Month 11: Can You Hold My Baby While I Puke?

Traveling with a baby isn’t that hard. Especially when they’re still in the womb. Everyone’s nice to a pregnant lady. People will smile at you, help you with your bags, maybe even let you cut ahead of them in the security line. Once you’re traveling with a squirmy little carry-on, though, all bets are off.

I flew Southwest this weekend with Miles to visit my parents. Wouldn’t you know the seat next to us stayed vacant until ALL the other seats on the plane were taken. I understand. I’d probably do the same thing even now if I was traveling sans kid. Who wants to get kicked in the elbow the whole flight or worse, sit next to a screamer?

Before we even got on the plane, though, we had to navigate the airport. Picture one mom, one baby, three bags, one stroller, and one enormous carseat rolling into baggage check. Then came security. Remove shoes, jacket, baby’s jacket, liquids from diaper bag, baby from stroller, throw everything onto the conveyor belt and schlep through the metal detector.

I don’t know about you, but I can’t fold up my stroller one-handed while holding a 21-lb. baby. Thank god the security guy helped me. (On the way there, not on the way back. And that one was a woman. Thanks, lady. Appreciate it.)

So then we’re waiting to pre-board (LOVE that!) and all these older gents start chatting me up, talking about their grandkids. That’s fine, I’m happy to chat. Except one guy somehow segues the conversation to his ex-Playboy bunny second wife and proceeds to show me photos on his phone. Um, yeah, so about your grandkids?

Some single guy got stuck next to us on the way up. He immediately commandeered the armrest and attempted to sleep. Sorry, no chance with an active 10-mo.-old next to you! Fortunately, the flight was only an hour so my wrestling match with Miles didn’t last too long.

Things weren’t so easy on the way back, though. It was a bumpy flight and I have a weak stomach. (Can you see where I’m going with this?) God bless the high school girl next to us. She not only entertained Miles with her purple fingernails and sparkly rings, but she actually held my baby while I made use of an airsickness bag. Oh, the horror.

On the upside, Miles entertained the troops the entire weekend, barely cried, and slept like a champ at his grandparents’, unlike our experience at Christmas.

TIP O’ THE WEEK: Pack a couple extra plastic bags in your carry-on in case, oh, I don’t know, your whole entire row is out of airsickness bags when you need one! Thanks, lady across the aisle. You saved me just in time.

Month 11: TV vs. Real Life

Did anyone catch the premiere of the new sitcom "Notes from the Underbelly" on ABC the other night? Finally someone gets it that this having-a-baby thing is funny stuff. While I thought the show was pretty good, I do take issue with the catchy little opening graphic showing the svelte silhouette of a woman sipping a Cosmopolitan and pushing a baby carriage. "Sex and the City" is over, people. Can we all just move on?

Not all of us are Carrie Bradshaw-wannabes with closets full of designer shoes and "it" bags. Some of us are perfectly happy with our Payless flats and Target knockoffs. I'm especially sick of this whole "hot mama" movement. You thought the pressure to have a baby was bad? Well now you have to look smokin' hot while having it. You're supposed to stuff your swollen feet into stilettos, bare your "bump" for all the world to see, and look sexy while you're gestating a brand-new human the size of a Thanksgiving turkey inside your Pilates-primed hot bod.

It almost makes you yearn for the days of smock dresses and neck bows. Isn't that what our mothers wore? Lucky them. They didn't concern themselves with ridiculous products like "Popper Stoppers", or how to keep their thong from riding up over the top of their low-rise maternity jeans. They weren't barraged with images of Angelina and Gwen and Brooke and Katie and countless other celebrity baby bumps.

"Notes from the Underbelly" also got me thinking about how these days we're only offered a pick-your-stereotype menu of mom "types." There's the aforementioned hip, urban, post-"Sex and the City" hot mama, or there's the minivan-driving suburban soccer mom. There's the wholesome stay-at-home mom who makes her own organic baby food, or there's the driven career mom with a breast pump in one hand and a briefcase in the other.

I don't know about you, but neither I nor most of my mom friends fit neatly into any of those categories. What about the work-at-home moms who are happy to bring in enough extra income to cover a week's vacation at the beach? What about the part-time paralegals/full-time wives and mothers? What about the medical students, the stay-at-home moms who spend hours a week volunteering, and the moms who write novels at night?

But listen, I'm not an idiot. I know it's just a TV show. People want entertainment, not real life. Who wants to watch some pregnant chick salivating over the Pottery Barn Kids catalog and then scouring the housewares section of TJ Maxx for that perfect green gingham lampshade? Who wants to watch her and her husband sitting in front of the TV night after night because she feels too tired and too fat to go out?

Who wants to listen to endless debates over baby names and how every single godforsaken name reminds the dad-to-be of some annoying kid he once sat next to in Sunday school a million years ago? Who wants to watch the expecting couple spend hours surfing the Internet to compare prices and ratings on car seats?

I get it. Real-life pregnancy and new parenthood is boring. Hot mamas driving Mini Coopers and living in huge LA homes and modeling fabulous wardrobes make for much better TV. But if I see one more goddamned Cosmopolitan or Jimmy Choo, I'm gonna scream.

Month 11: Pregnancy Recap

In honor of my newly pregnant friends (Shout out to L.!) I’m recapping the first nine months of my blog. Ah, pregnancy. What a magical time. Er, yeah, anyway ...

Even if you’re in your 30s, you can get knocked up on the first try. During the early stage, before the rest of the world knows you’re pregnant and thinks you’re just getting chubby, you may have the urge to exercise. Or you may develop an intimate relationship with your couch and TV remote. Either way, parts of you are going to get big. Just accept it.

At some point, you are going to have to tell people -- maybe sooner than you’d planned. But when you’re ready to, spreading the news is one of the best parts of pregnancy. And you have your first doctor’s appointment to look forward to. If you’re lucky, they’ll give you some snapshots of your little bean … er, baby. (Just take the doctor’s word for it, OK? It will start to look human eventually.)

Picking out baby names is fun (or sometimes, stressful, if your whole family decides to “help”) but picking out maternity clothes can be depressing (or occasionally, hilarious, like when you strap on that fake “belly” in the dressing room). You may find yourself becoming obsessed over the dumbest things.

About halfway through -- that’s about 20 weeks for you pregnancy math newbies -- you can choose to find out the sex of your baby if you want to. We didn’t. (In retrospect, though, my vibe was right on. People said sweet cravings mean it’s a girl and salty and sour cravings mean a boy. I blame my son for those lemonade and sour cream and onion Pringles binges!)

Random strangers may give you all sorts of unsolicited comments and try to rub your belly like it’s a brass statue of Buddha. Let them or kick them in the shins, your choice. (You’re pregnant, so you get to do whatever the hell you want!) You may become overwhelmed by the terrifying amount of crap you must buy to prepare for your baby. If you have pets, you may start worrying that they will be jealous of the new baby. (They will.)

To pass the time -- 40 weeks starts to feel like FOREVER -- you might try prenatal yoga, take weird birthing classes, consider hiring a doula, take up knitting or sewing or other hobbies usually associated with retirees, or read a lot of books.

Don’t get too invested in your due date, because it usually means jack. You may go past it, and then everyone and their neighbor will ask you the most annoying and ridiculously obvious question: “Haven’t you had that baby yet?” You might even try all sorts of crazy stunts to bring on labor. Do yourself a favor and skip the castor oil.

Then, at long last, one way or another, you will give birth to your baby. And everything -- the past nine months, the morning sickness, the stretch marks, the tent-like outfits, the contractions, the, uh, more unpleasant stuff -- will have all been worth it.

TIP O' THE WEEK: Even if you feel like a hideous wretch, take pictures of your pregnant self from time to time. You'll look back at them later and be glad you did.

Month 10: Bad Mom

Just the other week I was feeling like the Greatest Mom on Earth. My baby is happy, active, a pretty good sleeper, and a champion eater. I put clean clothes on his back and nutritious food in his tummy -- organic avocado and wheat germ, even! (When he doesn’t spit it back out, that is.) Then this week, everything changed.

First Miles pulled over a lamp and shattered the lightbulb. Glass everywhere. Baby wailing. Mom frantic. I was trying to calm him down and vacuum up glass shards simultaneously, which was tough given that Miles is terrified of the vacuum cleaner. And what if I didn’t find all the pieces of glass? What if he finds one buried in the carpet weeks from now and really hurts himself?

Then I walked into the kitchen today to find our sitter wiping off Miles’ hands and face with CLOROX WIPES instead of baby wipes! I immediately washed him off, then gave him a bath, and later called a poison control hotline even though he seemed fine because I just couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d endangered my poor child’s life. What kind of mother am I to allow these things to happen?

And there’s all kinds of other, less serious stuff, too. Miles regularly digs his fingers into the tracks of the sliding glass door in the family room, covering his hands with black grime, grit, and God knows what else. He has scooped up handfuls of dirt and wood chips from the potted plants, some of which may have found their way into his mouth. Just the other day he reached his entire arm into the filthy space beneath the stove, no doubt searching for more toxic snacks.

Where was his mother, you might ask? RIGHT THERE, usually no more than three feet away. He’s fast, I’m distracted, he hates being cooped up in the crib or Exersaucer -- the list of excuses is endless. And the result’s the same, anyhow: I feel like a terrible mom.

I also feel like a terrible mom because we’re losing our two-afternoon-a-week sitter soon and I can’t bear the thought of five long consecutive days of fulltime baby care every week without a break. We’re looking for another sitter, but we can’t offer enough hours or pay for most people. Yet another reason to feel bad: sticking my flesh and blood with whatever cut-rate stranger we can find to take care of him.

But you know what? Tonight before I put him to bed, Miles was in a super giggly mood. He was sitting on my lap, poking my nose and biting my cheek and performing all his other baby antics, and I was blowing raspberries on his neck and nibbling his ear, and we were both laughing and laughing and didn’t want to let each other go. For a moment I thought, maybe I’m not so bad at this after all.

TIP O’ THE WEEK: To reach a poison expert 24/7 call 1-800-222-1222. You’ll be connected to a calm, rational expert in your area who will reassure you and get you help in case of an emergency.

Month 10: Boy Crazy

This may be my favorite age yet. Miles is Mr. Personality lately -- giggling, babbling, even waving bye-bye. (Sort of. It’s more of a wrist flop than a real wave, but whatever.) I’m just crazy about him lately. Even though, to be honest, he behaves like a mini frat boy.

He burps, farts, and growls. When he’s excited, he pumps his little fists in the air and yells, “Ya-ya-ya!” He’s got a mischievous streak, too. He’ll do things like rip up the newspaper I’m reading or put a bit of carpet grunge in his mouth, staring right at me the whole time, like “Ha, ha, what are you going to do about it, Mama?”

He’s definitely a boob man. He cries when I make him go to bed alone, always angling to sleep with me. And sometimes he tries to make out with me, planting his slobbery, wet, open mouth right on my cheek! He even looks like a little frat boy, since his dad likes to dress him in mini wind pants and sports jerseys. Let’s face it, swap the sippy cup for a can of Coors Light, and my baby is Bluto from “Animal House.” (C. helped me with that reference.)

My husband is very concerned about our son's image. At the moment, C.’s not liking the “baby mullet” Miles has got going on. I’m just happy the kid finally has some hair. No way am I letting someone cut it off! Plus, it’s kind of funny to see his baby bedhead in the morning. Little tufts of hair stick out from the back of his head in a sort of “Bozo the Clown” style. It’s adorable, people, take my word.

Is there anything as boring as a new mom going on and on about how cute her baby is? Probably not, which is why this is a short post!

TIP O’ THE WEEK: If your baby won’t eat something -- say, peas -- mix them with something he does like, such as cereal or applesauce. It sounds gross to us, but babies don’t care. Miles once ate a yogurt-spinach-oatmeal combo and LOVED it.

Month 10: Tiny Tot Triathlon

Miles is training for the 10-Month-Old Triathlon. When and where this event will take place, only he knows. Apparently, it’s very competitive. The training regimen is rigorous. It requires several trips up the staircase every day (just up, not down). At intervals, coffee table pull-ups and changing table windmills are performed. Then comes some splashing in the dog bowl or bathtub. Oh, yes, there are water events, too, people. Sometimes equipment is necessary -- say, Jolly Jumper leg work and Exersaucer core strengthening.

Miles is surely among the elite athletes. He can lift a full coffee cup with two fingers, pull a lamp off a dresser several inches above his head, and push over a hall table laden with books, magazines, and, unfortunately, a jar of spare change.

Not sure if an infant should be carbo-loading, I asked our pediatrician about Miles’ prodigious appetite. Is it OK to feed him as much as he wants? “Well, sure, look how active he is,” said Dr. M., gesturing at my son, who was busy shredding the paper covering the exam table and waving the scraps over his head. “He’s probably burned off a few hundred calories in the time we’ve been sitting here!”

As do I, given that I spend my days pulling the Energizer Baby away from the fireplace, down from the stairs, off of tables, and out of the dog bowl. Did I mention he weighs almost 21 lbs. now? By bedtime, I am aching all over from my all-day full-body workout. I’m forced to replenish my strength with large quantities of Famous Amos cookies, cheese, and red wine. (Not always in the same sitting.)

My husband -- who spends his days sitting at a desk and is not “allowed” to go to the gym any more after work for reasons that should be obvious -- has no sympathy for me. That really bugs me. Just once I would like for C. to walk in the door, hand me a bouquet of tulips and offer me a foot massage, all the while murmuring, “You have the toughest job in the world, sweetie. You’re amazing. I can’t even imagine the physical and emotional stamina it must take to get through the day. I sure do appreciate all you’re doing for our family. Let me get you some chocolate.” (Hey, a girl can fantasize, right?)

Instead, I get: “Yeah, I had a tough day, too. Man, I slept bad last night. Why do you keep buying all these cookies? I can’t eat them. I need to get to the gym more.” Hello?! Can we focus, please? We’re talking about ME here!

Granted, C. is a very busy guy. In addition to working 10-hour days, he regularly polls the entire male population on all sorts of issues. No, really. How else could he claim, “I do way more around the house than MOST guys. ALL guys are slobs. NO guys give their wives foot massages every night. I don’t know ANY dads who remember to empty the diaper pail.” I would just love to meet ALL THESE GUYS who are so far inferior to my husband! How great is it that I ended up with the one guy who, according to him, is the best of the bunch?

It’s so convenient living with the Authority on All Guys On Earth, too. Now I don’t have to waste time asking my friends if their husbands leave sweet-potato-encrusted baby spoons glued to the highchair tray. According to C., they do!

Now, because I am a fair and generous person (and because I know my husband will read this), I will acknowledge that he does do a lot. He works long days at a stressful job, then comes home (to neither a hot meal nor a hot wife, since I usually resemble the “Before” picture on those makeover shows) to feed, bathe, and put the baby to bed. And he has to put up with his ungrateful wife broadcasting his shortcomings in her blog. MOST guys would hate that. ;)

TIP O’ THE WEEK: My fellow writer mama Christina Katz has written an appealing, helpful book called, appropriately, Writer Mama: How to Raise a Writing Career Alongside Your Kids. Buy it. Read it. Use it.

Month 9: The Squirrel Wars

If it’s not one thing, it’s its mother. The first thing was the smell. A few months ago, a foul stench infiltrated our family room. Since the city was working on the pipes on our street, we assumed they’d hit a sewage line or something. Ewwww …

But after having a Water Guy and a Plumber Guy and finally a Pest Control Guy come check it out, several things were determined:

1) There was, in fact, a strong odor coming from one corner of the room (like we needed this confirmed?!)
2) The stench may or may not have something to do with some vent
3) The stench may or may not come from something that died in the wall or under the floor
4) The aforementioned rotting dead thing could not be located and therefore could not be removed
5) We had no choice but to live with the odor until/if it went away (which it s-l-o-o-o-w-l-y has)

So the thing that died in there? Its mother came looking for him last week.

I was feeding Miles his lunch when I heard it: thump, thump, THUMP! Scritchy, scratch. (Humor me, OK? It’s hard to describe in words.) It was coming from the basement. It was on the stairs. It sounded like an intruder. A big, heavy intruder who had silently and stealthily opened the side door (which is locked), stepped over the piles of recycling (which block access to the door), and was running amok in the basement, possibly armed with garden tools.

I immediately called C. and made him come home. Brandishing a snow shovel, he inspected every inch of the basement. Nada. I could see him stifling a smirk and planning what he’d tell the guys at the office about his wimpy, delusional wife. Whatever. I know what I heard.

I continued to hear it over the next two days. So did my mom, who was visiting. (So THERE, C.!) Still, we could not isolate where the sound was coming from, or what was making it. The scratching and gnawing seemed to indicate it was probably not human, however.

So I was carrying a load of laundry down the stairs when I noticed the dog food had been pilfered – something had chewed all the way through the heavy-duty Rubbermaid container! Crap, we had a varmint on our hands. Probably a rabid one, at that. Add that to the list of things I never worried about before I was home with a baby: rabid rodents attacking my family. Then, a flash of brown fur caught my eye. The squirrel vanished into a hole in the ceiling of its own making. Screams, curses, and scattered laundry ensued.

C. brought home a squirrel trap. This only angered the little fella, and caused him to run around in circles, screeching indignantly. C. managed to corral him into a shoebox and freed him into the wild. (The Wild Blue Cul-de-Sac, that is.) Where the squirrel will, no doubt, gather all his friends and gnaw his way back into our house.

Where was our fearless guard dog during all this, you might ask? Cowering in her bed, quaking with fear. Literally. Quaking. Same as she was when the mice – never seen or heard from before or since – appeared in the kitchen THE ONE NIGHT I had FOUR TRAYS of PAINSTAKINGLY HANDMADE cookies sitting out for my sister-in-law’s baby shower the next day. (Don’t worry, A., they only got two trays.) If the next critter’s a raccoon, we’re moving.

TIP O’ THE WEEK: No tip, just a bittersweet observation. In just a few days, Miles will have been outside of me for as long as he was inside of me. Strange, sad, and totally expected, all at the same time. And now he’s scrabbling away from me as fast as his chubby little hands and knees can take him. :(

Month 9: Join the Club

Becoming a mom is like joining a club. Overnight (or, in my case, after 20+ hours of labor) you become part of a group of hormone-addled, sleep-deprived, memory-impaired women whose sole purpose on Earth, at least in the short term, is to feed and care for a floppy, wailing, Chihuahua-sized human.

The New Mom Club has no formal meetings; we’re far too busy for that. Nor are all members like-minded; is there a more hot-button issue than breastfeeding, except maybe circumcision or cosleeping? Still, we have plenty of things in common – the desperate desire for a hot shower, for one, and for the return of our bladder control.

New moms have their own particular brand of humor. Poop discussions cause gales of giggles; swapping new-dad shortcomings can consume hours and render still-weak stomach muscles sore from laughter. (Hmmm, new mom workout tip?) We cast knowing glances at strangers in checkout lines with milk stains on their shirts. We tell anyone who will listen that there’s a sale at Gymboree, as if sharing the news of our own engagement.

Suddenly, the sister-in-law you had little in common with becomes a comrade in arms. “Guess what time WE were up this morning?” you commiserate. You begin to look at your mother and mother-in-law as real candidates for sainthood. She raised FIVE children? WITHOUT a dishwasher? BEFORE disposable diapers were invented?!

Sometimes new members have difficulty with the transition. “Why didn’t you girls tell me this was so hard?” a friend recently demanded of us fellow moms, a few weeks into new-motherhood. Oh, but we did. Doesn’t she remember the girls’ nights we spent cursing our breast pumps and sighing over the good old days when any bodily fluids we encountered were our own? No, she was too busy thinking about Friday night happy hour and her new strappy sandals. Let’s face it, until it’s happening to you, you just don’t pay attention. (If you did, you’d be too afraid to reproduce!)

One new mom I know is currently in the throes of the club’s hazing rituals – otherwise known as colic, gastric reflux, cracked nipples, diaper blowouts, and being housebound for days on end. She has not been out on her own since the baby arrived, except for a trip to the dentist – as good as a Caribbean vacation, as far as she’s concerned. Her meals are consumed standing up, with one hand, or skipped entirely. The washer, dryer, dishwasher, and bottle warmer run around the clock.

I wish I could make it easier on her. But as the rest of the initiated know, induction to the New Mom Club is something every gal has to go through herself.

There is life on the other side, I promise. Why, just the other day I left the house by myself for two whole hours. So what if it was to return overdue library books and hit the Stairmaster to stall the impact of gravity on my rear-end? We members of the New Mom Club celebrate the small victories where we can find them.

TIP O’ THE WEEK: Call a new mom you know. Instead of barraging her with advice, listen, sympathize, and tell her about one of your funniest and most embarrassing new-mom screw-ups. She’ll appreciate it even more than a casserole, trust me.

Guest Blog: Dad’s P.O.V.

Hello, Dad2Miles, a.k.a. “C.” here. I just returned from a four-day conference for work. No, it was not forever but my wife was acting like I was leaving her to reunite with my secret “other family” in Tallahassee. Before I left she was asking me questions like “What happens if the plane goes down? What will happen to Miles and me if you get killed?” Out of frustration I replied, “Well, for starters you guys get to live, while I’m apparently doomed to a fiery death.”

Don’t get me wrong. I love my job and occasionally I have to travel for work, but sometimes I think my wife has a distorted view of reality. So I thought I’d give you a brief glimpse from Dad’s point of view, which I think is important to telling the whole story.

Oh, and by the way -- as it turned out, my wife’s visions of me gallivanting on a tropical beach somewhere with blonde bikini-clad sales professionals was pretty off-base. The reality of the situation was that I had to go to Albany for a sales conference during the height of the heaviest snowstorm of the season. A train, a plane, an automobile and 15 hours later I arrived. I won’t bore you with the details of my horrible trip as I’d rather use this rare opportunity to share with you A Day in the Life of Dad2Miles.

I’ll begin by stating that I, too, love being with our son, and contrary to the tone of this blog at times, I enjoy taking care of Miles. I am hoping maybe a play-by-play of a typical day from my POV might help people understand what a Dad like me goes through.

12:30 a.m.: Dad wakes up fearing for his life as sleeping Mom frantically attempts to push him off the bed. The baby is not currently in our bed, however, making it impossible for Dad to have rolled over onto baby. Dad’s cry for help awakens the baby.

12:45 a.m.: Dad goes to baby’s room to rock him back to sleep. Dad’s heart rate returns to normal and he falls asleep in baby’s room with baby on chest.

2:30 a.m.: Dad places sleeping baby back in crib and attempts to return to bed. Dad finds that Mom has now commandeered entire bed. Dad, dejected, retreats to guest bed.

7:45 a.m.: Dad is awakened by daylight and the sight of squinting Mom who is holding wet crying baby while telling him that he is going to be late for work. Dad takes wet crying baby and scrambles to get ready for work. Dad strategically places baby in high chair with some cereal to finger while Dad gets dressed.

7:55 a.m.: Dad returns the changed and fed baby to Mom in bed as he attempts to exit the house in disheveled clothes. Sleep deprived, frazzled wife pleads for Dad to take the day off; Dad ignores pleas and is able to escape the house.

10:30 a.m.: Dad receives phone call at work from Mom with yelling baby in background. She is wondering why he hasn’t called to check in yet. Dad has no acceptable excuse.

11:30 a.m.: Dad receives second phone call from Mom at home, this time it’s an emergency. Mom needs help and medical advice as baby has just successfully peed in his own face. Dad calms down Mom and assures her that men have been doing similar things for hundreds of years and that baby will be OK.

5:30 p.m. - 7:30 p.m.: Drained from his day, Dad races home, sees baby being held out of the front door as he comes up the walk. Dad takes baby, plays with baby, feeds baby and puts baby to bed.

11:00 p.m.: Dad joins Mom in bed. He ties bed sheet around his waist to anchor himself in for another night.

Month 9: A Week in the Life

My husband left me today. No, not forever! For four days to go to a work conference – which may well FEEL like forever to those of us stuck at home by ourselves with a baby. Don’t get me wrong. I love being with my son. Most of the time. But frequent breaks are key to any mom’s sanity. My weeks tend to go a little something like this:

MONDAY: Baby wakes up, Dad goes and gets him, changes him, and takes him downstairs while Dad gets ready. Mom steals an extra 20-30 minutes of sleep before Dad brings baby to her and leaves for work. Mom and baby snuggle, then go downstairs. Baby plays on floor while Mom makes coffee, thinking about how lucky she is to not have to squeeze into a suit and sit in traffic. Mom whistles, baby giggles. Both are clean and dressed. Meals go smoothly, naps are on schedule, and Mom might even make it to the grocery store and prepare something for dinner.

TUESDAY: Baby wakes up, Dad goes and gets him, changes him, and takes him downstairs while Dad gets ready. Ten minutes later, they’re back. Dad has to leave early “to pick up the dry-cleaning.” Mom attempts to get a few more minutes of sleep, but baby is not interested. He is exceptionally smiley and dressed in a cute outfit, though, so Mom doesn’t mind. In the afternoon, the sitter comes, naps go well, and Mom gets some work done. Dad makes dinner.

WEDNESDAY: Baby wakes up, Dad goes and gets him, but doesn’t have time to change him or take him downstairs before work. Mom reluctantly gets up, wrestles baby into his clothes, and attempts to keep him from diving into the empty tub while she goes to the bathroom. Downstairs, Mom pulls baby away from plugs, oven, dog bowl, and trash can while she fixes breakfast. Morning nap lasts 12 minutes. Baby’s new favorite game is “Bash Heavy Objects On the Dishwasher Door.” Unshowered and dressed in sweats, Mom drags baby to the mall to get the heck out of the house. Dad works late, Mom misses yoga, and there’s nothing for dinner except peanut butter sandwiches.

THURSDAY: Baby wakes up crying at 4:30 a.m. Dad goes and rocks him back to sleep. Baby wakes up again at 8, after Dad has already left for work. Baby is soaked, crib is soaked, and the dog has peed on the kitchen floor. Mom reheats day-old coffee and throws some Cheerios on the highchair tray to placate crying baby. Both Mom and baby are wearing dirty pajamas and could use a bath. It’s too cold to go anywhere. Both are in bad moods. Naps turn into hour-long wrestling matches. The TV stays on all day long. Oprah’s actually pretty interesting.

FRIDAY: Baby wakes up crying at 5 a.m. and stays awake. Dad says, “You can go this time,” then rolls over and sleeps through his alarm clock. Baby has no clean socks, and only too-small undershirts. The box of wipes is empty. Baby headbutts Mom in the nose while trying to jump off the changing table, then manages to slam his fingers in the dresser drawer. Mom feels like the worst Mom ever. There is no coffee and no milk for breakfast. Baby alternately fusses, cries, and shrieks throughout the day. No naps are taken. In a last-ditch attempt to get baby to sleep, Mom takes the long way to the grocery store and sits in the parking lot with the engine running until baby wakes up. When the check-out clerk asks Mom to help bag the groceries, she feels like yelling, “Dude, are you kidding me? This is the only break I’ve had all day!” Dad stops at the liquor store and the haircut place on the way home WITHOUT ASKING. Mom passes baby off to Dad, then storms upstairs to sulk and send out her resume for jobs involving extensive overseas travel. Later, after the baby is fed and in bed, she goes downstairs. Apologies are made. Takeout is ordered. A movie is rented. Another week in the life of a new mom has come to an end.

TIP O' THE WEEK: Uh, anybody got one? Maybe a tip on how to stay sane when it's snowing and you're stuck in the house all day?