A photo journal comprised of my thoughts on motherhood and other life happenings, as well as some of professional work as a photographer. Southern California is home.
I’ve been waiting since Van has been born for the boys to pay attention to one another. I worried about jealousy when Van was born, but surprisingly, Hooper did not exhibit any resentment toward his brother. With the exception of about a weeks worth of random hitting, he was gentle and kind.
Now that Van is sitting, he’s playing with more toys. And, for the first time, these boys are starting to build a relationship. And so the days of refereeing between these two has begun.
But it’s not all negative. As I type this, in fact, Hooper is howling like a coyote and throwing a ball in the air and Van is sitting, watching, and hysterically laughing.
I started this blog, first and foremost, for my boys. So, in addition to doing a monthly update on each of them, I also want to start tracking their relationship. I’m hoping to do this on at least a monthly basis, but we’ll see how it goes.
Dear Hooper, this month your brother is your number one fan. Dear Van, this month your brother is your number one toy stealer.
Wearing: A vintage dress, these sandals, Dooney & Burke vintage purse.
Searching for acceptence. My postpartum body is foreign to me and I struggle on a daily basis to accept it for what it is. I remember Melissa saying it felt like someone put her body back together using an Ikea manual and I couldn’t agree with this analogy more.
Counting down the days. I know, from past experience, that I’ll miss it when I’m done but today I cannot wait to be done breastfeeding. I miss the freedom.
Listening to Johnny Cash, “I’ve Been Everywhere”, while daydreaming about a roadtrip to Palm Springs in the relatively near future with this girl.
We showed up to the beach the other morning totally unprepared. There’s a lot I’ve learned since becoming a mom, but one of the most important is this: pack the night before and think ahead. I did neither. Thus, we arrived at the beach Monday morning looking more like we were going to play at the park on a cold winter day. Clearly I had delusions of grandeur thinking I could handle both babes and Sarah. We met a friend down there with her two boys and their dog because it’s always better to have a friend that has delusions of grandeur as well. In any case, we came with pants and sweaters. Then Hoop rocked the t-shirt and diaper. Realizing I didn’t bring any Kleenex, his shirt quickly became the snot rag and when Van spit up, I used it for that too. So Hooper ended the day in his diaper, which he really shouldn’t have had anyway because we’re trying to do the whole underwear thing. I ended the day feeling like a lazy and unprepared mom. How do so many do this motherhood thing? And how do so many do it so eloquently? Hash tag: Still learning.
I received some great comments to my post on the terrible twos and, since writing the post, things have improved. Over the course of just a few days, there have been major improvements (most notably is the fact Willy has return from his business trip). Hooper can still be a little pistol at times, but my perspective is in a better place to deal with the asshole-ish behavior. Here are some things that I learned from ya’ll that have really helped reshape my perspective and some other tips for handling Hooper when my new perspective alone isn’t enough:
It can get worse. Age 3 seems to have nothing on age 2 and one reader commented that 7 year-olds are just plain weird and even annoying.
Follow through on threats. This suggestion was repeated throughout. I’m far from a push over and my problem was not with the follow through, but rather with making threats. We had been doing the time out in the corner, but clearly threats are where it’s at. I’ve started with threatening no TV if he kicks me while I change his diaper. Truth be told, I hope he kicks because I hate TV. I’ll “allow” him to kick me once, then I’ll reiterate the threat, and if he kicks again, it’s game over. I explain the consequence clearly and when he brings me the remotes and asks for a show, I reiterate it all once again. Surprisingly, he hasn’t put up much of a fight. I’ve heard before that children actually thrive when given boundaries and I believe I’m starting to see this in action.
Readers Plum and Amanda suggested rewarding normal behavior. This gave me a good chuckle because it assumes (and rightfully so) that the good behavior is the exception. I was just telling Willy yesterday that we need to decide and be consistent with what we scold him for because if we scold the big stuff and the little stuff, we’d be scolding him constantly. Rewarding normal behavior kinda flips this all on it’s head and allows you scold for the big things and intermix a few rewards for the normal behavior. I like that. It sucks being the bad guy all the live long day, so I’m all for reinforcing the good. I love to keep it positive and it’s nice to see a light from the reprimanding hole I had been buried in.
Stay flexible, as reader Jessica said, discipline is a moving target. What works one day isn’t always going to work the next. Accepting this realization seems to immediately give me more patience; patience that seemed to be wavering.
Reader Tamera suggested tickling it out. This was the first thing I tried as Hooper repeatedly kicked me as I changed his diaper. And you know what?, it worked. He kicked, I tickled, we laughed, I changed his diaper, and we went on with our day. It was such a relief. Granted, the next time the same event occurred it didn’t work and then a threat was made and then a threat was carried out. Nevertheless, it was nice to have a positive starting ground. I wish the need for affection was the answer to every toddler episode… I love nothing more than cuddling my little guys.
Reader Megan talked about how, as parents, we kind of own the infantile stage. They’re our little babies and we control much of their lives. At the ripe age of 2, she reminded me, they start to transition into their own independent beings. The tantrum phase is developmental and though Hooper may need to be disciplined throughout it, he also needs my support as he transitions into his own person. Hitting, kicking, refusing, throwing… they’re all experiments a two year old uses to eventually decipher right from wrong. They need to learn what produces a positive response and what produces a negative response, and the consequences for each. Knowledge is power.
I used to work at a daycare that followed some philosophy that did not believe in saying “no” to a child. We were not allowed to use the word at the daycare and in its place we were instructed to use redirection. It worked a lot of the time and I am now reminded of its benefits. I do, however, reserve the right to use “no” but I think it is more effective when reserved for the big things.
When all else fails, drink. I spend much of my afternoon dreaming about a big glass of wine. In reality, by the time I’ve put Van to bed and I’m able to have a drink without worrying about my baby also having a drink, I’m ready to hit the ol’ hay too. Sometimes a good nights rest is even better than a glass of wine, but not always.
Understanding toddlerhood is a learning experience for both of us. While Hooper’s experimenting with his behavior, I’m experimenting with how to most effectively deal with it. Not all days are going to be good days, but with my new found perspective and some tricks up my sleeve, I’m feeling much better about things. So thank you all, your comments always mean a lot to me.
Hooper has changed overnight. Like seriously, he’s a new kid. I started writing a post on the “terrible twos” just two days ago and it’s already outdated as I described him from being far from “terrible”. Today, he’s all kinds of terrible. I feel as though the toddler gods fill you up with all kinds of love and attachment and patience during the first two years because they know you’ll need to pull some from your reserves when your child turns two and you don’t like them anymore. I called Hooper an asshole today. Not to his face, of course, but more times than I should have behind his back.
What kind of behavior warrants calling your two year old an asshole, you wonder? I’ve been smacked in the face. A lot. It almost always occurs when I’m holding him and looking for a little affection; Affection he used to give me all the time. It also happens when I drop down to his level to put him in check. There’s nothing more infuriating than scolding your child only to get smacked in the face as if to say, “Yeah mom, I heard what you said but please allow my hand across your face to remind you that I don’t give a shit”. I’ve had to take a lot of deep breaths these last few days.
Other things he’s doing that are pissing me off and making me turn to wine at the end of the day even though I feel like turning to a whole bottle of wine to start my day (and yes, that is intentionally a run-on sentence): Throwing toys, spitting, spitting out his milk, taking toys from his brother, hitting Sarah, and kicking me while changing his diaper. He has also started to fold his arms across his chest as if to say, “Go suck a dick, I’m not happy”, only he still uses this body language at inappropriate times so I guess it’s still endearing; but the endearing part is still debatable.
Much of parenting is a learn-as-you-go process. We had been punishing him by putting him in the corner and calmly explaining that we can’t hit or throw or whatever. Then we’d count to ten and end the time out with a hug, after making him say “sorry”. I no longer have the patience to calmly scold; now I put him in the corner and yell, for emphasis ya know? But clearly, it’s not working. Counting to ten has done nothing other than teach him how to count. Seriously, he counted clear as day to six yesterday. That’s probably when his attention span runs out, otherwise he’d know that seven ate nine. So, I turn to my lovely readers for the touchy subject of how to discipline your lovely toddler. Please share your opinions and suggestions.
Hey Hooper, just for the record, Van is my new favorite. Shape up, you little asshole.
Wearing: This dress is from ModCloth. I wore it in the beginning of my pregnancy with Van. I paired it with black leggings and some old black suede boots that I’ve had for years. Dresses with pockets are always my favorite. And, as an added bonus, Hooper likes the birds on it and refers to me as “prit-tee” when I wear it. It goes without saying that I want to wear it everyday and if it weren’t for the spit up, I probably would.
Celebrating: My hair is growing back. I’ve bitched and moaned long enough and finally the postpatum hairloss gods have heard my cries. On top of my head are tiny little sprouts of hair yearning to make me look ridiculous in the months to come, like little antennas endlessly searching for a signal.
Recovering: Hooper, Van, and I all have colds. This has resulted in Van not taking solids, which has resulted in more nighttime feedings in addition to cough attacks due to post nasal drip. This, in turn, has resulted in complete and utter exhaustion for me, as well as a decrease in patience. Hooper’s been testing boundaries left and right as of late, so yeah, hoping we can all be healthy again soon.
Dreading: Willy has been working a lot. He took on a new position at the company he works for and it’s meant longer days and weekend business trips. He is out of town right now and, let me tell you, this single parent thing sucks.
Wanting: More energy. I’m not a coffee drinker. I’m thinking I should tell my taste buds to kiss my ass and throw back a few of those espresso shots like they were shots of vodka in my college days.
Listening: Lucero, “She Wakes When She Dreams”. I’m such a sucker for a deep raspy voice. His voice brings tears to my eyes and forces me to listen, and then hit repeat.
Trying: To shake the travel bug. I’ve been daydreaming of far away places and though the possibility feels at least a year or so away, I’m banking on the fact that time has been flying.
Juggling: Diapers vs. underwear. Not for myself; For Hooper. Some days I just don’t have the potty training energy. He is doing really well, however, and I owe ya’ll a round three update. You can read about round one and two, if you wish.
Side note: A friendly reminder that the giveaway to etsy shop Moonbeatle ends tomorrow. You can enter five different ways to win FORTY SMACK-ER-ROOS to Fritha’s lovely store. You can’t win if you don’t enter.
I wonder if the magic of being a parent ever wears off? It seems that Willy and I still look at each other in disbelief over all we have created. My mom giggled the other day and painted a dirty nasty picture when she said, “Wait until one of them tells you they hate you”. I told my mom I hated her; I was 16 and I thought I was the cats meow. I also remember the time my mom forced me to take a picture in front of my car on the first day I drove myself to school. I flipped the camera off because I was so angry that she wanted to capture the moment. My mom did nothing but annoy me in my teenage years despite the fact that today she is a huge, and welcomed, part of my life (cheers to growing up and maturing, right?). I want to burst into tears at the mere thought that karma is a effin’ bitch and the time will likely come when I’ll be on the receiving end.
Ready for a dose of honesty? It took me longer to love Van than it did Hooper. I was a bit surprised by it because everything I read, prior to giving birth, talked about how your love multiplies rather than divides and blah blah blah. It wasn’t like that for me; not right away, at least.
When I was handed Hooper, on the operating room table, I loved him instantly. I immediately felt protective. And despite his swollen face and cone shaped head, I thought he was the most beautiful thing alive.
None of this is to say that my love for Van wasn’t instant as well. It was. I felt protective of him too. But there was a difference.
I learned, through loving Hooper, that my capacity for love on the day he was born piddled in comparison to the love I had for him just a few months later. It’s like the song says, I love him more today than yesterday but not as much as tomorrow.
So when Van was born, I loved him, but I knew that love would only grow bigger; I knew the love I had that day was naive to the love it would grow to be.
And I was right. Because the love I have for this little guy today blows any emotion that I referred to as love before out of the water. Right around the third to fourth month of life, he stole my heart. And now, at six months, he owns me.
{My new favorite top because it has polka dots and is breastfeeding friendly. It’s vintage, from Threading Marigolds, and was a Christmas gift from my sister.}
My house is an absolute mess right now. I’ve called two separate cleaning companies. I’ve left three messages with one and two with the other. My third message to the first company wasn’t very nice and I’m assuming they won’t be calling me back. If they do, I’d probably tell them to fuck off anyway. So while I’m impatiently waiting for the other company to return my call, books are strewn about the floor in every room, the dishwasher is waiting to be emptied, dirty dishes are piled up in the sink, empty plates from last nights dinner are still on the table, clean laundry is getting wrinklfied in the dryer because it has yet to be taken out and folded, Hooper has pissed all over the place the past two days (dear potty training, you’re really helping the cause), Sarah woke up and barfed this morning, and oh ya, there’s those ingredients for homemade cookies waiting patiently on the counter to be baked. The dirty mess has become the norm and while it is disgusting and killing my creativity, it is actually the un-baked cookies I want to talk about.
You see, I planned on baking them with Hooper for Christmas. I bought cookie cutters in the shape of snowflakes and stars just for this occasion. And on the counter still sits the flour, the baking soda, the vanilla extract, sprinkles, frosting, and those cookie cutters. Everyday that I enter the kitchen, I look first at the pile of dirty dishes and then I notice the unbaked cookies and, well, it makes me feel like a failure of a mom. Why can’t my house stay clean? Or, more importantly, why won’t the damn cleaning companies call me back? And why can’t I make the time to bake those fucking cookies with my son?
My sister shared an article with me recently titled, “Why You’re Never Failing as a Mother”. It’s written by Amy Morrison from the Pregnant Chicken and it’s a fantastic article. I re-read it again this morning in hopes of not feeling like a piece of shit mom.
While the article agrees that mothers have been mothers for a long time, Amy adds that parents today face a greater deal of scrutiny than ever before.
She writes, “As for the past generations that like to tell you that they raised six kids on their own and did it without a washing machine? Well, sort of. Keep in mind child rearing was viewed pretty differently not that long ago and you could stick a toddler on the front lawn with just the dog watching and nobody would bat an eye at it — I used to walk to the store in my bare feet to buy my father’s cigarettes when I was a kid. As a mother, you cooked, you cleaned, but nobody expected you to do anything much more than keep your kids fed and tidy”.
Nowadays, motherhood seems to involve much more and there’s an underlying pressure to keep up with what is perceived as the norm. This false norm includes things like breastfeeding for a year or more, wearing your baby everywhere as opposed to using a stroller, cloth diapering, co-sleeping, making homemade baby food (and make sure it’s organic), teaching your baby sign language and a foreign language, reading books on parenting (Is your baby the happiest on the block?), and maintaining a career, a happy marriage, and a spotless home. Just the other day I read that parents are doing something called “elimination communication” and teaching their SEVEN month old how to shit in the toilet. I mean seriously? No, really, seriously? I’m serious. I know, I know, it’s crazy. I want to scream at the top of my lungs, “Stop raising the bar you mommy war freaks!”.
No one has said it better than Amy herself, “Feeling like you also need to keep on top of scrapbooking, weight loss, up-cycled onesies, handprints, crock pot meals, car seat recalls, sleeping patterns, poo consistency, pro-biotic supplements, swimming lessons, electromagnetic fields in your home and television exposure is like trying to knit on a rollercoaster — it’s f*cking hard”.
I follow the lovely Naomi from Rockstar Diaries on instagram and couldn’t believe the scrutiny she received for taking a photo of her child in the infamous bumbo seat without the safety buckle, which is actually a separate piece that has been added because of one of those silly recalls. I mean here is an adorable mom taking a photo of her adorable child and her very own followers are giving her shit for not following up with a recall for a seat her child is sure to outgrow in another month?! It’s sad that many mommy bloggers now feel they have to sensor what they share for fear of being scrutinized by their own readers. It’s a recipe for a seemingly shallow blog when, in actuality, the scrutiny they’ve faced is the culprit behind many of the untold stories.
When did we all turn against each other? What’s with this mommy war business?
So the take home message is this: Don’t be so hard on yourself. I’ve always stood firm in my belief that we all do the best we can as mothers. The decisions we make are the decisions we individually feel are best or need to make in an effort to maintain our own sanity (and that’s okay too).
One of these days Hooper and I will tackle those Christmas cookies. I hear snowflake shaped cookies taste the same in spring as they do in winter so rather than beat myself up every time I walk past those ingredients on the counter, I’m going to pretend that they’re actually whispering, “Ready when you are”.
Go pat yourself on the back. We all deserve it. And have a glass of wine tonight. I’ll join you. And we can all think of one another. Are you getting the kumbaya feeling? I am.
Side note: Standings are reset over on Top Baby Blogs… So it’s time for me to beg and plead for your votes once again. The Stork placed in 7th this last quarter so now I’m setting my sights on top 5. I know, I know, I’m crazy. Vote for me and I’ll bake you a damn snowflake cookie sometime this year. No, really, thanks for all your support. I’ve watched my blog slowly inch it’s way up which means that a handful of ya’ll are voting on a consistent basis and that really makes my world a pretty happy place.
So I was motivated to start potty training last week. Yes, I’m already speaking in the past tense. Hooper was ready. I, however, was not.
I remember when we first brought Sarah home. She was three months and we trained her to sleep in a crate. Every morning there would be piss and shit in her crate until we decided we would take turns getting up at 2am to let her out to pee. Eventually she caught on and after a while she was able to hold it until morning. It really wasn’t so difficult, in the end.
Fast forward to two kids later.
I opted to go the naked route, at first. I brought the potty out and sat it in the middle of the room and for the first hour it seemed all we talked about was the potty. I repetitively asked him if he wanted to use it. I encouraged him to sit down on it. I gave him a piece of candy to try to keep him on it. And then he pissed in the corner.
I cleaned it up and thought maybe it would be better to put underwear on him so he could feel what it’s like to be wet. And then he pissed while riding his toy car around.
And then I realized I was too tired from being up the night before with Van and I put a diaper on. Someone please send the bad mom award this way. I know consistency is key so I’m going to tackle it another day… when I have more energy and patience and a few consecutive days off work in a row to really give it the good ol’ fashion try. So yeah, along with the bad mom award can you also send energy, patience, and consecutive days off work?
Looking at my little boy in those undies might be the biggest motivator of all…
And… I do have some consecutive days off work this week, so round 2 is currently in progress. Wish me luck. And share any tips. I have no idea what I’m doing…
Yup, there I am with my baby dolls again. I can see Hooper’s little mischievous face in my own. That rascal. Think my haircut is cool? Yeah, me too (not being sarcastic at all, wink wink). Onto the tidbits…
I used to brush my teeth, slap on some chapstick, and go to bed. Now I wash my pump stuff for the morning, brush my teeth, slap on some chapstick, and turn on my baby monitors. Yes, monitors is pleural.
Woman are the superior sex. They just are. I never had such admiration for other woman until I became a mom. I used to view men as the king of the households, the warriors, the caretakers. But now I realize woman are the Kings and men are the princesses. And after giving birth, I’m pretty sure all moms are warriors. And I won’t even touch on the caretaker role, because we all know who fills those shoes. So in an attempt to remind mi amor of his manliness, I pretend to be impressed with how he can sit through the pain while being tattooed. And when he suggests that I could never handle the pain, I laugh with visions of two nine pound babies exiting my vagina with no pain medication and say, “ya, probably not”.
Just the other day I was giving the boys an afternoon bath and started to question why I was hungry. My first thought was this: it’s 4 o’clock, past lunch time… What’s wrong with me? My second thought was this: Oh my god, I forgot to make myself lunch. My thrid and final thought was this: It sure sucks we have to take time out of the day to eat. I could get a whole lot more done if I didn’t have mouths to feed, my own included.
Before I became a mom, a productive day consisted of crossing off several items on my to do list. Now, a productive day means I bathed and fed three people. That’s it. It’s been a challenge to accept at times and is probably the reason I feel so behind all the time. It’s hard to watch things marinating on a to do list for days on end.
I have cried over spilt milk only it was breast milk so cut me some slack.
I used to associate silence with wide open spaces, deep thought, and peace. Now, it’s just down right worrisome and means I have to get up off my ass to see what’s going on. Then, nine times out of ten, the previous silence involves some sort of clean up or scolding or something else that’s not fun or peaceful. The exception is nap time, then silence is the most beautiful thing in the world. Especially if I’m lazy enough to nap too.
It takes me a long time to clean the house how I see fit. I usually clean up while Hooper is asleep. Within the first hour of Hooper being awake, it appears as though I’ve done nothing. I have finally excepted the realization that I cannot do it all and, as a result, have given in and decided to hire a housekeeper.
You can view the first post in this series here. Please share tidbits you have learned through the journey of motherhood and I will compile your revelations in a separate post!
Returning to work when you have little munchkins isn’t ideal, right? I can’t see it any other way. From where I stand (cue the ever-so-popular photo of feet standing on a random sidewalk… you know what I’m talking about, right? If not, just write it off as another looney moment for me. The holidays made me crazy. You too? My goodness, this is the longest parenthesized sentence ever. Who the hell knew parenthesized was a word. I had to google that one. Forgive me)… yes, yes, yes, from where I stand, any new mom that looks forward to returning to work is crazy. I’m talkin’ not right in the head. I have yet to meet anyone, mother or father, male or female, that loves their job so much that it’s the first thing they think of when they wake up in the morning and the last thing on their mind before entering dreamland for the night. With that said, I was incredibly anxious about going back to work.
Rewind to the first time I returned to work, after Hooper was born. I took off as much time as I could. Because I don’t live in the UK, this meant I had to return when Hooper was 4 months old. This is quite good by maternity leave standards in the US and everyone here told me I should be grateful. And I was. But that didn’t stop me from breaking down into grown adult crocodile tears when the first person asked about how my baby was. I couldn’t think about him, or talk about him for that matter, without getting choked up. It felt very unnatural to be at work, away from my child that needed me and knew no one better than me.
I found comfort in the fact that my very own parents were watching him and tried hard to sell myself on the idea that it was important for them to build a relationship with him too. I know, I know. Go ahead and roll your eyes. When I put myself in any one elses shoes I think is this bitch really whining about having to leave her children with her own parents? I know a lot of parents out there have to do the day care thing and I know a lot of people are also struggling to find employment. So yeah, don’t get me wrong, I’m incredibly grateful.
I digress, as I typically do.
My realization in returning to work for the second time is this: Everything is easier the second time. Except for the postpartum hair loss. That can kiss my ass just as much this time around. And delivering an over nine pound baby vaginally can do the same.
Dammit (said like Beavis and Butthead), I digress once again.
Let me rephrase my realization: Most things are easier the second time. And returning to work is one of the things that falls into this category.
I shed no tears this time around. And it’s not because I didn’t miss Van, or Hooper, it’s because I’d been in those shoes before. That’s it, plan and simple. Chalk it up to good ol’ life experiences.
Okay, okay, one other thing made returning to work easier as well: part time (two, twelve hour shifts per week). AKA a mother’s dream. AKA the best of both worlds. AKA I work too so you need to help out with the dishes too!… Come on ladies, you know what I’m talking about it. Seriously though, working part time has helped me to enjoy my job more. I may, I said may, have even said returning to work has been a nice break. And if you don’t think working 12 hours on my feet, not eating lunch sometimes until 4 pm, and holding my pee so I can empty other peoples concentrated piss from their foley catheters is a break, well then, you’ve never been a mom. Who’s with me? I’m having one of those moments where I wish we were all sitting around at a huge table, wine glasses (or shot glasses) in hand, raising our glasses in appreciation of one another. Because being a mom is the hardest job of all. F*#k the state for not compensating me for all my rad mom skills. High fives all around.
When I started Hooper’s baby book, in the first month of documentation, I made a list. I’m not type A, by the way, but I do love me some lists. The first list I started was “Things I can’t wait for”. The list included things like reading him his favorite book, hearing his voice, giving him food for the first time (turns out, if I could go back in time, I would have taken that off the list. Total flunk. Totally overrated. Feeding him sucks and now I “can’t wait” until he’s responsible for feeding himself. I digress). In making the list, I realized that what I was doing was dangerous. The moment they are in right now gets overlooked if you’re constantly looking toward the future. So my intention was to get a quick “can’t wait” list out of the way so I could get back to soaking up all the spit up that was indeed my reality at the time. And is now my reality once again.
With two boys, the list of “can’t waits” has transformed to include things that involve both of them. Things on the list today include:
-Building forts
-Overhearing their silly conversations
-Going to a baseball game
-Hearing them bicker and then hearing them stop bickering
-Meeting their mutual friends
-Taking them fishing
-Selling something on the side of the road (hopefully not their bodies or souls. I’m talking about lemonade people, or firewood, or painted rocks)
-Should I dare to hope for a performance of some kind? A brotherly puppet show production, per say? Yes, yes, I can’t wait for that too.
In this moment, can you ignore the fact my mouth was open (my mouth was always open) and that my hair looks like it was cut underneath a lopsided bowel and concentrate on all that is fantastic about this photo? Like the carpet. In particular the color. Burnt orange carpet? Yes, please. Wall to wall sliding glass windows? Yes, sir, I’d like some of those too. And that beautiful potted plant… What I wouldn’t do to pour some water on you. I won’t even mention the plaid tweed sofa cuz that would be too much.
The point of the photo is the baby in my arms. I always had a baby in my arms. Babies always facinated me. Becoming a mother was an easy transition and felt very natural. That’s not to say I haven’t learned things I didn’t anticapate learning, because I’ve learned a ton and none of it was anticipated. When I was a child pretending to care for a child, I knew nothing of what it actually entailed. Now I know a lot. Reality has a way of slapping the nasty truth in your face. So today I’m starting a little segment sharing tidbits I’ve learned as a mom. I’m encouraging everyone to share tidbits you too have learned as a mother in the comments below. If you are not a mother, feel free to share tidbits you’ve learned in watching others take on the role of motherhood. At the end of this little segment, I will compile your responses into a separate post: Tidbits of Motherhood: What You Had To Say. Here we go…
The five minutes of shut eye I get while lying on the table to have my eyebrows tweezed is my new version of a nap. I wish I were being sarcastic.
When I’m running errands by myself, I insist on turning the music up very loud. It matters not what’s playing, just that it’s load. The radio has blessed me with “My Sharona” twice and each time, I glanced upward to the mom gods and whispered “thank you”.
As much as I hate my role as the boss of the family, there is no two ways around it, I am the boss. Ho hum.
I no longer have my own car. This is not to say we don’t have two cars. We live in southern California. We practically have to have two cars. But, because of our members and their special munchkin seats, we are constantly swapping vehicles. I adjust the rear view mirror every time I get in the car and it never feels quite right.
We’ve adopted and named our own kind of parenting. It’s called humor parenting. And it works by conjuring up ridiculous ways to assign motherly and fatherly tasks. Like if Hoop has a shitty diaper, we both put our hands up, side by side, and simultaneously ask for a high five. Whoever he high-fives first has to change his shit.
When Willy has to wait in the car while I finish getting ready, I no longer make excuses. I’m a mom. And therefore I’m entitled to try on as many different outfits on my new mom figure as I want.
This post is old. If it had hair, it’d be gray. It’s been sitting in my draft folder while I fumbled around with the idea of posting it or keeping it for myself. I don’t care to air out Willy and I’s dirty laundry. The more I’ve thought about it, however, the feelings presented have more to do with motherhood than anything else. In any case, Willy and I have moved on from where we were when I wrote this. I’m sure many of you can relate and that is why I have decided to share this post with you. Here we go…
Both of my parents owned their own business. Because of this, I knew from a young age that I never wanted my own business. That’s because I never want to be boss. I like the idea of clocking in and clocking out and leaving work both figuratively and literally.
What I didn’t realize when I became a mom is that I also became a boss. Becoming a mom is by far my greatest accomplishment. I rarely talk about the downsides of motherhood because truth be told, there aren’t many.
Except that I have become the boss.
I loathe that role.
And it happened by default. I realized it following this conversation the other morning:
Me: “Maybe you could set an alarm to wake up before 10am to help me out on Saturday and Sunday mornings”.
Willy: “Why didn’t you wake me up?”
I’ll save you the details of the hissy fit that followed and say that I answered with, “Because I’m not your boss”. Somehow it’s become my duty as a mom to manage our lives. That’s the role of a boss after all, right?
And by boss I mean I’m the nagger, the organizer, and the sleep deprived over-worked worker. I’m the one that goes to bed at night still thinking about my business.
And by business I mean my household. I run over things that need to be done the next day and how to do them most efficiently. I multi-task, because you know, I’m a mother.
I love my role as mom. I hate my role as boss. Yet it’s my role as mom that gave birth to my role as boss.
I’m sure I’m not the first mom to feel this way. My gut tells me this is all too common. So I turn to ya’ll. I want to hear your thoughts. And advice.
Ignore the fact we both have rubber duckies in the photos above. Total coincidence. I always thought Hooper was a pretty good mix of both of us and based on the fact Van looks pretty dang similar to Hooper as a baby, I assume the same will be true for him. But after looking at our baby photos, I’m thinkin’ these boys look a lot more like their Papa. What do you think?
We have a special giveaway today from our friends over at Cuddle Smart Antimicrobial Baby Products. All of their baby products are engineered from Argent 47™antimicrobial silver yarn, that eliminates odor-causing bacteria and prevents mildew, mold and fungi. As a registered nurse, I’m already familiar with silvers antimicrobial effects and was excited to see that the use has extended to baby care.
I was never a germ-a-phob until I went to nursing school. We did a project where we took a swab from a public area and let it marinate, if you will, in a petri dish to see what would grow. I remember one guy swabbed the bottom of his shoe and what grew out of that petri dish resembled a mossy rainbow. It’s sounds beautiful, but when you attach names like methicillin-resistant staphylococcus aureus to this mossy rainbow, it ain’t so beautiful. It’s gross.
Even as a nurse, I try to operate under the idea that what doesn’t kill my children will make them stronger. I’m not a freak about what they put in their mouths because I understand that I probably only see 10% of what they put in there anyway. Point being, you can’t protect them from everything all the time. When Hooper was just starting to crawl, I left him on a blanket on the front lawn while I pulled the trash cans out to the curb. When I came back up the driveway, he had maneuvered off the blanket and picked up a piece of dog poop. And I guess he was hungry because I watched from afar as he put it in his mouth. I know, gross.
What I do do (no pun intended), as a nurse and as a mom, is protect them from environmental things that are totally in my control like what they sleep on and what I change them on and what I wrap them in after a bubble bath. The fact that Cuddle Smart uses silver yarn in their products probably means didly swat to most people. In the hospital, however, we use Silversorb gel on many of our gnarly wounds (and trust me, they are gnarly) because of silver’s effectiveness against bacteria and fungi. So when Cuddle Smart contacted me about doing a review, I was more than on board.
It goes without saying that the changing pad area is a dirty area. It brings me great comfort to know that I’m laying my little ones on something clean and proactive toward the bacteria that can be found here. Cuddle Smart also carries a fold-n-go changing pad to use on the run, which I highly recommend carrying the diaper bag at all times.
The fitted crib sheet is thick and plush. Knowing that it is fighting bacteria while simultaneously offering Van a comfy nights sleep (fingers crossed for that 8 hour stretch) makes for one happy mama.
The wash cloth and hooded towel are towelrrific. Seriously, made with the same great quality and softness as all their other products. The towel is the perfect size for Hooper and makes for some great post bath cuddle time. I also use their washcloth as a sponge during bathtime as it’s soft and absorbant.
All of their products are incredibly soft and made with great quality. They have been so kind as to offer one of their fitted crib sheets (upon my request, as it’s my favorite) to a lucky reader. You can enter by clicking on the “enter to win” icon below. If you do not win, Cuddle Smart has been kind enough to offer my readers a 25% discount with coupon code STORK25. They have a baby registry too, so for all you preggers out there, get busy clickin’ away!Disclosure: Cuddle Smart provided me with their products, free of change, in order for me to use the product and write a review. The opinions in this review are my own.
Everyone knows that when you have a baby there are sleepless nights and bumps in the road. If I were hydrated enough, I would have already shed a few tears, but I think Van sucked every last bit of moisture out of me over the weekend. I’m talking about the dreadful three month growth spurt.
When Hooper was three months old, we stupidly decided to take a trip to Hawaii. I say stupidly because it felt like we were imprisoned by a different set of four walls. At the time, we attributed his waking nearly every hour to a change in scenery. Then I remember reading something about a growth spurt at three months and I thought it could be that too. Don’t you feel like the entire first year is full of excuse making: oh he must be teething, oh he must be growing, oh he must be cold, oh he must be tired, oh he must be hungry… The amount of excuses you can make are endless. I’ve come to believe you really ought to excuse the entire first year of any baby’s life.
I digress. We spent the weekend in San Diego where we met up with our wedding photographers to do a family photo shoot (If you’re in the socal area, I highly recommend these kind folks). After the shoot, we met up with my sister and her boyfriend and watched the baseball world series. Sounds fun, right? It was, until we tried to go to sleep. Van woke up every hour, on the hour, from 11pm to 3am to nurse. Mix in three separate shit explosions and you’ll know why I’ve decided to be a zombie for Halloween. I’m so tired I can’t even bring myself to humor you about the situation. But I will say this: The morning found us with a trash can full of shitty diapers and a water bottle, next to Willy’s side of the bed, filled with urine. A five dollar Voss water bottle, mind you. Why, you ask? Oh just because Hooper was sleeping soundly in his playpen in the bathroom, and well, when you gotta go you gotta go. Needless to say, we had a fun day planned with discussions of Sea World or the Zoo or Balboa Park, but we opted to head home after breakfast. Total flunk. No more traveling during the three month growth spurts. Note to self, engraved on my forehead, for next time. Should there be a next time. And after this weekend, I’m reconsidering.
Not to say the weekend was a total flunk. It was awesome to meet back up with our wedding photographers. I admittingly have a girl crush on Jaime, the wife of the husband and wife duo. It was also nice to see my sister and her man. And even with the struggles, it was nice to get away. But boy does it feel good to be home.
Today is my first day back to work. I have a 12 hour shift ahead of me. Keeping everyone on the east coast in my thoughts today with hurricane Sandy doing a good job of keeping things in perspective. Stay safe.
It’s a wonder how so much gets done sometimes. The days go by faster than I can check things off my to-do list. Speaking of my to-do list, it’s growing. What they say about laundry is also true to for to-do lists: For the two minutes it’s complete, it feels great. Then off go your underwear and suddenly, there’s more dirty laundry. Lately, I’ve felt like my head has been bobbing just above water. I’m getting just enough air to avoid developing brain damage, but to say I’m sitting poolside enjoying a mimosa is a long shot. Maybe it’s the looming holidays. Maybe it’s the fact that I return to work THIS week. Or maybe it’s just that there is a lot on my to-do list. Whatever it may be, I’m overwhelmed and mentally exhausted. Throw in a three month growth spurt from our usually peaceful lil’ Van and if I had a towel in my hand, I’d be throwing it onto the pile of dirty laundry (someone hand me a towel).
I’m anxious about starting work, I have a two year old’s birthday to plan, loads and loads of photos to edit, a beyond ridiculously dirty house to clean, laundry from two weeks ago waiting to be folded, a suitcase to unpack, and on and on. At least I managed to cross off Hooper’s Halloween costume and a family photo shoot in San Diego over the weekend. More on those to come.
What I’m saying is that I’m tired. I need a break. And I start work tomorrow. Someone throw this mama a bone. I’ve hit the proverbial wall. With that said, there is no mama style today. In it’s place, picture this: an old flannel with spit up on one side and drool on the other, over sized sweats, greasy unwashed hair, and under-eye bags. Want the look? Have a baby 😉
I’ll be back tomorrow with a few photos from our stay in San Diego and some ranting and raving about this awful three month growth.
And if you’d be so kind as to vote for The Stork & The Beanstalk by clicking on the TBB link below, it sure would brighten my Monday. Thanks 🙂
My magic number is 8-9. I think. That’s what I go with, anyway. What’s that mean, you wonder? It means to keep my milk supply afloat, I need to empty my breasts 8 to 9 times a day.
When I breastfed Hooper, I fed him on demand like all the hippie people told me I should. I read his feeding cues and offered him the breast whenever he wanted and for however long he wanted. What I found, in hindsight, is that while it was enough for him (insert question mark here), it was not enough for me. I stopped breastfeeding just a week shy of a year because my supply was next to nothing. I had no pain physically while weaning because my supply had steadily been declining. I had little milk stored away in the freezer and was always anxious about the ambiguity in regards to how much Hooper was getting or how much I was producing.
This time around, I’m doing things differently. As Maya Angelou once said, “I did then what I knew to do. Now that I know better, I do better”.
Van’s magic number is only 6. This means he only wants to feed 6 times a day. I try to offer the breast more often for my own agenda of keeping a plentiful supply but find that Van will fuss or have a lazy feeding because he’s simply not hungry. Thus, I pump. I started pumping with the goal of having a healthy supply stashed away in the freezer. Then I quickly realized how much these additional pump sessions were helping my milk supply. Now I have more milk than I can fit in my freezer but I continue pumping for the sole purpose of maintaining a hearty supply.
My midwife/lactation consultant shared this article with me that coined the term “The Magic Number”. Determining your magic number, the article states, depends on breast fullness and breast storage capacity. Here’s the breakdown:
-Breast fullness. Many woman make the mistake of only pumping or feeding when their breasts feel full. Having full breasts, however, actually causes milk production to slow. Imagine breastfeeding as a supply and demand system. If your breasts are full, they are telling your milk factory workers that you do not need any more milk. When your breasts are empty, on the other hand, those little factory workers get to work to fill you back up. Thus, the more you empty your breast, the faster they fill. The opposite is also true: the more full your breast, the slower milk production becomes.
-Storage capacity. This does not relate to breast size, though for me it’s easier to visualize a larger versus a smaller breast for ease of understanding. Storage capacity affects how long it takes for a breast to become full. A woman with a large storage capacity is going to take a longer amount of time to fill, thus milk production will continue until the breast is full. A woman with a small storage capacity, however, will become full quicker and thus milk production will slow when the breast becomes full. Therefore, a woman with a smaller storage capacity must empty her breasts more often than a woman with a bigger storage capacity to maintain milk production.
