Humor

The 10 Stages Of Traveling With A Toddler

This last week I had the pleasure of taking a trip home to visit my dad and step-mom out in the boondocks of Colorado. This would be Baby 1.0’s third trip out there, but the first since she was mobile, vocal, and opinionated. These things, of course, aren’t considered when you stumble across Southwest’s $99 fare, and then purchase tickets faster than your toddler can eat a wad of old chewing gum they find on the ground. As our trip approached, the reality of the situation set in, and I found myself going through the 10 stages of traveling with a toddler.

1. Book trip. Feel confident, excited, and happy.

2. 1.2 seconds after receiving confirmation email from airline, feel panicked, claustrophobic, and extremely worried. Nearly drown in mental what-if’s. What if I flash someone while nursing? What if she poops? What if she won’t let me hold her for 2 1/2 hours? What if she screams the whole way? What if she gets sick? What if I get sick? What if there are snakes on the plane?

3. Vacillate between excitement and panic up until day before travel. Grab the reigns and focus all mental energy into packing. Pack perfectly. From diapers to Dog Dog, from toys to Tylenol you remember it all, and manage to fit it into one small suitcase. Okay, two medium-sized suitcases. And a full diaper bag. Applaud yourself on not overpacking (more). Feel calm and prepared for anything.

4. The night before traveling, wake up no less than 85 times checking alarm clock to make sure it is set. Stress pee each of the 85 times you wake up. Wonder if in the event of an airline emergency, you would indeed have the wherewithal to place the oxygen mask over your face before placing it over the face of your child. Decide no, because you would likely be in the bathroom stress peeing while trying to keep your toddler from licking the door to the bathroom. Wonder if they have oxygen masks in the bathroom.

5. Get out of bed early and walk around house collecting miscellaneous items to cram into nooks and crannies of suitcases and diaper bag with the intensity and passion of hoarder at a flea market.

6. With a frown, relinquish armful of items to disapproving husband who confirms you have actually packed nearly everything you own, and reassures you there will be no airline emergencies in which you will be tasked with oxygen mask placement.

7. Get dressed. Pee. Load car. Run in to pee again. Realize at this very moment child hasn’t yet pooped today. Say a prayer to the Saint of Doodie Britches your toddler doesn’t poop while on the plane.

8. Arrive at airport with plenty of time to spare. Check baggage, and breathe sigh of relief. Don dark glasses and give your unruly hair a toss to channel your inner movie star.

9. Start to feel relaxed and confident again. For first time, notice beautiful color of the morning sky. Look down at child to try to share this moment, only to witness child lick handle of baggage cart. Make mental note to not share water with child for a day or two. Take off dark glasses and pull hair into your standard pony tail so you can more closely monitor child’s behavior.

10. Get on plane! Flash neighbor, repeatedly. Wrangle wiggly toddler successfully, and smile uncomfortably when toddler loudly announces 15 times they have pooped. Change diaper on galley floor in record time under scrutiny of flight crew. Empty contents of perfectly packed diaper bag in an attempt to entertain toddler “the old-fashioned way” but give in to increasingly impassioned demands to watch Elmo on the iPad. Let toddler watch embarrassing amount of TV, but secretly thank your lucky stars you have an iPad. Eventually arrive. Pat yourself on the back and beam with pride when neighbor tells you what a good baby you have.

So there you have it. Any stage I missed you other parents experience when you travel?

Unsurprisingly, you cannot gate check a wagon full of toys.

Cover image credits, wagon belongs to HMDHM

Pregnancy And The Subsequent Ruining Of A Body: 5 things that just aren’t the same

“Pregnancy will ruin your body.” These five words were something I’d never thought much about until well after I’d had Baby 1.0, but after witnessing someone saying them to a pregnant woman, it got me thinking: Does pregnancy ruin your body? My first instinct was to shoot fire out of my eyes at the person who had said it. But then I remembered that my eyes are really dry, and have been since birthing Baby 1.0, so maybe I should hold up on the fire-eye-shooting. The more I thought about it, the more I started to think maybe he was right, but not at all in the sense he was suggesting. Of course things change when one spawns a human life from their body, and depending on your outlook, you could even call some things ruined. But for me, the things that changed aren’t necessarily worthy of throwing in the towel and declaring this body a total loss. So what changed? Let me tell you.

1. My hair– About 3 months after having Baby 1.0, I started losing hair. A lot of hair. Hair fell out in clumps, literally, and I would often end my shower by having a tiny panic attack after noticing how much of myself I was leaving behind. The doctorate I received from Google University provided me with confidence this was normal, and the hair loss would eventually end. Sure enough it did, and for a few months I didn’t think much about it. Until my hair started growing back in. Curly. At this point in time, about a year since those first few strands made their appearance, I look like a blonde version of Kate Winslet in “Titanic,” if she had received a haircut from Edward Scissor Hands. So did pregnancy “ruin” my once stick-straight locks? Kind of. Or at least temporarily. It’s ruined-ish.

My version is less polished and more “I just went through a car wash, but not in a car” looking.

2. My moles– I’ve already discussed how Baby 1.0 likes to pick at moles when she nurses, and this drives me absolutely bananas. Ba-freakin-nanas. Worse than nails on a chalk board, worse than someone snapping their gum, I can’t handle it. The problem is pregnancy basically turned many of my previously flat, and dare I say cute, little moles into dangly pseudo-nipples. It’s so gross. So again, “ruined?” I would say yes.

3. My butt, and/or every single pair of pants and underpants I own– Okay, this one is a little weird because I actually don’t know what the cause of the problem is, but I’m guessing it’s my butt. Basically I can’t keep my pants on, and with my new slouchy pants, my underwear have decided they too, need not stick around. All day, every day, I find myself hiking up all of my pants, both outer and under, and wondering what in the jibbty jab is going on. Are my pants suddenly too big? Are my underwear too small? Did the part of my body that separates ones butt from their legs completely disappear, thereby allowing my butt to melt into my thighs? This is all yet to be determined, but in the mean time, I think I need to get a belt. Or maybe consider mom jeans. So again, ruined? No. But mysterious? Very yes.

Somebody hit me up the next time mom jeans go on sale at Target.

4. My stomach (the inside)– The outside of my stomach has changed, without a doubt. When squeezed — just right — by Baby 1.0, it takes on the appearance of a handful of raw pizza dough, which I love because who doesn’t love pizza? But the inside is where I have an issue. Pretty much since becoming pregnant, I have had an insatiable appetite. Food. All kinds of delicious food. It’s all I think about. This weekend, I told my husband I wanted sushi, Philly Cheesesteak sandwiches, Carbonara, burritos, birthday cake, and fish and chips. In one day. And I was serious. I don’t know if it’s because I’m still nursing Baby 1.0, or if my missing butt is making plans to refurbish itself, but I just really love food, and I can’t stop thinking about it, and it’s kind of driving me crazy. So did pregnancy ruin my stomach, or just give me eating super powers? I’m going with super powers.

5. My hormones– This one isn’t funny at all, and if anything is something I feel should be discussed with anyone who is pregnant, or has recently had a baby. After having Baby 1.0, my body decided it was all set on producing normal amounts of progesterone. With everything being so difficult with Baby 1.0 in the beginning (read about her colic here), I wasn’t sure if my new crappy feelings were because I was exhausted and stressed, or if there was something else feeding it. For over a year I struggled, blaming my headaches, nausea, exhaustion, depression, dizziness, severe mood swings and general malaise on being sleep deprived. Then, after moving, I sat down with my new doctor and for the first time answered the question “how are you?” honestly. A little blood work showed I had extremely low levels of progesterone, and after day 1 of treatment, I started to feel like myself again. If I were queen of the world, I would recommend basic blood work to every postpartum mom, since for the time being, pregnancy did ruin my hormones (or at least one of them).

So what about you, fellow moms, and even moms to be? Anything you’d like to add to the list?

Image credits: Cover photo, Kate Winslet, Mom Jeans

7 Minutes in Heaven: Part 2(AM)

Co-sleeping. If there’s one thing I’ve learned since becoming a parent, it’s that the term “co-sleeping” is a bit of a misnomer, as there is seldom any sleeping involved with co-sleeping. Perhaps this is our fault, as we have never sat Baby 1.0 down and really explained what co-sleeping means to her. In Baby 1.0’s mind, it is clear co-sleeping is viewed as a WWE Smackdown-esque competition where Baby 1.0 is perpetually defending the highly coveted Paperweight belt. But last night, after receiving 22 tiny blows to the face at 2am, it hit me (literally): I need to bring this to the people, because you know what they say about misery loving company. Now the problem I encountered immediately was if I were to “live-blog” it, as I did with the previous 7 Minutes in Heaven post, then I couldn’t continue to pretend I was sleeping, and I would lose all hope of Baby 1.0 rolling over and attacking my husband instead. So forgive me, as this is from memory, and as I previously stated, I was actually punchslapped 22 times in the head last night. Also, it should be mentioned we were staying in a hotel, which is why we had to attempt to co-sleep at all.

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Let the games begin.

10-1:00- Sleep soundly, like a little baby lamb in a warm bed of hay, until Baby 1.0 wakes for her usual early morning feeding. Nurse her back down, and successfully transfer her back into her Pack and Play. Do small victory dance before crawling back into bed.

1:45- Start to drift off to sleep. Heart stops cold when two syllables are whispered from behind the barricade of chairs we have set up to block Baby 1.0’s view of our bed… “Mama?” Starts off soft, but quickly turns into full on whaling cries. Jump out of bed to retrieve screaming child before she wakes up every guest in the hotel.

1:46- Rock screaming child, and panic because rocking, shooshing, swaying and snuggling aren’t helping. Make (bad) judgment call, and slide into bed with screaming child.

1:47- Screaming stops. Use this opportunity to lay down and close my eyes in an attempt to convince her I have fallen asleep, and she should do the same. “Mamamamamamamamama. Mama. Maaaaaamamama.” Fingers in my ears. Fingers in my eyes. Fingers in my nose. Fingers trying to go from deep in my nose to my mouth forcing me to move slightly, therefore reinforcing to Baby 1.0 if she pushes far enough, I will react. Reality sets in I am done for, and also if I ever have to play dead for a Grizzly, I am screwed.

1:48- Baby 1.0 lays down next to me. For 2.2 microseconds I think “Great Scott! I think I’ve done it!” Baby 1.0 then aggressively adjusts so she is now in standard “H” formation, with her head pressed into my rib cage, and her feet delivering heel kicks to her Dad’s sternum. She lays here for approximately 35 seconds, kicking away, then quickly switches back to the correct head to toe position between us. Nervously, I begin to hum Twinkle Twinkle, her go-to bedtime jam.

The dreaded H position, curtesy of How To Be A Dad.

1:49- After quietly humming 6 verses of Twinkle Twinkle, I stop. “Mooah! Mooah!” Baby 1.0 yells while slamming her tiny fist into my stomach. Humming resumes. Humming is interrupted by Baby 1.0’s sudden desire to make train noises. “Choo chooooo!” she yells with high-pitched delight. She sits up on her knees and begins bouncing on the bed. “Choo choo! Choo chooooo!”

1:50- Baby 1.0 suddenly topples forward and lays down between us again. Curling into my body, she begins to sing. “Shake off, shake off,” she coos, over and over. Taylor Swift’s “Shake It Off” song is now firmly embedded in my head, and continues to play on repeat even to this moment, a full 12 hours later.

1:51- Apparently tiring of my boring early-morning mood, she turns her attention to her daddy and begins to name features on his face. “Eye. Eye. No. Mow. Eye.” This last eye gets him in trouble because he corrects her and says “ear” which was exactly the gateway Baby 1.0 was looking for. BINGO! Dad’s awake. She dives onto his chest and smothers him with whatever was wet on her face.

1:52- Baby 1.0 yawns. She circles and lays down, flips, flops, circles. Kicks. Pulls at covers. Pushes at covers. Lifts covers with legs approximately 18 times. Yawns. Flips. Head butts. Nuzzles. Wiggles her fingers into my shirt sleeve and scratches at my skin. Puts hand to my mouth and requests kitty cat kisses. Punchslaps me 22 times in the head, with some sort of wiggly, wobbly backhand move.

After over an hour of nonsense, my husband, who is apparently a magician who seldom uses his powers for reasons that remain unclear, managed to get her back down and sleeping in her Pack and Play, where she remained for the rest of the night. It was a co-sleeping nightmare that ended in a world class magic trick. It was…7 minutes in Heaven.

Parenting In 5 Words or Less: Momventions

Sure, moving sucks, but at least with all those spare boxes you can save a ton of money on a babysitter, right?

The Unbelievable Mess of Toddlerdom

It happens so fast. Although I’ve never been in a tornado, the aftermath appears the same. Toys, trash, food and clothes are scattered everywhere. The three lowest shelves on the bookshelf have been completely emptied, the books strewn haphazardly around the living room. A windowsill has been broken, leaving a piece of molding dangling carelessly, inches from the floor. Glancing towards the door I see what is either a turd or a half-eaten teething biscuit, peeking out from under a stray boot. “Please don’t be a turd” I say to no one in particular. The cats cautiously navigate the mess with curiosity and a mild degree of fear, which I echo. My husband exits the bathroom, steps over a soccer ball, dodges a laundry basket and nearly crushes a set of custom paper mache finger puppets and sighs. The only one who seems unaffected is Baby 1.0, who is contentedly shredding pages out of a magazine. “What happened?” he asks. “She woke up,” I reply.

This mess, this unbelievable mess, is Baby 1.0’s mission in life right now. There are few things that bring her more joy than dumping, smearing, swiping, emptying and otherwise removing the contents of anything that has contents. From baskets of blocks to bowls of blueberries, nothing is safe from ending up in a pile on the floor. The white carpeted floor, mind you, which is quickly starting to take the appearance of Desert Storm-era khaki camouflage. The fridge seems to have become a breeding ground where tiny containers spawn other tiny containers, all filled with a few bites of food Baby 1.0 has decided she no longer likes. The windows and sliding glass door are nearly opaque with sticky finger prints and tongue marks alike.

But the mess isn’t contained to the play area, or even the house for that matter. The car looks like a giant hamster nest, with enough Cheerios, raisins, and shredded paper to sustain a family of 4, and keep them warm in even the coldest of winter nights. The stroller, no matter what I do, seems to always have a new crop of crumbs escaping out of crevices, waiting to be ground into the carpet, or be gobbled up by grubby fingers on the way home from the park. Somehow we even leave the park looking dirtier than it was, with a trail of wood chips following us home, as if we were the lumber-jack version of Hansel and Gretel.

For the most part, the mess doesn’t bother me. Or at least it didn’t until this morning when I was hunched over the sink, eating second breakfast, nestled between a greasy paper bag waiting to be taken out to the compost, and what remained of the bowl of aforementioned blueberries rescued from the carpet. But standing there, disintegrating breakfast burrito in hand, I couldn’t help but wonder, am I super gross, or is my acceptance of this mess a survival mechanism? I tend to lean more towards the latter, because it’s not like I don’t try. All day, every day, I am constantly picking up here and there. But the mess multiplies in a way I can never keep up with. And so things happen, like a greasy paper bag, waiting on the counter for days to finally make it down to the compost.

I wasn’t even kidding. This is how I eat most meals. It’s scary. And a little sad.

I suppose this is just par for the course, and in due time she will learn to help us pick it up and put it away. So for now, I think I will stay the course, and do my best to simultaneously turn a blind eye, and try not to fall victim to the dreaded full-bodyweight-on-a-lego scenario.

So who’s with me? Any other parents out there with houses that could potentially be confused for an episode of Hoarders?

Parenting In 5 Words Or Less: Grooming

We have another guest appearance today! Let’s give a warm welcome to this handsome little man, who ragamuffin hair or not, is still quite a charmer!

Got a picture of your own kid you’d like to see featured on Hold Me, Don’t Hold Me? Send them to toddlermama2014@gmail.com with a little background info, and I’ll turn them into the next Parenting In 5 Words Or Less.

WTF Cosmo? Why 4/5 Dentists Don’t Approve Of Cosmo’s Recommendation Of How To Use Your Toothbrush

High-five, Cosmopolitan magazine, you’ve really outdone yourself this time. For as long as I can remember, you and your pack of underweight, photoshopped, pop-stars have been haunting check out lines and doctor’s offices, but until this weekend, I’ve never taken the bait. And now? Well now I just can’t stop shaking my head.

Let me explain. Since getting married, I’ve started receiving random magazines in the mail. Latina now comes on a monthly basis, as does the old standby, Redbook. This weekend, a new magazine showed up in my mailbox. One with bright colors and bold promises splashed across a cover bearing the face of a generic 20-something, with multicolored hair and talons for nails. “LOOK SEXY NOW Make Them OBSESSED With You!” one headline screams at me in pink and yellow font. Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t being obsessed kind of a bad thing? “Hot Tips for Hot Lips + Hair + Skin + Nails” reads another. Thank God, because what I need in my life ~~are some hot lips~~ is a ninety-eight hour nap. Oh Cosmo, how did you find me?

For some reason, unlike Latina and Redbook, instead of just throwing it in the basket with the other magazines I am apparently hoarding, I decided to take a little looky loo.

Flipping it open, the first thing that hits me is the smell. What is that smell?! My nose is confused, and is alerting me to dangerous levels of bug spray and rotting fruit. I flip through half the magazine, away from the offending perfume ad, and find myself looking at a page covered in what turns out to be blush. The headline reads: “Q+A Your Burning Blush Q’s”. Immediately I think, who could possibly have a question about blush that would be defined as “burning”? Do people actually wear blush on nights other than Halloween or their wedding? Reading on, I encounter a few blush-related brain busters, with the crowning jewel being, “What if I’ve put on too much?” This question is a “burning” blush question? What do you do if you put on too much blush? Wow. Here’s my “burning blush question”: Have you tried putting on less blush? Or maybe not wearing blush? More importantly, how have you found yourself in a situation where you’ve put on too much blush, so many times, you need to write into a magazine about it?

Let me just say, I pity the fool who has to clean up after this photo shoot.

After staring at the page with a look of confusion and concern long enough to start seeing a magic eye in all of the crushed, smeared and spilled blush, I flip a few more pages to an interesting article called, “Hey, Can I Borrow That?” Here, the fine people of Cosmo go through your beauty supplies, and tell you “worst case scenario” what you could get by sharing aforementioned supplies with your friends, who according to Cosmo, seem to be incubators for a number of serious diseases. Here, I learn sharing a razor could give you HIV, sharing a face-cleaning brush (this is a thing?) could give you a skin infection, sharing anything that touches your eyes could give you conjunctivitis, and anything that touches your lips could give you a cold. Okay, fair enough. Since my beauty regime consists of lotion when I remember, and some chapstick before bed, I think I’m all set here. But good to know that the next time my friend asks if I want to borrow her “face-cleaning brush” maybe I should think twice.

Flipping through more pages, at a much quicker pace as my interest is waning, I see what appears to be some sort of drunken clown woman dressed in an oversize handkerchief, attempting to emulate a dying bird. She is perched in front of a window with blinds being blown askew, which reminds me Baby 1.0 has torn down one of the same sort of blinds in our house, and I need to figure out a way to reattach it before our security deposit gets dinged.

Caw-Caw, lady. Have another mojito.

Moving on, I turn to a page with the title “3 Secret Kink Props Hiding In Your House” and because when I initially read it, I thought it was talking about popsicles, I read on. Quickly I discover this is not about popsicles, but rather makeshift sex toys the common female already owns. They have a few uninspired suggestions for handcuffs and paddles, and then, from whatever is even farther out than left field, I read “electric toothbrush=vibrator”. Whaaaaaaaaat? Your toothbrush? As a vibrator? Are you serious?

This discovery prompted my very own burning question for Cosmo: What the crap?! Who, over the span of 40 or so pages, doesn’t find it odd to caution someone against borrowing lip gloss, but thinks it’s totally awesome to use your toothbrush as a vibrator? Is this a joke? Should I be laughing instead of making this face:

This is my horrifying horrified face.

Obviously, I am no beauty expert. Maybe blush is actually really tricky, and necessary for people who are, like, office clowns or something? Maybe “face-cleaning brushes” are all the rage, and at my next doctor’s appointment they will ask me if I’ve been brushing and flossing my face every day, to which I will lie and say yes. Maybe that drunken bird woman is making an important statement about equal rights for women. These things I don’t know. But I do know, you should not use your toothbrush as a vibrator. Good God. Talk about things you never thought you’d have to say. So thanks, but no thanks Cosmo. No thanks.

All of the images, except for my ugly mug, belong to Cosmo, and all the answers to any of your burning blush questions can be found in the February 2015 issue.