Pictures

For Christmas I made Piyum a photo album of Livija's first year. It felt kind of archaic to peel back those sticky pages and smooth out the wrinkles as I placed each picture; but, there's something kind of nostalgic about a tangible photo album. It goes hand in hand with the sound of that plasticky, crinkly paper that used to be wrapped around every library book you brought home as a kid. It was dusty, and yellow, and just made those bound pages feel like a BOOK.

Anyway, Livija is fascinated by turning the pages of the album and identifying all of the family members. She makes me "read" it with her over and over again with glee. This weekend, as I was helping her turn the pages, I "oohed" and "ahhed" with her over her baby pictures. My heart smiled, and for a moment I thought, "I could do this again."

Then I remembered this picture:

This might be the one slice of photographic evidence that Livija's first 17 months have not been all peaches and cream. I look at this picture and I remember the pictures that don't exist:

- Picture of Livija tracking dog poop across my dining room with her bare feet

- Picture of Livija crying as we enter night #1 of Ferber with no swaddle or pacifier

- Picture of Mommy bursting into tears as she spills formula all over the kitchen floor

- Picture of Daddy entering hour three of rocking Livija to sleep to get her through her ear infection

- Picture of Mommy and Daddy with enormous bags under their eyes, and their underwear on over their pants because they haven't slept more than 4 hours straight in an entire year

It has just occurred to me that there is a very intentional biological reason why we have no instinct to grab the camera in these moments - we would never reproduce if we had photographic evidence to remember them by!

Instead we take pictures of the smiles, the hugs, the laughter, and the silliness and decide we just want oodles and oodles of these miraculous gifts!

I'm thinking it might be a good idea to start taking some photos of the tantrums and boo-boos - not for birth control reasons as you might think - but rather to show me what I've overcome, endured, and conquered. I know people have babies every day, but I'm friggin' proud of my accomplishment. Having Livija has challenged me in ways that I never dreamed possible, and while I love to look at her gorgeous face lit by a setting sun, I also like to look at how far we've come!

Throw me a Bone

A few years ago, I tore my meniscus (for those Anatomy and Physiology drop-outs, that's an important part of your knee). Even though it was a microscopic tear, and the doctor said I could resume activity as usual, that sucker hurt like it had a pogo stick jammed through it for about 4 months. Why am I telling you this? Well, because during those 4 months I had to take a total hiatus from running (my CRACK at that time in my life) and I suffered serious withdrawal - it was so bad that I would actually sit in public places and stare at peoples knees. Yes, that's right - I drooled over their functionality and was jealous over every single knee that sauntered by pain-free. Even though my knee is totally healed now, I've been feeling that same psychotic jealousy recently - only now I covet Mommies who have slept and have energy.

That's right - this past Sunday I stared angrily at a pretty blond Mommy with a beautiful blond daughter, who blissfully cut up her child's pancakes and laughed in delight as she explained the difference between the 10 types of IHOP syrups. It made me furious. SHE apparently had SLEPT.

Later, we went to Trader Joe's and I nearly killed a poor college student with my glare, as she pranced down the aisles in her tanning bed glory, and showed off quads that would make David Beckham do a muscle check. She, clearly, had slept.

This morning as I drove to work, I nearly pulled the car up on the sidewalk to run down the beautiful Mommy jogging in her little shorts and jog bra with not an ounce of fat jiggling. SHE obviously had been experiencing good sleep for MONTHS.

There was a point in my life when exercise was my meditation - my pleasure - my escape. Now, I'm lucky if I have enough energy to lace up my sneakers. To top it all off, you add the whole Working Mother piece into the mix, and the guilt associated with leaving Livija for even 30 minutes during our time at home with her, and whole thing becomes even more complicated.

I'm hoping sleep is in my future. For the well-rested Mommies of the greater Boston area, they should pray I get some sleep too before this mania of mine gets really out of hand and I start taking hostages at local gyms - well, that is, if I have enough energy.

Yard Sale Enlightenment

So, today we had an impromptu yard sale. I've never done of one those before, and I have to say, "Whoa". Who knew yard sales were such a fascinating sub-culture?

Anyway, one lady walked away with bags of stuff. I nicely chatted with her as she looked at some of my exercise gadgets. She told me she had 12 and 13 year olds, and that she was just on her way back from a Weight Watchers meeting. She shared that she was trying to focus on herself for once, and that she battles this feeling that she has to go straight home; but, today she felt kind of saucy and decided to stop at a yard sale and spend a few minutes to herself.

The whole interaction brought on mixed feelings for me. Just this week I have really been thinking about this intense feeling of OBLIGATION I carry around with me everywhere. Even though my pregnancy weight is gone, it has been replaced by the weight of feeling a deep, stirring panic when I think I have left Livija too long.

I understand, practically, that this is really irrational - particularly because the times I experience this the most is when I leave Livija with my husband. It's like I feel guilty for making him spend "too much" time with her. The thing is, he has never once complained - never even made a sideways comment inferring that I have been absent for too long - in fact, he always makes a point to tell me to "take my time".

So, the result is, a wife and mother who can't go for a walk, grocery store run, CVS pit stop or visit with friends without checking my watch incessantly and having my stomach spin in uncontrolled anxiety.

When this woman at our yard sale shared this same feeling with me, I was on one hand glad to know I wasn't the only one; however, completely horrified that she was still dealing with this after 13 years as a mother.

I'm trying to get a grip - and I think going back to work has been really helpful for me; but, I wonder for just how much longer I will convince myself that working out for more than an hour is selfish or insensitive? Hmmm....I've got some self-reflection homework to do....

Life is Swirling Around Me and I'm, like, "Ahhhh"

One of my friends in high school said this once, and it has stayed with me. I can't remember in what context she said it - we were probably lamenting about college essays or SAT's or which plaid flannel to wear. Wow. We just had no clue. As I look at this blog, and realize four months have gone by since my last entry, I can honestly say, "Life is swirling around me and I'm, like, AHHHHHHHHHHH"

In four months, Livija has:
- Grown 7, agonizing, painful (but gorgeous) teeth
- Learned to scoot, crawl, cruise and WALK
- Tackled not only rice cereal, prunes and "puffs"; but, avocado, rice and beans, tofu, tater tots, pears, peaches, strawberries, bananas, kiwi, mandarin oranges, applesauce, soy yogurt, graham crackers, fig newtons, pasta, and waffles
- Been diagnosed with dairy, barley and sunflower allergies
- Learned to say "Bye Bye" "Mama" and "Dada"
- Endured 2 chest x-rays, 1 neck x-ray, 1 blood draw, 1 EKG and several shots
- Figured out how to climb stairs, open cabinets and drawers, and drink her own bottle
- Tamed Napoleon into complete and utter submissiveness
- Become a huge fan of buses, Baby Einstein, motorcycles, and sneezes
- Switched from size 3 to size four diapers
- Abandoned the Jumperoo and Excerpooper

Not to mention, I went back to work, and Livija started "school"!

Now that we're both career women, there should be some interesting stories to share. I have one good one that I like to refer to as the "Poop Scandal of 2009"; but, it just stirs up bad memories so I'll let that one be for now...

It's good to be back to blogging. I know folks have been anxious for the most recent chronicles. I imagine there should be some good hilarity around the corner now that Livija is officially a "toddler"! I can't believe it!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Motherhood is KILLER

The other night I was thinking - this motherhood thing is hard...I mean REALLY hard. There are so many challenges, it's a wonder that any of us are still standing at the end of the day. Emotionally, physically, and mentally motherhood is KILLER.

Let's start with sleep. Sleep is equal to water and air in terms of things that humans need to survive. Sleep is essential to brain function and development. Sleep allows us to operate large machinery without risk of losing a limb. Sleep (you'd think) would be pretty darn important for parents nurturing a new life and ensuring a newborns safety - but life has played this cruel trick on us, challenging us every day to be BETTER than our usual selves, on HALF the gas. What gives?

Without sleep, making sound decisions is difficult - but, the irony is that now that you're a Mom, you make decisions every second of the day regardless of whether you've had 8 hours of sleep or just one. When do you take baby to the doctor? What is the best way to soothe them? What is wrong with them THIS time? Should you switch to a convertible carseat? Should you change diaper brands? Should you sleep with the monitor on, or with the door open, or both?

With all of this decision making comes pressure. Pressure to not only make decisions; but, to make the RIGHT decisions. Making decisions has not been so important since middle school when deciding whether or not to wear a purse could make or break your social life. These decisions define what type of Mother you are in the eyes of your family, friends, and other Mommies everywhere...

And of course all of these other Mommies are now you're only source of support. It's like freshman year of college all over again where you have to meet entirely new people and identify friends before all of the "cool" people are taken by some other evolving clique. There's this sense of urgency to meet Mom's who you can connect with so you don't miss out on all of the latest stroller comparisons, finger food tips, doctor recommendations, and class sign-ups.

Meanwhile, you're having an identity crisis because you can't quite figure out who this new YOU is. You're a mom; but, can you still be fun? Can you still be cool at a bar, or will you inevitably break down about your diaper champ woes and whip out your cellphone with pictures of your little one learning to eat prunes. Not to mention, will you EVER lose that last 10 pounds and feel your abs again?

Did I mention you have that whole "career/having it all" question hiding in dark corners of your mind? Are you doing the best thing for you and your family by staying home/going back to work?

Oh! And how could I forget to add that among all of these woes you have to maintain a MARRIAGE? That according to that crazy guy expert on Oprah we have to continue to shower our Husbands with compliments and thanks or they'll feel unappreciated and stray (naturally...it's not their fault, it's OURS).

Uhg. I need a drink or cookie dough or something...

Yuck

There are some things only a Mother can get away with - they include: picking your baby's nose, smelling their butt, licking your hand to wipe their face, and using your sleeve to clean a surprise reflux attack. They are all gross and inappropriate; however, they are totally acceptable in the book of parenthood. Eating your baby's leftovers, on the other hand, can get down right nasty...

Eating already chewed pieces of tofu, puffs, broccoli and other foods that have fallen into the abyss of the highchair, and not hesitating for even a moment, is an act of Motherhood that I just can't explain; yet, it serves a few very practical purposes:

1) It's eco-friendly and supports recycling and renewable energy.
2) It allows me to be nourished as well.
3) It prevents the dog from eating too many scraps and throwing up on the carpet.

Today I caught myself getting an entire mid-afternoon snack on half-chewed puffs trapped in Livija's pants, and bits of tofu that were lodged in the creases of the highchair pad. That's just WRONG in so many ways...but, I was totally okay with it.

It's a never-ending battle, this motherhood thing. You finally get some of your groove back, and BANG,then you start eating regurgitated 1st foods.

Will I ever be a normal woman again?????

Losing Track of Time

For my entire life I have been a watch and time addict. I think my need for checking the time borders on obsessive compulsive. I could be sitting on my butt, watching Ellen, with no where to go, and I just NEED to know what time it is. I once had a friend in college who surprised me one day by reaching over to my arm, grabbing my wrist, removing my watch, and placing it in a drawer - I nearly fainted from the shock. I don't think I made it through the night without having to go to the drawer and sneak it back on my wrist.

Well, a couple of weeks ago my watch battery died. Of course, I discovered this within about 10 minutes of the failure and I nearly died. If you've ever tried to find a store that replaces watch batteries without a hassle, it's not as easy as it seems - and my throat began to tighten as I imagined trying to find a replacement battery with baby in tow.

I spent an evening looking online at watches. I even updated my status on Facebook, exclaiming to my friends that my watch had died....oh "the horror".

And then I weird thing happened.

I forgot all about it.

I totally took the watch off my wrist, and never looked back. It's been about two weeks now and I still have the empty feeling on my left wrist, but no panic that I can't check the time.

What I've realized is that in all of the chaos of learning how to become a mother, I've just let some things go (in a good way). Time being one of them. I've actually started learning to value the time I have, and not to panic about the time that is lost, that is coming up, or that we might be late for. I'm being more intuitive and forgetting about the BIBLE of a notebook that Piyum and I have kept since day one of Livija's life. This little notebook records when she eats, poops, and sleeps and until 2 weeks ago I felt like the walls were caving in if I missed an entry.

Okay, so I cheat a little and check the time on my iTouch which is nearly glued to my being throughout the day; but, I'm pretty proud of myself for figuring out that my days are more about memorable moments than minutes on a ticking piece of silver.

Yesterday, Livija learning how to crawl. I don't know at what time, and I don't care...I'm just glad I was paying attention and not worrying about my watch.

Going Slow

You know "that" driver who goes 10 miles below the speed limit and gives you sweaty flashbacks of the scene in Ferris Bueller's Day Off where the Dad is stuck driving behind the little old lady with the beehive? I used to hate "that" driver; but, now I'm sad to admit I AM "that" driver...but not for the reasons you'd think.

I'm not afraid of highways. I don't mind driving fast. In fact, I always used to be a quickest-way-from-point-A-to-point-B kind of girl. There's a reason I drive a car that has a turbo charged engine and eats up premium fuel. In fact, here's a picture of me at this years car show - I never miss it - I'm weird like that.

Howevever, driving has become a purposeful, strategic, and necessary means to get Livija to take much needed cat naps so she can make it through to bedtime. I have memorized the twists and turns of Route 9 between Newton and Natick so well that I could drive it with a Lovey pulled over my eyes. I've learned, that a quick trip to Babies R Us affords us just enough car time for Livija to sneak in 25-30 minutes of snoozing BUT only if I drive the speed limit.

It has made me a safer driver, and my time in the car is much less stressful now that I don't feel the heavy anxiety of "needing" to get someplace on time. Sorry to the young, childless folks out there who get stuck behind me on the highway....but naptime is more important than feelin' the wind in my hair.

You know you're a Mom when...

1) Projectile vomit or spit up doesn't even make you flinch

2) Your body is on a permanent tilt to one side as you adapt to carrying a little one on your hip all day

3) Instead of singing in the shower, you hum the songs that play on the Jumperoo and Exersaucer

4) You can nap anywhere, anytime, and in any position

5) You buy the PedEgg because you've forgotten how to get yourself to the nail salon

6) Diaper wipes become all purpose cleaner

7) Joovy, Britax, Bugaboo, and McLaren seem like good names for your next pets

8) You turn in your diamond necklace for a faux turquoise teething necklace

9) Your "on the go" meal is whatever is left of the jarred sweet potato and barley slop

10) You spend more time with the washer and dryer than you do with your husband

No sick day for you!

As I sit here with my Sleepy Time tea, saltines and roll of toilet paper (we're out of tissues) I am fondly reflecting on my "Ferris Bueller" days. When I was little, if I stayed home sick from school, my family called me "Ferris". I remember when being sick involved curling up in bed, turning on the boob-tube, and napping as the moment so inspired me. What I've learned this week, however, is that being sick with a baby in tow is no Bueller day at all.

Regardless of my snotty nose and scratchy cough this morning, I still had to roll out of bed at 6:00am to greet a bright and bubbly Livija. I hoped to grab a few moments of zoned out peace as she played in her jumperoo; but, eventually that wore off and sick Mommy had to find ways to entertain Livija without touching, kissing, or breathing on her too hard.

Even though I was on the brink of laryngitis, I found myself reading "Pat the Bunny" 10 times this afternoon, in addition to 9 other books as I tried to calm my savage reader who grunts anxiously if I have not selected the "right" book. Additionally, today was the first day in weeks that Livija decided she just didn't want a nap between 2pm and 7:30pm. 5 and half hours of awake time would drain a perfectly healthy Mom, let alone a Mom who feels like her chest is going to cave in.

Night time is the worst. When you're a Mommy you can't take NyQuil or another sleep medicine...it just doesn't feel right. Instead, you lay awake most of the night praying for your nasal passages to clear up so that you can steal a few minutes of sleep before you have to start the whole routine all over again. The best part is as you're getting ready to go to bed, your husband announces that he's getting up at 5am to go to the gym. Because you're a good wife, you don't object - but you know that means that you'll be up at 5am too, and that last hour of precious sleep will be lost.

They aren't kidding when they say you're life will change when you have a baby. Right down to the sick days. God I miss sitting in a pile of tissues all by myself!!!!

Pearls of wisdom

I am 6 1/2 months into being a new mother, and I figure that I should probably have some pearls of motherhood wisdom to pass along by now. Honestly, I'm not sure I'm any less clumsy now than I was in the first few weeks; but, I have learned a few valuable lessons along the way:

1) Never leave the house without at least 5 diapers. Trust me....the day you leave the house with just a couple of diapers you will be rewarded with a handsome poop explosion and an unanticipated pee. Three diapers at home would normally be just fine to cover such a catastrophe...but add in trying to change the diaper in the trunk of your SUV, realizing you forgot wipes which means you have to use another diaper to substitute, and you've got yourself one sticky situation.

2) There will not be flocks of people telling you what an amazing mother you are. You'll have a few (mainly your own mother); but, not as many as you think...and certainly not enough to keep the confidence up day to day. Sometimes you have to be your own cheerleader on this one because not everyone GETS that you really need to hear that you're a fantastic mother just for making it through Monday.

3) Don't ever, EVER, believe that you have a "routine". Garbage. Any consistency in schedule will never last long, and just when you think you have something mastered a wrench is always thrown into the equation. This is called parenthood. This is why pediatricians smirk at you when you brag about your schedule, or when you say you are using "Baby Wise" and it's working.

4) Animal sounds are magic. You might be amazed how many times you resort to clucking like a chicken, or scratching your armpits like a monkey just to put a smile on your little ones face.

5) It's not an excersaucer - it's an excerpooper. I put Livi in that thing right after eating, and within 5 minutes "Shazam!" - we've got a winner.

6) There is no, one, right way. Not for anything. Ever. It's horrible. When it comes to babies, no one agrees on anything. Don't look for the magic bullet, because there isn't one. You have to be your own best expert. If you can embrace this fact it's empowering - but it can also frustrate the crap out of you when you're just plain tired of making decisions.

7) Frozen washcloths are over rated. Frozen pacifiers are golden.

8) Animal Planet is way better than Baby Einstein.

9) Things you wouldn't think of, like your brassy door knobs, are way better than Animal Planet and Baby Einstein combined.

10) Don't ask about percentiles. They'll just stress you out. If your baby is eating, pooping, and laughing, that's all that should matter. Who cares if your baby's head circumference is in the 95th percentile????

Post Partum Meltdowning

The experts say that post partum depression usually strikes anywhere between birth and 6 months. Symptoms like lack of appetite, feeling overwhelmed, crying, lack of sleep and negative thoughts about yourself or the baby, are very common and should never be ignored - and while I'm sure that I flirted with diagnosable depression in the early weeks, what I'm POSITIVE I have now is what I refer to as "post partum meltdowning".

Post partum meltdowning are the random, unexpected spells of complete and utter panic. This panic is not generally regarding rational things; rather, the meltdowning may be triggered by things like being exposed to crawling babies.

Let me explain. Last week, upon the recommendation of our Gymboree teacher, Livija and I tried the "level 2" class (6 -10 month olds) to see how she would do. We went in feeling like puffed up peacocks - we were going to the "big kids" class. However, to our dismay, of the 15 kids in the class, Livija was the only one who didn't move off her butt and, to our horror, there were actually 12 month old kids (kind of like kids on the 5 year plan in high school or college) who were walking and running around the multi-colored play space. While Livija thwarted off an over-eager 8 month old who very badly wanted to rip her nose off her face, I gaped in dismay as I saw a peek into my future. How was I EVER going to handle movement!!!??? Good God! We just figured out sleep!!!!

That night, as Piyum and I settled in to bed, post partum meltdowning hit full force. Piyum struggled to keep up as I told him I didn't know who I was anymore - that I didn't think I was suited to be a good enough mother to handle a CRAWLER - that my life was engulfed by researching child proofing and solid foods - that I was paralyzed - that I wanted to be the woman he married, not the woman who couldn't keep up with a walking baby!!!! Between sobs Piyum, very nicely, told me that he didn't really understand. I don't blame him. I was "meltdowning".

When morning came I, of course, realized my irrationality and felt pretty lame that I was such a drama queen. I decided if I could accomplish one small goal, that everything would feel possible - so I conquered taking a shower during the day (instead of at night when Piyum got home from work). To my surprise, no big deal. Livija didn't cry when the shower turned on. She didn't hurl herself out of her crib in anger that I was taking time to practice good hygiene. We both survived, and things felt better. Possible.

I fully expect another meltdowning session to occur in the next week or so. They're pretty much like clock-work. It will probably be a result of Livija's 6 month "wellness check" with her new doctor, where she points out where she sits in the percentiles and I feel "judged", or when Livija refuses avocados (supposedly the food that NO child will refuse). However, I know I don't need drugs for this sort of post partum stuff. I just need a good head on my shoulders, and the confidence that I can do this. No Mom ever died because her kid started walking. I won't either!

Let me count the ways...

Sometimes I read my blog and think that people who don't know me well must think I'm an awfully bitter new mother. As I sit here next to the video monitor, sleep deprived and holding my breath that Livija will stay peaceful tonight, I know I would be lying to you if I told you I wasn't exhausted, tapped, worn out, sticky, or smelly - or, that this morning I forgot to brush my teeth, didn't shower, didn't fully change out of my pajamas, and didn't get lunch until 2:30pm (that's a long time to wait when your breakfast was at 6:30am). I'd also be lying to you, however, if I didn't share some of the wonderful things about being a mom - so here it goes - catch it now, because I'll be right back to my same old bitter blogs by tomorrow!

1. I love her skin. Her feet and her bum particularly. It's amazing to feel those little fingers wrap around mine when I feed her...and I think the best part of my day is getting her ready for her bath and kissing her naked butt and hearing her squeal in delight. She takes such pleasure in being naked and it's wonderful.

2. Her laugh is infectious, and it seems to change every week. First she started with smiles - then we graduated to laughs - now we are in full blown hysterics phase. It's amazing to see her face light up and to giggle at her toothless grin. It's even more amazing that her laughter is reacting to something that I've done to make her happy.

3. I love watching and observing when she has no idea I'm there. Occasionally she loses herself in play, and it's so fun to actually witness learning. It's like her brain is developing before my eyes.

4. Livija and her Dad are absolutely precious. Piyum was the first to hold and feed Livija when she was born, and they certainly have a special bond. She gushes with excitement when he comes home from work, and she searches for him in the morning while I change her diaper. Seeing Piyum so natural as a father is truly incredible.

5. Staying at home is a blessing. My mother stayed at home with me, and I hope I can create some of the same memories for Livija. My generation of women has been told from the beginning that we can "have it all". Now that I have Livija, I see that staying at home IS having it all.

6. Livija has taught me to let go of "stuff". Most of this involuntary - but I have just learned to ACCEPT. It's hard sometimes, but a valuable lesson nonetheless and I'm happy that she's teaching it to me.

7. I love that, in the morning, she is always happy and full of smiles. It's like she is so GRATEFUL that I have come to find her. No matter what sleeplessness the night brought her, she always begins the next day with laughter.

8. She may not look like me, but it's amazing to see what personality traits and characteristics she takes from me. In a new environment, or with new people, she absorbs and observers her surroundings with great care. Her eyes scan every detail until she feels secure. People laugh and say she looks so serious - those are the moments I feel she looks the most like me and it's wonderful to watch.

9. I've never seen anyone take so much joy in watching a cat or dog. Livija's obsession with Napoleon and Cleo is absolutely adorable. She pumps her fists, opens her mouth in a big "O", and taps her feet.

10. Okay...well, now I'm distracted. Livija has just started crying (I am not being dramatic) and I have no idea why. Looks like we're in for another long night. I'll try to keep points 1-9 in mind as we head into the early morning hours....

Solid Food Stinks

Motherhood is fruitful with torturous rights of passages - not sleeping, aching backs, hair loss, permanent belly fat, loss of brain cells, etc. - but to top it all off SOLID FOODS arrive between months 4-6.

In theory, solid food should be fun. Your baby tries new tastes and textures, and learns how to eat from a spoon and a cup. It's messy and hilarious, and every new parent has the pleasure of sitting in front of their baby just as they sneeze a mouthful of rice cereal. As a new Mom, you plan to feed your baby the most wholesome foods - never introducing her to sugar, flour, or preservatives - and having a kid who jumps up and down for a snack of wheat germ sprinkled celery.

In reality, solid food stinks. First you have to get your baby to like rice cereal (if that's what you start with - I could write a whole other article on how to decide WHAT food to have your baby begin with!) Does she like it before her bottle, or after the bottle? Does she want it mixed with water, formula or breast milk? Does she like it liquidy or thick?

Good lord.

Once you have accomplished that feat, you are supposed to introduce beginner foods; but, they have to be given for four days with nothing else to ensure there is no allergy. However, most babies don't fall for any new food in four days - it probably takes more like 15 - but since you can't introduce another new food while you're feeding the old food (again, allergies) it would take about 6 years to get through bananas, avocado, apples, sweet potato, and pears.

Meanwhile, the rice cereal is constipating your little one because it's iron fortified, and although all of the books tell you that your baby now needs to start drinking water, no one has told your baby that. They won't take it from a bottle, they haven't figured out the sippy cup yet, and they're too smart for watered down formula. So, you've got this poor baby, turning red in the face all day trying to poop AND your making her try peas.

Try prunes says my sister. Yeah. They only make pureed prunes mixed with other berries ( a no-no because you can only introduce one new food at once) and because she's still not sleeping through the night, this mom can only think of napping during the day and not planting herself in front of the food processor and chopping up prunes. Gross.

To top it off, as the weeks go by, your baby is getting hungrier and hungrier - the bottle is not doing it's job anymore - but you still haven't moved past rice cereal and are afraid to feed it to her twice a day because she gets so friggin' gassy at night (preventing her from sleeping well, and thus preventing you from pureeing prunes)! Of course, move on to oatmeal you say; but, there is another four days lost and we still haven't even mastered the sweet potato!

I'm jealous of the moms who say their baby eats everything. I don't think they realize just how miraculous that really is. At this rate, Livija might still only be eating rice cereal when I send her off to college.

Let's stop making things personal...

Let me just preface this rant with the following: I support breastfeeding. I believe it is a healthy and beautiful way to nurture an infant. I believe that breast milk offers benefits that formula cannot.

That being said, I am SICK of the countless propaganda which guilt women into breastfeeding and imply that women who choose not to breastfeed are unfit mothers. The article linked in the title above goes so far as to say women who don't breastfeed have a higher incidence of NEGLECTING their children because they don't have an intimate bond with their babies. It also says that women who choose to breastfeed are just naturally BETTER mothers, and that they can PERSEVERE through hard times (where, apparently, women who formula feed lack perseverence).

Are you kidding me?

I could write a whole article about the holes in the stated study; but, I'm not writing this for academic purposes. The article stung and insulted me like nothing else I've read. Although the researchers nicely imply that it's possible for formula fed infants not to be neglected, it's clear that this is simply a nicety.

I chose not to breastfeed. Not because I physically couldn't. Not because I adopted. Not because of the other "acceptable" excuses not to breastfeed. I just didn't. No one should need any further explanation - it was my researched, educated, thought-out choice.

Livija is a healthy, thriving, and LOVED little one. I am just as neurotic, perfectionistic, worried, and in love with Livija as any other woman in my mothers groups who breastfeed. We share the same emotions and concerns regardless of how our babies are fed. We have all felt hopeless, we have all felt elated, we have all felt isolated, we have all felt amazed.

Education on the benefits of breastfeeding is great. Let's continue to educate mothers on all of the healthy options available to our children ... not just breastfeeding; but, healthy eating beyond the first year, vaccinations, being aware of the chemicals in our homes, cleaning prodcuts, and toys, and providing an EMOTIONALLY healthy home.

I have just one request - can we embrace each others' decisions instead of making it personal?

Socks

I'm not sure why I even bother with socks. Livija hates her socks. HATES them. No matter what I do, those suckers just slip right off. At first I thought it was because the socks weren't made well, so I tried a variety of brands and styles; but, I've come to the conclusion that Livija is hell bent against having anything cover up her little toes (of course, because socks prevent her from eating her feet).

It's amazing really, we'll start the morning with socks on. By 8:00am I've replaced the socks at least 5 times. They slip off on the exersaucer, they fall off in the jumperoo, and they're kicked off vigorously while sitting on her play mat. If she has socks on, she'll rub those little feet together like she's a caveman trying to create fire. I swear - I'm just waiting for her socks to burst into flames from all of that friction.

What's funny is that I've never been a sock person, and either has my father. Sock aversions must be genetic. My father and I are both infamous for not wearing socks in the dead of winter...not even while shoveling snow...we just don't like socks. I'll start off the night with socks on, and inevitably kick them off around 2am. Piyum always asks me why I wear socks at all, and I don't really have a good answer for that (probably because, like underwear, you're just SUPPOSED to).

So, if Livija doesn't want to wear socks, who am I to tell her she has to? She's 5 months old - I'll let the kid live a little!!!

Inauguration Day

Today was historic. The first African-American President of the United States was sworn in to office, and our country swarmed the Washington D.C mall in unprecedented numbers to celebrate the occasion. As Barack Obama took the oath of office, my sweet Livija contentedly commemorated the moment by eating her toes.I hoped that we might watch the ceremony together. I envisioned her sitting on my lap, mesmerized by Barack Obama's voice, and somehow understanding that the first year of her life would most probably be a year that marked change for generations to come. Instead, as luck would have it, she began to grunt and rub her eyes at exactly 11:55am.

Fortunately, Livija cooperated and went down for her nap quickly and peacefully as I soaked in every word of his masterful speech. While watching, I couldn't help but wonder what the future holds for my sweet Livija. Will she live in a world of peace? Will she have a female President? Will she drive an electric car and own a home fueled by the sun?

Today I felt great hope for Livija. I can't wait to see what she contributes to the world one day (beyond eating her feet).

Messy, sticky, slobs!

Babies are slobs. They are dirty, messy, sticky, slobs, and I think it's hysterical that we all think it's so darn cute. Realistically, it's all pretty gross. I mean, anyone who has a runny nose that drips into their mouth, sneezes with such vigor that drool ends up three kids down on the play mat, and poops so hard that it not only leaks out of the diaper but somehow ends up on their toes, would be exiled to an island populated by lepers in a heartbeat.

Today, in Gymboree, as we all sat around comparing sleep stories (oohhh, the excitement), we looked on lovingly as little Andrew spit up all over his chin, overalls, socks and blanket. It was this white, chunky, drooly stuff that looked like it could be the ooze out of a wound; but, we all still giggled and smiled at him.

The week before, little Julian needed a rice cereal break in the middle of class. The porridge-like muck never made it to his stomach - just to his cheeks, and perhaps even snuck around under his ears ( I hope he got a bath that night, because I'm guessing day old rice cereal lodged behind your ear gets a little crusty by morning). No one batted an eyelash; because, this of course, is considered "normal".

Or how about this one - the red, awful rash that develops in between the neck folds of a baby's little throat because of all of the milk, drool and formula that hibernates in there? If you saw that on an adult, you'd be calling the CDC or the Department for Homeland Security. On our little ones, however, it's endearing.

Perhaps the most shocking is when a baby decides that the stuff in their diaper would make a really good self-tanner, and spreads it generously all over their face, arms, body and legs. Can you imagine what might happen to an adult who pulled this stunt? Lock down in the local mental institution; but, for a baby, it's what legends are made of.

I know, I know...babies can't help it; but, can we please all stop pretending that they smell like peaches? There is a discernible difference between the sweet smell of fruit, and the unlikely combination of baby powder, formula, Desitin, and pureed peas.

My "Skillz"

For those of you who know me well, you know that I looooove the movie "Napoleon Dynamite." One of my favorite parts is when he talks about how guys have to have "skills" to get girls - you know - "nunchuku skills, bow hunting skills, computer hacking skills..." I think along these same lines, that Moms develop new skills as a part of evolutionary "survival of the fittest." Fathers and babies need Moms who have killer skills so they can be assured that they will thrive. Here are just a handful of the skills I have acquired in the past 5 months:

1) Super sonic hearing (I can hear a baby cry from a house three miles away)
2) One handed extraordinaire (making bottles, washing dishes, cooking meals, opening mail, shopping, typing, etc.)
3) Going to the bathroom with a baby on my lap (a sight to see indeed)
4) Getting from a sitting on the floor position, to a full stand, while all the while holding Livi
5) 2, 832 children's songs stored in memory for instant recall
6) Ability to drive and complete complex tasks on three hours of sleep
7) Understand a frustrated cry, from a hungry cry, from a tired cry, from a bored cry, from a "you scare me" cry, from a boo-boo cry....
8) Patience, patience, patience
9) Change Livija's diaper while she has both feet in her mouth
10) Wake up from a sound sleep exactly one minute before she begins to whimper
11) Smiling nicely at all of the Mom's who tell you about their child who sleeps 12 hours at night AND takes naps
12) Developing snazzy home remedies (my latest is that instead of a frozen washcloth, I use frozen baby socks for Livija to chew on...much more proportionate!)
13) Sewing ( I swear to God...the last time I touched a sewing machine was in Home Ec; but, this weekend, I whipped out a handmade "Taggy"...what the F?")
14) Sleep with one eye glued to the video monitor

Confess your mommy moments to me!

The best thing that has come out of writing this blog are the wonderful confessions and stories I hear from other Moms! I'm psyched that my writing inspires women to share their funniest (or darkest) moments of motherhood...and I'd love to hear more!

Like the woman in my Mother's group who after reading "Frumpy" wrote me and said she wondered if she would ever wear perfume again.... or two of my sisters co-workers who admitted to accidentally driving with their baby unbuckled in their car seats because they were just THAT tired.

If you have a story, leave it in the "comments" section. I'm in the middle of enduring Livija's "Great Sleep Strike" and I could use the humor (and the validation) that I'm not the only one who while telling a story FORGETS HER DAUGHTER'S NAME!

Thanks for the great feedback. I hope you continue reading. Knowing you read this, inspires me to write more!

Daydreamer

Everyone tells you that the first months of your newborns life are the most precious...the most amazing...and the most memorable. They tell you not to miss one moment, to soak up the wonder of it all, and to look down upon your baby with an unparalleled adoration. I'm beginning to believe that "everyone's" babies must have pulled out some mind eraser contraption like they do in the movie "Men in Black" and forever eliminated all memories of hair pulling, drool inducing, sleepless nights because I'm in the middle of it right now, and I'm telling you, this is far from heaven.

I am caught in the oh-so-heavenly middle of deciding whether or not to let our little one cry it out, or to let her continue with her unfortunately horrible sleep habits until she figures it out on her own. I'm beginning to think instead of doing cry it out (which apparently only lasts a few days and you and baby forget the whole ordeal fairly quickly), that maybe it would be much more fun to endure this painful period, let my little Livi torture us endlessly, and then wait for the perfect moment of revenge.

Maybe it will be when she's a teenager and she has just wrecked the family car, or gotten caught smoking pot. Instead of grounding her, I will lovingly send her to bed, smile at her from ear to ear and wait until she is in a sound slumber. At the perfect moment I'll whip out the cymbals and the drums and dance around like a banshee in her room. I won't just do this for one night, I'll do it for several. And just as we experience now, I'll give her a week of peace and make her believe that maybe, just maybe, the torture has ended. Then, when she least expects it, I'll start the whole darn ritual all over again. When she looks at me in horror, pillow pulled over her head, asking "Why, Why!!???" I'll just continue dancing and scream over my cymbals, "Payback's a bitch!"

I know this sounds pretty vindictive and, I'll admit, totally unrealistic. At the end of the day I completely understand that her lack of sleep is not her fault, and that she is just as miserable as we are. But, the daydream is kind of fun, and right now whatever puts a smile on this exhausted face is entirely worth it.

Mommy Rage

One thing no one tells you about being a parent is that suddenly your free will to express anger is totally thrown out the window. It's only logical that you wouldn't want to expose your baby to yelling, swearing, or frustration; but, when a good loud f-bomb is no longer an option for helping relieve stress, you start to build up a backlog of anger that just needs to come out in some form. It's not productive to take it out on your spouse, and aggressive stroller pushing is a bit of a social taboo - so what is my outlet for this pent up emotion? Road rage.

I'm not speaking of the outlaw road rage we see on Cops. I'm talking about the good old, scream your head off in the car where no one can hear you, and if you spit wildly only the windshield will suffer, road craziness. Of course, this road rage can only happen when you actually steal a moment to yourself without baby in tow; but, when you do get those few minutes, and you're lucky enough to have some jackass cut you off on a rotary, it's heaven.


My sister and I went to see Marley and Me this past weekend (cried out friggin' eyes out). On the way out of the movie theatre parking lot, I was blessed enough to have a shiny Mercedes with tinted windows decide he was going to bypass the entire lane of backed up cars by driving up the oncoming traffic lane. As I spotted him in my rear view mirror, adrenaline bubbled up inside me like century old lava, and my hands gripped the steering wheel so hard I think I cracked my knuckles. As I leaned on my horn, words tore out of my mouth like a redneck truck driver, "You f-ing Newton driver! Who the hell do you think you are! Learn how to f-ing drive you f-ing yuppy!". I proceeded to chase the guy down the street, honking my horn the entire time. Meanwhile, my sister sat aghast in the passenger seat, jaw dropping to her seat belt.

Now I don't condone road rage. I think it's an awful waste of time, and a dangerous habit; but I think a little road nuttiness is allowable for a new stay at home Mom who has smiled for 5 months straight and has, with only the will of some magnificent force, stopped herself from swearing over her baby as she spills formula or spreads poop all over the changing table.

So, if you see me banging on the steering wheel and yelling obscenities to the sunroof, just cut me some slack. I may look crazy, but it's all for the benefit of my little Livi.

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.