At one end of the potty training enthusiasm scale we have the elimination communication folks holding their pantsless babies over their heads in triumph, and at the other end we have your trusty blogger, cowering behind a small fort of diapers and timidly shouting, "I don't WANT to go potty!"

So, yeah, maybe I'm a little anxious.

Welcome to the world Little Wanda girl. You’ve been a part of this family for months now, nearly invisible to everyone around but very noticeable to me. I’ve carried you and nourished you and talked to you, mostly about “swimming down” and “going towards the light” and other useful instructions that would help free you from your watery cell inside of me.

I’m the one whose stomach you heard gurgling and whose 6 months of semi-violent morning sickness gave you the hiccups. I am the soft home whose walls you snuggled up against and occasionally tried to claw through, with the loud laugh and the voice that went on and on almost without ceasing. I am everything that’s surrounded you for the majority of your life. I am your world as you’ve come to know it.

And now the world’s changed.

At my sons’ elementary school, there is a themed art contest underway. Students are given a theme (this year it’s “Beauty Is…”), and can they product any piece of art, literature, music, photography, etc. to fit creatively with the theme.

At dinner the other night, we discussed what their possible entries might be. “So boys,” I asked them, “tell me what you think is beautiful.”

...Despite his questionable contribution to the discussion, the eight-year-old was still eager to participate, wondering if he could submit a photograph to the contest. “Of course,” I told him, handing over my camera and giving instructions. “Take a picture of what you think is beautiful.”

He did. And he said I could share the results.

I don’t know that my mom loved to cook as much as she dug the reactions she got from her standout meals. A daughter of the South, Bettye was renowned for her southern dishes, and her macaroni and cheese was the stuff of legend. People heard she was whipping up a pan, and they’d get into car accidents and break stuff and whatnot trying to get in line for a heaping serving before it was all gone. It wasn’t an easy dish to make back then; the grocery stores didn’t have those glorious pre-shredded bags of cheese, so she had to scrape countless blocks of sharp and mild cheddar over her beat-up hand-held shredder to get the right amount of cheese she needed for ginormous pans of mac and cheese, which should explain why she wasn’t a fan of the cooking part.

As a kid, I didn’t quite get my mom’s foot dragging in the kitchen; I’d beg her to let me help, and on the days when she’d hand over a block of cheese for me to shred, I’d handle it with great glee. I loved helping out in the kitchen! But as a mom charged with cooking three squares for a family of five most days of the week, I kinda get it now.

I have a friend who has achieved every kind of success known to womankind, from school and career to perfect hair and flawless skin, but her mother is deeply disappointed in my friend's choice of future husband. It's unfathomable to me, that such a thing could cancel out the entire string of her life's A-pluses, but I suppose it's difficult to let go of the picture you create for your child's future.

A born people pleaser, I've spent an embarrassing amount of time examining all the ways I might be letting my parents, Phillip's parents (really, ANYONE) down. After my friend shared her trials with her mother, my ruminations on disappointment took me all the way to high school, where I seriously wondered if my high school English teacher would be disappointed that I spend my days chasing after two small children (and, shudder, blogging) instead of trying to get my fifth book published. Or something like that. I can get really ridiculous about this stuff.

But one thing I haven't thought much about, at least not until Phillip asked me a few days ago, is what my kids might do that will disappoint me.

Lately Magoo’s been teaching us a lot. He watches Dinosaur Train on PBS and then quizzes us on the food preferences of the various extinct species. He likes to teach me -- repeatedly -- to count to 10 using his fingers, toes, sticks and whatever else is available. He feels it imperative that I learn this important math skill. I’m not sure quite how to prove to him that I’ve pretty much mastered it already.

But his lessons are not always just about facts. Sometimes they’re about lifestyle and behavior.

My four-and-a-half-year-old daughter, Corrie, has an imaginary friend named Katie Mexico. Katie lives in our house, joined occasionally by her brother Mel Mexico (he tends to be in and out -- a vagabond imaginary friend, if you will). Katie may be simply a figment of my daughter’s charming imagination, but she is also wearing me out.

(Before I explain further, let me clear up that I am sympathetic to the importance of imaginary friends -- I had one as a child, too. Her name was Tonya, and she wore a dress remarkably similar to that of Scooby Doo’s Daphne. Come to think of it, she was often joined by her brother, Kimmy-ko, who tended to stop by only occasionally. I guess transient imaginary siblings must run in the family.)

I remember enjoying my “talks” with Tonya, and I remember how much fun it was to have a playmate who operated entirely by the dictates of my own imagination. So when Katie Mexico joined our family, I welcomed her.

My God, I can’t stand bugs -- never could. I mean, I grew up in Long Island, in a house with a grand, green, immaculately-maintained backyard, and I think I might have gone out there all of, like, three times. By force. There were spiders and mosquitoes and bees and stuff out there. Denene didn’t play that. So I stayed inside with my dolls and my books and far, far away from the creepy crawlies. Those unfortunate buggers that actually made it to the inside? Well, all it took was a full-on, high-pitched “Daddy!” and my father would regulate. We were a team, Daddy and I. I’d scream. He’d kill for me.

I’m not sure how I made it through my single and independent years without my personal bug slayer. It’s all a frenetic, heart-stopping blur. I do know that my Nick took up the Official Bug Killer mantle when we moved in together. For this, I was grateful. But I made a pinky-swear pact with him that when we became parents, I wouldn’t transfer my fear and disgust of my most despised critters -- and there are many! -- to our kids, especially if they were girls.

Lila, Mari, Cole, and Miles (in that order) picking live worms for their
fishing poles.

When Jack was about five months old we went on a little weekend getaway, just the three of us. We drove a few hours out of town to a little lake resort, got ourselves a nice hotel room and proceeded to enjoy...nothing. As my husband likes to put it, we were doing all the things we normally do at home, just without the benefit of home's conveniences.

Our first family trip really was a bummer. It took forever to get Jack to nap, and when we finally had him down, what was there for us to do? We were confined to the hotel room during nap time and our days ended at 7 p.m. when Jack went to bed. We'd also chosen a destination with pretty much nothing to do except walk around and admire the scenery. We drove home, vowing never to try this Family Vacation thing again. Not unless we had grandparents in tow!

But this summer, we were feeling a little ambitious.

No, I didn’t go into labor on Labor Day -- although that would have been downright adorable of me -- but I did spend the day laboring with Dan and the kids. We spent the whole weekend working our butts off and now that we have no butts, we are ready to plunge full-force into the school year.

I’m fairly sure the kids are excited to get out of this house of slave labor and back to school where they can spend more time eating snacks and playing with their friends.