Month 19: Home Again

We’re back from our holiday travels. Boy, does our house seem spacious. And quiet. And yet, remarkably messy for someplace that’s been free of people and a dog for a week. Guess it must be the 10 tons of stuff we brought back with us, including several hundred pounds of dirty laundry and Miles’ Christmas loot. And that’s just what we could carry. The mini all-terrain vehicle and firetruck are being shipped.

First off let me say that this Christmas was WAY better than last, primarily because Miles slept like a champ. And that’s at two different houses and in three different Pack ‘n’ Plays. Including naps. It was a Christmas miracle.

Of course, all that rest -- combined with large quantities of sugar and attention from adoring relatives -- gave him even more energy than usual. It was like the Energizer Bunny downed several double espressos and chased them with a shot of B12 and a handful of No Doz.

I am amazed that an only child used to being in his own house with two fairly quiet parents would adapt so well to a new environment filled with strange people, loud noises, and constant activity. At one point at my in-laws’, there were 16 people and two dogs. At the exact moment that dinner was being served (which involved at least 19 different dishes), five of my nieces launched into an impromptu round of caroling, some friends stopped by to visit, and one of the dogs had an accident. Miles was completely unfazed. In fact, he loved it.

It did make me laugh when we got to my parents’ house, where my brother, his wife, and their 11-mo.-old were staying, and my mom declared it was “chaos.” Please. Six adults, two babies, and no pets? That’s a walk in the park, people. Especially since the kids were mostly on opposite nap schedules and one’s not walking yet.

Even with all those adults around, there were some lapses in child care. Both C. and I noticed that our parents didn’t seem to fully grasp the meaning of “keeping an eye on Miles” while we were occupied. Under my in-laws’ watch, he got into a bowl of mixed nuts, climbed up on the toilet to play in the sink, and spiked a Christmas ornament. (To his defense, it was shaped like a football.) At my parents’, he found and dumped out a box of approximately 3,000 tiny legos and assorted sharp objects that had remained untouched for the past 26 years since my brother had played with them.

It didn’t really bother me, though. Miles made the holidays fun in a way they haven’t been for a while. There’s only so much reading and sitting around the fire and talking about work a person can take before it gets boring. It’s much more fun to watch kids try to figure out a Sit ‘n’ Spin (yes, they still make them!), shriek with delight at a balloon, and grin like a maniac after tasting their first candy cane.

Really, the only stressful parts of the trip were getting there and back (a whole other post unto itself), keeping Miles from hugging his baby cousin to death and/or bashing her on the head with a toy, and keeping up with the mess he leaves in his wake. At my house, there’s no Oriental rug in the dining room to get splattered with oatmeal. And the mess from breakfast can wait until naptime. (Or, let’s be honest, bedtime.) And a bazillion puzzle pieces, toy trains, and stuffed animals scattered all over the floor blend in with the décor.

Even though we had a nice time, it’s great to be home. Miles gets to watch Curious George again instead of endless football games or the news. He can shout and crash and bang since there’s no one trying to nap. And now he’s got a few dozen more toys to scatter about. That should keep him busy until the ATV gets here.

PICK O’ THE WEEK: My mother and SIL and I escaped to the movies one afternoon to see “Atonement.” The book was great, and the movie was AMAZING.

Month 19: Baby's Worst Xmas?

We head out tomorrow for the holidays, so I'll be on a brief blog hiatus. Here's an essay I wrote about last year's trip. I'm still having flashbacks.

Baby's First (or Worst?) Christmas
Last Christmas was my first as a parent. I should have been excited. Baby’s First Christmas is supposed to be magical. I know this because people gave us ornaments that say so. Instead of being filled with the joy of the season, however, I was filled with fear and dread.

You see, our brand-new family was bravely embarking on a trip to our relatives’ six states away. As nervous new parents, my husband and I were apprehensive about traveling with an infant for the first time. But it was Christmas.

Packing presented the first challenge. How many changes of clothes would the baby need? Did diaper rash cream count as a liquid, and therefore need to be transferred into a clear plastic bag per airport security requirements? I feared I would forget some key baby item—say, that crucial extra diaper—and be forced to construct one out of airsickness bags and cocktail napkins.

At the airport, we filled an entire baggage cart with our gear, including a car seat bigger than the baby himself. I had always prided myself on my ability to pack light. These days, entire marching bands travel lighter than I do.

Disassembling and reassembling the baby apparatus to get through security nearly caused us to miss our flight. And preboarding is one of the few perks of traveling with a small child. Then, by the time I had unpacked the baby’s blanket, pacifier, rattle, bottle and bib, the plane was landing. So we repacked our gear, reassembled the stroller and retrieved our bags. With a flurry of straps and buckles, we managed to install the car seat in the rental car.

Upon our arrival at my in-laws’ house, we—I mean, the baby—were greeted by several generations of relatives. My son, Miles, was the first grandchild to come along in seven years, and the first grandson in seventeen years. His reception rivaled that of a young maharajah. Children shouted. Lights twinkled. Cameras flashed. It was Overstimulation Central.

Even at seven months old, Miles was a social little guy. He clearly felt it was his duty to entertain two sets of grandparents, six cousins and countless aunts, uncles and other visitors with his repertoire of cute baby antics. A rousing game of peek-a-boo? You got it. A photo beside the decorative reindeer? No problem.

Someone decided it would be fun to have “Santa” give out the presents. Ah, the presents. Stacks taller than the baby towered everywhere. Miles would have been happy with just the bows and wrapping paper. But no, he was gifted with toys galore, including a bilingual bongo drum that chirped in Spanish and English. Miles hadn’t even mastered his mother tongue yet, let alone a second language.

He took all this in with wide-eyed wonder. Then an ancient uncle came in sporting the Santa hat. One look at the evil red pom-pommed cap, and the baby’s lower lip began to quiver like a bowl full of jelly. This episode marked the beginning of the end of our fun family festivities.

When it was time to wind down in the evening, Miles didn’t. He woke up every two hours all night long, complaining loudly about the accommodations—a rickety old portable crib rescued from a neighbor’s attic. After the comforts of his cushy digs at home, he wasn’t having it.

By the fifth night of this, we had all had enough. Much to the grandparents’ dismay, we flew home early, arriving exhausted and tense. Incredibly, we came back with even more stuff than we’d brought.

The next morning, all was well with the world. Miles lolled in his crib, cooing over the baby monitor, while his dad and I snuggled up in our own bed. There were no more airport security lines, no more car seats or portable cribs, no one we needed to entertain—and most importantly, no Santa hats in sight. Thank goodness Baby’s First Christmas only happens once.

--Abigail Green

Month 19: Stunt Baby, Part XVII

There’s been a security breach at our house. Just before 0700 hours on Saturday, 15 December, 2007, Miles escaped from his crib. We heard a loud thump from his room and then a cry. I jumped out of bed and ran into the hall just as he was opening his door. Yep, he can work doorknobs now, too. Excellent.

He appeared to be slightly dazed but otherwise fine. I’m actually shocked it’s taken him this long to learn how to climb out of the crib. Good thing his room is carpeted.

As you may recall from this post and this post, and this post, Miles has always been an active little fella. He has suffered bumps, bruises, and a chipped tooth. He has been to the ER. We have gradually removed or replaced most of our hard-edged furniture. And now, we have lowered the crib mattress to the very lowest slot.

Perhaps I shouldn’t have encouraged him on that rock-climbing wall the other day. See, this week we started a new tumbling class at a local children’s gym. The kids rolled on mats, slid down ramps, jumped on trampolines, and hopped across cushions.

Then there was this sort of mini climbing wall with hand and foot grips. Miles wanted no part of it, but seeing all the other kids climb it one by one, I pushed him to try. I encouraged him to SCALE A WALL, people! What’s the matter with me?? Like the child needs any encouragement to attempt potentially dangerous stunts? Anyway, I think the thrill of conquering that wall gave him the confidence to attempt his prison break the next morning. That’ll teach me, huh?

And that was just the beginning of our exciting weekend. After that, C. took Miles to the pool (where he attempted to dive in by himself), and then we all went to see a production of “101 Dalmations” at a children’s theater. Miles has the book and loves it, but I wasn’t sure how he would handle a play. Better than expected: he added his own sound effects (“Woof! Woof!”) and got a little antsy during some parts, but he loved the music and the kids dressed up in dog costumes.

Today we went to a train museum to see the holiday displays. Choo, choo! I have to admit, checking out a bunch of trains wasn’t tops on my list of ways to spend a day, but even I ended up thinking it was pretty cool. They take you on a short ride on a train that’s decked out like the Polar Express or something out of Harry Potter. The conductors come up and down the aisle and greet everyone, and the kids can stand up on the seats and look out the windows.

This train was going through downtown Baltimore rather than to the North Pole or Hogwarts, so the view was, uh, less than scenic. “Look, kids, a crack house! An abandoned car! Ooh, and over there, is that a one-legged homeless guy?” But it didn’t matter, because we were in Festive Holiday Weekend mode! It almost makes up for all those other weekends when we sit around doing nothing but patching up Danger Boy. Let’s hope none of us starts tomorrow morning with a thud.

BUY O’ THE WEEK: I got Miles a shirt like this at Target. It's like it was made for him!

Month 19: Poor Baby, Part II

Help! We’re stuck on the mucous merry-go-round and we can’t get off! Gross, I know. But what do you want from me? Miles has his second cold/virus in a month and I spend all day long wiping one end of him or the other. This time’s not quite as bad. Just bad enough to keep us all up at night. Sigh.

Oh, people warned me. “Kids are little germ magnets,” they said. “They’re always sick. And that means YOU’RE always sick, too.” I know at least one family who pulled their kid out of daycare and got an au pair because he was constantly getting sick from the other kids. And when they start school, forget it. They get weird illnesses you’ve never even heard of, like exotic rashes and foot-and-mouth disease and avian flu and stuff.

Miles either got this new, second-generation cold at a playdate or at the gym with C. Or maybe from the shopping cart handle at the supermarket. Who the hell knows? The point is, it’s a huge hassle. He lies down in his crib at night or for naps and 20 min. later, wakes up hacking and sobbing and oozing.

And there’s not much you can do for an 18 ½-mo.-old with a cough. Think about it: cough drops, hot toddies, massive doses of Nyquil—all the things we’d use to treat ourselves if we were sick are not an option. So Miles and I spent half the day lying on the couch, dozing and watching “The Polar Express.” Not a bad way to spend an afternoon ... if there weren’t ONLY 14 SHOPPING DAYS LEFT 'TIL CHRISTMAS!!!

In fact, shopping is only a teeny tiny fraction of what I have to do this month. Work obligations (what’s that?) aside, my to-do list includes:
1. Buy & decorate Christmas tree
2. Take Christmas card photo
3. Order Christmas cards
4. Address, stamp & mail Christmas cards
5. Make casserole for neighbors w/ new baby
6. Make photo calendar for grandparents
7. Buy more stamps
8. Return library books/pay overdue fines

This weekend, #1 got scratched. We’re spending the holiday at the grandparents’, anyway. So I put up the tiny fake tree I had in my college dorm. Pathetic, people. Thank god Miles will have no memory of it.

It’s looking like #7 and #8 aren’t going to happen either. Item #2 took ALL WEEKEND LONG and we STILL ended up choosing the least-terrible photo of the 423 we took. (Like this "I'm a reindeer" pose?) Likewise, #6 took forever, since it involved combing through approximately 5 bazillion digital photos and Miles turned off the computer in the middle, causing me to lose a couple hours’ work.

Then we’ve got the actual Christmas shopping. My list includes mostly people who a) don’t want or need anything but I still have to get them something, b) I see once or twice a year and have no clue about their interests, sizes, or taste, and c) people (ahem, C.) who want either a shirt or a flat-screen TV and virtually nothing in the in-between price range.

Ah, the holidays! The most magical time of the year. If, you know, your definition of magical includes going through family-size boxes of Kleenex and racking up massive credit card debt. And, really, whose doesn’t?

TIP O’ THE WEEK: We just got this Vicks Vaporizer for Miles’ room and it really seems to help him breathe. He slept great last night … until 5 a.m., that is. :(

Month 19: Happy Thoughts

I'm afraid I'm getting to be a bit of a Debbie Downer lately, what with my rants about shopping disasters and jury duty and husbands who ring the doorbell when the baby and I are both asleep because they forgot their keys. (What? I didn't mention that? My bad.) So this here's going to be a New! Improved! Upbeat post, people!

So, after the Gap Mishap, I escaped for some Christmas shopping and a movie on my own. (Cue Bridget Jones singing "All By Myself.") Now, even though I consider myself to be a modern, evolved, independent woman, I still have reservations about going to a movie by myself. As do most other women I know. Why? Are we afraid we'll look like friendless losers? That everyone else in the theater will be couples holding hands and making googly eyes at each other over the popcorn?

Not at the 3:30 p.m. showing of "Enchanted," I'll tell you that. Sitting between an elderly couple and a mom and her young daughter, I blended right in. And I can't tell you how enjoyable it was not to have to listen to C. snort sarcastically throughout this unabashed chick flick. Plus I wasn't worrying in the back of my mind about racking up the sitter fees. What a treat! I highly recommend it for moms who need some "me time."

OK, what else? Upbeat, upbeat … oh, I know! It snowed here yesterday for the first time this year. Snow in Baltimore before Christmas is pretty unusual. All day long Miles kept saying, "Snow! Snow!" with the same funny pronunciation that he says "snack." He is currently obsessed with snowmen. Something to do with the Frosty book he got last Christmas. Unfortunately for him, Mama is a wuss and prefers to stay inside with a hot cup of tea. Getting cold and wet is Dad's domain, I've decided.

Now I've got snowflakes and mittens on the brain and have gotten the song "A Few of My Favorite Things" stuck in my head. So here are a few of mine: the TV show "Chuck" on NBC. For all you "Alias" fans, this is your new fix. It's a combination spy show and comedy, featuring a cute, semi-geeky guy.

Also, if you haven't hit the Target $1 section lately, it's a goldmine for stocking stuffers. I bought Miles a bunch of colorful wooden planes and trains. Of course, they were probably made in China and saturated in lead paint, but this is an upbeat post, dammit!! I refuse to get sidetracked.

If you prefer to do your shopping by catalog or online, check out Land of Nod. They've got a cool, fairly inexpensive selection of retro kids' gifts, and a free shipping section. Miles has one of the mini rocking chairs and loves it. This place is cool, too, for non-battery-operated toys: Back to Basics Toys.

Also, I am in love with the Container Store (click on Stocking Stuffers). I wish there was a location closer to us so I didn't have to pay shipping. But I would probably put a serious dent in Miles' college fund so it's just as well.

Well, I'm running out of material, people. Apparently, if I don't have something to complain about, I'm as dull as a pair of safety scissors. :) Never fear, I'll be back soon with new & improved calamities and indignities to report, I'm sure of it.

TIP O' THE WEEK: If you must shop in actual three-dimensional stores, take advantage of the early holiday hours. Target was blissfully empty at 9 a.m. today!

Month 19: I Plead Guilty

I blame coffee. Or, rather, the lack thereof. If we hadn't been out of coffee, I would never have suggested that we change out of our warm PJs and go out to breakfast on Saturday morning, thus setting off a disastrous chain of events.

But we were up, we were tired (except for Miles, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed since 6:30 a.m.), and I, at least, needed some serious caffeine. So we set off. On the way there, C. remarked, “7:59 a.m. on a Saturday and we’re on our way to breakfast. How times have changed.” Ain’t that the truth.

We picked a neighborhood restaurant, nicer than a diner but still kid-friendly. Or so I thought. As a pile of crumbs and table scraps began to accumulate under Miles’ high chair, I saw a guy who was sweeping the floor eye him warily. “Sorry about that. He’s going to keep you busy,” I half-joked. The guy did not smile back. Nice. The sun was barely up and I was already feeling guilty.

Let me just say here that I am no stranger to guilt. I have always cared way too much what other people think. If someone’s mad, I assume it’s my fault. If something goes wrong, I assume I am in some way responsible. Not like responsible for 9/11, but partly to blame for, say, a dining companion not liking their food. I know, it’s stupid.

Since I became a mom, guilt is pretty much my constant state of being. I felt guilty for keeping my doula at the hospital for the bazillion hours I was in labor. I felt guilty for sending the baby to the nursery so I could sleep. I felt guilty for not being overjoyed every second of every day. I felt guilty for snapping at my husband all the time. I felt guilty for not calling people back. I felt guilty for letting the baby cry, for not feeding him organic rice cereal, for not breastfeeding longer, and on and on. You name it, I felt guilty about it.

And it seems the older Miles gets, the more I have to feel guilty about. He makes huge messes at restaurants, he pushes other kids at the playground, he won’t sit still on planes, and he’s often very, very loud. But what can I do? Nothing but feel guilty, that’s what.

So after our tense breakfast -- where we hugely overtipped, I might add -- we went to the mall. Miles demanded to be let out of the stroller immediately. We chased him all over Macy’s, repeatedly grabbing his shirt mere seconds before he snatched some glass snowflake or porcelain Santa and smashed it to smithereens.

Stupidly, we continued on to the Gap. C. had wrestled Miles back into the stroller and was pushing him past a display of seasonal bath products when -- SMASH! Miles tipped a glass bottle of bath oil onto the floor.

While I am standing there, mortified, picking up glass shards, C. nonchalantly WALKS AWAY. I could have killed him. Later, he explained it this way, “What? It was an accident. Kids break stuff. The Gap is a huge corporation. I’ve spent tons of money there over the years. So, no, I don’t feel bad at all.”

Whereas I had grabbed a fistful of paper towels from the salesgirl to help her clean up the mess, all the while sputtering apologies. ("Sorry. I’m SO sorry! Did I mention how sorry I am?") Should I offer to pay for the bath oil? Was she going to call security? Overwhelmed with guilt, I scooped up a handful of overpriced lip glosses, paid for them, and high-tailed it out of there.

Then, on the way home, we got pulled over and ticketed for an expired registration. Can you guess how that made me feel? That’s right, all together now, people: GUILTY!! Though not too guilty to briefly consider bribing the cop with some cranberry lip balm.

READ O’ THE WEEK: How timely of Real Simple magazine to run a feature on how to avoid feeling guilty in the Dec. issue. Some of their suggestions: “Confess” to someone else (since secrecy breeds guilt); try to make amends; and give yourself credit for what you do right.

Month 19: Doing My Duty

As if there wasn't enough going on around here (sick kid, work, holidays), I got called for jury duty this week. Super.

Somehow, I've managed to escape this dreaded civic obligation for 33 years. I got called last year, but since I'd just had a baby and was breastfeeding, I got out of it. Though I did have to send proof. (No, not a bag of breastmilk, just a birth certificate!)

This time, though, no such luck. Jury duty sucks under any circumstances, but for a self-employed SAHM, it sucks worse. First, I had to navigate rush hour traffic to get downtown by the ungodly hour of 8 a.m. PIA, people.

To add insult to injury, I had to pay $10 to park (that's after the $2 jurors' discount) and $7 for lunch -- and that's on top of what I had to pay a sitter since C. couldn't take a full day off work. For doing my civic duty, I got paid a whopping $15. Let's do the math: that means it COST ME $42!! Is it just me, or is the system flawed?

Maybe I wouldn't have minded so much if I felt like I was actually serving some useful purpose. But, no, 90% of the day was spent sitting in an uncomfortable chair in a depressing room that smelled like mothballs and industrial cleaner. Thank god they had a "quiet room" or I would've been stuck listening to Muzak on top of it.

After two hours of this (With no breakfast, I might add, since I busted my butt to get ready and get there on time. Would it kill them to provide bagels and coffee??) a group of us got called. We traipsed down to some other old, depressing building a block away. But, hey, it had to be more exciting than counting water stains on the ceiling, right? Wrong. It wasn't even a criminal case, just a boring old worker's comp case. Anyway, I didn't get picked for that jury, thank goodness.

So it was back to the holding pen for 4 ½ more hours. When I got home, C. asked if being away from Miles all day was a nice "break." As if! I spent the day avoiding eye contact with badly dressed strangers, not getting a pedicure!!

Still, my day did have one bright spot. I got a whole hour- and-15-minute lunch break. I got to sit down and eat an entire meal that featured a main course, salad, and a beverage. And I didn't have to sweep the floor or do the dishes afterward. That's something any mom would kill for!

LAUGH O' THE WEEK: When I went in to get Miles this morning, this is what I found. Rockin’ the one-shouldered PJ’s! Don’t ask me how he managed this one.

Month 18: Milesisms

Happy Thanksgiving! I’m happy to report that Miles is feeling much better. He still has a hacking cough that makes him sound like he’s got a nasty cigarette habit, but otherwise he’s showing signs of bouncing back to his old self. And that makes me thankful this Thanksgiving.

Instead of a long, boring, predictable list of what else I’m thankful for this year (health, family, caffeine, Tivo, blah, blah… ) I am going to treat you all to a list of my favorite Milesisms -- the funny little things that make my son the quirky little guy he is.

1. Here’s lookin’ at you. When he was younger, we’d show him a mirror or a picture of himself and ask him who it was and he’d say, “You!” Probably because we’d always point to pictures and say, “Look, buddy, that’s you.” Now he says “My-uhls” in this super cute voice. Only it could be a picture of a friend’s kid, his cousin, or any random baby and he still says it’s him.

2. Word scramble. I’ve mentioned before how he gets certain words mixed up (like “towel” and “owl”) and invents words for things he can’t pronounce (like “cuppy” for “pumpkin”). Once, C. asked Miles to go get the dog’s leash and he came back with a leaf. (It tells you something about my housekeeping habits that I have stray bits of nature lying around.)

The latest confusion is between the words “open” and “oatmeal.” So Miles now comes up to me several times a day with markers and Playdoh containers and begs me to “o-meal” them.

3. Yay for me! We could all learn a lesson from Miles about self-appreciation. When he completes a task -- say, balancing a block on top of another, or putting his books back where they go -- he claps for himself. Then again, he also clapped when I gave him some chocolate milk as a bribe to stay in the stroller while I ran errands. But, hey, chocolate IS worth applauding, isn't it?

I’m trying positive reinforcement in an effort to expand my vocabulary from “no,” “stop,” and “don’t.” So I’ll say things like, “What a good boy for drinking your milk” and “Good boy for helping Mama pick up the toys.” Now, when Miles does something good, like remembering not to stick his finger in the dog’s eye, he will tell HIMSELF he’s a “buh-boy.”

4. Is there an echo in here? He now repeats EVERYTHING. Which can be good and bad, of course. Today it’s good, though, because we taught him how to make a turkey noise. Gobble, gobble, everyone!

TIP O’ THE WEEK: Write down and/or videotape the funny things your baby says. You think you will remember them, but you won’t! I WISH I had recorded the way Miles first said “snack,” which involved scrunching up his whole face like he’d just sucked a lemon. Now he says it normally, dammit. :(

Month 18: Poor Baby

Miles is sick. Gunk is running from his eyes, nose, and mouth, he’s got a low-grade fever and a hacking cough. Worse, he’s not acting like himself at all. Eyes at half mast, he wimpers and lays his head down on the couch. Uninterested in food, he grumpily pushes away whatever he’s offered. (Except for a few bites of banana this morning, which he chewed up and then deposited onto the carpet.)

It’s awful to see your baby sick. We’ve been lucky. Aside from one ear infection, Miles hasn’t been really sick in his whole 17 ½ months of life. Then this weekend, practically overnight, he got hit with this hideous cold.

And what can we do for him? Nothing. Forget saline drops or that suction-bulb thingie. He won’t even let me within a foot of his nose with a Kleenex. You’d think I was coming at him with sandpaper and rubbing alcohol.

He won’t tolerate hot baths. He climbs in eagerly, like he always does, only to lose interest in his tub crayons and rubber duckie within minutes and cry to get out. Soooo not like him.

We tried the trick of tilting the crib mattress by stuffing pillows under it, so that his head would be elevated and wouldn’t get clogged with phlegm. But Miles moves around like crazy in his sleep. When I went to check on him, his head was jammed into the lower corner of the crib -- a virtual funnel of phlegm. So much for that.

The only things we can do are run a humidifier in his room and force fluids on him. Milk is out since it seems to triple his phlegm production within minutes. So we’re left with water and watered-down juice. (Yes, I broke my pediatrician’s cardinal rule and gave him juice before age 3. What kind of world do we live in where juice is considered tantamount to crack for babies? I get it. Sugar = cavities, empty calories, childhood obesity -- but come on, it’s Juicy Juice, not a jumbo Mountain Dew Slurpee!!)

Thank goodness Miles got sick on the weekend when Dad’s here for backup. I realized how fragile our little childcare set-up is. When your kid’s sick, guess what? You can’t take him to the sitter, lest he infect the other kids. In fact, you can’t take him anywhere, really. You’re stuck at home with a baby who’s miserable and won’t sleep unless he’s on your lap.

So what happens when your baby’s sick and you’ve got 1) work deadlines, 2) jury duty, and 3) relatives visiting from out of town? (I WISH I were making this scenario up.) And you can’t call in Grandma for backup because she’s 6 states away? And Dad can’t stay home from work because it’s his busiest time of the year? You’re SOL, my friend.

Ah, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to … achieve a balanced life? Whatever. Things will work out like they always do. I just want my healthy, happy little boy back. If I can have that, I promise not to complain about his endless energy and appetite for annoying Elmo songs. At least for a few days.

READ O’ THE WEEK: OK, so it’s not a BOOK book, but Desperation Dinners is one of my all-time most favorite cookbooks in the world that I turn to again and again for fast, healthy meals. Last night C. made a vegetarian version of the Shepherd’s Pie. SO yummy! Hopefully it will nurse us back to health.

Month 18: High-Impact Parenting

This kid is kicking my ass, people. I’m not proud to admit that I’ve met my match in a person barely taller than a coffee table. But there you have it. Between his boundless energy, increasingly stubborn nature, and filthy table manners, Miles is running me ragged. Thank GOD he’s a good sleeper (now that we’ve adjusted to daylight savings time) or I may have hurled myself off a bridge by now.

This morning I woke up with my lower back seized up like the computer after Miles has been pounding out a symphony on the keyboard. I could not move for several minutes. Creaking and groaning, I finally hoisted myself out of bed. Common sense would say to take it easy, right? Not an option in my world.

If you’ve ever wondered how many times a mom bends down in the course of a day, the answer is 8 trillion. We bend down to pick up last night’s bath towel next to the tub, to replace the liner in the diaper pail, to wipe up congealed lumps of breakfast, lunch, and dinner off the floor, to untangle the dog’s leash from the stroller wheels, etc.

That’s BESIDES all the times we bend down to pick up the child -- off the dressing room floor at Target, out of the bulk candy bin at the supermarket, off of the dog, and out of the crib, stroller, car seat, and bathtub.

And did I tell you about the time I literally had to tackle Miles to keep him from sprinting into the stock room at Old Navy? (Note to self: get a shopping cart with a WORKING seat belt next time!!) I’m actually shocked my back still works at all.

I got a massage over the weekend. The goal was relaxation. Except the muscles in my shoulders and back were all knotted up like macrame, requiring the massage therapist to use excessive amounts of force and manipulation to unknot them. About as relaxing as a third-degree sunburn, people.

This parenthood stuff is grueling on the body, there’s no doubt. Let’s see, there’s the accidental face scratches, the not-accidental hair-pulling, the bruises from being hit by flying balls. (YOU try explaining to a toddler that it’s OK to throw a foam ball but not a golf ball.)

Now I really understand all those articles in women’s magazines about the importance of taking care of yourself. I haven’t been to the doctor since Miles was born because I can’t be bothered to tack that on top of all his check-ups. I eat like crap because I spend mealtimes making sure he’s eating well. And this is the first massage I’ve had since, I don’t know, forever ago?

I guess my current back pain is my body’s way of saying, “HELLO?! Remember me??” And as I bend down to pick up stale Cheerios, tiny sneakers, and the stray Elmo truck, I do remember it, over and over.

TIP O’ THE WEEK: Ms.MindBody has some great self-care tips, like how to make quick, healthy snacks and how to build downtime into your day. Good luck with that. :)

Month 18: Isn’t It Romantic?

This may come as a shock to you, but … I’m not Heidi Klum. “WHAT?!” you’re probably thinking. “You’re not the internationally famous German supermodel, host of ‘Project Runway,’ and mother of three married to the sexy recording artist Seal?!” I know. Sorry to disappoint. (What, like Heidi has time to blog??)

But just how much I am NOT Heidi Klum was driven home to me one day while watching Oprah. See, the show was about “Power Couples” and what it’s like to live their fabulous lives. Normally, I would have shut off the TV in disgust (or is it envy?), except I was intrigued by Seal’s quite appealing accent. Something he said really made an impact on me. He said that Heidi is his best friend and that despite their having three kids and wildly successful careers, he makes it a point to always put her first. In fact, Seal had a little saying: “Happy wife, happy life.”

Can I get that on a bumper sticker? Better yet, can my HUSBAND get that on a bumper sticker? ‘Cause I don’t think he got that memo. OK, that’s not fair. C. is a very sweet guy. He pulled off a super romantic surprise proposal back in the day. Not quite as over-the-top as Seal’s proposal to Heidi, which reportedly involved him BUILDING AN IGLOO, strewing it with rose petals, and secretly whisking his bride-to-be there in a helicopter!! That would make any normal guy seem like an unimaginative slug in comparison.

But I don’t even care about the igloo or the rose petals or the 10-carat (!!) canary yellow diamond engagement ring. It’s the “putting my wife first” part I like. I don’t think C. and I have put each other first since the baby was born. Our list of priorities looks something like this:

1. Miles
2. C.'s job
3. My job
4. Home repairs
5. Us

It’s not that we don’t value each other and our relationship, it’s just that life always seems to get in the way. Some days I see my husband only in 20-min. increments: before he goes to work, during the post-work hand-off before I go to the gym or to run errands, and after Miles goes to bed and before I do. (C. likes to stay up late.)

We plan the occasional date night, but when it comes to shelling out hard-earned money on dinner and a sitter or on a much-needed home repair, the house usually wins. (For instance, last weekend C. had to fix the bathroom sink because Miles has now figured out how to throw things down the drain.) And when it comes to spending time alone together or sleeping, sleep usually wins. Whoever said early parenthood wasn’t romantic, huh?

I don’t usually spend much time worrying about it, though. Probably because my time is spent prying sharp objects out of a small person’s hands and fishing toothbrushes out of sink drains. But when I see beautiful people like Heidi Klum and Seal holding hands and beaming about how romantic their life is, even with small kids at home … then I start to think I’m missing out. Of course, it’s easy to be spontaneous and romantic when you’ve got nannies on call 24/7, right? Heck, Oprah probably babysits for them herself!

Besides, when it comes right down to it, I’d take a foot rub over a rose-petal-strewn igloo anyday. Hear that, sweetie?

TIP O’ THE WEEK: How about, don’t compare yourself to fabulously wealthy celebrities. Be grateful for the life you’ve got, which hopefully doesn’t include paparazzi jumping out of bushes when you walk outside in your robe to get the paper. ;)

SHOUT-OUT: To me, since this is my 100th post!

Month 18: Sleeping Like a Baby

So are you all enjoying the effects of daylight savings time like I am? Miles woke up at 5:30 a.m. yesterday. It was dark and cold and there was nothing on TV except infomercials. Also, we were out of coffee. Fun! As one mom at the playground this morning put it, the person who came up with daylight savings time clearly did not have kids.

Which leads me to my topic of the day: sleep. Or the lack thereof. Who’s getting it, who’s not, when, where, and how often becomes a HUGE topic when you’re a parent. When Miles was born, I was devastated to discover that I, a lifelong champion nighttime sleeper, was not capable of napping during the day. So during my many, many waking hours, I would chart his sleep habits in a little notebook. I think I was hoping for a predictable pattern. Or maybe I was just insane from lack of sleep.

Anyway, charts and graphs made no damn difference. He still will take a random three-hour nap one day for no apparent reason, and the next day -- even though he got up at 5 a.m. – he’ll only sleep for an hour. I would have been better off spending my time thinking up entries for my Sleep Glossary. Here’s what I’ve got so far:

Sleep debt: When your spouse owes you a period of uninterrupted sleep in exchange for you getting up with the baby in the middle of the night.

Sleep fib: 1) When you lie to other people about how long your baby’s been sleeping through the night (Note: It doesn’t make you seem like a better parent, it just makes other, more sleep-deprived parents want to kill you.); 2) When you pretend you’re sleeping so your spouse has to go tend to the baby.

Sleep peep: When you or your over-anxious mother wants to go into the sleeping baby’s room “just to check on him.” Don’t do it. Leave well enough alone.

Sleep situation: When the baby falls asleep in the car and you can’t decide whether to risk transferring him to the crib or stay in the car until he wakes up.

Sleep slut: Someone who will sleep anytime, anywhere they get the chance -- even if it means skipping church, sleeping on a bed with no sheets, or sleeping in when it’s their spouse’s turn.

Sleep splurge: When you sleep for obscene lengths of time when someone else is taking care of the baby.

TIP O’ THE WEEK: Anybody got one? We tried gradually pushing back Miles’ bedtime over a few days before the clocks changed, and you can see how that worked out for us. I dread the day we take a trip across time zones.

Month 18: Monkeyin’ Around

Happy Halloween, everyone! I love the cute, fuzzy, little-kid costumes -- before they grow up and want to look all scary. This monkey outfit is the perfect costume for my little monkey. (Thanks for the hand-me-down, T!) As you may know from reading this blog, Miles is a mischievous little fella. Why, just the other Sunday, I was awakened by the sound of an alarm going off at the ungodly hour of 6 a.m. Thus began another rousing game of “Find Mama’s Alarm Clock.”

See, Miles likes to swipe my alarm clock from my bedside table, set the alarm, and then hide it in all sorts of creative places. Say, under the bed, in the laundry hamper, or -- as on that fateful Sunday morn -- somewhere in the guest room.

Other fun tricks my monkey likes to play are:

“It’s a Hat.” This game involves taking any object that is not headwear, putting it on his head and saying it’s a hat. This is especially fun if the object in question is a not-yet empty bowl of oatmeal, a greasy plate, or the dog’s water dish.

“Gimme That!” Similar to tug-of-war, this has been Miles’ favorite since he was tiny. Just take anything he’s got in his hands -- a blanket or a stuffed animal works best -- and say, loudly, “Gimme that!” as you attempt to take it away. The harder you pull and the more you pretend to be outraged, the harder he laughs.

“Up or Down.” This started in the bathtub. We would ask Miles if he was ready to get out. He would say “out,” stand up, and just when you reached over with the towel, sit back down with a splash. The game continues until the parent loses patience or all the water has been splashed out of the tub, whichever comes first. Recently, Miles has started this game when I go to get him out of his crib, too. (Little does he know I could call his bluff and leave him in there all day.)

My husband’s coworkers played a little trick on me today. It was called “Bring your son into the office so we can give him tons of candy and he’ll have a sugar-fueled meltdown when you get home.” What a treat!

SHOUT-OUTS: To my friend, L., brand-new mama to Baby Katie. Congrats! And to my Stroller Strides friend and fellow mommy blogger, Prince Alex's Momma.

Month 18: Questionable Kids’ Books

Admittedly, I’ve had babyproofing on the brain lately, but has anyone else noticed that the room in “Goodnight Moon” is totally not child-safe? “In the great green room there was a telephone …” First of all, the phone cord is definitely a strangulation hazard. And it’s right next to the bed! The bed which has no side rails on it, by the way.

And an open fireplace in a kid’s room?! With fireplace tools next to it? That’s just plain irresponsible. It almost makes you overlook the knitting needles left unattended on the rocking chair before the quiet old lady comes in.

“Goodnight Moon” originally came out in 1947, though, so it’s no surprise that safety requirements have become more stringent since then. But there are plenty of other kids’ books that portray questionable judgment, to say the least. Let’s take a look at them, shall we?

Possibly the worst offender is Alexandra Day’s “Good Dog, Carl” in which the mother leaves her baby in the care of … a rottweiler!! Even Britney Spears knows better than that, people! Though the dog does clean up after himself, which is more than I can say for my husband. (FYI, Carl has his own web site.)

Next up, “Five Little Monkeys.” Don’t you think that after, say, the third monkey fell off the bed and bumped his head, the doctor may have reported the mama monkey to social services? And I’m pretty sure that 5 to a bed is against fire code.

Speaking of bed sharing, I’d like Dr. Seuss to explain why, in “Hop on Pop,” Red, Ned, Ted and Ed are sleeping together in one bed. Come to think of it, in P.D. Eastman’s “Go, Dog. Go!” 17 dogs share one bed, not even counting the 3 poor dogs on the floor!! Those dogs have bigger problems, though. They drive too fast in cars without seat belts. Plus, they drive separately even though they’re all going the exact same place. Haven’t they ever heard of carpooling?

That’s it. I’m sticking with Sandra Boynton’s “Belly Button Book” for silly, carefree literary entertainment. Although … are those hippos on Belly Button Beach wearing sunblock?

READ O’ THE WEEK: Is Your Mama a Llama? by Deborah Guarino and Steven Kellogg is a fun read, and doesn’t promote canine caregiving, speeding, or skin cancer.

TIP O’ THE WEEK: This one’s from C.: If your toddler’s attention span is too short for wordy books, skip all or part of the text and describe the pictures instead. Kids won’t notice until they’re older!

Month 17: Mr. Personality

Before we had Miles, my husband and I used to spend a lot of time playing with our dog, Gracie. C. trained her to cuddle on command and give “hugs.” We would dress her up in ridiculous outfits and put her picture on our Christmas cards. We would take her to the dog park every weekend and stand on the sidelines like anxious parents as Gracie tried to engage the other dogs in a game of Who Can Get the Muddiest.

Then we had a baby. Poor Gracie became a second-class citizen overnight. Suddenly, we couldn’t tear our eyes away from Miles’ tiny feet and fuzzy head. We started dressing HIM in ridiculous outfits and put the baby’s picture on our Christmas cards instead of the dog’s. It’s only natural, right?

The thing I didn’t get until I had a baby of my own was how much fun they can be. People love to talk about diapers and sleep deprivation and the other horrors of parenthood (myself included). But you have to ask, then why do people keep having babies?? Obviously, they must have SOME redeeming qualities!

Of course they do. And I’m not even talking about the sappy greeting-card crap like babies' laughter sounds sweeter than an angel's song or whatever. I mean, babies have actual personalities! Anyone who’s ever heard a 5-year-old give a running commentary from a bathroom stall knows that kids are funny. I just didn’t realize that they develop their own personalities so early. It blows my mind that Miles has been alive just over ONE YEAR and he’s already the life of the party. I know people who’ve had 3 or 4 DECADES to develop their personalities and you still wouldn’t want to sit next to them at a dinner party!

I’ve started a list of what I love about Miles. (I go through it in my head when he’s lying flat on his back in the middle of the sidewalk crying because he doesn’t want to leave the park.)

• The funny way he says “snack.” (Schnaaack.)
  

• Sometimes he’ll bust into some crazy dance or start spinning around for no reason.

• One time I said we needed to find a towel for his bath and he started going “whoo, whoo,” because he thought I said “owl.”

• He puckers his mouth up like a fish when he kisses you.

• He calls pumpkins “cuppies.” (Hey, he’s got the “p” and the “k” sounds in there!)

• He likes to sit on our laps and watch Elmo videos on YouTube. (Check out Elmo’s duet with the Goo-Goo dolls and Elmo with Robert DeNiro. Don’t ask me why DeNiro turns into a cabbage.)

And that’s only the beginning, people! So all you childless folks, ditch your dog and get knocked up ASAP. :) Oh, the fun that’s in store for you …

READ O’ THE WEEK: The Bright Side of Disaster by Katherine Center is a very entertaining and realistic story about a new mom who’s got it SO much worse than most of us.

TIP O’ THE WEEK: The Worst-Case Scenario Survival Handbook: Parenting, gives a great suggestion: Hang towels over the tops of doors to prevent your child from slamming the door on his fingers. Cheaper than those foam thingies!

Month 17: Baby Proof

My son is what you might call an “active” toddler. Active being a euphemism for insanely energetic and unafraid of anything (except the vacuum cleaner). He has been known to dive headfirst off beds and changing tables, race full speed towards busy roads, and try to surf in the bathtub. His guardian angel must be working overtime because he’s only had a couple of minor accidents so far.

Until the other week. I used to joke about mapping the fastest route to the emergency room, but I wish I actually had. We were getting ready to leave the house and Miles was impatiently standing at the front door jiggling the doorknob. All of a sudden he screamed and came into the kitchen with blood dripping from both hands and his face. The next few minutes passed in a blur. I figured out that he had cut his finger on a sharp piece of metal on the door. Both of us covered in blood and sobbing, I bundled him into the car and raced to the closest hospital about a mile away.

C. met us there. Good thing, because I was in no state to fill out the paperwork. After waiting a ridiculously long time (what if he was bleeding to death??), a nurse came and got us. Having to help her hold my baby down while the doctor examined him was one of the worst things I’ve experienced as a mom. C. had to hold him while they X-rayed his finger because I couldn’t stand it.

They determined pretty quickly that Miles was fine. The cut had stopped bleeding on its own and wasn’t deep enough to require stitches. The ER doctor was super nice and explained that mouth and hand injuries (the only ones Miles has had) tend to bleed a lot and usually look worse than they are. By this time, Miles was busy devouring his (first ever) lollipop and playing with some stickers the nurses gave him. He was fine. His dad and I were a wreck.

So now I’m convinced that our 75-year-old house is a deathtrap. Everywhere you look, there are sharp corners, uneven floorboards, rusty hinges, and probably about 17 layers of lead paint. I’m seriously considering moving to a single-story Japanese-style loft where we’d sleep on futons and sit on floor cushions. We’d have rice-paper screens instead of doors. No furniture, no stairs, no doors, no injuries, right? But Miles would probably slip on the bare wood floors and crack his head.

He just has a knack for seeking out danger. I once put up a baby gate at the foot of the stairs. He immediately started leaning his full body weight into it until both he and the gate went flying. I put a glass up on the table out of his reach, and he pulled the placemat -- and the glass -- off the table and onto his head. I put those plastic plug things in the wall outlets (which he’d previously ignored), which he took as his own personal challenge to remove. The drawer-locks we installed allow the drawers to open just enough to pinch tiny fingers. I can’t win.

I do the best I can to make our house safe. But there’s baby proof, and then there’s Miles proof. Two different things entirely.

READ O’ THE WEEK: Mark Cherrington’s article in the Nov. 2007 issue of Wondertime magazine takes an evolutionary look at why little boys love trucks.

TIP O’ THE WEEK: One thing we have managed to instill in Miles is caution around things that are hot. By saying “hot” any time he’s near the stove, fireplace, bath water, or just-cooked food, he’s gotten the point and backs off. In fact, he’s become a bit of a drama queen about it and will shout “Hot!” when his food is barely lukewarm. Better safe than sorry, though, right? One Step Ahead offers childproofing tips (along with a bazillion safety products).

Month 17: Flight Risk

Last time I got on a plane with Miles, he was 11 mos. old and I was traveling by myself. We hit a rough patch, and I was forced to pass off my baby to a stranger while I scrambled to find an airsickness bag. And yet, our trip this past weekend was so much worse.

This time, the whole family was traveling together. Two parents, should be easier, right? Our flight left around Miles’ bedtime. Perfect, right? It was only an hour flight. Piece of cake, right? Wrong, wrong, and wrong again.

First, I realize that airport security is intended to make air travel safer for everybody. But, come on, forcing a baby to dump out his sippy cup and remove his tiny shoes that take 20 minutes to wrestle back on? (Note to self: get the Velcro kind next time.) Then we had to double back to retrieve the stroller we’d left on the conveyer belt amidst our 7 trillion carry-on items.

We arrive at our gate to discover our flight has been delayed TWO HOURS. Perfect. It’s now Miles’ dinner time, so I go off to forage for the least-disgusting airport food I can find. Twenty minutes later, just as I reach the front of the Quiznos line, a girl comes running up, shouting to her friends that the flight is no longer delayed and is boarding NOW. So I run back to the gate, no food in hand.

We board, give Miles his blanket and pacifier and attempt to get him settled. Yeah, right. He’s pointing out the window, shouting “Pane! Pane! Tuck! Tuck!” Indeed, there are many planes and trucks to be seen. Then he wheels around and starts doing leg presses on the seat in front of him. The kid can press triple his body weight, I swear. We remove his shoes so as to soften his kicks to the back of the seat. Yeah, right.

The college girl unfortunate enough to be seated in our row does her best to ignore us. She plugs her headphones into the radio on the armrest, punches some buttons to adjust the volume, and fires up her laptop. She might as well have pulled out a slab of raw antelope meat in a lion’s cage.

Miles immediately dived for the electronic equipment and began punching buttons. “Oh, honey, no! Ha, ha, he just loves to push buttons,” I explain to the girl apologetically, as I forcibly remove my son from her keyboard. I pass him off to C., amidst loud protests.

Miles soon busies himself pulling off his socks. A minute later, I hear a shout from the college girl. I look over and see that Miles has sneaked his little foot under my arm and is now pushing the buttons on the girl’s radio WITH HIS TOES!! Apparently, he cranked up the volume quite a bit. “I’m SO sorry!” I tell her, blushing and sweating profusely. “Take him!!” I hiss to C. under my breath, tossing him the baby like a football.

We spend the next hour passing Miles back and forth between us, prying his fingers off the hair of the passengers in front of us, retrieving his pacifier from the row in back of us, attempting to flag down a flight attendant to refill his sippy cup, and praying fervently that Miles will not knock over the college girl’s ginger ale into her laptop. Not only does Miles not sleep AT ALL, but he actually breaks a sweat from the exertion of everything he’s doing to not sleep.

Our landing is delayed due to God knows what, and when we do finally touch down there are no gates available so we sit on the runway for 45 minutes. I mentally count the number of gray hairs I’ve sprouted during the trip and swear to never, ever step foot on a plane again until Miles is 14. Too damn bad for our families. They’ll just have to make do with web cams.

As if to make up for things, Miles slept and behaved beautifully the whole rest of the trip. Then came our return flight. Really, I can’t complain too much. Sure, Miles purposely kicked over my drink, forcing me to spend most of the trip sitting in a puddle of ice water. Sure, he insisted on opening his packet of pretzels himself, showering everyone in the surrounding seats with salt and pretzel crumbs. Sure, he pulled off his socks again and dug his toes into every grimy crevice he could find. But as long as he doesn’t fry anybody’s laptop, I’m a happy Mom. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go shred my frequent flyer card.

TIP O’ THE WEEK: ABC News just did a story on moms who blog. There’s 15,000 of us! Who knew? Also, I found this web site, Go-Baby.com, that gives tips for traveling with kids.

Month 17: The F Word

Quick: what do you think of when you hear the word “feminist”? A man-hating, Birkenstock-wearing, non-leg-shaving activist? Many people do, I’m afraid, given the reaction of one of my cousins when the word came up during a family game night. “I’m NOT a feminist!” she sputtered, recoiling in horror at the very suggestion. You’d think she’d been accused of burning her bra.

Is it really such a bad thing, feminism? Wikipedia, that online font of knowledge, defines it as “an ideology focusing on equality of the sexes.” Sounds good to me. Sure, there are extremists, as with anything. Did you ever see “Legally Blonde”? You know Elle’s militant lesbian law school classmate who wants to change the word “semester” to “ovester”? (Think semen vs. ovaries.) She’s one example.

Look, I’m guilty of harboring certain stereotypes myself. Even though I’m a vegetarian, I think vegans are nuts. (Do they even eat nuts? Or is that all they eat? I can’t keep track.) Even though I’m an advocate of breastfeeding, the La Leche League scares me a little. And even though I consider myself a feminist, you won’t catch me advertising it on a T-shirt. Probably because I don’t want to be grouped in with the crazies. :)

Still, equality of the sexes has been on my mind a lot lately. Despite growing up with a father who shared the cooking and child-rearing responsibilities and a mother who made great strides for womankind (see last week’s post), despite having a degree from Vassar, despite railing against gender stereotypes my whole life (pity the poor soul who ever said I “throw like a girl”!), I now find myself … staying home with my baby while my husband goes to work. You might as well slap an apron on me and call me Betty Crocker.

OK, not really. Because I don’t cook much. Or clean. It’s just that, as you may have picked up on, I’m not 100% comfortable in my current role of full-time stay-at-home/ part-time work-at-home mom. And I’m kind of disgruntled with our society as a whole, actually.

The husband of my friend S., mom to three boys, has to travel frequently for work. Once, shortly after his son was born, he had to go on a 10-day business trip. Ten days, people!! Give me one good reason why his employer should not be required to provide a nanny to cover for him at home during his absence.

And why would my neighbor, a SAHM, ask me how my husband feels about “letting” me go to the gym a couple nights a week after a 10-hour day with a toddler? Why does a guy get to call in sick to work and recuperate in bed while his wife, when she’s sick, is still expected to care for the kids all day? Why do people heap praise on a dad for “babysitting” his own kids? How is it really a “choice” for a mom to stay home if childcare costs outweigh her earnings?

The feminist movement was all about giving women choices, right? Well, the whole “choice” issue is a loaded one. I choose to stay home with my son and work part time because 1) my husband earns more than I do, 2) I have a job I can do part-time from home, 3) we don’t live near family and full-time childcare is too costly for us, and 4) I couldn’t stand being away from Miles all day, anyway.

OK, this has veered off into a rant, and I don’t want to give my cousin any more ammunition against the feminists. So let’s change the subject to movies. I, for one, am eagerly awaiting the next “Legally Blonde” sequel to see how Elle Woods tackles career, motherhood, and universal childcare.

*NEW!* READ O' THE WEEK: Get your hands on the Oct. 8 issue of Newsweek. More interesting even than this article about the "new dad" is this one: "A Mother's View: The 'New Dad'? Give Me a Break," by Lorraine Ali. The average dad spends way more time with his kids than any other generation -- but that's still only 7 HOURS A WEEK!!

TIP O’ THE WEEK: Even though she’s kind of an angry feminist, Faulkner Fox has done her research and makes some excellent points in her book, “Dispatches from a Not-So-Perfect Life: How I Learned to Love the House, the Man, the Child.”

Month 17: Best-Kept Secrets

C. and I once stayed in a B&B where we found a helpful video in our room. It was the innkeepers’ picks for the area’s “best-kept secrets” -- where to go, what to do, where to eat. About 10 minutes into it we realized that, according to them, EVERYTHING was a best-kept secret! And the only beach in town is hardly a secret, you know what I’m saying?

It can feel that way sometimes with baby stuff. I mean, everyone knows how labor and childbirth works, right? And what a Boppy and a Baby Bjorn are? It can seem that way to us jaded new moms, but actually, it’s not true.

For instance, I had been through hours of childbirth preparation classes and read several books on the topic before I went into labor. Even so, I was in for a huge shock when I showed up at the hospital. I’d been laboring at home all day, and my contractions were 4 minutes apart by that time. But guess what? I was dilated a measly 1 cm!! I was informed that my labor was “unproductive.” So, basically, the 12 hours up till then DIDN’T COUNT. Huh?! I don’t remember them covering that in my classes!

Another “secret” I discovered was that -- surprise! -- breastfeeding is not as easy as we’re led to believe. Start asking around and you’ll discover that very few new moms got the hang of nursing right away. And the “initial discomfort” referred to in the books turns out to be “excruciating pain” for many of us.

But, listen, I’m not trying to scare anyone. (Like, say, my friend L.H. who’s due any day now!) In fact, my aim was to share some helpful tips and products that were shared with me when I was a brand-new mom. But secrets spread fast, OK, so if this is old news to you, sorry.

First, a true story: When one of my close friends had a baby several years ago, she struggled with finding the perfect swaddling blanket. If only someone would invent one that was just the right size, just the right fabric, and actually kept the baby swaddled, T. lamented. Lo and behold, someone did. Fast-forward to my SIL’s baby shower last year where she received no fewer than half a dozen specially-designed, Velcro-enhanced swaddling blankets. Including one from me. Guess the secret’s out, huh?

So, anyway, here my list of “best-kept secrets” for new moms:

You probably know that a Boppy is a C-shaped pillow that goes around the mom’s waist to help position the baby for easier nursing. But did you know that a Boppy also makes a comfy neck pillow for parents? And makes tummy time easier by elevating the baby’s chest and head off the floor? And can serve as a seat to help an older baby sit up?

Similarly, you probably know what baby wipes are for. But did you know they are a surprisingly effective stain remover? And that they take off makeup in a jiffy?

Medela Quick Clean Microsteam Bags are a huge time- and space-saver for sterilizing pump parts, pacifiers, and bottles in your microwave in 2 minutes flat.

When Miles was a newborn, we had a little pee problem. A big pee problem, actually. So I was thrilled when a friend told me about extra-absorbent Huggies Overnites and the Ultimate Crib Sheet. If you’ve ever struggled to change a skin-tight fitted crib sheet in the middle of the night, you’ll appreciate this extra layer that’s easy to snap off.

For those times when you can’t hold the baby’s bottle for him (say, you’re driving to the airport to catch a 7 a.m. flight), the Podee Hands-Free Baby Bottle lets baby feed himself even before he can hold his own bottle. It took Miles a couple times to get the hang of it, but after that it was a huge time-saver.

I first spotted the Snack Trap at Stroller Strides. The little cup allows kids’ hands in to grab some Cheerios without dumping the entire contents out into their lap.

TIP O’ THE WEEK: Stuff I like that’s not baby-related:
To eat: Sabra hummus, Honeycrisp apples
To watch: Ugly Betty, Ace of Cakes (filmed in Baltimore!)
To wear: my new, cute, super-comfy Skechers shoes

Month 16: Tub Torpedo

There’s no way around it: being a mom means dealing with gross stuff. I knew this going into it. And I’m not a gal who likes gross. From the moment I got pregnant I was bombarded with icky words like mucous and discharge and placenta. And the birth itself? Just yuck, people. Y-U-C-K. (I still can’t believe they offered me a mirror to watch the horror show myself. No thanks, playing the starring role is enough for me!)

And newborns, as everyone knows, do little more than pee and poop and spit up. Gross, but not that big a deal. (Except to some people.) Yet in spite of all my exposure to extreme grossness in the past year, I encountered a new level of nastiness the other night: the dreaded tub poop.

Now, I have been warned of this phenomenon by other moms. It’s even happened to C., who usually gives Miles his baths. I’m actually shocked that I’ve avoided it this long.

But no, that fateful evening, the baby stopped splashing, stood up, gave a telltale grunt and … the rest is just too gory to go into. But why stop now? You know what they say about, um, "stuff" hitting the fan? Well it’s worse when it hits the water. It immediately starts to dissolve and scatter in every direction. I swooped Miles out of that tub like I was rescuing him from the Titanic. Mayhem ensued. Gags were stifled. Powerful disinfectants were administered after the offending party was put to bed.

So now baths are back to being solely Dad’s domain. Isn’t it bad enough I went through childbirth? I can’t deal with this kind of carnage.

In other news, I found myself in the very unfamiliar position of being the only mom in a group recently. I was having lunch with an old friend and some of her new friends. Mostly sophisticated career women, dressed in skirts and heels even on a weekend. I was SO out of my element. I considered my leather flip-flops dressing up.

I noticed that interest in mom-world was limited to my baby’s age and gender. Anything beyond that and eyes glazed over, instantly. Understandable. But quite a change from the hour-long debates about naps and strollers that I’m used to. Thank goodness for the one pregnant chick in the group or I’d have had nothing to talk about. Sad, maybe. Reality, definitely. They’re just lucky I didn’t launch into the story about my son’s bathtime bombshell.

TIP O’ THE WEEK: In an egregious oversight, I forgot an important Mommy Award last week -- Most Pioneering Mommy: My Very Own Mom, Gram2Miles. She played a key role in a landmark case concerning women’s rights in the ‘70s, when she was fired from her teaching job when she got pregnant with my brother, even though she was married. Her case was taken to federal court, where her employer was charged with discrimination. The ruling allowed other teachers to get paid maternity leave. This was before the Internet was invented or I’d include a link. ;) Love you, Mom, you rock!

Month 16: The Mommy Awards

In honor of the recent Emmy Awards, we’re proud to announce the launch of a prestigious new awards show: The Mommy Awards. Sure, the fashion’s not as exciting, since many of the nominees sport juice-stained jeans and nursing bras. And there’s no red carpet, since carpets just need to be vacuumed.

There’s not even an actual awards show, since the nominees are all too busy and couldn’t coordinate their calendars, what with raising their kids, working, cooking, doing laundry, taking the dog to the vet, and reading “Goodnight Gorilla” 16 times a day, not to mention squeezing in the occasional workout, date night or UN summit.

Still, there ARE winners, and isn’t that the point? So without further ado, here are the winners of the 2007 Mommy Awards.

The award for Best Success Story goes to J.K. Rowling. She rose from a divorced single mom who wrote in cafes while her baby was sleeping to become the author of the Harry Potter series, the fastest-selling books in history. At 42, she’s now one of the richest women in Britain, and the world.

The award for Best Do-Gooder goes to Angelina Jolie. The American actress, 32, is a goodwill ambassador for the UN Refugee Agency who regularly visits poor, war-torn countries to raise awareness and improve conditions. She’s adopted three children from Cambodia, Ethiopia and Vietnam, and gave birth to her biological daughter (with hottie Brad Pitt!) in Africa. She has donated millions of her own money to humanitarian causes throughout the world.

The award for Best Survivor goes to a fellow Baltimore mom, Lara H, 35. Diagnosed with cancer shortly after the birth of her second baby, she underwent chemo and is now cancer-free and training for a 100-mile bike race to raise money for the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society.

Runner up: Claire from the ABC show “Lost.” The girl survived a plane crash, gave birth on a deserted island and is raising her baby with little more than some rags and a couple of coconuts!

The award for Most Musical Mommy goes to Lori McKenna. The singer-songwriter, 39, is a mother of 5 in Mass. Though she’s written music most of her life, it was only when Faith Hill recorded three of McKenna’s songs recently that she became well known. McKenna just released her own album, “Unglamorous.” I heard her on a radio interview and it’s clear that she loves being a mom, and that’s where she gets most of her material. Rock on, Lori!

The award for Best Multitasker goes to Tori Spelling, 34. Even though I was a huge 90210 fan back in the day, I never thought much of this chick. But I started watching her reality show, “Tori & Dean: Inn Love” because I wanted to see how a 9-mos-pregnant celebrity was going to open and operate a B&B while preparing for the birth of her first child. Damned if Tori didn’t get right in there with a paint roller and a toilet brush! She actually is pretty funny and not as dumb as you’d think. And now that her cutie-patootie son, Liam, is born, there’s even more reason to watch. He even peed on her in one episode. Been there, Tori. :)

Wow, this was fun! I can think of lots more categories, so maybe this will be an ongoing feature. Feel free to send in your own Mommy Award nominees!

TIP O’ THE WEEK: Seek out moms who are making a difference in the world. I’m as celeb-obsessed as the next gal, but what I find really inspiring are real women who are managing to both raise their kids and do something cool, creative, and/or charitable with their lives. Whenever I come across a story like that, I tear it out, bookmark or Tivo it for a pick-me-up when I’m having a down day.

Month 16: Is it Bedtime Yet?

My parents came to visit this weekend. My mom arrived with a complete fall wardrobe for Miles. He's now got a rugged quilted vest for outdoorsy activities, a sporty dump truck sweatshirt for the gym, and a crisp khakis-and-doggie sweater vest ensemble to wear to ... I don't know, his toddler book club?? The kid dresses better than I do, that's for sure.

We went out to dinner one night and my mom remarked that my flowy Old Navy top looked like a maternity shirt. And there I was thinking I was looking stylish for once! Anyway, we had a very nice weekend, filled with multigenerational fun. Which mostly consisted of sitting around watching Miles do funny things, like spin in circles and shout "Moo!" at any toy with a tail.

I have to admit I felt pretty vindicated when my mom, clearly exhausted, asked at 6:50 one night, "Is it his bedtime yet?" There's been many an evening when I counted the minutes until 7:30 p.m., a big bottle of wine waiting in the wings. Not that anyone accuses me of spending my days lying on the couch eating bon-bons ... but still, it's nice to have someone else recognize the rigors of my daily life.

The other day I called my neighbor around 3 p.m. to see if she and her 2-year-old were available for a playdate. Miles had woken up from his afternoon nap (1 -2:10 p.m.) and the long afternoon loomed. I thought the point of one nap is that kids sleep LONGER. Miles? Not so much. My neighbor called back at 4:30 and said, "Oh, we both just woke up from a 3-hour nap!" I hate her.

My pediatrician, however, never fails to remind me that I'm lucky I've got an all-night sleeper. Except for the fact that Miles wakes up before 7 a.m. EVEN ON WEEKENDS, I really can't complain. I mean I can, and I do. But it could be worse, I know. It's just that in my pre-baby life, I never knew how bad weekend morning shows were. And I was happy in my ignorance. Also, I relished late-night reruns of "The Fresh Prince." And now I can't even stay up past prime time. In fact, it's going on 9:30 p.m. I'm calling it a night.

TIP O' THE WEEK: I'd like to give a shout-out to some new moms: my real-world friend E.M. and her gorgeous girl, Luisa, and my virtual friend Dooneybug and her new baby girl! Congrats, ladies!!

Month 16: Rookie vs. Veteran Moms

So Miles’ lip has finally healed. Now he only sports the usual scrapes and bruises from his everyday adventures. Over the weekend, I had several opportunities to reflect on people’s reactions to baby behavior. I noticed there are stark differences between what I’ll call Rookie Moms (RMs) and Veteran Moms (VMs).

In reality, the RM category includes Rookie Dads, Childless People, and People Who Had Children So Long Ago They’ve Forgotten What It’s Really Like. PWHCSLATFWIRLs will say, “My babies starting sleeping through the night at one week old” and “We fed you kids steak as soon as you could hold your heads up.” These are patent lies, but time -- and years of sleep deprivation -- has erased the facts from their memories.

Anyway, let’s say a group of RMs and VMs are sitting around visiting a mom with a new baby. One woman is holding the newborn when he has a diaper blowout of epic proportions, splattering himself, the person holding him, and all the upholstery within a 3-foot radius. Cut to the reactions:

RM: Oh, my God! That is soooo disgusting!! I can’t believe it, he’s never done that before! I am soooooo sorry!! I will totally pay for your drycleaning! Quick, someone grab the Lysol, rubber gloves and surgical masks!!

VM: Oh, good. He’s not constipated anymore. Can someone hand me a paper towel?

Scenario #2: A toddler is playing on a mechanical truck at the mall. In his enthusiasm, he whacks his nose into the steering wheel. Hysteria ensues.

RM: Oh, my God! That is soooo awful!! I can’t believe I let that happen! I am soooooo sorry, sweetie!! I will totally hit myself in the nose twice as hard so I can feel your pain! Quick, someone call 911!!

VM: Oh, good. He didn’t chip a tooth this time. You’re OK, sweetie. Let’s go before Baby Gap closes.

Scenario #3: A baby is just learning to crawl and explore his surroundings.

RM: Fearing disease, dismemberment, or worse, she covers all surfaces the baby might encounter with protective blankets and/or bubble wrap. Just to be extra safe, she carries the baby around most of the time.

VM: Sweetie, let’s not sit in the kitty litter box, OK? And watch your head when you crawl under the glass and chrome table. Hey! No chewing on electrical cords! Next time it could be plugged in. Go splash in the dog bowl until Mommy’s done brushing her teeth.

TIP O’ THE WEEK: If you’re watching or playing with someone else’s baby, take your cues from his parents. If they seem like the extra-protective sort, don’t dangle the baby in front of your pet pit bull, even if Bruiser is friendly. If the parents seem laid back, you probably don’t need to disinfect the baby’s pacifier every time he drops it on the couch.