The Sister Formulation

I am the oldest of four children. I have two sisters and a brother.

We're all pretty decent human beings, and we TOTALLY succumb to that old saying about siblings. Something along the lines of "We will fight each other tooth and nail but if someone ELSE f*cks with us they are DEAD MEAT."

Or something like that.

Anyhoo.

We all agreed at somewhat the last minute (seriously, it was impressive how quickly we got all four of us to agree to do something in less than a week) to meet at our mother's house to help her with yardwork.

She's not super old, but she's had knee replacements so yardwork can be tough for her. We let her stay inside with Anna (harsh, I know, for a first time grandmother) while we cleared leaves, laid mulch, and cleaned up the junkyard that had become our backyard. My brother likes to work on cars, and my younger sister (let's call her C) is a kleptomaniac, so there's a LOT of crap back there.

As in, we were driving home one night, and she suddenly screams out "STOP THE CAR!" I pull over in a panic, narrowly avoiding decimating someone's mailbox, and she jumps out of the car, grabs a ROAD CONE and jumps back in. "OK, go," she says casually.

We have a large collection of road cones. Not to mention street signs. To be fair we inherited about 50% of them from other neighbors. The 7 foot tall orange "Men at Work" sign is all us though.

As we were dumping leaves into the back woods, my older younger sister (you do the math - we'll call her M) says.

"I don't mind bugs, but I hate insects. You know, like snakes."

Facepalm.

I debated whether to call her on it or not. I decided to play the nice sister for the day and left it alone.

The Button Anomaly

Ever since we announced we were having a little girl, the girlie outfits have come pouring in.

Like by the dozens.

I mean like I could open my own retail store with the shit this kid owns. It's NUTS.

And since she was born, the insanity HAS NOT STOPPED.

Why?

Because this child has two grandmothers and a great aunt who seem to think it is their personal mission to go bankrupt dress this child in as many outfits as possible before she is a year old.

And it doesn't stop at clothes.

We got a pack and play from my brother as a gift. My mother bought one for her house for when the baby visits. We got another one to stay at her day care center. My mother decides that THIS ISN'T ENOUGH and gets another one from a neighbor.

Just in case a wild man with an insatiable grudge against pack and plays ransacks our house. We're covered.

In pack and plays.

Anyways, back to the clothes. Anna has gotten a LOT of clothes. Don't get me wrong, most of them are freaking adorable, with the occasional what the f*ck were you thinking thrown in there.

One of my favorite has been this outfit:

Which we received from friends of my mother's in Florida.

I LOVE THIS DRESS. I waited eagerly for a special occasion to dress her up in it, throw some fabulous baby shoes on her and top it all off with a bow that will make even the grouchiest aunts believe she's cute (are you kidding me? how in the HELL did we make such an adorable kid?).

The time came. I decided it would be perfect for my sister-in-law's baby shower. I separated the pieces, and come Saturday morning, went to put it on her. I turn it over and discover...

BUTTONS.

Not snap buttons. REAL buttons.

WTF?

I flipped it over; sure enough, the tag says 0-3 months.

Some jackass designed an outfit PURPOSEFULLY with real poke the plastic heart shaped button through the hole buttons. FOR A NEWBORN.

Really people? I know it's a fancy dress and all, but c'mon.

You really expect me to get this wriggling, kicking, screaming newborn baby into this dress and button it? Even if I had help (which I didn't) it would have been a nightmare.

Long story short, 20 minutes later we left the house.

Yes, I got her into the damn dress and she looked AWESOME.

See?

The Breastmilk Alternative

My best friends and their 1.9 year old son came over to visit us last night. When she first got pregnant she mentioned that she planned to breastfeed exclusively, you know, to save on having to buy formula.

Whoa, I thought at the time. That is a LOT of work.

I didn't know much about breastfeeding (still don't), but I knew you had to consume extra calories, etc. in order to keep up. And I had the general gist of things that it was tough work.

Fast forward to last night.

When they were here, I was chatting with her regarding my overproduction of breastmilk. I had been joking with my sister-in-law about it, and had joked that we had so much breastmilk I could sell some. They replied that we should freeze some, and I responded that half of our freezer was already full.

Their reply was that they never had that problem. As I told my best friend this story, I recounted how bad I had felt. I hadn't realized my sister-in-law had had so much trouble producing breastmilk, and therefore felt guilty at my apparent success as a milking cow.

Her reply?

She hadn't been able to produce much milk either.

Great. Now I feel like even MORE of a jerk.

And then she went on to tell me how she had been able to breastfeed, but not make enough milk to satisfy the baby, so they had to resort to using formula as well. It made her feel like a failure for a little while, until she realized that---

--she was NOT the only person with this problem.

She went on to point out that while apparently I was plentiful with milk, my child refused to latch. I was also awake every four hours being pumped like a cow. My boobs were sore, and my nipples were so sensitive my husband was going into withdrawal. I felt guilty being a fountain of milk where others struggled, and therefore also guilty if I DIDN'T continue breastfeeding (even though it's f*cking exhausting). But I also felt I was missing out on a bonding experience with my child.

The moral: We each have our problems. We're not alone, and there's NO sense feeling bad or guilty about what we can/cannot do.

So for now, I'm going to allow my breastpump to do its work, be happy that I can produce enough milk for the entire neighborhood my child, and be supportive of the other mommies in my life!

P.S. Milking may be my superpower but washing the breastpump supplies every 8 hours is my goddamn Kryptonite.

DEFEAT

And how you feel after your child wakes up every two hours or less throughout the night.

OY.

VICTORY!

How you feel the first time your child sleeps through the night:

VICTORY IS MINE!

The Doubting Turbulence

Entering motherhood is almost like being on another planet.

An ENTIRELY different group of people is suddenly aware of your existence because you're pushing a stroller through Wal-mart instead of a carriage (shopping cart for those of you who are non-New Englanders or who have the inability to extrapolate from context).

Mostly, other mothers. However, you do get the crowd of people that "absolutely just love babies" and unnecessarily decide to give you advice on how to raise/take care of yours, because what works for one baby works for all.

Right.

So as I'm avoiding boredom feeding Anna at 3 AM pondering this, I'm realizing that some days I feel like an absolute Parent FAILURE and have no idea what I'm doing.

And some days, I feel like I have got this thing DOWN. 

So I figured as long as the WINS outweigh the FAILS, we'll all be OK. : )

The Baby Blues Paradox

Postpartum depression is a very real thing.

That said, just like in pregnancy, there are crazy hormones that make you cry or overwhelm you at certain points during your postpartum first year.

For example.

Two absolutely in tears moments for me.

One caused by a clogged toilet. My poor husband was out getting snow off our driveway. The toilet was clogged (again) and not unclogging. Luckily, Anna laid quietly in her bassinet while Mommy cried because she was overtired and felt completely and utterly hideous (see previous post regarding aunt calling me HOMELY). Thankfully for Mommy, Anna put herself to sleep, while unfortunately for Daddy, he came in to the bathroom to see Mommy covered in toilet water, crying her eyes out, completely incomprehensible.

And then there's today. Where I cried in the parking garage over losing my parking ticket. Since my company doesn't own the garage, we have a deal with them to get rebate tickets. I had my rebate ticket, but not the parking ticket for the garage. You used to be able to get away with just the rebate ticket. Apparently this is no longer the case.

And of course, as the sh*ttiest classiest most expensive garage in Boston, if you lose your ticket you have to pay full price. OK, fine. But in order to get helping actually LEAVING the garage, you have to get a real person.

This is the 21st century. 98% of garages have some sort of button you can push to call for help.

Not these.

You have to pull out your damn cell phone and call the phone number that is stuck to the machine with MASKING TAPE.

Classy.

So excuse me if after a day in Boston with my newborn (who was a goddamn angel, and I'm not kidding), when some lady comes yelling at me to get out of the way with my car (not that I can understand her voice bouncing off the garage walls) and then to get OUT of the car to go fill out a FORM because I lost my damn ticket, I wasn't in the best of moods. My boobs were killing me, and it takes over an hour to get home. Just let me out of this godforsaken hellhole of stationary vehicles and take my newborn home so I can empty these babies out before they explode all over your shoes. OR I WILL RUN YOU OVER.

So not only was I late getting into the city (stopped dead on the highway twice for NO REASON), now it's taken me 20 extra minutes of painful boobs and and extra $35 spent to buy my way out of hell.

At least I resisted the urge to run her over....

The Clothes Expansion

So of course, I gained weight during my pregnancy, as all pregnant women do (and should). During my pregnancy, I also forgot to cheat on my glucose sugar test developed gestational diabetes. Mild gestational diabetes, which I managed to keep in check through diet alone.

Chalk one up for me.

Because apparently this is difficult to do, considering the confused/shocked looks on doctors and nurses faces each time I had to explain myself.

But my numbers spoke for themselves.

Anyhoo, this resulted in a change in diet that, by the time of my first postpartum weigh in, has somehow caused me to weigh LESS than I did before I got pregnant.

I'll let you do the math.

This revelation in body weight, combined with my sister's weight loss inspiration and the weight loss success from another mother's blog that I read....well you can guess.

I've decided to run a 5K.

Not lose weight, per se. I never really bothered with the scale to begin with. I don't judge my weight with a number, but more by my shape and how I feel.

So for now the number of miles I run will be my number.

Keep in mind, I hate to run. Like I would rather have a root canal, than run. It's boring. I don't like hills. Running hurts your joints.

But I'm going to do it. Along with my other weekly exercise routines that I have missed for the past nine months.

My goal: The Large Underbed Box.

I used to sort my clothes by season. Put winter stuff away, pull summer stuff out, rotate, etc. All sizes were included, whether they fit or not.

I recently changed this. I tried on almost all my clothes and sorted them by size. I have all my XL clothes out. I also have the Large Underbed Box and the Medium Underbed Box.

I'm a pessimist, so I'm going to aim for the Large and pray for the Medium.

And maybe this blog will hold me to it.

Also, the fact that I have two dressers and a closet full of clothes (and a rack of "nice" clothes downstairs) PLUS two underbed boxes of clothes doesn't make me a bad person, right?

RIGHT?

The Curtain Revelation

My pumping lair station is in our study. That way, of course, I can type blog posts while I pump. (By the way, sports bras with tiny holes cut in them make MUCH better pump holders than the store designed ones.)

I'll wait while that image sinks in gets flushed from your brain.

As I pump every four hours or so, I tend to need light to see how the milking is coming. At night, I turn on the lamp, and during the day I just pull back one of the curtains.

Until tonight.

When I noticed I could see our lamppost pretty clearly. Through the curtain.

We live at the top of a hill, and cars basically look straight at our house and through our windows as they approach the top.

So basically, I've been giving everyone a great shot of my breasts every four hours for the last month and a half.

Awesome.

The Crying Conundrum

Listening to your child cry sucks. At least, if she's anywhere between DEFCON 1-5, it really sucks.

I know it's early, and I know she has to get used to this bedtime routine and not falling asleep in our arms, but listening her to her cry is so damn heartbreaking.

I can't imagine how I'll deal with this when she's actually sick.

Some days, I wish I had a video monitor instead of just a sound one, but it's nothing an iPad, iPhone, and Facetime can't tackle.

I am SO stylish

I use a Medela Pump In Style Double Breast Pump Backpack,

Cause that's just how I feel when I pump breast milk.

Stylish.

NOT.

The Indiana Jones Explanation

When my daughter gets upset, I sing to her. I sing whatever it is that pops into my head at that moment.

Yesterday, it happened to be the theme song to Indiana Jones. The following conversation ensued:

Me: (Insert Indiana Jones theme song here)

Anna: (Makes a face, starts crying again)

Me: What's the matter? You don't like Indiana Jones?

Husband: Maybe she thinks you'd singing the theme from the fourth movie.

Me: I would NEVER!

At other times, more inappropriate songs have popped into my head, and I have sung them to her regardless. Most notable:

1. I, Yi, Yi, Yi/Cuanto Le Gusta - The Chipmunks

2. I'll Make A Man Out of You - Mulan (Donny Osmond)

3. Cruella De Vil - 101 Dalmations

4. Hippy Hippy Shake - The Beatles

5. Rehab - Amy Winehouse

One of these is not like the other.....

Sometimes....

When I turn on my breast pump....I feel violated.

Just a little.

Or maybe cheated.

The Fake Baby Alternative

When I was in high school, there was a course that eventually became required (thank GOD I missed the requirement period) where part of the class you either had to write a 10 page term paper, or you had to take care of a fake baby for a week.

As in, a plastic doll that would randomly cry throughout the day or night, and you had to hold it, rock it, change its diaper, and "feed" it to make it stop. It had some kind of computer chip in it to show if it had been neglected or not, so you couldn't just shove it in a closet and go back to bed.

I hated these things.

Besides being incredibly disruptive to the school atmosphere, I highly doubted they had the desired effect on the students; to persuade them that taking care of a baby is hard work. Instead, I think it set up some unrealistic expectations.

After all, a plastic baby doesn't yank your hair out of your skull as you try to burp it. A plastic baby doesn't kick you in your c-section scar as she shoots her legs out from her gas pains. A plastic baby doesn't spit up down the entire length of your back. A plastic baby doesn't respond to its mothers voice or a particular song.

Although I'm sure the sleep deprivation is quite the same. At least my child isn't programmed to scream her head off every 20 minutes.....wait.

Dear Lord, please grant me more than 30 minutes of continuous sleep tonight. Or I might trade her in for a plastic counterfeit.

OK I'd never do that. Maybe.

The Sleep Conundrum

Today I found myself tapping and humming. Not unusual, except that all the music in my head was from my daughter's activity mat.

And it was in my head last night as I was trying to fall asleep.

Sleep deprivation, thou art a heartless bitch.

Another day in which I wish dearly that I drank coffee.....

Boston Pride

When things like the Boston Marathon explosions happen, it makes me sick to my stomach. Senseless acts of violence like these make me rethink having children. I work in Boston, and thankfully was out of the city at the time. But I have numerous family and friends in the city, and I am waiting to hear from each of them that they are safe.

It's too early to know for sure what has happened. Facebook has been a lifesaver in determining if family, friends, and other loved ones (I always wonder about this third group. If they aren't family, and they aren't friends, who the hell are they?) are safe. I never thought I would thank God for social media, but today I did.

Days like today are days when you kiss your partner a little longer, hug your children a little tighter. Read one more bedtime story. Snuggle for just one more minute. Breathe them in, love them like you have never loved them before.

Today I left Anna with her grammie while her father is out bowling and I am out running errands. I won't see her until tonight, but I cannot wait to hold her in my arms again. To kiss my husband goodnight. To hug my mother and father and tell them I love them.

I'm sure the truth will reach us eventually. Until then, a friend shared this with me:

If I do need to watch and get information on what happened, I'm going to look for the helpers. I'm going to look for those stories of heroes who stepped up when someone needed them to.

Please keep Boston in your prayers.

The Kickboxing Hypothesis

I'm pretty sure this kid is destined to be a kickboxer.

When I was pregnant with her, she kicked - A LOT. As in, I had bruised ribs and CONSTANTLY was forcing her to move further down, lest she get caught on my ribcage or kick something vital.

On the outside, she is no different. She is a squirmer. If you try to feed her, she pulls her fists up to her face like a crazy boxer.

Or if you try to change her diaper, she takes it as personal challenge to try and kick you in the teeth.

CHALLENGE ACCEPTED.

About 99% of people that have seen or held Anna have commented on her movement.

"Look how alert she is!"

"She's so active!"

"I can't believe how strong a kick she has!"

Yeah. Now imagine that ON YOUR RIBCAGE.

At least she'll have no problems in self defense classes....

The Normalcy Theorem

Tonight was the first night my husband and I have gone out without our daughter (tear!). While we are out, it occured to me how awkward and yet normal I felt. I have compiled a relatively short list of things that currently make me feel pre-pregnancy normal (at least for now...).

1. Earrings. Jewelry of any kind, for that matter.

2. Jeans - they had an elastic waistband, but whatever. They weren't sweatpants or pajama pants, so let's call it a win, K?

3. Shoes with laces. That I can reach. By myself.

5. Wedding rings - OK only one of them fits, but progress is progress.

6. Showers. The 15 minutes of my day that I have all to myself.

7. Doing my hair. Wet ponytails DO NOT COUNT.

8. Exercise that does not involve lifting my one month old daughter into the air while I am pumping breastmilk.

9. Eating a meal WITH my husband, rather than playing "pass the baby".

10. Being able to see the scale without leaning forward. WIN.

The Booger Effect

Somehow, using a nasal aspirator to suck two GIGANTIC boogers out of my one month old's nose makes me feel like a damn brain surgeon.

The DEFCON Approximation

As a parent, you learn to distinguish very quickly between the cries of a single child to determine the "readiness" you will need to respond to that child's needs. With our daughter, we have determined that there are five stages that match the DEFCON scale of defense readiness quite well:

DEFCON 5 (contrary to popular belief, this is the most peaceful stage, not the one declaring nuclear war)

The world is at peace. The baby is happy smiling sleeping quiet. You may do any activity you wish, so long as you do it in COMPLETE SILENCE.

DEFCON 4

Crocodile tears. The soft, whining cry, sometimes just before they fall asleep.Somewhat amusing pitiful. Nothing to get up off the couch for, but keep your ears open. Continue with your regularly scheduled progrmming. SILENTLY.

DEFCON 3

Your basic cry for food, diaper change, or to be held. You have exactly 2 minutes before this reaches DEFCON 2.

DEFCON 2

Complete utter screaming - we call this the Incredible Tomato stage, because that's what color Anna turns when she is screaming her head off. Be advised: you can go from DEFCON 2 to DEFCON 1 AT ANY MOMENT. THIS IS WHAT WE TRAINED FOR MOMMIES. MOVE!

DEFCON 1

HOLY SHIT GET UP AND PICK UP THAT KID! The silent scream - we call this the Panic Stage, because at this point they're SO upset they can't even vocalize it. They've turned purple and you're completely unsure if they are breathing or not. And you PANIC.


And yes, you will learn to tell the difference between each of these cries with the precision of Johann Sebastian Bach, and in less time than it takes you to read this post.

Happy defusing!

Birthdays

Anna got invited to her first birthday party yesterday. Well, technically it came to my email address, but it came from a college friend for the 1st birthday of her second child.

Perusing this invitation left me excited, confused, and contemplative. Excited because it seems that as a family we are now part of a more exclusive "club" now that we have a child. Before Anna was born, we were not invited to any previous parties for children (other than our nephew) - including this friend's daughter. But apparently, now that we have a child, we are on the invite list.

Not that I'm complaining. But it perplexes me how the entire atmosphere around us has changed since Anna came along. People are less likely to ask to hang out with us (some more, but mostly family who want to see the baby) because we are dead tired have a baby. Which I can understand to a point. But another group of people are eager to have us buy stuff for their kid spend time with us - other families with kids. Because apaprently popping a baby out of your hoohah qualifies you to hang out with them. Why? Because now we understand what it's like to have children? Because they didn't want to bother us with their child's antics?

Hmm. Something to keep an eye on.

Another thought struck me as I looked at the intricate digital invitation. In my line of work, we participate in birthday parties. While the price of the party covers our costs, it isn't cheap, but still lots of families have us come out every year -- some multiple times or several years in a row (we're THAT good). At some of these parties we are the main event, and some we are just part of a larger crowd. I once went to a party where we were present along with a clown making balloon animals, and a sketchy magician that no one wanted to go near. There was a giant distraction swingset in the backyard (I'm talking school playground sized here), as well as a built in bar and grill. These people were LOADED (and not just with cash). We managed to do our program and got a decent tip, but I've never been happier to turn my back on the chaos that was that party.

The kicker?

The birthday child was 3. Three years old.

Seriously? That kid can't even remember his birthdate, much less the memories of this party. Plus, what are you going to do next year? How do you top yourself year after year without going bankrupt? I spent every birthday at Salisbury Beach with my family and after the age of 3, never had a cake with just my name on it ever again (due to relatively close birthdays, there were at least 5 other names on the cake besides mine).

Ugh. I hope this party will at least be relatively low key. If not, at least Anna's too young to set high expectations for her birthday know the difference!

Spilled milk

Whoever said "It's no use crying over spilled milk" never pumped breastmilk. And spilled it. All over your one month old.

Twice in one day.

Dammit.

Um...no?

We were at the doctor's office for Anna's first checkup. In the waiting room, there is a mother and her three teenage children (who may or may not have had whooping cough...awesome). Our daughter is in her car seat, very obviously dressed in pink and with a pink blanket draped over her. When the nurse comes for us, she asks for Anna (which could have been me I suppose, but why would I bring my husband and child along? Moral support?)

We head in to see the nurse who asks us to put the baby on the scale - completely naked. I get it, you want to get the exact weight, but really? How much can a diaper possibly weigh versus having a baby shit all over your probably-cost-a-million-dollar scale?

Your call lady.

Anyways, as Anna is being weighed, the woman from the lobby and her three kids walk  by. As she passes, the mother looks at me and says:

"He's beautiful!"

I glanced back at Anna. Um....no? That's not a penis...that's her umbilical cord stump?

As a woman with three children, she most likely knows the general location of a penis....but maybe not.

So WTF?

Mommy Moment #2

Apparently spring is the time to have babies (and summer is the time make them...). I have at least three women in my life about to give birth, so I found myself in front of the baby shower cards carefully searching for the perfect card for each.

That's a lie. I bought them all the same card. In my defense, it was 7:15 on a Sunday morning, I was in pajamas in Hannafords, and they're all honestly lucky I remembered to give them a card, much less a gift. I'm that braindead at the moment.

Anyhoo, after searching through two or three cards, I found myself choking and tearing up -- hence the three of the same card. I had to get out of there before they called a tear cleanup in aisle seven.

As a side note - why the hell aren't there any great-grandparent birthday cards? Seriously, when most folks are living in to their 80s, 90s, and sometimes higher, we can't even have ONE card acknowledging the longevity and reproductive prowess of these people and their offspring without having to write in the word "great" on a card?

Come on people.

Dude...

Where's my car?

Honesty...not always the best policy.

Unless you're my aunt. Who has no filter.

Let me set the scene.

It is one week after I've given birth. Note: still in the 1 year window for postpartum depression. We're home with Anna. My mother, two aunts, and mother's friend are all visiting. My sister in law arrives as well. My husband is hanging out in the stairwell nearby overlooking the scene. One of my aunts turns to me and says:

"When you told us you were pregnant, I knew right away you were having a girl."

OK.

Right.

This ought to be good. 

I waited with anticipation, not because I was curious as to what she was going to say, but because I knew it was going to be a great story to tell later. This is the woman who believe the capital of Maryland was....Wisconsin. This is also the woman who, at age 28, in a story often told by my father, did not know what the Pentagon was on a trip through Washington D.C. After a lengthy explanation by my uncle, her follow up question was: "Why do they call it the Pentagon?"

I not-so-eagerly responded to her comment.

"Oh?"

"Yes. My mother told me that when you're pregnant, boys give you beauty, and girls take your beauty."

.........so you just called me ugly. Got it. 

As my mother, aunt, and mother's friend all sputtered in disbelief (and my ears attempted to unhear my other aunt) she CONTINUES TO EXPLAIN AS LOUDLY AS POSSIBLE (she's Italian, so apparently it's excusable).

"What I mean is, when I was pregnant with the boys (mother of three boys) my mother told me how beautiful I was and that I glowed. At the beach (where I told them I was pregnant) you were very pale, and drawn...."

OK, let's get something straight. I'm French Canadian/Irish. I'm ALWAYS pale. It doesn't matter what time of year it is, I'm pale. I don't tan, I burn. I'm also 7 weeks into pregnancy at that time, so morning sickness is my constant and ever present enemy.

"....and....well I don't want to use the word ugly...."

Really? Cause you just did.

"...more like....homely."

WTF?! 

Right. Cause homely is any better. 

That's just what every rookie mom wants to hear. That she looked HOMELY the three times you saw her during her pregnancy. 

Man, I can't wait to do this all over again with child #2.

Honesty is appreciated, but only if you think before you speak. I've found that for some reason the filter in people's brains becomes dislodged when others around them are pregnant. Not only mentally but physically - as in DON'T TOUCH MY STOMACH. Why is it that when our abdomens are occupied people think that it's OK to touch it without asking? It wasn't OK before - why would it be now?

Thank god I have a loving husband and a healthy self esteem. Too bad I don't drink wine.....

Yep, she's ours...

Our daughter just let rip a good 20 second long toot.

She was diaperless at the time.

Thank GOD it was only a toot.

The Birth Plan

As my due date neared, I did what most rookie moms would do. I looked up what I needed to do to be prepared for this kid. Nursery? Check. Meals frozen? Check. House clean? Check. Laundry done? Check. Hospital bag packed? Check. Car seat bases installed? Check check.

All that seemed to be left was a birthing plan and baking something tasty for the labor and delivery nurses. My mother had never heard of this before, but it seemed like a nice thing to do, and considering I am an extreme planner (my boss once told me in a performance appraisal that I am the most efficient person she knows - and I can't decide if that's a good thing) and was going out of my mind with boredom, I decided to make cookies.

For some reason our oven operates in its own space/time continuum, so while the cookies didn't LOOK perfect, they tasted just fine. I dropped them off the day before I went in to be induced, and all the nurses were appreciative. What about the birth plan, you say? I'll get to that.

The following day we came in at 7 AM and met our nurse for the day, Linda. At first, I wasn't sure we were going to like her. She seemed a bit stuffy, and both my husband and my mother (my support persons) were in agreement. We were encouraged to take walks in the hallway to get things started (bring flip flops or some kind of slip on footwear other than the hospital socks - your back and knees and feet will thank you for not walking on hard hospital floors with no support).

As we passed the nurses station, we caught a glimpse of Linda. This began the turning point in our patient/nurse relationship - Linda had two of our cookies in one hand, and was stuffing a crumbling third into her mouth with the other - somewhat unsuccessfully. She caught our eye, and we all had a good laugh.

While we were taking a break, she came in to take my vitals and ask the 150 questions that all doctors and nurses apparently need to ask every time a pregnant woman visits the hospital - most of which I had answered the day before. Eventually, we came to the big question:

Linda: So what is your birth plan?

Me: Birth plan?

Linda: Any music playing, epidural, shades drawn, special pillows...

Me: Have the baby.

Linda: What?

Me: My plan is to have the baby. Get her out without hurting her or me. If I have a plan, it won't go according to plan, so there's no point in having a plan.

Linda: (turns from the computer to look at me with a big smile) Smart woman.


Yep, we're gonna get along just fine. : )

And we did. Best labor and delivery nurse ever.

Mommy Moment #1

All Mommy Moments will be dedicated to those times when you realize, in a brief moment of clarity, that holy shit you really are a mom. Life as you once knew it is now over.

To be honest, this wasn't my first Mommy Moment, but it was the most recent:

An old high school friend came to visit to see Anna for the first time. My husband and I were looking forward to meeting her new arm candy boyfriend (previous versions of boyfriends were not as pleasant or attractive), who unfortunately had to travel back home early. We were unaware of his absence, and cleaned up the living room, stuffing burp cloths under couches, attempting to remove milk residue from couch pillows, and generally trying to make the kitchen look like a platoon of chocolate milk chugging cup stackers hadn't conquered it in the name of a full dishwasher. Personally, I was quite disappointed in the missing boyfriend for my own reasons.

Me: So where is the man?

Friend: Oh, he had to travel back yesterday.

Me: What? Really? But...I put on a shirt and everything!

If you're breastfeeding, I know you feel me on this. If there's no one in the house other than you and your significant other, a nursing bra and a zip up hoodie are all you need. I mean really.

Case in point (also another Mommy Moment):

We have a changing table, but we spend a lot of time in the living room with all of Anna's contraptions (swing, bassinet, pack and play, activity mat, etc.) So we also keep a changing pad and diapers/wipes in the living room as well.

Now Anna has knack preference for urinating at the exact moment I am swapping out her dirty diaper for a new, fresh one, even after the courtesy two minute warning I give her that this is going to happen. It is not uncommon for her to wet both changing pad covers in the same diaper change. This particular evening, she did it on the changing pad in the living room. Luckily it was contained to the pad itself and spared the carpet, but I was stuck holding a wet newborn who had just soaked her diapers, changing pad, and pajamas. Husband was in bed. Do I call him?

Screw it. I'm a mom now.  And with that, I pulled her to my chest and carried her down the hall to the actual changing pad (which by the gods remained dry).

See? If I had been wearing a shirt, I'd have even more laundry than I already do with a wild peeing daughter.

Yeah, that's now I roll.

The Noodle

My husband, his father, and his brother are all part of a bowling league on Monday nights. They meet at his parents house before bowling, and my sister-in-law, her son, and myself also stop by to have dinner together (read: I don't have to cook: BONUS!).

Since the birth of our daughter, I've been driving down there as well to avoid cooking spend time with family and leave Anna with her grandmother for awhile while I get some much needed sleep.

Judge me.

Yesterday, our nephew Patrick was having trouble eating his dinner.  

THE DEAL: Eat the noodles you have in your mouth, and you can have a cupcake.  

TOTAL NUMBER OF NOODLES IN PATRICK'S MOUTH: 1

START TIME OF THE DEAL: 4:30 PM

There was no end time. By the time I left at 6:30 PM, that kid STILL had the noodle in his mouth. I kid you not. There were bribes (which I am not beneath and definitely took part in), coercing (I will give you back your Mr. King car or whatever it is if you eat the damn noodle!), and some admission of defeat when my mother-in-law took out a set of train underwear she had bought him recently, which completely deterred from the entire "eat the noodle" mission. To recap, we spent 2 HOURS trying to get a 3 year old to swallow a noodle. And he ended up spitting it out in the end. It rolled around in his mouth for 2 HOURS and the kid just wouldn't swallow it.


I'm seriously hoping this stubbornness gene skipped a generation.....

Dear left boob...

Overachiever.

Love,
Right boob

New Mom? I think not....

I finally did it. I started a blog. Why did I do it? Will I keep up with it?

Questions I'm not even sure I can answer.

Maybe I want to document my daughter's life my family's life. Maybe I want to help other new rookie moms out there by honestly putting my own experience with motherhood out there.

Or maybe I just want to find somewhere to post all the BS that fills my head.

Hmm. Let me bring you up to speed.

June 30th, 2012: Holy shit, we're pregnant. OK, no big deal. We wanted this. At least this explains all the nausea...

Fast forward (pregnancy was interesting, but more on that later).

March 2, 2013: Holy shit holy shit holy shit I'm a mom.

I'm a new mom, but I prefer to be called a rookie mom. Why? Because new implies that I'm some complete idiot who just had a baby pop out of her hoohah with zero preparation whatsoever and am aimlessly wading through shit filled diapers, sleepless nights, and episodes of complete cluelessness. Which I am not.

My husband and I have a nephew and lots of siblings we helped take care of. We're seasoned when it comes to babies. Yeah yeah, it's different when it's your own, blah blah blah but in a good way.

Think of it this way. A rookie in the major leagues of baseball has worked his way up there, right? Been working for several years, getting better and better, until finally he's worthy enough of playing with the pros. He still has quite a bit to learn, but he knows that, and is eager to learn from more seasoned veterans but still do things his own way.

That's how I see motherhood. I am by no means an expert at motherhood (no one is) --but at least I feel prepared. That at this point in my life, I am worthy of motherhood. I have earned it.

At least, I think I have.

The adventure begins here.