Tag Archives: Parenting

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.

Slutty Lions, Tigers, and Bears, Oh My!

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Halloween is fast approaching, which we all know means a free pass to dress like a slut for one night. Who ever saw a kitten in fishnets? Or a nurse wearing a corset? A police officer in thigh-high boots? Not me!

A random catalog for costumes came in the mail awhile back. I flipped through it with such excitement, eager to find my daughter the perfect outfit for her first Halloween. I was drawn to the girly costumes like Tinkerbell and Snow White, thinking she’d look so precious in the glittery tutus. While these costumes were adorable, I came to the realization that she’d have plenty of time for Disney princesses later, so maybe I should choose something a little more neutral. Lambs and panda bears were more our speed.

I kept flipping, coming to the tween costumes. Let me just say that there’s no way I’d let my daughter even model some of these costumes, let alone purchase and wear out of the house in the dark of night. She has another thing coming if she thinks she’s going to be anything other than a ghost, completely covered in a white sheet, until she’s 18 years old. The only thing exposed will be her eyes…a mom can dream, right?

Mummy’s worst nightmare

While carefully trying to decide which costume was least skanky for a baby, I somehow managed to do one worse. The costume I ended up buying her (which I thought was so funny and innocent) actually makes her a giant, yellow wiener banana. The image of her dad and myself dressed as monkeys carrying around our little banana was too cute for words. I wasn’t even thinking how she’d be a huge yellow phallus. You think it would’ve dawned on me when I put the “tip” of the banana on her head. She’s going to be so embarrassed of the pictures when she’s older…so maybe I did do something right?

Mummy Milestone #28

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I finally became one of “those parents” with the screaming child in the restaurant. However, in my defense it took a good 9 months for it to happen, so I think I deserve some kind of pat on the back. (But it’s not like she’s been out to that many eateries — probably under 10.)

I’ll have you know that I promptly left the restaurant once she let out her first, ear-piercing shriek. I wasn’t about to stay and enjoy my spicy sesame chicken when it was my fault for bringing her out in the first place.

The wheels were set in motion when the hubby called to ask if I wanted to join him and his mom for lunch. Why yes, going out to lunch during the middle of the week is one of my favorite things to do (or at least it used to be), so I couldn’t pass up the opportunity. But the timing could have been better…a whole lot better.

I take full responsibility because I knew my daughter was tired and due for her afternoon nap, but I thought that she’d be fine if I was holding her. I was just thinking that my trade-off for her not napping like a “normal” baby was that she’s almost always very mellow and well-behaved when we’re out and about. Well, damn if they don’t love to prove you wrong.

I almost called and canceled, but the lure of midday dining was too strong (and I’m completely selfish). So I kept the date and met them against my mummy’s intuition. We sat down and threw every toy at her from the diaper bag. We even let her play with the chopsticks despite the jagged wooden edges. They were keeping her happy…for the moment.

At first I didn’t worry too much, even brushing off my husband’s concerned look at her first sign of fussiness. The din from our fellow diners and the music overhead was pretty loud, so her first squawks went unnoticed. But as I walked back to the bathroom to rinse her pacifier for the second time after she spit it on the floor, a blood-curling screech followed me, prompting a reaction from an older lady sitting at the sushi bar.  I knew then what I had to do.

Get the hell out of there!

I did not want to be “those people” with the screaming kid, garnering angry stares from everyone sitting around us. So I quickly inhaled a few bites of chicken, gathered her up, and went home.

There you have it. I reached a new mummy milestone and I survived. Scratch that off the list and wait for the next one.

How Did This Happen?

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Today is my baby’s 9 month birthday…makes me misty just acknowledging it.

So in her honor, I’m going to borrow an idea from SquareOneNotes’ blog and write her a message to commemorate this momentous day.

SweetE — you are getting so big I can hardly remember the days when you used to curl up in a tiny ball and sit on my chest. Or that every time I blinked, you pooped your pants. Or how we used to sit up through the night, holding you while you slept, watching crappy movies because that’s all that’s on at 3 am.

You’re crawling all around the house now and no matter how many times I sweep, you look like Pigpen from the Peanuts’ gang — your own little solar system of dust orbiting around you at all times. You have two bottom teeth and while you haven’t tried to rip my nipple off (yet) I continue to put myself in harm’s way for your nutrition. (Now that you have teeth, you seem like you’re 9 months going on 3 years.)

When I look back at your baby pictures, you have changed so much I hardly recognize who you were. Your father and I were so worried when you were itty bitty that your belly button would always look how it did after your stump fell off and that you’d never grow a neck…but the stump flattened out and you’re slowly getting a neck…phew. Nobody told us these things. (Despite these worries, you’ve always been the most beautiful munchkin ever.)

Your daddy and I live to make you laugh. If there was one thing I could bottle, it would be your laughter. It is positively priceless. There’s nothing your father and I won’t do for a giggle or a smile, including hopping around like a couple of monkeys. You enjoy being scared, and despite the fact that startling a baby is probably bad karma, I continue to make you jump. You just love it so.

You’ve taken a dump in the bathtub twice now, so I know you’ve got quite the sense of humor and you’re going to be the ultimate prankster.

You’re becoming very opinionated and you’re not afraid to make your voice heard. Just like this morning when Mummy was singing Ariel’s Lament from The Little Mermaid to you and your response was fart sounds. I can take a hint and I applaud your honesty.

In closing, I love you more than is humanly possible and I’m so thankful for you (even though you send Mummy on a rollercoaster of emotions on a daily basis).

Happy 9 months, my snuggle bunny.

‘Fraidy Cat

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When did I become such a scaredy cat? I used to live for blood and gore, ghost stories, and serial killers on the loose (at least in the realm of horror flicks). But now that I’m a mom I find that I don’t have the same tolerance for this type of thing anymore. I’m the one peeking through my fingers as they shield my eyes, when I used to be the one making fun of wusses like that.

The Walking Dead, a TV show about zombies and the apocalypse, just started its second season last night. The hubby and I watched every gruesome minute of the first season and couldn’t wait for the premiere. It’s quite graphic and I’m always surprised by what they can get away with since it’s on standard cable. Zombies getting shot point-blank in the head, in slow motion. All the blood, guts, and dismembering a horror fan could ever ask for. However, there was a scene with a horse I couldn’t bear to watch in season one, but that was just because I’m an animal-lover, not because it was too gross. I usually pride myself that I can handle my gore.

So the hubby and I hunkered down for the premiere, our daughter safe and sound in her crib way out of earshot. I was so excited, I couldn’t wait to see if the show would still be as riveting as the first season. But as soon as the eerie background music started up — you know the kind, it’s in every horror movie ever made — I wanted to turn off the TV and run screaming from the room. I didn’t want the heart palpitations and unnecessary anxiety — the very thing you watch these kind of shows for.

After repeating “Are you kidding me?” and “Oh no!” every fifteen seconds through the opening scene of the show, I noticed the change in myself. I was no longer the thrill-seeker I used to be. I didn’t want to be scared anymore. I wanted to be assured that nothing like this would ever happen in my lifetime nor my daughter’s lifetime. I never want her to have to stab a flesh-eating zombie in the eyeball repeatedly with a screwdriver to save her own hide.

Is it because the horror films I grew up watching were so fantastical and outrageous that they seemed impossible of ever coming true and that the films and shows of today are so true to life that you can see it happening to the world around you?

Maybe I’m just getting older — I am 30 after all. No longer a little kid watching Nightmare on Elm Street or Poltergeist and loving the sheer excitement of being scared to sleep with my back to the door or dangle an arm off the bed. Now I have too much to lose and so much to protect that being afraid is just plain scary. Besides, all this self-induced anxiety is probably giving me more gray hairs, and that’s one thing this Mummy doesn’t need any help with!