Control

Some people drink. Some people chain smoke. Some people eat cookie dough. Me? I furniture relocate. Ask my poor freshman year roommate. She had to sit through several sessions of me grunting and sweating as I pushed all of my furniture out into the hallway, and then pushed it back in again so I could reconfigure the room (because those rooms were much too small to do the Hokey Pokey in, let alone spin a bed). Furniture relocating is my way of regaining control when things start to spin in the rest of my life - so it's no wonder that as a new Mother, I've become a bit obsessed with interior decorating.

I lay awake for hours the other night contemplating whether wall sconces would work above our bed, and if I could manage swapping the den furniture with the dining room furniture. This mental exercise seemed much more practical than agonizing over what was really bothering me...that my friggin' 5 month old can't figure out how to sleep for more than an hour without needing a pacifier rescue. You see, I can't control her sleep patterns - but god dammit - I can move the treadmill from the office to the bedroom if I want to.

Piyum has learned to live with this over the years as well. I can't tell you how many times he walked into the living room during my last weeks of pregnancy to find the couch in a different place. If Livija wasn't going to make an entrance, at least I could practice good Feng Shui (and perhaps get things moving a bit with some heavy lifting).

You never believe it before you have a baby, but there is just so LITTLE you have control over after you become a parent. It's sad that most mornings, I don't brush my teeth or get my first bathroom run in until a good hour or two after she has woken up. Hygiene just goes straight out the window (and I don't even want to hazard a guess at the last time I actually took time to SHAVE.)

I've got my eye on the guest bedroom next. Piyum better watch out. That queen sized bed might just be in the basement next time he comes home, and the room magically transformed into an infants playroom paradise. We won't be able to have guests anymore (unless they want to sleep in the basement), but at least I'll feel like I have the upperhand.

Shopaholic no more...

I am a recovering Shopaholic. I didn't enter recovery willingly. As many stay at home Moms do, I went cold turkey when I decided to stay home with Livi. I must say, it's been pretty tough. I get my fixes by buying formula and pacifiers, which I imagine is the equivalent of a crack addict inhaling household cleaning fluids to get them through the day. What makes it harder, is that there are no groups for people like me. No rehab facilities. No local S.A. (i.e., Shopaholics Anonymous). Just plain old will power, and love so strong it's willing to give up Tory Burch flats for poop.

It started really early for me. On any family trip or vacation, no matter where we were, most of the time focused on finding Lisa a "gift shop" to rummage through, or a mall to wander in. I even recall making my parents stop at every roadside antique lawn sale on the way back from a vacation in Maine because I just HAD to get my fix of price tags, merchandise, and treasures. Yup, shopping was life.

I don't think it was any surprise to my family or friends when I ended up with a job in Human Resources at Bloomingdale's, or that most of my income over the years magically transformed into the likeness of shoes, handbags, coats, and Home Goods "stuff." (Seriously, who invented Home Goods anyway? Even when you go there with absolutely NO intention to buy, you mysteriously wander out with a random pillow or vase, like someone slipped you Ruffies on the way in).


Admittedly, I was also a brand snob. Cosmetics, cars, clothes, accessories....you'd never catch me buying anything generic, and a knock off was pretty shameful (although I did do that a few times). It made me cringe when my husband came home all proud of himself because he bought himself jeans at Sears (at SEARS!!!), and if you EVER tried to convince me that I should buy a Hyundai or a Kia because they were the best car for the money, I may have just vomited in your face.


My how things have changed. Since quitting my job and deciding to stay home with Livija, I am suddenly the Queen of Frugal, and I think I may be inches away from being one of "those" ladies on a Christmas Tree Shop commercial who is psyched that she just found wrapping paper for only $.49.

Yesterday, I found myself in CVS picking through the after Christmas sale. I was knocking elbows with some intense Russian woman for the rights to a 50% off bowl with snowmen on it (she won, thank god...I'm not sure what came over me). If that wasn't bad enough, I walked out of there with a generic CVS brand facial moisturizer. No more Trish McEvoy Beauty Booster at $85.00 a pop. I brought home moisturizer so cheap it doesn't even have a pump.


The last thing I want to do is sound like a snob; but, the transition from small luxuries to figuring out how to give free Christmas gifts is not only a lifestyle adjustment; but, a hit to my pride. Giving up financial independence has been almost as life altering as having a baby. Furthermore, when I stop in a department store (just to get those old feelings back) I realize that I have no place to wear all of the wonderful things I find. Those knee high, suede boots with kitten heels? Where am I going to sport those? The CVS after Valentine's Day sale?

I miss my Shopaholic days; but, I wouldn't trade what I have now for Beauty Booster. Livija's showing me a whole new beauty, and she doesn't care what label I wear or how much I bought it for. I'm safe until she's a teenager.

Can we do Christmas every day?

After a solid week of a child who was refusing to eat, sleep, or be entertained by anything for more than 2 minutes, Christmas had been the very last thing on my mind.

Historically, I have been a Christmas freak - a girl version of Ralphie from "A Christmas Story" -calling up family members and taunting them about their Christmas gifts, playing The Muppets Christmas CD infinitely, and checking my stocking every few minutes to see if the "Elves" had stopped by (this was a tradition my parents started when I was little to take the edge off of the wait, and till this day I still hope for surprise stocking stuffers to magically arrive...)

But this year, no matter how hard I willed it, the Christmas spirit could not battle Livija's constant grunts of boredom, fits of frantic frustration at the bottle, or pacifiers chucked across the room like they were coming out of an automated tennis ball machine. Additionally, Livija's shrieks at the television anytime Santa appeared, was not assuring me she was ready for Christmas either.

With Christmas Eve approaching (the night my family opens presents) I dreaded the hours that the family would be at my house, and when Livija would freak out from overstimulation. I envisioned a baby who as soon as she saw the living room full of presents and oogling Grandparents, would spit-up in shock and whiz her pacifier at my sisters dog doing figure eights around the Christmas tree.

When the time arrived to wake Livija from her slumber and introduce her to Christmas, I carefully put her in her Christmas dress. To my surprise, Livija looked at herself in the mirror and posed like a supermodel - she loved it! We sat together, admiring the corduroy masterpiece with applique bears, and shared a moment of hope - maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all!

I brought Livija down the stairs, and a reception of "oooohs" and "ahhhhs" and flashes on cameras greeted my little Tyra. No fat lips, no cries of despair, Livija was psyched to get this Christmas thing rolling! She patiently endured the hand off between the cooing Grandmothers (who haven't quite figured out that Livija is neither deaf nor blind, and does not need voices at rock concert decibels or faces so close she could lick them) and sat willingly in her Grandfathers lap (and, in fact, promptly charmed the crowd as she grasped his beard).

As Mommy started to open a present for Livija, to my surprise she grabbed for the package in eager delight. She tore at the paper, grasped the ribbons, and spent the whole time with mouth gaping in 1st Christmas merriment. There was no overstimulated, crying baby. Not once was a pacifier squealed for. Livija was lovin' it.

After two hours of presents, the tell-tale rubbing of the eyes came. I wound her down with a good bath, but she was too tired for food or stories. I prepared myself for another long night of being up every half hour to replace the pacifier or re-wrap the swaddle. However, to our wonderful Christmas wonder, Livija slept peacefully (well, peacefully for Livija...she was still up three times and needed to be fed, but that's magical to us).

This morning she has been happy as a clam, and even woke up to slurp down 6 ounces. We still have Christmas Day to get through, and one more party to endure, but I'm already wondering, can we do Christmas every day?????

"Say hello to my little friend"

So, I have a new little friend. Not the one you are thinking of. Yes, Livija is a new friend; but, I'm speaking of my other friend...the friend that exists between my belly button and my c-section scar...my BULGE.

My little friend is not really so welcome. Sure she's soft and squishy; but soooo not in a good way. I've never had a little friend before. Before I got pregnant, I would have never been able to admit to you that my belly was fairly close to washboard. I don't think I really realized how wonderfully flat my stomach was which is terribly unfortunate; because now I'm reminded every day that not so long ago I was 40lbs heavier and looked like a hippo.

I've developed this odd habit of keeping one arm laced around my stomach when standing or sitting. People must think I have a cramp or a bad stomach ache - and it must seem awfully funny that as I sit down on the Gymboree mat with Livija, I shake Jimbo the clown with one hand and clutch my stomach with the other.

It's so dumb because I'm not fooling anyone (and besides, that's against my whole philosophy of honesty in Motherhood). It's just so hard to accept that after spending 32 agonizing years working towards the zenith of self-esteem (a.k.a, running in public which just a sports bra and shorts) I'm back to square friggin' one.

I've been told that the little friend never goes away, no matter how hard you try. I've even heard this rumor that Heidi Klum has a little friend who gets airbrushed out of all of her photos (but, after watching this years Victoria's Secret fashion show I have to say I didn't see an ounce of friend on that chiseled body).

One woman told me that my friend would just be something I would have to live with, and that wearing a bikini will be just fine so long as I remain standing. Imagine going to the beach and standing on your towel all afternoon? You'd know who all of the new Mothers were because we'd be the ones with hellacious burns on our shoulders and scalps. Sounds like a GREAT solution.

I'm hoping that with a hard core running routine, and buying every single abdominal exercise gizmo in existence that I might earn myself the title of Hot Mama. That's going to be difficult, however, if I can't get myself on the treadmill more than once a week (which is about my average currently). I've always considered myself to be a pretty tough cookie; but, I'd like to see YOU try running on 4 hours of broken sleep and a Lean Pocket diet.

I should be happy that 30 of my 40lbs melted off in the first month, and that after a treacherous labor and delivery, I finally am able to to do jumping jacks without feeling like something inside of me is going to snap. It would just be nice if my "friend" took a hike so I could fit back into my skinny jeans, enjoy a good bend at the waist, and start focusing more on how fun it is to be at eye level with Livija (instead of focusing on my mysterious seventh abdominal muscle).

Seriously?

Come on ladies. Let's get real. What is this thing we do where we all try to be perfect and buttoned up and act as if pregnancy and childbirth hasn't blown through our lives like a EF5 tornado (which according to Wikepedia's definition can "rip buildings off their foundations leaving them bare and even deform large skyscrapers")? There is no other time in a woman's life where friendship, honesty and humility are more important; but, what happens instead? We compare percentiles like they were high school boyfriends and keep any truths of motherhood hidden deep in the black holes of our diaper bags.

Before you get pregnant, no one will tell you what pregnancy is like (even if you beg you will probably only get one or two morning sickness stories; but, not how you might get stretchmarks that become red and inflamed and itch like poison ivy). Once you are pregnant, no one will spill guts to you on childbirth and prepare you for the hemorrhoids larger than pumpkins, or the catheter that will make peeing hard for weeks after you've been sent home. Once you have your baby in your arms, no one is willing to admit that they too sometimes curl up in a small ball in bed and cry their eyes out because they haven't bonded with their baby and feel utterly ashamed. Why do we keep these irrational vows of silence?

On Wednesday, I went to my Gymboree class and began babbling to the other Mom's about how Livija hadn't been eating much and how frustrating the week had been. I was surprised when the Mother next to me blew out a sigh of relief and gushed, "Oh thank god! I thought I was the only one!" Just as I was turning to her to offer a friendly smile, another Mother from across the mat yelled out, "Me too!!!!!????" like she had just been saved from a desert island.

Similarly, one of the first groups I attended as a new Mom was full of tired, distressed, and struggling women (who all put on really good fronts, and equally cute designer jeans). One new Mother in particular spent the first two classes in the back corner of the room, bouncing on an exercise ball with her baby because he was so "fussy." After two classes of hardly uttering a word, and being on the verge of tears the entire time, she never returned. The saddest thing about it all? Her baby was absolutely adorable. Sure he fussed; but, no more than the rest of our babies. She just felt so impossibly overwhelmed by his whimpers, and so unwilling to share her emotions, that she preferred to stay locked up in her home than try to connect with the other women in the group. Even sadder? I hardly blame her. The group was so impenetrable that even me, Queen of the Babble, was scared to utter a whisper of despair (and not one of them would ever admit that their cute designer jeans were three sizes bigger than normal, or that their flies were unzippered just to keep them on).

I remember watching an Oprah episode about five years ago where the whole concept of the show was for women to "come out of the closet" and for the first time EVER talk about how HARD being a Mother was. One woman who sat on Oprah's couch admitted that she worried doing the show would ruin her forever. Seriously? Even five years ago women were worried about being blacklisted for admitting that it sucked to have an existence that revolved around crustless peanut butter and jelly sandwiches?! What planet do we live on?

I guess this is the reason behind writing this blog. If I can connect with even one woman who feels like no one will be honest her; perhaps she will find some comfort in my humor and disinterest in seeming perfect. I love my daughter; but, that love doesn't come without tears, second guessing, frustration, and anger. Throughout my pregnancy I was always amused by the women who didn't know what to do with my honesty. They would coil back and smile timidly as I groaned over the aches and pains, and pimple the size of a Rollo lodged in between my shoulder blades.

There is absolutely nothing in the world that will compare with the magical love you feel for your little one. Don't think for a minute, however, that you won't want to throw your husband off of the Zakem Bridge, or wish to be on the airplane from LOST so you won't have to return to your poopy reality. Just remember...it does you very little to tell everyone around you that your infant never cries and sleeps 12 hours straight at 5 days old. If they're Mothers, they will know you are lying anyway. It's easier on the soul to share a good, hard belly laugh over the craziness that is Motherhood and to know that you aren't alone.

Twisted Toys

Who the heck designs baby toys? They must be severely twisted, removed from society, wackos who live in a Wonderlandesque ranch because the toys Livija plays with are just not normal by any standards. I mean, "Hooray" for getting a coo or two out of her with these things; but, let's examine this a little closer.

My first indication that I should be worried was when we received a Tiny Love "Ozzie Orange" as a gift. This thing is nuts. Who thinks of a plush pumpkin (ahem, sorry, orange), that divides into four sections, has feet with mirrors, and a tiny Ozzie Orange offspring inside which vibrates when pulled? On the Tiny Love website this "Fruity Pal" boasts "developmental values" in the senses, object permanence, and fine motor development...are you kidding me? This thing just scares the crap out of Livija! She won't touch it with a ten foot pole.

Or, for example, the stroller toy right out of a baby horror flick. The blond, blue-eyed girl sits innocently waiting to be tugged. When you do, she not only vibrates but laughs an eerie, piercing chuckle which makes you think she might be the daughter of Chucky. The first time I used this with Livija, she promptly howled in inconsolable fright. We have since hid our pig-tailed friend at the bottom of a box.

And what is it with all of these bugs? Most of Livija's toys have some sort of insect or amphibian theme. Who decided infants want to stare at bugs all day? Bizarrely enough, Livija's favorite rattle is an odd, nameless insect which has beads in it's belly and strings for legs. Livi goes berserk when we shake it above her head.

Seriously, someone gets paid to develop these toys in a Fisher Price science lab? What qualifications does one need to become a Toy Developer???

What's amazing is that while some of these toys are completely insane, some of them are dead on. Livi just spent 15 minutes in her bouncey seat laughing like a maniac at the two fishes who kiss while bubbles blow up their rear ends (not joking). This toy is totally inappropriate; but, it buys me a coffee and bowl of cereal in the morning, so I'll take it.

I know I haven't even seen the tip of the iceberg when it comes to children's toys. I saw a glimpse of my future today when I mistakenly popped into Toys R' Us to pick something up for Livi. I observed parents frantically combing the shelves during their lunch breaks, hoping to score the perfect Christmas present. I think it will be sort of fun to join in the madness for a few years...I just hope Livi moves on from bugs.

Simple

I was thinking this morning what raising a baby would be like without all of the wonderful, modern conveniences. What was life like for my Mom 32 years ago?

I'd wake up in the morning and have no video monitor next to my bed to see whether or not Livi was awake. I'd have to physically go into her room to check on her, and when I found her in her crib, she wouldn't be in a fancy Halo SleepSack. She'd most likely be sleeping without a blanket at all, and certainly in pajamas that weren't made with harmful fire retardant chemicals.


I'd bring her to the changing table where I'd deal with her diaper; but, not the disposable sort. It would look like a big dishtowel with safety pins (and no magical wipes to clean her butt, just cotton balls with water!) There would be no Diaper Genie, and no Aquafor to rub on her dry legs (maybe just some good old fashioned Vaseline).


We'd sit down to a glass bottle with a latex nipple (no Playtex Drop-In Systems to prevent gas), and if I wanted to warm that bottle, I would have to go down to the kitchen and boil a pot of water while my little Livi squirmed with impatience for her food to come.


We wouldn't spend the morning in a vibrating bouncey seat with moving fish and Mozart playing in a techno dance club variation. If we wanted vibrations we might have to settle for the washing machine, and if I wanted Mozart, I'd have to put a record on the record player. I couldn't just plop her into her Jumperoo with flashing lights - I would have to walk her around the house bouncing her tiny body in my arms, hoping the sunshine beaming through the windows would be enough to capture the attention of those little brown eyes.


If we left the house to go shopping, there would be no infant carrier to make life easier. There would be no drive-thrus on the way so I could grab a quick coffee. There would be no antibacterial spray to put on my hands to protect her from all of the harmful germs of the world. There would be no remote control play thing perched in the backseat to entertain my little one (and a few years from now, no DVD player lodged in the back of my headrest to play endless Disney videos on).

Worst of all there would be no Babies R' Us or Target. No clearing house of all-things-baby that I could do one stop shopping at. I would shop at small specialty stores, sprinkled all over the Greater Boston area, and hope that her Grandmother would sew her a Christmas outfit or a new pair of booties (not Robeez).

Perhaps most challenging is that I would have no Internet to do research, to comparison shop, or to escape to when I had reached my limit of "Trot Trot to Boston."

Life certainly would not be as convenient, and I would have to be much more resourceful and creative to keep Livi entertained and learning. I would probably benefit from holding her more often in my arms, and she would enjoy that I rocked her to sleep instead of turning to her swing in a pinch.

I give my Mom a lot of credit for surviving without all of the "stuff" - I'm not sure that I could manage without it. It's a good reminder though, especially in a time where more of us are having to do without, that sometimes all of the stuff gets in the way of experiencing the really simple things in life. Tonight I think I'll try putting Livi to bed with a lullaby rather than her crib-side, Ocean Wonders Aquarium.

Dance, Dance

We've discovered a slam-dunk, guaranteed baby laugh generator. When we want a laugh, we know exactly what's required of us: to dance around the kitchen like fools.

It can't be a cool dance like you might do at a club, or when you're whoopin' it up on girls night. No - it has to be something which might most closely resemble a drunk Bill Cosby impression. Our arsenal of acceptable dances include: The Molly Ringwald, The Running Man, The Sprinkler, The Shopping Cart, The Cowboy with Lasso, and White Woman's Crunk.

This all started when Livi discovered the boundless joy of her Fisher Price Rainforest Jumper. We would put her in it and giggle as her feet barely touched the ground (but just enough so she could do a darn good River Dance performance). As she discovered the wonders of bouncing, we would jump up and down and say, "Dance, dance Livi!!!!" Her smile would beam from ear to ear, and the harder we jumped, the more she bounced, and voila - stupid parents dancing.

We have to be careful to make sure the blinds are shut when the dancing occurs. We live on a pretty busy street, and I fear what passersby might think if they saw my husband and I feverishly waving our hands in the air and kicking our legs out like we were auditioning for the Rockettes. We might look like hippies on a bad trip, or worse yet, like parents who had just totally lost it.

What's really humbling about the whole thing is not necessarily that I look like an idiot when I dance; but, that it's a major workout. A few laps around the Jumperoo doing the Moonwalk or the Running Man and I'm panting like I've just ran a 50 yard dash at world record pace. For a Mother who used to be a soccer player, runner, and personal trainer, that hits the ego with a thud.

For now, we'll enjoy our dances with Livi. Before long she'll be a teenager, and there may not be a single thing in the world that we can do to crack a smile (other than buy her a BMW). I think I'll soak up the laughter while it's plentiful.

No Party Animal

One of the hardest things about pregnancy is giving up alcohol. No glass of wine (or two, or three) at the end of the day to take the edge off. No fun with friends playing Beer Pong or other college drinking game flashbacks that make you feel young again. No drinking in public (because you might just get tied up like a steer at a rodeo and hauled off to D.S.S to be put in solitary confinement). Unless you're lucky enough to have European friends, chances are your nine months are spent entirely dry - leaving you to dream about beer like they were sugar plums.

The one thing you have, though, is looking forward to the moment you're able to cork or pop something open, and finally share an alcoholic beverage (or two, or three) with your husband and friends. What no one tells you, however, is that your drinking capacity is not only permanently altered; but, it's just no fun anymore. It's one thing to wake up hungover pre-pregnancy and know you have to walk the dog, or go visit the in-laws. It's an entirely different ballgame to wake up with (as the Irish say) "a head on ya" and tend to your child.

Last night, my husband and I left Livija with her Grandmother and went to a Yankee Swap. I spent the evening merrily drinking Pomegranate Mimosa's and loving that no one was glaring at me from across the room because I was a baby killer.

Later, as Piyum and I settled into sleep after a night of merriment, it did not occur to me that my "Mommy Mode" might not function properly with alcohol in my system. Usually, a Mommy wakes up several times a night and does a routine environment check: "Where am I? Where is my baby? Is she breathing? Am I breathing?" Okay...back to bed.

Unfortunately, with alcohol, the environment check goes something like this: "Holy Shit (Mommy springs up out of bed)! My baby is on the roof! Wait, I'm in a bucket! My husband is having an affair! Where's my pacifier?" These irrational stirrings can occur several times during the night, and by the time morning comes and it's time to take care of baby, you've had zero sleep, your pony tail is hanging off your head like a droopy unicorn, and your watch has left a dent in your cheek (kind of like in college where the bright red bar stamp from the night before would end up on your forehead, but not nearly as cool).

What is even more unexpected is the guilt. Although I'm not Catholic, I'm pretty sure this guilt is worse than the Catholic sort. You look at your daughter as she plays blissfully in her bouncey seat, unaware that you can't muster up enough energy to sing "Itsy Bitsy." You begin to convince yourself that you're an unfit Mother because you'd rather be sleeping off your TWO drinks than waiting for her to roll over or find her toes.

Yup. Drinking is just no fun when you're a Mommy. Daddy's somehow escape unscathed; but Mommies are doomed to never a touch a drop of alcohol until their son or daughter's wedding day. NOW I understand why Mom's throw nutties when their kids get engaged...they've been waiting 25 plus years for a guiltless drink.

"Arahdah"

I don't know what it means, I'm not even sure how it started; but, all I know is that when anyone says "Arahdah" to Livija, she goes ballistic. It's like some secret code word that signifies we get what's going on her world. Her face lights up, she giggles in delight, and kicks her feet out like she's in the middle of an Olympic dive. Or maybe, it's that "Arahdah" actually means "My face looks like a horses butt" in Baby Dialect and she's hilarious over the fact that we have no idea what the hell we're saying. I'm guessing it's the latter.

Other words in the laughter arsenal are: "Arrrrr" (like a pirate would say), and "Agah." Of course, this makes me feel guilty that I'm encouraging the use of imaginary words and I torture myself with images of a child months from now who runs around in public saying "Arrrrrr" and "Arahdah" to perfect strangers. While other kids are blurting out "Dog," "Mama," and "Bye!" my child will speak like an Ewok.

It also doesn't help that my husband and I have developed the odd habit of doubling every word we say to Livija. For example: "There's the dog, dog!" "Livija, can you dance, dance?" What is that all about? I'm worried that I'm going to start going to Dunkin Donuts and asking for "Coffee, coffee".

That's the funny thing about having a baby - the parents experience degenerative speaking capabilities, and the children somehow flourish at lightning speed. I think there might be some kind of mind vacuum that's being hooked up to us at night. While Piyum and I sleep, Livija is busy attaching a tube to our brains that extracts all of our intelligence and implants it in her tiny cranium. We wake up in the morning amazed that she has reached some new developmental milestone, and all the while he haven't even noticed that our underwear is on backwards and that we are heating up orange juice in the microwave.

Funny thing is, I don't mind if I'm calling myself a horses butt. If it makes her laugh, I suppose that's all that really matters.

Frumpy

The minute I found out I was pregnant, I didn't jump for joy. I didn't call my husband. Instead, I ran upstairs to my bathroom, frantically displayed all of my cosmetics across the counter and began glamming myself up. That's right - after I was done bronzing, lashing, dewing, and glossing, I found my skinniest pair of jeans and my coolest top and quickly changed.

I was not going to be THAT frumpy pregnant woman who succumbed to pickles and ice cream and forgot how to dress herself.

Well, here I am, a year later and I have to tell you - I'm frumpy. I tried my hardest to stick to the "good" side of my closet; but, 40 extra pounds, pre-teen skin breakouts, and an insatiable craving for hot dogs will really suck the confidence out of you (believe it or not). I really tried to wear stylish clothes. I even bought really, really, really expensive maternity jeans so that I would maintain my cool.

It's hard to admit; but, when you bring that baby home, something inside you just gives in. There's only so much you can do in a day, and if you have to choose between eating, sleeping and dressing stylishly, it's easy to see which one will slip first.

My new wardrobe is awfully comfy. It's great when you can justify going out in public in your pajamas because "you're a new mom." It's even better that the women in your mommy group give you a high five because you chose a nap over blow drying your hair. Mommy Power!

I'm beginning to feel a little guilty and ashamed though, because at four months in I should really have a better grip. The things I wear would make Tim Gunn cringe and, in fact, I'm surprised I haven't been ambushed outside of Babies R Us by his style team for an emergency intervention. I imagine they'd say something like, "Lisa, we know you've been wearing the same socks for five days. It doesn't matter that no one sees you all day. You're beginning to smell and the neighbors are complaining."

Okay, okay - I'm not that bad. But I really have worn my pajamas in public several times. I know it's time for a change; but, after a year of elastic waistbands, sweaters with extra room in the belly area, and infinite forgiveness because you're a "new mom" it's so hard to change!

Today I'm wearing a new sweater. It's big and bulky and from Target, but it's NEW. So what that I still have my elastic pants on? 'm headed in the right direction.

Boogers

Let's get one thing straight. It's never okay to pick your nose. It's a pretty gross habit, and although it has some practicality (like when you have one of those hard boogers that really hurts when you press on the side of your nose, and you just want to get the darn thing out), it's just something you should never admit to. For the record, I am not a regular nose picker; but, ever since i became a mother I'm totally obsessed with picking my daughter's nose.

I mean, she's totally defenseless against the boogie monster that invades her nose rather than her closet each night. The poor kid looks up at me smiling and cooing, and all the while she's breathing like Darth Vader because she's so clogged up in there.

Screw those things they give you at the hospital that are supposed to suction the gunk out. They only work if the boogers are really wet, and even then, it's a battle to stick that thing anywhere near your baby's nose. By the way, my sister, the pediatric nurse, told me about 5 tries in that you actually have to hold down the other nostril as you suction the one that's stuffed. Who knew? I never read THAT in any book.

Anyway, I prefer the SIO method (Sweat.It.Out). One of the earliest memories I have as a kid, is sitting in a steamed up bathroom (for what seemed like hours), to help me get through the Croup. I remember sitting on my tiny, hand-painted "Lisa" step-stool, while my parents sat on the bathroom floor waiting for me to feel better. The first time Livi had an unbearably stuffy nose, I immediately recalled the steamy room and rushed her into the bathroom where we sat with the shower running HOT for 5 minutes. Guess what? Instant wet boogers that just hung out of her nose waiting to be picked!

It's actually kind of scary how excited I get when I actually see one peeking out of her nose. I think, "Oh! One I can grab!" It's equally frightening how often I purposefully look up her nose, searching for boogers. In her Gymboree class, when she's on the changing table, when she's in her crib, when I hold her high above my head as we play....it's an obsession.

So - one other thing they never tell you before you have kids. Be prepared to stick your fingers in their noses (and to love every minute of it!)

I Smell Like French Fries

The other day I was driving with Livija (my four month old daughter) and was completely distracted by the wonderful, odorific scent of McDonald's french fries. Those sugar coated, grease injected pleasure sticks that I only eat once in a blue moon. Although there wasn't a McDonald's anywhere close-by, I figured that we must have been driving down wind from the magical arches and that my car had trapped in its ventilation system, the gift of a french fry.

Oddly enough, however, when we arrived home I was smacked in the face again with the smell as I unloaded Livija from her car seat. Where the hell was that french fry? Did I sleep walk the night before and purchase fries in a zombie trance, and then stuff them in my pockets and into the glove compartment of my car? Was Livija farting a french fry smell? (I sniffed her butt...which is okay when you're a Mommy...but, no french fry smell there).

When Piyum came home that night, there it was again! Ha! It was my husband leaking the aroma of the forbidden snack. He had been eating McDonald's in secrecy! "Why do I keep smelling french fries!" I burst out. Piyum looked at me like I was a total weirdo and I could see him consider for a moment whether he should ask me if I was "okay". He quickly thought better of it and replied like a dutiful husband "I dunno."

Just then, as Livija was perched in my arms digesting her most recent 6 ounces of formula, a familiar gurgle arose and warm, milky spit-up planted itself on my shoulder and her chin. As I reached for a burp cloth to soak up the frothy mess, I realized what I had been smelling all day....

The "french fry" was me.

The "french fry" was me, dusted in the fragrant aftermath of spit-up on my shoulder. For god-friggin-sake I WAS THE SMELL!

I smelled like an oh-so-sexy new mother. I glanced at my husband, wondering if he knew that I had just made the horrific connection. God love my husband for being able to come home at the end of the day and tell his french fry wife that he missed me. Who could miss a formula drenched wife? The same wife who used to smell of sweet perfume and expensive beauty products?

So this is motherhood? Can I phone a friend?