Month 9: Stunt Baby

Life with baby has become a little more, er, “challenging” lately. Miles is no longer a cute little portable accessory. He’s still cute, but less portable – the child weighs a whopping 20 lbs! I laugh when I think back to the days when I couldn’t do bicep curls with the 8 lb. handweights at the gym. I could probably curl that with one finger now.

So, the constant weight lifting is one challenge. But the bigger one is that THIS BABY DOESN’T SLEEP. I’m telling you, he goes down for a nap and 20 min. later he pops back up like a Weeble Wobble. (Remember those?) He’s up at least once, if not twice a night again. (He teased me by sleeping from 7 p.m. to 7 a.m. for a week or two. Just when I’d gotten used to it, he was like, “Psych! The after-hours party in my crib is back on, Mama!”)

I swore I would never be one of those parents who drives their kid around in the car at all hours to get them to sleep, but wouldn’t you know it? There I was yesterday afternoon, doing just that.

It really makes you appreciate drive-thrus. I went 2 miles out of my way to the drive-thru Starbucks. Banking and fast food are no problem, but I really had to go to the post office. I heard there’s a drive-thru one about 45 min. north of us. Don’t think I didn’t consider it. But gas is expensive, people. And my library fines are through the roof due to lack of a drive-thru book return.

Back pain, no sleep, and, oh yes – constantly saving my baby from self-destructing. Miles morphed into Stunt Baby overnight. He crawls really fast now, loves to snack on electrical cords, and pulls up on anything within his reach. The kid thinks he can walk already. He pulls up on the coffee table, clears it of all objects instantly with his sticky little mitts, and then LETS GO.

At first I tried to catch him to keep him from hurting himself, but then – and I know it sounds mean – I thought, “Hey, he’s got to learn about gravity at some point.” So now I just let him go. Most of the time, he does these dramatic backward falls like a stunt guy in an action movie. He looks mildly startled, but doesn’t cry. Occasionally, if he’s tired or clips the side of the coffee table, there are tears for a few seconds. Then all is forgotten and he’s scaling Mt. Sofa again.

We’ve tried to babyproof as best we can, but you can’t wrap the entire house in foam. Nor can you block off every outlet, potted plant, electronic device, or door that might slam tiny fingers. Plus, we’re not about to start sleeping on the floor. Miles regularly tries to dive headfirst off the bed. Sometimes it’s all I can do to grab one chubby ankle before he slips over the edge. He thinks it’s a fun game. We call him “Bat Baby” because he loves hanging upside down like a bat in a cave.

Yup, this one’s all boy, people. I better start investing in helmets and mapping out the fastest route to the ER now. If I wasn’t so ... sleepy ...

TIP O’ THE WEEK: Keep reading material in the car. That way, if your sleep-resistant baby happens to fall asleep while you’re driving, you can pull over and pass the time with a book rather than risk the dreaded “transfer” (as in, car seat to crib). I have a 0% success rate with that maneuver.

Month 8: Mom vs. Mom

I’m not a huge Oprah fan (see previous post) but I was compelled to Tivo Tuesday’s episode. 20/20 anchor Elizabeth Vargas was on, talking about being a working mom and her decision to quit her news anchor job when she got pregnant with her second child. She came across as very likable and honest. Plus, she has good hair. Then there was the requisite batch of working mothers (WM) and stay-at-home mothers (SAHM) facing off. One SAHM was getting all up in the face of a WM because she (the WM) went back to work when her baby was only 6 weeks old.

But here’s the funny thing – I know the WM, who was identified only as a school principal. If she’s who I think she is, she’s the head of a KIPP charter school near Washington, D.C. Now, I know a lot about KIPP because my friend is the principal of a school here in Baltimore. These are academically intense middle schools for disadvantaged kids. Most students are minorities and come from very tough neighborhoods riddled with drugs and violence. The KIPP staff are super-dedicated, way-underpaid saints, in my opinion. So, hello!, if any mother ever had a good “excuse” for working outside the home, I’d say this woman has it. We’re lucky she even WANTS her job.

See, that’s a big problem I have with these stories and shows about the so-called “Mommy Wars.” They always peg working moms as these power-suit-wearing corporate types who stand on the sidelines of their kids’ soccer games yelling into their cell phones (if they make it there at all). And the SAHMs are either these twinset-clad PTA types, or Earth mothers in chunky jewelry who don’t allow refined sugar in their homes. The implication is always that the SAHMs love their kids more, and that the WMs are all gunning for CEO. I’m exaggerating, but only a little.

Yet most of the moms I know – WMs and SAHMs alike – don’t fit neatly into one of those categories. Some have to work to keep their baby in diapers and Gerber’s, or because their spouse is in med school. Some work to preserve their sanity, some to make use of their expensive education, some because they run their own business, and still others work because they – gasp! – like their jobs. Still, every single one has questioned her decision at one point or another.

I may not be the brightest crayon in the box, but before I had a baby, it never occurred to me that women don’t always have a choice whether to work or stay home. And I’m not even talking about the ones who have to work to pay the bills. I’m talking about moms who don’t earn enough to justify paying for fulltime childcare. (That’d be me.) The idea that it could actually COST someone money to work still blows my mind.

For those who do have a choice, here’s my own personal philosophy on the work vs. stay home dilemma: if your job is making the world a better place, by all means, work. The school principal is a good example. Another one is a scientist I know who researches new vaccines. Hell, yeah, I want her to go back to work! Whereas let’s say, to use an example from my own job history, you work for a web site that tracks which celebrities have had plastic surgery. You really want to be paying a small fortune to daycare for that?

Of course, I’m not out saving the world. And I really have no business passing judgment on the WM vs. SAHM issue because I’m not really in either camp. As a self-employed freelancer, I stepped outside of the corporate world years ago. Paid maternity leave wasn’t an issue because no one was offering it to me. Going “back to work” for me meant hiring a babysitter a couple afternoons a week so I can shut myself in the guest room and make some phone calls. Of course, even that transition was not exactly a smooth one.

On the one hand, my job allows me some of the benefits of working without any major sacrifices. I feel lucky that after a few hours I can shut off the computer and go cuddle my baby on the couch. On the other hand, my son has no college fund. (We’re keeping our fingers crossed for a scholarship or an inheritance.)

I guess I get so riled up about this issue because there really are no “right” answers, and every single mom I know struggles with her decision at some point. Oprah pretty much summed up the only undeniable statement you can make about it: you can have it all, just not all at the same time.

TIP O’ THE WEEK: (I know, I forgot last week.) Whether you’re a WM or a SAHM, subscribe to at least one magazine that is not parenting or work-related. Join a group or pick up a hobby that has nothing to do with being a wife or mom (baby massage class: bad; aromatherapy workshop: good). Go shopping and buy something for yourself – not your house, not your husband, not your child. Not even if Baby Gap is having a huge sale.

Month 8: Jealous Again

We have a Diaper Bandit in the house. Several times now, when we’re all downstairs watching TV or eating dinner, someone has sneaked into the baby’s room, pulled a diaper out of the trash, and shredded it all over the carpet. I have a sneaking suspicion about who the culprit might be – a certain scruffy, four-legged, jealousy-riddled mutt, perhaps?

Gracie is not allowed in the baby’s room. She wouldn’t dare step a paw over the threshold when we’re upstairs. And she’s not really the destructive type. (Several stacks of junk mail and a pair of C.’s glasses notwithstanding.) So what’s going on? Gracie’s been bitten by the green-eyed monster. All the smooches, baby talk, walks, and other positive attention that used to be lavished on her is now bestowed on the small fuzzy-headed interloper who came out of nowhere 8 months ago.

Gracie used to be allowed up on the bed for the occasional snuggle. Now Miles has taken over her spot. She used to get daily walks. Now she’s too rambunctious to handle with the stroller, so she’s usually left at home. We used to take her to the dog park every weekend. Now trips to the tot lot take precedence. It’s no wonder she’s got it in for Miles. Or at least his diapers, anyway.

I’d like to think I’m more evolved than an animal who once fell face-first into a duck pond. But I’m no stranger to jealousy. (Or is it envy? I never could understand the difference.) Just recently, when my parents came to visit my newborn niece, but we couldn’t go because Miles had the teeniest hint of a cold, I felt a twinge of unpleasantness. And there it was again when the cute bookstore clerk completely ignored me but lit up like Times Square at the perky pair of college girls behind me in line. (Even when my butt did look like that in tight jeans, I was too self-conscious to wear them.)

If I’m totally honest with myself, there are actually quite a few things that incite envy in me:

I’m jealous that my friends with baby girls can buy cute clothes in colors other than baby blue, navy blue, brick red, army green, or burnt orange, and that they can dress their offspring in outfits that don’t feature sports logos or heavy machinery.

I’m jealous of people whose houses are cleaner and better furnished than mine.

I’m jealous of people who can afford to shop at Anthropologie regularly.

I’m jealous of people who have family nearby (read: free babysitters) and can go out on regular date nights without breaking the bank.

I’m jealous of my neighbors whose baby was sleeping through the night at 7 weeks.

I’m jealous of other married-with-a-baby couples who have sex more than we do. (You can just tell, OK?) But not as jealous as I am of other couples who get more sleep.

I’m jealous (or is it suspicious?) of couples who say they never fight.

I’m jealous of people my age who are already super-successful in their careers.

I’m jealous of people who excel at a sport. (A REAL sport, not badminton or archery or something lame.)

I’m jealous that I didn’t write this book, from a mom’s perspective.

I’m jealous of people who change the world. (Oprah: enough already! You’re making the rest of us look bad.)

I’m jealous of people who are completely confident in who they are.

But, you know, being jealous is really a huge waste of time and energy. And those are two things a busy mom can’t afford to squander. My time’s better spent cuddling my darling baby boy. And cleaning up those shredded diapers on his floor ...

Month 8: It Gets Easier

I’m an aunt! My brother and his wife welcomed baby Chloe over the weekend. My niece weighed in at a whopping 8 lbs., 4 oz. – bigger even than my little brute! Lucky for her, she looks like her mama. (Hee, hee…) I had the honor of being her first visitor.

When I stepped into that hospital room, my own experience came flooding back. (Believe it or not, 7 mos. ago feels like an ETERNITY.) Like me, my sister-in-law looked exhausted and a bit shell-shocked. Like C., my brother timidly changed the baby’s diaper as if he were disarming a bomb that might explode at any second. (Actually, Chloe sort of did during the diaper change. Good thing the nurse was assisting.)

“It gets easier,” I assured them, with all the wisdom of a person who’s been a mom for about as long as it's been since her last dental appointment. But does it really? I reflected on the ride home. I decided that, yes, some aspects of new parenthood do get easier, but others get harder. For instance:

EASIER: Sleep. As hard as it is to believe at first, you will eventually be able to sleep somewhat soundly while the baby is sleeping. You will no longer wake, quaking with fear, at every tiny snort or cough. You will not leap out of bed multiple times throughout the night for the thermometer or nose-suction thingie or phone to dial 911. In time, you will be able to sleep in another room, even on another floor. You will come to embrace the baby monitor as the ultimate freedom.

HARDER: Sleep. Your baby will stop spending 95% of her time sleeping. You will become consumed with getting her to sleep, keeping her asleep, and making sure she sleeps at the correct times.

EASIER: Breastfeeding. There will come a day when you don’t require 7 pillows, a special footstool, two pairs of hands, a reference book, and a cold beverage in order to nurse your baby.

HARDER: Breastfeeding. Your baby will become larger and more active. He may not tolerate having his head discreetly covered by a blanket, and may in fact rip off that blanket on a crowded airplane, causing you to flash your seatmates and two passing flight attendants. You will not care. You might even laugh.

EASIER: Changing diapers. Eventually, your baby will not wet and/or dirty 12-14 diapers and a half-dozen outfits each day. She may even be able to get through the whole night with one Overnite diaper. And you won’t have to execute those complex origami folds to accommodate the umbilical cord.

HARDER: Changing diapers. Once your baby starts eating solid foods, the urge to gag while changing a dirty diaper may become uncontrollable. Plus, the baby is no longer willing to lie placidly on his back for 10 seconds and will torque his small torso violently, knocking everything off the changing table in the process.

Hmmm. If the point of this exercise was to reassure the new parents, I’m not sure I accomplished that. So I’ll end on a positive note: it will get easier to accept that you’re responsible for this tiny, delicate creature you’ve brought into the world, and harder to imagine how you ever lived without her.

TIP O’ THE WEEK: Buy some of these plastic bags that will steam-clean your breast pump accessories, pacifiers, and bottles in the microwave in 3 minutes flat.

Month 7: Ho-Ho-Home At Last

Holy Holiday Hell. I have crossed over to the dark side: those bah-humbug types who dread the holidays. It was my baby’s first Christmas; I should have been excited. Instead, days before we left for the grandparents’, I was consumed with doing laundry, trying to find and pack all the gifts I’d hidden throughout the house, transferring all liquids into clear Ziploc bags, and hoping I didn’t forget some crucial baby item. Plus, I was already dreading my solo return flight with Miles. (C. was to return home earlier for work.) How would I possibly manuever us and all our gear through the airport by myself?

The trip there wasn’t that bad. We filled an entire luggage cart with all our gear – sort of embarrassing for someone who’s always prided herself on packing light. We made it through security with all our belongings. (Though they almost confiscated my mom’s perfume. Who knew I was supposed to open and unwrap the sealed box and put THAT in a Ziploc bag, too?!) We made it through the flight with no meltdowns (on the part of baby or parents). We managed to install the carseat in the rental car.

Only we didn’t bank on Miles’ reaction to all the lights, cameras, and action of Christmas with the family. On our last trip, he was 3 mos. old and slept whenever, wherever. This time, he was “on” all day long, every day. Now, Miles is a social little guy. He rose to the occasion, entertaining two sets of grandparents, six cousins, and countless aunts, uncles, and other visitors with his repertoire of cute baby antics. But when it was time to wind down in the evening, he didn’t. He woke up every two to three hours all night long, every night, complaining loudly and hoarsely about the accommodations.

I can understand. It was hard for me, too, to leave my comfy pillowtop mattress and down duvet to sleep in a series of strange beds. But at least I was given a bed, rather than a thin, crackly old Pack ‘n’ Play. After the comforts of his crib, Miles wasn’t having it. He cried and cried and cried until we brought him in bed with us. Then I would doze fitfully off and on until morning, afraid he would wake the whole household or roll out of bed. So it wasn’t a very restful "vacation."

By the fifth night of this, we’d all had enough. I changed my ticket and flew back with C., arriving home at 1 a.m. The next day, all was well with the world. Miles lolled in his crib, cooing over the baby monitor, while I snuggled up under the covers in my own bed for an extra half-hour’s sleep. There were no more gifts to smuggle through security, no more portable cribs to assemble, and no one we needed to be “on” for. We were home at last.

TIP O’ THE WEEK: Every couple of weeks or so, sort through the baby’s clothes and weed out the stuff that’s too small. That way, you won’t have to root through piles of newborn onesies in the middle of the night for something dry that actually fits.

Month 7: Earth to Mars

Every once in a while, a shocking thought occurs to me: I am raising a boy. A BOY. I have nothing against boys in general. I grew up with one. I was raised by one. I married one. I’ve been friends with a whole bunch of ’em throughout my life.

Maybe it’s because of my familiarity with the male gender that I’m worried about what’s in store for me as Miles gets older. There’s just no denying that boys are different. They act differently than girls do, they think differently, they pee differently …

Listen, I’m not one to perpetuate gender stereotypes. I jump down C.’s throat whenever he says some baseball player “throws like a girl.” I bought my niece-to-be plenty of non-pink clothes. But you can’t argue with hard evidence.

My mom likes to talk about how it was fashionable in the ’70s to give toy trucks to girls and baby dolls to boys. What happened? The boys would shoot at each other with the dolls and the girls would put the trucks to bed. And then there are the physical differences. If there’s an obstacle in their way, girls will daintily pick their way around it, while boys will barrel right on through it, my mom observed. She calls it the “Marine mentality.”

If you haven’t been forwarded that e-mail about raising boys, it’s pretty funny. Yet scary. Because I have no doubt it’s true. My husband, his brother and their friends used to jump off the roof into their swimming pool when their parents weren’t home. Can you say “lawsuit”?! The mere thought makes my hair gray.

Even when they’re grown up, boys are capable of baffling behavior. I’ve compiled a little list to start off the discussion. YES, these are all true, and NO, these are not all veiled references to my husband.

-- One guy told his wife he was “stopping by” a friend’s house after work (5 p.m.) and was annoyed when she called him at 10:30 p.m. to find out where the hell he was. “I told you I was stopping by a friend’s!” he says. Never mind the fact that his wife had been up with both children since 5 a.m. that morning and he hadn’t bothered to call home.

-- A mom came home from work to discover half a onesie hanging on the doorknob. Apparently, when faced with a diaper blowout of magnificent proportions, dad had decided the best course of action was to cut the dirty garment in half rather than pulling the poopy part over the baby’s head. OK, but did he have to hang it on the doorknob?!

-- One guy, with a baby on the way any day now, decides it’s a great time to buy a flat screen TV and spend all his free time – which could be spent, say, doing stuff that’s actually helpful – researching and shopping for the damn thing. Oh, and he also decided it’s the perfect time to scrape and repaint that lead-paint-covered radiator in their bedroom. Who cares if the car seat’s not installed yet and the crib’s still in the box?

-- Another dad fed his 6-mo.-old butternut squash while the baby was wearing his best white shirt, because dad claimed he couldn’t find any bibs even though there were two – count ’em, TWO – bibs directly beneath the sports section right there on the kitchen table in front of him.

-- Then there was the guy who unplugged the freezer full of breast milk to plug in the Shop-Vac … (OK, OK, C., I’m sorry! I know it was an accident and you felt horrible and apologized a million times over.)

Before anyone gets all up in arms about my man-bashing (some guys actually DO read this), I know we women do plenty of stupid and/or inexplicable things, too. But what do you know, I’m out of space! Darn. :)

TIP O’ THE WEEK: Keep a wet washcloth in a Ziploc bag in the freezer. Give the frozen cloth to your little one to chew on (take it out of the bag first) to soothe teething woes.

Month 7: In the Groove

You know how people are always saying that kids grow up so fast, so enjoy them while they’re little, because before you know it they’ll be teenagers, and boy are you in for it then, and you just want them to shut up because all you’re focused on right now is getting your baby to please, dear God, please sleep through the night for once? Well, it’s true, people. They do grow up fast.

OK, so my baby’s only 6 mos. old. Maybe that doesn’t make me an expert, per se. All I know is I saw a couple of newborns this past week and, oh my goodness, were they tiny. My friend JF’s baby, Laura, looks like a fragile little baby bird, all pink skin and stick legs. I was afraid to hold her, and I just had one of these things myself less than half a year ago! JF was asking me questions about sleeping and feeding and I honestly could not remember what Miles was like at one week old.

I know he once looked like Laura – we have the stick legs documented on film – but when I look at the photos now, it doesn’t even look like my son. I thought he was cute then, never imagining the beaming, shrieking, chubby-thighed baby he’d be in just 6 mos. I got a little misty looking at those newborns, I have to say. Then I saw their parents’ frazzled, dark-circled stares and thought, “I wouldn’t trade places with them in a million years.”

I finally feel like I’m getting the hang of this parenting thing. Oh, sure, I’m in tears weekly over something or other, and I still cling to “What to Expect the First Year” like it’s the Bible. But I actually feel much more relaxed and confident these days. I know how to make Miles laugh, and how to get him to stop crying (usually). I can tell his bored cry from his tired cry, and I can tell when he’s just about to lose it (the maniacal laughter is a sure sign). He’s much more predictable now. And when someone says “Mom,” I no longer look around for an older lady wearing sensible shoes. I’M Mom!

Not that I’m getting complacent. See, Miles is working on his first tooth. And he’s decided to go ahead and try to crawl. And he’s showing a keen interest in technology.(If you can call rolling over to the DVD player and kicking the buttons an interest in technology.) I’m just trying to keep up with him. And to enjoy every moment while he’s still small.

NEW FEATURE: TIP O’ THE WEEK: In an effort to make this blog, um, useful or something, I’ve decided to add a bit of practical advice to each entry. This week’s tip is to keep a stain stick on the changing table next to the diapers and wipes. The reason should be obvious.

Month 6: Giving Thanks

I’m a big fan of Thanksgiving. Surprising, perhaps, given that I’m a vegetarian and turkey is wasted on me. (People always ask me what I eat on Thanksgiving. I need a clever answer, like “Soy tacos. Duh!” Usually I just say, “Everything but the bird.”)

I like it because it’s a low-pressure holiday. There’s not all this build-up like there is to Christmas and New Year’s, which inevitably leave you feeling disappointed, stressed out, and/or hung-over. There’s no worrying about the perfect gift – Thanksgiving’s just all about food. And, you know, family and giving thanks and stuff.

I have so much to be thankful for this year. Number-one, of course, is my gorgeous, healthy, adorable baby boy. Not a day has gone by since his birth that I haven’t given thanks for him. Even those days when he’s working his way through a jumbo pack of Pampers and fighting tooth and nail against taking any nap whatsoever.

Here are some other things I’m thankful for:
A husband who’s happy to change diapers, wrestle with tiny onesies, get up at 3, 4, and 5 a.m. to soothe the baby back to sleep, make dinner occasionally, mop up the basement when it floods (again!), and countless other tasks. And I’m thankful that he gave our baby his big dark eyes and sunny disposition.

A family that gets as much joy out of our son as we do.

Friends who are more than generous with their hand-me-downs, advice, and willingness to listen.

My health, and the health of my family. I know enough people who’ve faced unspeakable health crises to not take it for granted for a single second.

Kind strangers who hold doors open for us moms struggling with strollers and unwieldy diaper bags.

New friends who reach out to us less-outgoing types.

A roof over my head, a warm bed each night, and enough food to feed my family.

The safe births of all my friends who’ve had babies recently. Welcome, Baby Laura and Baby Jack!

This list could go on and on. But I fear it would get sappy, and where’s the fun in that? Just so you don’t think I’ve gone totally sentimental, I’m also thankful for Tivo, Entertainment Tonight, and Starbucks gingerbread lattes.

Month 6: I Am Baby, Hear Me Roar

Miles has a new noise: “Aaaaaagggghhhhh!” It sounds like a cross between a lion's roar and a motorcycle missing a muffler. It’s very loud, and not the most pleasant sound in the world. (If only I knew how to post audio clips … ) And did I mention he makes this noise ALL DAY LONG? It’s bad enough at home, but he’s also done it in the library, a museum, a restaurant, and even at church. (Just once, thank God, but loud enough to draw giggles and stares from several members of the congregation.)

It’s got to be as hard on his throat as it is on my ears (and nerves). I have the only 5 1/2-month-old in the world with a smoker’s voice. The kid sounds like he has a pack-a-day habit. Aren’t babies supposed to coo?

Miles also has a new move. C. and I call it the Frogman. He rolls over onto his stomach and pumps his arms and legs like a surfer paddling out to a wave. He must be fixin’ to crawl, as our babysitter would say, but he hasn’t figured out that his hands and knees actually have to be in contact with the ground. That doesn’t slow him down, though. He’s happy to roll and kick and screech away all day long.

Miles is so happy and animated these days, it’s hard not to smile at him constantly, even when he’s embarrassing his parents in public. When C. goes in to get him in the mornings, Miles breaks into a huge grin. Sometimes he punctuates it with a happy screech. (Not to be confused with the more guttural motorcycle noise.)

Man, I love this baby. All that energy and personality rolled into a person who’s only been alive for approximately 150 days. (Which – coincidentally? – is the length of the warranty on our stroller, which broke down in the middle of downtown Washington, D.C. over the weekend. Guess Snap ‘n’ Go refers to the back wheel. Grrr …)

In other news, we bought a highchair since Miles is starting to eat solid food. It was like the crib-buying ordeal all over again – WAY too many brands, models, and features. And all of them rated "horrible" by at least one person on the Internet. We ended up going with Baby Bargains' top pick, in some crazy rainforest wonderland design. Some choice: tasteful understated deathtrap or gaudy plastic workhorse.

Breaking baby news: last week my friend D. gave birth to a girl! D.’s mom is our sitter, and she called one morning to say she wasn’t coming because D.’s water broke. Is it bad that my second thought after, “Yay, the baby’s coming at last!” was “Crap, no sitter for awhile”? Anyway, good luck to the new parents. May it be several months before their little angel starts frightening people on the street with her shrieks.

Month 6: Till Baby Do Us Part?

I’ll be the first to tell you that having a baby is great. In his few months on Earth, Miles has brought such joy not only to me and C., but to our friends and families as well. It’s so much fun to have a new reason to send out pictures and exchange e-mails with far-flung relatives. (Shout out to my aunt and uncle in California who are big fans of this blog!)

But it’s not all tummy kisses and giggles, people. A new baby is hard work. And it can be tough on a marriage. Just ask Britney Spears. (Why it took her this long to kick K-Fed to the curb is beyond me.) Now, before anyone freaks out and starts imagining Reese and Ryan scenarios, relax. C. and I are fine. I’m just saying, a baby can put a strain on even the strongest relationship.

For one thing, a baby takes a huge amount of time and attention, which, in your pre-baby life, was probably largely devoted to your significant other. I feel bad for my husband sometimes, because at the end of the day, I’m so sick of being physically attached to another person that I can’t even bear for someone to breathe on me. (That goes for C. and the dog. Except Gracie is a little less understanding about it.)

I’m also finding that the baby requires huge reserves of patience I didn’t even know I had. So naturally, I have less patience for other stuff. Like, say, C. leaving the lid open on the box of wipes EVERY SINGLE TIME he changes the baby’s diaper. Or flinging an article of clothing on the floor EVERY SINGLE TIME he changes his clothes. Or forgetting to raise the crib rail EVERY SINGLE TIME he puts the baby to bed. And can someone please explain to me the thought process that compels C. to place the baby’s dirty clothes ON TOP OF the hamper, but not IN the hamper?

I don’t mean to be bitchy. But that just seems to be my go-to mood lately. Chalk it up to 5+ months of interrupted sleep, being responsible for another person 24/7, financial stress from living on one income, loss of my pre-parent identity, whatever. All I know is, I’m usually not Miss Mary Sunshine these days. And while he tries to be understanding, C. bears the brunt of it.

Talk shows and magazines are full of all sorts of advice: “Schedule a regular date night with your husband,” “Keep the lines of communication open,” “Make time for yourself.” All good ideas in theory, sure. Except time and money and real life tend to get in the way.

As ridiculous as it sounds, I sometimes think if celebrities – with their personal trainers and chefs and nannies and spa vacations – can’t make it work, what chance do us mere mortals have? I mean, I doubt Britney and Kevin were fighting about whose turn it was to do the laundry or the dinner dishes. And was Reese resentful because Ryan wanted to go to a football game with his friends on the one day he was supposed to watch the kids? I know, I’m being silly. It was probably his wardrobe of wife-beaters and do-rags that sealed K-Fed’s fate. Wonder if he put them in the hamper.