When I was a kid I was very attached to a yellow hand knit blanket that someone had given me as a baby. I slept with it every night as a toddler, and could only be convinced to part with it once I shifted my affections to a stuffed bear when I was three. I couldn't sleep without my nose buried into Papa Bear. For years.

My son on the other hand, has never been big on having stuff in bed with him--until tonight, when he insisted on having a little plastic alligator hair clip of mine that he fished out of a drawer in the bathroom while I was blow drying his hair after a bath. He was determined. It had to come with him to bed. It would not do to place it on the night stand next to his bed, no. It needed to be IN the bed with him. I have no idea where or why this fixation originated, but I went with it, figuring it was not a battle to choose. And in the morning he had the lovely impression of the clip on the back of his arm. He also once brought the driver of one of his diggers to bed, and an occasional bulldozer or truck.

But in general, my kiddo doesn't like to sleep with anything. For a while I kept trying to get him to sleep with a stuffed animal, remembering with fondness the solace Papa Bear afforded me. But though he'd gamely show Monkey how to brush teeth and go potty, and he'd even let him sit in bed for story time, when it came time for the lights to go off, he'd push Monkey to the far edge of the bed. I eventually stopped pushing it, and have thereby saved a small fortune on the stuffed animals I would otherwise have bought for him. He couldn't care less.

My son's disinterest in stuffed animals, and his random, fleeting affection for the eccentric objects he chooses to bring to bed, has made me wonder what other toddlers are like. I'm also wondering if co-sleeping has anything to do with how toddlers attach (or don't) to comfort objects. Could co-sleeping make the need for a "lovie" less? I'm not sure, but I know that we've co-slept with Bean since birth (which has been an ideal arrangement for all three of us--as he was never what you'd call an "easy" sleeper, and everyone got more sleep in the same bed) and Bean has yet to show any interest in dragging any particular object to bed every night the way I did for the better part of my childhood.

Does your child have a comfort object that he or she brings to bed every night?

It's eerily quiet around our house this morning.

After a lovely four-day visit from my parents, they hugged us goodbye and returned to their part of the country, leaving me with that pesky empty feeling in the pit of my stomach. As the day slowly morphs back into our daily grind, the sadness will be replaced with responsibilities, and I'll forget what it feels like to have family around.

Wito, on the other hand, is definitely missing the extra attention, shuffling around the house, searching behind doors and furniture for his fun partners-in-crime. While having breakfast this morning, he looked at me and threw his hands up, as if to say, "Where's the party, mama? Where did everyone go?"

Although I revel in the beauty of Southern California, I wish it wasn't so far away from my loved ones. Am I the only mother out there who desperately misses her family?

When I asked my kindergartner how his day went, I was expecting to hear the latest recess escapade, what he had for lunch and who he sat next to during story time. I wasn't ready for, "Today we had a wok-down!"

A "wok-down" (pronounced "lockdown" by people with matured speech patterns) is the term describing the process of all of a building's interior and exterior door being securely fastened in an attempt to keep dangerous people from entering and/or limiting their access to the building's inhabitants if they have already gained entry. During a lockdown the only person who can sound an all-clear and doors can be unlocked for is a uniformed police officer.

When I learned from my five-year-old that this wasn't a practice "wokdown", shivers ran down my spine.

We never had lockdowns when I was a kid. We knelt in the hallway to practice readying ourselves for tornadoes that would never materialize, looking like rows of worshipers paying homage to the metal coat rack altar attached to a cinder block wall. We had fire drills where we were timed on how quickly we could exit the never-really-burning building. It was considered extremely lucky to be sitting in the designated hold-the-door-to-the-outside-open seat, because not only were you assured of being the first one out the door, you got to talk to everyone else as they filed past.

When my third-grade son helpful told his little brother, "At my last school, they taught us that if you get locked out of your class because you were in the bathroom or something, you should go in one of the stalls and sit on the toilet and pull your feet up so the bad guy can't tell you are in there."

As my heart shattered into a thousand guilty pieces for not homeschooling, he helpfully added, "Or you could hide in a locker. That's a good hiding place too!"

I'm not against safety measures and applaud the district for being proactive with their protection. It 's just sad to have kids who aren't even able to say the words properly having to deal with these situations.

It just doesn't seem fair or wight at all.

This is truly one of the most beautiful things I've seen on the Internet in months.

My friend Marla sent me notification about a real-life Giving Tree in Denmark -- a large tree in a public park in the beautiful city of Copenhagen. The tree wears hundreds of gifts from children: beloved binkies, cherished blankets, personal items with heartfelt letters. And here's why: when a child outgrows a comfort item like a pacifier, his or her parents can suggest "giving it to the tree." It marks a transition and a rite of passage and provides the child with the comfort of knowing that friendly tree has his or her special possession.

Background on the story of the tree can be found here, but make sure you click through to the photoset on Flickr. I'd be lying if I said they didn't make me tear up, just a little. What a wonderful idea.

If you have an older brother, chances are you're a more aggressive person than you would've been if you'd had a sister instead.

That's the news from Brian White on our partner site, That's Fit. He points out a recent survey that found that children with older brothers are, over time, more likely to become aggressive than kids who grow up with older sisters. What's also interesting, is that those children with younger sisters actually turn less aggressive than if they'd had a young brother, or no younger siblings at all.

No word on why this happens, though the research seems to indicate that it's because boys are more aggressive, so younger siblings, essentially, have to get tough in order to compete with their older brothers. That was certainly the case in our house -- I was the oldest, and, though I'm embarrassed about it now, I used to pick on my younger brother and sister all the time. It's not hard to see how, over the years, responding to those taunts and jabs could've made them more aggressive people.

How is it in your house? Do you think your younger children would be calmer if big brother wasn't around so much?

*Photo is of my younger brother and I. Fortunately now we get along.

We're in the bathroom, and I can feel the back of my neck start to trickle sweat because the standoff has already lasted too long. The lights are hot and this is a fairly ridiculous predicament. Nolan is staring at me defiantly, I am crouched into a human daddy long-legs, earnestly explaining to him that big boys do not have poop in their pants.
After replacing a diaper I had chosen with one he had chosen, after strategically placing himself on a bath mat in a position not requested by me, he started the long, tedious process of taking off his pants. I tried to help him once, and was met with an indignant round of "Mah do, Mommy! Mah do."

I understand why he wants to do it. It must be crazy to be that little, with a rapidly expanding brain. No control over door handles, clothes choices, books or dinner fare. No understanding of the world at large, except that Mommy drives around a lot and forces socks, hats and carrots with dinner.

I understand Nolan has the need to assert his independence in the tiny ways he can: dressing himself, choosing the proper diaper, demanding the Elmo book over the Dr. Seuss.

Yet I have to stop short at the Mah Do diaper take off. After finally getting his pants off in the bathroom, I went to unsnap the sticky hinge of his diaper. He lost his marbles.

"Mah do, Mommy. MAH DO!" He was indignant and pulsating and waterworks were threatening. He was grasping desperately at the broken sticky strip and I did what any non-logical Mother would do: I put the sticky tab back in place, and put that filthy diaper back on him. Just so he could take it off himself. MAH do.

Tell me this phase is short lived.

The death of a family pet can be a huge deal for a child--depending on his or her age. Toddlers don't really have a concept of death yet--they're just grasping object permanence, after all--but kindergartners and elementary school children have deep feeling lives and are enormously affected by the mystery of death which they mostly encounter through the loss of a pet.

Sometimes I have children write sorrowful stories and letters about a goldfish that died months or even years previously, and I am always shocked at their capacity for sadness about this seemingly small, almost cold blooded creature that likely gave them no recognition. Other times, children come to class with bundles of questions. They are confused about why Fido suddenly disappeared from the family couch, and they want answers. Often times children ask very pointed specific questions of me--as their teacher--about what death is and what it means. This is a delicate terrain, and I am always hesitant to answer their questions.

What really, can you say to a 6 year old about death? How can you answer her questions about where the animal goes after its body is buried. She might ask you, "Is he sleeping down there?" But if you answer a vague affirmative, the next question is likely to be, "Well then when will he wake up?"

How do you talk to your child about the death of a pet?

My 10 year-old middle child, Cassidy, is smart, full of life and extremely skinny. So much so that she the term scrawny can easily be applied to her body type. She is long limbed and tall for her age. I believe her to be a beauty for the ages, this is my indulgence because she is my daughter and the most beautiful girl in the world to me. When we are out in public she draws quite a bit of attention. Partly this is due to her unusual coloring, her hair is a deep red and her eyes an even deeper brown. Unlike many red heads her skin is not translucent pale but a deeper tawny. But what also catches the eye is her body type. If we had a dollar for every comment about her weight we would be well on our way to Beverly Hills style living by bow. But we don't get paid for these comments, instead we just accumulate patience and, sometimes, a thicker skin. We get stares at the swimming pool when she prances about in her bikini. We get concerned reactions from some of the other mothers at soccer games. When we're really lucky we might even get some nutritional advice.

I know people mean well most of the time, but I have grown tired of the comments. When I see an obviously overweight child I don't approach the mother and ask if she encourages her child to exercise. When I see a child with a physical handicap I don't tell the family how they could better their child's life in one way or another. Neither are any of my business. So why then, I wonder, is it acceptable for other people to tell us how to raise our daughter. Why is fat off limits and skinny is wide open to any and all suggestions? When some mothers have asked if Cassidy ever eats, I have seen their jaws drop open when I tell them how much my daughter actually eats, to put in perspective she eats nearly as much as my teenage son who is in the throes of puberty. I point out her father's height, 6'6" and his trim build, then I point out the chances are that she is simply built like him.

In the scope of huge life problems, ours is not the most dire of afflictions. So what if we can not find any clothes with waists that actually fit my daughter, I figure that is why giant safety pins were invented. What I do mind is that somehow, somewhere this negativity is taking up residence in my daughters psyche, that somehow she will feel bad about her body image. We often talk about beauty coming in all sizes and shapes; big, small, skinny, fat, they are just sizes. What matters, I tell her, is what is inside and that has no shape.

Last week, Christina Sbarro wrote about our tendency to bubble wrap our children; this week, the British press is reporting that the headmaster of Wellington College that unless we allow our children to feel afraid, they will never learn to overcome fear.

Anthony Selden spoke at The Dangerous Event for Boys, where he declared that "It's through facing fear, facing physical hardship and facing personal deprivation that we learn about compassion, about ourselves, and ... grow up." He said that kids today spend most of their time in front of a TV screen, where they play violent video games or watch scary movies, neither of which teaches them to confront and overcome their fears.

Christina talked eloquently in her post about parenting being a "minefield" and about how she and her husband have dealt with the urge to constantly protect their son. I think Selden is taking the next step, asking educators and policy makers to give children the chance -- even the right -- to struggle a little. I agree with Selden that compassion and self-awareness come from facing difficulties; I wish more heads of school thought so, too.

What do you think -- are you allowing your kids to be afraid, or are you trying to protect them from the scary world out there?

A close friend of our family works in Geriatric Health. And man, working in that field would be tough. I'm pretty sure I'd rather sit in a dank parkade dispensing yellow tickets or wearing a pizza cutout around my head than have to face dying and withering and possible dementia everyday. Besides the general unpleasantry of witnessing strangers become old and frail, I'm sure I'd scare the hell out of myself imagining my self becoming cloudy with disease, neglect and fog.

Anyway, our friend was telling us recently about the phenomenon of "SIB", a commonly used term in Geriatric Health. She was swinging around the acronym like it was "LOL" or "MIL" -- something very common.

"What, exactly, is an SIB?" I asked.
"Oh," she replied,"A son in basement. The son of an elderly woman, still living in her basement. Maybe he isn't working, maybe he has an alcohol problem -- but it results in his elderly Mother refusing to sell her house to move to a more manageable apartment. Because she doesn't want to kick out her adult son"
"This is common?"
"Very."

I thought about this for a minute. SIB's are so common that there is an acronym for them?

"Is there such thing as a daughter in basement?"
"Not really, no."
"Huh," I said, thinking, "I guess I'll have to let Nolan know now that he needs to be out by twenty five."

But it was an interesting question. Why are sons more predisposed to hover in their Mother's basements than daughters?

My phone rang last night at 5:42 PM. This is highly suspect:
a) because my friends, if they call, which is becoming more and more rare because my returning-phone-call skills completely suck
b) my phone number is too new to be known by various dinner-disturbing phone solicitors.
c) nobody calls me at 5:42 PM

Anyway, it was an extremely peppy lady, who knew how to pronounce both my first and last names, which served to further my suspicion. I asked her if she was from the Internet, because obviously I have few remaining social skills.

"Excuse me?" she laughed,"Is this Kristin? You used to take Nolan to daycare at Nicole's?"
"Yes..."
"This is Regan's Mom."
"Ooooh." Regan is the boy with whom Nolan refused to share his cars.
"I left an invite at daycare, but Nicole says you don't come often anymore -- I was wondering if you'd like to join us at Regan's birthday this weekend."

i was kind of surprised, because I'd never actually met Regan's Mom, but the idea was sweet and I accepted. It will be nice to meet some local Moms, and Nolan always loves running around and smearing dirt on other small humans.

"Bring your husband,"she said, to which I remained silent."And -- nothing -- Regan doesn't need anything, so something small is fine."

So -- what does small mean? Regan is turning 3, and as obsessed with dinky cars as Nolan is. I wonder if a few metal cars will be sufficient? I have no idea what to bring a 3 year old as a birthday present, I'm so out of the loop. Any ideas on standard birthday presents for people you don't really know? Thanks, Internet.

Two is way too young to be giving up a daily nap, right? Then what, pray tell, is my son doing when he adamantly refuses to have a mid-day slumber?

Over the weekend, Nolan fell asleep in his car seat while I was doing errands. It was around 11:30, and his normal nap time isn't until 1:00 PM. But I caught wind of his bobbing head and drooly lip in the rearview mirror and panicked because if he falls asleep in the car that means it is going to be impossible to get him to nap once we get home and so, logically, I cranked up the Neko Case until he bolted upright and howled.

Once we got home and I carried him in the door, he wasn't interested in sleeping anymore. He was interested in the trucks, and throwing kiwi fruits at Jordi, and weighing himself in the bathroom, but no sleeping. I coaxed and pleaded and read Thomas the Tank twenty bajillion times and it was now 1:30 and I was sweating and he had rubbed his eyes so many times they were bloodshot purple.

"I'm serious now,"I said to him like he understood, like I hadn't been serious in my previous seventy five attempts to get him to stay in his bed,"You have to go nap now, and we'll play when you get up. No more of this."

And so he got out of his bed and started running his red truck over Jordi's ears. I put him in his room and shut the door. He wailed. I put the covers near his head. He screamed. I lay down with him. He pushed me out. I sat outside his room for half an hour and put him back in bed every two minutes when he ventured out, crotchety as a 92 year old drunk.

Finally, I let it go. It was 2:45 and he clearly wasn't going down. He was squirelly for the rest of the day, of course, but what else could I do?

It's been happening more often, this outright refusal to nap. I've left him crying in there for up to half an hour and I wonder -- when is the cut off? When do you just let your child refuse their nap, or do you just keep them crying in there for as long as it takes?

Nolan is a creature of habit, and this has become even more important recently in the ongoing battle to coax him to close his weary, overtired eyes, for the love of all things holy.

And so last night, we did as we do nearly every night. I sat him on the bar stool in our impromptu dining lounge, let him spoon leftover pasta from a plastic dish, turned a blind eye as he noodled spaghetti over Jordi's eager spout. Then I allowed him to empty 267 toy cars into the tub, because I was bone weary and not wanting a fight and really, is there any harm in being surrounded in multitudes of shiny mini cars when one is bathing? I think not. After bath time it is pyjama time, and I spend ten minutes explaining why big boys wear diapers and that it is not cool to pee in one's pyjamas. No, Unky Dave does not pee in his pyjamas. No, Jordi doesn't pee in his pyjamas either, he's a dog. OK? You want to put on your pyjamas now Nolan? Good boy!

After pyjamas are finally donned (16.5 minutes) and hair is combed in a side part (because is there anything cuter than a tiny boy with a side part) (12.3 minutes), we wind up sprawled on Nolan's bed with a sippy of water and three books. At this point, I am exhausted and hoping he does not want to read Finding Nemo ten times because there is too much text in that book, dammit, and more children's authors should keep it short and sweet.

Finally, finally, we made it through three books and Nolan's eyes were sliding into slumber land. Victory, a cup of tea, and a sprawl on the couch were within tasting distance.

And then it happened. The doorbell rang. Greenpeace, cheery and shiny-haired and full of youthful optimism.
Nolan bolted upright in bed and ran to get his paper spider to show his new stranger-friend. And I wanted to scream because, is nothing sacred? Can't we make door-to-door marketing illegal on this continent?

I was surly and grumpy and bitter that I'd have to start the whole wind-down process again but the girl was so earnest and sweet and nice to Nolan that I ended up giving her money. I know, I'm a sucker. I hate them, but door-to-door solicitors get me almost every time. Do you give them money, or resent their invasion into your routine?

When I get angry, it's a slow, spreading simmer. It starts off as a small flush, pulsating inside like a moth trapped in a box-- and then it spreads, redder, purpler, angrier, from my heart outwards, until it reaches my fingertips and my flaming ears. It starts with a denial of the flush, an: "I'm not mad, it's OK." and it ends with a barely legible "That was out of line. Totally." Except words starting with "sh" and "a" intersperse the sentence, and it's often punctuated by tears.

I don't get mad very often, and when I do, it's not pretty. But, god, it's still logical. It still follows a readable line: from irritated to hurt to mad to angry to furious and back again. I get mad because I am hurt, my feelings have been damaged, a kick has been directed at my self-worth.

I guess it's not that I expected the tantrums of a two year old to be logical, but I did think they would be de-codable. He is mad because he is hungry, for instance, he's furious because he's overtired. But the thing is, a toddler tantrum is sometimes completely and totally illogical.

Last night, Nolan had finished removing all 287 of his toy cars from the tub (where he insists they belong, every night) and put them all back into his dump truck. He was trying to merge out of the bathroom when his dump truck wheel got caught on the bath met.

"Help, Mommy, help!"

I lifted the dump truck wheel over the side of the bath mat. It was nonchalant, it took four seconds, and it resulted in the fury of 1000 starving wildebeests. He kicked. He screamed. He lost his marbles completely, snot and redness everywhere. And he had no idea why. There were no hurt feelings, no kick to self worth, just a truck that I had dared to touch upon his request.

I went to the kitchen and ate 4 gingersnaps while Nolan's tantrum sent the dog scurrying outside and prompted the Neighbour of Dismay to pop her nosy head out her bedroom window. Terrible twos, indeed.

I hated Halloween as a kid, mostly because I was pretty much left to making my own costumes. My parents had neither the money nor the craftiness (or, I dare say, the desire) necessary to make me one. I always ended up as a gypsy with a half dozen too-big skirts hooped over my hips and a bunch of dollar store bangles around my wrists.

I longed for a 'cool' costume. One that was store bought or made so ingeniously no one could tell the difference. Instead, mine were obviously homemade, and my peers, when I was small, made sure I knew what they thought about that.

But now, like with so many other things, I have a chance to re-live Halloween through the eyes of my eager two-and-a-half year old son. Not long ago catalogs started arriving in the mail with Halloween costumes galore, and Bean wanted to know what they were. He cracks me up reading magazines in general. He'll grab the newest Home Depot leaflet and flip through it while sitting on the potty. "We should get dis lawnmower," he'll yell out earnestly. And then, "Daddy, we should really get dis tractor!"

So when the advertisements for costumes started showing up in our mail box, they immediately had his attention. "What are they doing, mama?" He wanted to know. And then when I explained that the kids were dressing up in costumes for Halloween, he immediately said, "I want a costume too!"

When I asked him what he'd maybe like to be, he thought for a while, and then said "I want to be Baby skunk." He's had a thing for skunks ever since his Nonna gave him Skunk's Spring Surprise. So when Kristin posted about the skunk costume at Old Navy, I was sure we were set. Until they ran out before I could get my act together and buy one.

So now I have a dilemma. I can spend $50 for a gorgeous Tom Arma Baby Skunk costume. Or I can try to make one, although I am not in the least bit crafty, and I do not own a sewing machine. I want Halloween to be memorable and fun for Bean, but I'm not sure if it's the costume that really make's it so. Perhaps it is more the entire spirit of the holiday that my parent's lacked when I was a kid? I'm undecided.

What are you doing for your kids for Halloween? Do you make their costumes, or buy them? Do you take them trick-or-treating or do something else?