The new film "What to Expect When You’re Expecting" caught my eye the other day. It shares its name with a book known as the “pregnancy bible” and I wondered what, if anything, the two had in common. So, I watched the trailer. It appears the resemblance ends with the name. Far from having the desired effect of making me want to watch the movie, it made me wonder how it is possible that Hollywood is still beating to death the same tired stereotypes about birth and parenting.

A large part of the trailer features a group of morose dads saddled with babies and their bulky paraphernalia telling the new guy about how parenting means your life is over — stereotype number one. They also inform the newcomer that his girlfriend is really running the show; in this case, if she wants to look at houses, they will get a house —enter stereotype number two. To cap off this optimistic lesson, they inform him that within their group of “dudes” there is “no judging” – no matter what heights of incompetence or neglect they may reach. Thus we come to stereotype number three: the incompetent father. To the credit of the fathers out there, I don’t think this one is merited. 

The final stereotype involves the birth process. The several-second clip told me that it was the same comedic birth scene I’ve seen so many times before. Woman in labor verbally and/or physically abuses significant other while screaming for drugs. How about a woman who toughs it out for once? Or even one who genuinely tries? Or one who gives in out of exhaustion rather than because the pain is too much for her delicate feminine sensitivities? These fictional women must have super human energy — most of the actual births I watched on video involved a lot of moaning, but not a lot of yelling, except perhaps at the final pushing stage.

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A great children’s book author passed away this week. He is probably best known as the author of "Where the Wild Things Are," a favorite of ours, but we also love "The Nutshell Library" (which has accompanying songs by Carole King from a 1970’s era television special), "In the Night Kitchen," and "Outside Over There."

Maurice Sendak is known for not sugar-coating the life of a child: The children featured in his stories are brazen and selfish at times, loveable and imaginative at others. In the course of reading to my son, I noticed there is something that sets apart the really well-known children’s book authors, and a part of that is the realism that they attempt to portray.  Sendak’s hero Max is terrorizing the house before he is sent to bed without supper, but he is more than simply a mischief-maker, as we realize when he suddenly wants to be with someone “who loves him best of all." Dr. Seuss is another of our favorites, and I hope my son will pick up on the message "Green Eggs and Ham" has for the picky eater. While my son has yet to really warm to Beatrix Potter, I love her stories and how the animals act like little boys and girls, such as when Tom Kitten and his siblings run around getting their nice clothes dirty playing outside.

There are a lot of newer children’s books out there and a surprising number of them are not very good. First, too many celebrities think they can write children’s books. Nothing against John Lithgow - I admire his acting - but I picked up a children’s book written by him at the library the other day and it looked like lackluster folk song lyrics written in tribute to his dogs. There are others who seem to take children’s book writing more seriously, but they often make childhood seem too saccharine. Take for example, "Guess How Much I Love You." It is, as a mother at one of my playgroups pointed out, basically a competition between parent and child as to who loves whom the most. The parent wins - big surprise. What’s more, it’s just not that interesting to read. Another author we’ve run into frequently is Karen Katz. We have a copy of "Counting Kisses," which I have altered. Rather than reading to my son about how someone is kissing the baby’s “yummy, chubby knees,” a description only a parent will appreciate and maybe not even then, I have focused instead on who is kissing (mom, dad, sister, cat, dog, etc.) and the body part, minus the strings of syrupy adjectives so as to teach my son about the people in the household and body parts, in addition to numbers.

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About a month ago, my husband put my 5-year-old, William, to bed a few nights in a row, switching off with me for the not-so-easy 2-year-old Alli.

So when it was my turn again, I went to brush his teeth and noticed something poking out of his bottom gums, behind a tooth. At first, I thought it was a popcorn kernel. The kids were in an everyday popcorn phase at the time.

Then I realized it was a tooth. His first adult tooth!, While I know it happens with every kid, I wasn’t prepared for how I would react. This was one of the first signs that my little boy wasn’t a baby anymore.

And as he becomes a big boy, that baby tooth has to go. I wriggled the baby tooth in front of the new one, and it was barely moving. It just looked like he was growing a second layer of teeth, like a shark.

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When my son took his first plane ride at age four months, I was afraid he would cry (he didn’t) or have a blowout (he did). When he next flew at seven months, I was more concerned about him being a lap child, as we had a long day of flying ahead. Luckily, my husband went along that time, so we passed him back and forth. At age thirteen months, I was nervous that the entire time on the plane would be one hours-long wrestling match. After all, that’s what diaper changing and clothes-changing times have become.

I came as prepared as I could. I asked friends for advice; I did research. I had toys he knew and loved, toys he’d never seen before, his favorite books, lots of snacks, and my Baby Björn to strap him into if all else failed.

When I got to the airport to check in, the attendant suggested I keep his car seat with me in case there were empty seats. The first flight was the longest, so I leapt at the hope of being able to strap him in, although I had not purchased a seat for him. As it turned out, there were empty seats, but the airline announced that the flight was full before we got on, so I gate-checked the car seat. That meant I had to manage a car seat, stroller, and toddler when we changed planes. I wish I had not taken that advice.

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When it comes to baby dishes, I have been very lazy. I just haven’t bothered to get any, even though my son has been eating solids for nine months now. When he was about five and half months old, I started thinking about the whole feeding thing, as he was starting to go bug-eyed every time I ate something. One friend had just bought a set of bamboo dishes for her baby. I liked the sound of that - environmentally friendly and chic - until I read an internet review which said they could get moldy if they didn’t get fully dry. Since I was planning to buy only one set, I figured that was a distinct possibility - what were the odds of it drying fully once I was feeding him several times a day? Another friend bought a plastic set with a cute whale on the bottom of the bowl. Her son loved the whale. So much, in fact, that he would dump his food out of the bowl to get a better look.

Unable to decide, I bought a sippy cup and a set of four baby spoons to help me get by in the short term. I used my conveniently microwavable teacups to heat his food and fed him from those. The sippy cup didn’t get much use - he didn’t seem to have the hang of it (he never drank well from a bottle either) and I quickly realized that, with only one, I’d have to wash it after every meal. So I just gave him a small amount to drink in the same half-glasses my husband and I use. Since there are twelve glasses, I can go quite a while before running out of them. At least now he is a pro at drinking from a glass, although he gets bored quickly and likes to waggle his fingers in the bottom of the glass or tilt it the opposite way, so that all the liquid spills out onto his high chair tray. 

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I had heard of the trend of teaching babies some basic sign language several years before having children and found it intriguing. When my son was about five or six months old I was reminded of it when I saw some mothers in my mother’s group signing for things like “milk” and “diaper” to their infants. Some, it turned out, had taken a class on teaching the signs to their babies and others were talking about signing up for the next class. 

Unfortunately, the upcoming class was cancelled, but I was still interested, so I looked up some signs online. The website I found (http://www.babysignlanguage.com) recommended starting with just a few basic signs that related to important parts of the child’s day. I started with “mother," “father," “milk," “diaper," “cat," and “eat."

After a short time, I could tell that my son recognized some of the signs, most notably “milk,” which, to him, is equivalent to nursing. But it wasn’t until age eleven months before he actually made a sign back to me - the sign for milk. I was getting a little impatient - after all, he could wave good-bye and the sign for milk was very similar, so I tried something different. Instead of signing to him just before nursing, I also did it while nursing him. The result was amusing: He unlatched and smiled at me, making the sign, then launched into a fit of giggles, as if giddy with the ability to communicate.

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William has been hitting baseballs off a T since he was not even 2, and I have always thought he was pretty good.

When we got him on a community baseball league team his first year – spring 2011 – he was 4 and had a blast playing ball with other kids instead of just his parents.

But he also learned some valuable “team sports” lessons that he continues to encounter, even as he plays more mature ball this spring as a 5-year-old.

The first issues we ran into with baseball when he was 4 were the hard-knock lessons that he’s not going to win every game or hit a home run every time he got up to the plate.

Now, our team went undefeated last year and won the 4-year-old T-ball championship, so he didn’t exactly learn the “how to be a graceful loser” lesson.

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When I received a call reminding me of a dental check-up, I was faced with a dilemma: whether or not to arrange childcare. I debated asking someone to watch my son, but felt as though asking for those kind of favors should really be saved for times when they are truly necessary. Also, I felt it would be good to set a precedent with my son of getting used to having to tag along on these sorts of errands once in a while.

I remember the first time I faced this dilemma: It was a mere few weeks after my son was born. I had made the appointment thinking I would be on maternity leave and I wouldn’t need to worry about the time of day, but without thinking about what I would do with the baby. Luckily, it was an early appointment and my husband went in to work a little late so he could watch the baby for me. At the appointment, my dental hygienist said it was fine to bring my son with me.

A few months later I did, for my next six-month check-up. At least he still fit in his infant carrier and when he began to cry, I rocked him with one hand while my teeth were being cleaned. I was reminded of that today, as he sat opposite me in his stroller, alternating between babbling and slowly going from whiny to crying, then back again as soon as anyone paid him any attention. The hygienist was very friendly and kept drawing his attention to the decorations around her: a brightly painted gecko on the ceiling and a plush flower with a fabric covered wire stem that was wrapped around the light over the chair where I sat.

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My identical twin and little sister live on the other side of the country, so the only way to see them is to fly there. Without kids, it’s no big thing. With kids, it’s a nightmare.

My most recent cross-country trip via airplane with two small kids, ages 2 and 5, was to Spokane, Wash., for my twin’s Idaho wedding. That’s right. I said Idaho. From Alabama, that’s three airplanes and about 10 to 12 hours of traveling. And it was in mid-January, when it snows in that part of the country. A lot. So there was no guarantee our original flights were going to stick.

And they didn’t. We had layovers and flight swaps going both ways. Going there, we couldn’t go through Denver because of a snowstorm. We were rerouted through Minneapolis and it was 12 a.m. when we got to Spokane, which was 2 a.m. our time (central).

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Reading aloud came naturally for us from the start - my husband and I are avid readers, and what better activity for me as the mother of a newborn, spending much of my days nursing and holding a sleeping baby, than to read. Our reading aloud habits have changed gradually over time. At first, I could spend the better part of a day reading aloud to my son as he nursed or slept. Later, as he slept less and began to be interested in grasping objects, I read to him primarily while he nursed, which was still a significant portion of the day. Eventually, he would unlatch while nursing, give me a mischievous smile, and feel for the book he knew would be there. That is when we switched to picture books.

This transition was probably the hardest. As with all babies, the book was just another object he wanted to grab and chew. We had board books and a couple of cloth ones, but we also established a reading etiquette. I allowed him to do as he pleased with the cloth books and sacrificed a board book I didn’t care for so that he could practice turning the pages by himself (it was subsequently torn in two), but during “reading time,” he didn’t touch the book. He sat on our laps and watched the pages as we read. My husband especially had a strict “no touching the book” policy - at least not until he had finished reading the book, after which point he would let our son hold it, but not put it in his mouth. I started out this way as well, except that I relaxed once I realized he really wanted to turn the pages himself - first the board books and then the paper ones, too - and he was really quite well-behaved about it, waiting patiently for me to lift the page enough for him to turn it.

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For the last few months, whenever I walk in the door after a long day at work, my kids are running around stark naked.

I don’t know about you, but when I walk in the door after a long day, I put my purse down, take my shoes off, hang up my jacket. The usual. But for some reason, my kids, who are 5 and 2, take off their shoes, their socks – and everything else.

I think part of it is because at that hour, it is daddy daycare. Because I work long hours and commute at least 30 minutes, my husband has night duty since he works really close to home. And he doesn’t care whether they’re dressed or not. And he’s not the first dad in charge. Before hubby takes over, his dad holds court by keeping them several days a week. So it’s possible clothing is optional when the men are in charge, even if it is 6 p.m. and company could show up at any time.

The streaking probably popped up when we started ramping up the potty training with Alli around Christmas. Right now, she sits on the potty a million times a night (and does nothing, mind you), then she gets off, flushes the empty toilet and goes back to playing. After doing that a bunch of times, putting the pullup and pants back on gets tiresome, so we all just let her run around bottomless. Then the shirt comes off around dinnertime so it won’t get dirty (because she hates getting anything on her shirt) - hence the nakedness.

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Last night, I was holding my son and swaying in time to some early Beatles songs, an activity he loves. As usual, he was looking away from me, a serious expression on his face, intently listening and occasionally cooing as though trying to sing along. We had listened to several songs when, abruptly, he twisted away from me, indicating he was ready for me to release him to go and play. He had never done this before; he always seemed to have limitless interest in our “dancing.” And thus, one more little phase ended.

Ever since my son reached the one-year mark, I have found myself reflecting on what our lives were like a year ago when he was a newborn and retracing his route to where we are now. At times it seemed so slow, but somehow I find myself wondering how we got here.

Having a child has forced me to change the way I look at time. Before, if I saw something was coming, I would take measures to prepare, to make the transition and the change itself easier on a long-term basis. My son’s phases, though, are so relatively short compared to other changes I’ve experienced, it has taken me a while to realize that I can’t keep planning for a future in which he is doing a particular thing indefinitely. For example, during our dancing session, I was thinking how I should try getting him to dance standing on his own, since he will soon be too heavy for me to hold him and do this for very long at a time. When he began to squirm, the lesson really hit home: I should just to do this as long as he will let me, because the odds are much greater that he will tire of it before I do.

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One of the things I dreaded about having children was feeling obligated to listen to children’s music. My associations with the genre were of over-enthusiastic, high-pitched voices and melodies drowned out by a cacophony of instrumentation. The very thought of it was enough to make me want to put off having children just a little bit longer.   

I didn’t always feel this way. I listened to a lot of children’s music as a child and loved it. It was the memory of what it sounded like, as recalled by my adult self, that was causing me problems. When my son was around four months old, it finally happened. My mother sent me two albums of “classic” children’s songs. I put them on, grimacing at the thought, but was surprised to find that I actually enjoyed them.   

Don’t get me wrong - if there’s one thing I hate, it is over-produced children’s music. Especially if the perpetrator feels the need to add a “modern beat” or some equally obnoxious flair to the music. But these two albums were surprisingly straightforward in their interpretations of some classic songs that I had forgotten I ever knew.

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We recently purchased a membership to a small, local science museum. It is an ideal place to take our son when I don’t have other activities for him. This museum has many hands-on exhibits for older children, but also an area especially designed for young children. In this area there are exhibits that teach about air, sound and color, but that is not what you hear the children talk about the most. There is also a small tunnel for them to crawl through. If they go to the left, they will see a small aquarium that is totally hidden from view from the outside. To the right is the bear’s den.   

This is about as scary as it sounds, given that it is in a play space for small children. It is small and dimly lit with a big mound of real, furry bearskin reposing in one corner and taking up a sizeable portion of the den. A sign outside the den explains that this bearskin comes from a female bear that was hit by a car in northern New Hampshire. That alone was enough to discourage me from peeking inside, but I am a chicken when it comes to such things. My son is probably too young to be afraid of it; one day, my husband went in with him and he crawled all over the bear, even pulling up and tapping it with the palms of his hands.

Older children, however, speak of the bear in hushed tones.

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Before we had children, my husband assured me that he would be the tougher one in terms of discipline. Now that our son is walking and asserting his independence, the issue of discipline is finally upon us and I am finding that I tend to be the “bad cop” while my husband is the “good cop.” The reason for this is simple: I am at home with the baby during the day and thus am constantly re-directing him as he approaches a light socket with a ill-disguised gleeful smile or reprimanding him for trying to crawl off the changing table or biting me. There are fewer opportunities for my husband to be the enforcer of discipline.

Knowing my expertise at diapering, feeding, and putting clothes on a squirmy almost one-year-old, my husband began to avoid doing these things when he was home. Not out of laziness, but because he knows how much the baby dislikes having these things done to him and that I can accomplish them quicker, causing the baby less distress. However, we realized that we had begun to compartmentalize our tasks withregard to our son so that my husband dealt primarily with playing and soothing and I dealt with the things that tend to involve a lot of wrestling. So, we resolved to make a conscious effort to change this.

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