My husband and I pondered the question a few nights ago, is irony really necessary when dealing with an infant?
Anyone who's ever had a baby knows it can take up to an hour (even longer if they have to poop) to gently rock and lull an infant to sleep before resting them gently down (like a live stick of dynamite) into their crib and running quietly from the room (like an escape convict from prison).
However, in a sick twist of what I consider terrorism against parents, it takes just seconds for a baby to drift off into a deep, peaceful slumber while strapped to Daddy in a Baby Bjorn with his four year old sister performing her own version of Stevie Nicks' "You Can Talk To Me" with her purple microphone and Tinkerbell sunglasses while dressed in a Little Mermaid bathing suit and gold sparkly princess shoes that sound like a galloping horse on a hardwood floor.
And naturally, this happened at 6:00, which is about the worst time for him to take a nap because it jeopardizes his (hopeful) 8:00 bedtime.
At the same time, I was burning grilled cheese sandwiches on the stove and opening every window on the first floor of our house. I told my husband to put Punkin in the bouncy on the kitchen table thinking the cool evening air would wake him up.
It didn't.
Nor did he wake up as we ate dinner around him at the same table while Peach's musical stylings switched from Stevie Nicks to Wang Chung's "Everybody Have Fun Tonight," and eventually Britney Spears' "Party in the USA."
As dinner drifted into bath time he finally stirred to Peach's excitement over some new bubble bath (the bath time coercion method of the evening) and complained about a wet diaper. After a quick change and the warm up of the evening's (first) bottle, my husband took him up to his room to coax him to sleep.
At 8:30, after tucking Peach into bed, I came downstairs to find both Babe (my husband) and Punkin on the couch (with a fresh evening bottle) watching Denzel Washington's "Man on Fire." I gently suggested that the sounds of rapid gunfire and explosions might not be the ideal way to lull a baby to sleep. Begrudgingly, Babe went back upstairs where he stayed for an hour trying to help Punkin drift into unconsciousness.
Which he did... eventually... the good news is he slept until 6:00 the next morning.
In another form of terrorism against parents, the following evening he woke up three times.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Nine years of marriage and a reflection on the times
Today is our 9th wedding anniversary and my mother (some of you may know her as the "Spa Bath Grandma") sent a note wishing us a happy anniversary. Such a great perspective on the way times have changed. Enjoy!
I actually remember our 5th anniversary in 1975. We had two kids. Your brother was 3and you were 1. I thought FIVE years was such a long time! It was a different time, for sure. Imagine a house without a computer or even a calculator that I can recall. Daddy had an adding machine that had to be plugged in (no battery powered objects). I didn't even have a desk!
We had one black and white TV with 5 channels and without a remote control. On-off-on-off. Those were the days! Life was easy. My washing machine was my friend instead of a mortal enemy that was over-engineered, over-tested and under-useful! Our refrigerator was still new at age 4 and it lasted another 30 years! Not one living refrigerator today will live to say that. Our dishwasher lasted until our room addition -- over 30 years later.
That was the year I got my FIRST VISA credit card. I didn't know how to use it. It had my full name and address on it.
My previous card was from Marshall Field's -- and only good at that store, of course.
No email. My dearest friend was in Australia and I had to send overseas mail on onion skin paper to reduce the weight and save pennies. Even our words had to be carefully chosen as the number of pages had to be limited. I waited up to 6 weeks and even longer at times for a reply. I didn't hear about the birth of her first child until he was 6 or 8 weeks old. I didn't see a photo for months.
I also was an at-home Mom for that short time, and I remember grabbing magazines by the handful and sitting in the back yard and reading them for hours. Life moved at a slower pace. I took your brother to the car wash for an outing. He was afraid of it, but dared to drive through it with me.
Friends came over for lunch and dinner, and I cooked actual recipes from scratch. We had no Panera, no fast food stores, except McDonalds, which was no where near our home. We had time to set the table every night.
Ahhh...things were not so tough. Life was gentler.
Happy anniversary -- I hope you are nurturing fond memories of happy times for a long time.
Love,
Mom
I actually remember our 5th anniversary in 1975. We had two kids. Your brother was 3and you were 1. I thought FIVE years was such a long time! It was a different time, for sure. Imagine a house without a computer or even a calculator that I can recall. Daddy had an adding machine that had to be plugged in (no battery powered objects). I didn't even have a desk!
We had one black and white TV with 5 channels and without a remote control. On-off-on-off. Those were the days! Life was easy. My washing machine was my friend instead of a mortal enemy that was over-engineered, over-tested and under-useful! Our refrigerator was still new at age 4 and it lasted another 30 years! Not one living refrigerator today will live to say that. Our dishwasher lasted until our room addition -- over 30 years later.
That was the year I got my FIRST VISA credit card. I didn't know how to use it. It had my full name and address on it.
My previous card was from Marshall Field's -- and only good at that store, of course.
No email. My dearest friend was in Australia and I had to send overseas mail on onion skin paper to reduce the weight and save pennies. Even our words had to be carefully chosen as the number of pages had to be limited. I waited up to 6 weeks and even longer at times for a reply. I didn't hear about the birth of her first child until he was 6 or 8 weeks old. I didn't see a photo for months.
I also was an at-home Mom for that short time, and I remember grabbing magazines by the handful and sitting in the back yard and reading them for hours. Life moved at a slower pace. I took your brother to the car wash for an outing. He was afraid of it, but dared to drive through it with me.
Friends came over for lunch and dinner, and I cooked actual recipes from scratch. We had no Panera, no fast food stores, except McDonalds, which was no where near our home. We had time to set the table every night.
Ahhh...things were not so tough. Life was gentler.
Happy anniversary -- I hope you are nurturing fond memories of happy times for a long time.
Love,
Mom
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Soccer, as performed by preschool girls
The game of soccer, while the most popular team sport on the planet, is, without question, almost completely unrecognizable when played by a group of four year olds.
It seems simple enough: divide the group in two, give some of them red jerseys and the others green, drop a ball in the middle and watch as they instinctively drive towards one goal or another.
Doesn't actually come off that way. What happens instead is a little more complex than that.
The challenge begins when the girls with the red jerseys don't like the color red and would rather have pink, purple, or yellow. Inevitably, one player will reach such a level of disappointment with the color options that she'll run off the field in tears towards her mother, looking for comfort.
The color debate is eventually settled. By this I mean that the girls who refuse to wear red are switched to the team without jerseys, and the same number of girls are switched from that team onto the team with the red jerseys (another girl runs off the field crying because she didn't want to wear a jersey at all).
With the abominable red jerseys finally on the appropriate amount of girls, it's now time for a break. The players scatter to various ends of the playing field for their water bottles and spend a few minutes comparing one to the other ("she has a Hello Kitty bottle... can I get one, too?").
After the break (which ends when parents start physically directing their angels back to the field), the girls reconvene in the middle and complain about the jerseys again. The coach holds the pink soccer ball borrowed from one of the players (in this case, my little player) up in the air and drops it in the middle of the crowd.
There are about ten girls on the field (this is not an absolute number as it constantly changes based on how many spontaneously need their shin guards adjusted, are thirsty, want a snack, and are wondering when this will be over). They watch the ball drop, and this is where any resemblance of soccer disappears completely. Four girls stare at the ball as one picks it up with her hands and starts running towards the goal. Three chase the girl, screaming that she can't use her hands, one screams towards a parent to report the violation, and the final girl runs in the opposite direction of everyone else.
Once the girl with the ball throws it into the goal it's time for another break. This is when my daughter (owner of the game ball) returned to me, upset because she didn't want people fighting over her ball. I tried to give her a mini-synopsis of soccer by saying, "honey, they're not fighting, they're playing soccer. The idea is to get the ball into the goal." I pushed her back towards the field realizing I'd just confused her more. No biggie, I thought, watching one of her teammates trying to convince her father that she was too hot to wear the mesh red jersey.
The playing resumes. The ball is dropped in the direction of one girl who starts kicking it. All of the other girls slow down and patiently watch her kick it towards the goal, around the goal, back on to the field, and in the direction of the other goal. Her mother, meanwhile, pleads with her that she's going the wrong way. A few other girls mistake the directions of that mother and start running in the opposite direction they were going and end up running onto another field in the middle of a different game. They stay for long enough that someone in that game kicks the ball to one of them and they start moving that ball back to the field they came from.
Time for another break.
Playing resumes. The ball is dropped. Two kids collide. One (mine) is crying.
Peach is now upset because she has a grass stain on her sock and didn't know that playing soccer would turn her blood green.
Time for another break.
Playing resumes but of the ten original girls, two have quit due to exhaustion and two others have removed the red jerseys.
Break.
Playing resumes. There are now a total of five girls on the field and only one of them is wearing a red jersey (she happens to like the color red). The coach looks around for the rest of the players. Two are snacking and one is arguing with her mother over the red jersey.
The ball is dropped, and all five girls run towards it together, graciously allowing a pre-determined girl to kick the ball into the goal.
The game is over.
Peach can't wait for next week's game. She has, however, resolved that if the jerseys are still red, she'll play on the team that doesn't have to wear them.
It seems simple enough: divide the group in two, give some of them red jerseys and the others green, drop a ball in the middle and watch as they instinctively drive towards one goal or another.
Doesn't actually come off that way. What happens instead is a little more complex than that.
The challenge begins when the girls with the red jerseys don't like the color red and would rather have pink, purple, or yellow. Inevitably, one player will reach such a level of disappointment with the color options that she'll run off the field in tears towards her mother, looking for comfort.
The color debate is eventually settled. By this I mean that the girls who refuse to wear red are switched to the team without jerseys, and the same number of girls are switched from that team onto the team with the red jerseys (another girl runs off the field crying because she didn't want to wear a jersey at all).
With the abominable red jerseys finally on the appropriate amount of girls, it's now time for a break. The players scatter to various ends of the playing field for their water bottles and spend a few minutes comparing one to the other ("she has a Hello Kitty bottle... can I get one, too?").
After the break (which ends when parents start physically directing their angels back to the field), the girls reconvene in the middle and complain about the jerseys again. The coach holds the pink soccer ball borrowed from one of the players (in this case, my little player) up in the air and drops it in the middle of the crowd.
There are about ten girls on the field (this is not an absolute number as it constantly changes based on how many spontaneously need their shin guards adjusted, are thirsty, want a snack, and are wondering when this will be over). They watch the ball drop, and this is where any resemblance of soccer disappears completely. Four girls stare at the ball as one picks it up with her hands and starts running towards the goal. Three chase the girl, screaming that she can't use her hands, one screams towards a parent to report the violation, and the final girl runs in the opposite direction of everyone else.
Once the girl with the ball throws it into the goal it's time for another break. This is when my daughter (owner of the game ball) returned to me, upset because she didn't want people fighting over her ball. I tried to give her a mini-synopsis of soccer by saying, "honey, they're not fighting, they're playing soccer. The idea is to get the ball into the goal." I pushed her back towards the field realizing I'd just confused her more. No biggie, I thought, watching one of her teammates trying to convince her father that she was too hot to wear the mesh red jersey.
The playing resumes. The ball is dropped in the direction of one girl who starts kicking it. All of the other girls slow down and patiently watch her kick it towards the goal, around the goal, back on to the field, and in the direction of the other goal. Her mother, meanwhile, pleads with her that she's going the wrong way. A few other girls mistake the directions of that mother and start running in the opposite direction they were going and end up running onto another field in the middle of a different game. They stay for long enough that someone in that game kicks the ball to one of them and they start moving that ball back to the field they came from.
Time for another break.
Playing resumes. The ball is dropped. Two kids collide. One (mine) is crying.
Peach is now upset because she has a grass stain on her sock and didn't know that playing soccer would turn her blood green.
Time for another break.
Playing resumes but of the ten original girls, two have quit due to exhaustion and two others have removed the red jerseys.
Break.
Playing resumes. There are now a total of five girls on the field and only one of them is wearing a red jersey (she happens to like the color red). The coach looks around for the rest of the players. Two are snacking and one is arguing with her mother over the red jersey.
The ball is dropped, and all five girls run towards it together, graciously allowing a pre-determined girl to kick the ball into the goal.
The game is over.
Peach can't wait for next week's game. She has, however, resolved that if the jerseys are still red, she'll play on the team that doesn't have to wear them.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
The question of the week... and of a lifetime...
A question from the peanut gallery:
Do you feel as crazed and stressed as I do with work, two kids and all of these activities going on?
I remember, before I had kids, how people with kids would say, "I have no idea what I did all day without kids..." I never understood what they meant.
Now I do.
Between the morning routine of getting them to two different day cares, then picking them up in the evening, I am constantly on the move. Drop one off, pick one up, trade one for the other, take one with to pick up the other one, get a babysitter for one while going with the other, enforce man-to-man defense when a babysitter isn't available, grab the Baby Bjorn to so the whole family can go, trade off who carries the baby, take turns eating dinner, bathe one without running out of hot water to bathe the second, get them both to sleep...
And then there are the activities: soccer, gymnastics, doctor appointments, the dentist, Dad needs a haircut, birthday parties, shopping for birthday parties, the grocery store, nap schedules, bottle warming, diaper changing, dinner at the Grandparents', dinner at a restaurant because the grocery store didn't happen, riding scooters, laundry, and, of course, the final season of LOST.
I have a vague memory of my pre-parent life: the biggest thing I remember is having no immediate need for a DVR.
Could be worse, I suppose... we could be in the position of desperately wanting children and just not being able to make it happen.
Do you feel as crazed and stressed as I do with work, two kids and all of these activities going on?
I remember, before I had kids, how people with kids would say, "I have no idea what I did all day without kids..." I never understood what they meant.
Now I do.
Between the morning routine of getting them to two different day cares, then picking them up in the evening, I am constantly on the move. Drop one off, pick one up, trade one for the other, take one with to pick up the other one, get a babysitter for one while going with the other, enforce man-to-man defense when a babysitter isn't available, grab the Baby Bjorn to so the whole family can go, trade off who carries the baby, take turns eating dinner, bathe one without running out of hot water to bathe the second, get them both to sleep...
And then there are the activities: soccer, gymnastics, doctor appointments, the dentist, Dad needs a haircut, birthday parties, shopping for birthday parties, the grocery store, nap schedules, bottle warming, diaper changing, dinner at the Grandparents', dinner at a restaurant because the grocery store didn't happen, riding scooters, laundry, and, of course, the final season of LOST.
I have a vague memory of my pre-parent life: the biggest thing I remember is having no immediate need for a DVR.
Could be worse, I suppose... we could be in the position of desperately wanting children and just not being able to make it happen.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
I'm sorry.... you said she ate... what?
So, I got a call from the director of Peach's school earlier this week. Here's how it went:
"Hi Meredith, everything's fine... just wanted you to know we're keeping an eye on Peach."
"Oh?"
"Yeah, well, is seems she uh, well, she ate a worm."
I laughed.
"Yeah," continued the director, "we're giving her water and making sure she's not sick... are you there?"
More laughter.
"Oh, I'm so glad you're laughing at this. She said she wasn't dared by anyone and nobody told her to do it. It was her own idea..."
The director continued on as I laughed so hard I could barely respond. About an hour later, I picked her up. The conversation went like this:
"So, Peach... heard you had an extra snack today."
Deer caught in headlights.
"A worm?" I made a funny grossed out face so she would know I wasn't mad. "Really?"
Her expression turned to one of excitement.
"Yeah! I ate a worm! It was small one, but I ate it!"
"Hmm..." I responded, smiling in disbelief. "So, what'd you think?"
"It was gross."
"Out of curiosity, was it alive?"
Her eyes rolled dismissively.
"Oh, no. I didn't want it to wiggle around in my mouth. I ate a dead one."
I've been pondering her choice for a few days now. I'm not sure which one I'd prefer: the live, fresh one, or the dead one which no doubt came equipped with the markings of the bottom of a Stride Rite shoe on it.
But I have to admire the girl. At least she applied logic to her actions.
"Hi Meredith, everything's fine... just wanted you to know we're keeping an eye on Peach."
"Oh?"
"Yeah, well, is seems she uh, well, she ate a worm."
I laughed.
"Yeah," continued the director, "we're giving her water and making sure she's not sick... are you there?"
More laughter.
"Oh, I'm so glad you're laughing at this. She said she wasn't dared by anyone and nobody told her to do it. It was her own idea..."
The director continued on as I laughed so hard I could barely respond. About an hour later, I picked her up. The conversation went like this:
"So, Peach... heard you had an extra snack today."
Deer caught in headlights.
"A worm?" I made a funny grossed out face so she would know I wasn't mad. "Really?"
Her expression turned to one of excitement.
"Yeah! I ate a worm! It was small one, but I ate it!"
"Hmm..." I responded, smiling in disbelief. "So, what'd you think?"
"It was gross."
"Out of curiosity, was it alive?"
Her eyes rolled dismissively.
"Oh, no. I didn't want it to wiggle around in my mouth. I ate a dead one."
I've been pondering her choice for a few days now. I'm not sure which one I'd prefer: the live, fresh one, or the dead one which no doubt came equipped with the markings of the bottom of a Stride Rite shoe on it.
But I have to admire the girl. At least she applied logic to her actions.
Friday, April 2, 2010
The morning routine
There was a time in my life when I struggled to get no one but myself out the door to work before 8:00 am. My alarm started bugging me at around 6:30 and I'd hit snooze twelve or thirteen hundred times before finally mustering up the energy to slide out of bed, into the shower, and would eventually find my way to my car and on my way to work.
These days, I launch myself out of bed at about 5:30am (after having already been up at 2:00ish for Punkin's middle of the night snack), brush my teeth and throw my hair in a ponytail before my husband gets in the shower. I spend the next few hours directing my children through the paces of our morning routine before leaving the house starving, tired, and trying to remember if I'm wearing the clothes I slept in the night before or if what I have on was slept in two nights ago.
The morning routine is, at best, a circus. Punkin is up at 5:30 for no reason other than he's bored of sleeping. I play with him in our bedroom until around 6:30, when Peach comes in demanding her morning shows. She narrates the Mickey Mouse episode of the morning while I gently remind her that it's about time to brush teeth and get dressed.
Sometime around 7:00 I manage to coax her into her bathroom where she brushes her teeth by herself, without help from me, because she knows how to do everything better than I ever could (if this is a preview of her teen years, we're in big trouble). Then the three of us go into her bedroom where I gently suggest that she puts on the outfit she picked out the night before (my time saving idea). That outfit is rejected about 50% of the time. It's place is usually taken by her interpretation of fashion (this morning it was a pair of leggings with pastel flowers printed on it, an orange shirt, pink socks with purple and white stripes, and silver party shoes).
The breakfast negotiations begin while I silently come to terms with the fact that she's going to leave the house in that outfit. Today she wanted blueberry muffins and Peeps. I counter-offered whole grain pancakes and pears. We finally landed on muffins, yogurt, and mandarin oranges.
Breakfast is eaten at a snail's pace while I threaten to turn the tv off. I beg her for ten minutes to put her socks and shoes on (I'm unable to do it while she watches tv because I'm holding the baby and she clearly recognizes the weakness), tell her to say goodbye to Handy Manny, wiggle her into her jacket, and strap Punkin into his car seat at about 8:00.
That's usually when he poops.
Peach's jacket immediately comes off and we say hello to Handy Manny again. I run to change Punkin' diaper and, on morning's like today, return to the kitchen to find Peach happily finishing off the Peeps.
As I rinse the pink sugar from her fingers it occurs to me that my husband gets in the shower ta 6:00 and is out the door 30 minutes later.
My routine is almost a 3 hour process.
At least her teachers will be the ones to suffer the consequences of the Peeps instead of me.
These days, I launch myself out of bed at about 5:30am (after having already been up at 2:00ish for Punkin's middle of the night snack), brush my teeth and throw my hair in a ponytail before my husband gets in the shower. I spend the next few hours directing my children through the paces of our morning routine before leaving the house starving, tired, and trying to remember if I'm wearing the clothes I slept in the night before or if what I have on was slept in two nights ago.
The morning routine is, at best, a circus. Punkin is up at 5:30 for no reason other than he's bored of sleeping. I play with him in our bedroom until around 6:30, when Peach comes in demanding her morning shows. She narrates the Mickey Mouse episode of the morning while I gently remind her that it's about time to brush teeth and get dressed.
Sometime around 7:00 I manage to coax her into her bathroom where she brushes her teeth by herself, without help from me, because she knows how to do everything better than I ever could (if this is a preview of her teen years, we're in big trouble). Then the three of us go into her bedroom where I gently suggest that she puts on the outfit she picked out the night before (my time saving idea). That outfit is rejected about 50% of the time. It's place is usually taken by her interpretation of fashion (this morning it was a pair of leggings with pastel flowers printed on it, an orange shirt, pink socks with purple and white stripes, and silver party shoes).
The breakfast negotiations begin while I silently come to terms with the fact that she's going to leave the house in that outfit. Today she wanted blueberry muffins and Peeps. I counter-offered whole grain pancakes and pears. We finally landed on muffins, yogurt, and mandarin oranges.
Breakfast is eaten at a snail's pace while I threaten to turn the tv off. I beg her for ten minutes to put her socks and shoes on (I'm unable to do it while she watches tv because I'm holding the baby and she clearly recognizes the weakness), tell her to say goodbye to Handy Manny, wiggle her into her jacket, and strap Punkin into his car seat at about 8:00.
That's usually when he poops.
Peach's jacket immediately comes off and we say hello to Handy Manny again. I run to change Punkin' diaper and, on morning's like today, return to the kitchen to find Peach happily finishing off the Peeps.
As I rinse the pink sugar from her fingers it occurs to me that my husband gets in the shower ta 6:00 and is out the door 30 minutes later.
My routine is almost a 3 hour process.
At least her teachers will be the ones to suffer the consequences of the Peeps instead of me.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Where's Heidi when you need her?
It occurred to me as I tried (and failed) once again this morning to fit into my pre-pregnancy jeans that I haven't heard back from Heidi Klum (see post entitled, "Memorandum"). Clearly, this is an oversight on the part of her management team. I'm sure she read the memo and immediately contacted the appropriate people to have her magic weight-loss elixir sent my way.
In the absence of her elixir, team of personal trainers, and home gym, however, I find myself at somewhat of a loss for ideas of how to get rid of this pregnancy weight.
I've tried several things. I switched to Diet Coke, watched the Biggest Loser, even studied the box my Wii Fitness Plus came in. And yet, 10 weeks post-partum, after countless hours spent researching different exercise programs and using Google maps to find the closest health club to my house, those jeans still barely fit over my thighs.
Meanwhile, my husband looks better than ever. After gaining 3.9 sympathy pounds, I believe he's actually lost 15. The secret behind his efforts? Meatball subs and Taco Bell. He's defended his abominable eating habits to me for over a decade now while I've preached the virtues of veggies and eating a little less meat.
I'm going to get a #3 from McDonald's for lunch and plan to get on the scale immediately following. If it turns out he's right, I'm never going to hear the end of this. At least I'll look good rolling my eyes in my skinny clothes.
In the absence of her elixir, team of personal trainers, and home gym, however, I find myself at somewhat of a loss for ideas of how to get rid of this pregnancy weight.
I've tried several things. I switched to Diet Coke, watched the Biggest Loser, even studied the box my Wii Fitness Plus came in. And yet, 10 weeks post-partum, after countless hours spent researching different exercise programs and using Google maps to find the closest health club to my house, those jeans still barely fit over my thighs.
Meanwhile, my husband looks better than ever. After gaining 3.9 sympathy pounds, I believe he's actually lost 15. The secret behind his efforts? Meatball subs and Taco Bell. He's defended his abominable eating habits to me for over a decade now while I've preached the virtues of veggies and eating a little less meat.
I'm going to get a #3 from McDonald's for lunch and plan to get on the scale immediately following. If it turns out he's right, I'm never going to hear the end of this. At least I'll look good rolling my eyes in my skinny clothes.
Monday, March 29, 2010
My favorite thing, yet: I received a question from a blog reader who's looking for a little advice. Love this! Please, send more! I'll be happy to post questions I think readers would like to discuss. I'll add my answer for the sake of starting the discussion. I hope you all will add your own comments. We could all use a little help!
Keep those questions coming!
Hi Meredith,
Just wondering: how long did it take you to get the hang of having two children instead of one? I'm due in a few months with our second and I honestly have no idea how we'll adjust!
HA! Any day, now... if there's one thing I've learned in the past four years it's that nothing is constant: you get the hang of your baby's sleep patterns and they change. You figure out a rhythm for getting your 2 year old to school and to work on time and she starts waking up a half an hour later than she used to. Pancakes a perfect way to get her to the table in the morning? Next week she hates them.
I'm convinced there's only one real way to adjust to any number of kids in your house, and that's adaptability. You're going to fail at getting dinner on the table for a while and your first is going to get to bed later than usual. But just as you eventually found a new "normal" with the first one, you will with the second, too. Just go with it, because the train isn't stopping!
My one little tip: when you find yourself alone and the baby and your older child are both crying, tend to the older one, first. She'll remember it. The baby won't.
Now: I know there are mothers reading this blog who MUST have some more intelligent advice than I do on this subject! Let's hear your comments!
Keep those questions coming!
Hi Meredith,
Just wondering: how long did it take you to get the hang of having two children instead of one? I'm due in a few months with our second and I honestly have no idea how we'll adjust!
HA! Any day, now... if there's one thing I've learned in the past four years it's that nothing is constant: you get the hang of your baby's sleep patterns and they change. You figure out a rhythm for getting your 2 year old to school and to work on time and she starts waking up a half an hour later than she used to. Pancakes a perfect way to get her to the table in the morning? Next week she hates them.
I'm convinced there's only one real way to adjust to any number of kids in your house, and that's adaptability. You're going to fail at getting dinner on the table for a while and your first is going to get to bed later than usual. But just as you eventually found a new "normal" with the first one, you will with the second, too. Just go with it, because the train isn't stopping!
My one little tip: when you find yourself alone and the baby and your older child are both crying, tend to the older one, first. She'll remember it. The baby won't.
Now: I know there are mothers reading this blog who MUST have some more intelligent advice than I do on this subject! Let's hear your comments!
Friday, March 26, 2010
If the price is right...
In every household in America with children, there exists a bottle of Children's Benedryl. And there isn't a parent out there who has thought, at one time or another, "how ethically bad would it really be for me to drug this kid to sleep just once?"
Oh, admit it... I've thought of it myself several times in the past week as I've begged, pleaded, negotiated, and finally bribed my daugther to bed (no, to all DCFS officials out there, I haven't actually used Benedryl on her).
Her excuses are probably no different than the average pre-schoolers: I have to go potty, I'm thirsty, I forgot to put my shoes away, I need my headband, my lips are chapped, I don't like my jammies, I forgot to say goodnight to the fish, and, my personal favorite, I need to check on my scooter.
Peach has recently discovered that money is something worth hanging on to. She received ten $1 bills as a gift and when I told her that the princess lip gloss she wants costs $4.00, her eyes got big as she realized she could now buy it herself. She's since run around the house wondering what else she can afford. When I told her money is something people earn, she immediately put a price tag on every daily activity she could think of. Brushing teeth is now worth 50 cents. Cleaning up toys is worth $1.00 (these are her suggested retail prices, not mine).
Taking advantage of the fact that her adorably smart little 4 year old brain hasn't quite figured out the difference in value between a quarter and a penny, I've struck a new deal with her: stay in bed at night and she gets a penny the next morning, which she promptly puts in the orange and pink wallet I let her pick out at the store. If she doesn't stay in bed, no cash in the morning.
So now the new ethical question: I'm not drugging her, but how ethically bad is it that I've discovered that my four year old can be bought? And however bad that is, is it even worse that I don't feel even a little bit bad about it?
Oh, admit it... I've thought of it myself several times in the past week as I've begged, pleaded, negotiated, and finally bribed my daugther to bed (no, to all DCFS officials out there, I haven't actually used Benedryl on her).
Her excuses are probably no different than the average pre-schoolers: I have to go potty, I'm thirsty, I forgot to put my shoes away, I need my headband, my lips are chapped, I don't like my jammies, I forgot to say goodnight to the fish, and, my personal favorite, I need to check on my scooter.
Peach has recently discovered that money is something worth hanging on to. She received ten $1 bills as a gift and when I told her that the princess lip gloss she wants costs $4.00, her eyes got big as she realized she could now buy it herself. She's since run around the house wondering what else she can afford. When I told her money is something people earn, she immediately put a price tag on every daily activity she could think of. Brushing teeth is now worth 50 cents. Cleaning up toys is worth $1.00 (these are her suggested retail prices, not mine).
Taking advantage of the fact that her adorably smart little 4 year old brain hasn't quite figured out the difference in value between a quarter and a penny, I've struck a new deal with her: stay in bed at night and she gets a penny the next morning, which she promptly puts in the orange and pink wallet I let her pick out at the store. If she doesn't stay in bed, no cash in the morning.
So now the new ethical question: I'm not drugging her, but how ethically bad is it that I've discovered that my four year old can be bought? And however bad that is, is it even worse that I don't feel even a little bit bad about it?
Monday, March 22, 2010
At least I know she's interested in the world...
My daughter can talk.
And I don't mean she has a solid grasp of the English language.
I mean she has the ability to wake up at 6:00am and narrate her entire day without so much as a single inhale. The only pause she takes is at the beginning of a new thought which always starts with, "Mom?"
I'm worried that my, "yes, dear," response somehow refuels her. It's the only explanation for why she says, "Mom," or "Maaaahhhhmmm," or "are you still listening?" (like I have a choice) so many times a day.
And she'll talk about anything. And by that I mean, everything. All the time. All day long. No matter where we are.
Like yesterday, for example, when in the middle of an indoor playground/restaurant she reminded me (loudly) that her tushy itches because she didn't do a good enough job wiping. I bit my lip and shrugged in apology to the three men standing within hearing range who all looked like they wanted to melt into the floor.
This morning she began talking just after 6:30. Her first thought of the day was not "Good morning, mother, did you sleep well?" No, instead, she came bursting into our bedroom and asked, "can I eat the rest of my chocolate bunny for breakfast?"
When I answered, "no, we're not eating chocolate for breakfast (I didn't mention the number of times I've dined on cake and Fannie May at that time of day myself)," she wanted to know why. Then she wanted to know how they make chocolate bunnies and why there was nothing on the inside. She thought it was the perfect place for them to put some raspberries and asked if I would call them and tell them.
When I said I didn't know their number, she told me I could find it on my computer.
How's that for the 21st century thought processing of a 4 year old?
And I don't mean she has a solid grasp of the English language.
I mean she has the ability to wake up at 6:00am and narrate her entire day without so much as a single inhale. The only pause she takes is at the beginning of a new thought which always starts with, "Mom?"
I'm worried that my, "yes, dear," response somehow refuels her. It's the only explanation for why she says, "Mom," or "Maaaahhhhmmm," or "are you still listening?" (like I have a choice) so many times a day.
And she'll talk about anything. And by that I mean, everything. All the time. All day long. No matter where we are.
Like yesterday, for example, when in the middle of an indoor playground/restaurant she reminded me (loudly) that her tushy itches because she didn't do a good enough job wiping. I bit my lip and shrugged in apology to the three men standing within hearing range who all looked like they wanted to melt into the floor.
This morning she began talking just after 6:30. Her first thought of the day was not "Good morning, mother, did you sleep well?" No, instead, she came bursting into our bedroom and asked, "can I eat the rest of my chocolate bunny for breakfast?"
When I answered, "no, we're not eating chocolate for breakfast (I didn't mention the number of times I've dined on cake and Fannie May at that time of day myself)," she wanted to know why. Then she wanted to know how they make chocolate bunnies and why there was nothing on the inside. She thought it was the perfect place for them to put some raspberries and asked if I would call them and tell them.
When I said I didn't know their number, she told me I could find it on my computer.
How's that for the 21st century thought processing of a 4 year old?
Friday, March 19, 2010
A Review of my diaper bag
Some of you have requested that I review the gear I'm using, so here's one about my new diaper bag... hope you find it helpful...
Let's be honest, here: diaper bags suck. They're heavy, cumbersome, and a lot of them just look plain stupid.
When my daughter was in the phase of her life that required me to carry most of the Target baby aisle everywhere I went, I exhausted myself searching for the right bag (one that was almost not totally cumbersome, weighed less than the average four year old, and didn't have images of Winnie the Pooh plastered all over it). I settled on a traditional messenger bag style in black.
The thing drove me crazy because the flap to the bag never closed, there was no zipper at the top, and every time it tipped over things went flying out of the bag. This was a major hazard to me and my family since I have a knack for driving, well, I call it "efficient." Others have called it fast, offensive, and occasionally a little crazy. Regardless, when a corner was taken a little faster than originally planned the bag would fall off the seat and everything in it flew all over the passenger side of the car. Digging around in the dark for a pacifier and landing on a stale french fry covered in hair, dust, and grime is annoying, at best.
Convinced the problem was the bag and not my driving, I resumed my search when Punkin was born and landed on the Diaper Dude brand.
Originally marketed towards men, the most popular style is just called the Diaper Dude (which is what I bought), although they have others. Here's why I like it:
1. It's ergonomic and goes across the chest (you can also sling it over your shoulder) so it doesn't fall off my shoulder all the time. The ergonomic design also makes it feel weightless when it's across my chest.
2. Even though it's that messenger bag style, it's got zippers- no annoying flaps that get in your way and don't close.
3. It's the perfect size - not so big that things get lost at the bottom for all eternity, but not so small that you can't fit what you need.
4. Different pockets make organization easy. There are 3 pockets on the front of the bag. I use one for my wallet, one for my phone, and one for things like pacifiers and stuff (no stale french fries).
5. "Urban" designs. They have several different colors and designs to pick from. Since they were designed with men in mind there are no images of Winnie the Pooh (no offense to the little bear, I'm just not the type to have his image adorning my clothing and accessories).
6. Reasonably priced. In the $65 range, these things aren't out of reach for those of us being chased down by the cost of having two kids in daycare at the same time. Sure, they're more than some other options out there, but if the difference between complete aggravation and total contentedness over the next two or three years is about 30 bucks, I'll spend it!
I went through four diaper bags with Peach and was dreading having to lug one around again. I'm crazy about this one and thrilled that it confirms the problem is definitely not related to my driving. When the bag falls off the seat, nothing falls out.
You can find some styles at Babies R Us, amazon.com, and several other stores. For more info, their website is www.diaperdude.com.
Let's be honest, here: diaper bags suck. They're heavy, cumbersome, and a lot of them just look plain stupid.
When my daughter was in the phase of her life that required me to carry most of the Target baby aisle everywhere I went, I exhausted myself searching for the right bag (one that was almost not totally cumbersome, weighed less than the average four year old, and didn't have images of Winnie the Pooh plastered all over it). I settled on a traditional messenger bag style in black.
The thing drove me crazy because the flap to the bag never closed, there was no zipper at the top, and every time it tipped over things went flying out of the bag. This was a major hazard to me and my family since I have a knack for driving, well, I call it "efficient." Others have called it fast, offensive, and occasionally a little crazy. Regardless, when a corner was taken a little faster than originally planned the bag would fall off the seat and everything in it flew all over the passenger side of the car. Digging around in the dark for a pacifier and landing on a stale french fry covered in hair, dust, and grime is annoying, at best.
Convinced the problem was the bag and not my driving, I resumed my search when Punkin was born and landed on the Diaper Dude brand.
Originally marketed towards men, the most popular style is just called the Diaper Dude (which is what I bought), although they have others. Here's why I like it:
1. It's ergonomic and goes across the chest (you can also sling it over your shoulder) so it doesn't fall off my shoulder all the time. The ergonomic design also makes it feel weightless when it's across my chest.
2. Even though it's that messenger bag style, it's got zippers- no annoying flaps that get in your way and don't close.
3. It's the perfect size - not so big that things get lost at the bottom for all eternity, but not so small that you can't fit what you need.
4. Different pockets make organization easy. There are 3 pockets on the front of the bag. I use one for my wallet, one for my phone, and one for things like pacifiers and stuff (no stale french fries).
5. "Urban" designs. They have several different colors and designs to pick from. Since they were designed with men in mind there are no images of Winnie the Pooh (no offense to the little bear, I'm just not the type to have his image adorning my clothing and accessories).
6. Reasonably priced. In the $65 range, these things aren't out of reach for those of us being chased down by the cost of having two kids in daycare at the same time. Sure, they're more than some other options out there, but if the difference between complete aggravation and total contentedness over the next two or three years is about 30 bucks, I'll spend it!
I went through four diaper bags with Peach and was dreading having to lug one around again. I'm crazy about this one and thrilled that it confirms the problem is definitely not related to my driving. When the bag falls off the seat, nothing falls out.
You can find some styles at Babies R Us, amazon.com, and several other stores. For more info, their website is www.diaperdude.com.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
A sense of accomplishment
I am a Superhero... or a sidekick, at least. I am so proud of myself today that it compels me to tell the world about it. I'm sure you will all be as unaffected by this news as I was about Tiger Woods' affair, but I'm going to share it anyway:
I finally managed to be a mother and send out birth announcements at the same time. Never mind the fact that my mother had to order them for me and drop them off at my house or that my son is already 8 weeks old. Forget that she ordered them when he was about 2 weeks old and it took me 6 weeks to address them, realize I didn't have any stamps, buy stamps, put them on the envelopes, then miserably realize I had to put the return address on the back as well. And please disregard that someone else had to be watching Punkin and Peach had to be at school for me to pull the final trigger of getting them to the post office.
No, the point is, I sent them out. I probably forgot half of the people I was supposed to send them to and might have the wrong address for a third of the announcements that were sent, but I did it.
And this is an improvement because my four year old daughter's birth announcements are still sitting in a drawer in my office. Would it be poor form to send them out now? They're awfully cute.
Now if I could just manage to shower before noon there'd be no stopping me.
I finally managed to be a mother and send out birth announcements at the same time. Never mind the fact that my mother had to order them for me and drop them off at my house or that my son is already 8 weeks old. Forget that she ordered them when he was about 2 weeks old and it took me 6 weeks to address them, realize I didn't have any stamps, buy stamps, put them on the envelopes, then miserably realize I had to put the return address on the back as well. And please disregard that someone else had to be watching Punkin and Peach had to be at school for me to pull the final trigger of getting them to the post office.
No, the point is, I sent them out. I probably forgot half of the people I was supposed to send them to and might have the wrong address for a third of the announcements that were sent, but I did it.
And this is an improvement because my four year old daughter's birth announcements are still sitting in a drawer in my office. Would it be poor form to send them out now? They're awfully cute.
Now if I could just manage to shower before noon there'd be no stopping me.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Four year olds could negotiate peace in the Middle East
My four year old still sucks her thumb. Although I'm not too terribly worried about it, my husband and I figured now would be a good time to start working on getting her to stop. We had a conversation about it a few days ago...
"Peach, you're four now. Maybe it's time to think about not sucking your thumb anymore."
"But I want to."
"I know, but since you're a big girl maybe you should just think about it. It really is for babies, right?"
"But I want to."
"Well, I just want you to think about it. Maybe we could come up with a really special treat for you if you stop. Is there something you'd like to do? Something really special?"
"Like, for dessert?"
(giggle) "Well, I had something else in mind. Like, maybe you and I could take a trip to see your cousin, Mimi. What do you think of that?"
"Could I watch a movie on the plane?"
(shrug) "Of course."
"Beauty and the Beast?"
"Yep. But what do you think of going to see Mimi? Is that a good treat for quitting?"
"If I don't stop, can I watch Beauty and the Beast here?"
"Well, yes, but I think we're losing sight of the point... I'm talking about going to visit your favorite person in the world, here! If you stop sucking your thumb, you and I could go take a trip to see Mimi. Does that make you want to quit sucking your thumb?"
"But I can watch Beauty and the Beast here without stopping, right?"
"We'll talk about this later."
"Can I watch it after dinner?"
"If there's time."
"Okay... so what are we having for dessert?"
"Peach, you're four now. Maybe it's time to think about not sucking your thumb anymore."
"But I want to."
"I know, but since you're a big girl maybe you should just think about it. It really is for babies, right?"
"But I want to."
"Well, I just want you to think about it. Maybe we could come up with a really special treat for you if you stop. Is there something you'd like to do? Something really special?"
"Like, for dessert?"
(giggle) "Well, I had something else in mind. Like, maybe you and I could take a trip to see your cousin, Mimi. What do you think of that?"
"Could I watch a movie on the plane?"
(shrug) "Of course."
"Beauty and the Beast?"
"Yep. But what do you think of going to see Mimi? Is that a good treat for quitting?"
"If I don't stop, can I watch Beauty and the Beast here?"
"Well, yes, but I think we're losing sight of the point... I'm talking about going to visit your favorite person in the world, here! If you stop sucking your thumb, you and I could go take a trip to see Mimi. Does that make you want to quit sucking your thumb?"
"But I can watch Beauty and the Beast here without stopping, right?"
"We'll talk about this later."
"Can I watch it after dinner?"
"If there's time."
"Okay... so what are we having for dessert?"
Friday, March 12, 2010
Grandmothers
Without them, children might not have any fun at all. My daughter, in particular, lives quite the charmed life as a result of her grandmothers.
One in particular, and she knows who she is, is responsible for Peach's latest fancy: the Spa Bath.
A few months ago, while over at her Grandparents' house for dinner, I caught my daughter whispering something to her Grandma. They both giggled and ran upstairs so she could take a bath before we went home. The typical bath event in our house involves some squealing, laughter, and the occasional, "please don't make me ask you again not to splash water all over the floor." It takes about 20 minutes and at the end of it, the exhausted parent emerges from the bathroom with a momentarily squeaky clean little girl.
On the evening in particular, I sat in her grandparents' kitchen and realized the two of them had been up there for almost 45 minutes. Wondering what was going on, I went upstairs and knocked on the door.
"You're not allowed!" Yelled my daughter.
"No parents in here!" Grandma laughed.
Naturally, I immediately opened the door.
I found my daughter relaxing in the bathtub, complete with bubbles. Instead of lights I was greeted by a candlelit bathroom and the soothing sounds of Adrian Bocelli coming from Grandma's iPhone.
"I'm having a spa bath," my daughter explained with a tone of entitlement. Flower petals made of soap floated in the water as she leaned back and closed her eyes with a contented sigh and a smile.
We were there again for dinner this evening. Shortly after Peach and her grandmother retreated to the bathroom, I went to check in on them.
The room was, of course, dimly lit by several small candles and soft music was playing in the background.
"I can hardly breathe in here!" I exclaimed, my eyes burning from the multiple scents the candles were emitting.
I turned the fan on and my daughter promptly corrected me. "Maaahhhmmm, spas are supposed to be quiet. I'm relaxing."
I'm wondering if there's an early sign-up for study-abroad programs. My daughter will need to find a prince to marry, since royalty is the only lifestyle she'll accept by the time she reaches adulthood.
One in particular, and she knows who she is, is responsible for Peach's latest fancy: the Spa Bath.
A few months ago, while over at her Grandparents' house for dinner, I caught my daughter whispering something to her Grandma. They both giggled and ran upstairs so she could take a bath before we went home. The typical bath event in our house involves some squealing, laughter, and the occasional, "please don't make me ask you again not to splash water all over the floor." It takes about 20 minutes and at the end of it, the exhausted parent emerges from the bathroom with a momentarily squeaky clean little girl.
On the evening in particular, I sat in her grandparents' kitchen and realized the two of them had been up there for almost 45 minutes. Wondering what was going on, I went upstairs and knocked on the door.
"You're not allowed!" Yelled my daughter.
"No parents in here!" Grandma laughed.
Naturally, I immediately opened the door.
I found my daughter relaxing in the bathtub, complete with bubbles. Instead of lights I was greeted by a candlelit bathroom and the soothing sounds of Adrian Bocelli coming from Grandma's iPhone.
"I'm having a spa bath," my daughter explained with a tone of entitlement. Flower petals made of soap floated in the water as she leaned back and closed her eyes with a contented sigh and a smile.
We were there again for dinner this evening. Shortly after Peach and her grandmother retreated to the bathroom, I went to check in on them.
The room was, of course, dimly lit by several small candles and soft music was playing in the background.
"I can hardly breathe in here!" I exclaimed, my eyes burning from the multiple scents the candles were emitting.
I turned the fan on and my daughter promptly corrected me. "Maaahhhmmm, spas are supposed to be quiet. I'm relaxing."
I'm wondering if there's an early sign-up for study-abroad programs. My daughter will need to find a prince to marry, since royalty is the only lifestyle she'll accept by the time she reaches adulthood.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
In the wee small hours of the morning...
It was just after midnight. The house was quiet. Outside, in the inky night, I could hear the light taps of the year's first rain. My seven week old son lay in my arms dreaming most likely of formula, soft blankets, and standing on the pitcher's mound at Wrigley Field after winning his first World Series. Just as I began to drift off myself, his bedroom door opened and my daughter walked in.
"If it's raining in the morning will Punkin still be able to come to school with me?"
"Of course, dear. It's time for sleep right now. Back to bed, okay?"
"Okay," she answered, coming further into the room and sitting down on the floor. "Can I wear my fishy jammie shirt for an undershirt tomorrow?"
"No. Honey, it's really not time for talking about clothes. It's time for bed."
"Is he sleeping?" She asked, lightly patting his head.
"Yes, and I'd like to keep him that way."
"Rules are for you, too, Mom. Go to bed."
She turned on her heel, walked out of the room, and went back to sleep.
"If it's raining in the morning will Punkin still be able to come to school with me?"
"Of course, dear. It's time for sleep right now. Back to bed, okay?"
"Okay," she answered, coming further into the room and sitting down on the floor. "Can I wear my fishy jammie shirt for an undershirt tomorrow?"
"No. Honey, it's really not time for talking about clothes. It's time for bed."
"Is he sleeping?" She asked, lightly patting his head.
"Yes, and I'd like to keep him that way."
"Rules are for you, too, Mom. Go to bed."
She turned on her heel, walked out of the room, and went back to sleep.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Just a few words on baths
When the inspiration to bathe your infant strikes, wait until AFTER he/she poops to start the bath.
I don't believe there's a need for me to elaborate.
If anyone's looking for me, I'm bleaching my bathtub.
I don't believe there's a need for me to elaborate.
If anyone's looking for me, I'm bleaching my bathtub.
Friday, March 5, 2010
Chernobyl
Wandering through Babies R Us last week, I realized BRU designs their stores much like casinos. Been to Vegas? Ever notice that to get to a restaurant, shop, the bathroom, or anything else, that you have to walk through the entire casino? BRU is the same.
Should the notion strike you to go there for diapers or formula- the only two truly critical items that store carries- be prepared to pass more types of pacifiers than you thought existed followed by sleep positioners, swaddling blankets, teething rings, rattles, swings, slings, and, my personal favorite, wipe warmers (both with and without a light on the side of the case).
Wipe warmers? Really? So, you're going to get your baby accustomed to the nice, toasty wipes when you change their diaper at home. Wish I could be there the first time you find yourself in a public bathroom without a wipe warmer and that baby has a complete fit.
Speaking of tantrums: please raise your hand if your baby is gently lulled into dreamland every time you put him/her in the car... looks like all of you.
As creative as I am, this is not one of the times I want to be "original." And yet, here we are. Every time I put Punkin in the car, he screams from the garage to the destination, then screams some more inside the destination until removed from his car seat. No, there's nothing wrong with the car seat, other than the fact that he hates it.
This morning's nuclear meltdown happened when we took Peach to school. He screamed like a banshee until we got there, then screamed through the parking lot, into the school, through her classroom, down the hall, and into the bathroom where I changed his diaper. The tantrum continued in the echo filled bathroom, disturbing all of the classrooms surrounding us, and then grew even louder on our way out.
I had no other option than stopping in the lobby to give him a bottle so I settled uncomfortably in a chair and smiled apologetically at the woman behind the front desk who was trying to talk on the phone.
Punkin immediately stopped crying, but looked up from the bottle at me with a cross expression on his face before drifting into a light doze.
Two seconds later a mother walked through the lobby and said, "oh, he's so peaceful. What an angel he must be!"
Mm hmm...
Should the notion strike you to go there for diapers or formula- the only two truly critical items that store carries- be prepared to pass more types of pacifiers than you thought existed followed by sleep positioners, swaddling blankets, teething rings, rattles, swings, slings, and, my personal favorite, wipe warmers (both with and without a light on the side of the case).
Wipe warmers? Really? So, you're going to get your baby accustomed to the nice, toasty wipes when you change their diaper at home. Wish I could be there the first time you find yourself in a public bathroom without a wipe warmer and that baby has a complete fit.
Speaking of tantrums: please raise your hand if your baby is gently lulled into dreamland every time you put him/her in the car... looks like all of you.
As creative as I am, this is not one of the times I want to be "original." And yet, here we are. Every time I put Punkin in the car, he screams from the garage to the destination, then screams some more inside the destination until removed from his car seat. No, there's nothing wrong with the car seat, other than the fact that he hates it.
This morning's nuclear meltdown happened when we took Peach to school. He screamed like a banshee until we got there, then screamed through the parking lot, into the school, through her classroom, down the hall, and into the bathroom where I changed his diaper. The tantrum continued in the echo filled bathroom, disturbing all of the classrooms surrounding us, and then grew even louder on our way out.
I had no other option than stopping in the lobby to give him a bottle so I settled uncomfortably in a chair and smiled apologetically at the woman behind the front desk who was trying to talk on the phone.
Punkin immediately stopped crying, but looked up from the bottle at me with a cross expression on his face before drifting into a light doze.
Two seconds later a mother walked through the lobby and said, "oh, he's so peaceful. What an angel he must be!"
Mm hmm...
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
What comes around...
When my daughter was born I joined a Mom and Baby group sponsored by the hospital I delivered in. It took 4 weeks to get out the door. The first week, she pooped as soon as I buckled her into the car seat and I missed the group, spending an hour cleaning the blow-out off her and the car seat, instead. The second week I missed because she had a screaming meltdown of nuclear proportions when I put her in the car seat. The third week she not only screamed, but pooped, too.
I finally made it on the fourth attempt, desperate to leave the confines of my house. She screamed the whole way there, into the building, and throughout the entire hour and a half that group meets.
I made some of the greatest connections of my life in that group. Fantastic women from all different places and backgrounds who I still depend on for a dose of sanity, fun, and support on a regular basis.
When Punkin was born I was bound and determined to go back to that group, mostly to thank the nurse who hosts it every week. Upon entering the room, I found the most familiar sights and sounds.
A woman in the corner desperately tried to nurse her hysterical son, sweat dripping from her forehead with anxiety. Another, sitting on the floor, tangled with her infant's legs as she fought to get a diaper on him before he peed on her again. A third, whose baby was about 4 months, expressed frustration over reflux and wondered if she could overdose her son on Zantac.
And then I saw her. And by that, I mean I saw me. Sitting on the floor, rocking her six week old son who was, himself, in the middle of a nuclear meltdown. She looked exhausted and worn, stressed out, starving, and in bad need of the manicures she left behind in her "old life."
"He's a screamer?" I asked gently.
"You have no idea," she said, shifting him to the other arm as he wailed.
"Get yourself to 12 weeks," I told her with a smile. "This will all end at 12 weeks."
Her eyes widened a little with hope and the floodgates opened. "I had no idea it would be this hard," she started. "I spent all day yesterday just trying to mop the kitchen floor. I couldn't do it. It takes five minutes, and I couldn't do it. And this is going to sound ridiculous, but I've been trying to get to this group for three weeks now. This is the first time I've been able to get out the door. What kind of adult can't manage to get out the door by 10:00 in the morning?"
I laughed and congratulated her, telling her it took me four weeks so she was better off than I was. Then I said the magic words that someone said to me when I was in her position.
"It's a living hell, isn't it? The first twelve weeks are a nightmare."
She stared at me for a second, then a huge smile broke out on her face. "God bless you for saying that. Why didn't anyone tell me that?"
"Nobody told me, either," I answered. The subject changed and other conversations broke out. Punkin fell asleep on the floor for a few minutes before waking up to poop (again) just as the group was ending. He screamed in the car all the way to lunch where I met a few of the mothers from that group. And the whole time I smiled, knowing that I'm half way there.
In six weeks, the "fourth trimester" will be over, and I'll have an adorable little toothless grin looking up at me and laughing, kicking his chubby little legs in the air.
The remaining question is, will I have slipped into an exhaustion-induced coma by that time or will I have mastered the life of a vampire?
I finally made it on the fourth attempt, desperate to leave the confines of my house. She screamed the whole way there, into the building, and throughout the entire hour and a half that group meets.
I made some of the greatest connections of my life in that group. Fantastic women from all different places and backgrounds who I still depend on for a dose of sanity, fun, and support on a regular basis.
When Punkin was born I was bound and determined to go back to that group, mostly to thank the nurse who hosts it every week. Upon entering the room, I found the most familiar sights and sounds.
A woman in the corner desperately tried to nurse her hysterical son, sweat dripping from her forehead with anxiety. Another, sitting on the floor, tangled with her infant's legs as she fought to get a diaper on him before he peed on her again. A third, whose baby was about 4 months, expressed frustration over reflux and wondered if she could overdose her son on Zantac.
And then I saw her. And by that, I mean I saw me. Sitting on the floor, rocking her six week old son who was, himself, in the middle of a nuclear meltdown. She looked exhausted and worn, stressed out, starving, and in bad need of the manicures she left behind in her "old life."
"He's a screamer?" I asked gently.
"You have no idea," she said, shifting him to the other arm as he wailed.
"Get yourself to 12 weeks," I told her with a smile. "This will all end at 12 weeks."
Her eyes widened a little with hope and the floodgates opened. "I had no idea it would be this hard," she started. "I spent all day yesterday just trying to mop the kitchen floor. I couldn't do it. It takes five minutes, and I couldn't do it. And this is going to sound ridiculous, but I've been trying to get to this group for three weeks now. This is the first time I've been able to get out the door. What kind of adult can't manage to get out the door by 10:00 in the morning?"
I laughed and congratulated her, telling her it took me four weeks so she was better off than I was. Then I said the magic words that someone said to me when I was in her position.
"It's a living hell, isn't it? The first twelve weeks are a nightmare."
She stared at me for a second, then a huge smile broke out on her face. "God bless you for saying that. Why didn't anyone tell me that?"
"Nobody told me, either," I answered. The subject changed and other conversations broke out. Punkin fell asleep on the floor for a few minutes before waking up to poop (again) just as the group was ending. He screamed in the car all the way to lunch where I met a few of the mothers from that group. And the whole time I smiled, knowing that I'm half way there.
In six weeks, the "fourth trimester" will be over, and I'll have an adorable little toothless grin looking up at me and laughing, kicking his chubby little legs in the air.
The remaining question is, will I have slipped into an exhaustion-induced coma by that time or will I have mastered the life of a vampire?
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
My daughter is a radio
This morning, and by that I mean, in the middle of the night (4:00 AM), she came in our room, tapped me and said, "can you read this book?" She was holding Shel Silverstein's, "Where the Sidewalk Ends." Half awake, I said, "Peach, it's the middle of the night. It's time for sleep."
She sighed, and said, "oh. I'm out of chapstick and I want to change into my leotard."
Too tired to argue, I said, "fine." If you knew my daughter, you'd know trying to negotiate a wardrobe change at any time, let alone in the middle of the night, is futile at best.
She walked out of the room and I went back to sleep for two minutes, until she returned.
"My purple leotard is in the laundry so I changed into this." I opened my eyes to see her twirling around in her Sleeping Beauty princess dress in the dark. Sleeping Beauty. How ironic.
"Sweetheart," I gently coached, "it's really not time for playing. It's time for sleeping. I don't want you to be too tired for gymnastics in the morning."
"I won't be. But I think I'll wear my pink leotard to gymnastics since it's warmer so I don't get cold at gymnastics..."
She continued to tell me the color of all of the girls' leotards in class, and then reminded me that she has a friend in school who's in the 9:00 am class instead of the 8:00 am she's in. She asked if she could take ice skating lessons when gymnastics was over and told me she wants braids in her hair for school on Monday and that her friend Mark can't have braids because he has short hair AND he's a boy, and wouldn't that be funny if Mark had braids in his hair? And when she's older, will she be allowed to drive my car? Would Grandma let her drive her car? Maybe she should have a car of her own. She wants a pink one with lots of windows.
I think I drifted off at some point, not that she noticed. She's like a radio. Now if I could just find the off switch occasionally, I might get some more sleep.
She sighed, and said, "oh. I'm out of chapstick and I want to change into my leotard."
Too tired to argue, I said, "fine." If you knew my daughter, you'd know trying to negotiate a wardrobe change at any time, let alone in the middle of the night, is futile at best.
She walked out of the room and I went back to sleep for two minutes, until she returned.
"My purple leotard is in the laundry so I changed into this." I opened my eyes to see her twirling around in her Sleeping Beauty princess dress in the dark. Sleeping Beauty. How ironic.
"Sweetheart," I gently coached, "it's really not time for playing. It's time for sleeping. I don't want you to be too tired for gymnastics in the morning."
"I won't be. But I think I'll wear my pink leotard to gymnastics since it's warmer so I don't get cold at gymnastics..."
She continued to tell me the color of all of the girls' leotards in class, and then reminded me that she has a friend in school who's in the 9:00 am class instead of the 8:00 am she's in. She asked if she could take ice skating lessons when gymnastics was over and told me she wants braids in her hair for school on Monday and that her friend Mark can't have braids because he has short hair AND he's a boy, and wouldn't that be funny if Mark had braids in his hair? And when she's older, will she be allowed to drive my car? Would Grandma let her drive her car? Maybe she should have a car of her own. She wants a pink one with lots of windows.
I think I drifted off at some point, not that she noticed. She's like a radio. Now if I could just find the off switch occasionally, I might get some more sleep.
Memorandum
To: Heidi Klum
From: Meredith
Re: your figure
Dear Ms. Klum,
I'm writing in regards to the recent video clip I saw of you talking about heart health, where you mentioned that you had a baby three months ago. I couldn't help but notice that in that clip, you looked like you've not only never been pregnant, but probably haven't ever had a cheeseburger or brownie sundae, either.
Since I am human and the idea of a traditional weight loss program makes me break out in hives, I expect it will take me about 425 years to work off the 30 pounds I gained during pregnancy while sitting on the couch eating giant vats of chocolate ice cream swimming in hot fudge (and I don't regret a single bite). I realize you are not human, you are a supermodel, and therefore you must have access to some kind of magic weight loss program, pill, and/or therapy I could benefit from.
I appreciate you sharing this information with me at your earliest convenience. As I know you realize, summer is not as far away as we think and I have a 4 year old daughter who expects me to get in the pool with her this summer. If expected to actually use the treadmill, weight set, and Wii fitness program in my basement, I won't be pool ready until my daughter no longer has interest in going to the pool with her parents.
As a side note, I also noticed how well rested you looked. Please send your make-up artist and team of nannies to my house along with your weight loss solution.
Thank you for your cooperation with this urgent matter.
Auf Wiedersehen,
Meredith
From: Meredith
Re: your figure
Dear Ms. Klum,
I'm writing in regards to the recent video clip I saw of you talking about heart health, where you mentioned that you had a baby three months ago. I couldn't help but notice that in that clip, you looked like you've not only never been pregnant, but probably haven't ever had a cheeseburger or brownie sundae, either.
Since I am human and the idea of a traditional weight loss program makes me break out in hives, I expect it will take me about 425 years to work off the 30 pounds I gained during pregnancy while sitting on the couch eating giant vats of chocolate ice cream swimming in hot fudge (and I don't regret a single bite). I realize you are not human, you are a supermodel, and therefore you must have access to some kind of magic weight loss program, pill, and/or therapy I could benefit from.
I appreciate you sharing this information with me at your earliest convenience. As I know you realize, summer is not as far away as we think and I have a 4 year old daughter who expects me to get in the pool with her this summer. If expected to actually use the treadmill, weight set, and Wii fitness program in my basement, I won't be pool ready until my daughter no longer has interest in going to the pool with her parents.
As a side note, I also noticed how well rested you looked. Please send your make-up artist and team of nannies to my house along with your weight loss solution.
Thank you for your cooperation with this urgent matter.
Auf Wiedersehen,
Meredith
Monday, February 22, 2010
Oh, Honestly....
Do they make pacifiers for adults? Oh, I bet they do, they're just marketed under a different name: wine.
I spent the morning trying to get Punkin to sleep because "they" say infants should only be awake for an hour and a half at a time. We were on the 3 hour mark when he started to drift off. I slowly walked up to my office and twisted back and forth in the chair while trying to read and type emails with one hand, occasionally double checking to see that the pacifier was still in his mouth.
After a few minutes, with his eyes closed, the pacifier started falling out. I tried to catch it before it landed somewhere out of reach but it bounced off his shoulder and straight into the garbage can under my desk with a loud clang. This, of course, startled him. He woke up and we spent the next 45 minutes pacing the floor while I wondered if Heidi Klum got her figure back by the same type of activity.
He drifted off again, with the pacifier in his mouth (after I washed it, of course) and I set off to his room to put him in his crib.
Trying to cause the least amount of disturbance, I shifted my arms trying to get him in the crib and in the process the pacifier fell out of his mouth again. Now it was on the floor. Before I could bend down to pick it up (moving at the pace of a Golden Girl after a few drinks so I wouldn't wake up Punkin), the dog licked it.
Sigh.
Since I was already in motion to the floor, I continued and picked up the pacifier without disturbing Punkin.
I wasn't the one who woke him up... this time it was the dog as he licked Punkin's face.
Back to pacing the floor while I dream of the next bottle of shiraz...
I spent the morning trying to get Punkin to sleep because "they" say infants should only be awake for an hour and a half at a time. We were on the 3 hour mark when he started to drift off. I slowly walked up to my office and twisted back and forth in the chair while trying to read and type emails with one hand, occasionally double checking to see that the pacifier was still in his mouth.
After a few minutes, with his eyes closed, the pacifier started falling out. I tried to catch it before it landed somewhere out of reach but it bounced off his shoulder and straight into the garbage can under my desk with a loud clang. This, of course, startled him. He woke up and we spent the next 45 minutes pacing the floor while I wondered if Heidi Klum got her figure back by the same type of activity.
He drifted off again, with the pacifier in his mouth (after I washed it, of course) and I set off to his room to put him in his crib.
Trying to cause the least amount of disturbance, I shifted my arms trying to get him in the crib and in the process the pacifier fell out of his mouth again. Now it was on the floor. Before I could bend down to pick it up (moving at the pace of a Golden Girl after a few drinks so I wouldn't wake up Punkin), the dog licked it.
Sigh.
Since I was already in motion to the floor, I continued and picked up the pacifier without disturbing Punkin.
I wasn't the one who woke him up... this time it was the dog as he licked Punkin's face.
Back to pacing the floor while I dream of the next bottle of shiraz...
I think I know why TLC airs all of these new baby shows during the day. It's the same reason I write this blog: to make parents laugh.
This morning I got stuck watching one of those shows while feeding Punkin. A nice unsuspecting couple had just had a baby. The show covered the first 36 hours of the baby's life. The parents gazed down lovingly at their brand new baby sleeping in the basinette. Of course, he's sleeping on one of those sleep positioners... do they think newborns are going to crawl away when we're not looking? Go get a snack or watch R rated movies while we sleep?
They cut to a shot of the new mom changing the baby's diaper on the bed in their bedroom. I noticed the room looked spotless as she said, "it's been almost 36 hours and I think we're really starting to understand his patterns and needs..."
HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!!!!
They move on to a few other shots of the tired but calm parents cooing at the infant before fading into the next segment, seven weeks later, and show the mom in the same position: in her room, changing the now seven week old on the bed. Except this time, the dresser has laundry piled three feet high on top of it and empty diaper boxes are stacked up next to it. She says, "well, it's been an interesting ride, but we know we'll get through it and it will all be worth it in the end, right?"
Honey, I dedicate this blog to you.
This morning I got stuck watching one of those shows while feeding Punkin. A nice unsuspecting couple had just had a baby. The show covered the first 36 hours of the baby's life. The parents gazed down lovingly at their brand new baby sleeping in the basinette. Of course, he's sleeping on one of those sleep positioners... do they think newborns are going to crawl away when we're not looking? Go get a snack or watch R rated movies while we sleep?
They cut to a shot of the new mom changing the baby's diaper on the bed in their bedroom. I noticed the room looked spotless as she said, "it's been almost 36 hours and I think we're really starting to understand his patterns and needs..."
HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!!!!
They move on to a few other shots of the tired but calm parents cooing at the infant before fading into the next segment, seven weeks later, and show the mom in the same position: in her room, changing the now seven week old on the bed. Except this time, the dresser has laundry piled three feet high on top of it and empty diaper boxes are stacked up next to it. She says, "well, it's been an interesting ride, but we know we'll get through it and it will all be worth it in the end, right?"
Honey, I dedicate this blog to you.
Oh, BOY...
If one person tells me to sleep when the baby sleeps I may end up with an assault and battery charge against me.
I can only think of one new mother who has that luxury: Heidi Klum. I'm sure she has a round the clock staff tending not only to the needs of her and her first three children, but they're probably also bathing her with some kind of lavender scented water while she sleeps.
I, however, do not have the luxury of a round the clock staff. I don't even have a staff. I have a 4 year old daughter who occasionally brings me diapers and blankets and a husband who's just as insane with exhaustion as I am. So sleeping when the baby sleeps is not an option for me unless I never do another load of laundry, never eat, shower, pay bills, walk the dog, or, most important, see another episode of LOST, again.
So, here's some advice I thought the parenting world may actually find useful:
Baby wipes do not harm paint.
I know this because this morning, as I fell victim once again to Punkin's favorite trick, I used several of them to wipe the wall down before, during, and after I changed his diaper. I'm convinced his entire body is taken up by a stomach and a bladder. How else could one explain the amount of pee that came spurting out of him with the blast of a firehose?
Imagine, if you will, a once calm, cool, and collected woman holding a diaper over her 5 week old son, staring at the wall in front of her, wondering if she's a bad mother for wiping down the wall before taking care of her son (it was an expensive paint job).
Of course this didn't take one diaper, it took three. The first was the one I used to catch the pee as it first came flying out, the second was the one I used to stop the fountain when I'd removed the first one thinking the storm was over, and the third is the one he's wearing now, along with the distinct expression of satisfaction on his face.
I'm just glad he didn't go in the other direction and hit the dining room table. What if I had to post a blog about that incident? Nobody would eat dinner at my house again.
I can only think of one new mother who has that luxury: Heidi Klum. I'm sure she has a round the clock staff tending not only to the needs of her and her first three children, but they're probably also bathing her with some kind of lavender scented water while she sleeps.
I, however, do not have the luxury of a round the clock staff. I don't even have a staff. I have a 4 year old daughter who occasionally brings me diapers and blankets and a husband who's just as insane with exhaustion as I am. So sleeping when the baby sleeps is not an option for me unless I never do another load of laundry, never eat, shower, pay bills, walk the dog, or, most important, see another episode of LOST, again.
So, here's some advice I thought the parenting world may actually find useful:
Baby wipes do not harm paint.
I know this because this morning, as I fell victim once again to Punkin's favorite trick, I used several of them to wipe the wall down before, during, and after I changed his diaper. I'm convinced his entire body is taken up by a stomach and a bladder. How else could one explain the amount of pee that came spurting out of him with the blast of a firehose?
Imagine, if you will, a once calm, cool, and collected woman holding a diaper over her 5 week old son, staring at the wall in front of her, wondering if she's a bad mother for wiping down the wall before taking care of her son (it was an expensive paint job).
Of course this didn't take one diaper, it took three. The first was the one I used to catch the pee as it first came flying out, the second was the one I used to stop the fountain when I'd removed the first one thinking the storm was over, and the third is the one he's wearing now, along with the distinct expression of satisfaction on his face.
I'm just glad he didn't go in the other direction and hit the dining room table. What if I had to post a blog about that incident? Nobody would eat dinner at my house again.
Friday, February 19, 2010
Thank You, Girl Scouts Everywhere
First off: why don't they just print the nutritional value of Girl Scout cookies by the box instead of continuing with this ridiculous charade of serving sizes? It would save me a lot of math.
Punkin took two naps yesterday, each about 30 minutes long. The rest of the time he was in my arms as I paced around the house trying to get him back to sleep. The highlight of the day was when I gave him a bath (because I was tired of walking). He spit up as soon as I got him dressed, it dripped all over his neck, and he was back in the bathtub about five minutes later. Nice.
As a result, my breakfast, lunch, and all snacks, consisted of Girl Scout cookies (Tagalongs) and, oh, a Diet Coke.
This morning I switched to Samoas. I'm about half way through the box and wondering if it's possible that the coconut in them has some kind of weight loss powers. Are people in Hawaii skinnier than here on the mainland?
Which brings me to another moment of inspiration. I'm going to start my own weight loss contest, much like the Biggest Loser. But I don't need a gym. I've decided there is no better way to motivate someone to keep moving than by handing that person a screaming infant and telling her the baby will eventually go to sleep if she paces the floor.
I've done more lunges and squats in an effort to change up the pattern of movement in the past few days than I have in the past year. Want to tone your arms? Accidentally find yourself in a painfully uncomfortable position just as the baby drifts off. Someone could dangle a cashier's check for a million dollars and I still wouldn't break that pose to reach for it (okay, maybe a million, but not a dollar less).
And now, since Punkin is still sleeping, I'm going to get myself a snack... Thin Mints, I think.
God Bless the Girl Scouts.
Punkin took two naps yesterday, each about 30 minutes long. The rest of the time he was in my arms as I paced around the house trying to get him back to sleep. The highlight of the day was when I gave him a bath (because I was tired of walking). He spit up as soon as I got him dressed, it dripped all over his neck, and he was back in the bathtub about five minutes later. Nice.
As a result, my breakfast, lunch, and all snacks, consisted of Girl Scout cookies (Tagalongs) and, oh, a Diet Coke.
This morning I switched to Samoas. I'm about half way through the box and wondering if it's possible that the coconut in them has some kind of weight loss powers. Are people in Hawaii skinnier than here on the mainland?
Which brings me to another moment of inspiration. I'm going to start my own weight loss contest, much like the Biggest Loser. But I don't need a gym. I've decided there is no better way to motivate someone to keep moving than by handing that person a screaming infant and telling her the baby will eventually go to sleep if she paces the floor.
I've done more lunges and squats in an effort to change up the pattern of movement in the past few days than I have in the past year. Want to tone your arms? Accidentally find yourself in a painfully uncomfortable position just as the baby drifts off. Someone could dangle a cashier's check for a million dollars and I still wouldn't break that pose to reach for it (okay, maybe a million, but not a dollar less).
And now, since Punkin is still sleeping, I'm going to get myself a snack... Thin Mints, I think.
God Bless the Girl Scouts.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Dinner, Shminner
Dinner.
Seems simple, doesn't it? Have you ever tried to move a boiling-over pot of penne pasta off one burner onto another while strapped into a Baby Bjorn?
Don't.
(no, nobody got hurt... except maybe the stove).
I've tried to maintain a certain level of consistency with dinner since Punkin was born 4 weeks ago. I admit it: it's a joke. Dinner's an hour late every night and at times, consists of things I barely consider food. Take, for example, the Beef Taco Bake I made a few nights ago.
I found a recipe for this stupid thing in a book full of "fast and easy" recipes someone gave me when I got married. It consisted of ground beef, salsa, a can of tomato soup, shredded cheddar cheese, and (the real low point) cut up flour tortillas. I should have known by the instructions this wasn't going to go well. I browned the beef, threw all of the ingredients together, and looked at the sad mess sitting in the baking dish before I put it in the oven. It didn't even look like food. It certainly didn't smell like it.
Determined to go the distance, I baked it and took it out of the oven. When my husband came in the kitchen, he supportively said, "I bet it tastes good." Then he took a bite of it and couldn't even fake a smile.
A few seconds later, my 4 year old daughter came in the room, sniffed, and said, "Mom, I think the skunk from last summer is in the house."
Ten minutes later we were all eating chicken soup.
Seems simple, doesn't it? Have you ever tried to move a boiling-over pot of penne pasta off one burner onto another while strapped into a Baby Bjorn?
Don't.
(no, nobody got hurt... except maybe the stove).
I've tried to maintain a certain level of consistency with dinner since Punkin was born 4 weeks ago. I admit it: it's a joke. Dinner's an hour late every night and at times, consists of things I barely consider food. Take, for example, the Beef Taco Bake I made a few nights ago.
I found a recipe for this stupid thing in a book full of "fast and easy" recipes someone gave me when I got married. It consisted of ground beef, salsa, a can of tomato soup, shredded cheddar cheese, and (the real low point) cut up flour tortillas. I should have known by the instructions this wasn't going to go well. I browned the beef, threw all of the ingredients together, and looked at the sad mess sitting in the baking dish before I put it in the oven. It didn't even look like food. It certainly didn't smell like it.
Determined to go the distance, I baked it and took it out of the oven. When my husband came in the kitchen, he supportively said, "I bet it tastes good." Then he took a bite of it and couldn't even fake a smile.
A few seconds later, my 4 year old daughter came in the room, sniffed, and said, "Mom, I think the skunk from last summer is in the house."
Ten minutes later we were all eating chicken soup.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Stupid Parent Tricks
Who's got a ridiculously embarrassing story about parenthood?
I'll start:
Before we brought my daughter, Peach (names changed to protect the innocent) home from the hospital 4 years ago, the nurse helped us get her dressed. She put a cute little onsie on her, then a little sleeper because it was cold out (February), and we packed her up in the shiny new car seat and took her home.
A few hours later, she woke up in the car seat (where we'd left her, because Lord knew we weren't going to risk taking her out of it) and we realized it was time to change her diaper. Like she was a ticking time bomb, we carefully carried her into her just completed nursery, complete with pink walls, designer bedding and state of the art video monitor, and gently laid her down on the never before used changing table.
Opening one snap at a time, we gingerly removed the sleeper to find the onsie. With the utmost care and constant soothing cooing, reminding Peach that she was wonderful, I opened the onsie and then the diaper.
She had pooped.
That's when all hell broke loose.
Somewhere between the confusion of getting the wipes open, tearing the box of diapers to shreds, and making sure we didn't disturb the umbilical cord, she'd managed to kick around enough to get poop on the bottom of the onsie.
The challenges at hand: How do you 1. get a onsie over the head of a newborn baby without breaking her neck, 2. get a poop covered onsie over the head of a baby without breaking her neck or dragging poop all the way up her back and into her hair?
Clearly there was only one solution to this problem. "We're cutting it off her," I said, taking parental control of the situation.
"Yeah, good," my husband, who I'll call Babe, responded, running to fetch the orange Fiskars from the kitchen.
He returned and handed them to me to perform the operation. Peach, in the meantime, looked at me with a clear expression of disappointment. Babe held her legs apart while I carefully cut straight up the middle of the once adorable little article of clothing, completely forgetting that the scissors were about as large as her torso and rapidly approaching the bottom of her chin.
"Wait!" Babe shrieked, slapping his hand over her chin before I stabbed my three day old child with the point of the scissors. The motion startled her, which made her kick more, which resulted in poop on the bottom of both of her feet which she was now smearing across the changing pad. The diaper itself wiggled free and landed face down on the brand new carpet and the dog, who'd been in the corner of the room whining for the last five minutes, walked over and started sniffing it.
I instinctively kicked the diaper away from my dog, getting poop on my sock and was now trying to balance on one foot while continuing to cut the onsie off of the poor innocent child who was now staring at me in complete disbelief of my lack of competence.
Twenty minutes later: the changing pad was now soaked from the sponge bath we tried to give Peach (using 4 washcloths and two bath towels). In the garbage were the changing pad cover, one pair of socks, two receiving blankets, the offending onsie that started all of this, my husband's shirt, and the three diapers we'd ruined trying to contain the situation.
The punchline: two days ago the same thing happened with my 4 week old son. The casualties this time were limited to one changing pad, a sleeper, and two diapers.
I'll start:
Before we brought my daughter, Peach (names changed to protect the innocent) home from the hospital 4 years ago, the nurse helped us get her dressed. She put a cute little onsie on her, then a little sleeper because it was cold out (February), and we packed her up in the shiny new car seat and took her home.
A few hours later, she woke up in the car seat (where we'd left her, because Lord knew we weren't going to risk taking her out of it) and we realized it was time to change her diaper. Like she was a ticking time bomb, we carefully carried her into her just completed nursery, complete with pink walls, designer bedding and state of the art video monitor, and gently laid her down on the never before used changing table.
Opening one snap at a time, we gingerly removed the sleeper to find the onsie. With the utmost care and constant soothing cooing, reminding Peach that she was wonderful, I opened the onsie and then the diaper.
She had pooped.
That's when all hell broke loose.
Somewhere between the confusion of getting the wipes open, tearing the box of diapers to shreds, and making sure we didn't disturb the umbilical cord, she'd managed to kick around enough to get poop on the bottom of the onsie.
The challenges at hand: How do you 1. get a onsie over the head of a newborn baby without breaking her neck, 2. get a poop covered onsie over the head of a baby without breaking her neck or dragging poop all the way up her back and into her hair?
Clearly there was only one solution to this problem. "We're cutting it off her," I said, taking parental control of the situation.
"Yeah, good," my husband, who I'll call Babe, responded, running to fetch the orange Fiskars from the kitchen.
He returned and handed them to me to perform the operation. Peach, in the meantime, looked at me with a clear expression of disappointment. Babe held her legs apart while I carefully cut straight up the middle of the once adorable little article of clothing, completely forgetting that the scissors were about as large as her torso and rapidly approaching the bottom of her chin.
"Wait!" Babe shrieked, slapping his hand over her chin before I stabbed my three day old child with the point of the scissors. The motion startled her, which made her kick more, which resulted in poop on the bottom of both of her feet which she was now smearing across the changing pad. The diaper itself wiggled free and landed face down on the brand new carpet and the dog, who'd been in the corner of the room whining for the last five minutes, walked over and started sniffing it.
I instinctively kicked the diaper away from my dog, getting poop on my sock and was now trying to balance on one foot while continuing to cut the onsie off of the poor innocent child who was now staring at me in complete disbelief of my lack of competence.
Twenty minutes later: the changing pad was now soaked from the sponge bath we tried to give Peach (using 4 washcloths and two bath towels). In the garbage were the changing pad cover, one pair of socks, two receiving blankets, the offending onsie that started all of this, my husband's shirt, and the three diapers we'd ruined trying to contain the situation.
The punchline: two days ago the same thing happened with my 4 week old son. The casualties this time were limited to one changing pad, a sleeper, and two diapers.
Infancy Sucks And That's Okay
My son, who I'll call "Punkin," for the sake of protecting the innocent, is 4 weeks old. Because my daughter, "Peach," had colic, I spent that first 4 weeks waiting for the other shoe to drop. To be honest, it may have, and I could be in denial. But so far, I think I'm willing to say he doesn't have it.
Instead, we have something else... something far less curable... we have an infant. A perfectly normal, fully functional, infant. And that leads me to this next statement, which for some reason, people tend to not want to say out loud:
Infancy sucks.
That's not even quite appropriate. Let me try again: infancy is the fifth ring of hell.
This tiny little thing who could probably fit in my diaper bag (a word on the misery of diaper bags later) has managed to completely take over every room of our 2500 square foot, 4 bedroom, two and a half bath house. 453 Bottles, 2987 blankets, 10,000 diapers, 1 diaper pail, 100 plastic bags to put diapers in before using the diaper pail (because those things don't work), 1400 gallons of formula (why don't they sell these in kegs?), 50,000 wipes (half of which get used on one pooping blowout per day), 2 bouncy seats (one for each floor of the house), the monitor (which has a constant static noise because something's interfering with it... I can't find what), 2 Sleep Sheeps (great little invention), 800 receiving blankets (most of which have little spit up stains on them but I can't tell which ones are dirty and which aren't), and 3,954,899 pacifiers (all different brands, and all but 2 of which have been rejected) now occupy every inch of previously unused space in this house.
Why? Because parents like us will do absolutely anything to keep an infant "happy." Or, more appropriately, "not unhappy."
Is there anything wrong with saying that infancy is the worst stage of parenting? Why are parents supposed to tell the world that this screaming alien in their house who's taken over their lives and transformed them from the intelligent, reasonable people they were into irrational, insane, blubbering disasters that everything's great? Why do we call these aliens "bundles of joy?"
I know Punkin will eventually be a bundle of joy because my 4 year old daughter proved that. But he isn't now.
And that leads me to the reason I'm starting this blog today... to take a stand and say out loud that this stage of infancy, when the baby doesn't sleep and we, as parents, don't know him yet, just plain sucks. There's nothing wrong with admitting we're tired and miserable and need help.
I welcome anyone's comments, stories, suggestions, and tips for what worked for them. Questions are fantastic- answers are even better. Let's get through this together until we finally get out of this stage of craziness!
Here's my first tip:
For those using powdered formula (don't get me started on the breastfeeding vs. formula): you know those gas drops? Mylicon is the most popular brand. Here's what they DO work for... when mixing a bottle of formula, add one drop for every two ounces of water (or one drop per scoop... it doesn't have to be exact). When you shake the bottle, the gas drops will keep the formula from getting all foamy. And don't worry about getting the brand name. The store brands (Target, Walmart, and Walgreens all have them) works just as well and cost a fraction of the amount.
Instead, we have something else... something far less curable... we have an infant. A perfectly normal, fully functional, infant. And that leads me to this next statement, which for some reason, people tend to not want to say out loud:
Infancy sucks.
That's not even quite appropriate. Let me try again: infancy is the fifth ring of hell.
This tiny little thing who could probably fit in my diaper bag (a word on the misery of diaper bags later) has managed to completely take over every room of our 2500 square foot, 4 bedroom, two and a half bath house. 453 Bottles, 2987 blankets, 10,000 diapers, 1 diaper pail, 100 plastic bags to put diapers in before using the diaper pail (because those things don't work), 1400 gallons of formula (why don't they sell these in kegs?), 50,000 wipes (half of which get used on one pooping blowout per day), 2 bouncy seats (one for each floor of the house), the monitor (which has a constant static noise because something's interfering with it... I can't find what), 2 Sleep Sheeps (great little invention), 800 receiving blankets (most of which have little spit up stains on them but I can't tell which ones are dirty and which aren't), and 3,954,899 pacifiers (all different brands, and all but 2 of which have been rejected) now occupy every inch of previously unused space in this house.
Why? Because parents like us will do absolutely anything to keep an infant "happy." Or, more appropriately, "not unhappy."
Is there anything wrong with saying that infancy is the worst stage of parenting? Why are parents supposed to tell the world that this screaming alien in their house who's taken over their lives and transformed them from the intelligent, reasonable people they were into irrational, insane, blubbering disasters that everything's great? Why do we call these aliens "bundles of joy?"
I know Punkin will eventually be a bundle of joy because my 4 year old daughter proved that. But he isn't now.
And that leads me to the reason I'm starting this blog today... to take a stand and say out loud that this stage of infancy, when the baby doesn't sleep and we, as parents, don't know him yet, just plain sucks. There's nothing wrong with admitting we're tired and miserable and need help.
I welcome anyone's comments, stories, suggestions, and tips for what worked for them. Questions are fantastic- answers are even better. Let's get through this together until we finally get out of this stage of craziness!
Here's my first tip:
For those using powdered formula (don't get me started on the breastfeeding vs. formula): you know those gas drops? Mylicon is the most popular brand. Here's what they DO work for... when mixing a bottle of formula, add one drop for every two ounces of water (or one drop per scoop... it doesn't have to be exact). When you shake the bottle, the gas drops will keep the formula from getting all foamy. And don't worry about getting the brand name. The store brands (Target, Walmart, and Walgreens all have them) works just as well and cost a fraction of the amount.
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