It’s vacation time at Maryland Family so today’s guest blogger is our calendar editor, Laura Barnhardt Cech. Her son, Bentley heads off to kindergarten today:

Dear teacher:

An old Erma Bombeck column has been on my mind as I prepare to send my 5-year-old off into the big, exciting, scary world of kindergarten.

She considers writing his teacher a note:

“I submit to your tender, loving care my son who is a little shy but a lot stubborn. Who can’t cope yet with zippers that stick or buttons on sweaters that don’t come out even. One who makes his 5s sideways but works seriously and in earnest. I may sue you for alienation of affection, but for the moment, ‘God Bless You.’”

The famous humorist was, of course, writing about her own son, but except for a few details, it’s pretty close to how I feel. She wants to ask for the teacher’s patience with her sweet boy. But, Bombeck writes, she doesn’t want the teacher to be too pretty or smart, lest the worn-out, old mom suffer in comparison. I feel that way too.

Here’s my version of her letter:

“Dear Grown-up in charge,

I present you Mr. Bentley — as he sometimes calls himself — an intense mix of curiosity, energy, and joy. He is a Lego maniac and is anxious to learn to read. He loves science experiments (especially if they involve sprinkling glitter all over the kitchen.) And he is the most precious person in the world to me.

Please forgive his imperfections, including a just-in-time-for-school tendency to wait until a bathroom visit is an emergency. He may also be a little more unsteady than other kids you see, in part, because I’m destroying his secure, predictable home by bringing in a wailing, demanding infant (due any day now.)

Whether you are the school secretary, or bus driver or his teacher, whatever your salary is, it is not enough. You couldn’t be more important to our family. You’re a role a model and protector of our precious boy and his education.

May God bless you.”

When hurricane Bill kicked up some serious surf in Rhode Island last weekend, many of us parents rediscovered a joy of childhood — Boogie Boarding.

I had totally forgotten how much of a thrill it could be. A friend dragged me out on Saturday and that’s all it took. I was hooked. I was practically wrestling the board from my kids to catch some more waves. And when my youngest wanted me to ride the little, already crashed waves with him, I’d set him up, send him off and sprint out to catch a real roller.

Out in the heavy duty surf — moms and dads were bobbing around waiting for the big ones. We were all on boards barrowed from our kids and having the time of our lives. I saw one woman, probably around 45, riding in a wave so big, her face was being pummeled with foam and she was barely hanging on. But after the ride she exclaimed to me excitedly — her hair all askew — “Did you see that?”

On Sunday, I thought I had had enough. My legs were bruised and my muscles sore, and I planned to just rest on the beach, till my daughter asked me to come out with her. So I grabbed a board and headed out for just a wave or two. A half hour later, she was cold and tired and heading in but not me. I just had to catch one more wave.

Bonnie Wallace, mom of three boys, rides out a wave. photo by Matt Taylor

It’s vacation time at Maryland Family, but our guest blogger today is local mom Kim Hess, a stay-at-home mother of two:

No. Not Fat. Worse.

One evening after putting the kids to bed, my husband looked over at me and said, “You look frumpy.”

Frumpy?

I had been working out and dropped a clothes size. I recently purchased a couple items of clothing to replace the “fat” clothes. My hair had been growing back, after losing about half of it two years ago. I most certainly am not frumpy!

The word frumpy consists of six letters, but to women, it has the negative connotations of a four-letter word. To a stay-at-home mom, whose attire does not include power suits and sexy club dresses, this comment cut to the core of my womanhood.

I halted my immediate thoughts of dismembering his anatomy, and took a good look in the bathroom mirror. And, lo and behold, his assessment correctly described me.

Me teal green fitted t-shirt and brown Capri pants had stretched during the day. The t-shirt did not snugly fit my torso. My pants looked as if I had a dirty diaper hanging in the rear. To finish my slovenly look, my hair had frizzed to an unruly mess. My self-image did not match the reflection in the mirror.

The reality check startled me. I looked frumpy!

My look needed a drastic change, requiring me to loosen the purse strings and actually spend money on myself. I try to limit spending to necessary household purchases and for activities for the children. Buying clothes for myself ranks near the bottom. These items seemed in vain and excessive, more like luxury items than necessities.

The next month, I went on a shopping spree. I figured out that my shirt size is a petit medium, not a regular large. My pant size is actually one size smaller. I purchased flirty skirts and sexy dresses. I received an accurate fitting for new bras to hold the “girls” in their proper places. I went to the salon for a new hair cut and purchased hair products specific to my hair type.

I felt guilty spending the money, but I felt very good with how I looked. I needed to adjust my priorities and rank myself higher, so that I would purchase items and services for me.

The spending spree did not exceed our family’s budget. However, the comment was the most expensive one my husband has made.

When I ask my husband whether I look frumpy now, he smiles and says you look fantastic. That is an acceptable F word to describe me.

We are vacationing in a small town called Weekapaug in south eastern Rhode Island. My dad has been coming to this small, summer vacation spot on the Block Island Sound since 1938. I’ve been coming since I was a baby.

The other day, I was talking to a mom on the beach who has only recently discovered the paradise that Weekapaug is.

“When I tell people I’m going to the beach, they don’t realize that it’s so much more than just a beach,” she said, as we watched our children run off with a big group of kids to play in the rocks that run along the shoreline.

You see, Weekapaug is a community. Kids make lasting friends here that they see when they come every y\summer. I played with the kids of my dad’s friends. My kids play with the kids of the friends that I made when I was a kid. There’s also family that we never see at home. My aunts and uncles still come here and many cousins have put down roots up here.

It’s an amazing place. It’s the happy place I tried to recall when I was in the throws of labor. It’s a place where the kids can hop on their bikes and be gone for hours, and I don’t worry. It’s the place that we talk about all winter long and when we finally arrive, we just about blink and it’s time to go home.

“We are so lucky,” I told my friend on the beach, as my youngest came back with a bucket full of starfish and ran off to get his boogie board.

Does your family have a special place like Weekapaug? We’d love to hear about it.

It’s vacation time at Maryland Family, but our guest blogger today is Jennifer Dansicker — the editor of Harford Magazine and mother of Henry, 6, Audrey, 5, and Stanley, 4.

It’s funny how your childhood longings seem to follow you around in some way, shape or form. For me the desire to have a bat mitzvah was always something that I wanted to do but never thought I was worthy of the honor. I was raised in a household where men got bar mitzvahed and girls made dinner and washed the dishes. It wasn’t as bad as it sounds; it was actually comforting having my designated role in the family. With two brothers and two sisters, there were always strange double standards and odd divisions of labor among the sexes in our house. Still, we were a happy family for the most part.

When I turned thirteen, I began watching my peers getting bat and bar mitzvahed every Saturday afternoon. In the evenings we danced to 80s music at the after celebration soirées. As a tween, I was just happy to enjoy the fruits of my friends’ hard labor by attending the ceremonies and parties. When I was young I never questioned why, I just did what I was told. As an adult I have begun to explore my desire to know myself, my religion and my history.

Today, I am a married 39-year-old mother of three young children who attend Beth Tfiloh Dahan Community Day School – a modern Jewish orthodox school. And after the death of both my parents and one older brother in recent years, my views on how I live my life have changed dramatically. Things I thought I would never do have crept back into my consciousness. I think these circumstantial changes motivated me to find the depth of my relationship with God.

So last year, after a crash course in Hebrew Reading, I decided to join the Adult Bat Mitzvah program at Beth Tfiloh. By the time I finish the program I will be turning 40, so why did I choose to do it now, you might ask? The first reason would be for my children. I feel strongly that it is my role to set an example for them by living a Jewish life. My children go to school every day and learn about their faith and how to live by the rules of Judaism. One of my greatest joys is watching them grow as loving, independent, centered children who are learning to be good people and good Jews. I try to keep up with their daily learning by reinforcing the teachings with dialogue about Jewish customs and theology. We celebrate all the Jewish holidays, and we also have Shabbat dinner every Friday night. We hope to use the teachings and the traditions of Judaism to make our children and ourselves better, stronger peopleŠ.people who can endure, give back to the community and one another as we try to love in peace.

Being a part of the Adult Bat Mitzvah is my commitment to myself and my children to pursue a good and faithful life. I want my children to know, especially my daughter, that Judaism is important to me and the way I live my life. The bat or bat mitzvah is a milestone for any Jewish person, young or old. It is a right of passage and at my age it requires sacrifices of my time and energy that ultimately show my children that faith and learning is still important and has value. Through this amazing program, I have learned so much about myself and my faith.

It’s vacation time at Maryland Family and our guest blogger today is our calendar editor, Laura Barnhardt Cech. Laura’s second child is due Sept. 10 and last week she blogged about revealing names while pregnant:

I am thankful for all of my friends– they are source of strength, humor and love. But today, I’m especially grateful for my mommy friends. They understand my hormonal melt-downs in the final weeks of pregnancy. They accept my teary tirades, order pizza and let my son mess up their playrooms. They send me encouraging emails and call to check in.

They’ve shared the tips about nursing and baby equipment. (Who knew a Bumbo seat could cure constipation?) They’ve passed along kid-proof recipes and places to have birthday parties. And, they’ve modeled good parenting– talking when I would’ve yelled, being positive when I would’ve shouted, “No!”

Occasionally, though, a mommy friend will be so amazing in my presence that I will remain awed for months.

This summer, a friend brought her two boys over for a play date while we were both vacationing at Ocean Pines. It was rainy morning and we chatted while our 5-year-olds played fort on the bunk bed. (You know where this is going. I should’ve known better.)

Her son fell and hit his head. The cut was so deep that we called 911. The whole ordeal, naturally, was pretty traumatic. He was crying a lot and wasn’t soothed one bit by the “excitement” of riding in ambulance.

Things got better at the hospital, where he was given ice cream and several stitches.

Rather than let the bad experience with the paramedics and firefighters linger in his mind, my friend, Natalie, returned the next day to the fire house with her son. They gave the volunteers treats and thanked them. And her son posed for pictures in front of the ambulance that had scared him the day before. He was all smiles and thumbs-up.

I never would’ve thought to do that. But it was such a good idea to make sure he didn’t have a negative association with his rescuers.

Do you have examples of ways your mommy (or daddy) friends have inspired you?

It’s vacation time here at Maryland Family, but luckily we have plenty of friends willing to step in and blog for us. Today’s guest blogger is Maryland Family’s calendar editor, Laura Barnhardt Cech, whose second child is due Sept. 10.

With my first baby, my first inclination that I might soon be going into labor was an announcement from the doctor: “You’re two centimeters dilated.”

And even then, it was three days before my water broke (actually sprung a leak).

This time around, I’ve been feeling Braxton Hicks contractions for weeks. It’s a variation on a cramp, and usually comes in waves at night. A few times, the Braxton Hicks have been strong enough or close enough together that I’ve looked over at the clock. They’ve gotten to the point where they’ll last 30 seconds or longer and come four minutes apart, but then they disappear.

It’s starting to remind me of the “Boy Who Cried Wolf” story. I can only get excited so many times. So, I’ve started to ignore the occasional contraction. Today, I started feeling them pretty close together in line at the McDonald’s. Did I consider leaving? No way. (Plus, my 5-year-old had his heart set on the Happy Meal’s Lego racer.)

Then it occurred to me that maybe I’ve become a little cavalier about what could actually be labor pains. Did I really want my little girl’s birth story to begin in a fast-food drive-thru? So, I called my husband and my mom and increased the alert level to orange.

After that, I didn’t feel guilty having a hamburger and fries.

It’s vacation time, so our guest blogger today is Jennifer Broadwater, who covers education for the Howard County Times and Columbia Flier. She and her husband have started shopping around for a home and are hoping our readers can offer a few tips to make the process easier:

After living in an old — albeit charming — brick rowhouse for a few years, my eyes have begun to wander. I conduct my passive house browsing mainly online. That was until last weekend, when I decided to do a bit of house-hunting in the flesh.

I was prepared with all the necessities: directions taking us from one property to the next, somewhat less enthused husband in tow.

I inhaled the “new house” smell more than was necessary for respiratory function at the two new townhouse developments we visited. And I’m not too proud to admit that I ogled the corian countertops, garden soaking tubs and cathedral ceilings featured at some of the properties. (I’m dazzled simply by the concept of central air, to put things in perspective.)

Cosmetics aside, the BIG ONE soon surfaced: schools.

It really threw a wrench in the fun of the day. It seems like such an overwhelming consideration for a couple that isn’t even expecting a visit from the stork.

After devoting most of that weekend to driving by properties, stopping in at some, and studying school data online, my wanderlust has diminished a tad. I’ve declared a temporary house-hunting hiatus, in fact.

While I recover my composure, I’m compiling a list of the important considerations for when the hunt resumes.

What considerations went into your own real estate decisions? I’d love to know.

€ To which schools is the neighborhood assigned?
€ What are the surrounding schools, in the event of redistricting?
€ What playgrounds and recreational facilities are nearby? (We’ve been tempted by newish townhouses, only to check a map and see that they’ve been shoehorned in an awkward, disconnected piece of land, near a major highway, or hidden behind an office park. Talk about lack of ambiance and community)
€ What is the broader community like?
€ What major roadways are nearby? Are they close enough to be convenient, but far enough not to pose a safety risk to small children?
€ What are the terms and fees of any HOA?
€ As a co-worker pointed out, would I feel comfortable driving or walking through the area at 10 p.m.?

It’s vacation time here at Maryland Family, but luckily we have plenty of friends willing to step in and blog for us. Today’s guest blogger is Maryland Family’s calendar editor, Laura Barnhardt Cech, whose second child is due Sept. 10.

I almost had a son named Berkeley.

I don’t even like California, though my husband grew up there and graduated from the fine university in Berkeley.

We knew going into what turned out to be 23 hours of labor that we wanted a name starting with B, because my husband had been calling our baby BBC, as in Baby Boy Cech. The initials had stuck.

We agreed to use my father’s middle name “Bennett.” But the first name was unresolved. We had a few contenders, but nothing firm.

Thus, in those first joyous — delirious– moments, we pronounced our firstborn “Berkeley.”

Fortunately, the young aide who comes around with the paperwork for the birth certificate didn’t immediately visit our room. Upon closer inspection, and after some much needed sleep, we realized our baby didn’t look like a Berkeley at all.

He looked too preppy. And so, we decided Bentley best suited our baby boy. (It still does.)

Now a month away from our due date, I’m a little hesitant about answering the inevitable question: “Do you have a name?” We like Delaney and have liked that name for the whole nine (ten) months, but what if that doesn’t seem to fit it after we meet her?

It’s so close to the deadline, I’ve been worried about jinxing our favorite name. Whether or not I answer, I often hear people’s opinions anyway– what names they like, what they wanted to name a child and what names they don’t like. My mom has been tossing out ideas for months. Never mind that I told her I wasn’t soliciting suggestions.

How did you handle the name question?