So, you think you have a system.  You think you’re so smart and have it all figured out.  You think you’re so lucky to have the quickest morning drop off routine, just waltzing across the yard to your mother-in-law’s house and dropping off the baby who is so happy to see PapPap that she doesn’t care that you’re leaving.  Then you make your easy quick commute to work, not worrying for a second about the baby until 5:00 comes and it’s time to pick her up. 

And then?  Your mother-in-law gets sick and can’t be around the baby for a week.  And it’s football season which means both your husband and your father-in-law are at three-a-day practices. 

So.  You panic. 

And lots of thoughts enter your mind.  You could burn up the rest of your vacation time…  But the meetings and the deadlines are right there on your calendar staring at you.  You think about the daycare that a family member runs…  But, you worry about taking the wee one to an unfamiliar place.  You call your best friend, your mom and your husband.  In that order.  (What? He was at practice.) And play out various scenarios and get advice. 

And then, you breathe. 

Because when you went to talk to your boss, he was super understanding and gave you the ability to work from home so you didn’t have to use up all of your vacation time or drop your kid off at a strange daycare.  And, because your mom talked to your dad and between the two of them and your brother, they can help cover a few days, even though they live an hour away and that means leaving their house damn early.  And, because two wonderful women, with seven kids between them, who are married to friends’ of your husband hear about the pickle you were in and offered to come help.  

And you realize how very lucky you are.  And that, it does indeed, take a village. 

PS.  Let’s all send collective Internet vibes to my mother-in-law that she feels better soon.  I know she misses C and frankly, I NEED HER.

Um…  guys.  This parenting thing gets HARDER as they get older?  Did none of you think to tell me that? 

Oh, no.  You were all “you can do this” when she was itty bitty and had hours every evening where she fussed and cried and I walked miles up and down the halls of my house.  And then, when she wouldn’t nap, you were all supportive saying that she’d get better and I was doing the right thing even if that meant she had to cry or if I had to stand on my head to get her to sleep.   

Stupid supportive internet.  None of you told me to just zip it because in a few months putting her down for a nap would be the easy part of my day. 

That somewhere around nine months old, she’d start moving faster than I could keep up with her and that she’d put her fingers in places (like the door jamb) where I could pinch them.  Or that if I turned my back to her for a second to put my bra away, she would find the foil cap cover thing from the diaper rash cream and put it in her mouth, prompting an early evening call to the pediatrician. 

And you didn’t tell me that the next day, I would dive across the bed, with one pant leg on and one off, and grasp her by the ankle, in just the nick of time, to keep her from nose diving off the other side. 

I was prepared for the meltdowns that would occur when I took away a toy or told her no, but I didn’t know taking the remote could turn my happy, easy-going child into a sobbing heap on the floor.  Or, when she didn’t want to move but I picked her up anyway, she’d learn how to raise her arms and make her body go limp so that she’d all but fall right back to the floor. 

 I think we have officially entered the stage of temper tantrums.  

Send wine. 

And, go ahead, tell me that it will be worse when she’s two, or seven, or thirteen.  I need to be prepared.

I count my blessings every day that I have a child who sleeps through the night.  The sea parted and it first started happening when she was about 10 weeks old.  I would wake up throughout the night and look at the video monitor to make sure she had moved or sneak into her room, lay my hand on her chest and breathe a sigh of relief when it moved up and down. 

Now that her sleeping through the night is almost a given, I check the monitor in the morning and think, “oh, thank you baby girl.” 

But once in a while, my champion sleeper decides that 3:00 or 4:00 is a good time to wake up.  Last night was one of those nights.  And as I rocked her, I thought about how different our middle of the night meetings in her nursery are at nine months compared to nine weeks. 

At nine weeks: 

I would hear the cry, and jump up immediately.  I took a bottle with me to bed every night and stashed formula in the bathroom.  I’d make the bottle in a matter of seconds, rush to her crib and lift her out. After a few quick kisses and a diaper change, I’d feed her.  Often she’d fall back asleep before finishing her bottle. If she didn’t, I’d sing to her until she drifted off again.  Then, I’d lay her back down and head back to bed. The whole process took 15-20 minutes max. 

At (almost) nine months: 

I hear the cry and quickly jump to turn the sound on the monitor down so that it doesn’t wake Craig.  I watch her (seriously, people. Video monitors are the best.thing.ever. EVER.) and many times she goes right back to sleep.  If she seems to be getting more worked up or if her first cry was so loud and so shrill that it caused me to jump out of bed, I go to her room to look for the pacifier.  I think that if I can just pop this back into her mouth, she’ll go right back to sleep. 

That plan almost never works. 

She sees me and cries even louder until I pick her up.  I rock her and rock her.  Whispering that it’s night time and time for sleep.  I think about the sleep that I’m not getting and wonder if the clock said 2:54 or 4:52.  I think about singing her a lullaby, but I can’t remember any of the words.  So I sing the ABC’s and pray that I turned the sound off on the monitor and Craig’s not laying in bed wondering why his wife is singing the ABC’s to his kid. 

After 20 minutes, I think for sure that I can lay her back down.  She may not be asleep, but she’s been very still, her breath very steady.  When I stand up, I feel her little fingers grip my shirt. 

“Shit,” I think.  “This isn’t going to work.”

But I try it anyway.  I lay her down and step away.  She flips over, gets up onto her knees, puts her hands on the rails and screams. 

I am tough.  I walk out. 

And I wait. 

The crying continues and it’s late and dark and I”m not really that tough, so I go back in and get her. 

At this point, I’m desperate and confused.  I wonder if she’s hungry.  I wonder if her teeth hurt.  I wonder if she’s going through a growth spurt. 

I take her downstairs and make her a bottle.  The clock say 3:23.  I do the math and figure out that I can get almost two hours of sleep if I get her back to bed jack-skippy-quick.  Then, since we’re up and wide awake, apparently, I decide to change her diaper. 

Rookie mistake.  She can see the bottle so when I lay her to down to change her, she is PISSED.  I fight her until I get the diaper changed and her pjs zipped.  We head back upstairs and I feed her. 

When the bottle is gone, she starts to squirm in my arms.  I kiss her, tell her goodnight again and tiptoe out of her room.  I close the door and wait for the cries. If she’s stirring, I wait outside her room until she’s still. 

Only when she appears to be asleep, do I crawl back into bed.  The clock says 3:45.  My alarm is set for 5:20.  And I’m wide awake.  Craig is breathing deeply and I sort of want to pinch him. 

I turn the TV on with the hopes that Anderson Cooper will lull me back to sleep.  For the next hour and thirty five minutes I listen to the TV, wondering if BP needs someone new to handle their PR (or, you know, some common sense)  and I drift in and out of sleep wondering if I should just get up and try to get some work done. 

Finally, when the alarm goes off and I drag my ass to the bathroom, I think. “Wow, this was easier seven months ago.”

 - I am trying to crawl my way up the Top Baby Blogs list.  If you can spare a moment, to click here, it would help me immensely and you may find other blogs to add to your list of good reads.  XOXO!

The first Mother’s Day with a baby really gets a girl thinking.  Thinking about all the times I blew off with a quick card for my mother because I didn’t think it was a big deal.  Thinking about the lessons I’ve learned from my mom.  Thinking about the memories and recipes that both of my grandmothers have shared with me. Just thinking. 

Yesterday I found myself in the same position that many mothers do.  Wanting to enjoy the day and just be with my child, but also wanting to celebrate with my family.  So, because really, having someone entertain my child while I cook IS fun and relaxing for me, I hosted brunch for Craig’s parents and dinner for mine. 

There was a plan to eat brunch at 11:30.  The plan included my child napping around 9 so I could shower and get the hashbrown quiche started by 10:30.  Are you laughing yet?  For an hour, as I battled with my daughter to nap, begged, pleaded and swore under my breath, I thought about the contradiction of motherhood. 

Motherhood is rewarding and it is thankless.
Motherhood is instinctive and it is learning.
Motherhood is lonely and it is never being alone. 
Motherhood is raw and it is breathtaking.
Mohterhood is being vulnerable and it is being strong.
Motherhood is heartbreaking and it is uplifting.
Motherhood is having too many pictures and never having enough.

Motherhood is ordinary.  And it is amazing.

These moments, these challenges, these everyday contradictions of being a parent are what make me a mother.  Without the frustration, I wouldn’t feel the love so deeply.  Without the guilt I wouldn’t appreciate the sacrifice.  Without the joy, the tears might just be too much. 

It is the contradictions that keep me grounded.  There is nothing special about these moments, except that they are mine.  They are ours.  They are what make us mother and daughter.  And she is what makes us a family. 

So, on Mother’s Day we still celebrated.  We just celebrated an hour late. 

I should be half ashamed to admit this, but tonight was the first time I’ve worked out since C was born.  Yes, I’ve gone for walks with my daughter, but to be fair, they were more like casual strolls.  I was lucky to lose the baby weight thanks to adjusting to life with a baby and being too busy to eat. 

Now wait.  In case you were starting to think, “shut up, asshole” and close your internet down; don’t.  Just because the number on the scale was the same as before getting knocked up, doesn’t mean my clothes fit right.  I’m not really one to talk much about body image, but let’s just say that one too many times of having to unbutton my pants when I sat down finally motivated me to find time to work out. 

Which I started tonight.  I spent 30 minutes on the treadmill after C went to bed.  A combination of walking, inclines and running.  First of all, it felt AWESOME to turn up the iPod and turn out the voices in my head.  The running to do list that goes something like write the case study, submit the ad, order a water heater, send that baby gift to Kim, throw something in the crock pot for dinner tomorrow night, ask Craig if he’s going to that reception on Thursday, and on… and on.. and on.  With the iPod turned up all I heard was the music and the pounding of my feet on the treadmill.  There was sound, there was rythym, there was music.  But the noise?  It was gone. 

And I remembered why I used to actually look forward to working out.  Crazy talk, I know.  Because while my legs felt heavy and my chest tight and finding the motivation to do this again probably won’t come easy, it felt great. 

Now.  What all of you exercise people who write about these happy endorphins and fitting into you prepregnacy clothes don’t write about?  I also spent 30 minutes trying not to pee my pants.   I can only assume this is another side effect of pregnancy and labor. Or at least, I hope. 

Seriously, it’s not just me, right?  And, it goes away?  Please?

I’d like to be writing a beautiful post right now about the joys and struggles of motherhood. How I look at C’s face and fall more in love every time I look at her.  Or even one about how I struggle with weekends because I want to turn off work, but my to-do list is still looming and I just know that if I put in a few hours over the weekend, my week will be much better.  Or, talk about how we went for a walk this weekend with C in her Baby Bjorn strapped tightly to Craig’s chest and the vision of my husband with my giggling baby girl was the best thing ever. 

But I can’t write about those things because I am dead.  The nap wars have killed me. 

I fall into the category of parents who think that kids do better on a schedule.  I also tend to think that it’s OK for them to cry a little and I believe the books that say it’s important for babies to learn to fall asleep on their own.  Or maybe, I’m just scared to death that they’re right and I will be breaking bad sleeping habits when she is old enough to talk and walk and thus it will be a hell of a lot harder, so really I’m just lazy and taking the easy way out. 

A few weeks ago, I thought I was working my way into the Mom of the Year competition by sort of getting C to sleep on her own and take naps that lasted longer than 30 minutes.  Then it turned out that she was sick.  Can you say observation fail?  So, instead of sleeping because I was such a rockstar sleep trainer, she was sleeping because she had a virus.  Still, I fought on.  Made a few changes to her daily environment including loading my mother in law up with sleep sacks and lullabies.  The weather broke so now they go on walks and she sleeps in the stroller.  And I thought it was getting better. 

Until this weekend.  When she took two 30 minute naps Saturday morning and then I missed the window for her afternoon nap.  By the time she realized she was sleepy she was also pissed and didn’t want to sleep.  So while I rocked and walked her, she screamed.  She didn’t want to be held.  Didn’t want to lay down.  Finally after 30 minutes of screaming, I gave up.  Another 45 minutes later, my mom got her to sleep.  Sunday, she fell asleep in my arms for her 9:00 nap and again after our walk around noon.  When she got fussy, Craig took her on a walk and she fell asleep. 

So at the end of another weekend, I feel like a failure.  Like maybe someone else knows my kid better than me.  Has a better “way” with her than I do.  Spends more waking hours with her and knows more about her schedule and patterns than me, who has to ask for a recap.  (Just a way to add a little more working mom guilt to my blog.) Leaving me to wonder what I can do to help my kid sleep better, longer, consistently. 

And, I’m stumped.  Because I’m worried that the stroller is becoming her crutch for sleep.  I know that we don’t want to be pushing the stroller around the house because that’s the only way she’ll fall asleep.  But I’m out of ideas, and at this point, I just want the child to sleep.  I’m trying not to get all worked up and react to a bad day.  Generally, she’s a pretty happy baby.  What I’m really looking for is someone, anyone, to say that she’ll be OK.  That, maybe, as she gets older, she’ll start sleeping longer.  That there’s nothing I can do differently. 

Anyone?  Anyone?

Please stop, child.  Please.  I beg you to stop with the fussing and the whining and the crying. Please cool it with the kicking and the thrashing of your head and the spitting out of the paci.  You just ate and I changed your diaper.  It has been 2 hours and 25 minutes since you woke up from your last nap.  The second of the day.  The second time today that you closed your eyes for exactly 30 minutes.  You don’t want to be entertained, you don’t want to be cuddled.  You don’t want to be in your swing or your jumperoo. 

So, you know what?  You NEED TO NAP.  You need to close your eyes, breathe deeply and drift off to sleep.  I know that you think 30 minutes every three hours is enough sleep, but as your mother, I beg to disagree.  It leaves my happy, content, easy to please baby grumpy and whiney and tired 45 minutes later. 

Napping is good for you.  I’m sure there’s a book on all the reasons, but just trust me.  It’s good for you. 

And it’s good for me.  I need you to nap.  It is 12:53PM and I have not showered, I ate a bowl of cereal five hours ago, and I’m not entirely sure that I brushed my teeth.  I have work to do, laundry to fold and bills to take to the mailbox.  These things are challenging, if not impossible, to do while you are attached to my hip or when you whine the second I leave the room.  So I’m sorry, but I need you to nap. I need a break from the constant demands of work and I think that’s supposed to happen on the weekend; but not if you don’t nap. Especially when your daddy is working. 

So, please, for the love of bottles, stuffed animals and loud obnoxious toys that make you squeal with delight.  Please nap. 

If bribery is more your thing, I will buy you a car when you turn 16 if you nap. 

PS.  And, because I’m feeling extra needy today, if you are reading this and have tips for getting a baby to nap regularly, for more than 30 minutes, in a pack ‘n play or crib, please tell me how you do it.  If it works, I will buy you a car too.* 

*Totally lying, but you will have my undying gratitude. 

19 hours after delivery I had a little bit of a dilemma.  I had to pee and I was alone in the hospital room with C.  Craig had gone home to shower, our visitors left and I was soaking in the new feelings of motherhood while cuddling with my baby.  But I was also guzzling water and I had to pee.  And because I was paranoid that someone was about to sneak into my room and steal away my child (really folks I’ve watched A LOT of Lifetime TV) I needed to figure out how to keep my eyes on the baby while emptying my bladder. 

So, I gently laid her down, wheeled the bassinet across the room and positioned it so that I could see her while I used the bathroom.  I did my thing as quickly as possible (considering the process included a peri bottle, tucks, Dermoplast spray, mammoth pads and traumatized lady bits) and scooped up my child.  She didn’t move the entire time.  My absence was not missed. 

Four months later, she notices when I’m not in the room.  Whether I’ve been holding or playing with her or whether she’s been hanging out in her exercauser, her little eyes follow me as I leave the room.  For the first 20 seconds that I’m out of her sight she whines, then she starts to fuss.  By the time I’m done, it’s a full-on yell.  So, now, using the bathroom includes placing her in the bouncy seat on the floor of the bathroom or on a blanket outside the door and singing or narrating my activities while I do my thing. 

My mom tells a story about how my little brother, as a toddler, once slid his hand under the bathroom door, waved his fingers and said, “MOMMIEEEEE…  can you see me?” 

So, my question, internet, is:  Can a mother really not get 1.5 minutes to pee?