"Enjoy every moment."

I posted this on Facebook this evening:

Which led to me thinking for the umpteenth time about those women (with grown children) you occasionally run into in the grocery store who look at your child(ren) with a wistful smile and then tell you to "enjoy every moment."

For the record, I know how very, very fortunate I am that I get to be the mommy to my son and the little one we're expecting in September.

I am in a position to be able to choose to stay home with my children, and I know that there are other women out there who want to do the same and aren't able to; I realize what a privilege that is.

But I will tell you the truth: some parenting moments are more "have to" than "get to." Like cleaning up vomit. Or dealing with tantrums. Or waking up ridiculously early. Or changing poopy diapers. Overall, I wouldn't trade this job with anyone, but I'd be thrilled to have a pinch hitter or designated barf cleaner every now and again.

So when people tell you to enjoy every moment with your young children, just keep in mind that they themselves definitely didn't. They're looking back with rose-colored glasses at the parenting-of-young-kids experience as a whole. The cuddles, the wet kisses, the enthusiasm, the not being embarrassed to be seen with you in public. Those things are beautiful and wonderful and you should absolutely try to enjoy them as much as you can. But the moments (or days - or weeks) that you don't enjoy? Don't feel bad about them. That's not you being a bad mom; that's you being a human being. Being a good mom doesn't mean that you have to be filled with ecstasy by every single moment you spend with your child. And the more time you waste feeling guilty that you honestly just hate bath time, the less time you have to bask in the moments when your little boy pats your face and says "Mama best lady."

So if you're a little worn out by parenting today, give yourself a break, a pat on the back, and a piece of chocolate. And if you should happen to stumble across a company that has someone on call to clean up vomit 24 hours a day, could you please pass along the phone number? I'd really appreciate it.

Things that are awful #92: Packing

I had a post that was about 95% completed to post on Christmas, and then I forgot to finish/post it. So, um. I hope everyone had a fabulous Christmas! Now here's some random whining...

Ever since I was a kid attending summer camp, I've had this problem with packing. If I don't finish packing more than a week before I have to leave to go somewhere, I start having dreams that it's time to leave and I suddenly realize I haven't packed anything. Or I've packed all the wrong things. (A week before my wedding, my brain took a break from wedding-disaster nightmares [ie, It was our wedding day and I realized I had forgotten to book a reception venue. Our organist couldn't come because his wife was in labor, so his brother filled in, but the only song he knew how to play was "Jingle Bells." Our whole wedding party changed into muddy jeans and sweatshirts right before we were supposed to have photos taken,] to dream that we arrived at our honeymoon resort, I opened my suitcase, and I realized I had only packed socks. Just a suitcase full of socks.) So I have to start packing ridiculously early to stave off the nightmares.

And I have to pack everything. EVERYTHING. I always pack more clothes than I could possibly wear even if I changed three times a day. For a weekend trip, I pack enough underwear to last me for a month. Because you can never have too much underwear. You just can't.

Yes, there really is a suitcase under there.

(I periodically see article/blog posts/Pins with titles like "How to pack for two weeks using only your carry-on" or "Pack enough outfits for a month with only six items of clothing," and I laugh and I laugh, because I can only assume they were written as jokes.)

And now that I'm a mom, it's gotten worse. Because in addition to thinking things like, "But what if I only bring gray yoga pants and then I suddenly really, really want black ones?" I now have this whole other person to overpack for. "I already packed the blanket that says "Lucas" on it, but what if it's bedtime, and he decides he needs the guitar blanket? I'm bringing his sweatpants and khakis and cargo khakis and jeans and athletic pants and fleece pants, but what if there's an occasion that demands corduroys?" Like I said, I have a problem. The ultimate in packing anxiety happens if I'm flying, because airlines have this rule that your suitcase can only weigh 50 pounds or less, and if it weighs 51 pounds, you have to pay a million dollars (give or take.) Which makes it very hard to pack all of the shoes you own, just in case.

Anyway, my newest strategy that is (kind of, maybe, just a little bit) helping me to be ever-so-slightly less ridiculous is that I pack everything Lucas and I own (like always,) but then a day or two before it's time to leave, I take everything out of the suitcase, and then before I put each item back in, I ask myself questions like, "Ok, but do I really need eight pairs of pajama pants?" (Answer: yes.)

There's really no point to this post other than for me to whine a little bit. But if you have any awesome packing tips, please share them in the comments! As long as the tips aren't things like "You should only pack one pair of pants and two shirts." Because you'll give me nightmares.

Extremely Important Question

Ok, so... my question of the day (week?) is this: should I do giveaways on a semi-regular basis? I actually already have the potential to do three more, and I'm trying to decide what to do. Because people (including me) like free stuff, but I also don't to be a blog that ONLY does giveaways. In large part because I have so many other random things to share. Such as...

- There's going to be a yoga class at my house tonight. I've only ever done yoga while watching a yoga video, never with live people. Will I get stuck in a weird position while surrounded by my friends? Only time will tell.

- I decided to write one post for every day in November, and then I quit after eleven days. Frankly, the only reason I made it that far is because I had pre-written most of my posts for my giveaways in October.

- I will be flying alone with a toddler next month. It's probably going to stressful, but I have a feeling it's going to make for some great stories.

-Lucas's new favorite toy is a paper towel tube that he pretends is a leaf blower. Come on guys - that's blogging gold.

- In a fit of frustration about my ongoing difficulties in finding good sippy cups, I recently sent an angry email to a sippy cup manufacturer. And then I immediately felt foolish and over-dramatic, and when someone from their customer service department called me, I was too embarrassed to call them back. Because who gets that riled up about sippy cups? Me, apparently. 

- A partial list of celebrities I've met: Chad Kroger from Nickleback, assorted Pittsburgh Steelers, Greg Brady (I mean Barry Williams.)

Do you really want to miss out on this kind of randomness? I think not.

- For my birthday, I got new art/decorations for my library and a new camera. You might think that I immediately used my new camera to take pictures of my new art, but you'd be wrong.

So as you can see, if I spent all my time doing giveaways, you'd miss out on a lot of really amazing stuff. And I'd never do that to you. But I could always do a giveaway every now and again. What do you think? And if I did them every so often, how often should I do them? Your input is of vital importance to me. And Greg Brady.

Think I should do more giveaways? Click below. 

Think I shouldn't do more giveaways? Click below. 

Basically, just click below.

A letter to my son, at nearly 21 months

At least three times a week, I think "I need to document this in the baby book!" And then I don't. So, here's a letter to Lucas... just so I don't forget how precious he is at this very moment.

11-12-13

Dear Lucas,

Oh my goodness, baby boy! Never in my life did I think that I could be so impressed by someone who can't even put on his own socks yet.

You are hilarious and creative and oh so smart. Every time we're out in public, at least one person comments on how well you speak - how clearly you pronounce your words, and how many words you know. Out of all of the many, many words you say, some of my favorites are:

    "Sure!" (and when you're very emphatic, "Yeah-kay! Sure!" as in, "Lucas, do you want some cheese? "Yeah-kay! Sure!")

    "Huggin!" Said any time you want a hug, which is very often. You even love hugging me from your high chair with one arm while you feed yourself with the other.

    "Cryin." You always announce to me when you've been crying, even if it's a fake cry and you're doing it in front of me. It's like a play-by-play of your emotions. As your emotional mommy, I can appreciate that.

    "Toot!" You also announce when you, well, toot. It's kind of hilarious.

    "Misi!" Lucas for "excuse me."

    "Fun!" Any time you are having fun, you let us know. It's adorable.

    "Cited!" Lucas for "excited." Which you are, often! Like the other day, when you were on the phone with your grandma. She asked you what you ate for dinner, and when you said "noodles," she responded with "I'm having noodles, too." Your eyes got wide, and you said "Cited! Cited!"

You can count to ten, and I have no idea if that makes you advanced or not, because I refuse to look it up; I know I'm going to think you're a tiny genius no matter what the "experts" say. You love Elmo and kitties, lawnmowers (and pretending that any box large enough for you to sit in is a lawnmower), other kids, talking on the phone (for real or for pretend), and jumping. You are definitely a mamma's boy, but you also love your daddy like crazy and try to be like him in ways that make me laugh and smile a little bigger than my face can handle.

You love books. If you are quiet for long periods of time when left to yourself, it's almost always because you're looking at books (often while sitting in a box or basket.) I'm sure that this will get me into trouble someday because I'll assume you're reading when in reality you're throwing things in the toilet, but I love that you already love to read... just like mommy.

You (finally) enjoy bedtime, and you talk to yourself in your crib long after I put you to bed. You have more energy than you (or I) know what to do with, and you love to walk back and forth across the living room while holding my (and/or Daddy's) hand. You will reach towards our hands, say "walkin? walkin?" and then when we put out our hands for you to grab, you will speed walk and intentionally fall over while laughing.

Some days you make me realize that I really need to learn to have more patience, but I couldn't wish for a more lovable teacher. I'm so glad that I get to be your mommy, little love. I'm looking forward to seeing all of the amazing things you'll do in your life.

I love you. Always.

Love,
Mommy

3:00am conversations with a one year old

Lucas has a cold. He sounds all congested, and last night he slept really, really horribly. The longest stretch he slept all night was about an hour and a half. Which of course means that the longest stretch I slept was about an hour and twenty-five minutes... give or take. I lost count of how many times he woke up, but it was definitely more than six... as evidenced by the whiny text messages I kept sending to Dan throughout the night (Dan was working a night shift.)

I am no stranger to being up with him in the middle of the night, but it's been months since I've had to get up with him, so this was the first night we've been awake together where he could actually talk. And man, did he talk! He speaks really clearly for a 20-month old, and he started talking early and knows a lot of words for his age. But he's still only 20 months old. So since he doesn't know a ton of words, he just says the ones he knows over and over and over and over. When I wasn't feeling super cranky from exhaustion, I actually kind of loved our middle-of-the-night talks in the rocking chair last night.

Our conversations went like this:

"Rocking. Rocking. Mama. Mama. Mama?"
"Yes, Lucas."
"I ya you." (I love you. - Cue me melting into a puddle.)
"I love you too, baby."
"Mama. Mama. Rocking. Mama. Dada. Dada?"
"Dada's at work."
"Yeah. Dada. Work. Work. Run? Running?"
"No, Dada's not running. Dada's at work."
"Yeah. Work. Dada...." (long pause) "Cow. Cow. Cow. Cow?"
"What does a cow say?"
"Boooo. Funny!"
At which point, I burst out laughing, of course.

Because he kept waking up, I thought it might help if I let him sleep in bed with me, and man, was that a terrible idea. He slept for 45 minutes and then woke up at 4:30 am incredibly excited that he got to hang out with his mommy in the middle of the night. So neither of us slept until I finally took him back to his own bed, where he slept for an hour and a half and then woke up for the day around 6am. (He usually sleeps until at least 8:15.)

So, I'm exhausted today, and while Lucas napped, I had a chiropractic appointment for my butt issues, so I didn't even get to nap. This little man is totally worth the exhaustion, but I'm really hoping we both get some more sleep tonight!

He seriously doesn't look at all sick, does he?
Don't let the smile fool you. He's kind of a disaster today.

If you want to vote for me and/or make me some coffee, that would be much appreciated!

Things I said...

...when I wasn't saying things here.

If you click this, I will say more things. But in the interest of full disclosure, I should probably tell you that I will definitely say more things even if you don't click this.

A letter to my son, at 17 and a half months.

I wrote this the other day and then didn't get around to posting it because Lucas woke up from his nap a very angry elf. I haven't really edited it, so, you know... grace, please.

8/4/2013

Dear Lucas,

We’ve had our fair share of tears, you and I, and I know there are more to come. I’ve had some moments in the middle of the night that I wouldn’t relive, even if someone paid me. I know it sounds better to say that I’ve loved every minute of motherhood, but the truth is that there have been moments where motherhood didn’t feel so great. Temper tantrums and sleepless nights and cranky days that I’m glad are over.

I wouldn’t rewind time, but there are plenty of moments that I’d love to pause it for an hour or so. Today you have a slight fever: not a legitimate fever that “counts” as far as the thermometer is concerned (99.6), but a fever that your mommy can feel when she touches your forehead and warm tummy. Even your daddy, the ER doctor, pointed out that studies have shown that mommies are almost always right about their children having a fever based on the warmth of their skin alone, and he’s more inclined to believe me than the thermometer. You seem healthy otherwise, besides being slightly more emotional than normal and a bit tired. I put you down for your nap half an hour early because you were too tired to wait any longer – so tired that we skipped the bedtime stories and went straight to rocking in our chair in the darkened room while I sang “Jesus Loves Me.” Your head was on my shoulder, and after tossing and turning, you found a comfortable spot – head on my shoulder against my neck, belly pressed against my chest, legs straddling my waist, arms spread wide, sippy cup still clutched in your hand. I thought you had fallen asleep, but when I finished the third verse and rocked you to the soft whir of the air purifier, your little voice asked “gi?” – your version of “again?” And I sang all three verses again slowly, while your breathing slowed and then turned to soft snores. I rocked you longer than I knew was necessary, and I briefly considered rocking you for your whole nap, but you sleep longer if you’re in your crib, and you need the rest. But as I rocked you, I thought that I would like to just pause the moment for a little longer so that I could savor the feeling of your twenty-four pounds relaxed against me while you slept.

Last night after a full and busy day with some friends, I took you out of the car, dressed in orange striped pajamas, and you asked for your daddy, whom you hadn’t seen all day because of a 12-hour shift at the hospital. He came to hug you, and then I said I would put you to bed, and you pushed against me with one arm while reaching for your daddy with the other and said “no!” So your daddy put you to bed instead, and my heart almost burst at how much I love you both and how much you love each other. I would’ve paused that moment, too. You wanting your daddy, and me watching the two of you walk toward the house with your head on his shoulder.

Although I don’t want to do them over again, I can even look back at the sleepless nights with something approaching fondness. There were a few times that I was so desperate to get every second of sleep I could that after the fourth or fifth or tenth time I got up to nurse you, instead of walking back to the bedroom I share with your daddy, I curled up on the floor of your room on a pile of blankets. I was miserable at the time, but looking back, I can’t help but smile at the exhausted mommy sleeping on the floor. At least once, when you were eight months old and teething, you slept on the floor with me, on top of a blanket and my arm, which had lost all feeling from your weight on top of it, but which didn’t seem worth the risk of waking you in order for it to have sensation below the elbow.

So this letter is me pausing time for just a minute so I can cherish all of your toddler sweetness. You Skype-ing with Aunt Ginny and cousin Jacob today and crying because Jacob (or “Juba,” as you called him) left the screen so you couldn’t see him anymore. You laughing a deep, can’t-breathe belly laugh at some of the things that you currently find hilarious – kisses and tickles and peekaboo and being chased and our little joke that we say at least ten times a day: me saying, “Lucas, I’m going to love you even when you’re big and stinky,” and you responding with an enthusiastic “Pee-YEW!” You kissing books and toys and my feet with a loud “mmmm-MA!”

Keep growing and changing, my baby love. But maybe slow down just a little, please. 

I love you with all my heart and then some.

Love,

Mommy

Every once in a while, I have a good idea

Before Lucas was born, I had already decided not to have a traditional baby book. Part of my reason for this is that I've never once seen a baby book that was actually completely filled in. The makers of the baby books put in all of these blank spaces and questions, and inevitably, you only fill in like a third of them, and then you feel bad every time you look at the book, because you realize that you never made note of the momentous occasion when your child first "Coughed artificially (a polite little cough to get attention.)" (That's a direct quote from my husband's baby book. Shockingly to no one, that blank is not filled in.)

So I decided I would make Lucas a scrapbook instead of getting a typical baby book, which sounds unbelievably ambitious, except that I discovered a company (and when I say that I "discovered" it, I obviously mean that a nurse my husband used to work with gave him a catalog to give to me, and then I forgot to look at it for about two years) that allows you to make individual 12x12 scrapbook pages online, and then they'll print and send them to you. It's fabulous. (The company is Studio J. And no, they didn't pay me to say this. But if they want to give me free stuff, I won't say no. You know, just in case they're reading my blog.)

If you make your own baby book, you can look like a super mom because you've recorded the dates of events like "first time in a lake" and "first high five" and not like a slacker mom because you forgot to record when your child "first ran with confidence" or "first said 'I won't'." (Those were really in my husband's baby book. Who writes these things anyway? Seriously.) The problem, of course, is actually remembering to write down the dates for random, vaguely interesting milestones. Enter my good idea (which, in all honesty, I can't totally take credit for.)

After Lucas was born, my mother-in-law brought him some cute gifts that she had gotten him from the Hallmark store, and in the bag with the gifts was this little datebook:

Yes, I wrote the word "Lucas's" over the phrase "Life is a Special Occasion." (Also, yes, the extra "s" does belong after the apostrophe to make "Lucas" possessive. I promise.)

So I stuck the datebook in Lucas's diaper bag, and every time he did something amazing (which, let's be honest, was every day), I could just write it in the appropriate date square in the datebook immediately instead of hoping I'd remember which things belonged in the baby book AND hoping that I remembered to write them in whenever I got around to it. Plus, since I had the diaper bag at all of his pediatrician appointments, I could immediately write down his height and weight at each appointment rather than trying to remember to write it in the baby book at home... which I wouldn't have remembered to do, so Lucas's baby book would've looked like mine, where my mom recorded my height and weight at birth, 9 months, and four years old.

I also used the book to keep track of when he tried new foods for the first time so that I could check for potential allergies. Just thought I'd share in case you were wondering why "first ate tomato paste and onion powder" seemed like a momentous occasion to me.

So instead of trying to remember if "First time someone said baby looks like a dinosaur while crawling" or "First time baby gave someone a wet willy" is in the baby book and then remembering to write them down, they are now in the calendar, and I can transfer them to the scrapbook later... if I ever get around to it.

Anyway, my advice to new moms is to stick a small calendar in your purse or diaper bag. Or just go ahead and pre-apologize to your kids for the fact that their baby books are mostly blank.

Obligatory Royal Baby Post

Apparently all of the babies born in England on the same day as the yet-to-be-named royal baby will get a special silver coin struck by the British mint. Of all the rotten luck. Lucas was born 17 months too early and on the wrong continent. So close!

Since we haven't seen any pictures of William and Kate's new baby, let's look at my baby instead. I'll always be a bit biased and think that this baby is cuter than any other I've ever seen:

Unless and until we have another one, of course. Which is not happening yet.... just so we're clear.

Why am I awake at 12:45am? Discuss amongst yourselves.

This post is about saliva... and poop

Before you have a baby, you will inevitably hear the following phrase in regards to dealing with baby poop: "It's different when it's your own child." The point is that you will be less grossed out (or ideally, not at all grossed out) by your own child's poop. Honestly, I don't think it's the fact that it's your own child's poop that keeps you from gagging uncontrollably when you change a diaper, but rather that if you deal with anything gross 4,397 times a day, you become desensitized.

I have always been horribly grossed out by saliva. Absolutely repulsed. Naturally, I was blessed with the drooliest child the world has ever seen. I'll put a new shirt on him, and within about 45 seconds, it looks like I dunked his chest in a river just for the heck of it. And people will say things like, "Oh my gosh! I've never seen a child drool that much! He is covered with saliva!" And I'll be like, "Huh! I hadn't noticed!" Both he and I spend most of our days covered in his saliva. And not shockingly, I don't mind at all. (Random story: A few months ago, my friend Teri came over to our house with her son Thomas. Thomas is 4 months older than Lucas and significantly less drooly. The two boys were sitting on the floor playing, and Lucas drooled a long string of drool that had some sort of food in it, and it landed in a glob on the rug. And Thomas, who was about 17 months old at the time, looked at the puddle of saliva on the floor and started gagging. I have never seen a toddler so disgusted in my life. It was hilarious.)

Anyway, I thought that my lack of repulsion regarding my child's saliva was because of the whole "it's different when it's your own child" phenomenon I've heard so much about. And then we had Lucas's first birthday party. We sang "Happy Birthday" and then I blew out the candle on Lucas's cupcake. Our friends Cory and Eva's son Paxton reached up for the candle, and since everyone knows that the only purpose of birthday candles is to give kids something to lick the icing off of, I handed it to him. Except that instead of licking it, he took a giant bite out of it. And automatically, I held out my hand under his mouth and said, "Spit it out, Pax." Yes, that's right. I - the woman for whom handling saliva would have seemed like a strange and incredibly cruel form of torture before I had my son - actually told someone else's child to spit in my hand. And I neither gagged nor vomited. That's what personal growth looks like, friends.

So if you have some sort of weird and slightly embarrassing phobia involving a bodily fluid, having a child will probably cure you. But therapy is a lot cheaper.

Because apparently I don't blog regularly...

Here are some highlights from my oh-so-thrilling life that you might have missed if you are one of my five readers who aren't Facebook friends with me...

So now you're all caught up on my life. Hope the excitement wasn't too much for you. Maybe you should go lie down.

Things that are only exciting if you're a mom...

I should probably note that he has absolutely no interest in TV and never watches it, and I usually only get to shower while he's sleeping. So this felt kind of like winning the lottery.

Letter to me...

Little man is sick. He has had a fever for several days and now he has some sort of rash. I got six hours of sleep last night, and then rocked a squirmy, angry, sick toddler for two hours this morning while we tried to get some more sleep. I haven't showered, and I think I probably stink. L is napping now, and I tried to nap, too, but between the giant cup of coffee I had this morning and constantly thinking that I hear the cry of a sick little boy who needs me, I can't fall asleep. So instead, I am writing this letter to myself, pre-baby. Please give me grace on any typos.

Dear Not-Yet-a-Mommy Bethany,

You need to know a few things. First of all - having a baby is going to be hard. Really, really hard. You are going to be tired. Scratch that. You are going to be exhausted. Plan on nine months of never once completing a full sleep cycle. Seriously.

There will be days that you wish you could run away from home. Go ahead and cry to Dan and your mom and your friends. You will quickly find out that they've all had days like that, and they don't think you're a bad person for feeling that way. They will make you laugh and tell you it gets better, and they'll be right.

You are going to learn a lot of things about yourself, and a lot of them are things you don't want to know. You are much less patient than you think you are, and a lot more selfish. You know how you're kind of a mess when you get panicked? That gets much worse when you become a mom, so you'll need to work on that. (When you are in Home Depot during a tornado and the employees rush everyone to the back of the store, do not stop pushing the stroller and try desperately to get Baby L out of it. Let Dan calmly push the stroller to the employee break room, and then you can hold your baby. You'll all be fine. I promise.)

But there's one thing I can't prepare you for, and that's how madly in love you're going to be with your child. You'll get your first small glimpse of that when you're pregnant and substitute teaching a gym class and you get hit in the face with a basketball. And your first thought, before "is my nose broken?" and even "wow that hurts!" will be, "thank God it didn't hit my stomach!" It won't be until hours later that it will suddenly hit you how strange it was that the first thing you felt when a basketball hit you in the face was thankfulness.

And when they hand your son to you for the first time after a long labor and an unplanned c-section, you will tell him that he was worth it.

And all of the bad stuff that I talked about before? He's worth that, too. So don't be scared. You are going to have bad days, but your son will be worth all of that and then some.

Now go take a nap; you don't have many more chances for that, so do it while you still can.

Love,
Bethany

In Honor of My Husband

I love my husband. I've never made a secret of that. I'm very much a "wear your heart on your sleeve" kind of girl. So if sappy stuff makes you gag, you might want to skip this post. Because I'm going to tell you why I'm thankful for my husband today.

Today I am thankful for my husband because he spent 20 minutes vacuuming the floor. Not because it needed to be vacuumed, but because our little man has a fever of 102.6, and the vacuum is his favorite thing ever. So Dan ran the vacuum to help L feel better.

This child loves vacuums.

Today I am thankful for my husband because last night he worked until 1 am and then came home and assembled a kitchen chair.

Today I am thankful for my husband because he gave me a back massage this morning while L was napping without me even having to beg. (Ok, I may have begged a little.)

As of this month, we have been "together" for nine years (married for six), and I'm still finding new reasons to be thankful for him. So this post is for Danny, who will only read it if I make him. Thanks, baby!

Who are you thankful for today?

Just like me

One thing about being a parent that is both fantastic and terrifying is seeing the ways that your child is like you. It's fun to play the game "Whose eyes/mouth/cheeks/nose does L have?" and I'm thrilled that he shares my love of books and cheese (not necessarily together,) but I have a few personality traits that I'd prefer he didn't inherit.

For example, anyone who knows me well knows that I can be (the teeny, tiniest bit) over dramatic at times and that I have a tendency to cry fairly easily.

A short list of things that have made me cry: a tuxedo commercial, more books that I can count, the wedding episode of "My Fair Brady," looking at L, a fashion show at a bridal expo, being tired, and not cooking chicken for Dan. (Although to be fair, that last one was while I was pregnant, so my hormones were a little more out of control than normal.)

L is also over dramatic (and considering that all babies cry for no good reason, that's saying a lot), and I can't be sure if it's genetics or from observing me. Dan once said (jokingly... I think) that L was going to think that the normal way to talk was in a high-pitched, abnormally excited voice, since that's the way I always talk to him. Hopefully L will become more like his even-keeled daddy as he gets older. But heaven help us all if we someday have a girl who's like me! I don't know that Dan could handle two of me.

Have your kids inherited any characteristics from you that you wish they hadn't inherited? If so, what are they?

Thank God it's Friday! Oh, wait...

The other day on Facebook, I shared one of my favorite things about being a mom:

So in the interest of full disclosure, now it's time to share one of my less-favorite things. No weekends! I mean, weekends still exist, of course, but they're not a day off. And my brain seems to be taking its sweet time adjusting to that concept, so I still occasionally think, "Oh man, I'm so glad it's Friday!" and then I remember that Fridays are now meaningless and I don't get to sleep in late on Saturday morning.

Waking up to this face does help to soften the blow, though:

No, he doesn't sleep in that hat.

So happy Friday to those of you for whom Friday still has meaning! I'll probably have a wild, crazy night of watching Project Runway reruns while cleaning the kitchen. It's ok to be jealous.

Post number five, in which I explain why my child wasn't wearing any pants.

Last week, we had a fabulous time visiting family at the beach! But as every mom knows, packing for vacation with a baby or toddler requires at least twice as much luggage as a vacation without children, and you still inevitably forget something. Pants, for example.

Ok, so I didn't actually forget to bring pants on vacation. But one night we all went out to dinner at a delicious seafood restaurant (Sara J's), and Dan and I shoved a bunch of L's things into a little bag to take with us. Toys? Check. Cheerios? Check. Diapers and wipes? Check. Disposable covers for use on bathroom changing tables because I am grossed out by them even when they look clean? Check. Spare clothes? Um, no.

Under normal circumstances, I have enough spare clothes in L's diaper bag for at least five babies, often in a variety of sizes (since I shove outfits in there and then forget to take them back out until six months after L has outgrown them), but since we weren't carrying his normal diaper bag, I somehow forgot to pack spare clothes for the restaurant... which was 30 minutes away from my sister's house. We had also chosen this particular day to try out a store brand of diapers instead of the Pampers we usually use because they were buy one get one free and a "much better deal" (side note - it turns out that the cheap diapers are not actually a better deal if they don't prevent poop from coming out of the top and legs.)

At this point, you've already figured out what happened, but I'll tell you anyway. While we were waiting for our food, L started to get a little fussy in the high chair, so I took him out. It was then that my family noticed a suspicious stain on his onesie and pants. Dan and I then realized that neither of us had brought a change of clothes for L. My first stop was to the restaurant's gift shop to ask if they had any clothes for babies. They didn't, obviously. (Note to Sara J's- I would've paid an exorbitant sum for a toddler-sized t-shirt.)

So we ended up changing L's diaper in the trunk of my sister's car and then dressing him in... a jacket. And I got to be the awesome mom whose kid wasn't wearing pants. Which obviously had to be commemorated with this picture:

Stranger anxiety for moms

If you are pregnant with your first child or are a new mom (and by new mom, I mean "a mom with less than my whopping 13 months of mom experience"), I am about to let you in on a little secret: complete strangers know more about caring for your child than you do.

I have no idea what I'm doing.

It sounds weird, I know, but it's absolutely true. You're the woman who grew the child in her uterus from a microscopic little blob to a full grown baby whose presence caused your stomach to break out in purple stretch marks that faintly resembled a road map of the United States. Since you first saw two pink lines on a pregnancy test, you've likely spent every waking moment (and many sleeping ones) worrying that you weren't doing EXACTLY the right thing for your child and googling a million variations of "can I use hair spray while I'm pregnant?" And of course that worrying only intensified when your baby was brought, wrinkled and crying, into the world. Or perhaps you adopted your child, and before you ever even learned of her existence, you were spending hours researching the very best way to care for her every need so that you would be ready to be the best mommy humanly possible at a moment's notice. You are probably the only person in the world for whom a description of the color of your baby's eyes requires a minimum of three adjectives.* You've spent literally hundreds of hours just staring at your baby (or you will once your baby is born), and just from the pitch and volume of your baby's cry, you can often tell exactly why he is crying in under 30 seconds. But none of that matters. Because complete strangers - people who have never so much as laid eyes on your child until right this second - are the ones who are the experts on what your baby needs.

How do I know? Because they will approach out of the blue you and tell you exactly what you should be doing for a baby that they may mistakenly think is a girl even if he is wearing a onesie that says "Mommy's little man." Or, even worse, they will loudly criticize your parenting within earshot.

Here's an example: Last September, I was taking a walk around our neighborhood with L in the ErgoBaby carrier. It was 64 degrees (I know this because I checked as soon as I got home.) In addition to being pressed up against my torso, L was wearing fleece pajamas, a sweatshirt, and a hat. I had been walking for about five minutes when I passed a 30-something man and a woman who were walking together in the opposite direction. As soon as we had passed each other, the woman said loudly, "It is WAY too cold to have a baby out here!" Imagine how grateful I was to have overheard her! See, up until that point, I thought that the fact that I can tell whether L is cold simply by listening to him breathe** was a sufficient indication of whether or not I was mistreating my child by bringing him out into frigid mid-60's weather, but it turns out that the only one who is capable of determining if my son is warm enough is a woman I've only ever seen that one time who may or may not have children of her own. You'd be a fool to ignore that kind of expertise!

He's freezing.

So here is my advice for new moms: Go to a crowded place. A grocery store or shopping mall will work fine. Then just stand there with your baby. It helps if your baby is only wearing one sock (or better yet, no socks at all.) Before you know it, helpful people will be swarming all over you to tell you what you're doing wrong.

Or you can save yourself the trouble of knowing how very little you know about your own child and remain in blissful ignorance by buying this onesie:

*For the record, L's eyes are a beautiful hazel-y greenish gray, darker toward the outside of his iris and lighter in the middle, with little brown flecks. They're kind of a mix of my eyes and Dan's eyes.
**When he is cold, L will periodically breathe in a quick little gasp. Just so you know. Apparently that's not helpful information, though.


Disclaimer - I am often genuinely appreciative of advice from people I know in real life, even if I don't follow it. Criticism from complete strangers? Not so much.

"Married to Medicine"

Many of you saw this post on my Facebook page about a month ago:

Well after I got over the fact that Bravo shunned me, I decided that I could still capitalize on the reality show material that is my life. After all, I'm almost exactly as glamorous as the women on the show. Take Friday for example - I started off the day with an oatmeal hair mask designed to make my hair silky and shiny for my next social event. I mean, if you want to get technical about it, it wasn't so much an "oatmeal hair mask" as it was Gerber oatmeal spit out by my son. And my next social event involved a play date for two one-year-old boys. But still. Toe-may-toe, toe-mah-toe. 

In case you want to see the trailer, you can see it here. But really, you don't need to watch the trailer, because you can get a sneak peek into the life of a real doctor's wife right here on this very blog! Sure, I spend more time reading "How Loud is a Lion?" than sipping champagne while wearing diamonds and a fur coat. And yes, I typically wear yoga pants and slippers instead of an evening gown and stilettos. But the point is that we doctors' wives are a glamorous bunch. And as evidenced on the show's trailer, it's our style to use the phrase "doctor's wife" at least once every three sentences. Otherwise, how would anyone ever know how glamorous and sophisticated we truly are? I'm so glad that someone finally made a show about doctor's wives so that they could perpetuate the idea that doctors are raking money in hand over fist and don't owe a quarter of a million dollars in medical school loans.*

In conclusion, I would just like to say - "doctor's wife."

*When Dan was applying to medical schools, a financial representative at one of the schools said, "We prefer to call it '$250,000 in debt' instead of 'a quarter of a million in debt' because it sounds better." And he's right, when you put it that way, it gives you the warm, fuzzy feeling that you'll be paying off debt for the rest of your natural life.

Sleep and Other Mommy Fairy Tales

Well, here it is. I'm blogging again.

(I'll pause here so that you can applaud and then wipe the tears of joy from your eyes.)

I almost always have something to say, and since L still hasn't learned to appreciate my random stories (we're working on it), I'm sharing them with you fine folks! You're welcome.

In case anyone was wondering about the title of my blog (if you weren't, pretend you were), here's the scoop: while I was pregnant and after L was first born, I (like every other mom in the world, I'm sure) was constantly told "Make sure you sleep when the baby sleeps!" And at 4am, I (like every other mom in the world, I'm sure) often found myself wondering "And when exactly is the baby going to sleep???" Added to that was the fact that for months, L would only nap while I held him, bounced up and down vigorously, patted his back nonstop, and made ridiculously loud shushing noises*. Needless to say, I didn't get much sleep for a very long time, and I still feel like someone owes me some naps.

Stay tuned for random stories from my life. But only if you want to. I promise I won't demand to know whether you've read my latest post next time I see you. I'm polite like that.




*This is only a slight exaggeration. 

Credit for the title of this post goes to my brilliant mom. She suggested it as a title for the blog, but thankfully, sleep is no longer a fairy tale for me. I got 10 hours of it last night! It was glorious.