Tag Archives: Parenting

The Uncool Crowd

Posted in Babies, Comedy, Daughters, Family, Humor, Parenting by

Image was important to me from an early age. I blame Barbie with her perfect little nose and weirdly arched feet.

Peaches-n-Cream

I always tried to play it so cool. Never wanting to look like a dork in public. But those days are long gone now. Mom is synonymous with uncool.

Nothing was more humiliating when I had to wear my glasses to school in the second grade. My mom even made me talk to the principal about wearing them…which was even more mortifying. As I got older, I was subjected to my dad picking me up from school in our mini-van — level 9 on a 13-year-old’s embarrassment scale.

I’ve noticed since becoming a mom that I don’t mind looking like a nerd if it makes my baby happy. I’m finally learning not to care what anyone else thinks (it’s only taken me 30 years!). I’ll merrily go along sticking out my tongue or speaking like a chipmunk in broad daylight if it makes my daughter laugh. She has turned me into one of those desperate comedians who will beat a joke to death if it garners even one little pity laugh or smile. “Give me a high 5!” My voice getting louder and more high-pitched with every prompt.

I just can’t help myself.

Trying to be the “cool” mom seems really tricky. How would you know when to be a friend and when to be a parent? Is there a middle ground for this kind of stuff?

I don’t know what kind of mom I’m going to be later but I’m content with being uncool for now. Because my daughter doesn’t know any different yet, and the longer I can keep her in the dark, the better.

In My Face

Posted in Babies, Comedy, Daughters, Family, Humor, Parenting by

It happened last night.

You know that scene from the movies where the unsuspecting person lifts the adorable baby up over their head only to be blanketed in a stream of barf? 

I thought I was projectile vomit immune, that my baby was beyond the age where she might christen me with a puke shower. Sadly, I was wrong.

Enough time had passed from when she ate her dinner (or so I thought). We were playing on the floor, awaiting bath time. Funny thing was that I would be the one needing a bath more than her at the end of it all. I don’t recall shaking her up, perhaps she just had too much to eat.

The next thing I knew a river of throw-up was cascading out of her mouth onto my face. Lucky for me, I shut my mouth just as the barf landed. I quickly wiped it off with my sleeve, but the damage had been done. There was puke all over me — on my clothes and worst of all…in my hair. This wasn’t just a little spit up, this was the real deal Holyfield.

The hubby sat on the couch in shock. I started laughing uncontrollably more out of embarrassment than horror. It was kinda like get pooped on by a bird. You wipe it off and go on as if nothing happened, hoping no one else noticed.

He laughed and said if it had been him, he would have thrown up too. But puke is the least of my worries. Sure, I didn’t like having it in my hair, but there’s worse that could happen. It could’ve gone in my mouth. I shudder to think…

Another Mummy Milestone reached. Where’s my merit badge?

Now I Know Why Victoria Invented the Push-up Bra

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She must have been a mom and breastfed her babies until she was left with two deflated balloons on her chest.

I never needed a push-up bra before. But after 10+ months of nursing my daughter, I’m going to need the best push-up bra money can afford to heft these puppies up to a normal longitude (or would it be latitude?) once we’re done.

It’s not like I want to show off some cleavage — I’m not a Real Housewife of Beverly Hills. But I’d like for them to be where they’re supposed to be.

I tried on some tops last weekend and wondered how the mirror could show me someone else’s reflection, because that surely wasn’t mine. It couldn’t be! When did my girls take a vacation south? How did I not see it happening? Sure, my baby has literally been sucking the life out of them since day 1, but they never looked this…sad, before.

I pushed them up and together only to have them return to their previous resting places. It’s got to be these nursing bras, I countered. They’re just glorified sports bras, totally lacking any real support. After letting out a huge sigh, I quickly changed back into my own clothes and promptly left the dressing room.

My eye-opening shopping trip got me thinking that my body hasn’t been mine for a long time now. It clearly wasn’t mine when I was housing my little pea, especially when she grew into a watermelon, giving me a Buddha belly and huge ta-tas. And almost a year later, it’s still on loan whenever she demands it…which is fine. I love sharing that bond with her.

I guess I’ll probably never feel like my body is mine again. Because the body I knew before is gone for good — something I have to come to terms with. So, I’ll just have to fake it till I make it. Me and my super duper push-up bra!

Momma Bear Claws

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Nothing creeps me out more than a grown man waving and smiling at my baby. Before you call me crazy, let me remind you that I watch way too many Dateline specials to trust ANYONE in this world. So when Chester the Molester is staring and grinning at my daughter while she’s in the grocery cart at the store, it takes everything in me not to kick him in the balls and run in the opposite direction. I try to give these weirdos the benefit of the doubt, rationalizing that they’re probably grandfathers and fathers themselves. But if this is true, why do most of them look like they just escaped from a mental hospital or prison?

If it walks and talks like a child predator…

Eek!

Today there was a strange man in front of us in the checkout line. He kinda looked like that scary ghost on the subway from the movie, Ghost (at least that’s the description I would’ve given to the police). His faded jeans were pulled up to his neck and his tennis shoes were very white, as if he spent all day and night cleaning them with a toothbrush. He asked how old my baby was. And if she was a boy. Then he mumbled something about her being adorable and something else that was inaudible. I avoided eye contact while emptying my cart onto the conveyor belt, preferring to keep our interaction short. Whether it was my overly cautious nature or the fact that I could see this guy sitting across from Chris Hansen on To Catch A Predator, he definitely made my Momma bear claws come out.

I don’t like being so judgemental about these guys, but it’s almost like they’re asking for it. One piece of advice: Just go on about your business, don’t pay any attention to my baby, and this Momma bear won’t maul you to death. Thanks!

The Decline

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“The Decline” is my hubby’s worst fear. It was our running joke for awhile, but it’s kind of died off now. Uh-oh, does that mean it’s happening? I still shower everyday, put on new chonies, and a little makeup…so, no Decline yet!

His worry is that I’ll totally let myself go, not bothering to shower or even brush my teeth on a daily basis. I don’t know why he’s so concerned though. There’s only been a couple of days since I had the baby that I skipped a shower. I should be the one who’s worried. Some weekends he’s the poster child for The Decline: stinky and unkempt, lounging around in his favorite ratty T-shirt and shorts.

I understand where he’s coming from though. I don’t want to end up like one of those moms who wears crusty sweats all day and doesn’t even bother to brush her hair. The poor souls who end up on makeover shows, forced to watch secret video footage of themselves wearing ill-fitting bras and jeans that give them muffin tops.

My girlfriend said she had a reality check the other day when she realized it had been months since she’d gotten her hair done, her roots a little longer than normal. (She said she looked disgusting, but that’s impossible! She’s the most beautiful Mummy ever!) But she asked me to never let her become one of those women who end up on “What Not to Wear”. Of course she never will, but I understand her anxiety and will tell her if she ever starts to slide into The Decline. I know she’ll do the same for me.

I panic about the days ahead, the days where my daughter will drop her morning nap and I’ll have to get ready while she’s–godforbid–awake! Awake and trying to get into everything she shouldn’t be getting into. It will take me 3 hours just to get ready for the day in between chasing her around. Or I could succumb to the dreaded TV as a babysitter so Mummy can have those precious uninterrupted 15 minutes…

When these days come (as I’m sure they will) and I haven’t showered or even changed into a brand new pair of underwear, if the hubby so much as raises an eyebrow, there will be a whole lot more Declining coming his way!

Double Digits

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E ~

10 months ago you opened your eyes to the world and probably screamed, “Put me back!” But we didn’t understand your baby cries and we’ve been holding you prisoner ever since. If it’s any consolation, you seem to be a happy prisoner. You’re fed on time and your captors make you squeal with delight when they pinch your naked hiney right before bath time. When you wake up from your naps, you hold the rails on your crib like a true death-row convict, wailing to be picked up and cuddled…it’s so cute.

The past 10 months have flown by. Seriously, wasn’t I just writing you a 9 month birthday letter? It’s frightening how fast time passes since becoming your mom. Your first birthday will be here before I know it. I’ll probably cry the whole day and then eat whatever’s left of the cake after you dig through it with your mitts.

You’re speed-crawling everywhere these days. Your favorite thing right now is playing tag down the hallway. You stand in the corner and scream with happiness when I jump around and scare you. I worry that I might be giving you baby heart attacks, but the minute you cry instead of laugh, I’ll know to stop. (So far that hasn’t happened.)

You’re really cultivating your sense of humor. This morning, when Mummy got all misty-eyed listening to a story about an elephant and a dog who were best friends until the dog died, you looked directly at me and laughed. I guess we know that you didn’t inherit my schmaltziness and you’re more like your father than I care to admit (although he has been known to shed a tear every once in a blue moon).

You’ve said Ma-ma for the first time and while it’s only when you’re in the high chair demanding food, it melts my heart. Most of your words are still babbles, and you’d rather woof like a dog than “say” anything else. Speaking of dogs, they’re your favorite! You love them all!

I’ve said it a million times but you’re the cutest, most beautiful baby in the world. But you’re hardly a baby anymore. You’re getting big so fast and I wish I could start over and relive every second. Well maybe not every second. I’d skip the sleepless nights and the first couple days of recovery after squeezing you out. Those weren’t so fun. But everything in between for sure!

I love you! You are my angel, my darling, my star (to quote one of the books we read).

Happy 10 months my sweet girl.

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?