School daze

Is my child well enough for school?

I always thought this would be an easy question to answer before I had kids. Boy, was I wrong.

I definitely do not want to be the mom who spreads the germs to the whole school. But my 4 year old isn't old enough, either, to be a reliable reporter of how well he feels. So I'm making guesses based on his demeanor, his appetite, and his energy level.

My point: It's a tough call. If there's no clear sign of illness—fever, vomiting, diarrhea—you're going to get it wrong occasionally. I think most kids fake it at least once, and every kid has probably come home after school one day and puked all over the rug.

Don't beat yourself up over it. It's never an easy choice.

What criteria do you use to decide whether your kids are well enough for school?

But, Mom

I'm sorry, no. We are not going any further don't that road. It's not that I'm a dictator (all the time); it's that there are things you cannot do for your own safety. Scaling dressers, walking in the road by yourself (without looking), going to a friend's house when I've never met the parent are all items I consider extremely dangerous.

These are items that I will not budge on. Ever. So don't keep pushing. The answer will always be no.

Is preschool good for moms?

It occurred to me as I dropped my preschooler off today that I'm the first generation of mothers to have my kids start school so young. My mother had a two-morning, two-hour program, which was then called the politically incorrect "Mother's Day Out." And, as a tangent, I never understood that name. Two hours does not give a mom a day out. It gives her time to shower and eat breakfast.

But back to preschool. My daughter goes for four hours, three times a week. That gives me a whopping twelve hours of professional time. I can increase that to six hours five days a week, which would allow me to work pretty much full time. But here's a question: Is that a good idea? I'm beginning to think the whole reason some women decide to go back to work at least past time is because of the social push to put kids in preschool. If I had my daughter home with me, I don't think I'd feel as obligated to accept as many (or maybe any) freelance assignments.

Now, I think preschool is a wonderful invention. I love that my child is learning at this point in her life when she's excited and willing to soak up information. I also love the fact she's learning to share and understand the complexities of interpersonal relationships.

But I wonder if preschool is healthy for mothers who then feel the pressure to DO something with their time. Up until 40 years ago, handling the household budget and keeping the house, kids and dog clean was considered a full time position.

What's your point of view? Should we feel the need to immediately find work as soon as there is a break in our childcare duties?

"Mommy, your work is ruining the day!"

So I quit working fulltime because I was expecting No. 2 and I just couldn't imagine a life were I could give two the total love and focus I wanted to give and work full-time.

But last week, my son said to me, "Mommy, your work is ruining the day!" Oh, how those words crush.

Now, to be fair to me, we'd just wrapped up a two-day visit from his grandpa. He'd spent the morning playing with grandpa before we drove him to the airport. Then we followed up with a special treat--lunch at his favorite restaurant, then a play date with his best friend. While his baby sister was napping, I tried to grab 15 minutes of editing before the big event. We we planned a special night out at the Sesame Street Live performance. But my 15 minutes elicited an angry comment from my son.

Friends, it hurt. I try to only work when my children are sleeping or at preschool (a tall order, as you know!) But sometimes you just need a few extra minutes.

Don't feel bad. When I catalog the attention I give my children every day, I realize the guilt is unfounded. They are always the first priority. But to expect ourselves to always be on—ready to play, ready to be the cargiver, the servant—when our children are awake ... that's not reasonable, either, is it?

Trust me. You are an amazing mother. Your children will have countless memories of the love you displayed. Some will come from events you'll never remember—making the peanut butter and jelly sandwich, helping them make that very special snowman. You can't predict what that moment will be. I know, because I've tried. You just have to give your love every day and trust that they see it in your actions.

So don't stress the small stuff.

I said, "No!"

I'm a writer. I'm a writer of magazine and web articles, corporate web copy and nonprofit press releases. I enjoy writing across these industries and for a variety of clients. But my true love is fiction. And I've finally started querying literary agents.

I've also started racking up the rejection letters. This is not a fun part of the process. In fact, it's downright discouraging. I actually wanted to work for a literary agent so that I would better understand the process. That's me: research and learn as much as you can before you dive into something. Unfortunately, working for an agent wasn't a possibility.

I'm sure I'm learning from this process; I'm just not quite sure what as yet. Any suggestions?

Oh, how times have changed

My daughter joined the Girl Scouts this year. Daisy Scouts, actually. I didn't know there was such a thing until we went to the first meeting.

I was a Brownie for years; I loved selling the cookies. I'd walk down the streets of my neighborhood and knock on doors, wondering what kind of dog was attached to each bark. Now, the girls and parents get strongly-worded documents against door-to-door sales.

Just one more way the world has changed. And not for the better.

Dear Friend

It's been three and a half years since you died of cervical cancer. I was still nursing my son. I remember crying as I fed him. Crying as I told my boss. Every time I touch something you gave me or see pictures, I feel the ache that you aren't here too.

It had been two years since we'd spoken when you died. Too long. You know how that happens. You always think there will be more time.

We had fun. Remember high school? We called you Queen of the Band Hall? I still have the notes we passed. I read them and laugh. And then I cry. Because they're the last notes we'll ever share.

I love you. I remember the night your sister died. It was the worst thing I ever thought could happen. Until you got cancer.

I wish I'd been there for you more. Your family says it was a relief when the end came, because the pain was too great. And I hate that. But I think about you. I hope there is a part of you I can pass on to my children.

I look at my own kids, and I think, not them. No way. But your parents had three, lost two. How could that happen? I don't know. But it haunts me. And I'm not the only one.

We love you. We remember.