Nothing says, “Time flies,” like a child’s birthday.  As parents, a birthday prompts us to ask ourselves: Where has the time gone? How do they grow so fast?  Where are my keys and wallet?

And then there is the stark realization that with birthdays come birthday parties. I’ve heard about the circles of friends and relatives who are eager to outdo each other’s celebrations, so that by the time their children are six years old, parents are scrambling to hire Bono to ride in on a unicorn with the cake. Here in my world, things are decidedly more low-key.  Still, when I opened the latest invitation, my face fell a little.

“What’s the matter, Mommy?” Sophie asked.

“Pool party,” I said.  Sophie sprinted upstairs to pick out her swimsuit, two weeks in advance.

We had attended a slew of swimming parties that summer and fall; the invitation I had just opened would make our fifth. I understood the appeal; kids love them, and using the local recreation center is an easy and inexpensive way to entertain everyone without all the clean up afterwards. It’s just that I’m categorically opposed to any children’s activity that requires me to shave first.

At the first pool party we ever attended, I was unprepared. I wore a two-piece swimsuit that was easily displaced when tugged by, say, a youngster, and so I spent the majority of the party re-tugging things into place in the interests of decency.  I’d forgotten that I’d applied mascara to my lashes the night before, and it ran down my face in the most ghastly way without my knowing.  Much like the woman who discovers she just spent the last six breezy blocks with her skirt tucked into her panty hose, I saw the group photo a few days later, and wondered why nobody had tipped me off about the black streaks marking my face.  When my husband, Alex, looked at the photo, he asked, “Why is Alice Cooper holding our daughter?”

Now that I’m a pool party veteran, I’ve learned the basics. My snug one-piece suit from COSTCO is wardrobe malfunction-proof, and it’s no big whoop if I happen to accidentally leave it behind in the locker room scramble that has claimed countless pairs of socks, goggles, and ponytail ties. Its tropical pattern says, “Make mine a virgin piña colada—I’m driving.” The cut says, “If I had any risqué tattoos, this would hide them all.”

Two weeks later, I arrived at the rec center with Sophie and our usual gift, a gift card bought minutes in advance, in tow. I glared at the building, still open, despite all my hopes for a power outage, a ph imbalance, the discovery of a Baby Ruth in the water.  We headed for the locker room, and as it turned out, the water was warmer than usual. I was able to persuade Sophie to sneak a few trips to the hot tub, and none of her antics in the shallow wading area required stitches or lifeguard intervention.  The slides and water features were enjoyed by all, and nobody cried.

After realizing I had made it through the swimsuit competition without a snag, I celebrated with the guilty pleasure I help myself to at every party: All the soda I can drink.  A few of us moms gabbed over pizza, raising our voices above the din of Dan Zanes, each one of us swearing that we were still the same size we wore in high school. “It’s just that everything’s in different places,” explained one woman. In Boulder, these conversations are made more awkward than usual by the fact that at least fifty percent of the people at any gathering has competed in a triathlon earlier that day. But it seemed I was in good company.

“Yes,” I said, noticing the awkward way my jeans felt then, “the compartment’s contents have definitely shifted during the flight.”
“Shift happens,” said another mom, winking.

Standing there, enjoying myself in tandem with my little girl and her friends, I wondered if maybe I was finally getting into the swing of things.  Perhaps this was the dawning of a new era of comfort in my parental skin. Who knew? Maybe someday I would go so far as to throw the same kind of fete for Sophie’s fifth birthday next year. And then, while wondering what it would take to get Michael Phelps to make an appearance at the rec center pool, another mom sidled up to me and whispered, “Your zipper’s open.”

Twenty years ago, I knew nothing about going green.  Nothing.  I don’t even think my fair city HAD recycling pick up.  In fact, I know it started shortly thereafter - I have memories of lugging a small blue bin in the back of my car to a recycling spot a few miles away.  My husband thought I was crazy to carry loads of paper and empty milk containers around in my van, just waiting for the time to drive to the recycle location.  Now we have curbside recycling, almost a given in many cities. Recycling containers are found in ballparks, amusement parks, and at concerts. I even see them at the oceanfront.  I feel very strongly about the need to recycle, and I drive my family crazy, pulling items out of the trash and running them to the recycle bin.

Lots of things are being done all over America to “Go Green”.  Electric cars, fluorescent light bulbs, cycling hot water heaters.  Carpooling, cloth diapers, biking to work.  Eat less meat, cook at home, buy items with less packaging.  One great area for going green is using the net to find free goods and swap the stuff you no longer need. Just because items are used, it doesn’t mean they’re junk. Check out the amazing list of new to you stuff here on Zwaggle - everything from infant toys and fancy outfits to furniture, bikes to bouncers, swings to books.  Many of the items are only gently used, so delve into the different categories until you find a “new to you” item that’s just what you need.  Why not take this opportunity to find the things that you no longer need, the things that aren’t being used in your house, and send them on to someone searching for the groovy girl to complete her set or a new book for his son. One family’s unwanted stuff is another families treasure.

Are you moving?  Put those gently used belongings here.  It’s far better than the environmental effects of the manufacturing, packaging, and transport that go into a new baby seat, not to mention that it keeps things out of the landfill, always a win-win situation.  It’s always a good idea to be sure that you actually USE the items you’ve been saving, rather than pay money and expend effort to move them.  Reduce your sweat equity, and increase your pocket equity.

Happy Earth Day, everyone!  Tell me, what are some of the ways that you are working to reduce, reuse and recycle?

When we reach the end of our calendar and the winter holidays roll around, our preschool goes dark for two weeks of winter break.  Back when Sophie was a toddler in diapers, school closures and schedule interruptions unnerved me to the point of chaining myself in protest to the desk of the school director.  That was only two years ago—half my daughter’s lifetime.

Those were times made more interesting by the fact that Sophie had decided to stage a sleep strike that lasted for nearly nine months.  All forms of sleep, including naps, were fought with extreme prejudice, to the point that I once caught her holding her eyelids open with her fat little fingers. I wish that were a joke; the truth is I was losing it.  I tried hard enough to make light of the situation. I designed little tee shirts that said things like, “Naps are for quitters.” Those were the days when I had assumed the sandman slept with the fishes. The only relief for a mom on the brink of all kinds of breakdowns was preschool two days a week.

That was the year we were all at the mercy of my husband’s work schedule. Alex traveled so frequently that he was usually gone from Monday through Friday of each week. I remember thinking how strange it was that spending so much time with a clingy youngster made me feel unbearably lonely. We had moved earlier that year to Vail, a ski resort town where I didn’t know anyone, and meeting full time residents with children was tricky.  There was no community center, no town hub where parents regularly gathered to keep each other company.  There was no equivalent of the PTA at preschool; we lived in a community of vacation homes that were only occupied by families a few weeks or months each year. When the sun went down, I looked out the kitchen window at miles of dark houses.

When Sunday of each week came, I found myself shoring up my spirits for the week, and preparing for anything, knowing that anything could happen.  And when Sophie caught pneumonia, the flu, an ear infection, and pink eye in the same winter, it seemed like everything did happen.  If a nearby family with a son the same age as Sophie hadn’t taken us in the way they did, I’m not sure what I would have done.  I can only feel grateful that things changed in the spring, when hope springs eternal on many fronts.

During what I consider one of my hardest years, I had the chance to meet with my friend Liz, who told me that, with Sophie at the two and a half year mark, “You’re on the cusp of things getting much easier.”   She told me not to worry, that soon Sophie and I would enjoy long talks together, drinking in the company of the other. Soon Sophie would become independent enough to play for longer periods by herself, and I was within eyeshot of taking showers in the morning and using the bathroom in peace. “I love hanging out with my daughter,” Liz said. I told her that Tom Petty was right when he sang, “The waiting is the hardest part.”

“At least you get to work at home,” she said. “Your lunch is safe in the refrigerator, and the room temperature is completely up to you.”

For some reason, even though she’s the working mother of five, I didn’t believe Liz about the upcoming trend toward positive change, but I should have. She was right.  Time passed, as it does, and Sophie grew up.  Between moving three times in eighteen months, spending a week in the hospital with RSV, and a few bouts of miscellaneous travel, I potty trained her three times.  But apart from all that, she grew into a child who can occupy herself for stretches of time that allow me to make dinner, and maybe even speak to a friend on the phone. At first, this was like re-learning a foreign language; apparently, speaking Adult is a very perishable skill, but my friends understood. They spoke slowly and clearly, and tried not to laugh when I asked if they had heard about that new show, Sex and the City.

And just after I spoke to Liz, we moved back to Boulder, where our friends and family and our first, beloved preschool folded us back into the community. The day we moved in, Sophie started sleeping like the baby she wasn’t anymore.  And about a year and a half after that, Alex was leaving town only occasionally.  When he did leave for a trip, my Pavlovian response was to gather wood and break out some canned goods, but some other part of my brain knew better. “Don’t worry about us,” I said to Alex, “we’ll be fine.”  On the first of such nights, I picked up Sophie from preschool in the dark of 4:30 PM. The temperatures were dropping to zero quick, and on the drive home, I asked, “What shall we do?”
“Pajama party!” she said, lifting her hands as if she were raising the roof, a statement that made me almost dizzy with joy.

“And what else shall we do?” I asked, “What shall we have for dinner?”

She said, “I know! Let’s have gravy,” just like that.  I looked at her, teary-eyed and said, “You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to hear you say that.”