Category Archives: Daughters

Just Call Me Quasimodo

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I have the worst posture since becoming a mom.

Is it because I’m too tired to hold this body up? Could it be the lack of core strength? Or is it like gray hair and wrinkles–showing up when you reach a certain age? Probably all of the above.

Whatever the reason, I’m sick of it. When I notice that I’m slumped over like a deformed creature who lives in a bell tower, I straighten up –pushing my shoulders back and holding my head high. It lasts for maybe a minute before I’m back to Slouchy McSloucherson.

At the rate I’m going, I’ll have the biggest hump of all the gals in the resthome. Hopefully I’ll have my own teeth to offset it.

It’s too much work to have good posture. They say it makes you look ten pounds thinner, but so does a girdle…not that I would deal with wearing one of those! (Mummy does not want to feel like a sausage casing.)

Sitting up straight could be the easiest way to “lose” ten pounds, but just because you reposition the rolls doesn’t mean they’re gone…sadly.

Guess I’ll have to figure out how to rock the hunchback look. A cute little bird in your hand (or in my case, my adorable daughter) just might do the trick.

 

Bad Days

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As a new mom, I consider myself lucky since I haven’t had too many days where I feel like gouging my eyes out with an ice pick or tearing all the hair out of my head from frustration. Believe me I’ve had my moments, but they’ve been few and far between.

This morning, I wasn’t so lucky.

Whether it’s the damn time change or that another top tooth is on its way, my daughter hasn’t been herself for the past couple days. She again woke earlier than normal this morning and would not go back to sleep as is the routine. This extra-early start to our day was not a good sign, yet I hadn’t given up all hope yet.

It was after her 3o minute catnap that I knew it would be the morning from hell. There was no way that was enough sleep to ward off the cranky demon baby that takes over my daughter when she’s extremely tired or starving to death.

I hadn’t showered yet and I wasn’t up for the circus of getting ready while trying to keep her entertained and out of harm’s way while trying to brush my teeth and put on deodorant. I was already too exhausted. But I had no other choice.

In her seat she sat while I tried to reenergize in the shower. I found I could muffle her fussy cries by letting the water run over my head and ears just so. It was bliss for a couple minutes…until I had to get out. The fussing continued even when I was in sight. It stopped when I picked her up, reminding me of our days when she was a newborn. (I barely ever put her down then.)

As I placed her on the floor so I could get dressed, she broke down. She did the silent cry that breaks my heart every time: eyes squeezed shut, mouth open in horror, body trembling. It’s like the clap of thunder after the bolt of lightning. You wait and wait, then boom!

So I scooped her back up and there we sat on my bed, both of us wailing away for no better reason than we were so very tired.

Soon after she fell asleep, allowing us the reprieve we needed to start fresh and salvage what was left of the day.

When I opened her door to her bright rested eyes, she smiled at me like nothing had ever happened. And I fell in love with her all over again, like I do every single day.

I Curse You, Time Change

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Just when I was starting to feel human again from consistently getting a “good” night’s sleep, the time change happens and screws everything up! Doesn’t it know not to eff with my sleep? That I get downright vengeful when my slumber is tinkered with?

It’s a cruel, cruel joke. And for what? So that it’s dark in the middle of the day? And light before the roosters are even awake? I hear that Arizona and Hawaii don’t buy in to this nonsense. Why are they so lucky? Why do we have to add and subtract hours to our days on a whim, mess up our children’s normal sleeping times wreaking havoc on our own sanity?

Before I was a mom I loved the time change. It meant getting an extra hour to snooze away. But now it’s the bane of my existence. The only good thing that has come of it is that it’s not dark when I have to pull myself from bed to begin my day.

My daughter’s schedule is all jacked up and I have no-one to point the finger at. It’s not like I can tell her to sleep in until 6:00 cause really it’s 7:00. She knows not what I say.

Her 5:30 wake-up call this morning was a brutal reminder that the time change is tortuously unnecessary. This whole falling back and springing forward is a load of crapola!

Only the Best

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Nobody will ever be good enough to date our daughter. Period.

Most parents feel this way about their children at some point, and while it’s light years away for us, I’m having this kind of anxiety about the food she eats. No banana is organic enough, no cracker unprocessed enough! I know I have to get over it. She’s just so perfect and untainted still, sue me for wanting to keep her that way.

I don’t want her eating partially hydrogenated oils or unsaturated fats, no Mcnuggets, or soda. But how will I explain that she can’t have MickeyD’s when I crave their heavily salted fries and addictive sugary ketchup? Or that I can’t seem to kick my nasty mini-Coca Cola addiction? She’ll hate my hypocritical ass!

While her father and I don’t eat as healthily as we could, I still want better for her. I finally understand that as parents, we want only the best for our kids. He says she’ll be fine if she has a little bit of that stuff, but I want to protect her from getting a taste for it in the first place. That’s what’s wrong with us. I was born with a picky palette and it’s still not as refined as it could be. And don’t even get me started on my sweet tooth. It’s a disease for sure!

Now that her doctor said to feed her bites from our own plates, I’m starting to freak out about our eating habits. I’m not going to give my baby pizza or spicy chicken chili. So does this mean we’ll have to start eating bland mush?

Sometimes I wish we lived on a farm far away from the shelves and aisles of packaged, processed foods. We’d have to prepare everything that went into our bodies. But who am I kidding? I’d miss the convenience of opening a box of Cheerios and not having to milk the cow before eating my morning bowl of cereal. Who has the time for that anyway?

This Is It

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I love when people ask what I’m doing for the day as if I have a life…a life outside of my baby bubble, that is. What do they expect me to say? That I’m close to curing cancer or solving the world’s hunger problem? That would be nice, but I’m lucky to respond to an email, if it’s the only thing I do non-baby related.

So to answer their question I say, “This is it” while opening my arms Vanna-style to the toy-littered floor around me.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my baby bubble. I prefer to stay there than venture out into the crazy, annoying world. To some, our monotonous days might seem boring but I take comfort in our routine. Plus, she’s my little sidekick: the Robin to my Batman, the chocolate to my peanut butter. We share inside jokes and the latest celebrity gossip over her lunch of apples and carrots. “72 days! Can you believe it lasted that long?” We listen to Louis Prima on Pandora and twirl together in the kitchen while I prepare dinner.

It’s funny to think that while no two days are exactly the same, we do the same things every single day and it’s easy to see how they all just blur together. We play with her toys on the rug, we chase each other around the house (really, I chase her), we read, and sometimes go for a walk. That’s our routine, give or take a trip to the store. When that routine is out of whack, it makes me a little batty. Good thing I’m getting back on track.

Maybe the next time someone asks me what I’m doing that day, I’ll say, “Raising an exceptional child” instead of my usual answer of, “Nothing.” Because the truth is it’s more like everything, instead of nothing.

And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Fool Me Twice

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I wasn’t going to tell you about this because I’m so consumed with being labeled a bad mom, but then I thought what the hell, it’ll be cathartic. So here goes.

A few days ago the baby crawled down the hall  and into our bedroom. I was doing some sort of chore, finishing up before I chased after her. She wasn’t in our room for more than half a minute. She hadn’t even made it to the hubby’s side table yet — her intended target. Just as she got one little mitt on the table, I snatched her up and we returned to the living room. How I failed to notice she had something in her mouth, I don’t know.

When Daddy got home, he asked what she was chewing on. Had I given her some puffs? Nope. I squeezed the sides of her cheeks, looking inside her tiny mouth. I saw something beige, like a rubber stopper. Freaking out, I put a hooked finger in her mouth and pulled out the culprit. She protested, wanting her prize back. When I saw what it was, I gagged. It was Daddy’s lost earplug! Ew! Ew! Ew!

This was mummy fail #1. Not only was my baby sucking on a disgusting, used earplug but she could’ve choked! I laughed in repulsion and shame.

Take 2.

The next day, baby cruised down the hall in her walker as I cleaned up her room. I heard her playing with the knobs on the small TV cabinet in our bedroom. I wasn’t worried as she was confined to the walker, and can barely reach across the tray attached to the front of it. I should have known better.

When I went to check on her, she had a small bag of screws in her hand, a huge smile on her face, and one screw on the tray in front of her.

Mummy fail #2.

It’s safe to say I freaked out again! But this time was worse because I had no idea if she had already ingested a piece of hardware. I grabbed everything from her, prompting another meltdown, and berated myself for being so stupid.

I know babies eat marbles and pennies and end up just fine. I counted the screws: 2 big pointy ones with washers, 3 small ones, and 1 tiny one with a little bolt around it. An even number would have made me feel better.

I knew that if she ate one, she’d pass it in a few days. So that left me with one thing to do: gross examinations of her poop. This is where my experience working in a veterinary clinic has paid off. Smooshing the contents of my daughter’s soiled diapers to make sure she didn’t ingest a piece of hardware is no problem at all. Scary thing is I’ve done worse.

Good news–no screw yet! And now I know to shut all the doors in the house when that little klepto is on the move!

My Time is Coming

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I was at a birthday party recently where a little girl showed up wearing something reserved for sleeping, paired with her favorite rain boots. I tried my best not to do a double take and blurt out, “What is that child wearing?” as it was clearly the middle of the day, no rain was in sight, and it was not a slumber party. I wasn’t about to judge her mother outright (but inside my head was a different story).

Only babies and elderly people can get away with wearing their pajamas out of the house. Anyone in between should know better, or at least their mothers should know better. But this mom was not of the same mindset. She wasn’t even the slightest bit embarrassed that her kid wasn’t wearing actual clothes. She acknowledged it, saying it wasn’t a big deal because this was her second kid. She confessed it would’ve bothered her with her first though. But now she’s much more laid back.

Laid back or overwhelmed, I wondered.

I don’t want to be the kind of mom who stifles creativity or smother’s my daughter’s wishes, but if I let her do whatever she wants whenever she wants, aren’t I setting myself up for a spoiled brat who can’t handle authority? Shouldn’t she know there are certain rules she needs to follow? Like getting dressed…I mean, hel-lo.

I’m well aware that a fussy baby usually gets whatever will make her happy and quiet, but at some point, a mummy has to put her foot down, right? Or is it all about choosing your battles? Someday I might have to let her wear a superhero cape 24/7 because it’ll be the only way to get her to clean her room? Or listen to her iPod while we eat dinner for fear of a hunger strike?

I’m sure my time is coming. And when it does, I will resort to the classic line every mother through time has used — “Because I said so!”

It Runs In Your Genes

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“Diarrhea is hereditary. It runs in your jeans.”

And if this is the kind of joke I think is funny, my daughter is sure to loathe turning into me.

Becoming your mother is every daughter’s worst nightmare. But why is that? Why do we shudder when we use a mom-ism? Why do their nervous tics become ours? Is it because they’re always right (well maybe not always, but most of the time).

I love my mom very much and am proud to be like her in some ways, but am completely horrified to be like her in others. I know my daughter will grow up to feel the same way, which is a little hard to swallow, but completley normal. Just like it’s normal to deny that your parents ever had sex despite your very own existence. It’s just not something you want to acknowledge, ever.

I shouldn’t take it personally when she doesn’t want to be my little clone. That’s not what I want for her anyway. Yes, I would be over the moon if she has a passion for reading, loves animals, and plays sports. But she might not like any of those things, which is fine (she said through gritted teeth).

There will come a day when she says something that will freeze her in her tracks because she hears my voice coming out of her mouth. I want her to know it’s normal because it’s in her genes, and there’s nothing she can do about it! It happens to the best of us.

Right now she thinks I’m pretty great. She laughs and giggles at most everything I do. How I wish it would stay this way forever. But it’s just a matter of time before she wishes her mother wasn’t such an embarrassing dork, a dork who she will never be like.

I hate to break it to her. She will be her mother’s daughter…no matter what (she said triumphantly).

Really, Summer’s Eve? Really?

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I’m sure most of you have seen these new commercials for feminine hygiene products that ask us ladies to “Show it some love” or to “Hail to the V”.

What’s next — an erectile dysfunction ad that says, “Bow down to the P?”

Ick.

For those of you who’ve missed out, you can guess what the V stands for. That’s right — va-jay-jay.

The first time I saw the ad, I wasn’t quite sure I heard correctly. But yes, they were talking about our private parts. It’s a clever advertising scheme as it has created a lot of buzz around its product. However, it seems a little inappropriate.

I’m all one for girl power and feminism, but even I get a little skeeved out with these commercials. They preface it by saying “It’s been fought over for centuries,” and “It’s the cradle of life.” While this may be true, at the end of the day, my lady business is nobody’s business.

Just like I don’t want to watch blue liquid poured into maxi pads or Jamie Lee Curtis talking about her regularity — I don’t want to hear that I should be throwing a parade in honor of my lady bits. I don’t need a catchy slogan to feel empowered that I indeed have a “V” to hail to.

Lately, it seems like the V-word is a go-to for an easy laugh on many sitcoms, and I’m not talking about the watered-down version borrowed from Grey’s Anatomy. I’m talking about the correct anatomical word…which I can’t bring myself to write because it’s become too cliché. (Yeah right, it’s because even in my writing I’m a bit of a prude.) Yet, soon I have to face the dilemma of what to call said body part in regards to my daughter. But that’s another post for another day.

Not Wrong, Just Different

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Somehow my brothers and I survived our childhood with few broken bones and only a couple stitches here and there. My mom laughs about not having car seats for us when we came home from the hospital or helmets when we rode our bikes — so it’s a wonder I’m sitting here today in one piece.

It’s been 30 years since my mom raised a baby, so it’s safe to say A LOT has changed. But it’s also safe to say that nothing has changed, as all babies really need is food, a clean diaper, and love.

Seeing all the gadgets and thingymajigs that I have for my daughter: the fancy stroller with its 5-point harness and shocks, the diaper genie that magically swallows dirty diapers, the video monitor, the shopping cart cover…it all makes my mom feel like she did everything wrong.

When I told her that some of my daughter’s first solid foods were mango and avocado, she looked at me as if I’d given my baby a shot of tequila. I reassured her both mango and avocado were on the “first foods list” from wholesomebabyfood.com, but from her reaction she clearly thought I was insane. But she didn’t have the Internet when I was a baby, all she had was one Dr. Spock book. So how would she know? Plus, it was the 80’s — people were drinking Tab soda and organic wasn’t even a blip on the radar.

I know how she feels though. I constantly question whether I’m doing things right. In 30 years, if my daughter has children, there will be a whole new parenting style with a whole new set of gizmos to accompany it. I’ll feel like an utter failure when she asks me what I used to do with her. I’ll laugh like a crazy person and say, “We used to put you in a car seat! Can you imagine?” Because by then, we’ll all have flying cars and babies will be equipped with ejection seats and parachutes.

The way my mom did things, and the way I’m doing things isn’t wrong, it’s just…different.