motherhood

Random Review #4: Barnyard Bath

Kids books. It blows my mind what people will publish, and it’s even more confusing what becomes popular. In this weekly segment, we will randomly review a book Baby 1.0 picks off her bookshelf.

Today was a little tricky, because the first book Baby 1.0 picked off her bookshelf was The Sibley Field Guide to Birds of Western North America. She loves this book. This is not a joke. When I picked it up to consider if I was cool enough to review a field guide in a children’s book review (I am not), she crashed to the floor with the force of a meteor, and threw her usual 3 minute and 17 second tantrum that ended in us brushing up on our local sea ducks. Feel free to quiz me on the preferred mating ground of the King Eider if you have any questions.

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Baby 1.0 just doing a little light reading from her favorite field guide

Her second choice came from neither of her two bookshelves, but instead from her stash of bath toys, where she selected Barnyard Bath, by Sandra Boynton. I’m not going to lie, I totally love Sandra, or Sandy as I like to call her. She is, to me, exactly what I want in a children’s author. She is funny. She rhymes. She is playful. She avoids trying to shove some super important message into a book using owls to illustrate the security one may feel in a traditional nuclear family. My only complaint is in Barnyard Bath, the nostrils on the cow look like an upside down pair of very large breasts.

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These nostrils look more like boobs than most boobs I’ve seen.

This is a pretty basic book. It’s rubber and came with a kid-friendly wash cloth so they can clean all of the animals. Not much to say about it, other than it’s a fun way to teach your kid that the purpose of a bath is to actually get clean. This idea of “getting clean” in the tub isn’t something Baby 1.0 is too keen on. In her beautiful blue eyes, the sole purpose of spending 15 minutes in the tub is to try and drink her weight in the body-flavored, luke-warm tea she is steeping in. She will stop at nothing to slurp down mouthful after mouthful of this sweet concoction that is usually 1 part pee to 10 parts tap water. This book provides at the very least a temporary reprieve from our nightly battle routine.

The only thing I don’t understand about the book, other than the giant, pink, breast-nostrils, is the book seems to be missing a page, or more accurately it seems like they printed the book a page short, and had to put the last page on the back of the book, along with all the other stuff that normally goes on the back of a book. What’s up with that, Sandy? Somebody get a little lazy in the publishing department, or are you trying to save a buck?

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How much does one extra page cost, Sandy?

 

Suspicious missing back page aside, we love this book. Major bonus points for being able to take it in the tub. I give it a 4/5.

On Being Thankful

In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly the sentimental type. It’s not to say I don’t appreciate things, but I’ve never really been the type to ooze emotion, even when the situation would call for it (like, say, at our wedding, or the birth of our baby). But today, when pondering what I would write for my next post, a really crazy idea came into my head. Maybe I should try to write about something I’m thankful for, but in a way that lacks the emotional ooze. So what am I thankful for? Baby naps popped into my head immediately, for without the blessed 45 minutes Baby 1.0 graces me with most days, I would not only lose my mind, but I also wouldn’t be able to write. Or shower, or do anything for myself in a semi-relaxed way. Squeezy food pouches were a close second, but it seemed like maybe I’d be a little light on material. It wasn’t until Baby 1.0 was dozing peacefully, and I was in the shower, that the idea to write about my parents came to mind.

Wedding photo

This is me, in classic form, being very unserious at my wedding.

Now this idea to write about my parents was a surprising enough revelation that it made me stand there, mouth slightly agape, left eyebrow arched suspiciously, head cocked to the side like a confused puppy. “The parents?! But they are divorced and there are many of them,” my brain said with dismay. “Yes. The parents,” repeated the heart, “all of them.” “But maybe we could just be thankful for cheese?” suggested my brain. “No cheese. Parents,” insisted the heart. The more I thought about it, the more I liked the idea, for however weird, different or challenging I perceived my childhood to be at times, it was actually pretty great, thanks in large part to my parents.

It wasn’t until I became a parent myself that my view on my childhood fully shifted, and allowed me to see my parents for what they are: People. People who love, and people who care. People who make mistakes, and people who struggle. Just your run-of-the-mill, everyday people, living their own lives while simultaneously trying to be responsible for somebody else’s. Reconciling this new title of “people” with their previous titles of “Mom” and “Dad” has been paramount in appreciating the incredible effort they put into raising good kids, and continue to put in as we ourselves become parents.

Of course nobody is perfect, and this is hardly meant to be some brag about how I came from a modern-day Donna Reed family. That wasn’t the case at all. But now that I am a parent, it is much easier to look back, and not only cut them some slack, but also feel appreciative for the lessons they taught us, even if they were tough lessons to learn.

Thanks to my parents, and their openness about their less than perfect relationship, I have been able to use their missteps as a guide, and their victories as goals. Use good communication. Work hard. Practice transparency and honesty. Be supportive, loyal and kind. These are all invaluable lessons I am thankful to have learned from people who I love and respect. Perhaps the best lesson of all, they have recently shown me the importance of forgiveness, as they embrace friendship once again, and relish in their roles as new grandparents. This, the forgiveness, has strengthened my own relationships, and also allowed me to permit myself the same courtesy as I stumble through new motherhood.

I am so thankful to have the parents I have. My mom, my dad, my step-mom, my in-laws. Every one of them brings something incredible to the table. I could go on and on about the individual traits each person shines with, but then I’d be oozing emotion, and that makes my skin a little itchy. So today, I say thanks. Thank you for your love, your support, and your kindness. Thank you for your mistakes and your quirks. Thank you for above all else, sharing your imperfection, and in your imperfection, being beautifully human.

7 Minutes in Heaven, Or What 7 Minutes of My Morning Looks Like In Real Time

I would be hard pressed to think of something we Americans like more than our social media. We spend hours a day tweeting, and liking, and whatever you do on tumbler-ing. Recently, huge news stories have broken on websites like Twitter, where people go to report on events from pee wee football games to earthquakes, in real time. Since this is clearly the future of everything, I’ve decided to start honing my skills early and give it a try. So with that said, I will now begin live-streaming the next 7 minutes of my average morning.

Okay, so here we are. It’s 8:20 am on a Saturday. Baby 1.0 has been awake for approximately 1 hour. Like a good toddler, she has already turned down her breakfast, and eaten half of ours. I’m struggling to protect both my computer, and my hot cup of coffee from her very curious reaches.

8:21- Baby 1.0 walks into the kitchen singing. She throws open the bottom drawer containing dish rags and assorted baby items, with authority. She tears them out, one by one, tossing them over her head in dramatic fashion while yelling something that sounds like “Biiiiierbetertert,” with more pitch changes than Mariah Carey’s Emotions album.

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8:22- Storms out of kitchen suddenly, demanding to be held. Cat uses this opportunity to climb into now empty drawer. Baby 1.0 walks up to Dad requesting to be picked up – “puh, puh, puh” she chants, with arms extended up. Much to my astonishment, Dad unexpectedly begins beat boxing and bobbing around, similar to one of those air-filled wavy tube men at tire stores. This seems to distract Baby 1.0 from her request to be held, and we both stare at him curiously.

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8:23- Dad and Baby 1.0 sit on the ground and begin a conversation with Siri. “Do you know my name?” he asks. “Jason, or at least that’s what you told me” Siri replies. “I love you,” he says. “All you need is love. And your iPhone,” she says, like a stone cold fox. Dad begins singing “All You Need Is Love” by the Beatles. Gets as far in as singing “All you need is…” and trails off.

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8:24- Silence. Silence? Baby 1.0 comes around the corner and begins a vicious attack on my lappy. Grunting, arms flailing, slapping, yelling “bee bee bee!”- it’s her main goal in life to find buttons to push, and one of her favorite targets are laptops. I’m deflecting pokes left and right, while trying to prevent my lappy from being thrown on the floor, or having the content erased.

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8:25- Attack is called off when Baby 1.0 is suddenly distracted by the sight of her teddy bear, aptly named “Teddy,” who has escaped her crib, and is lying on the floor near her bedroom door. Ambles off to retrieve Teddy. Returns with Teddy moments later making kissing noises. Requests I give Teddy kisses. I reach over for Teddy, and give him a big kiss, and a little snuggle. Capitalizes on my soft heart, and uses opportunity to TURN OFF MY COMPUTER MID-SENTENCE LIKE A NINJA, BY PUSHING ONE BUTTON.

8:26- Has my attention while computer reboots. Baby 1.0 burps. Pinches my arm. Wants to nurse. Wanders of kissing Teddy and saying “Baaaaabbbby.” Looks out the window and mutters “Oooooh boy.” Or at least that’s what it sounds like.

8:27- Sees cat. Chases cat yelling “Kitty MEOOOOOW!” which cat loves. And by loves I mean runs away from at an impressive clip considering her waist to leg ratio. Cat squeezes through baby gate with significant effort. Baby 1.0 watches her disappear under bed skirt. Disappointment evident.

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8:28- Wanders back into living room to attack lamp. Ignores multiple requests from Dad to stop. In desperation, Dad picks up box and puts it on his head claiming to be the T.V. “Hey! I’m the T.V.!” he says in a goofy clown voice. Baby 1.0 turns away from the lamp, and stompruns over to him (I’m guessing our downstairs neighbor isn’t too fond of us), rips the box off his head, becomes off-balance and steps on book that makes animal sounds. Discovers that by stepping on the book, animal sounds will be made. Begins stepping on the book repeatedly. “Moo! Moo! Moo! Moo! Neigh! Oink! Oink!” – it sounds like a farm in a tornado. Then she stops, looks up at me with big blue eyes and starts fake coughing, my hint that she is feeling sleepy, and has about a 45 second window to bring her down into the nap zone.

By my calculations, in seven minutes, she has changed activities no less than 64 times (okay, I didn’t actually count, but I don’t have time to). Her attention span for any one activity, seems to last about as long as one beat of her tiny little heart. This pace is the one thing that remains constant all day, every day. Sure, there are times she will sit with you and read a book or two. But pretty much every waking moment is equal parts carnival ride and train wreck. It’s an exhausting pace that leaves us both spinning by the end of the day. But in the most mushy gushy way, I wouldn’t change any of it for a second.

 

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 Image credits:

Cover photo: http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-fiPZNSWN8Fg/UDEuXQisZII/AAAAAAAAC48/ZXYm1NOhwLM/s1600/7+minutes.jpg

Mariah Carey: http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/3/3e/Emotions_Mariah_Carey.png

Air man: http://innovativecommunications.tv/files/2012/10/blowout_sale_skypuppet_yellow_single_1003lar.jpg

iPhone: https://c1.staticflickr.com/7/6178/6261865591_ce380761da_z.jpg

Baby 1.0 photos are ours!!

The Parenting Olympics

Over the last 15 months, I’ve discovered a secret about parenting… nay… THE secret of parenting. Lean in close, so I can whisper it into your eyes: parenting is a competition, and it’s every soccer mom and super dad for themselves. I say we stop with the pseudo-compliments and just get right to it, Roman style, via a series of carefully curated events. Events that will weed out the willing from the weak, the powerful from the pathetic, the ingenuitive from the incapable. I present to you, The Parenting Olympics.

For our first event, please grab your stroller and line up at the starting line. A $1200 stroller does not a good parent make, but rather how you manage a stroller, one-handed (because you are obviously holding your child), while navigating through the crammed sale racks at your local discount retailer at Christmas time, 1 hour past your toddler’s nap time, while your blood sugar dips dangerously low, now THAT is worthy of praise. So line up, give your kid their least favorite sippy cup so they are agitated, and get from Housewares to Hosiery without knocking the faux fur sweater vest from the otherwise naked, severely emaciated mannequin. Extra points if you come out on the other side with both baby shoes and the paci.

racksHo ho ho. Now go go go.

Next up we have the Grab and Haul. As we all know, taking the babe out for even the simplest of errands requires no less than 16 things when it’s all said and done. So for our next event, we will give each toddler 30 seconds to collect as many things as they deem necessary for a jaunt out for milk, then you will have to pick them up, locate your car keys, wallet and phone, grab the diaper bag and the reusable grocery bag, exit the house, and get them into the car without forgetting anything, or letting anything hit the ground. Now, go get your milk, come home and bring everything back inside PLUS the box that showed up on your doorstep. Extra points if you don’t strain a muscle in your shoulder, or let the door slam on tiny fingers silently investigating the hinge. Extra extra points if you remember to put the milk in the fridge.

Naomi Watts And Son Out For A Walk In Los AngelesBinky? Check. Snuggly blanket? Yep. Snacks? You betcha. Flask? Don’t mind if I do.

Our third event is all about speed and dexterity. It’s a triathlon that will test your patience, persistence and ingenuity. On paper it’s a seemingly simple set of tasks, but in practice it can drive even the most patient of people to drivel and maybe even drink. For round three I will ask you to remove the laundry (you know, the load you washed last week?) from your dryer, fold it, put it away, and load the dishwasher. This all must be done while the child is awake, and free to roam. Because we aren’t famous rich people, the laundry folding station must be your couch, and because we aren’t famous rich people, and we rent, your kitchen can’t have a baby gate or effective child-proofing locks on your cabinetry. Points are docked for every time you raise your voice in frustration as the child knocks over a stack of folded clothes or rips a handful of folded clothes out of their drawer and spreads them willy-freaking-nilly around the house. Double points are docked for every time your child removes a dirty knife from the dishwasher and chases your cat.

pet-sematary-remake-1This is exactly what it looks like in our house when Baby 1.0 gets the dirty scalpel out of our dishwasher.

The fourth and final event of our series is a combination of our three previous events. It’s truly a measure of an Olympic Gold Medal Parent. For this event, I will ask that you take your child out for an outing that requires driving at least 15 minutes away from your house. The outing must be timed where, upon its termination, the child will need to go down for a nap in precisely 20 minutes, leaving you a generous 5 minutes of wiggle room. When the timer hits zero, you must extract your child from the outing of your choosing (read: the most fun your child has ever had, and whole-heartedly believes they will ever have again), navigate your way to the car, buckle them into their car seat while they do their best impersonation of a rodeo king/queen, exit the parking garage that was obviously built exclusively for smart cars without hitting anything, then make it home WITHOUT letting the exhausted child fall asleep. You will be disqualified for disobeying traffic laws, cussing out loud at the trash truck who is blocking THE WHOLE STREET, or getting into an accident. Extra points will be given if you turn this into a “teachable moment” by choosing to sing the ABC’s in a volume appropriate for a Death Metal concert, but a tone that would charm a little baby lamb.

Screen-Shot-2014-03-13-at-9.56.28-PM I have no words. Except I’d mop this chick in the Grab and Haul.

So there you have it. The Parenting Olympics. Got any ideas for next years events? I’d love to hear ’em!

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Image credits:

Cover: http://slimber.com/gallery/images2/21/216558/the-olympic-rings.jpg

Racks: http://www.buffalonews.com/storyimage/BN/20130127/LIFE02/130129435/EP/1/1/EP-130129435.jpg&maxW=960

Naomi Watts: http://cdn04.cdn.justjared.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/03/watts-hands/naomi-watts-has-her-hands-full-03.jpg

Pet Sematary: https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/_yzXc2oxZKh4/TU–WgrVIdI/AAAAAAAAAPY/038-Fq4TF4A/pet-sematary-remake-1.jpg

Car singing: http://rixbury.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/03/Screen-Shot-2014-03-13-at-9.56.28-PM.png

5.5 True Facts About Newborns

Let’s just get something straight: newborns are weird. Now I’m not trying to take away from the magic that is growing another human in your abdomen for the better part of a year, but if I’m being honest, a fresh newborn is as close to an alien life form as there is out there. With their pointy heads, puffy eyes, spindly limbs and inability to communicate, they are about as mysterious as a Chupacabra, and about as scary, too. So let’s try to clear up some of that mystery. Here are some true facts about newborns.

1. Baby poop is not really poo-like at all, but instead is nearly the exact consistency and color as the liquid that always squirts out of the mustard before the actual mustard makes an appearance. It can travel great distances in short periods of time, and defy the laws of gravity. Much like the “magic bullet” that somehow (tragically) passed through JFK and Governor Connally but remained nearly unscathed, baby poop can escape the confines of both a diaper and a onesie, and make it all the way into your pants, all without soiling either the diaper or the onesie. Your pants, however, will be quite soiled.

I’m more of a dijon kinda girl myself.    

2. Speaking of doodoo, once your newborn achieves Fecal Magician status after getting their poop in your pants, you will discover that much like dogs and bees, wipes can smell fear. And when they smell fear, the all stick together thereby making it impossible to remove just one or two. Without fail, one semi-aggressive tug will yield 15 wipes in a string of unscented, cleanly dampness, further exacerbating the panic as cool poo dribbles down your thigh. So calm yourself before you ravage your wipe container. You are probably going to need an actual shower.

Alakazam! Check your pants!

3. Baby heads have a Go-Go-Gadget like ability to stick out a few inches more at a moments notice, like when you are walking through a door frame. Even when you think you have your perfect sleeping newborn all tucked safe and secure in your arms, somehow they find a way at the exact moment of crossing the threshold to secretly stretch their head out just in time to smack it on the edge of the door frame.  They then retract it, equally as secretly, leaving you to believe it was actually your fault for carelessly slamming their delicate skull into a solid piece of pine. Amid the shrieks of your discontented baby, you stop and look down to see how it just happened, and by all accounts, it shouldn’t have. But thanks to Go-Go-Gadget Concussion Spring, it did. So don’t feel too bad. It happens to all of us.

Babies are just like this, except the trench coat, top hat, and gun.

4. The amount of milk in, is not directly proportional to the amount of milk out. In a mathematical equation that rivals the classic “If a train leaves Provo at 2:00 pm going 56 miles per hour…” it is somehow true and factual that 2 ounces of milk in, is the equivalent of roughly 15 ounces of milk product out. It doesn’t matter what end it is coming out of, the ratio remains the same. And when you start solids, the equation is doubled. 2 ounces of pureed sweet potato in equals no less than 30 ounces of putrid sweet potato even a short time later. Don’t ask me how. It’s obviously science.

This little lady was given exactly 1/4 cup of milk, but with the help of science it becomes a full gallon. 

5. Newborns have a sixth sense that allows them to determine when you are hungry, thirsty, or have to pee. It is then, and only then, that they will fall asleep in your arms after refusing to sleep anywhere else. This sixth sense also allows them to know when you are planning on taking their picture, and gives them enough time to stop whatever they were doing, and instead make a face that looks like they just took a shot of Fireball.

Just enough antifreeze to keep it interesting.

5.5 Babies can possess you. Somehow, with all the barf, and poo, and peeling skin, and constant needs, you will still find yourself absolutely transfixed by this little being. Over a year later we still find ourselves staring at Baby 1.0, and reveling in even the most mundane of details with the enthusiasm of someone who just won the Mega-Millions jackpot. “Oh my God, baby, just look at her eyebrows! She’s getting eyebrows! Oh and the way her little elbow is just like ‘I’m a little elbow!’ I can’t take it!” If this seems unlikely, I will tell you that girl scouts honor, I was obsessed with watching her eyebrow hairs grow in. Why? Because she possessed me. Which will make it all that much harder in 16 years when she plucks 2/3s of them out, and inevitably spends a few years looking perpetually surprised.

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Cover image source: http://midatlanticgardening.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/05/et.jpg

Colic – Less Fun Than A John Tesh Concert, More Fun Than A Lobotomy

Pretty soon after bringing little Baby 1.0 home from the hospital, it was clear she was what these days is tastefully called, a “spirited child.” She was incredibly alert, with a light in her eyes that conveyed an intensity we weren’t expecting. An intensity that, unfortunately, was expressed by shrill crying for seemingly no reason, for several hours a day, every single day, for three months. After ruling out there was a physical cause for this crying, it was determined she had colic, which is essentially a catch-all term to describe cruel and unusual punishment of caregivers through the art of inconsolable, unrelenting crying spells.

Before having her, we had been lulled into a false sense of security by other people’s newborns who spent most of their days sleeping, and who, when they cried, sounded like kittens mewwing. Baby 1.0 barely slept, comparatively, and spent many of her awake hours announcing her displeasure with us in a volume that would put a flock of 747s to shame. So we did what any set of new parents would do: We totally panicked.

This kitten is totally panicking, but in a really quiet, cute way.

This panic turned into a game show called “What If?” where we made up reasons for why she was crying, then used the internet to support our reasoning. It went a little like this: What if the reason she is crying is because she is hungry, even though I just fed her for 45 minutes? Internet survey says you have clearly overfed her, and she is crying because she has horrible stomach pains. Or she is still hungry, in which case you should feed her again, because a baby should never be denied the breast. Unless of course she is full, in which case by offering her another meal where she will only eat for a few minutes, you will be giving her too much foremilk which will make her gassy, and will destroy your foremilk/hindmilk ratio. So you should not feed her. But if you deny her request for food, you will damage the fragile mother/daughter bond irreparably. But if you give in, and feed her again, she will never get on a good schedule, and everybody knows a happy baby is a baby on a good schedule!

This is nothing but lies. Lies, I tell you!

We played this awful game everyday, for every round of crying that started up, and never got anywhere. In hindsight, this seems like grounds for admitting both my husband and I into an institution, but extreme sleep deprivation, coupled with living with an unpredictable tornado siren in our house drove us absolutely mad. And in our defense, at least playing the “google and panic game,” made us feel like we were doing something. Because otherwise, after trying the antacids and gas drops per our pediatrician’s recommendations, our only option was to wait it out, which felt about as helpful as telling someone dying of dehydration to try drinking their tears.

So we continued googling, and changing things here and there. I cut certain things out of my diet, we swaddled and shushed our way through most summer sunsets well into the night. My bedtime routine looked like a combination of Tae Bo and somebody being electrocuted, as I swayed, jiggled and bounced Baby 1.0 until she would finally peter out hours later. Then, I would carefully, oh so carefully, creep over to her bassinet, and then slowly, oh so slowly, lay her down on her back. Half the time she would wake up immediately, and the cycle would start over. The other half of the time, I would make it into bed myself, lay my weary head on my pillow, whisper “see you in 10 minutes to my husband,” and then she would wake up and we would start the whole cycle over again. It was hell.

Billy Blanks. Putting babies to sleep and toning your thighs since 1976.

And her crying wasn’t just at night. It would start-up at unpredictable times, or if I did something she didn’t approve of. Like, for example, put her in her car seat or stroller to leave the house (gasp!). So I didn’t. I locked myself up in our apartment, sat down on my couch, and nursed her for hours on end because it was the only way to keep her quiet. But in the process, it absolutely destroyed me. Mentally I was a wreck, living in fear of upsetting her, scared it was something I was doing that was causing this, afraid I was already a failure of a mother, depressed without knowing to call it that. Physically, I was in so much pain I would cry every time she latched on. We finally broke down and got a lactation consultant who at least helped the physical aspects of our problematic relationship. And I connected with a fellow colic sufferer who could at least offer a shoulder to cry on via a series of very thoughtful emails (thoughtful on her behalf, as my emails pretty just consisted of “but whyyyyyyy?”).

Those three months were the longest three months of my life. I came out on the other side with some buff buns, and a new appreciation for the saying “It takes a village.” I am so thankful for the friend who opened up and shared with me how hard it was for her too, and I can only hope that I can repay the favor by reaching out and making a difference in the same way. I guess my only piece of advice would be if you are struggling, say something. It doesn’t have to be so hard.

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The Big Bang: Thoughts On How I Became A Mother

For however different the birth of Baby 1.0 was compared to how I thought the birth was going to be, actually holding her tiny body and gazing down upon her perfect face induced a feeling I couldn’t have imagined I was capable of. While she was technically my first human child, she was hardly my first mammalian infant responsibility, as I’ve fostered enough baby animals to claim dual-citizenship with the animal kingdom. When they look up at you, their little paws clutching your fingers while you bottle-feed them, your heart swells. Or at least mine did. But when cradling our little babe for the first time, my heart didn’t just swell; it did the human equivalent of the Big Bang (the cosmological event, not the T.V. show, or the South Korean pop band). And from that explosion, a new state of being was formed: A giant emotional gas cloud composed of sticky, intoxicating love, a hefty smattering of fear, a few black holes of depression, and countless little glimmers of pure joy. This new feeling, which will henceforth be referred to as “Motherhood,” was completely and utterly life changing from the very first second she was set in my arms.

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thewestsidestory.net

This is my heart, exploding all over, making a big ol’ mess out of motherhood.

Speaking of which, from the very first second she was set in my arms, Baby 1.0 started crying. It was to be expected, in those first few seconds, or minutes I suppose. But it continued. For a long time, which is a story for a later post, but I’m mentioning it now  for the 15 people who read this regularly, so they won’t say “but you didn’t mention the crying after she was born!” She cried, y’all. From the get-go. Aside from the monsoon of baby tears, there were a few other unexpected discoveries right from the beginning. Perhaps one of the most shocking, our baby was born with what could only be described as troll toenails. They were tiny, or at least they had the capacity to be tiny once trimmed, but they were long and pointy, and caught me by surprise, literally. They would snag my very chic hospital gown when I was awkwardly maneuvering her about to give her the proper amount of “skin-to-skin”, or nurse her. Even with my new galaxy-sized mother heart, the feeling of them scraping across my abdomen was enough to gag me a little. “Learn how to trim toenails” was quickly bumped up to the top of the extensive list of ‘Things To Learn How To Do.’

Cute baby toes! I googled “Troll Toenails,” which I regretted immediately. Don’t do it. I dare you.

 Our two days in the hospital flew by. The nurses were extremely attentive, and would happily do anything from bring you a juice, to join you in the bathroom once you discovered you had peed and couldn’t get up. They offered a smorgasbord of great pointers, many of which contradicted each other, but at least then you always felt like maybe you weren’t doing it wrong. For two days we ooh’d and aww’d Baby 1.0’s every movement, and diligently recorded her meals and corresponding diaper deposits (turns out there is an app for that). We put up the requisite “Meet Our Baby” Facebook post, and received more well wishes than we knew what to do with. It was an idyllic time, minus of course, the crying. Our comfort level grew from fear on par with handling a dangerous snake, to a place where we could safely determine which end was up, and which end was most likely to spray liquid on us.

And then, just like that, our stay was over. At 11am on the dot, our nurses switched from caring best friend mode, to border patrol guards and booted us with the efficiency of a fast food line cook. It wasn’t until after I’d dressed in actual clothes for the first time that I wished I’d heeded the unsolicited advice of a client a few weeks earlier. “Bring baggy clothes to go home in,” she’d said, with a knowing smile. In my head I’d sneered and thought, “I will be skinny again then, you insufferable clown.” But after wrestling my bread loaf-sized combination ice-pack/pad into my yoga pants, I understood what she meant. We collected our things and waddled our way down the hall towards the car, half expecting a slow-clap, but instead being fully ignored. I’m not sure if maybe everybody there didn’t know I had just birthed a freaking human, or if they just didn’t care, but either way, I think at the very least, I deserved a slow-clap.

Put this in your pants. Or use it to make French Toast, but definitely don’t do both.

We walked out of the hospital into the hot, July, midday sun, and my mind was flooded with a wave of unexpected worry. The sun! Get her out of the sun! The pollution! Oh dear God, why do we live in a city? It’s so loud! WHY ARE YOU HONKING, ASSHOLE?! We got her in the car, and very slowly and very nervously drove away. My husband was at the wheel, admittedly more nervous than when he took -and failed- his first driver’s test (for the record, he is an exceedingly safe driver, and passed his test on the very next try). Fortunately, we lived about 4 minutes from the hospital, so our journey home was very short and uneventful, even when going 15 mph.

And then we were home, and we were three (or six if you count our three pissed-off cats, seven if you also include my mother-in-law who was staying with us for the week. Also we had a fish. Eight. We were eight). Just like the Big Bang, there was no going back now. Life as we knew it was brand new, and hurtling towards an unknown future at an immeasurable speed.

IMG_1015 Little Baby 1.0, pondering the meaning of life. Or pooping.

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I am not a science person, or at least in the sense that I know all the ins and outs of the Big Bang Theory. I’ve done a bit of googling about it over the last week, but I’m sure I made a mess of it when using it as a metaphor. Maybe the speed is actually measurable. Maybe black holes didn’t happen right away. I dunno. But just go with it. Or feel free to tell me about it.