Tag Archives: Parenting

Don’t You Judge Me

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“Don’t you judge me” is my new mom motto. As much as I think it, it should be tattooed on my forehead. Or maybe just printed on a T-shirt for me to wear every single day.

This morning a plumber came to install a toilet and a sink in our master bathroom. He didn’t look like any plumber I’d seen before. He was missing a beer belly and that famous plumber’s crack…thank god!

Having any kind of handyman in the house gives me anxiety. So it’s safe to say I was a big ball of awkward. Throw a tired, cranky baby in the mix and I was even more on edge.

Naturally, the plumber showed up right when my daughter was to take her morning nap. Lately I’ve been putting her down while she’s still awake so she can learn to put herself to sleep. She usually cries for a couple minutes before conking out. I’ve become immune to those cries.

Sure enough, as soon as I closed the door behind me, a wail erupted from the depths of her bowels. A scream I’ve never heard before. Someone was surely torturing her. That was the only logical conclusion. So I went back in. She was fine. To the contrary of her screams, no-one was killing her. I placed her back down and told her it was nap time. As soon as I left, the same god-awful shriek.

It’s not enough to allow a stranger into your home to judge your living conditions, but now that I’m a mom, my parenting skills are on full display and up for debate. I just knew this guy was judging me as an unfit parent for letting my baby cry. But what he doesn’t know is that’s how we roll.

She was asleep within a minute, and I could finally exhale.

Needless to say, she woke up 40 minutes later thanks to the plumber banging around in the bathroom.

As I signed the check over, holding my daughter on one side, he looked at her and said, “So that’s the little one who was crying. Never knew such a loud sound could come out of a tiny person.” I wanted to give him my best “Don’t you judge me” look, but like always with these guys, I just gave a nervous laugh and said, “Yep. That was her. Not a fan of napping.”

See, if I had that tattoo or that shirt, he would’ve gotten my message loud and clear.

Bibliophile in Training

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Like many expectant parents, I read to my baby while she was in the womb hoping she would come out loving the written word. It seems this experiment didn’t work. Not yet, at least. My daughter would rather eat her books than listen to me read them.

As a bibliophile myself, this kills me. I want her to know what it means to lose herself for hours at a time reading her little heart out. Staying up well after I’ve told her lights out with a flashlight illuminating the pages of her favorite book as she hides under the covers.

I know it’s probably an attention span thing and will get better with time. Being a baby and all I’m sure she has the attention span of a gnat (although if you ask me, she’s a baby genius).

It comes down to timing. When we read her stories in the morning, she’s all about The Very Hungry Caterpillar, following along and waving good-bye to the butterfly at the end of the story when he flies away. But if it’s close to bedtime and we’re curled up in her rocking chair with On the Night You Were Born — forget it, she doesn’t care if the wind and the rain are whispering her name or if heaven blew every trumpet on the wonderful, marvelous night she was born. She just wants her woobie and to go to sleep, thank you very much. None of that drivel.

According to my mom, my first word was read so naturally it’s my dream for my girl to follow in my footsteps. I want her to have a hearty appetite for books, devouring each and every one she gets her mitts on. But not like she does now — devouring them with her mind.

And if she doesn’t like to read?

I’ll bribe her until she does. Just kidding.

I guess letting go of your expectations and realizing your kids are their own people complete with their own likes and dislikes, separate from your own, is all part of becoming a parent.

And if you don’t want to give up your expectations, bribery probably works wonders.

Perpetually Late

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I make plans and the baby laughs so hard she pees her pants. Good thing she wears diapers.

Whenever I try to plan something or say I’m going to be somewhere at a specific time, my daughter decides to take a marathon nap. No joke. Every. Single. Time. It’s like she turns into Stewie from Family Guy but she doesn’t want to kill me, she just wants to murder my plans.

When she takes these spontaneous long naps, you know there’s no way I’m going to wake her up to stick to my schedule. What am I completely nuts? If that baby is asleep, it’s a gift from God and I run with it…or sit my butt on the couch and enjoy every last moment of serenity. Screw my plans and arriving on time. The world can wait, dammit.

My mom told me to get used to it, that it was all part of being a parent. I know she’s right. But it’s hard to give up my punctuality. I was always on time before, and now I’m perpetually late. Friends and family are subjected to last minute texts that read, “Sorry…on my way” or “Just leaving now.” Or “Baby  just pooped and barfed everywhere…be there never.” This is expected with a little one but it takes some getting used to.

There is the rare occasion where I can get the diaper bag packed with everything from the nursery, the babe fed, changed, and strapped in, my wallet, my phone, my sunglasses, and keys and be out the door with just enough time to arrive ten seconds early. But it’s a full-blown production involving precise coordination and a functioning brain, so sometimes things get left behind.

Luckily, most everyone is understanding. They know how unpredictable being a Mummy is. I, on the other hand, need to get used to it, because I have a feeling I’m going to be running late for the rest of my life.

Last Call Was a Long Time Ago

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Pre-baby photos remind me of a life forgotten in the dust. Crazy nights of drunken debauchery. Glasses held in the air, saluting the camera while squinty, blood-shot eyes struggle to stay open despite the flash. These pictures remind me what our lives used to look like. Heading out to the favored dive bar of the moment, ordering a round of cheap drinks, and staying out till the wee hours of the morning, only to return home to sleep for as long as we wanted.

Getting “enhanced” was a weekly way to blow off steam, a way to celebrate the close of a hectic work week. But now our days run into one another, there is no difference between a Tuesday or a Saturday. Babies don’t have weekends and Mummy doesn’t do hangovers. So it seems I’ve traded my shot glass for a sippy cup.

Booze doesn’t have the same appeal it did before our daughter came along. Not to mention that a baby is very sobering on her own. Also, Happy Hour starts right in the middle of her afternoon nap. So why even bother?

I like when people say you shouldn’t drink to get drunk. Isn’t that the whole point? That’s like saying you shouldn’t have sex to make a baby or go on vacation to relax. I enjoy a glass of wine with a meal or a pre-dinner cocktail as much as the next guy, but c’mon, people drink to get drunk. That’s what it’s there for.

While I’m glad the hubby and I had time to sow our wild oats (more like mild oats), I wouldn’t want to go back to that life. I’ve spent enough night’s curled up on my friend’s bathroom floor and suffered through enough pounding headaches to know I’m not missing anything…especially when there’s a baby to take care of in the middle of the night. Plus, if I get nostalgic I have the photos to remind me just how foolish I get after I’ve had a couple.

Loud Noises!

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Every Sunday my baby becomes an orphan — an NFL orphan. The hubby and I are admitted football fanatics so when the clock strikes 10 on Sunday morning (during football season), our sweet baby girl is left to fend for herself. Not really! We’re not that horrible. But I’ll admit we pull out every single toy, fan them out on the floor, and let her have at it while we soak up every single touchdown on the Red Zone channel. At least we don’t handcuff her to the crib with a bottle and a book. Now that would be neglect.

I didn’t used to be the type of woman who liked football. I hated being an NFL widow. It was so annoying when the hubby watched countless hours every Sunday while I was left in the lurch. But if you can’t beat ’em…

Now I find myself yelling at the TV, cussing up a storm, all but grabbing my crotch and spitting on the ground. I used to think the sport was barbaric and now I’m the barbarian. My poor child has to witness her mother going ape when one of her players scores a 88-yard rushing TD or when her quarterback gets sacked and fumbles causing her to lose points.

I wonder what goes through my daughter’s head when she sees her mother and father jumping around like a couple of idiots, screaming at the weird picture box anchored to the wall. It must be quite a strange sight and will probably scar her for life. Maybe I should lock her up in her crib with a pair of noise-canceling headphones. Whatever it takes to keep her as close to normal as possible, because with parents as crazy as the two of us, she doesn’t stand a chance.

Do As I Say

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At one time I was a thirteen-year-old girl who defended the music she listened to by saying she didn’t even know what the lyrics were — that she liked it for the beat.

Ugh, I know this is going to come back to bite me in the ass.

I remember my mom taking away my Vanilla Ice tape (that’s right, cassette) because she didn’t like that he was talking about an 8-ball in one of his songs. An 8-ball…what the hell was that anyway? Something on a pool table, right? She should’ve been more concerned with one of his other songs where he was talking about having sex in the clouds or something. You’d think I’d remember the lyrics since my Bestie and I listened to it over and over writing them down in my unicorn-clad Trapper-Keeper.

Sometime later, my dad heard his baby girl and her same friend sing the word libido to Nirvana’s, “Smells Like Teen Spirit” before getting dropped off at a church function. I still remember him turning down the music inside our Ford Aerostar and asking if I knew what that word meant. Uh no, all I knew was that it rhymed with mosquito. Maybe that’s why Kurt Cobain wrote it? It’s so embarrassing to think of now — how my father must have felt hearing his little girl say something so crass. He was super old-fashioned, yet he always let me listen to whatever crap I wanted.

My Bestie and I are still great friends and often scoff at the garbage we used to listen to: Silk’s “Freak Me”, H-Town’s “Knockin’ Da Boots”, TLC’s “Red Light Special”…all totally inappropriate for young ladies.

These songs didn’t turn us into prostitutes or even make us promiscuous. However I see why our parents wouldn’t want us listening to them being young, impressionable minds and all.

Luckily, my friend and I went on to develop a healthy appreciation for real music…actual musicians who play actual instruments (although we still love to shake what our mama’s gave us).

So I guess when my daughter is blaring some song about Birthday Sex or S &M, I’ll have to think back to my days as a young lass who loved music solely because it made me want to dance. But if I see any booty shaking, I’m taking her iPod away.

They’re Coming to Take Me Away, Ha-Haaa!

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What do they call it when you do the exact same thing over and over expecting a different result? Oh yeah, CRAZY!

My life right now is the very definition of crazy. Each night before the hubby and I go to bed, I’m optimistic that our daughter might sleep 8 uninterrupted glorious hours, allowing us to do the same. And each night she shatters all my hopes of ever sleeping through the night again. Yet, the next night just before I close my eyes and drift off to some sort of rest, I think, maybe tonight’s the night.

Who knows where this glass-half-full person came from. I’ve always been a Negative Nancy when it comes to…well, everything. Perhaps Motherhood has changed me from a lifelong pessimist to an optimist? I doubt it, if anything you’d think motherhood would do the opposite. Take a sweet Pollyanna and crush her spirit until she’s a snarky cynic. Sleep deprivation and permanent stretch marks will do that to a gal.

Maybe I have no choice other than to be optimistic about this for fear I’d end up in the loony bin wearing a straitjacket talking to my imaginary friends with drool running down my face. Actually, that’s probably what I look like in the morning anyway: pajamas askew, hair mussed, mumbling like Rain Man while I stagger down the hall like a zombie. If you didn’t know I was a new mom, anyone in their right mind would have me committed. Hey, maybe that’s not such a bad idea. I bet those loons get all the sleep they want!

Everyone Poops (But Usually Not in the Tub)

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This post practically wrote itself.

My daughter pooped while sitting in her high chair as I spoon-fed her winter squash and plums. She alerted me to her deed by flashing her poop face: an intense focused look. Then she grunted, confirming my suspicions.

This led me to a great idea.

The hubby and I should record her the next time she decides to let one loose while eating dinner, then on her prom night we can play it before she and her date go off to the dance. With that image in his mind, he won’t try to get to third base. He’ll be too grossed out and she’ll be too embarrassed. It’s the perfect strategy.

But it seems she had the last laugh.

We finished up dinner and I ran her bath. Her newest thing is to pull herself up on the side of the tub. Before you tell me she shouldn’t be standing in the tub…I know. But she’s obsessed with doing it, so I let her. Spotting her the entire time. I should have known something was going on because she wasn’t slapping the tub like she normally does. She got quiet and before I knew it, her poop face reappeared.

Next thing I knew, there were 2 brown trout swimming in the tub with a third on its way. I laughed hysterically, calling the hubby in to bear witness. His first reaction was to take a picture, not clean it up. Naturally. So before she had time to finish her duty I picked her up, covered her butt with a wash cloth, and hurried to the changing table.

This was the first time she’d ever taken a dump in the bath. Even when she was a newborn–pooping every 2 minutes–she never had this kind of accident. So it’s totally fitting that she did it on a night when I try to devise a plan to ruin her prom night seventeen years from now.

Too-shay, baby. Too-shay.

Apples or Oranges

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Being a mom is all about trade-offs and sacrifices. You really can’t have it all…at least at the same time. Your head would surely explode. So they should stop making such a big deal out of it.

On a daily basis I find myself making choices between this or that. Do I take a shower while she’s napping or read my book nestled in the corner of the couch? Because if I choose reading then I’ll have to take her in the bathroom with me while I shower and who knows what kind of mood she’ll be in. She might scream at me the entire time because she can’t see my face, even though I continue to talk and sing her name, assuring her that I’m just behind the curtain.

But if I choose to shower while she’s peacefully slumbering, there are even more choices to make. To shave the legs, or not to shave the legs. And I mean the whole leg–both of them–above the knees. To condition the hair, or not to condition the hair. You can’t do both. There’s just not enough time to be showered and ready before she wakes up if you shave both legs! So I usually sacrifice smooth legs for manageable hair, it’s not like these pasty white stumps see the light of day anyway.

Each decision is a trade-off in itself. Sometimes it works out well and the whole day goes smoothly. Other times I want to pull my hair out…my soft, manageable hair.

I realize the choices I have to make are really easy ones for the time being. I know it will only get more complicated as the baby gets older. And here I always thought that things would get easier! Joke’s on me!

 

*&%#@$

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My parents didn’t swear at all when we were growing up. We were even dissuaded to use the word fart, our parents allowing us to say, “Who gassed?” instead. So how I ended up with a mouth that can put a sailor to shame–I don’t know.

I admit, at times, I have a potty mouth. I also admit that I have very poor timing. One instance involved both. Two Christmases ago I unwittingly blurted out WTF in a packed restaurant as we took part in a white elephant gift exchange. It wasn’t my fault entirely…tequila was involved. Which brings me to my next point.

There are 3 things that bring out my potty mouth: 1) drinking 2) watching football 3) getting woken up in the middle of the night. What am I a caveman?

They say that people with a poor vocabulary resort to cussing. Those people are wrong, cursing can be quite colorful and creative. I like to use it as decoration or an accessory, if you will. Sometimes it’s just a way to release. However, I realize that I need to put an end to it. I want my daughter to think the F word is fart and blush when she hears it. Didn’t work for me though, so I’m aware this will be a difficult job.

There’s no excuse for the first two things I listed. But I have to say that #3 is going to be a hard one to break. There have been many nights when I’ve pulled myself from bed without a word –a loud, exhaustive sigh–yes, but no words. But then there are those nights when a string of curse words escapes my mouth, grumbled to the darkness. I guess I won’t repeat them since I’m in the process of trying to break this nasty habit, but the latest was along the lines of “Bleep me in the bleep on Easter Sunday!” Not my proudest moment.

Maybe I acquired my potty mouth when I went to school in New York (for just 4 short months). People there pepper in “bad” words nonchalantly, so that you barely even notice they’ve said ’em. Or they just don’t give a fuck, whoops, shit, oops, care. When my professors used curse words, I thought “this is how the real world speaks.” Then I returned to my small town in California, and it was not how the real world spoke, not the world I was from.

I don’t want to threaten my daughter with washing her mouth out with soap (something my brothers and I heard from our mom, who once upon a time had it done to herself). But I don’t want her running around saying shitburger or ass clown either. Guess I’ll have to cut out drinking and football. Nah, I’ll just wear a muzzle instead.