towners for three days, especially when three of them happen to be teenagers. We knew that outings were going to be key. For the unlicensed teens from a small California town, it was an opportunity for a real urban experience. Bus trips to downtown? Great fun; not such great fun to take the wrong bus home and have to wait in the freezing cold for a ride home. For the more seasoned adults, there was the turkey trot, a tour of Powell’s, brisk walks in the neighborhood, and movies and suds at the local McMenamin’s. For our big night-after-Thanksgiving family outing, we decided we’d hit up the “member’s only” preview of Zoo Lights.

Thinking this small crowd would be a great way to see the lights, we headed out at dusk on the 30-degree evening for some multigenerational fun. You were probably there too. “Member’s only” actually meant pretty much everyone in the Portland area; not exactly an exclusive club. This enormous crowd meant lots and lots of waiting: for the shuttle from the overfill parking lot, for the mandatory hot chocolates, and mostly, waiting for the Zoo train. My California-living family members collectively have never been so cold – they borrowed every coat we have, they bought hats, and mittens and scarves. And still, very cold.

In the end, I realized I had much more to be thankful for than I thought. Just as I had taken all of the trappings of Thanksgiving for granted before, I realized that I have also been taking life in Portland for granted. Seeing it from my families’ eyes underscored how much there is to do and see here in town; our visitors from California were rightly impressed. (Despite the endless complaints, the cold trip to the zoo even made the family holiday letter!) But most of all, I was thankful that someone finally got to sit back and relax while I put on the show.

Pete Davis is a Portland father, software salesperson, and part-time business manager with NW Kids.

Deborah Kane: Know Your Veggies

The other day, my next-door neighbor’s three-year-old daughter, Sophia, was over for a visit. I kept offering her leaves out of my garden. She enthusiastically sampled the mizuna, spinach, arugula, tat soi, speckled lettuce, non-speckled lettuce, kale, beet greens, and chard.

After each new taste, Sophia exclaimed either “Yum,” “More,” or “Let’s do next one Deborah,” until we’d tasted just about everything I had in my newly planted garden. She’s one smart little girl. With a little more instruction, she’ll easily be able to rattle off plant names simply by the shapes and colors of the leaves.

That last observation is noteworthy because recent studies have shown that children are much more likely to identify corporate logos than botanical images. They know the McDonald’s arches but they can’t identify a tomato plant. Really it isn’t surprising; kids probably see corporate logos much more often than vegetable gardens.

When my family first moved into our neighborhood, the people across the street welcomed us with armloads of tomatoes and cucumbers. Their house is somewhat nondescript. It showed no signs of the apparent fertility of the backyard that produced such treasures.

But our house, and theirs, is on a street that dead-ends into the neighborhood school. A parade of children marches right past our homes every school day. Why don’t we plant our vegetable gardens in the front?

Lately it seems a lot of people are. From New York to Arizona to California, I keep reading stories about people who’ve reclaimed their front yards as production centers. They aren’t worried about passersby stealing a ripe strawberry or two. In fact, I suspect many encourage it!

Most of us can probably find a spot to plant a seed and ingrain some new, edible images in our kids’ heads. From the sprouting bean in the paper cup on the window sill to pots on the apartment porch to raised beds and chickens in the backyard, we can give our kids direct exposure to even modest displays of food production.

Let’s also think about making food production as visible as the corporate logos kids see every day. Sophia and I were playing our tasting game in the backyard where no one could see us or my veggies. I’m inclined to put some tomato plants in the front yard, maybe with a big sign that reads “These are tomato plants.” The sun is better there anyway, and McDonald’s could use a little friendly competition.

Deborah Kane is the proud mom of Zoe and Owen Kane, vice president of Food & Farms at Ecotrust (www.ecotrust.org), and publisher of Edible Portland (www.edibleportland.com).

Kate Haas: 9-1-1

9-1-1
By Kate Haas

“You belong in the Bad Mama Jail,” declared my four-year-old, late one afternoon as I was cooking dinner. “With no snacks!”

I snorted as Nate stomped out of the kitchen. If denying pretzels before supper was a criminal offense, I was facing the slammer for sure. Giggles from the living room reassured me. My son was playing happily with his friend, Zachary. He’ll get over it, I thought.

Fifteen minutes later, a knock interrupted my dinner preparations. Opening the door, I gazed in consternation at the burly police officer outside.

“Afternoon, ma’am,” he said grimly. “Is everything all right?”

“Uh…yes?” I get nervous when people in uniform call me “ma’am.”

“We received a 9-1-1 call from this address. Sounded like kids, but we couldn’t get through to check. They must’ve left the phone off the hook.”

“Oh, my gosh - I’m so sorry - I had no idea,” I stammered, mortified.

“It happens,” the cop assured me. “But you should tell your kids not to play with 911.”

My eyes narrowed. That little stinker. He’d actually called the law on me! “Why don’t you tell them yourself?” I suggested, calling the kids to the front door. This would show the little pipsqueak.

Zachary’s face lit up at the sight of a real, live police officer. Nate gave one wary glance, cast his eyes to the floor, and refused to budge during the ensuing lecture. It took no Sherlock Holmes to detect the culprit in this shenanigan.
After the officer left, I delivered my own lecture. But I kept it short. Nate had learned a vivid lesson about being careful what he wished for. As for me, I’d gained new insight into the wily – and literal – mind of my four-year-old. A place where mamas like me apparently end up in jail. With no snacks.

About the Columnist
Kate Haas is a Portland-based writer and freelance editor. She publishes Miranda, a zine about motherhood and other adventures, and is co-editor of Creative Nonfiction at Literary Mama. Read more about her work at www.MirandaZine.com and www.ClarityEditingServices.com.

Kate Haas: The Lab Man

The Lab Man

The day after the earthquake in China, I stood in the kitchen making dinner for my family. The public radio reporter’s voice, usually smooth and controlled, shook with emotion as she related the story of a couple searching for their missing son. As I listened to the mother’s anguished cries for her toddler, tears came to my own eyes, as well. And I thought, as I often have, about the Lab Man.

I’d been a mother for two weeks when I brought my infant son to the lab for a routine PKU test. The last fourteen days had been a shock. Unlike many women, I hadn’t experienced much of a connection to the baby during pregnancy; so I was taken aback by the intensity of my feelings now: the fierce sense of protectiveness, the physical compulsion to have him in my sight–better yet, in my arms–at all times.

Handing my tiny, unsuspecting son to a man with a needle went against every new mother instinct I possessed. My hands shook as I lay him on the table and I looked anxiously to the lab man for reassurance. He avoided my gaze. A forty-ish, pudgy, pale man with dank hair, he looked as if he should be holed up in a cubicle somewhere, instead of dealing with people at their most vulnerable.

Impassively, the man pierced my son’s heel. I clenched my fists against the baby’s despairing wails and my voice shook as I tried to comfort him.

Still silent, the lab man stolidly squeezed the requisite drops of blood from the puncture. ‘You have no idea how this affects a parent!’ I thought, indignantly. ‘You probably think I’m just some overwrought new mother who needs to get a grip.’

Without looking up, the man spoke, “My daughter had heart surgery at sixteen weeks,” he said, quietly. “Seemed like there wasn’t a day they weren’t drawing blood from her for one reason or another. She’s fine now, though. Thirteen and a real fireball.”

I looked at him. With a few words, this unprepossessing stranger had made me understand something about parenthood that even childbirth hadn’t taught me. Rationally, I knew that having a child made me no more unique than the millions of parents around me. But I’d been too overwhelmed by new motherhood to think about that. It was as if an invisible wall had surrounded my son and me. Now that wall had cracked open. These raw emotions – the love, the fear, the instinct to protect – linked me to the man sticking a needle in my baby and to every parent on the planet. Eight years later, as yet another tragedy reinforces that realization, I still consider this the moment I truly became a mother.

Kate Haas is a Portland-based writer and freelance editor. She publishes Miranda, a zine about motherhood and other adventures, and is co-editor of Creative Nonfiction at Literary Mama. Read more about her work at www.mirandazine.com and www.clarityeditingservices.com.

Lisa Lessley Briscoe: On Turning 35

It’s My Birthday. But what do I want?

By local mama Lisa Lessley Briscoe
On my 35th birthday, I couldn’t think of one thing I wanted. Me, the one who could always produce a wishlist at a moment’s notice. And worse, I didn’t care to try to think of anything. It was horrifying.
For the past two years, I had spent most of my waking moments thinking about my son: Is he on the verge of a meltdown? Is his current activity potentially harmful? What do I have to gather so that we can leave on time? Is he cranky because he’s two, because he’s teething, or because he’s sick? By the time I finished managing my son’s schedule, I had little remaining energy to pursue interests that help me actively participate in a diverse life. Exploring and learning is a self-perpetuating process; somewhere along the way, I got off the ride.
My confined daily routines detracted from the person I’d like to be and consequently from my own image of myself. I want to be a person who rubs shoulders with the world. Exposure to a variety of places, people, ideas, and things gives me a better understanding of both myself and the world around me.
So, what to do? I need to make the effort to schedule adult time with friends, I need to go places that are outside of my normal routine, and I need to take time to explore. To that end, the first thing that I did on my birthday was get some time alone. My husband and son went away for two blissful nights and days. I puttered, I made a quiche, I watched a chick flick.
I met a friend for breakfast at The Bijou and spent the afternoon wandering around downtown, somewhere my regular routine rarely takes me. I love downtown Portland—it’s such an interesting and lively place. I marvel sometimes that although we moved to Portland because we like the city, I see so little of it in my daily activities. It felt strangely anonymous to stride down the sidewalk as an adult without a cute little boy to draw conspiratorial smiles. In the end, my birthday gift was to feel more like me, and that was a pretty good start.

Two years later, Lisa’s life is no less chaotic (she now has two children and graphic design studies), but she does a better job planning ahead for some time for herself. When her 37th birthday rolled around, she knew exactly what she wanted.

Lucia Anderson: Summer Means NO TV. Well, Not Much...

Well, summer is finally here. I’ve been bracing myself for this time for what seems like a thousand years. In actuality, it’s only been since April that I’ve been working out the camps, swim lessons, and vacation plans. But with four kids—two teens, a tween, and a toddler—to keep entertained, coordinating fun summertime activities can feel like anything but fun and is more akin to slave labor. But I did it and I am ready.

I've signed everyone up for the camps they actually want (not the “lame” ones), and not only that, they get to go with their friends. Then of course, summer activities in the area—“Movies at Dusk.” (check www.nwkids.com/calendar for show times throughout the summer), plays, swimming, crafts, and all that. In addition, we have all our summer vacation plans set in stone, the yard's done, and in my dream vision of summer, the kids are like the children Von Trapp and I'm like Maria and we merrily sing away to “Do Re Mi” all summer long. Most importantly, my kids do not watch ONE DAY of TV.

The reality unfortunately, tends to be a bit more nightmarish. Nothing kills my mojo like the words "I'm BORED" or "There's NOTHING to do." Having made it my goal to keep these kids' minds off TV. I’m going to stick to my resolution to keep it off most of the time... except for the direst of emergencies. Now what constitutes an emergency is something I'm going to need to resolve. What do NOT constitute emergencies are statements like "I'm bored," "summer sucks," "I hate summer," and "I wish I were back in school." Kids sometimes say stuff they don't really mean, right?

As easy and convenient it is to press the magic remote button ON when I hear those statements, the problem begins when I try to turn the thing OFF. Inevitably, this episode of “I, Carly” happens to be “their favorite.” A plea for “one more show” leads to another, then another, and before I know it, the kids have watched five hours of television. Of course in that time, I’ve gotten about thirty loads of laundry done, cleaned all three bathrooms, and have written up a few things. I do try to multitask as much as possible after all. But that’s not what I envision for the kids this summer.

Call me old-fashioned, but I feel summertime should be a time filled with wonder, exploration, and creative fun. Something as simple as picking berries, or sitting under a shaded oak sipping lemonade counting lady bugs just smacks of good old summertime fun. Maybe I’m being a bit unrealistic, but besides vacation, I hope they’ll look back on this summer with fond memories of fun relaxation, and not of repeated episodes of “Spongebob.”

But if I do hear such complaints AFTER a day of swimming, AFTER a day of miniature golfing, AFTER a day of painting ceramics, AFTER A DAY OF GOOD OL' SUMMER FUN, well, that to me is about as emergency as it gets. Pass the remote. And the wine.

Lucia Anderson is a writer and mom of four living in Lake Oswego. In her spare time, she enjoys running, gardening, and blogging about her adventures in motherhood at her blog divinelywritten.blogspot.com

Marlynn Schotland: Slap Me Silly... mama-what?

mamapreneur \ mah•muh•pruh•nur\ noun
:a mother who owns a business. Also: a crazy woman who has children and is in need of eight arms and two clones.

At least once a week, I fight the urge to slap someone. It’s usually when I am running on four hours of restless sleep, am losing the battle of wills with one or both of my children, have major deadlines to meet while simultaneously trying to keep on top of industry trends, business and personal finances, emails, friends, playdates, laundry and groceries during my tightly scheduled sometimes 20-hour days. (Sometimes I remember to wear matching shoes!).

That someone I want to slap? It’s me, for three reasons: one, I just need to wake myself up. As a mom of two very active kiddos, two business babies and eight blog babies, I get that tired. Two, I want to slap the idiot who thought the life of taking multitasking to the extreme was a good idea. Oh, that’s right: I am that idiot!

Mamapreneurs are the most supportive, passionate, and busiest group of women I have ever come across. Like the song implies, we work hard for the money. Some of us work 70 hours a week, others work 10. Some work from home offices, others at an outside office/store/restaurant. Some work solo, others manage hundreds of employees. About 95% work online between 9pm and 2am, according to a non-scientific survey of my own inbox. Most juggle lives that make the phrase “I’m busy” the understatement of the year. All have a deep belief in building their businesses while raising their families.

So what is it about this life that draws in so many moms to start their own business? Is it the super-sized guilt we carry with being both Mom and Boss? Is it the late nights, lack of sleep, the fact there’s no “off” button when you’re Mom and Boss? Is it the weight of having not just your parenting skills but also your idea, your dream out there for all to either cheer or boo? Hmm…why AM I a mamapreneur?!

Well, the third reason I sometimes want to slap myself: to slap the gutsy girl on the back who thought this life was a good idea (hint: same person as the aforementioned idiot). In the end, the mamapreneur life is absolutely perfect. The sometimes challenging, mostly fun, always soulful life of raising children, joined with the fulfilling life of doing what I love and deeply believe in on my terms while also making a difference in other people’s lives...
Well, slap me silly: the life of a mamapreneur is, after all, a crazy, wonderful life indeed.

Marlynn Schotland is the founder of Mamapreneurs Inc, and Urban Bliss, and is a prolific blogger. To learn more about mama-run businesses (or if you’re interested in starting your own) visit www.mamapreneursinc.com

So that’s where chicken comes from!

By Venera Cushman

“Mommy what factory do chickens come from?” When my three-year-old asked me this question, I realized we needed to table our efforts to find a preschool with the strongest academic curriculum. We had to teach our daughter the fundamentals of life!

Like many adults leading fast-paced lives, we had lost sight of the meaning of childhood and what is most valuable for our children to learn. Lessons on ABCs and 123s will be memorized in time, but during the precious preschool years, I want my child to focus on learning and appreciating her surroundings and interacting with people. These are the essential tools that are needed in a child’s life toolbox before any formal education begins.

Thus, we set out to teach our daughter Madeline where chickens come from. We took a short trip to Greenville Farms, a small family-owned farm in Forest Grove, where the farmer let Madeline see and touch the chickens. He also allowed her to collect the day’s eggs and visit a field of cows.

We also built raised vegetable beds in our yard and taught Madeline how seeds grow into plants and how the soil, water and sun provide food for the vegetables and fruit to grow. Madeline enjoyed watching the vines of the squash grow this summer and played an active role in our family’s daily garden care.

We began exploring our community more than we did in the past that year and we engrossed ourselves in local activities such as visiting Schoch Dairy in Hillsboro for fresh pasteurized milk and Baggenstos, a u-pick strawberry farm in Sherwood. Through connecting with our community, we learned about great kid-friendly activities and also found a preschool that embraces our family’s new values.

In an unlikely location near Highway 217 and Canyon Road, Woodhaven Preschool overlooks a wooded area. After one visit to the school, we were convinced that this was the preschool where Madeline belonged. It’s a serene hideaway where children can immerse themselves in imaginary classroom play and spend time in the garden learning about mint and blackberries.

Now on school mornings, we make a lunch that always includes a locally grown fruit or vegetable, we dress in proper weather gear and we walk the few blocks to school. On our way, Madeline collects outdoor treasures that she shares with her school friends.

Through our quest to teach our daughter about basic life principles, we learned how important it is to ensure our children are exposed to fundamental concepts we take for granted. We too must slow down, embrace our community and enjoy our surroundings!

[Bio] Venera Cushman is an independent communications consultant who lives in west Portland with her husband and two children.

Stacy Bolt: Instant Mama

Instant Mama

If you’re pregnant, you might think that nine months is a long time to wait for a child to be born. But trust me, it’s a good thing. I know, because I didn’t have nine months to prepare. I had 90 minutes. From the phone call from our adoption agency to the nurse handing me a seven pound human being for whom I would be responsible for the remainder of my days on earth: 90 minutes. In less time than it takes to make a lasagna, I was a mother.

My son is what the adoption agency referred to as an “instant baby.” That means that, rather than planning the adoption ahead of time, his birthmother showed up at the hospital in active labor and announced that she couldn’t keep the baby. So the hospital called our agency. And our agency called us. And just like that, this instant baby had instant parents who knew — instantly — that they were in way over their heads.

Dumbstruck as we were, my husband and I felt confident that between the hospital and the adoption agency, someone was going to tell us what to do with the baby when we got him home. Instead, the only thing we got that even remotely resembled official instructions was a bright yellow flyer with the headline, “Never Shake a Baby!” In the coming days, we’d often turn to the flyer for guidance. “What do I do?” my husband screamed from the nursery at 4 o’clock in the morning while the baby spewed fluids from at least three orifices simultaneously. “Don’t shake him!” I offered while hiding under the covers.

Convinced that we were doing everything horribly wrong, we solicited our friends’ advice and followed it like gospel. We slept when the baby slept. We cried when the baby cried. We drank when the baby drank. One friend told me I should keep a diary so I could remember everything about this “precious, precious time.” This is how far I got:
Day One: Black poop.
Day Two: More black poop, followed by green poop.
Day Three: I liked the black poop better.

None of this helped, by the way. Despite a Tivo full of mommy shows, the advice of my friends, and the Leaning Tower of Parenting Books next to my bed, I still hadn’t found anything that would tell me how to be a mother. And I needed that. After all, I hadn’t carried my son inside me. I hadn’t pushed him out of me. How could I have a maternal instinct when I’d never even worn maternity clothes? But a funny thing happened while I was trying to figure out how to be a mother: I realized that I already knew. It happened on the day my son barfed directly into my mouth and I laughed. That’s not the reaction I would have expected from myself. Scream? Yes. Cry? Absolutely. Run away and never come back? Hell yes. But I didn’t do any those things. I just laughed. And then he laughed. And right at that stinky, messy, funny moment, I knew — instantly — that I was a mother. Really and truly. No qualifiers needed.

Stacy Bolt is a Portland writer and mother who is mastering the art of raising her son, “The Pickle.” Read all about her trials and tribulations on her blog stacybolt.blogspot.com

Teresa Weis: Why Parents For Parental Leave is Necessary

A plan. To plan. The Master Plan.  It's been planned. Like so many parents, we thought we had planned for everything.  We planned to start "trying" early (as an infertile couple, we were advised it could take quite a while to conceive). So of course, we got pregnant within one month, throwing our timing off course. Our plan was for our son to be born at the beginning of next summer, not the end of this one.
 
We saved three months worth of salary to pay for my maternity leave, which would be unpaid. Currently, pregnancy as a short-term disability benefit is not a state law.  Some companies do provide it but not all, and most employees do NOT have any benefit options to extend or pay for leave. So I planned for the gaps in my salary.
 
Our plan, however, did not include five weeks of bed rest. It did not foresee our son's premature birth six weeks early. Our plan had no clause for our son's two-week stay in the NICU, nor for the extra time off my husband had to take from work.

How does anyone plan for the sheer (physical, emotional, spiritual) exhaustion of a newborn? Can one plan or prepare for constant emotional overload? Fear, joy, worry, love, doubt, powerlessness, frustration, all ripped our heart and guts out as we watched our wee child struggle for life, unable to hold him through all the tubes. 
 
Who could've planned for our son's ongoing respiratory problems, or the additional time it took to establish breastfeeding—complications of his premature birth? My baby was three months old before he was able to nurse without assistance. According to our original plan, I should be just be heading back to work!  

How does one plan for the guilt and sadness that course through your body when you first drop your wee baby off at childcare, earlier in his life than you thought he might be ready? My husband and I had to go back to work just to keep the household afloat, and so we prayed our son's lungs and immune system would stay strong.
 
We planned like no other... we really thought out the best way to maximize our time off to care for a healthy newborn.  And life happened anyway. No conceivable plan could have accounted for the complications or just the plain reality of having a baby.
 
People who argue against paid family leave usually say, " you should have planned better." But the fact is paid leave was the missing bridge that could have allowed us to stick with our plan. It could have saved our community and Oregon taxpayers the financial costs that we were simply unable to bear. The plan with children is that there is no plan that can encompass all the unknowns that their little lives bring.

Teresa Weis works in a school as a therapist, has a private practice in Portland, and is a member of Parents for Paid Leave, a grassroots group working to pass the paid family leave insurance bill currently in front of the Oregon Legislature. When not doing these activities or parenting a 20 month old, she plays washtub bass and sings in the Stumptown Jug Thumpers.

To learn more about the bill and how you can help please visit www.oregonpaidfamilyleave.org or www.parentsforpaidleave.org

Tig ol’ Bitties

Motherhood is so unkind to the boobies. For a part that’s labeled early on as being “private” they sure as hell don’t feel that way once you enter motherhood. From the first sign of two blue lines, they are simply never the same again. They grow, the get yanked on, pushed, prodded, and eventually deflate. When my son was too young to know about hand-placement decorum, he would stick his hand down my shirt in between my boobs as a soothing mechanism, as if he’d found the happiest place on earth. I would look into his blissful eyes and think, “C’mon. Is nothing sacred?”

Not to toot my own hooters or anything, but I am on the well-endowed side, and when you enter puberty and figure out what the boys are staring at, you kind of make them a priority. Remember the Judy Blume years? The bra that really wasn’t a bra but you wore it because you could say that you were wearing a bra? Ah, youth.

But now flash forward a few decades to the post-kids years and “the girls” are now in sad shape. They’ve been whipped out and in, exposed in public places far more often than they were used to, jostled around, contorted and stretched, and now they’re just shells of their former perkiness. I’m sick of looking at them, quite frankly. I recently cleaned out my maternity clothes and counted nine nursing bras, five pre-pregnancy bras, and five workout bras. And I only have one kid, folks. In retrospect I think I was going through boob withdrawals, trying to find some way to re-package cantaloupes into sandwich baggies. It just wasn’t happening.

So I guess this stage in life is all about coming to terms with what you got, right? Which is why every Mom needs to invest in a good bra now and again. Go to a department store that has a salesgirl walking around with a tape measure. Get measured and find your bra nirvana. Because there’s nothing like a deep-cut, underwire, molded-cup to make you throw back your shoulders and think “Hells yes. I can still rock it.” Word of caution: Lying down on your side when sporting the deep-cut model is not recommended. The northern boob tends to roll out, as if trying to escape. Just a little tip from me to you.

Heather Jones does lots of things of value, and sometimes she even gets paid for them. She is a restaurant public relations consultant, wife, mother, and Beaverton resident. When she has time left over, she also sporadically blogs at www.mamaneedsatimeout.com.

Mara Collins: Parenting as Performance Art

Parenting as Performance Art
By Mara Collins
“Oh sweetheart! I like what you are making! You’re using scissors so carefully, and you have so many colors. Can you tell me about your art?”

Amidst the crowd of parents and children sharing quality time together at OMSI, I overheard this exchange and felt that such thoughtful parenting should cheer me. I imagined that this woman probably had a parenting philosophy similar to my own: try to focus on efforts rather than results, give the child meaningful feedback, develop communication skills, and apparently have infinite patience for the craft room. But today–my own plans to spend meaningful time with my son seemed to have devolved into sleepily following him around as he dashed from one exciting feature to another, oblivious to me–today, with an OMSI-noise headache approaching, that patient mother’s voice got to me.
Meanly, I thought to myself, “Her words are too perfect, lifted from some magazine or book, and they’re pitched for my benefit rather than her daughter’s.” And I thought that because I have done that myself. I’ve repeated something clever my child said a little louder, hoping for an appreciative smile from someone nearby. I’ve wanted everyone around me to approve of my parenting. I even admit to having had afternoons when I purposely put on a show, taking the kids out in public because I knew other people would be listening, would be watching, would keep me from using unkind words.
But parenting as performance art treads treacherous ground. When we try so hard to project ourselves as good parents, we conceal the real struggles we face. When I was a new parent 11 years ago, I really didn’t have access to the idea that anyone else was struggling. Other people weren’t blogging about their struggles; Even the mothers in the playgroup weren’t honest about the struggling. I don’t think any of the mothers I knew in my son’s first year would have admitted to finding their babies boring, to resenting their husbands, or to any of the host of things I found hard about surrendering my pre-baby identity.
My moment of redemption for the afternoon at OMSI came when another harried-looking mother chasing her own very busy small person caught my eye and smiled with a “What are you going to do” gesture, and I was reminded that when we put away the performance art, other mothers can be a source of strength and camaraderie, of solace and advice. Being responsible for the well being, the education, the guidance and the million sticky details that accompany our children is intimidating enough. We need to not be intimidated by each other.

About the columnist
Mara Collins and her husband Raven Zachary moved to NE Portland with their four sons, ages 3 - 11, a year and a half ago and kick themselves frequently for not having done so sooner. Their family has lived in New Mexico, Prague, and Texas, and agrees that Portland is the place they want to stay. Mara is at home with the boys except when she is out with the boys (and sometimes even out by herself!) and she blogs at www.oleoptene.com.