10 Ways in Which Your Baby Is and Is NOT Like a Puppy or Kitten

For many women, there comes a time in life when the thought of having a baby consumes us.  Any mention of babies, baby clothes, baby gear, or any thing small and cute for that matter, like a small handbag, will set us off in an emotional wave of baby yearning.  I recall several weeks before both my pregnancies when ever a certain flea medicine commercial with puppies and kittens would come on the TV, I would openly weep.  I now refer to this as my "Puppies and Kittens Phase of Pre-pregnancy".  Now, it is all well and good to be so desirous of a baby that your emotions are broadcast for all to enjoy, but let me set you straight about a few things.  Having a baby is nothing like getting a puppy or kitten. Or is it?

 

Aww....it's like the puppy really cares...

       "Adopt us, we will fill your biological need to mother!"

 Settle down, mothering hormones!  It just kills me when the kittens are in something like a flower pot or a tea cup. 

1.  Puppies and kittens like you to try to get their toys aways from them.  Babies do not.  They just cry.
2.  Puppies and kittens know how to pee and poop in one spot.  Babies do not. Though when they get to be a toddler they can pee and poop in one designated spot, but it's not usually the toilet.
3.  P's and k's like the same dry crunchy food every meal.  Babies DO like the same meal. Toddlers would like whatever you are not offering. 
          Me: "Would you like some [blank]?"
          Toddler: "Or.....something else?"
4.  You can dress up your babies in cute matching clothes.  You should NOT dress up p's and k's.

 

Cute!

                                                 Disturbing.


Got that? See the distinction?

5.  You can get fancy collars to put on your p's and k's.  Not recommended for babies.  Though, leashes DO exist.
6.  You can toss a baby into the air and catch them again.  Strangely enough this is not advisable for pets.  Maybe we've got something wrong here...
7.  You can take your puppies to special puppy parks and hang out with other puppy people.  Yeah, we've got those for babies.  Only they're called playgrounds.
8.  You can play Peek-a-boo with babies and they think you're totally hilarious and awesome.  Pets just stare.
9. Both p's and k's and babies respond to over the top baby babbling.  Babies like the change in voice dynamics.  It probably just hurts the animals' ears.
10.  Vomit.  Need I say more?  Guess which one doesn't eat it up afterwards.

So now that I've laid out the facts for you, which are you going to get?

The Great Roll

Dear readers, let me talk to you today about the Great Roll.  Surprisingly, 4 months to the day after giving birth to my second child, I am not actually talking about my stubborn belly roll.  I'm talking about the day that every parent waits for.  The day that parents hope to capture in blurred pictures and long, seemingly mistakenly taken videos.  I am talking about the day that babies roll over for the first time. 

                                          A blurred baby Ginny rolling.

I know several mothers with babies similar in age to my own 4 month old and for the last couple weeks it seems every day someone posts triumphantly on facebook that their baby has just rolled over.  Non-parent people no doubt are thinking: "Who the heck cares?" while fellow parents rejoice with a flurry of "likes" and tearful, emotional comments: "Way to go baby!".  Let me try to explain this seemingly boring phenomenon for you non-parent types.  I'll just come out and say it: babies don't do much.  They do hours of somersaults for months while in utero and as soon as they are birthed...nothing.  They just lay there.  And cry.  And sleep.  Oh but it's fantastic when they start to smile and give off the occasional coughy laugh.  But still they have no idea their bodies actually exist unless they are wet or hungry.  You can imagine if you were under the impression that you were just a floating head, you probably wouldn't trouble yourself to try and move.  Move what?  But gradually babies start to see things floating past them, occasionally wapping at their floating head.  Then they realize that they can move their head a little and catch those things going by in their mouth.  Aha! Hand!  That's about all for a few weeks.  Mothers and fathers rejoice that baby has found his hands and encouragingly stuff toys and rattles into his hands to elicit play.  Nothing.  See baby has not figured out that he controls those fleshy things that keep floating past, but they sure taste yummy.

  Parent: "Here baby!  Have this fun toy!" 

Baby: "Who cares? What happened to those yummy warm things?"

For the coming weeks or months it's more of the same.  Absent-minded hand waving and finger-sucking.  Then finally they figure out they control their hands and discover they can reach their feet.  The process of grabbing their feet from lying on their backs propels them onto their sides.  And some get lucky!  Some babies are so eager to get to their feet that they launch themselves right onto their stomachs and "Wahoo!! Honey get the camera! Call your mother!  Do you think a 5 minute video is too long to post on facebook? Oh who am I kidding, people are going to be dying to see how cute she is!"  Other babies, like both of mine, prefer to taunt their parents.  Both of my babies for weeks around rolling-over time get themselves at a 45 degree angle from the ground and then roll back the other way.  Really? Come on!  I must admit that at times the temptation was too great and I just shoved them the rest of the way.  Can I count that?  I guess not...

My husband was the first to see our firstborn roll over.  Then it took nearly another week for me to see her complete the roll.  He was also the first to see her stand and take her first steps.  I was sure that with my second baby, since I'm a full-time mother this time, I would be the first to see her roll over.  I was totally confident about this.  I would be the one to witness the Great Roll and proclaim joyfully to my husband once he came home from work that she had rolled over.  On Friday my mother-in-law came to watch the kids while my husband and I went out for coffee. (I know, you can be jealous)  When we returned she proclaimed calmly and cheerfully that the baby had rolled over.  What?!  Are you kidding me?!  I missed it again??  My thoughts ranged from happiness, to disappointment, to "well I guess we'll have to have another baby so I can be the first to watch it roll". (Sorry honey, that's just the way it's going to have to be.)  Okay to be fair to myself, I was waiting for her to roll from back to stomach which she has not actually completed yet.  Rolling from stomach to back is usually an accident anyway.  (This is what I keep telling myself.) 

 
Claire's anger propels her from stomach to back.

So you see, the Great Roll is so thrilling for parents because it's about time their babies actually started doing something.  Up to this point, let's be honest, it's been a real snooze-fest. So while my second baby has not yet completed the greatest of the Great Rolls, it is sure to be around the corner. And you can be sure that when she does, I will broadcast it joyfully all over facebook.  My fellow parents will no doubt share in the jubilation and you non-parents can just smile and nod.

The Cursed Shirt

That's it. That's the shirt.

I'm not a superstitious woman.  But I will tell you now in earnest, that I have a cursed shirt.

After having my second child, I noticed that my body isn't bouncing back to my "college body" as quickly as it did the first time.  And since my pockets aren't lined with money, (but even if they were, I'm sure my toddler would steal it all and put it in her piggy bank) I don't have the means to buy myself a completely new wardrobe for this new "mommy" body.  Therefore, I have a meager collection of clothes that fit and aren't too hot to wear.  Each pair of shorts and skirt and shirt are treasured.  Well...all except one.

I have one shirt that I love the color of, the fit, the nursing capabilities....but every single time I wear it disaster strikes.  Every day that I resort to wearing this shirt, I get slathered head-to-toe in baby barf.  And my baby does not spit-up in little "Oh pardon me, let me dab that up" spit-ups. No no.  We're talking Old Faithful here.  In my head I picture a Cold War era bombing drill:  "Everyone get under a table and put your head between your knees! She's gonna blow!!!!"  When she barfs I can hear the bubbles starting to come up, but by then it's too late.  Frothy sour milk billows out of her mouth onto everything in sight, but with the full force of the attack centered on my clothing.  And this happens every time I wear this cursed shirt.

On the fourth of July I was struggling to find some patriotic clothes in my limited wardrobe.  I remembered this shirt.  It's blue and white, that will do nicely.  I pulled it out of my drawer.  I stopped.  I remembered it's legacy.  I put it back in.  Surely I have something else to wear.  No, I'm being silly.  There's no such thing as a cursed shirt and I will be just fine wearing this today.  I put it on.  The day went fine.  The shirt isn't cursed afterall.  We had a splendid fourth.  We settled down to watch the fireworks.  I decided to nurse the baby before they started.  When she was finished I went to sit her up to burp and WHAM!!!!!!!  OLD FAITHFUL STRIKES AGAIN!!  Gurgle gurgle, splush, fwoosh, cough, splutter, bloorp.  This freaking shirt is cursed.

So I peeled the baby's soaked onesie off and replaced it with a nice dry one that I came prepared with, but no such luck for me.  There I sat in a field with hundreds of people around, drenched in sour milk.  There's nothing like the stench of sour milk in July I always say.  Well, I do now anyway.  And you'd be surprised how cold it can feel even in summer when you are soaked in barf.  So I covered myself with the baby's' blanket and tried to enjoy the fireworks while shivering and reeking to the high heavens.  And I have to say, the fireworks were spectacular.

How a Bag of Giblets Made Me Feel Like a Second-Rate Parent, or Life with Two Under Two

Life with two under two has begun.  We have exited the honeymoon stage of the first weeks when people are still bringing us dinner and offering help round the clock--when the high of a new person entering the world is brought down to the reality of laundry every day and diapers all night. 

So the other night it was time for me to cook my first real dinner since mini cooper #2 was born. (Henceforth referred to as "Claire".)  Sure I had nuked a few hotdogs, but that was the extent of my culinary exploits.  This night I was going to tackle: the roast chicken.  Mmm...my mouth was watering just thinking about the bird that would soon be slathered (and I mean slathered) in olive oil, salt and pepper, lemon zest, hot pepper, garlic, rosemary...  I had gotten both girls miraculously down for naps mid-afternoon.  The perfect time to be sticking my new friend into the oven.  I was having a grand old time being proud of myself for having such a peaceful afternoon with napping children and plenty of time for preparing a scrumptious dinner. 

Now time to take the bird out of its cold water bath.  I unwrapped the chick and began to prep it for its impending doom.  I went to remove the giblets.  Hmm.  Try again.  I went to remove the giblets.  No.  Not working.  The #$%#$ thing is stuck in the @#$@%# bird!  Gah!  The $%#$%&& bag of giblets was still frozen in the cavity of the chicken.  Everywhere else was nice and defrosted, all except for this bag of vile blechness.  I pulled.  I braced myself on the kitchen sink.  I pulled again.  The bag ripped.  Giblets fell into the sink while the other half of the bag remained stuck to the insides of the bird.  I muttered curses under my breath. (I was keenly aware of my toddler who repeats *everything* I say.  I may think she is napping but she could be in her crib scribbling down everything for future parroting.)  I pulled again but now with less to grab.  Claire woke up at this point and began crying/screaming for her afternoon snack. I washed my hands and ran to pick her up, but then I had to put her down and immediately return to my giblets while she started crying again. I started wondering what icky body parts these were anyway.  Pull again.  Panick sets in.  I have to get this stupid bird in the oven by 3:30 or Ginny will eat late, and then bedtime will be late.  I started praying: "Please! If You'll just help me with this bag of giblets--" okay I stopped myself.  Praying to God to help me pull out a frozen bag of chicken bits seems ridiculous even in this state of poultry induced insanity.

I have failed parenthood. On my first trial as a parent of two under two, I have failed miserably. 

Nearly in tears of sorrow and anger, I texted my husband about the $%^&$%& giblets.  Can I just leave them in??  His text replies made me think he thought this was humorous. I turned to a different source of consolation.  I began to google giblets.  Will I kill my family if I leave the stupid bag in there?  I frantically paged through cites reading stories similar to my own, and finally from my minutes of thorough research I discovered that as long as the bag the giblets is in is paper, we won't die.  So I slathered up the bird, and threw it into the oven with a heavy heart.  Wait--*was* the giblet bag made of paper?

So that's how life with two under two has begun. I bet you didn't know a tiny bag of blech could make you feel like a failure.  Now you  know.

Author's note:  the chicken was spectacular.

Toilet Parenting

I know it's been a while since last I wrote.  Forgive me, I was whimpering in a corner afraid to tell you what toddlerhood is really like.  Our days have been filled with trying to teach a less than 1 1/2 year old that she should really pick up her toys, trying to feed her more than just raisins and pasta, learning her new language, and trying to cover up our bald spots from pulling out our hair during all of this.  But with all the drama/trauma comes lots of free toddler kisses and hugs which pretty much wipes out all the "bad" stuff.

Now onto today's lesson: Toilet Parenting.  I warned you last post that the insanity of MommyMoo is going to ramp up since I am six months pregnant with our next baby.  And if you've ever been pregnant you know how much time you spend in the bathroom, so toilet parenting is a logical first beginning to our series on "Two Under Two".  Turn back now if you are not a serious student of parenting.  The following could get ugly.

You may recall in a much earlier post I described the difficulties of even finding a time to get yourself into the bathroom with a baby.  I was often forced to wait until my husband came home from work at 5 o'clock which meant a very long day.  The good news is with a toddler, you can say "I'm going to the bathroom" and they will cheerily play with their toys while you run off and take care of business. Pah ha ha ha!  Sorry, I must tell you the truth, this blog is after all a public service.  I do say "I'm going to the bathroom, Ginny" but rather than play continuing in the livingroom, Ginny leaps up and says "Potty potty potty!" which in her language means "Yay free-play time!"  She dashes into the bathroom practically quivering at the fun that awaits.  Rather than shutting Ginny out of the bathroom which results in banshee-like crying at the door, I let her stay in.  This can't be too bad, there's a large bin of bath toys that can surely occupy her while I do what needs to be done.  Wrong.  For some reason, toddlers can sense that you are trapped on this big white thing.  We have a tiny bathroom, but Ginny is able to creep into corners where I can't possible reach.  This is the time when toddlers actually want to climb into the bathtub.  Just try rescuing a dangling toddler half in a bathtub while you're on the toilet without making a mess.  Then there's the toilet paper--the logical toddler go-to bathroom destruction.  Luckily Ginny just picks at it and doesn't roll it all out yet. Yet. Then there's that little cap thing on the base of the toilet.  What is that thing anyway? Whatever it is, it seems to attract all the filth in the entire bathroom and is one of Ginny's favorite things to play with.  Second only to...the toilet brush.  Gah.  Toddlers and toilet brushes should not happen.  But you tell me how to get a toilet brush out of a toddlers hand while sitting on the toilet and not getting whatever the heck the toilet brush had on it all over the bathroom. 

I feel sort of guilty now that I have raved about how hilarious and fun a new baby can be in your life.  Maybe you have one now, or you are expecting one soon.  You've already mapped out your discipline chart from now until your child is eighteen.  Maybe you've studied up on Super Nanny's method of discipline: firm voice, get down on their level, look them in the eyes, tell them "this behavior is unacceptable".  Toddlerhood will be a breeze, you've got it all worked out...But try getting down on their level when you're on the pot.


So here's my advice: if it won't kill them or isn't really yucky, let it slide.  That means that bin of your hair bands and clips that you just organized is fair game.  The washcloths and shower curtain can be tossed about.  Let them open and close the bathroom door into your knees a hundred times.  Just be grateful that you are getting the chance to use the bathroom.  For the stuff you don't want them to touch, proceed with the "Hey! Wait! No! Not that! That's icky! No! Or that!  Put it down! No, don't touch Mommy with that!" routine.

There. Now who else is going to tell you how to parent from a toilet?