Parenting Archive

The Great Escape.


Well, it finally happened. The moment I’ve been dreading for 2.5 years. I’m actually watching it unfold for the millionth time over the baby monitor as I type this.

He learned to climb out of his crib.

It just happened out of the blue one morning. I woke up around 8 (Liam usually wakes up between 8 and 8:30) and went out to the living room. His bedroom door was closed like it always is when he sleeps, so I didn’t think a thing of it. I entered the living room and had a cross between a heart attack and a reflex to kick some arse, because some man was sitting on our couch.

Except that man was 37 inches tall, wearing firetruck pajamas, and playing some cop game on the iPad, totally ignoring me.

With no prior practice or warning, he had climbed out of his bed, shut the door behind him and gone out to play games by himself. That afternoon he climbed out of his crib 4 times and after the fourth time of me saying “No. Go to sleep.” he finally gave in and took a nap. That was a month or so ago and he didn’t try to climb out again after that till Saturday. Saturday he was napping as usual and a couple came by to buy a stroller I had listed on Craigslist. Liam came walking out of his room like it was no big deal, handed the guy his sock, and climbed up in the kitchen chair demanding a snack. From that day on, it has been a battle of the wills. Last night he climbed out of his crib twice at bedtime, the first time catching me eating cake and freaking out that I had kept it a secret and waited till he was in his cage to eat it. This morning I woke up in bed, opened my eyes, and noticed that I had his pillow, Elmo, and 7 cloth diapers piled on my back. Apparently the Escape Artist Fairy had visited me in my sleep before heading to the living room to catch bad guys on the iPad.

As I write this he is standing in his crib, one leg flung over the side, yelling “I WILL get out Mama! I WILL!!”.

I know the solution is to buy him a big boy bed. Which we are, in a few weeks when our tax return comes through. He’s getting the Kura bed from Ikea so I’m hoping the cool factor will help him stay in it. But basically my heart sinks because I know a bed is just going to increase our battles. His crib has been my haven for 2 years. A place I can put him where he can’t get me. He is the most demanding, loud, intense child I have ever met, and the idea of no longer having a place where he lays down quietly and goes to sleep frightens me. Yes, I could put a gate in his doorway but he will just scream on the other side of it and that doesn’t grant me any breaks. It just fries my nerves.

So to the next milestone we go. Bye Bye Crib, Hello Big Boy Bed. Transitions. It’s all about transitions. This whole thing reminds me of car seats. You know the whole, “Each step forward is a step back in safety”? For us it’s, “Each transition forward is a step back in my sanity.”

Just wait. As soon as my eyes open, I will make a break for it.


He’s not mine, I swear.


You know how when your kids get older, they want you to stay away from them in public so you don’t embarrass them? I distinctly remember wanting my mom to park at the VERY end of the pick up line when I was a freshman in high school because she was always singing and dancing in the car while waiting and I was paranoid someone would see. Because obviously your life is ruined if you mom sings Hootie and the Blowfish, right? Well the more experience I have with raising a kid, the more gung ho I am about making your kids deal with your embarrassing habits and suck it up, because guess what? It is sweet sweet revenge. Revenge for the millions of times they embarrassed you in public when they were younger. Unfortunately you don’t have the option of telling your two year old to go to the opposite end of the check out line so no one will know he is yours. Therefore, when he turns 16, he can’t pretend you are not his.

In the last month alone I can count three times I wanted to do a combination of melting into an invisible puddle and laughing hysterically. Two instances happened today. The first was a few months ago. We were strolling through the mall and an older lady was walking towards us dressed head to toe in yellow. I’m talking BRIGHT yellow. A complete pants suit. With yellow heels and a yellow hat. She was also very, uh, sturdy, and easily towered over me. For one reason or another, she decided to say hi to Liam. Liam is usually very outgoing and will immediately put his hand on his chest and say, “Me Liam”, caveman style. This time he started screaming, clinging to my leg and yelling, “Wook! Help mama! Big bad banana!!!”. People were staring, because he was screaming like someone was pinching him. The Bad Banana Lady gave us the dirtiest look I’ve seen in awhile and stormed past us. Liam, relieved, let go of my leg and said, “Whew, all gone.”

The next two were today at Costco. We were walking to get eggs when a woman on one of those motorized scooter things whizzed by us. Liam yelled very loudly, “Wook! It’s the big sick lady on Wall-E!”. Apparently she very much resembled one of the boneless meal drinking people on the hovercraft things on Wall-E. He would NOT stop talking about it and of course she happened to be on every aisle we needed to go down. I was very relieved when we finally got to the check out line. Liam likes to push the cart onto one side of the register while I stand on the other to pay. The woman boxing things up was talking to him and he was chattering away. Suddenly, I hear him go “Wook! HAHHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!” in his crazy little laugh. My heart sank because I know that laugh. That is the laugh of his latest and greatest joke he’s picked up since potty training. I’ve been doing my best to ignore it in hopes he would stop and never do it in public but obviously that didn’t work. I meekly peered over the register to find my son standing with his hands on his hips, front of his waistband pulled down and tucked so he was dangling out for all to see. “Wook! Peeking!!!! HAHAHAHAHA!!!!!”. I  silently vowed to kill Shaun for laughing the first time he ever did that, because if he hadn’t, maybe this public display of two year old glory wouldn’t be happening. I don’t think I’ve ever moved around a register so fast, but I’m pretty sure he was only exposed to air for maybe 5 seconds before I grabbed him. Fortunately the bagger had two boys of her own and didn’t seem too traumatized, but I’d be lying if I’m not considering making my kid wear diapers again.

Wish me luck because when he wakes up, we have to go to Target. Sigh.

Maybe if I disguise him enough, someone will just think he’s a random awkward man?

Happy 13th Birthday, Son! Now Get Back in the Back Seat.


My son just had his 13th birthday on December 31st. Yep, a New Year’s Eve baby. We tried to get him to hold off to be the first baby born in Y2K, but he wouldn’t have anything to do with that, so the 31st it was. He’s always been a big kid: he came 3 weeks early and was 8 lbs. 5 oz., and was 40 lbs. at 3 years old, which back then was a big deal. He was never squishy fat, though (mmmm, except for his baby thighs); he was solid as a rock. Eventually J started thinning out and we actually worried about him being too thin, lol. He’s now 5’5.5″ (no, I’m not allowing him to catch up to my 5’6″ just yet) and around 92 lbs. So he’s big enough finally to sit in the front seat, right?

I guess so. The warnings in cars and on visors say that kids 12 and under should sit in the back and he *is* over 12 now. He had a couple of rides to school from his dad this past semester in the front seat because it was the only open seat; we carpool younger kiddos to school. It was a poorly kept secret from me: Giggle giggle giggle. “Guess how I got to school today, mom?” Giggle giggle giggle. But what could I do? It was raining and I wasn’t pulling my sorry butt out of my soft, warm bed at 7:15a to give him a ride when there was a car conveniently going right by his school ;). I know, bad CPS Tech. So slap me.

A day before his birthday, I wanted to get him off his computer, so I bribed J to go to the store with me. In a sing-song voice, I called to him, “Want to go to the store with me?”


“I’ll let you ride in the front seat.”

Next thing I hear is a teen’s large feet clomping down the stairs. Glad I know what makes him tick! The whole 5 minute ride to the store was awkward at best. It was just weird having my son sitting next to me, hearing his voice from *next* to me, instead of coming from behind me. He rode home in the front seat, but I told him that was the last time for a while that he’s sitting in the front. *I’m* not ready for it. He knows the statistics—that he’s 40% more likely to be injured in the front seat—and he’s my safety kid so he tends to do what’s safest anyway. He’s still going to ride in the front seat when he’s alone with dh because he wants to be like dad, but I’m not going to sweat that. He’s old enough now, he’s big enough, and he’s less likely to be leaning out of position in the front. It’s just another sign that my kids are growing up way too fast.

Welcome home!


Well, I’ve been blessed to have been invited to guest blog here at CarseatBlog, and I’m so excited that I’ve made about 193,329,382 punctuation errors in this first sentence alone that I had to go back and correct. In case you didn’t know, that’s the Internet version of wetting your pants.

I’m not a total stranger as I’ve been on the boards for years now, but lately I’ve been consumed with work and family life (read: eaten alive by my insane two year old) so I’ve been less on the scene than I used to. I blog semi-frequently, but blogging for an “official” blog with multiple people is a first for me, and I somewhat feel like Eve must have felt on Wall-e when she was shoved off the rocket. Not that I’m comparing CarseatBlog to a worn out planet of trash or Darren to a robotic trash compacter…but you know. Obviously my analogies aren’t the best. But I *do* know my car seats, and I’m a pretty passionate person, so here I am.

Be your kid’s superhero.

When I mention passion it comes to light that a lot of us (ok, if you’re reading this you are most likely included) are thought of as insane, or at least a little weird, to be “obsessed” with car seats and passenger safety. Everyone has their interests and hobbies, but I am always a little offended when someone compares my car seat passion with knitting or collecting postcards. To others, it’s small. But to me, it’s big. Very big. But I wonder what makes some of us latch on to this and take it to a level that extends beyond basic research?

I think it has a lot to do with control. If you think about it, having children is the epitome of being out of control. Conception is a crapshoot. Birth can be unpredictable. Make a child eat? Yeah, right. Force a child to sleep? You’re dreaming, only you’re wide awake with blood shot eyes and a deep gutted feeling of desperation. Get through an errand at Target without tantrums and dirty looks from strangers? Nope (ok, maybe that’s just me). Control every other driver on the road? I wish.

You can make the healthiest, greenest, organic food on the planet, but there’s no guarantee your toddler won’t dump it on the floor and yell, “all done!!!” while running off to eat the 3 month old cracker they found behind the entertainment center. You can buy organic sheets and expensive pajamas, darken the room, have the meanest swaddle on the planet, all while playing the whispers of sweet golden angels on the iPod speakers, but you can’t guarantee that kid will close his eyes. You can hand your kid a $500 iPad as bribery but it won’t mean he won’t try to launch himself out of the cart screaming “help me!!!” to strangers because you wouldn’t let him open all the bottles of detergent at Target. You can’t make people sober, attentive, or even good drivers. You just can’t.

But one thing you CAN do, is give your child the best possible chance of survival from all the things you can’t control. You can’t make your child like it. You can’t guarantee you won’t want to slice your eyeballs with a manila envelope after listening to the complaints, both from your child and those who criticize you. However, you CAN force that child to ride in a car seat that provides the proper protection they deserve. Every time. Without fail. Because you do have control over one thing in raising a child: giving them a fighting chance and forcing them to take it. They’ll thank you for it later.

Yours truly and the 36 inch tornado.

Editor’s Note:  Alicia is a long time member of She is an RN, former CPST, and toddler wrangler to her son Liam.

We just completed a cross country move from AZ to NC and my son is the true definition of “spirited”, however once I get my feet on the ground I’m devoted to getting back into the role of CPST and getting myself back where I feel most at home- in your backseat!”

Welcome, Alicia!  We were hoping you could help us make the place a little “lighter” and a little less “official”!  Alicia’s parenting blog is “A Short Story Made Long“.