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?

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.