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Things I Never Want To Forget: A Letter To Baby 1.0

A letter to Baby 1.0, days before you turn 18 months old.

Oh Baby 1.0, you are growing so fast. It seems like just yesterday you came into this world, with your head full of black hair, and your tiny pink lips. It’s no secret we had a bit of a rough start, but that doesn’t take away from how much I love you, and have loved you, from the very first second of your known existence. Every day you grow, and every day you change. Looking back, there is already so much I fear I’ve forgotten, little details buried under more recent developments that are equally as important. So today I will write you this, in hopes that someday, you can look back and know how I was feeling days before your 18 month birthday, and if not you, then me when I am days away from your 18th year birthday, and I want to rip my hair out because you have decided to get a neck tattoo and run away with a biker gang to Costa Rica.

-You sing songs and communicate with us by meows. You also seem to think you have kitty cat hands and feet, and often hold them up to me requesting I kiss them by making a pouty face and sadly meowing at me until I do it. In fact, as we discovered tonight, you actually quite like it when we talk to you and pet you like you are a cat. (Note to self: socialize Baby 1.0 with more babies, and attempt to reinforce she is indeed a baby.)

-Speaking of animals, you love dogs. I mean, you really love dogs. The way you say it “dawg dawg daaawg” makes me laugh every time.

-You have an insatiable appetite for dancing to questionable music. To be fair, it’s not all questionable, as you will dance to anything that makes a rhythmic sound (including the dryer), but you appear to show a strong preference for pop, much to your daddy’s chagrin. I may or may not have introduced you to that pop, so I don’t care much. I just like to see you happy. We both do.

-You still have baby breath, and it is the most amazing smell in the whole world. Sometimes while I’m rocking you to sleep and you are breathing tiny puffs of air in my face, I close my eyes and try with all my might to put that smell so deep in my brain I will never forget it. It is the only thing about you that is still baby-like, as you are turning into a little girl faster than I am prepared for.

-You love books. You have always loved books, but the bigger you get, and the more capable you are at handling them, the more you love them. I hope you always feel this way.

-You are so smart. I can’t imagine this ever changing, but you never cease to amaze your daddy and I with how much you know. You just have to see us doing something once, and for better or worse, with enough time, you will figure it out.

-You show an incredible degree of empathy for humans and animals alike. When our rambunctious young male cat picks on our old female cat, you drop everything to break it up, and then calm our old lady. When someone is crying, you are right there to pat them on the back, or participate in a good old-fashioned sympathy cry. You have a good heart, little baby. I hope that never changes.

-You are fearless. There is no play structure too high, no hill too steep. You take a lickin’ and keep on tickin’ and this is equal parts admirable and terrifying. I hope you continue to toe the line here, and never fall too far on one side or the other.

-You love your daddy. I get that, he’s a pretty great guy. Watching the two of you together, laughing and being silly? It doesn’t get any better. I hope you always think he is as funny as he thinks he is, though I worry one day you will think both of us are actually quite embarrassing.

-You are loved. Though you’ve never been a snuggly baby, occasionally when I do get an extra long hug in, the feeling of your little body in my arms is enough. It’s all I could ever ask for in this world. You are all I could ever ask for in this world. I may make light of the parenting undesirables, but at the end of the day, I wouldn’t change one single thing about our experience together. You are truly my sunshine, little baby. I love you so much.

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.

Parenting In 5 Words or Less: Cooking

Better hurry up. Wouldn’t want the floor to wait any longer for all the food I’m about to waste.

Parenting In 5 Words Or Less: Thoughts on Cleaning

Just getting ready for the in-laws, with some good old fashion reorganization, courtesy of Baby 1.0.

Traveling With Kids: the fastest way to knock a few years off your life via immeasurable stress

Just in case you’ve been living in a hole since Halloween, I’m here to tell you the holidays are upon us. With Christmas a mere 9 days away, we are edging closer and closer to dawning our ugly sweaters and dodging awkward hugs from distant, drunken relatives. Even worse, for the most unlucky of us, it is nearly time to embark on trips, some short, some very far, with kids in tow. While it is romantic and sweet to picture your holiday travel day as serene as riding in a horse-drawn sleigh while being gracefully pulled over the river and through the woods, more often than not, it’s hours upon hours spent in a cramped metal tube, hurdling through the air at 700 miles an hour, while your baby bounces happily on your bladder and tries to rip the hair out of the arm belonging to the sour-faced gentleman sitting to your right.

This is 50% dreamy, and 50% Donner party.

Having traveled cross-country relatively recently with Baby 1.0, let me first and foremost offer my deepest condolences to anyone about to board a plane with any baby too young to appreciate an iPad. When we moved from the East Coast to the West Coast this summer, the iPad didn’t yet have the hypnotic effect it now has on Baby 1.0. The two cats we were traveling with, and also had with us in the cabin of the plane, were equally unimpressed with its powers. Spending 10 hours traveling with three mammals who were incapable of understanding why you had essentially kidnapped them, and were enforcing a strict “no screaming, no meowing, no pooping, no moving around” rule, was A-W-F-U-L. It was a very long day, that without question knocked a few years off my lifespan.

My smile says “I’m so happy” but the bags under my eyes say “I just aged 10 years.”

For those of you who hate people who travel with babies, let me assure you, people who travel with babies hate it more than you. Physically, it is a test of endurance comparable only to the Iditarod, or maybe one of those 100k races people run with no shoes. Mentally, it’s a total brain drain, as you have to think through, plan and pack for every scenario that could possibly happen with a young child over 10 hours not in your house, which, if you’re wondering, is literally anything. Barf, poo, barfpoo, boredom, hunger, insatiable thirst…all of these things and more are potentially on your horizon, so you pack and repack and pack and repack your diaper bag to the point where it won’t close, a visual that closely resembles the feeling in your head right about then. To top it off, remaining in constant physical contact with your child for 10 hours requires the patience of a Saint. For those wondering just what it is like, but aren’t lucky enough to have a small child and an impending trip planned, I find the experience could best be replicated by following these steps:

1. Surround yourself with a few hundred people who hate you, crowded into a very small space

2. Purchase one 30 pound turkey carcass

3. Attach turkey carcass to wind surfing kite

4. Hold onto turkey carcass at all costs, as it attempts to escape your clutches by leaping, spinning, pulling and twisting with remarkable force

5. Rig turkey so that at unpredictable times, it rips your shirt up and exposes your nipple

6. Do this for 10 hours without losing your cool or deserting your turkey

During this time, you cannot eat or drink anything because the turkey carcass will slap it out of your hands onto one of the people standing by judging you, nor can you pee because if you show it once that getting up out of your seat is possible, you will never be able to convince it walking up and down the isles 175 times isn’t allowed.

Of course, this isn’t how all babies act on a plane. I hear there are babies who sleep the whole way, or who just curl up on their parent’s lap and suck on a paci while they contemplate if they are indeed aging at a slower rate than those other babies 30,000 feet below them. But if you have a spirited child who doesn’t believe in sleep, I’m not going to sugarcoat it, you have your work cut out for you. There is no amount of toys or snacks that will make this easy, though they will help. But the very best news is, unlike many difficult childhood situations like sleep issues or colic for example, there is an actual end point to this misery, and it’s measured in hours.

This baby is doing quantum physics, and his mom is reverse aging. Lucky gal.

So pack exactly 49 pounds of luggage into your biggest suitcase, fill your diaper bag to capacity, and say a prayer to the travel gods. I, for one, will not be traveling, but I will raise a glass to you brave women warriors taking to the skies this week. Godspeed, my friends.

Image credits: Sleigh, airplane dental exam pic is us, baby boy on plane , cover image

Parenting in five words or less: #1

A new feature where I sum up my thoughts on parenting, in, well, 5 words or less. Please join in if you feel so inclined!

Welcome to the Thunderdome: When The Bedroom Turns Into A Post-Apocalyptic War Zone

It had to happen. I knew at some point I’d break down and write about the “S” word, because the utter lack of it is a theme common to most (all?) new parents. It’s absence hovers over us, a constant grey cloud, reminding us of a time when things were much more simple, a time when it wasn’t so hard to obtain. For 16 months and 11 days I’ve waited patiently, obsessing over my desire for it. I’ve tried everything to bring it back into my life. I’ve read books, spent countless dollars on specialty clothing, purchased hours of tailor-made music designed to help set the mood. Recently I’ve taken to incorporating aromatherapy into the bedroom, out of sheer desperation to find something that works. Each night, I go through the same routine, hoping that this night, this one night, it will happen, because I need it. “Oh please, please little baby. Please just sleep.”

Truthfully, I’ve been on the fence about writing anything regarding sleep. When you are so sleep deprived it takes you 30 seconds to figure out which end of the shampoo bottle shampoo comes out of (true story), it is hard to put anything together that doesn’t just sound horribly whiny. Also, there are already people who have done it, and done it very well (for those of you who don’t already know the blog How To Survive A Sleep Thief, check out the post I’m referring to here; it is brilliantly funny, and perfectly sums up everything I wish I could say about living with a kid who doesn’t sleep, but can’t because it took me 30 seconds to figure out which end shampoo came out of).

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In case you were thinking, “maybe her shampoo bottle is confusing?” let me show you a picture of my shampoo. Not exactly a brain buster, under normal circumstances.

So what made me do it? Well, for starters, I’m delusional. With tiredness. Because the last time I slept through the night was back when the words “North West” and “One Direction” referred to parts of a map, rather than a bagillionaire toddler, and a handful of post-pubescent weasel boys ruining music. And lately, little Baby 1.0 has decided that getting up 2-3 times in the night wasn’t enough, and has increased it back up to 5 times. 5. Times. A. Night. Little reminder, she is 16 months. Being plunged back into the thick of what is essentially newborn level of sleep deprivation, I am reminded of a few things:

Pick One Direction, and head that way, away from me, forever.

1. Removing regular sleep from your routine changes who you are on a fundamental level. For example, I turn into a crazy asshole when I don’t sleep. Like, seriously, a totally crazy asshole. Case and point? This morning, after another absolutely brutal night, I spent no less than 12 minutes hunting down a fruit fly who landed innocently on my arm, and when I finally got it, I smashed it with a smile on my face, like some kind of insect serial killer. Did I have to invest 12 minutes of time in hunting down a solitary fruit fly? No. Did I have to smile when I killed it? Big time no. But No-Sleep-Emily is currently the captain of this ship, and she is a scary asshole.

This is me, the morning after another sleepless night.

2. When I don’t sleep, my mind turns into a garbage disposal of thoughts which A) immobilize me, preventing me from completing any kind of task, further perpetuating my garbage disposal tendencies, and B) keeps me from falling back asleep. Usually, somewhere around 3am after Baby 1.0 wakes up for the umpteenth time, my mind does this: I need to go to the store and get dinner food. We need to eat healthier. I need to buy more vegetables. I need to buy organic. Organic is too expensive. I need to get a job. I don’t want to have someone raise Baby 1.0. I need to socialize Baby 1.0 more. I NEED TO STOP THIS. I will count until I fall asleep. 1, 2, 3, 13, purple, I need to email every single person I know, urgently. I need to clean out my email inbox. I need to vacuum. I need to clean out the litter box. I need to order cat litter. I need to order cat food… AND IT GOES ON AND ON.

This is my brain at 3am.

3. Being horribly, hideously, sleep deprived makes me feel like I have the worst hangover of my life, but nothing makes it go away. Well I can’t say nothing, because I have a sneaking suspicion a couple of vodka tonics would do the trick, but I haven’t entered that territory since my bachelorette party where I peed (basically) in the doorway of a Walgreen’s, while leaning up against a newspaper box. My head aches, my eyes burn, my muscles are weak, my stomach hurts. I can’t help but wonder if hardcore sleep deprivation is used against spies and terrorists to break their spirit. Let me just say, I would tell someone anything they wanted to know if that meant I could start sleeping through the night again. Update: just this morning there was a news story about how the CIA used sleep deprivation against suspected terrorists. I’m not condoning torture in any way, even though I am being tortured, and misery loves company.

This would work… but probably not a sustainable solution.

4. I hate nighttime. The more sleep deprived I get, the more I dread going to bed. It’s one thing to bump along during the day, feeling crappy, but having things to distract you from the crappiness, and another to be forced out of bed for hours of the night trying, in vain, to convince another human to do something they have no interest in doing. It is frustrating on a level I still can’t wrap my head around, and more depressing than watching one of those science programs that always shows the baby deer being hunted by a wolf. Stop with that. We get it. Wolves eat baby deer.

Stupidly, very stupidly, I just googled “wolves hunting deer.” Bambi with a butterfly on his butt is better.

5. Lastly, this has served as a reminder that this is hard. This is hard, man. Not always, but sometimes, and sometimes for long chunks of time. It is hard to be patient and kind when you feel like a rabid raccoon. It is hard to be empathetic and understanding when all you can think about is the burning behind your eyes, and the heaviness in your limbs. Forget being the perfect mom. When you are bone tired, it’s all you can do to remember to put on two shoes that maybe match. So the next time some little turd kid rips a toy out of my little dumpling’s hand, and their mom just stares blankly ahead, I will try to give her the benefit of the doubt. Maybe she’s just tired. I get that.

Image credits: Cover, Shampoo, One Direction, Joker, List, Drunk, Bambi