Who's Sleeping in My Bed?

“Why would anyone sleep with their kids by choice?” I used to wonder. That was before I’d even heard of the terms co-sleeping, bed-sharing, or the family bed. But whatever you call it, I had no interest. I don’t even like sharing a bed with my husband. (Sorry, sweetie. But, seriously, the man turns into a block of ice during the night.)

So why is it that every morning I now wake up with a 15-lb. terrycloth-clad extra person in my bed?

Find out how I became a reluctant co-sleeper at TheBump.com:

Adventures of a Recovering Pessimist

Did anyone see that Michael J. Fox special a while back, “Adventures of an Incurable Optimist?” If not, you should. I am fascinated by stuff like that. I get sucked into articles that promise “7 Secrets to a Happier Life” and “What the Happiest People on Earth Know that You Don’t.”

It’s not that I’m UN-happy. It’s just that I really do believe that some people are naturally optimistic and some people aren’t. My 3 y.o. son, Miles, as I’ve mentioned before, is naturally happy. It’s just the way he is. Even if he wakes up on the wrong side of the bed, spills his juice, and sobs into his Goldfish because I won’t let him watch 12 straight hours of Little Einsteins, he gets over it pretty quickly and is soon happily playing with his cars. He doesn’t dwell, doesn’t hold grudges.

I, on the other hand, am always wary, always worrying, always waiting for the other shoe to drop. I like to think I’m realistic, grounded, practical. But maybe I’m just a grump.

My husband and I have arguments all the time that stem from our different views of “negative” and “positive.” He leans towards Miles in terms of temperament. So if I start to go on and on about how our windows are leaking, we have ants in the kitchen, and there are 5 baskets of unfolded laundry that need attention, he gets annoyed. “Enough with the negativity!” he’ll moan.

See, that’s where we’re different. I don’t see that stuff as negative -- even though it’s certainly not positive. It’s just reality. And we’ve got to deal with it whether we like it or not. I don’t see how ignoring the less pleasant parts of life helps any. It certainly doesn’t make them go away.

Nevertheless, I have been making a concerted effort to be a happier person. (Ignore that snort from my husband.) Partly, it’s because I don’t want my kids drawing frowny faces on me in all their pictures. Partly, it’s because Miles asks me several times a week, “Are you happy, Mama?” and I want to be able to answer truthfully. And partly, it’s because if someone with a degenerative disease like Michael J. Fox can be happy most of the time, then so can I, dammit!

So here are some of my happiness “secrets” I’ve discovered:

Think less, do more. I’m a writer, a thinker, a ruminator. I spend a lot of time in my head imagining what MIGHT happen, what I SHOULD be doing, and what other people COULD think of me. A recipe for misery, right? But now that I’ve got 2 kids, a leaky house, and endless loads of laundry to occupy me, I have less time to dwell on the (imaginary) negatives.

Be in the moment. Now, I hate this statement so much that I wrote an entire blog post about it. But guess what? It’s true. You enjoy life more if you focus on doing what you’re doing, not what you already did or should’ve done, or what you will do or should probably do.

What’s helped me is to stop watching the clock. It does me no good to remind myself that my husband won’t be home for 7 hours or that it’s only 10 a.m. and the kids are already bored. So we get busy watching worms in the dirt or pretending to be pirates and before I know it, the time has flown by.

Be kind to yourself. Again, it’s a cliché. People say it, but what does it really mean? For me, it means allowing myself to nap on the couch with the baby if I feel like it, instead of running around straightening up the house or checking e-mail. Allowing myself to pop in a movie on a rainy afternoon instead of forcing everybody to do some enriching activity. Ordering takeout sometimes -- even on a Monday! -- rather than making a meal from scratch that half the family won’t even eat.

You know that saying, “Laugh and the world laughs with you”? (That’s a saying, right? Or is it an REM song?) Anyway, I’m finding that to be true. When I’m happier, people are nicer to me. People hold doors for me, help me with my bags, give me extra coupons. Just the other day I got a free drink at Baja Fresh. (Also on the list of secrets to happiness: nachos.)

Michael J. Fox is on to something, people. And so is Miles. His motto is: When life hands you lemons, beg your Mom for lemonade.

LINK O’ THE WEEK: One of my writing students just published this awesome, honest essay about adjusting to being a SAHM. I can totally relate, can you?

Cupcake Queen

In the past month, I have made more cupcakes than I have in my entire life. I guess that happens when you have kids, huh? Turns out cupcakes are trendy right now. Debates are raging all over the internet on such pressing issues as, are cupcakes the new Krispy Kreme?

There are “cupcakeries” springing up all over the country. My friend ordered some of the renowned Sprinkles cupcakes and yes, they were divine. Of course, with an inch of buttercream frosting on top, I could’ve been eating a loofah and it would’ve tasted divine.

When I was growing up, my mom was big into making themed birthday cakes. She had this great cake-decorating book from the 1970s (which I tried briefly to find on Amazon but gave up because I don’t have time for that, only to write 500-word odes to the cupcake). It shows you how to cut shapes out of round and sheet cakes to make, say, a bunny with a bow tie. Flaked coconut and licorice feature prominently in the decorations.

One year, my mom made me a Smurf cake. Though it may be an assault to the adult palate, blue coconut goes over well with kids. She also made me an Eiffel tower cake when I was studying French in college, long past the required age for personalized, homemade birthday cakes. That’s my mom. And yet, on her own birthday, she’d make do with a frozen Pepperidge Farm cake. The sacrifices moms make...

Anyway, since my son goes to a (thankfully) un-P.C. preschool where cupcakes have not been banned, we’re allowed – encouraged, even – to bring them in for birthdays. There are 10 kids in his class, so that means he basically ingested twice his body weight in cupcakes this year.

No one at his school would bat an eye (again, thankfully) if someone brought in store-bought cupcakes. But I thought, why not whip up two dozen Duncan Hines ones? It’s not that hard! Right. Not hard, maybe, but time-consuming, definitely. So there I was, the night before, swirling light-green frosting onto the top of each cupcake, trying to dispense an equal amount of sprinkles on each one with hands that were trembling from sugar-shock.















I got clever with the baseball cupcakes for my husband’s birthday. (No, this was not his idea. Two guesses whose it was.)



















Then I got not-so-clever with Miles’ fairly hideous Spiderman and Cars cupcakes for his family birthday party. (Those are store-bought candies on top.)














But the kid kept changing his mind! I wasn’t about to spend all night researching superheros on the internet and customizing frosting colors for each character, only to have him wake up and say, “I don’t want Spiderman cupcakes anymore. I want Dark Vader cupcakes!” As if he even knows who “Dark” Vader is.

Someday, in all my free time, I aspire to create something like these amazing confections based on children’s books. How cute is the Very Hungry Caterpillar one?!

SHOUT OUT: A big thank-you to Nap Warden for giving my blog a face lift! I’m still working on filling in the new pages, as you can tell. Check her out at The Chronicles of a SAHM and NW Designs.

Happy Birthday, Miles!

Dear Miles:

Happy birthday! Today you are 3, or “free,” as you say. It seems like we’ve been celebrating your birthday for a month. First you had a party at school so you could celebrate with your classmates before the school year ended. Then Aunt C. came to visit and you opened her presents early. Spiderman swim gear, with a towel cape!

While last year was all about trucks -- which you still have a fondness for -- this birthday has been a Spiderman extravaganza. You got a Spidey bathing suit, Spidey underwear, Spidey T-shirt, Spidey on a motorcycle, Spidey with a sticky web, a giant Spidey wall decal ...

The thing is, you are not singly loyal to Spiderman. In fact, when I asked you what kind of birthday cake you wanted, you said Spiderman one day and Batman the next. Sometimes you even said you wanted a car cake or a robot cake. In the end I made cupcakes -- half Batman, half Lightning McQueen and Mater. Not the cutest confections ever, but you were happy.

In fact, you’re pretty much always happy. You’ve been that way since birth. You didn’t get that from me. That probably comes from your dad. Don’t get me wrong, you have your grumpy moments. But generally, you’re a good-natured guy. And also, active. You like to play with your friends, go to the park, have picnics, and build forts with the couch cushions. Your constant companion is a stuffed dog named Vanilla, who used to be white but is now more of a grayish hue.

And it must be said that you’re quite a talker. Sometimes your mouth doesn’t stop moving all day. You astound your dad and me with your abundant vocabulary. One day you used the word “constellation” in a sentence and Dad just about fell over. Last week we saw a Coca-Cola truck, which led to a discussion about soda, which led you to say, “I want to be a grownup sometime and have cavities.” Obviously, my soda explanation was lacking, but still. You’re a bright and funny guy.

You have adjusted amazingly well to being a big brother. You were the first one to make your baby brother laugh. I believe it was when you were doing the “Wubbzy wiggle” on the couch. You like to give him hugs (or is that a headlock?) and climb in his crib with him. You laugh every time he sneezes, and alert me to his spitting up. (Not that I need a heads-up from you when a stream of spew is unleashed on my shoulder.)

You are very generous with your affections, and are constantly telling your dad, your brother, and me that you love us. Sometimes you even tell me, “You’re the best mommy I ever had.” Usually you’re angling for a treat, but not always.

I only have to look at your long, skinny legs and little-boy shoulders to see that you’re not a baby any more. There’s no more chub to grab, and I can barely pick you up anymore. I don’t feel sad about it, though, because you’ve turned into a great pal. You’re even more fun now than you were as a baby. You make me smile every day, and you give the best hugs.

I love you, buddy. You’re the best 3-year-old I ever had.

Love, Mom

Life Beyond Baby

It may not be something everyone admits, but staying home with a baby can eventually get kind of, well, boring. Babies aren’t exactly the best conversationalists, and daytime TV is pretty lame. So what’s a new mom to do?

I found out after my first baby that activities for new moms are severely limited. Even so, I ventured out to every breastfeeding support group and story time I could find. I even squeezed myself into too-small gym clothes and attempted to do yoga with a sweaty baby on my hip. Yeah, I was that desperate for adult interaction.

Read more about my search for a mom-and-baby social life at TheBump.com:

House Envy

Today we had a little end-of-the-year party for Miles’ preschool class, hosted by one of the parents at their home. I waited until the very last minute to feed the baby and dress all 3 of us, ensuring the best chance of us leaving the house in our original outfits. So, naturally, we arrived 40 min. late, the baby covered in spit-up.

Anyway, this family’s house was GORGEOUS. I mean stunning. It was built around the same time as ours in the 1930s, judging by the identical bathroom tile. But that’s where the similarities stopped. Their house had been tastefully updated and beautifully decorated. Every room looked like the page of a magazine.

I tried not to get all green-eyed, but I had to laugh when Miles said when we were in the bathroom, “Mom, look at all the beautiful things in here.” It’s true. We don’t have French hand soap in a silver dispenser and flowers in our bathroom; just stacks of rumpled books, damp mismatched towels, and a plastic potty.

Of course, if we were having the whole class over, I’d make a little more of an effort. But, still. When we got back home, I looked around our cluttered abode with disappointment. I like to think we have SOME style, but there’s only so much you can do with hand-me-down furniture and a coat of paint. Especially when you have a dog who’s prone to shedding and 2 kids.

But you know, I’ve never aspired to live in a designer showplace. I certainly didn’t grow up that way. I remember one time in high school going over to a friend’s sleek, modern, white-carpeted house. Everything was glass and stainless steel, and nothing was out of place. When I returned home to our eclectic mess, I asked my mom what was up with our non-decor. “We prefer to spend our money on education and travel,” she said. Touche. The irony is, when I visit them now I think, “Wow, that upholstery has really held up well, and look at those gorgeous wood floors.”

Now that I’m a homeowner myself and know what things cost, I’m amazed my parents even did as much as they did with our house growing up. My friends and I joke that the minimum estimate for most any smallish home improvement job is $2,000. All of us have encountered it. Want the stairwell stripped of wallpaper and repainted? $2k. Built-in shelving for that tiny corner of the family room? $2k. Unless, of course, you’re talking about waterproofing our basement. Then it’s $10k (!). Needless to say, our basement still floods when it rains.

I know it’s silly, but now I’m self-conscious about having my son's schoolmates over for playdates. Will they judge us for our ghetto duct tape and foam babyproofing around the fireplace? Will they sneer at our outdated kitchen appliances and chipped tile? Will they wonder why there’s a changing table and diaper pail in the dining room? (Because it’s easier than trudging upstairs 10x a day!)

Probably not. Probably it’s just my own insecurities and I should get over them. But it didn’t stop me from embarking on a cleaning frenzy the minute we got home. Now, the damp towels are folded neatly and the potty is shoved out of sight. Maybe I’ll even buy some of that fancy French soap.

LINK O’ THE WEEK: This was written by one of my students: The Myth of the Perfect House. Kinda makes you think, huh?

SHOUT OUT: Happy Birthday to my dear old dad! (Emphasis on the “old.” Hee, hee!)

Not a Newborn Anymore

I’m not one of those “they grow up so fast” people. Usually when someone says that to me, I glare at them with my dark-circled, bloodshot eyes and snarl, “It sure doesn’t SEEM fast when you’re awake for 21 out of every 24 hrs dealing with another person’s bodily fluids!!” This usually wipes the sappy grin off their face and sends them scurrying away to spread sunshine somewhere else.

But just yesterday, I realized my baby is already 3 mos. old. When did THAT happen? Gone are the skinny chicken legs, replaced by some scrumptious thigh rolls. Gone are the teeny-tiny newborn undershirts that were still too big at first, replaced by actual outfits with pockets. (Pockets?! For an extra binky, I guess.) Gone are the sponge baths, 2-hour feeding schedules, and weekly doctor’s appointments. My baby’s growing up so fast!

I definitely didn’t think that with Baby #1. Of course, Baby #1 – who is now a Big Kid – is the main reason why it seems like Baby #2 is growing up so fast. While I’ve been busy baking cupcakes for preschool, planning playdates, and rinsing out Lightning McQueen underwear, my tiny bundle of joy has become not so tiny. He’s smiling, cooing, and (almost) rolling over already!

I have to say, though, I prefer this stage. Angelina Jolie came under all sorts of fire when she referred to her then-newborn daughter Shiloh as a “blob.” But how else do you describe a little, bald, pink thing that just sleeps and cries all the time? I like it when their personalities start to come out.

Both my boys love the “pow-pow-bam” game, invented by my husband. It’s pretty much what it sounds like. You hold the baby’s fists and make him throw tiny punches, saying, “Pow! Pow! Bam!” Bonus points if you pretend to take a punch and fling your head back. This almost GUARANTEES a laugh.

Along with his clothes, Riley seems to be outgrowing some of his fussiness. I am qualifying that statement because we still have our bad days. But he has more alert, happy periods now. And he’s become very active and vocal, as you can see here:


As you can also see, he hasn’t outgrown the projectile vomiting one bit!

LINK O’ THE WEEK: File this under “What took me so long?” With no tax or shipping, I figured out that ordering dipes, wipes, nursing pads, Mylicon, etc. from Diapers.com is actually cheaper and faster than driving to Costco. They even carry the generic Kirkland wipes. Plus we get this awesome box to play with!

Life as a WAHM

I’m sitting in a church parking lot typing this on my laptop. There’s a chai latte, diaper bag, and cell phone (on vibrate), on the seat beside me. My 2.5 mo.-old son is in the backseat, sleeping. FINALLY. I have less than an hour before I have to pick up my older son from preschool and I’m damn sure going to make the most of it!

The thing about being a work-at-home-mom is that oftentimes the “home” part is metaphorical.

Many working moms would still be on maternity leave at this point. But when you’re self-employed -- as I am as a freelance writer and writing instructor -- there’s no such thing as paid maternity leave. Before my first son was born, I sent out an e-mail to all my regular clients telling them I was going to be out of commission for 3 months. I set up an e-mail autoreply. I changed the message on my cell phone. When my son was exactly 3 mos. old, I hired a babysitter and started keeping regular office hours again.

This time around, I did none of these things. I was answering work-related e-mails 2 weeks after my second son was born. I accepted an assignment when he was less than 2 mos. old. I feel like he’s still too young for a sitter, especially since I’m nursing every 2-4 hours, so that leaves me with short, sporadic periods of time to work while the baby’s napping. Hence the laptop and the idling car.

Sometimes it’s frustrating. Just the other day I turned down an assignment that required phone interviews because I couldn’t plan on a specific time when I knew it would be quiet. I’ve known some WAHMs who run out to their garage or parked car to conduct a phone call when necessary. I don’t trust the 2-year-old around his baby brother yet. Besides, MY baby’s cries can be heard for miles.

Sometimes it can also feel like I have no boundaries between my home life and my work life. When I had an office outside the house, which I rented with some other self-employed friends, I was diligent about never bringing work home if I could help it. Now, I dash to the computer to check e-mail several times a day. My personal and professional phone number are one and the same. In the evenings, I sometimes work on the couch next to my husband as he watches TV.

Certainly, in some ways it would be easier to leave and go to work every day, as I did before I had kids. Lots of times when I’m complaining about the stress of being pulled in two directions, people will tell me I should get a “real job” or, conversely, that I should “just be a mom” and stop trying to freelance, too.

But I don’t want to choose. Why should I have to pick one or the other when I can do both? I don’t want to hand over my babies to someone else 40+ hours a week. But I’d go crazy if I didn’t have an outlet besides being a mommy. I feel like I get the best of both worlds this way.

Besides, I think the tides are turning in the work world. I see fewer and fewer moms who are either totally stay-at-home moms OR work 9-5 in an office (or more likely, 8-6). Most are somewhere in between -- they work part time, have a compressed or flexible schedule, or are self-employed.

Right now, being a WAHM is what works for me and my family. I’m a happier person when I get to use my talents, interact with other professionals, and earn an income. On a good day, I’m a happy, balanced person. On a bad day, you’ll find me sitting in a juice-box littered car with coffee and spit-up stains on my shirt, typing frantically on a laptop before my baby wakes up and my preschooler needs to be picked up. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

PIC O’ THE WEEK: Does this paci ring make me look like the Joker?

Me Time? Not on My Time!

So you know how people are always telling us moms we need to take time for ourselves? After all, we’ve all heard the oxygen-mask-on-the-airplane theory: you can’t help anyone else unless you help yourself first. Yeah, right. First you have to find the time and get some back-up.

I can go to yoga *IF* my husband gets home from work on time. I can take a nap *IF* my kids cooperate and both sleep at the same time. I can relax and watch some TV *IF* I don’t have to bake 2 dozen cupcakes for my son’s preschool class, wash the bathmat for the bazillionth time, scrub spit-up off the couch, or write those long-overdue thank-you notes.

Read more about my quest for some me-time at TheBump.com:

Underpants: The Final Frontier

Does anyone ever really get tired of potty-training posts? Well, too bad! First of all, how could I NOT write about something that’s consumed my life for the past 6.5 mos? And second of all, it provides a goldmine of humorous and horrific material. It would be a CRIME not to share that with all of you lucky people. ;)

So, anyway, remember when all this madness first started? And remember when I quit potty training? Obviously, that was not a permanent solution. So, reluctantly, I plunged back into it once my nerves and bathmats had recovered a bit. And wouldn’t you know it, Miles was almost 100% trained the week before I had the baby. Well, you can guess what happened then. Back to square one. Or maybe square two.

I can honestly tell you that this ordeal has been one of the few times in my 3 years of motherhood that I have felt like a complete and utter failure. We sailed through other potentially rocky transitions, like weaning from the breast, then the bottle, moving from bassinet to crib to big boy bed, and ditching the pacifier. How hard could it be? I thought. (Insert “har-de-har-har” here.)

Now I see that part of the problem is that I have an uncharacteristically high number of mom friends who successfully and painlessly potty trained their children -- boys, even -- at a young age. I refuse to look at the scientific data since it likely will only depress me further, but anecdotal evidence suggests that boys are ready somewhere around 2.5 years old, maybe closer to 3. But I know several parents whose boys were trained right around their second birthday. In most cases, the child himself initiated it.

I’d be tottering around on a walker if I’d waited for Miles to initiate potty training. This is confounding to me, since the kid absolutely INSISTS on doing everything from brushing his teeth to pushing his brother’s stroller by himself. But when it came to the bathroom, no interest.

“Just wait till he’s ready,” well-meaning moms told me. But readiness was another irritatingly vague and elusive concept. Does that mean when he starts showing interest in the toilet? Because he’s been interested in flushing things down it since he was 18 mos. old. Does ready mean when he’s uncomfortable wallowing in his own filth? Because that’s NEVER happened to this day.

Another part of the problem was finding my son’s motivation. (Doesn’t that sound like something you’d hear at acting school? “Find your motivation, Meryl!”) Praise, encouragement, clapping, even joyous singing and dancing didn’t have a lasting effect. (Tori Spelling and her potty dance be damned!) Neither did stickers, charts, candy, books, or toys.

We got more elaborate with our bribes -- but sadly, even the Lightning McQueen scooter didn’t do the trick. We resorted to threats (“We’re not going to the park EVER AGAIN until you go pee!”) and even peer pressure (“CHARLIE uses the potty. OLIVER wears big-boy underpants. Go ahead, show Miles your Cars underwear, sweetie.”) Miles could care less.

Besides being frustrating, potty training in our house became positively dangerous. My mother suffered a minor injury when she fell off the toilet as she was sitting there encouraging Miles to go on his little potty. This caused great hilarity in our family, as you can imagine. Then there was the time Miles was a little too enthusiastic in his approach, and he slipped and fell arm-first into the bowl. Thankfully, before he’d made a deposit. One time he leaned too far forward and narrowly missed chipping a tooth. They just don’t prepare you for this kind of stuff in the parenting books!

I know I’m jinxing myself by saying this, but Miles has made huge potty progress recently. He’s wearing underwear except for naps and nighttime. We’re even leaving the house without diapers. I know, call us crazy! He’s gone from having 4 accidents in one day to none some days.

What’s the secret? None that I can pinpoint, except maybe letting him run around bare-bummed. Less to mess with when he gets the urge, you know what I’m saying? I know we’re not out of the woods yet, but I am pleased to say that maybe my son will not go off to college in Pull-Ups. Fingers crossed.

PICK O’ THE WEEK: We have watched this DVD so many times it’s not even funny. But the “Dirty Diaper Blues” song sure is: Elmo's Potty Time