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.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
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?
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