Category Archives: Daughters

Screaming Baby On Board

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A wailing baby is a valid reason for speeding (not to mention other infractions when driving)! I haven’t gotten a ticket yet (knock on wood) but there have been times when I’ve gone from Driving Miss Daisy to Evil Knievel in 60 seconds or less. When your child is screaming bloody murder from the confines of her car seat just a few inches from your head, it’s not easy to block her out. As a side note, I’m pretty sure cranking up the radio to drown her cries is frowned upon in the parenting handbook.

Yellow lights are met with a burst of speed instead of braking and corners are cut a little sharper than normal…whatever to get you home and her out the quickest! I’m not proud of this, but it’s the truth. I usually pride myself on being a super safe driver especially since having my daughter, but sometimes a lead foot is necessary.

There is a solution. New parents should be issued a pink or blue siren for the roof of their cars which magnifies their child’s screams so the world can hear what Mummy or Daddy is dealing with.

A baby on board sticker won’t cut it! Baby meltdowns are enough to make even the safest, most cautious driver break the rules. It’s a truth serum of sorts because I would reveal my deepest, darkest secrets to make the crying stop. These sirens wouldn’t work unless the baby was screaming so parents couldn’t abuse it.

Where do I sign up?

Most of the time, I’m able to plan outings accordingly so baby doesn’t have a meltdown, but there are the rare occasions that she’s tired or hungry which will always trigger a screamfest and frazzled nerves for Mummy. No matter how many times you tell her calmly that we’re almost home, she only screams louder. Until I get my siren, I guess I’ll have to remember to slow down, stop at yellow lights, and try my best to soothe my tiny road-rager without losing my cool.

Bad Mom Complex

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Ultimately, I know I’m a good mom because I don’t smoke crack and I haven’t forgotten my baby anywhere…yet . But there’s this silly part of me that worries, “I don’t want them to think I’m a bad mom.” It’s a phrase I use too much these days. My hubby is constantly flabbergasted that anyone would call me a bad mom, yet I’m always so preoccupied thinking about it.

“Uh oh, we better put socks on her feet or someone will say I’m a bad mom. She scratched her face because her nails are too long. She yakked all over herself and there isn’t a spare onesie in the diaper bag. Shame on me!”

I put a lot of  pressure on myself to be “perfect” at my new job as Mummy. I guess I’m going to have to get over my perfectionist ways, and quickly! I’ve learned that baby + perfect don’t mix unless you’re talking about how perfectly cute she is! Things don’t always go as smoothly as you envisioned, but hopefully everyone survives and maybe you learn what not to do next time. I guess this is probably how my parents felt at one point, and look at me — I still have all of my fingers and toes.

Guilt fuels my “bad mom complex.” Take for instance, this blog, which I love working on. Most days I write while she naps, but other days I find myself typing in between playing with her while we sit on the floor. I should be focusing all my attention on her, yet I’m not. Nothing like a baby trying to eat a power cord to get you to stop working though! Yikes! I try to rationalize my guilt by saying that a mom who works from home would be battling the same issues and since writing is my job (even though I don’t get paid for it) it’s okay. Yet somehow the “bad mom complex” rages on!

It’s so easy to say “The hell what other people think,” but it’s another thing to actually teach yourself this carefree attitude once you’ve been a people pleaser since you were born. I guess I’ll just keep doing what I’m doing and hopefully when she’s thirty she’ll have all of her fingers and toes.

Super Nanny = Birth Control?

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Why didn’t I ever watch Super Nanny before I went and got knocked up?!? Had I tuned in, perhaps my husband would’ve won the argument to remain a kid-free household. (We all know who won that one!) But now that we have our beautiful daughter we’re glad we took the leap to become parents. I can’t imagine not ever knowing her. Ask us again in thirteen years…we might be singing a different tune. Then again, some of the worst of these hellions is under the age of five. So we might be closer than we think to dealing with our own little Tasmanian devil.

Lord, I hope that I never need the help of Super Nanny. The children on this show scare the crap out of me. Cussing, hitting, screaming, breaking things, extinguishing their parents’ will to live. I don’t know who’s going to be the disciplinarian out of the two of us. My hubby likes to think he will be a strict dad…but we all know what super strict parents gets you. Hello, rebel without a cause! I refuse to be a grandma at 45 though, so maybe he’s right when it comes to setting rigid rules. But our daughter already has him wound so tightly around her itty bitty finger, I doubt he’ll be anything but a big ol’ softie! I’ll probably end up the bad cop…naturally.

I never put much thought into the actual parenting part that goes in to bringing up baby, or at least I never made it past the diapering stage!(Surely, I can’t be the only one? ) You think you get pregnant, have your bundle, and ride, sail, or drift off into the sunset…until one day you realize that the decisions you make will shape this little baby’s world and then you have your first ever panic attack! So, I try not to think about the day she’ll shout that she hates me, wishes she was never born, and slams her bedroom door in my face. For now, our biggest hurdle is when she becomes a fusspot because she missed a nap…nothing Super Mummy can’t handle!

1 Thing I Would Go Back and Tell my 13-Year-Old Self

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Don’t hate your body! Easier said than done! I recently came across a photo album from when I was so young I couldn’t even order a drink in a bar, or cast my first ballot…we’re talking young. Looking at the photos with my 30-year-old eyes, I saw myself much differently than how I saw myself then. I was so skinny, and cute, and…insecure. As a teenager, I didn’t despise what my Mama gave me, but if a genie came along and granted me 3 wishes, one of them probably would’ve been to look like Niki Taylor. Shallow, I know.

I’d say I had the “normal” amount of body image issues growing up– no eating disorders, but I wasn’t completely comfortable in my own skin either. But who is at that age? Not many teens, especially girls. Which brings me to my next question. How am I going to make sure my daughter doesn’t end up with a warped body image? Take all the mirrors out of the house? Disconnect our cable & internet and never buy a fashion magazine again? That’s a start.

I know I have to put more emphasis on intelligence and what’s on the inside…yada yada yada, but I wish there was some magic button I could press that would relieve her of ever having to worry about her weight or what size she is. It’s really appalling how early all of this madness starts these days. Maybe I’ll teach her what a wise woman once told me a long time ago (not really, it was yesterday). She said, “Love the jeans you’re in now,” meaning be proud of what you’ve got no matter what size you are, because you might look back and realize you were hot stuff when you thought you were a schlub. She went on to say that it never really goes away either…fan-frickin-tastic! Although I’m not in the jeans I want to be in post-baby, I need to embrace them because in ten years I might look back and say, “Mummy wasn’t so bad after all!”

The Sleep Scale

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Whether your baby is a good or bad sleeper seems to be thee question asked by most people. Which in turn translates to: is your baby a “good” baby or a…a what? Do people say “bad” baby? This isn’t The Land of Oz and we’re not talking about witches, people. Only heartless scum say bad baby. The term these days is “high needs” which basically means high maintenance. But the last time I checked babies need to be held a lot, cuddled, and fawned over. When I think of high maintenance, I see Baby J.Lo making demands and screaming until her bottle is just the right temperature. This is not what Dr. Sears meant when he coined the term.

When I get asked if my baby is a good sleeper, I can’t help but feel like my daughter is being unfairly judged. She used to be the best sleeper in the world. From 10 to 6 without a peep. Then the growth spurts and mental leaps started happening and my perfect little sleeper disappeared into the quiet night. Now I’m lucky if I get a full 4 hour block of sleep before she’s wailing for her pacifier. But do I need to relay all this to a stranger at the grocery store? Heck no! So, I give the obligatory answer that she’s a great sleeper, even if it’s not the complete truth. I’ll never see this lady again!

I get it. People who have gone through raising their children, or who are in the process of rearing, want to know where you (or your baby) land on the sleep scale. Misery sure does love company! Perhaps the person asking the question had a notoriously un-sound sleeper and wants to feel some sort of camaraderie, or maybe it’s because they’re smug and want to gloat about their kid who sleeps like a log. Wherever your baby is on the sleep scale shouldn’t be any indication of how happy or unhappy your munchkin is! I try to remind myself that years from now the sleepless nights will be a foggy memory, but her smiles and laughter will be etched on my heart forever.

Thar She Blows!

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Blowouts are inevitable! Yellow, runny poop can hide in places you didn’t even know existed on your baby. What’s even worse is that sometimes they will just stew in it, perfectly happy without a complaint. Then the smell hits you. But it’s not a normal doo doo smell. Someone once described it as a breakfast food smell. No breakfast I ever had! Someone else said it smells like movie theater popcorn…way to ruin that for me. But the best thing about blowouts (sarcasm font needed) is that they wait until the most inopportune time to let it fly. Just when you’ve put a freshie on them, new outfit, plopped them in their car seat for a trip to the grocery store, started the car, and made it around the block…wham! Blowout city!

Now that the munchkin is eating some solid foods, we’ve entered a whole new realm of poop. (I know this is just what you wanted to read about.) New textures, colors, and smells! Oh my! The contents of her diapers closely resemble what she ate at her previous meal: think liquidy prunes. Yummy! Never did I think I’d be so enthralled with what comes out of her rear end. However, I’m not one of those moms who carefully inspects each dirty diaper, but I do take a quick peek to make sure everything is normal. Because sometimes it’s so much that you think she might’ve pooped a squirrel — like on Anchorman.

There is this whole method of infant potty-training called Elimination Communication where the parent looks for the baby’s bathroom cues then rushes them to the toilet or a nearby pot. This just screams disaster to me. I wouldn’t have the patience for it at all. Plus, you’d have to be agile enough to spring into action at any given moment. You’d probably be better off getting a parakeet and letting it fly around your house to poop willy-nilly on all your furniture.

Potty-training this early is enticing, but this method isn’t for me. More power to those who are brave enough to try it though. E.C. really gives new meaning to the term “baby poop” when referring to an unattractive shade of green or yellow paint! While I’m all for a “pop” of color in a room, baby poop is not really the look I’m going for.

The Living Dead

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Forget diamonds — concealer is a new mummy’s best friend! Cursed with spotty skin from an early age, concealer and I have been bosom buddies for a loooong time. But now I rely on it for fear of looking like the undead without it, as well as covering up PMS breakouts. Awesome. It’s no surprise that I would frighten young children first thing in the morning, yet when I look over my daughter’s crib she’s not horrified by my zombie-like appearance, she’s tickled to see me. Now that’s love.

My mommy guru (sister-in-law) used to tell me the wonders of a highlighter pencil and how it could brighten up the dullest of faces. But to me, it was just one more thing I couldn’t be bothered with, plus I didn’t have kids yet and didn’t know the importance of looking well-rested even if it was just smoke and mirrors. I was already putting moisturizer, concealer, foundation, powder, eyeliner, and mascara on…wasn’t that enough?!?

Apparently the answer is no!

I didn’t know what it meant to be truly tired until my baby came along. I also didn’t know what it meant to look truly tired until my baby came along. There’s nothing worse than someone saying, “You look tired.” Really? Why don’t you tell me how fat my ass is while you’re at it? What do people think they’re accomplishing by telling someone this? That once you hear it, you’ll realize they’re right, drop everything, and take a nap right away? This observation is almost always followed up with, “Why are you in a bad mood?” Gee, I wonder…

When I see pictures of myself now, my eyes are happy but they’re beyond droopy. I see the same thing in my hubby’s eyes, but he’s not battling the dark rings that I am. It’s probably because he gets to sleep through her 3 am wake-ups. Lucky bastard! He doesn’t know it yet, but I’m going to figure out a way for him to breastfeed number two, whether it’s taking hormones or what! That way maybe I won’t have to glop on so much concealer to cover up my racoon mask! And in the meantime, maybe I’ll have to buy those wonderous highlighter pencils…in bulk.

Girl Fight!

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How do I force teach my daughter not to be a mean girl? I would be devastated if she was the schoolyard bully or the Queen of the Snobs, but I don’t want her to be the victim of these girls either. It’s a tricky subject because I’m sure peer pressure has a lot to do with it.  Thank god I’m nowhere near having to actually figure this one out, but it’s already giving me anxiety. My niece, who is only six, is already encountering “girl crap” as my sister-in-law likes to call it. The drama, the tears, and the attitudes…hormones aren’t even involved yet. Yikes! I wish I could just skip over years twelve through eighteen. Boarding school anyone? No, I could never send my daughter away. Who could afford that? I mean, I would miss her too much — yeah that’s it!

I wasn’t a mean girl growing up (at least not intentionally) but I had my share of mean moments. Nothing like writing nasty things about other girls in bathroom stalls or starting scandalous rumors, but I remember getting in fights with my friend who lived next door. We’d ride our bikes all over and play Monopoly after school. There was one day we started quarreling over who knows what. Hair was pulled, shins were kicked, and bikes were knocked to the ground. It was ugly. Then, the next day we were back to Monopoly again.

I don’t remember apologizing, but we probably did. Did her mom call mine and tell her about our scuffle? Or were we left to work it out on our own? I don’t know, but according to my mom, kids fight. They love each other one minute, hate each other the next, and have moved on in the blink of an eye. When parents start meddling, that’s when the real problems begin. She’s right because if another mom approached me about my daughter’s behavior you better believe my Mama Bear claws would come out.

I know my daughter will have her share of spats and I wish I could protect her from all of it, but I can’t keep her in a bubble…or could I? Hmmmm….

I’m Coming Out…

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as a closeted Taylor Swift fan! There, I said it — so think what you will. I don’t shop in the junior’s section anymore (teen girls don’t have this much junk in their trunks!), I don’t know what the newest dances are (do kids even remember The Running Man?), and my craziest night of the week is when we order a pizza and watch the new episode of Secrets of a Stylist on HGTV. In other words, not exactly Taylor Swift’s demographic. But I like to think I’m still a young girl at heart — charmed by poetry and romantic ideals about love. Or maybe I’m just becoming an old fuddy-duddy, my music tastes mellowing out with my old age. (The fact that I used the term fuddy-duddy is proof enough that I’m no longer too cool for school. Ugh, I’m full of them.)

I’ve always liked a wide range of music, but this has been my dirty little secret. I was even embarrassed to ask my hubby to get Swift’s music for me. It’s not like I’d go all Kanye on her and try to take away her award or anything as mean, but I wouldn’t exactly admit that she was on my iPod either. But now that I’m a mummy, I might as well own up to all my imperfections.

The first time I heard Swift’s song, “Never Grow Up” I balled my eyes out. Perhaps I could’ve blamed it on my hormonal imbalance being 3 months postpartum, or the sweet strum of the acoustic guitar, or because I was looking into my daughter’s doe eyes while it played in the background…whatever the reason it really hit home. Maybe it reminded me of my past — growing up and realizing all that I put my mother and father through and how at times I still wish I was their little girl being tucked into bed by their loving hands.

There are two ways I could use this song. 1) Save it for my daughter’s wedding and cry my eyes out for her entire father/daughter dance or 2) use the song to punish my daughter when she’s grounded for sneaking out of the house or whatever it is the kids are doing in 2026. She will have to sit and listen to the song on repeat until she realizes that life is simpler when you’re little and she’s in trouble because I love her too much, not because I’m a mean mummy! Looks like I’ll be going with door #2!

Fashion de Bebe

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Have kids and babies always been so fashionable? Or is it a new trend that I’ve only started to notice since joining the mummy club? When I look at baby pictures of myself — I wasn’t dolled up in leopard print or pink, frilly tutus with the words “Princess” and “Glamour Girl” printed on them in big, glittery letters. My mom dressed me in floral rompers and white Little House on the Prairie bonnets. (See below.) Now does this call into play my own mother’s sense of style? Or was that all she had to pick from? (My mom claims to have good fashion sense, but I’ve seen pictures that have made me question her taste level…but maybe the 80’s were to blame for those fashion misses.)

Today’s baby clothes are anything but boring. There’s cargo pants for little boys. What for? To hold their Swiss army knife? There’s even high-heeled shoes for little girls who can’t walk yet! Whaaa? Then there’s the countless onesies with silly slogans turning your kid  into a walking, er, sitting billboard. It seems like we’re rushing them into being grown ups. (I don’t want to delve into that whole ugly mess about what’s age appropriate, but it has opened up my eyes as a new mom.)

Babies couldn’t care less if they’re wearing the newest designer threads. All they care about is if it’s clean and dry. It makes me laugh how obsessed we are to have mini-me’s running around. Guitars & skulls for boys and animal print & rhinestones for girls. I’m going to sound like the biggest hypocrite because I can’t help myself when it comes to leopard print…but everything in moderation.

For wanting to keep her a baby as long as possible, I didn’t start off that way. In the beginning, I admit that I didn’t even want her room to look like a nursery. My vision was of a bright and modern kid’s room with an eclectic mix of colors and accents. Her room is just what I wanted. But whenever I see the quintessential nursery with soft pastel colors and perfectly swathed cradle, it makes me want to redecorate. So, will I look back at her photos years from now and wish I hadn’t dressed her in zebra leggings with a hot pink shirt instead of opting for a more classic look of a white dress with tiny rosebuds on it? Who knows! But what I do know is that she looks too adorable for words in whatever she’s wearing, so I’m sure I won’t have any regrets.