Catching Up

Hello? Hello? Is anyone still out there?

Sorry folks, I got blogged down-har har-reading other peoples blogs rather than writing my own.  I'm following several that are so good it depresses me.  One of my favorites is The Pioneer Woman.  It's a hilarious blog about family, homeschooling, cooking, and more.  But good heavens.  The woman updates the five threads of her massive blog every seven minutes!  Sometimes the posts are just one picture, or a sentence saying something like, "Yep I'm up at 4 am here on the ranch, just thought everyone in blog-land needed to know!" My Google Reader is sparking and smoking at the sheer volume of posts.  So I thought I would do a service to you folks and only write when, well, there's something worth-while to write about. Another blog I follow is a Daddy blog which is basically what I write, but the guy has turned it into his full-time job so every other day is a post with hundreds of pictures that he downloaded from emails from dedicated fans.  I can't compete!  But I honestly feel that these constant, brief, content-less posts actually weaken their blogs.  That being said, I can't guarantee that this post will be terribly worth-while.  I'll let you know when I finish it.

So despite my lack of posting, things have been busy since last I wrote.  Wow, remember that last post about our relaxing vacation? I could go for another one of those.  Since then, Ginny turned one, officially leaving babyhood.  This was depressing, so we thought surely another baby was a good idea.  I also figured it would be good for my blog.  You know, ramp up the insanity.  So yes, I've been trying to figure out these past few months how to parent when you feel like barfing.  Or what to do when your toddler comes and leans over the toilet next to you when you are actually barfing.  TMI, I know.  But these things you need to think about! Who knew.

We also moved to a new apartment last month.  A month later and we still are using boxes as end tables and haven't seen the floor in most of the apartment.  This is what happens when you move with a toddler when you have morning sickness--nothing.  However, Ginny is happy as can be, scuttling about the apartment, hiding where ever is coziest (mainly the kitchen cabinet). I actually found her reading books while perched in the cabinet a few weeks ago.  She also likes to start our new washing machine, choosing the hottest wash cycle.  I'm pretty sure she thinks we moved to this apartment just for her own amusement.

Ginny has finally started adding "words" to her vocabulary.  "Ditty!" for kitty and "Oof oof!" or "Dah-ie!" for doggie.  But other than that, your guess is as good as mine as to what the heck she is saying.  She sure thinks it's eloquent though.

I'm pretty sure Ginny is a monkey.  I know before I thought she was a squirrel, but I have more evidence.  One early morning Ginny woke us up with a worried crying sound.  My husband jumped out of bed and grabbed her as she was hanging on the bar of her crib about to go over.  That was an exhilarating way to wake up.  She sobbed for a few minutes out of fear, and I wondered if we could possible lower her crib any more or if we'd need to invest in a cage for her to climb around in. Further evidence:  In the morning, Ginny grabs her favorite stuffed monkey and runs around the house saying "Oo oo ah! Oo oo ah!".  Yep. Monkey child.

Okay well I guess that's the main gist of what's been happening here in crazy parenting land.  Not a terribly fulfilling post, I know, but I just wanted you all to know that I do still exist and there will be plenty more "What not to do" posts in the future.  Afterall, having two children under two is a blogging blessing.

Vacation

Ginny is almost a year old now so, needless to say, I need a vacation.  Gone are the days of young married life when my husband and I could throw a few sets of clothes in a bag and dash off for the weekend.  However, we did finally get the chance to go on a real first family vacation to our favorite mountain lake last week.

It's a good thing you get to rest while you're on vacation, because after packing for three people for a week--I was close to losing my mind.  How on earth could one tiny person need so much stuff for one week??  Now I know why, when I was a child, our '89 light blue dodge caravan was always stuffed completely full with six people and their entire lives in bags.  The back end of the van, nearly touching the ground, proved to be just the right tool for removing stumps in the driveway at our mountain cabin.  While my brothers liked to "rough-it" with their sleeping bags and probably one set of "camo" for the week, the rest of us packed up our rooms and brought them to the lake.  I recall one year when I literally sat with my knees around my head.  But with my knees so close to my ears I was able to easily block out the sound of my older sister singing along with R. Kelly's "I Believe I Can Fly" on repeat for 4 solid hours.  That was a long trip.

Facing packing only three people for a week still seemed a little daunting.  So I created a spreadsheet with each family member and all the hundreds of things we needed to bring. Yes I created the spreadsheet in excel and then uploaded it to google docs for ease in sharing.  Yes I am a dork.  We spent a day and a half packing up everything we owned and loaded it all into our moderately sized sedan.  We even noticed how much cleaner our apartment looked with all the crap out of it. (Thoughts of leaving all our belongings on the interstate crossed my mind.)   So after eating a lunch of whatever the heck was still in the fridge, we were off on our first family vacation.

The car trip was supposed to be about 4 and 1/2 hours. (So said our brand-new Garmin who we named James because he sounds exactly like James May from "Top Gear")  We were not looking forward to that length of time in a car with a less than 1 year old, but we had high hopes.  (We're new parents after all...)  Ginny ended up only sleeping for an hour of the trip and began shrieking after about 3 hours.  What a great way to begin a vacation!  So relaxing!  I moved into the back seat with Ginny in order to keep her entertained for the last hour and half to two hours.  She kept herself amused by playing with my cell phone and reading the brochure that came with my motion-sickness wrist bands. 

Finally.  As the sun was sinking below the mountains, we arrived at the lake.  A sense of peace and relaxation immediately came over us.  The sun danced and glittered on the lake.  A flock of birds flitted over the water.  Ah...vacation.  We opened the windows and sniffed deeply that clean, crisp mountain air.  And then, from beside me: "HERRK!!!"  Oh no.  I looked over to see Ginny spewing forth like a geyser.  This was no cute baby spit-up.  This was "I'm-a-big-girl-now" honest to goodness barf.  We pulled over at the side of the lake and I got Ginny out of her carseat and dangled her over the guardrail to finish her expelling.  (I will never look at peaches the same way.)  Cars passed, no doubt trying to see the beautiful scenery, but saw two newbie parents holding out their now naked baby herking at the side of the road.  We gave Ginny a baby wipe bath there on the side of the highway as the sun slid further behind the mountains.  Vacation had begun.

Princess Ginny

Have you seen those baby clothes with bedazzled lettering and some word or phrase denoting royalty?  Well, I'm not a huge fan.  It seems like we're encouraging kids to be vain and bratty. (Don't get me started on the shorts with lettering on the rear that teenage girls wear...) Anyway, regardless of my haughty opinions, Ginny was wearing a pretty simple pink onesie the other day with the word "princess" in smallish silver lettering.  I felt awkward about it.  It didn't really seem to go with her personality all that well, and someone actually commented on it.  It made me stop and think.

Ginny is a baby. She hasn't really developed royal airs yet.  She likes to get messy.  She sits quietly and reads books.  Nothing really regal.  But then I remembered my walk into work today...

I work in an old mansion turned office building a couple miles from my house.   It's quite an impressive building with beautiful carved furniture, large windows, lovely oriental rugs, and a spiral stone staircase.  Rather castle-like.  However, it's quite the to-do getting inside the darn building with a baby in a carseat, a monster diaper bag, any stray toys, and lastly myself.  You have to go through several doors (that are far too narrow) no matter which way you choose to get in.  It's a pain.  Often some kind co-worker will take pity on me and open one or two of the six doors I have to go through to get to my office.  But while I'm sweating and puffing around trying to get in, Ginny is all smiles in her carseat.  And that's when I realized.  She does act rather regal at times.  She rides around in her carseat-turned-sedan chair with me as her lowly lackey.  I scuttle around opening doors for her--and does she thank me? No! She just smiles, or looks off in the distance.  We enter the building and she may smile meekly at co-workers, or occasionally she will deign to wave at someone from behind the sun shade in her sedan chair.  We enter the hall with the large stone staircase.  This entrance of peasants opening doors and smiling and waving wasn't triumphant enough for Princess Ginny.  As we ascend the stairs, Ginny yanks down on her toy bug that "sings" and it's music booms throughout the echoey hall and up the stairs.  A royal fanfare is added to Ginny's procession as if to proclaim to the whole office building: "Hear ye! Hear ye! Stop your work and bow to me, Princess Ginny!  Everyone gather 'round and wave and smile as I bounce towards my luxurious office in my sedan chair with this mere peasant, my mother."

Maybe the onesie speaks the truth.

Squirrely Behavior

If you know me, or have met me even once, you'll know I detest squirrels. Loathe them in fact.  Nevertheless people always give me all sorts of squirrel paraphernalia: squirrel mugs, ornaments, stuffed animals, tins, books, statues, cast iron figures, etc.  Blech.  I don't hate these items, or the people that gave them to me (I do question their sanity though), but I keep them to serve as a constant reminder of how much I hate the nasty little buggers.  People always say, "But they're so cute!". Exactly fools. That's what they want you to think.  They are just rats with fuzzy hind-ends.  But rats have the decency not to pretend they are cute.  I have been barked at more by squirrels than by dogs in my neighborhood.  I have had acorns forcefully propelled towards my head in a cold, calculated manner.  I have had my wedding flowers gnawed to bits the night before my wedding by the varmints. All the while you keep mindlessly chanting, "But they're so cute!".

Hmm? What? This is a parenting blog? Oh. Well that reminds me.  I think I might be raising a squirrel.

I came to the painful realization this morning.  My daughter was playing with some foam floor puzzles that she absolutely adores.  She will not let anyone complete these puzzles.  The air must change and send out special "I'm almost done this puzzle" waves that Ginny immediately picks up on.  She darts over and tears the puzzle apart and stuffs the pieces in her mouth.  This behavior isn't directly squirrely.  But this morning I noticed she was skittering.  Yes, skittering.  I glanced around to see what she was doing.  My skittering daughter was darting around the livingroom (Skittering and darting? This is bad...) collecting the puzzle pieces and stuffing them into her secret hiding places.  Her two main stashes are between the arm chairs an underneath the exer-saucer.  If she can't hold as much as she wants in her hands, she'll stuff the others in her mouth and continue skittering. (The puzzle pieces now have perfect Ginny Teeth impressions that makes me think dentists should invest in a supply of baby floor puzzles to get the tooth info they need.)  I came close to her when she was stashing her pieces and she got frantic!  She immediately leaped up from the floor and skittered to another part of the room.   And now that I think of it, she does wiggle her backside akin to the flick of a bushy tail...

I can just hear the squirrel enthusiasts nodding and patting each other on the back, "Good. She's getting what she deserves.  It serves her right for hating the precious squirrels. They're so cute!"

How to Spy on Your Children

I know this isn't a new idea.  I'm sure if the CIA put some veteran parents in the field they'd have a fleet of the most resourceful, cunning spies.  Spies that don't need to dress in black and dart from dark alley to dark alley.  Rather, they would be spies that can waltz around in broad daylight, coo an embarrassing baby babble--and get the job done.   And all this without their targets thinking they have the mental capacity to function in society.

So our child is only ten months, what on earth would we need to spy on her for? She's not dating boys, staying out late, or going to drinking parties.  She's a baby for goodness sake.  Don't be fooled you naive being.  Babies are cunning.  They can tell once you have put them down for a nap how close you are to the bedroom door.  They can sense your presence and your ear smushed up against the wall.  They know.  They lay there until the winds change from your movement in the rest of the house.  Then they make their move.  It's playtime!  Ginny begins jumping in the crib, playing with the curtains, throwing her stuffed animal out of the crib, walking the perimeter of her mattress.  Say good-bye to nap time.

We had to put an end to this.  This girl needed to nap.  We got tired of walking into the room and lying  her back down every few seconds.  We needed some one-way glass--but we have no budget for such expenditures.  We are no James Bond spies with shmancy gadgets galore.  We are parents.  We have to get crafty.  So we have to go old-school. Old, old, old-school.  We have a keyhole.  My husband first discovered it.  The keyhole is rather large and points directly at the crib.  We have a perfect view.  Now we can sit outside the door and say an ominous "Ginny....." and she will whimper and lay back down.

Jordan: Parental Spy Extraordinaire

Well, she didn't listen to our ominous voices for very long.  Soon she started to ignore us.  Now we just have to let her play herself to sleep, but we still peep in to see if she has indeed fallen asleep.

View from the keyhole: Ginny surveys the perimeter of her crib.

Ginny contemplates throwing Lamby-baa overboard.

Ginny starts to surrender to sleep. Muah ha ha!

And she's down!

 Night-night!

The key to being a parental spy is to get rid of your stuffy pride.  Be resourceful.  Scoff at dignity.  Keep a camera handy.

Warp Speed

Parenting Lesson of the Day: Prepare for Warp Speed.

Ginny turned ten months old this week. She eats pretty much everything that's in front of her, she babbles in a cute squeaky/screechy voice with the occasional "Mamama" and "Daddy-dy"and she's days away from taking her first steps.  I'm pretty sure this can't be happening.

Last I checked I had baby, not a pre-toddler.  Things will surely slow down now. (I hear a roar of veteran parents snickering... This can't be good.)  Anyway, I thought it would be fun to share a heap of cute pictures of Ginny so you can all share the Warp Speed journey that I have been on.  Let us begin at the beginning. A very good place to start! (Great now I'm going to have Julie Andrews and the von Trapp kids running through my head all day...)Anyway!

Ginny. Day 1:

That's a little cold. Here's something cozier:

Ah yes. How well I remember the eye gunk...

"Hello baby! I'm your Mama! I'm the one whose ribs you've been kicking for the last five months!"

Ginny. 1 month:

Ginny's Native American chieftain look.

 Gas or Ginny's first genuine smile? We're not sure, but it sure is cute!

Ginny. 2 months(ish):

I know, I know. Horrible red-eye. But you try saying "no" to this cuteness!

Ginny. 3 months:

Sometimes we wish the girl would just cheer up!

Ginny. 4 months:

Jealous yet?

She is the world's biggest ham. (A Christmas ham!)

Ginny. 5 months:

Ginny. 6 months: (Is your head hurting from all this Warp Speed traveling yet? Join the club.)

 She's such a calm, serene baby...

Ginny. 7 months:

First solo sitting-up.

Ginny. 7.5 months:

Cheer up, girl!

Ginny. 8 months:

Ginny. 9 months:

Ginny. 10 months: (Faint)

Sigh. What happened to this baby?

 Oh well. Can't complain too much!

Well, there's the first leg of our warp speed trip.  I hope your head stops spinning so you can get on with the rest of your day.  I think I might need to lie down and take a nap...

Parlez-vous Mommy?

As I looked around at the city of Paris from the top of the Eiffel tower, I saw a hot air balloon wafting around the city, I heard the lovely melodic chatter of french spoken all around me--the view was incredible.  It was a little foggy that day, but still beautiful. (N.B. The view is better from L'Arc de Triomphe.)  After I descended the tower, the next stop would be the Louvre.  Can't complain!  After taking the required touristy photos, it was time to hop on the elevator and go back down.  There are two elevators at the Eiffel Tower: one that takes people up and one that takes people down.  But where was the elevator?  Sometime after a friend and I made it to the top of the tower, several bus loads of people also made it to the top and we were getting pushed and shoved by large numbers of loud french tourists.  No one else in our party was visible.  We couldn't find the queue to the elevator.  We had actually managed to get lost on the top of the Eiffel Tower. 

We managed to squeeze our way into a queue that we just prayed was the queue to go down because no sign was visible among the hordes of people.  Ten minutes later--we discovered it wasn't the right queue.  The yelling of the french tourists back and forth to each other was increasing as our fear and anxiety was increasing.  We couldn't understand them or any of the guides telling us where to go.  Finally, we found the right queue.  After a long, loud wait, we made it onto the quiet elevator with only a middle-aged couple on it.  We breathed a sigh of relief and overheard the couple quietly chatting to each other.  They were AMERICAN!! English speakers!  Never had the horrible twang of an american sounded so delightful, so musical, so comforting.  We clung to their every word.  We understood them.  It felt safe.

I never knew that with parenthood came a new language.  Not just the baby babble that becomes most of your speaking voice, but the language of different experiences.  Unfortunately, as I become fluent in this new language, I forget the language I used to speak.  Just like my four years of high school french--over years of not using the language, you lose some vocabulary.

As I talk with friends, I am often transported back to that frightening time on top of the Eiffel Tower when I understood nothing and was lost.  They talk about dating, traveling, evenings out, spontaneity.  These are words that are no longer in my vocabulary.  I haven't used them in years so I forget how to talk about them.  All I can muster in my conversations in this old language is a meek: Cava? (How's it going?)  And just like when I was trying out my high school french, I can ask the questions, but I can't understand the responses.

When something in my language comes up in conversations, I cling to it like I clung to the words of the Americans in the descending elevator at the Eiffel Tower: "Child birth?! I know all about that!" "Your baby doesn't sleep through the night?! Mine either!" "Teething? We have a great remedy!" "Carrot poop? Don't get me started--we had to ventilate our car!"  When someone speaks to me in parent language, it's music. It's easy.  I understand.

It's difficult being a young parent because not many people speak your language. The language of going to bed early, of a social life revolving around someone else's nap schedule, or a babysitter's availability.  It's foreign language to most of my peers.  And I can't seem to communicate in their world.

It's not that I don't love the language that my friends speak. But it's a struggle to keep up.  I run through vocab that I once knew in my head.  Baby brain slows down my responses. I'm dreaming of that quiet elevator where I can relax and be understood.

The Adult Onesie

I was absolutely inspired by an article by Jay Mohr I recently read in "Parents" magazine about a couple trying to potty train their toddler. Baffled by why their techniques weren't working, the two wondered whether their toddler actually *liked* peeing and pooping in his diaper. Then they got to thinking that perhaps *they* would like it too. Here is one of my favorite excerpts:

"We've all been stuck in traffic on the way to work after eating a bran muffin and having that extra cup of coffee....Forget car-pool lanes. There should be an 'I'm about to poop my pants!' lane....About 15 percent of the time I get stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic in the desert and think, in all sincerity, that I should have worn a diaper. With adult diapers we'd all drive to work carefree. Like little kids, we'd just let loose when it was time. Hopefully our parents would be at work waiting to change and powder us. Either them or a very understanding colleague."
Full article at http://www.parents.com/parenting/celebrity-parents/moms-dads/jay-mohr-diaper-duty/
(I recommend reading the entire article...)

That got us thinking...

Whenever my husband dresses our daughter, he immediately seeks out a onesie. They are easy to put on and make diaper changing much faster. When the baby wears just an ordinary shirt and pants, the shirt is constantly riding up and we have to chase her around all day pulling the shirt back down. The onesie is your one stop outfit. They are comfy, cool, and they often have a peachy quip like "I'm adorable" or "Princess" or "Free Gas, Inquire in Rear". Gems.

See how easy it is to play a block like a harmonica when you're wearing a onesie?! Poetry.

So why can't adults share in the ease and comfort that is the onesie? My husband pondered the other night: "How old do you think is too old to wear footy pajamas?" That's a good question. We decided that you are never to old. (N.B. We did decide that one may want to avoid wearing them during pivotal high school years)

Afterall, how great would it be, ladies, to not have to worry about your "I'm not in high school anymore" belly hanging out between your pants and shirt? I don't know about you but I think someone between high school and now must have kidnapped me in the middle of the night, drugged me, and put me in one of those torture devices that stretches your limbs into spaghetti--only all it did was stretch my torso, so now all my shirts rest somewhere between my belly button and my neck. Either that or I a shrunk all my shirts. Another somewhat less amusing possibility. Just imagine! With three snaps in your crotch, no more belly hanging out!

When I was in high school, before the dawn of the current "Britney Spears Catholic Girl" uniform, we had a dress code and daily checks for violations. We were required to raise our arms above our heads to see if any skin showed above our pants. And if there was--back home you go to change your shirt! Or you would be given an ENORMOUS traffic-cone-orange shirt to wear, akin to the Hester Prynne's Scarlet Letter, to broadcast how shameful you were to be wearing something culturally normal. Most girls ended up wearing extra long shirts tucked into their pants underneath their "normal" shirts. All day we would fiddle with the shirts, causing much more attention than probably a fraction of an inch of skin would have brought. Man! What a breeze a onesie would have been! We could have done freaking jumping jacks and no skin would have shown! Don't you ever just wish you could re-do high school with the knowledge you know now? That would have been my first change--an adult onesie.

As my husband and I were chuckling at the prospect of an adult onesie, I suddenly remembered, I actually have one! It's in my closet now! When I lived in a college dorm, a mysterious box of peculiar clothing showed up, and all the girls had a blast sifting through and creating the most hideous catwalk show. We laughed and laughed as we mocked whoever must have worn all these hideous articles of clothing, especially what we referred to as "THE SHIRT-ITARD". It was a blouse up top, onesie on the bottom. Genius. People would think you were dressed to the nines with your chic button up blouse--but they would never guess your secret...

I recommend sporting snake skin tights underneath your adult onesie.  And yes. Those are shoulder pads...(This is an ancient picture by the way...)

Even Super-Model gone showbiz tycoon Tyra Banks sports a onesie:

Ms. Banks may call it a "Jumpsuit", I call it an adult onesie. Bravo. Fashion and practicality do mesh!

I think adults, as well as babies, should be able to enjoy the ease and comfort of a onesie.  Now all that's left is to think of adult appropriate peachy quips to go on the front of our onesies.  How about: "I have a mortgage and snaps in my crotch" or...instead of something cutsie like "I'm adorable" we go for something a little more realistic like: "I'm aging...horribly". Or my husband's suggestion: "My shirt is giving me a wedgie".
How could one go wrong with an adult onesie? I see no bad sides.  Have I convinced you?  Please see the newly added poll at the very bottom of my blog page.  Voting will last for a week and your vote counts! (That's more than can be said about the current Electoral College system! But that's fuel for another rant...)

How To Hide From Your Baby

See people? This is why you read my blog. You'll learn things that you never know you needed to know. So... hiding from a baby? That sounds a little ridiculous. Let me explain.

I found myself yesterday on my hands and knees behind my bed for about 10 minutes. It occurred to me that you should know how and why I found myself there.

We live in the unfortunate situation of having a one bedroom apartment with one bathroom off of that one bedroom. So anytime one needs to use the bathroom or take a shower while the baby is napping, one must get rather creative. Or on some days when I don't want to risk it, I don't pee until my husband comes home from work at the end of the day. Those are long days.

If we do decide to use the bathroom, there's a certain order of operations that we have to adhere to. Step one: cracking the bedroom door open and peeking to see if the baby is still asleep. If she stirs, ABORT! Any further noise on our part will send the baby into a screaming fit. Screaming fit=no more nap=no bathroom break=very long day.

Step two: tip-toe past the crib into the bathroom with no stirrings from baby. (N.B. Our apartment has hideously creaky old wooden floor boards. My husband asserts that a flat-foot creep actually does more to dissipate the creak, but something in my brain equates tip-toeing with silence, so I can't bring myself to use the, perhaps more successful, flat-foot approach.) If she stirs during step two, we have to dive behind our bed so she doesn't see us. (This is where I found myself yesterday.) If we stay on our hands and knees behind the bed until she falls back asleep, we can then continue on with step two. If we peek too soon to see if she's fallen asleep, it's over, and we have to wait until next nap to pee. Another hiding option is the T-Rex approach. If we can't make behind the bed fast enough, simply diving onto the bed, turning the face away from the crib and holding perfectly still will allow her to fall back asleep without much effort. (N.B. This works better in the evening when her senses are dulled.)

Step three: after a successful peeing, you MUST NOT flush! TMI I know, but the crib is on a shared wall with the bathroom, and you gotta do what you gotta do. (N.B. Courtesy dictates that once the baby has risen, the pee-er must dash into the bathroom and flush before the next visitor.)

Step four: the return trip. Similar to step two, but often the pee-er can dash out of the room and close the door with some baby stir-age and not wake her up. (N.B. Have you ever tried to close a door quickly but quietly? Here's a tip: stuff a cloth diaper between the door and the jam. Also useful on days when you have the windows open which causes the door to blow open and closed constantly. I actually spent a nap period on a breezy day sitting in a chair on my computer next to the door with one hand holding the door shut before I discovered the diaper trick.)

So there you have it. I honestly never thought I'd have to hide from my own child. There are things that no parenting book or doctor could ever prepare you for. I guess that's what I'm here for. Happy Hiding!

Baby Formula

Nope I'm not talking about the breastmilk alternative that stores have to keep in a locked case because it's so ridiculously expensive.

I'm talking about the formula that parents seek to find to achieve baby nirvana.

The sleep formula.

We as parents know that somewhere in the universe exists the perfect baby sleep formula and finding it is God's way of testing our parenting skills. The sleep formula is a set of factors that, when combined in a precise manner, will result in a perfect night's sleep.

Here's what I've learned: If baby has exactly two naps a day--no dozing in between, eats a breakfast of rice cereal and cheerios, a lunch of oatmeal and sweet potato and cheerios, a light dinner of sweet potato but not cereal, goes for a walk during the day that should not last more than half an hour, does not watch her parents' computers or the TV approximately 45 minutes before bed, gets her diaper changed before bed, has a story read during which she turns the pages and does not try to eat them, has a very brief nursing, a song sung to her that shall not exceed three verses, is laid on her back in bed even though ultimately she will turn herself onto her stomach where she will sleep better, and finally, if she is covered with her hand-crocheted blanket and not the thermal one, she will in fact sleep through the night undisturbed.

And in three days the formula will change.

Sometimes I feel like a scientist carefully executing an experiment, or a chef creating a new culinary masterpiece. But I bet scientists and chefs don't have to worry about a baby's late night fart destroying their progress.

The Calm Before the Storm

Parenting Lesson of the Day: Beware the Quiet Baby.

You might think that if your baby is playing quietly then all is well. No, no my misinformed friend. This is not the case.

You might think: "A quiet baby is a happy baby!". Well, that may be true, but happy and "all is well" do not necessarily coincide...

It is not new news that if your child is too quiet, they must be up to something. However, I did not think this applied to babies. Let me enlighten you: it does. My first experience with an all too quiet child was when I was fighting some horrific allergies a few weeks back. The baby was sitting on my lap, contentedly playing with probably some stuffed bug that sings, or a frog that ribbits, a book that crinkles, you know--baby stuff. I was probably on my laptop, most likely fertilizing some crops in Farmville. Then she got quiet. REALLY quiet. Perhaps because my head was in a fog from allergy medicines, or I was trying to become a "Sultan of Seeds" or "Lord of the Plow", I didn't look down at her for, I don't know, a few seconds? The damage was done. She had nabbed my box of tissues and had managed to pull out an enormous pile in front of her with one already becoming her mid-day snack. Like a summer's eve tornado, the storm came quickly and left quickly with an eerie silence, but left a trail of destruction for miles.

You would think I learned my lesson.

Skip forward a week or so. The allergies had passed. (Though, I'm still working on using up the pile of tissues she"freed" from the box...) My head should have been clearer, right? The baby was sitting next to me on the couch. We were playing again, I looked away, and--silence. I looked back. Maybe a second had passed. And she has grabbed my cell phone and begun picking at and sucking on the silicone cover. I didn't even know my cell phone was anywhere in a five foot radius! Baby-nado had struck again.

Ah, reader. You now think to yourself that she has learned her lesson from the tissue-twister and then the Baby-nado. Sure, she should have learned after the first time, but it was good she experienced the second storm to ensure that she never trusts the eerie baby silence again.

Wrong.

Skip forward in time to this evening. I was attempting to feed the baby her daily solid food regime of "Tastes-like-cardboard" rice and "Really?-I-didn't-know-vegetables-could-be-that- consistency" carrots. The baby scoffed at my rice after only a half spoonful (and that half spoonful she ended up spitting back out onto her face). I resigned and headed to the kitchen to prepare the carrots. She was content to play quietly in her high-chair. Of course kids are always content to "play quietly"! Duh! Playing quietly is universally acknowledged as the time when most kids get into trouble! I should realize by now as my figurative barns have already been leveled by Baby-nado twice before. So what happened?

The baby, in a matter of probably about a half a minute this time, somehow summoned my checkbook to her high-chair and stuffed it in her ricey mouth. Rice had already made its way in between the checks and adhered them to themselves. (Baby rice is sticky stuff.) So the next few checks I write are going to have baby's signature on them too. As I am writing this, I still have no idea how she got the checkbook...

The storm came and went so quickly. It was barely enough time to even process the fact that the baby was being extra quiet. But Baby-nado had plenty of time to leave a trail of destruction behind like acres of corn torn from the torrential wind of a twister.

The Fabulous Life of the Minimum Wage Parent

Recently I have been reading some wonderful parenting books about how to embrace motherhood and enjoy a full-time parenting career. These authors have created easy to read and digest memoirs of the joys and spiritual journeys of being a parent.

But there's just one problem. They're all doctors, famous journalists, TV news anchors, etc. I find while I can relate to them as mothers, I don't really relate to them as women. They all affirm what an easy decision it was to become a full-time mother while feeling sorry for their career hungry girl friends who crave their fast paced lives on Wall Street or Capitol Hill. Do I even know any mothers who have any idea what's going on on Wall Street on a day to day basis? Where is Capitol Hill anyway?

Of course the decision to be a full-time mother was easy for them. All of them have husbands who have careers that pay more than perhaps even their own brushing-with-the-rich-and-famous faboo jobs. They didn't have to consider whether or not they'd have food on the table if they were to quit there jobs.

I left a part-time minimum wage job to become a full-time parent and move to a new state. At the time I made the decision, my husband was a new college graduate without a job. He eventually did get a job at a theater in the Philadelphia area making peanuts. But we could live on peanuts. Even when after two months of working at the theater, he was let go because in this horrid economy the theater couldn't afford to have a full-time props master, I didn't decide that I'd become the wage earner in the family. We would just live on even less than peanuts.

The point is, both myself and these authoresses made the decision to become full-time mommies, but from very different backgrounds. And yet, the decision was still easy to make. Even though we had *just* enough food and money to get by, I never second guessed my decision. Do those TV anchors have any friends who have lived on spaghetti for two weeks to stretch out their grocery store trips? Where are the journalists that know people who know what it's like to be on Medicaid? Where are the books by these women?

So here I am to give you that perspective. It *is* an easy decision to make to become a full-time parent. I'll tell you, spaghetti is good stuff, even after a week or so! Getting enrolled with Medicaid was one of the most frustrating things I've had to do-mainly because no one I spoke to spoke English! Sometimes you won't have rent on time, but you'll be surprised how lenient people can be. Babies can be expensive, but for a long time, all they do is nurse and poop, so you really only need to buy diapers.

While I do work a few hours a week (I get to bring Ginny with me), I don't *need* it for any self-fulfillment. Being a parent is fulfilling enough. And it doesn't really add to our finances much, I just do it for fun. If you are trying to decide whether or not you can "afford" to be a full-time parent, do it. These paid-the-big-bucks-to-write-mommy-memoirs ladies can't tell you that. It is tough to live on next to nothing and sometimes nothing, but you will NEVER regret it.

The Orange Badge of Parenthood

Parenting Lesson of the Day: Always check your ears for dried sweet potato *before* leaving for work.

I was settling down to feed my daughter after work, and an itch happened upon my ear. So, not to delay the agony, I scratched it. And while the itch was removed, so was a blob of dried sweet potato, the shrapnel from Ginny's breakfast experimentation. Paranoia set in. Did anyone at work notice? Of course it was the day that a member of the board was coming to observe us at work. I wonder, if they did notice, what they thought it was? Ear wax?? Or would they assume correctly that it was some badge of new-parenthood that decorated my ear.

The badge was clearly donned this morning when Ginny decided to blow a raspberry on her spoon full of sweet potato. No big deal, feeding a baby new food is going to be messy. But for parents that must raise a child and work outside of the home, how do we prepare ourselves for appearances in civilization? If food shows up on ears, where else must one check? I can't do a body scan every time I step outside.

So parents, the only option is: Wear the badge with courage and defiance! I *will* saunter around in society with blobs of food all over my body! Take that board members, grocery store cashiers, and post office clerks!

Baby...What's the Word?

Above Picture--Ginny: "Hmm..."

"I have a really bad case of baby...."
"What?"
"Hmm? Sorry, was I saying something?"

The above is not huge exaggeration of how my brain works on a day to day basis. Somewhere during my second trimester of pregnancy, I developed a bad case of "Pregnancy Brain". If your not familiar with this condition, it's when your brain turns to absolute mush. I'll give you an example: All during my pregnancy I worked at a library. One of my duties was to go outside and empty the book-drop and help check all the books in. I did this every day, several times. One morning I was heading out and I was telling my co-worker where I was going, "I'm taking the...things you unlock with..." she replied, "Keys?" "Right keys, to get all the..." "Books?" "Right books!" She chuckled: "Ah pregnancy brain! Don't worry it will go away in...20 years". I laughed. She smiled. Wait--was she being serious??

Now my daughter is six months old and my brain is still a blob of ooze for all I can tell. Some time, in the darkness of night I am sure, my pregnancy brain was switched with baby brain! I can rarely finish a sentence (that is, when I can even remember that I am speaking), or call to mind things I know (like that really big country in South America--you know the one that starts with "Br" something...). I've never felt so stupid! Anyone would find it hard to believe I ever knew anything at all! Luckily I have a couple of... those paper things that you get when you graduate that say you graduated with... something.

While baby brain can be hilarious, I'll be honest, it's *really* frustrating-for me and my husband who never knows what I'm talking about. (How can he? I don't!) I've discovered it's one of those things about parenting that you need to keep a sense of humor about or else you'll be cursing that "big South American country" everyday. Here's what I've learned: You're a parent. You don't need your brain right now. Yes that seems ridiculous. But think about it. Your baby needs to be loved and cared for. Your instincts will tell you how to accomplish that, not your factual knowledge. My daughter could really care less about how many countries of the world I can name--though, I'm getting better! Thanks Sporcle.com!--What she cares about is being loved by her parents. I don't have to speak in complete sentences to do that.

So maybe in 20 years or so, I'll be able to have a normal conversation again without someone having to remind me that I am in fact speaking. Until then, well, it's just not my priority.

A Spoonful of Cereal...

A spoonful of cereal makes the...spirit go down?

Today Ginny had her first taste of big people food. And she gobbled it up! My little baby has entered a new and exciting phase of life. "Real" food.

So why do I feel a little disappointed?

My previous posts have been about the hilarity and fun times of having a baby around. But today I think I encountered the first bittersweet moment of parenthood. When my daughter starts to gain a little independence from me. Up until now, I provided her with all the nutrition she needed! Thinking about it makes me a little teary even as I am typing this post. And by "a little teary" I mean my face is snotty and there's a pile of tissues by my laptop.

I am very proud of Ginny for loving to learn about new things and her new enjoyment of food. But now I realize that the days of her snuggling up to me to eat are numbered. I was thinking today that there must be special angels that are around mothers and babies during nursing, and that as a baby is weaned, those angels draw away. Part of the sadness of a baby being weaned may be the loss of those heavenly angels. Then it made me wonder, I bet the Lord can relate. There are times in our lives when we happily follow the Lord like little children, but we need to feel independent--we need to make our own decisions. It's part of our growth as people. I wonder how He feels? Is it like this? He's happy we're becoming our own people, capable of truly loving Him--but maybe a little sad to be losing our total innocence? Babies too need independence from their mothers as part of their growth as individuals. (Another tissue on the pile.)

So who knew one measly bowl of rice cereal could do this to a person? I should write Gerber and complain.

My apologies for providing you with a bittersweet parenting post. But I *did* promise I would give you a realistic view of parenthood... I promise-- more gassy baby stories next time!