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.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
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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