Long (and by long I mean VERY LONG) Day's Journey

We took Leo on a road trip yesterday that lasted seven and a half hours. It was either brave or completely and totally inadvisable: depends on whether you want to high five us or just point out that we're idiots. Your call.

Miraculously, the trip went fairly well, though Ethan and I treated every second like we were about to step onto enemy lines, and at one crucial leg of the journey, I drove 100 miles straight with the concentration of a fighter pilot while Baby slept in the back, his special Land of Nod CD set at exactly the appropriate level to provide the ultimate soothing white noise to keep him in dreamland for as long as physically possible. Ethan sneezed and we almost lost it.

Things only get really, really bad the last twenty minutes, when all our poor baby wanted was to GET THE HELL OUT OF THAT FREAKING CAR SEAT, and we were so close to our destination that stopping would have felt like torture (admittedly, the screaming was also torture. I'd really like to never think about it again, thanks).

We're quite happy to have arrived safely at our destination, but please don't ask us how we plan to get back home.

Hope you're all having wonderful and road trip-free New Years!

xo,
Rebecca

Piano Baby

Leo learned how to play the piano the other night, and I have already decided to make him practice "The Little White Donkey" for 17 hours straight without access to his sippy cup until he gets the synchronized hand movements right. (Kidding. Obviously. I don't think I could ever come close to being a tiger mom — today, I practically shoved my smoothie and my mom's Starbucks at him before he even showed signs of wanting them. And I let him come into the bathroom while I took a shower. AND I bought him a pony). In all seriousness: Leo loved the piano. He has a tiny little one that was near his crib in his room before we moved, and he could reach two of the keys through the slats. In the middle of the night, we would hear "tinkling" that Ethan dubbed "so melodic" until the fifth night of it, when we scooted the mini piano out of fingers' reach. "Melodic" had turned into "cute but incredibly grating."

Hope you're all enjoying safe, warm, happy holidays and that your kid learned cello, French horn, or at least violin while you were away.

xo,
Rebecca

All I Want for Christmas is for You to Take a Nap

My 15-month-old decided to stage about 13 nap protests this past week, while we've been traveling, and between the time change, a slight cold/cough, the fact that he has made it quite clear he'd like to switch to one nap from two, and his "revelation" that we've been sharing a room with him, it's been — how shall I put this? — slightly like getting a wild bear cub to fall asleep next to a tiny kitten and not eat it.

I'm tired. Ethan's tired. Poor, poor Leo has been very tired. Earlier today, I found myself at Walgreens, on Christmas, unshowered and at the end of my rope, trying to convince a well-meaning pharmacist to help me come up with an over-the-counter medicine to stop my baby's cough so he would sleep, dammit! (No such luck. Said pharmacist offered me nothing useful whatsoever because he didn't want to get sued. Thanks a lot, well-meaning pharmacist).

Mercifully, Leo took an hour and forty-five minute nap later in the afternoon, and his mood visibly improved. And, because sleep begets sleep (didn't you hear that a million times in books and on get-your-baby-to-go-to-sleep websites and from all-knowing septuagenarians when your baby was a newborn?) he even went to bed tonight, knowing there was a full room of raucous adults enjoying cookies just steps from him, without protest. A great Christmas present, indeed.

How is your child's napping schedule these days? Is it consistent? Is it cruel and just completely unfair? Or should it make me very, very jealous?

PHOTO CAPTION: Leo's new favorite gift — a "Lil Texan" sippy cup. Genius.

xox,
Rebecca

Having It All: Part One of 147

Last night's dinner conversation with friends and family took a turn for the worse-slash-better (depends on who you ask!) when Anne Marie Slaughter's infamous Atlantic article came up — and we debated or attempted to debate every possible facet of the "having it all" dilemma. As you know, it's so complicated I could literally write a thesis about it if I did that kind of thing but I don't because I'm way too lazy.

Pumping at work. Breastfeeding. Splitting childcare 50/50 with your spouse. Maternity and paternity leave. Flexible hours. Spouses as equal earners (or not). Women changing their names when they get married (or not). What it means to be a mother or a father, and whether parents-to-be spend nearly enough time coming up with a parenting "game plan" before they have kids (hint: they don't).* The list of hot topics went on and on, leaving me with far more questions than answers (naturally), and a burning desire to continue to dissect this topic a little — or even a lot — more.

No, there won't be 147 posts on this topic, but there might be ten. And my first question — the one that seemed to be "core" to our entire discussion — is this: What does "having it all" even mean? What does it mean to women in general, and what does it mean to women in specific (i.e., you)? And, perhaps even more important, because I don't know that anyone ever asks this, what does it mean to fathers? Because if they don't think about it when they first have kids, they should.

*This is not a judgement, but rather a "whoa, parenting is incredibly hard I wish I had more of a game plan and maybe it would help other people if they did too" kind of a statement.

xo,
Rebecca

Flying with Your Toddler

A seriously short post today because it's been one of those days (read: weeks) where Leo staged several nap protests and discovered spaghetti (happy he liked it; not happy about the state of our floors, clothes, and hair), and I accomplished essentially nothing, but I think my baby and his stuffed sheep solved world peace (they spend a lot of time together in the crib chatting. It's getting serious).

I did get the chance to visit our house today and was floored by all the progress that's been made. No, that's not our dining table in the photo — it's one of those sawhorse worktable thingies. I totally want to ask them to leave it 'cause it's so rad.

Happy almost holidays — I'll be writing as much as I can over the next two weeks because I'm sure Leo will eat wrapping paper and it will be noteworthy. Are you flying with your toddler? Here are ten tips that I don't think we're following at all, which makes me now feel inadequate.

xo,
Rebecca

A (Pre) New Years Resolution

I am unapologetically* sorry. All the time. Like, I am never not sorry for things. I am sorry I bumped into that lady in the hideous reindeer sweater. I'm sorry she bumped into me. I'm sorry when I don't know where something is in the store and I have to ask the salesperson. I'm sorry that I'm late. I'm sorry I didn't have time to perfectly wrap your gift and I'm sorry to my Pilates instructor that I didn't have time to practice the exercises she so lovingly gave me and I'm sorry to Leo when he falls down or his nose his stuffy (CLEARLY my fault, right?) I'm especially sorry if I'm grouchy or if I say something controversial (usually after making a bold statement that might possibly make someone else uncomfortable or cause them to disagree, I'll quickly say that I'm sorry for being difficult, argumentative, etc).

"Sorry" is a crutch I use constantly, relentlessly, and to Ethan's total dismay. He's right – I say it about three-hundred and forty-eight times more than I ever really should. Of course it loses its meaning (as any word does) when you say it ALL THE FREAKING TIME. These days, I find myself saying it even more now that we have a rambunctious 15-month-old who likes to throw food on the floor of restaurants. I noticed that at a recent dinner (at 5:30, no less, in a kid-friendly 'hood at a kid-friendly (ish) restaurant), every time the waiter walked past, I apologized for the new piece of bread Leo had dropped on the ground. Meanwhile, Ethan (gotta love him) said nothing, and why should he? Does apologizing a million times actually even make things any better? And if we give a generous tip and try to help clean up, do we even need to apologize at all?

I recently told Ethan that if there was one thing I should try to "give up," for my own good, it wouldn't be chocolate or wine or even that caramel popcorn that is going to land me at the dentist which will suck but I love it anyway. It would be apologizing. Saying "I'm sorry." Using it as a preamble, in any and all contexts, for things I say. I bet you a gazillion Starbucks dollars that if I stopped saying it, I'd seem more confident. More self-assured. And probably? No one would really miss it (except me).

If I do this (BIG, BIG IF!), it won't be easy. I've been saying sorry for a hell of a long time. For all intents and purposes, I'm addicted to it. It probably has something to do with my polite Southern roots and something else to do with that "guilt" a lot of us women feel that seems to have especially permeated American motherhood. And I know it has to do with being liked. Rationally, I don't care if that waiter likes me. But in the moment, I do. Why? Ethan doesn't seem to give a sh**, and the irony is, people like that dude. So, what? Do you think I can do it? Do you think I should? Drop me a line or a comment and let me know. Because the more I consider doing this — really doing this — the more freaked out I get that I'll fail. And then what? I'll have to say... sorry?

xox

*Pun intended.

PHOTO CAPTION: I am sorry that my diaper bag is so messy.

My Child Won't Eat His Dinner... Unless He's Fishing It Out of the Trash

The holidays really crept up on me this year (as they always do, I guess) and I'm really enjoying all the good cheer and signature red Starbucks cups and, mostly, everyone slowing down a little bit (read: everyone except our children, who are even more hyped up on sugar than normal— even my one-year-old, who doesn't even know what sugar is. I think he's getting high via osmosis since everyone around him is cracked out on cookies and Trader Joe's chocolate peppermint taffy (that's a thing).)

This has nothing to do with the holidays, but this blog totally makes me smile, and it's mildly-offensive-slash-going-to-make-you-piss-your-pants, but sometimes we all need a little of that, no? (Especially now). Also, this Toyota Sienna ad (thanks, Victoria, for sending it to me just now!) will kind of make you actually WANT a minivan.

What are your holiday plans? Are you making reindeer cookies as we speak? (Is your child choking on an age-inappropriate reindeer cookie as we speak?*)

*My child is not eating reindeer cookies. I SWEAR! Really. Like, really really.

PHOTO CAPTION: Leo sweeping. Could this be the start of a beautiful tradition?

PHOTO CAPTION 2: Leo has his coat on inside the house because Mommy couldn't get the zipper undone and gave up. (It seemed to be caught in the side). Why is it 2012, and yet no brilliant scientist has solved the "caught in the side" problem? I want to know.

PHOTO CAPTION 3 which refers back to the title of this post: Leo wouldn't eat the yogurt earlier, but now that he's fished it from the trash he seems to want it. Is this normal? (If it's not, please don't tell me).

Why We Need to Talk about All of It — And Never Stop

I'm honestly having a hard time concentrating on much today besides what's been on all of our minds (and in our hearts) since the Newtown shooting. I find myself in moments of total despair about the state of our country, about the 2nd Amendment, about mental illness and the mothers and fathers and families struggling with raising a child with severe special needs while barely making ends meet. As one of my favorite mom bloggers asked, "how are we supposed to process things like this?" 

Well, I've been thinking about your question, Aidan, and my answer is this: I don't think we can. I think we have to use this utter desperation we feel to make a change. I actually hope that our complete inability to process what's happened will make us take a stand, and refuse to forget.

I'm literally sitting here in my office (read: Starbucks) in a sweaty mess of tears — and I keep trying to hide them from the ~10-year-old sitting across from me, as though a) I could protect her from knowing about something like this or b) she even knows what I'm crying about. All I can say is this — things that are incredibly ugly have to be talked about. This is one of those things. It may be extremely uncomfortable. It may be down-right awful. It may mean getting political and pointing fingers and debating how our tax dollars should be spent and who should have which "freedoms" and how we can figure out a way for some freedoms not to infringe upon others. Guns, mental illness, our constitution, our basic freedoms, our children's basic freedoms — these are not the makings of pleasant small talk. Too bad. Sometimes life isn't pleasant (as the mothers and fathers of those twenty children know). We have to talk — what's at stake is just too big. I hope this is the beginning of a national conversation that never ends.

xo,
Rebecca

It's So Hard Being A Baby

Everyone's all obsessed with The Honest Toddler because it's freaking amazing. Here is a little "Honest Baby" Leo jotted in his journal for you to enjoy with a glass of pinot while your baby smiles cherubically, then rips up your high school yearbook.

Dear Mama,

It's really freakingass hard being a baby. I know that everybody thinks that all you do when you're under two is eat, sleep, play and act all cute and shite, and that life is very, very easy for someone my age. But let me fill you in on a few not-so-fun aspects of being a so-called "wee" or "little" one.* Here are my top 5:

1) You don't let me grab anything, and it's so cruel and unusual. I LOVE lotion-toilet-paper-pens-the-oatmeal-box-poisonous-substances-hazardous-substances-substances-in-general-your-make-up-your-contact-solution-lotion-your-keys-your-hair-your-earrings-your-fine-china-lotion and I don't understand why you won't let me eat-drink-piss on said object.

2) You never understand anything I say. It is PERFECTLY REASONABLE to EVERYONE I KNOW (read: all the babies in my swim class and Music Together and baby sign language class) that "Abugabutt" means "give me a cracker." You really need to get with the program and possibly even take an adult education communication class so you can learn to UNDERSTAND YOUR BABY.

3) You make me drink out of a bottle when all I really want is a boob. When I was first born, you worked day and night and day and night to get me to latch on correctly and drink in (literally) all the wonderful benefits of breastmilk and all the antibodies and natural botox and now after all that work you suddenly expect me to guzzle cow's milk out of a plastic contraption. Someone explain.

4) You drop me in PRISON (read: my crib) on a daily basis and expect me to play in there? COME ON. I'm not made of stone.

5) I want to eat pizza. You give me pureed spinach crap that smells bad, and even you admitted that when you tried it, it sucked. Where is the justice?

I love you, Mommy. But I am not going to utter those words and make you the happiest mommy on earth until you start letting me eat crayons.

Love,
Your Baby

*Your overuse of "LO" (little one), "D&M" (deep and meaningful), "2G2BT" (too good to be true) and other such chat acronyms does not make you sound like Taylor Swift; it makes you sound old. Sorry.

I JUST CARRIED ON A PHONE CONVERSATION ON MY IPHONE VIA THE DIAPER PAIL

It's true. I was chatting with one of my best friends, Winnie, and Leo was mad that I wasn't playing with him, so I put the phone on speaker and let Leo traverse the house with it while we continued to chat about important stuff like work. The next thing I knew? Wee One had tossed the phone DIRECTLY INTO THE DIAPER PAIL (no, the little safety latch was not on. My bad). Winnie, of course, was completely unaware that my little cherub had deposited my iphone into a cesspool of dirty nappies and kept right on talking. (Her voice actually projected quite well from the bottom of the pail — go Apple). A few antibacterial wipes later, we were back into our deeply important (and by important, I mean, REALLY F-ING IMPORTANT) conversation, and Leo was sliding the phone behind the crack in the door over and over and over. And I was letting him. And there you have it, my friends: Motherhood. Happy weekend.

xo,
Rebecca

A Letter to your Congressman: Let's Make it Stop

Today's tragedy is unimaginable and unspeakable. We want -- I want -- you want, we all want TO MAKE IT STOP. Here's one (small) thing you and I can do: send this letter to your Congressman (thank you to Gale for sharing this with me in the first place). Please feel free to copy and paste it and use it to contact your own representative. You can find your rep’s website and contact form here: http://www.house.gov/representatives/find/

I hope we can all find a middle ground in which semi-automatic weapons are not a threat to our kids -- any of our kids. We also need to help people get affordable or free psychiatric help, but I don't have a letter for that. I don't know what I can do on that front, but I'd like to find out.

In the meantime, maybe this letter won't do anything, but maybe it will. It's worth trying. 

Dear Mr/Ms. _______,

I am not unique. And that is exactly why I am important.

I am one of millions of American parents who want stricter gun laws. I want my children to be able to go to movies, and shop for clothes and books, and attend school without the risk of being mowed down by semi-automatic gunfire. I want to kiss them goodbye in the morning without fearing it will be for the last time. I want to raise them in a society that protects their rights more fiercely than the rights of those who might harm them.

There is no excuse for this kind of carnage. I am heartbroken, but I am also ashamed. And until our government can fix this hideous and inexcusable crisis, we should all carry our shame with our grief.

I beg of you to work with your fellow Congressmen and Congresswomen to take up the mantle of gun control, and not rest until it is resolved.

Very sincerely,

Rebecca K.

Wanna Play?

Shockingly, I had never thought about "playing" — analyzing, strategizing or even theorizing about it — until very recently when I actually had a kid (if I had, you would definitely have stopped talking to me and pretended not to know me if you ran into me at Starbucks). But over the past few weeks, I've started wondering, How does one "play"? How does it work? What should you do? What should your kid do? And, most confounding: What is my role in my child's "play" experience? (Yes, that last question was phrased rather douche-ily. I'm aware).

To sum it up, I'm basically wondering what I'm supposed to do (if anything) while my kid plays. My natural instinct is to point to a bunch of toys, press a button to get the music going, then let Leo go at it and play with what he wants, when he wants, while I check my email and tell myself that teaching him to play independently is actually super important to his development. This isn't to say that I NEVER play "with" him — we do stuff together all the time, especially reading books, which I totally adore because I'm a nerd like that, and a lot of times I'm down on the ground with him, "supervising" his play. But I've noticed I'm *not* the mom who is constantly coming up with ideas for what he can play with or how he can play. I just usually kind of set him loose and let him go wild. In Bringing up Bebe, Pamela Druckerman talks about "narrated play" (a term I think she may have coined) and pokes fun at moms on the playground who are constantly narrating their kids' actions. I don't think there's any need to make fun of these moms — after all, they're just trying to be good parents, and who knows, maybe their kids are all going to go to Harvard and win Grammy's and cure cancer because their moms cheered while they scooted down the slide, and all the other moms were texting. But is this narrated play good for our kids? Preferable? Not? I have no idea. I'm usually just trying to keep Leo from swallowing something or falling on his head, but I guess that'll change as he gets older. And then my main job will be intervening when he tries to bite that little girl with pigtails.

In all seriousness: is there a preferred way to play? How much do you encourage your kids to play by themselves — to establish independence and stimulate their imaginations — and how much do you jump into the fray to play with them? And how often do you steer them towards the toys you yourself find more interesting (or is that just me?!)

PHOTO CAPTION: View from the top of Twin Peaks. The culmination of a great walk up the hills and stairs of SF. And yes, the-sky-really-was-that-blue-it's-not-just-Instagram.

Are you 100 percent Mommy?

I had a recent email convo with my good friend Katie in which we talked about "how mom we are" – i.e., how much do we define ourselves as moms versus not-moms? I know I feel much more "mom" than I did before having a kid (naturally), but I also don't feel like a completely different person than I did before. Just me... plus a little guy who loves to bite stuff.*

Am I primarily a mother? I don't know. It's all a little too new for me to completely change my world view. And maybe I never will — because I've always thought of myself first and foremost as a writer, and everything else came second. Now? I guess I'd have to say I'm a mom and a writer, but I don't think either one eclipses the other. Of course, I have to actually make time to write to still be a writer, which I do, at least on a good day. I can "write" even if I'm just thinking of a scene in my head while Leo wreaks havoc on a Kleenex box or a friend's carefully-curated holiday decorations.

Yet not all callings or passions or jobs or careers can be so seamlessly** integrated into parenthood. Jobs that take parents away on business trips or to the office at 6am can be a lot harder to weave into the fabric of being a mom or dad. And, on the flip side, stay-at-home moms and dads can face the opposite problem: who am I now that I'm not working outside the home? These shifts are complex and tricky and even a little bit scary, but there's not a parent out there who doesn't experience at least a little identity crisis when faced with the new paradigm of mom-ing or dad-ing.

Katie and I wondered why we feel we've shifted our view of ourselves, but our spouses haven't experienced as dramatic a change to "Mr. Dad." My guess is that our culture just doesn't drill "YOU'RE A DAD NOW AND THAT DEFINES YOU!" into guys' brains in the same way. And that's probably why many dads can wave bye-bye to their kids at the drop of a hat to go watch a game or head out on that business trip, without the same inner turmoil us moms often feel. Come to think of it, that may be a much healthier way to parent: without as much guilt and conflict, with more of that (supposed) French attitude of, "we're still the same people we were before we had kids. We've just added a couple of rugrats into the equation."

What do you think? Do you define yourself differently now that you're a parent? Have you mastered that tricky balance of "me time" versus "everyone else" time? I'd love to hear.

*I have a mom blog now. I am, for better or worse, a mom blogger, which I guess means that, for better or worse, I am a mom (that's probably not the right order, but order is for suckers).***

**Kind of.

***Ethan was reading Mommyproof last night and informed me that all of my footnotes make him tired.

Parenting: How Old Is Too Old?

Add another war to the list (mommy, nanny, body) — I think we're on the brink of an Age War. This slightly alarmist article, Is Waiting to Have Kids A Big Mistake? just caused a small uproar on my Facebook wall, freaking out several moms (myself included) and hopeful moms-to-be. (Are we having kids too old? Am I having kids too old? Will they suffer because of it? Will I suffer because of it? Will we be broke? Will we all die alone??!) You get the idea. 

The author of the essay talks about how she and her husband are not nearly as financially stable as they'd like to be. About how her parents (her children's grandparents) will be unlikely to see her kids graduate from college or attend their weddings (great-grandchildren seem out of the question). About how she, herself, will probably die when her kids are not *that* old (I know, I know. It gets so depressing you want to punch yourself in the eye. Bear with me). A similar and better-researched essay in The New Republic gets into more nitty-gritty about the genetic implications of older parenting (higher incidences of autism, etc) and the social implications (like underpopulation — who knew?! Apparently all of us "older" parents are ending up having fewer kids than we would have if we started in our early twenties, so the world is shrinking). Then there are the annoying (yet, in my opinion, deal-able) issues like other kids thinking you're your kid's grandma/grandpa because you're sporting a salt-and-pepper 'do, or the fact that your parents have been waiting decades to spoil a grandkid and by the time they get one, some of their other friends have grandkids in high school (sorry, Mom).

But here's the thing: the world is going to adjust. Right? Doesn't it always? Sure, these genetic and health issues are something we should absolutely consider, and monitor, as a society, as we think about reproductive trends going forward. (Are doctors sufficiently warning us of the risks of older parenting — ie., older sperm and eggs — and fertility treatments? We focus so much on "getting pregnant" — what about after? And if they aren't adequately discussing the risks with us, is it because they don't know the risks?) The truth is, much of this is so new, Shulevitz, the author of the New Republic article, hits the nail on the head when she says that we just don't know what we're getting into. And the consequences could end up being more dramatic than we think... or not.

But what does this mean for you, or for me, personally? There are always going to be extremes (like 50-year-old moms and dads of newborns) that give us pause. For the average individual, though — is it really worth beating ourselves up about our choices? For many of us, it's hammered into our heads since middle school (or earlier!) that education trumps everything. Graduate high school. Go to college. Maybe even get a graduate degree. Spend your twenties building a career, and then find a partner to settle down with. (Don't do it too late, mind you — try to find said partner by the time you're at least in your late twenties/early thirties so that you can squeeze into that non- "advanced maternal age" bucket right at 34 and half years. Congrats, you might even just avoid an amnio!) And it's not just something our elders "recommend" — we're smart enough to understand that it can be nearly impossible to get ahead in a career at age 26 if you've got an infant at home.* Most of us would at least like to try to get to a place of some stability in our careers before we upend the whole thing by having a kid. And let's face it — that IS what happens. You don't have to read Anne Marie Slaughter's infamous Atlantic article to know that as a woman, in our current culture, it is hella hard to keep your foot on the accelerator (thanks, Sheryl Sandberg for the analogy) while taking care of some wee ones. And it's the same for dads who assume primary caregiving roles. Unless you're independently wealthy, uber successful by the time you're 30 (read: Mark Zuckerberg) or you've carved out the perfect jobs that will let you take a breather to change a diaper, it's a complex, tricky little equation. Of course people are waiting to have kids until they feel a little more secure. And, frankly, their workplaces expect it. Why? Because look around. Celebrities, politicians, other public figures: they are the bastions of advanced parental age. At age 35, you've probably gained the respect to say: Not going on the work ski trip. Kid at home. At age 25? Please. You'd be told to suck it up. 

In Jessica Valenti's Why Have Kids?, she talks a lot about how we had kids 100 years ago to get another set of hands on the farm or to work in the family store. Back then, you probably didn't wait until you were 30 to find "the one" — you married the first guy who asked. But that's not the world we live in anymore. We try to optimize for everything (have you noticed that?) and expect we might be able to "have it all" if things are timed just right. That may be part of the problem – earlier generations didn't even think they could have it all, so they didn't try. Personally, I'm still after "having it all," so I think we should keep striving for it. But if we're going to fundamentally change this trend toward older parenting (or figure out the best ways to accommodate it), we're going to have to make some social changes. As Shulevitz says: 

"It won’t be easy to make the world more baby-friendly, but if we were to try, we’d have to restructure the professions so that the most intensely competitive stage of a career doesn’t occur right at the moment when couples should be lavishing attention on infants. We’d have to stop thinking of work-life balance as a women’s problem, and reframe it as a basic human right." 

I couldn't agree more. 

*Not to say that it can't be done! It most certainly can. It's just hard. That is all.

Early

Are you an early person? I am most decidedly not — but I'm starting to recognize that for the next decade or so (until my kid(s) are old enough to get up and make themselves breakfast on Saturday morning*), I'll have to be one, like it or not. 

I've actually started appreciating that early morning time (rather than just dreading it), because it feels so kick-ass to have already accomplished a million (yes, a million; I am not exaggerating in the slightest) things by 9am, when my old** self would have just been getting up.

The best early mornings are still the ones when we all get up, together as a fam, and do something fun like make pancakes or throw Leo pieces of trash that he can deliver to the recycle bin and then bring back to us proudly in an endless loop. But it's a work-in-progress, that's for sure. When I see families all dressed and raring to go at the coffee shop at 7:30am, and I'm awake but I look like I crawled out of a sewer, I'm always impressed. Will we get there? That remains to be seen.

Are you an early person? Or does getting up before 8am make you cringe and cling to your pillow like a life raft?

*Friends with kids older than ours have informed us that the greatest day of your lives is not your children's graduation or the birth of a grandchild — it's the one when your oldest kid learns how to make breakfast for the younger one(s).

**springier, sprightlier, less groggy and able to work a toaster

PHOTO CAPTION: Swim!

Why Have Kids: Really... Why?

I noticed that a lot of people seemed interested in yesterday's post, and I'm guessing the title had a little something to do with that. Why Have Kids? That just might be the question of the century. Those of us with kids who find ourselves deliriously in love with these little beings also find ourselves deliriously exhausted — and even after only 14 months, I am starting to understand why there have been so many articles debating whether or not people who have kids are happier than people who don't (FYI: the jury is still waaaay out on that one).* But I don't think the question should really be "are we happier; are they happier?" — after all, it's not a competition. And why should we assume that any one camp is happier than any other?  A lot of us either know we want kids or know that we don't. So if I know that I want kids and Person B knows he/she doesn't, why on earth would I try to compare who is happier? We are probably both happy in our own, different paths (just like I am happy I'm a writer and Person Smurf is happy he/she is a venture capitalist. Different, but both happy — hopefully).

For me, it's more a question of "in what ways am I happier now, or less happy?" I'm happier because I love my baby endlessly and love how much Ethan adores him. I'm happier because I see the world now through the eyes of my child, who thinks socks are hilarious. I'm happier because Leo is so darn cute (as is your kid) and buying little shoes is fun. I'm less happy because I don't ever get to sleep in anymore unless the moon is in the second house. I'm less happy because traveling with a baby or toddler is a pain in the ass. I'm less happy because I have less free time to surf the web which is admittedly a blessing in disguise. I'm happier because I imagine stuff like Leo's first day of kindergarten and it makes me all fuzzy inside.

Or, as Bonnie Rochman says in her article, "In Defense of Motherhood: Why We Keep Having Kids When They're So Clearly Bad For Us":

Why do we do it? Maybe because despite all the rigors and annoyances, the love between parent and child is unprecedented in its passion. It’s blinding and fierce and feels completely different than romance. I don’t know if scientists have looked into whether parents smile and laugh more than non-parents, but I’ll bet they do. Kids are funny. They are you before you became hardened and wizened, before you experienced sorrow, before you went all cynical on the world.

I think a lot of people are looking for some magic answer to the question "Why Have Kids?", and the truth is, there isn't one. Yes, kids zap all of your energy. Yes, kids can make you feel like you've lost yourself and that you'll never finish that novel or win that Nobel Peace Prize or get your hair dyed or hit the gym. I think most people choose to have kids because they offer some kind of longterm hope, some kind of joy, a promise of unconditional love and a close-knit family and people who will call to make sure you're okay and also people who have to go to the movies with you because you said so. Maybe this is all fabricated, a fake thing in our brains that was put there to make sure the human race continued to procreate — who knows. But it's there. And those little moments of pure joy tend to erase (most) of the harrowing ones from our minds. Kind of like the way you forget how bad labor was (though frankly, I don't buy that one because I still remember that it hurt like a b***).

I am no expert on this subject, certainly. I do know that parents have more gray hairs and probably more wrinkles, but, much like my busted abs, we can look at all of these war wounds fondly (well, sort of fondly) because we know the battle we fought — raising healthy, intelligent, kind individuals who didn't end up in jail or with a face tattoo — was a marathon of a journey, and we made it. On the other side? Grown-up kids who call you and like you and (maybe) produce a couple of adorable grandkids for you to coo over.

*We love these studies, don't we? Every time someone new from Stanford busts out with one, we click on the purposefully provocative title with glee. Will this new article contain the key to my happiness or my cousin's or my own work-life balance? Um, probably not. But I, too, fall for it every time.

What do you think? WHY did you have (or not have) kids?!

HAPPY WEEKEND! And thanks for all the amazing responses with blog post ideas and encouragement and motivation and muffins and rainbows.

xox

Why Have Kids?

Leo and I took a quick jog around Bernal Hill yesterday, sloshing through a few puddles along the way, and while I slogged, I thought about this book that I just started reading, and how even after only 10 pages, it had me bursting with ideas for blog posts about *important* stuff that I would really like to talk about here on Mommyproof — everything from breastfeeding to pumping to the notion of "50/50" and elimination communication (look that one up if you haven't heard about it. It will blow your mind. And not necessarily in a good way).

The aforementioned book is "Why Have Kids? A New Mom Explores The Truth About Parenting and Happiness," and its author, Jessica Valenti, is pretty sassy and also kinda balls-out gutsy (or should I say boobs out? Would probably be more fitting). I won't review the book until I've read more than one chapter (that tends to be what you do before you claim to know anything about what a book is about) but I think she's hit the nail on the head already when she talks about guilt, and how that plays such a huge (and unfortunate) role in American motherhood. This is nothing new — we all know that a lot of us are guilty of being guilty (I know I am), but I'm hoping she'll offer up some good solutions, and strategies for not letting yourself become so wrapped up in being "mom enough" that you lose yourself, your identity, and even your connection to your baby and your spouse in the process.

A small example from my own experience, but still a noteworthy one: natural childbirth. I didn't make it as high a priority as I could have (which probably means it wasn't as important to me as it might be for other women), but I did *try*, and after 12 hours of painful contractions sans meds, I welcomed that giant needle fearlessly despite a long track record of fainting at the mere sight of a flu shot. Afterwards? I told people that it was a good thing epidurals existed, because it was another 12 hours before the baby came, and there was no way in hell I would have made it that long without help. Did I love having the epidural? No. It's really weird when your legs are all numb, and nobody warns you about that. Also, all those meds can make you feel like you were on a mediocre acid trip later on. But once my baby was born and one sleepless night turned into another, and another, whether or not I "got" the epidural was LITERALLY the last thing on my mind. Sure, I would have loved to have done it naturally. Sure, I still look on with awe at the women who have. Sure, I feel a tad bit disappointed in myself, but the fact of the matter is, I am a wuss. I don't run marathons or get tattoos or even fast on certain holidays because I just can't willingly cause myself pain. Clearly, I should add contractions to that list.

My point with this drawn-out story that you probably don't care about? I could EASILY feel guilty that I failed. I could EASILY beat myself up about this or think of all the ways Leo might be more zen or athletic or good at algebra if I hadn't had that epidural. But why? Because other mothers didn't get them, and I did? Maybe other mothers can't sing to their babies like I can. I didn't make a lot of homemade purees for Leo — maybe you did. Good for me, good for you. Let's all just be proud of each other, shall we?!

More on "Why Have Kids" later on. In the meantime, remind yourself that if you were good at everything, none of your friends would like you anymore.

xox,
Rebecca

Blogging is Hard

Blogging is hard. Not the actual blogging, or even the writing — that part is highly enjoyable (otherwise, why do it, right?). I don't even mind the over-sharing, or the fact that I never know if someone's read a certain post or not, so when I see that person in person, I feel like I may be repeating myself, but then again, I never want to assume they're like, spending all of their free time reading Mommyproof, which they're clearly not unless they're my mom (kidding, Mom! Kidding).

What's hard about blogging is that you're the girl (or guy) waiting by the phone... all the time. You put yourself out there, and put yourself out there, and you often get absolutely nothing back. Obviously, that's just part of the deal, and every time I do hear from someone that they're reading, it literally makes my week. So sometimes, the proverbial phone does ring, and that's an awesome feeling. But there are also days when you can really doubt yourself (like yesterday, when I wrote a whole post about why I thought it was annoying that my doctor(s) told me to get a tummy tuck instead of trying to help me work with my post-pregnancy abs. I spent half the afternoon feeling like the sucker who doesn't realize that maybe tummy tucks really ARE the only way to get some semblance of your abs back, and like, every one of you is secretly planning to get one but nobody really talks about it because of all the reasons people usually don't talk about that stuff. And maybe I had also offended a gazillion people when I really just wanted to say that I think it's important to try to tone up, if you can (and want to), rather than leaping to such extremes as plastic surgery, and I was disappointed because the advice of my doctors might have caused me to feel really fatalistic about the whole thing and totally throw the towel in when, in fact, a regimen like Pilates could be very good for me and make me feel (if marginally) better about myself. So maybe they could have just said, "Why don't you try X, Y, Z, and in ten years if you still feel the same way, and you're done having kids, you can always think about a tummy tuck." Semantics? Perhaps).

Needless to say, this conversation with my own head left me feeling a little down, and I had to remind myself of why I started this blog in the first place: to write a blog about parenting that I would want to read. To write about real stuff, and maybe make a couple of people laugh. To talk about the topics that sometimes don't get talked about, but should.

Sometimes, a little controversy is good. Sometimes, you have to push buttons and envelopes and limits if you want to say things. To tummy tuck or not tummy tuck: maybe it isn't the most pressing issue out there, but it's real. And it's a choice a mom might face. And that makes it worth writing about.

That's all. Thanks for reading. 

xox,

Rebecca

Why Tummy Tucks are Unfeminist

This is a going to be a very honest post. With an intentionally provocative title. It will be almost as honest as this post that I wrote back in July about how post-pregnancy stomachs are not flat and it's completely absurd that anyone would expect them to be, but whatever, life-is-brutally-unfair-so-get-over-it.

I had a panic attack about two weeks ago when I realized that my attempts to blast that abdominal pooch were not working (at least, not very well). Here's the thing that I feel the need to outline that I didn't in my previous posts about this topic – and no, Janice Min didn't outline this "thing," either — post-pregnancy bellies look really weird. Like, it's not the same as just having a spare tire or muffin top or sofa boob (yes, I made that last one up), because post-preg bellies are uniquely and alien-ly squishy and wrinkly and odd-shaped and just flat-out bizarre. (Some have called them "more wrinkly than an old lady's neck" or "like an English bulldog's folds, only not cute." For those whom this is completely scaring, don't worry — the wrinkly skin mostly shows up when you lean over. Just never do that and you'll be fine).

But back to my story: it can get real easy real quick to start thinking that you are forever going to be stuck with this alien midsection that no amount of diet or exercise will ever fix (you know that thing they say about how you can't really target one part of your body, you have to shape up all over? Well.... what happens once you have shaped up all over, and you've still got a sizable pooch? Jillian Michaels, feel free to weigh in here. Pun intended). After a year passes and you hear all those celebs talking about how-the-breastfeeding-helped-them-lose-the-baby-weight and then you see Pink on the AMA's looking like a phenom and you realize you have really been committed to cutting back on cheese and dessert (insert your own personal vices here; those are mine) and yet you still aren't ready for this jelly, you can get kinda depressed about it.*

I have asked two doctors in the past year for tips on getting my abs back into some semblance of shape. Both answered, "When you're done having kids, you can have a tummy tuck." Um... so I was actually thinking that you'd suggest something slightly less invasive and extreme, like a workout DVD or maybe an abdominal rehabilitation session like they have in France, but sure! I'll go under the knife. No biggie.

Seriously?! No wonder I walked away thinking my case was hopeless. I mean they literally had no advice except this? AND they're both women? I wasn't shocked, but I was sad. Being a woman and being a mom is hard work, yo. And maybe busted abs are the price we pay for having beautiful and amazing children. But is there really no natural way to work with what we've got?, I wondered. Surely there are tools out there, exercise programs targeted for post-preg pouches? I doubt Pink had plastic surgery after having her first child, and her abs look positively rock-hard. Maybe she's got killer genetics, who knows. But she probably also knows something or does something that I don't.

Which is what led me to sign up for a private Pilates session a week ago. I made it a little gift to myself and felt really good about dedicating some time and money to talk to a professional who might be able to offer some advice besides the knife. Turns out, between my weak abs and my scoliosis, I could really benefit from some good old-fashioned core work, which I knew already but believed much more when a professional told me (and charged me a lot to listen).

She also explained a lot of stuff about what exactly went on down there during my pregnancy, and you know what? It was freaking enlightening. The muscles that are underneath my "six pack" muscles (not that I ever had a six pack, that's just what they call them) have been egregiously ignored the past two years. And apparently, the skin and fat and whatever else is closest to the surface of my tummy has actually been numb for a good amount of time. That's crazy, people! That means my brain and body aren't even communicating like they used to. No wonder things are all f-ed up! I left that first session just feeling happy that someone finally took the time to talk to me about my body, explain some of the anatomy to me and boost my spirits by a) saying it was all normal and b) not looking like I was crazy when I said I hoped we could "shape things up." She's going to help me come up with a game plan and recommends Pilates reformer classes and some at-home exercises that I can do on my own (because, let's face it, Pink may be able to afford a live-in trainer, but the rest of us can't).

Who knows if any of this will change how I feel about my abs... and, here's a thought: maybe what needs to change is my attitude, my perspective, my world (okay, body) view. I know my stomach will never be the same, and a part of me is glad — should be glad — because it's my war wound and reminder of Leo, who is definitely the best thing to ever come out of there. We've had children; why should we pretend otherwise? Would you get plastic surgery to eliminate a lightning bolt scar on your forehead? I think not! I don't want to remove all traces of what I've accomplished and who I am. I just want to minimize the squish. That is all.

As for the Pilates? I don't know how much I love my abs right now, even if intellectually I know I should, but I will say this: I feel better about myself already. I feel more empowered. I feel less anxious about it. I wore a bikini on our little mini-vacation and realized that I didn't give a sh*** what other people thought about my midsection; I just wanted to feel happy in my own skin.

But you know what else I feel? Kind of pissed that our options as women for feeling good in our skin seem to only come in the form of surgery, at least as far as a lot of doctors and experts are concerned. Abdominal rehab is actually a thing in Europe — which means it must work. Why don't we have that here? Why are we steered towards the operating table? And why aren't our tummies celebrated as slightly worn (but kickass) body parts that just need a little fine tuning post-baby? No judgements against tummy tucks or those who choose to have them, but if they become a general rule, well, that's kind of a crappy, and maybe-even-a-little-bit-unfeminist rule, if you ask me. I could go on a long diatribe about our culture and the media and women's bodies and aging and our on-going quest to turn back the clock, and how it's totally unfair because men age gracefully and women start hiding behind big floppy hats, but instead, I'll just say that we could, as a society, use a little more abdominal rehab, of the non-invasive variety. There are muscles under there, people. Let's learn how to use them.

*This is all said with the complete understanding and acknowledgement that actually getting depressed about your abs is completely shameful when there are wars going on.

PHOTO CAPTION: I'm not brave enough to post a photo of my actual tummy, so it's hidden under that sweater. Don't you love sweaters?

A Weekend Away

Ethan and I took our first trip away from Leo this past weekend. It was actually my first night away from him since he was born 14 months ago. Less on purpose than just circumstance, but either way, it felt like time to rip off the bandaid. Guess what? We survived. And we actually relaxed. And I worried waaaay less about my baby than I thought I would (thanks to our babysitter who stayed with him, and who loves him, and who took him to so many fun activities that he probably wishes he could move in with her).

It was far harder to actually make the plan to go than to take the trip itself — though I'll admit, the night before we left, I woke up at 4:30am and COULD NOT GO BACK TO SLEEP. For those who know me well, or even a little, that is such an anomaly that it's almost unbelievable. I can sleep anywhere. Any time. Any place. Of course, I had woken up in the middle of the night worrying (what else?) about the smoke detectors in our temporary apartment. It suddenly occurred to me that I had never personally changed the batteries in them, and that I had no idea when said batteries had last been changed. The morning we were supposed to leave, I was already meticulously plotting how I would go to Walgreens and pick up the weird-sized batteries, get out the ladder, install them... until Ethan wisely (and characteristically) reminded me that if the batteries really were low, the smoke detectors would start beeping or flashing. I accepted that and dropped the issue. Still, this might be a new project for me this week. Let's face it, I'm nothing if not safety-conscious.

Smoke detectors aside, we were able to have a relaxing time, eat breakfast-lunch-dinner without a formidable one-year-old grabbing for our coffee, and I even slept in until 9:30am for the first time in about twelve hundred days. I missed my baby, though. I missed getting a "beso" from him, something he just learned a few days ago. When we got back last night, he had (sort of) learned to run, which basically means that our lives as we know them are officially over.

Overall? The trip was absolutely worth it. It was a small thing, really, in the scheme of life — but for a few days, we got to feel like our old selves again.*

*Minus the fit abs, the tolerance for wasted time, and the ability to stay up past 11.

Goodnight, Playground.

Do your little ones have a favorite playground, rec center, or pub? (Kidding. Okay Leo loves Zeitgeist. They have 48 different milks on tap). In all seriousness: the playground pictured above might not be Leo's fave, but it's definitely mine. There's sand, but only in the contained sandbox (why does this matter? Because some days, I just don't want to have to bathe him after we play. So I steer clear of said box.) In addition: it's got tons of great stuff for little kiddies, and there are rarely bigger kiddies to mow the little kiddies down. Add in spongey floors and small plastic slides, and it's love at first play.*

This is going to be a short week for me here at Mommyproof because I am treating tomorrow (Friday!) like a vacation. I hope you all have great weekends, but before you go – check out this truly brilliant adaptation of Goodnight Moon.** Read it while sipping an artisanal coffee. And maybe throw in a sustainable scone. You won't regret it.

xo,
Rebecca

*Can I seriously, seriously ask something, and I hope all of you civic-minded people are listening? Why, oh why don't all playgrounds have lights that can pop on once it gets dark? I get that we don't want vagrants and the cast of Oliver there at all hours. But 5:30? On a winter weekday? I don't know about you, but I am not ready to take my wee one home just yet. Lights. One extra hour. I'll pay!

**Leo's most favorite-est book. We've had to keep it going by creating an extended version. This has included "Goodnight Obama, and goodnight Mama. Goodnight Mommy, and goodnight Romney." Ethan also said something about "goodnight snails," but that was weird.

The Milk Trick

The funniest thing happened this week. Leo finally caught on to the sign for "milk" (squeezing your hand like you're milking a cow, of course — isn't American Sign Language pleasantly straightforward?!) and started doing it with both hands. The only problem? He thinks it's a game or a neat-o trick, like clapping or waving. He starts "milking" over and over again, cracking up as he does it (probably because we get so unnecessarily excited to see him do it)... but I don't think he wants milk at all. In fact, I'm not sure that he really knows that it means milk. I think he knows it means "milk," the word — but not the white liquid gold that comes out of his bottle. Or maybe he does know, and this is just a little joke he's playing on us. I wouldn't put it past him.

Have you taught your little ones sign language? How'd it go?

Music, and More

I'm a little behind today (what's new?) because I fell asleep last night not feeling so great and, though I woke up feeling better than I thought I would (I was imagining myself in a SARS type of situation), I still felt kind of ick. So I gave myself a (small) pass to take a nap this morning instead of hitting the ground running. I feel like every once and a while, I just have one of these days where I can't keep the hamster wheel turning. Wake up with the sun (and The Bear), get him (and myself) washed, dressed, fed, out the door. Get email checked, chores completed, writing accomplished, groceries bought, exercise...exercised, etc, etc. By the time 9:30pm rolls around, I'm near the end of my proverbial rope. Then I rush myself into bed so that I don't wake up even more tired the next day. Sound familiar?!

I did manage to take a short run yesterday which was lovely on several accounts. It was a gorgeous sunny day in San Francisco and I took a couple of snapshots of my hood and reminded myself that I'm a lucky, lucky gal to live in such a striking city. Then I took Leo to his first ever "Music Together" class, which was super fun for me, but Leo looked like he had literally been deposited in the greatest place on the planet. He seriously adored every second of it. His expression (see photo above) was one of rapt attention FOR FORTY-FIVE MINUTES. Needless to say, that's kind of unheard of. He just sat there staring at the guitar-playing teacher like he was a god (a god who makes "moo" noises and clucks like a chicken). It was truly mind-bending.

Until tomorrow!

Post Thanksgiving Wrap-up

Source: instagram.com via Rebecca on Pinterest

Source: instagram.com via Rebecca on Pinterest

Source: instagram.com via Rebecca on Pinterest

Source: instagram.com via Rebecca on Pinterest

How were your Thanksgivings?! Did you eat so much pie you felt sicker than a dog afterwards? (I actually managed — uncharacteristically — to not overeat this Turkey Day, thanks to my one-year-old who kept me so busy during the dinner, I didn't have time to get seconds). Note to self: babies don't like long meals. They're more the in-and-out types. It's amazing to think about how quickly Thanksgiving dinner could get eaten if everyone had an under-two-year-old with them. You could scarf down that stuffing in about 80 seconds flat and call it a night.

The long weekend was exhausting but a lot of fun, and I finally jumped on the Instagram bandwagon and took the above pics during a stint around Bernal Hill with Leo in the jogging stroller. There are these super-neato mazes made of rocks that we stopped and looked at, along with a bunch of other families. Leo started messing with a little girl's creation, and I had one of those parenting choke moments when I didn't know whether to apologize and put the rock back where she wanted it, pick up Leo and drag him off, or simply explain to her that he was just checking out her maze and that we wouldn't *ruin* it (she kept using the word ruin over and over, as in "he's ruining it! he's ruining it!". Her mom looked on silently but didn't give me an indication of whether or not she, too, thought my baby was ruining the creation. Is there a mom code for this kind of stuff? How do you know when the other parent is pissed that your kid is screwing with their kid's random rock art, or when they're just thinking about Breaking Bad? Help!)

PHOTO CAPTION: Instagram makes your snapshots look vintage-y cool. Yeah, you already knew that.

How Many Do You Want?

This is a completely personal question that I don't expect you to answer out loud (unless you want to, in which case I'm all ears): how many kids do you want? Zero? Two? Seven? I want seven... not. Um, yeah, Maria von Trapp is the bomb, but those kids were already potty-trained by the time she got them!

First off, this goes without saying, but life doesn't always work out the way we all want it to. We're lucky to have healthy, happy kids (if we want them) and lucky to have the choice to not have them if we don't. But taking all of those "real life" factors like fertility and timing out of the equation (not to mention overpopulation and expense of raising kids in 2012), and speaking completely hypothetically – do you envision yourself a calm family of three? A raucous, lively family of five? I've *heard* that four is the new three. And it does seem like three is the new two. BUT DON'T PEOPLE REALIZE THAT THREE KIDS WILL TAKE UP THE ENTIRE BACK SEAT? And, as a lovely friend and supermom of three recently pointed out to me... A FAMILY OF FIVE CAN'T RIDE TOGETHER IN A NYC TAXI (unless it's of the van variety). I don't even know what you'd do on an airplane and I kind of never want to find out. Another wise friend informed me that if you think subsequent kids are going to entertain the first ones (or vice versa), you might want to consider that that's a big lie.

After yesterday's post about the eternal struggle to juggle, a few readers commented that managing one child is a piece of cake compared to two or more. Apparently, the "free time" I have now is way more than I'll ever get if/when I have a second munchkin. I guess I'd better go appreciate it.

xo,
Rebecca

PHOTO CAPTION: Leo inspecting the underside of the wagon at the zoo.

How do you juggle it all?

Ethan and I keep finding ourselves in conversation deja vu: How do we juggle Baby, our careers, exercise, sleep, chores, social commitments, and life "stuff" — all without completely sacrificing our own sanity (and maybe even finding a few precious minutes for relaxation, or seeing an edifying film like Breaking Dawn)?

Before we have kids, we prepare and prepare for Baby's needs — but what about our own? No one teaches you how to get your life organized and running like a well-oiled machine so that you can put in those extra hours at work, get your kid to swim class, find time to take that (quick) run, and go on a "date night" — all while taking good care of yourself and not snapping at your husband, wife, or (worse) your baby.

I know there's that saying about how you can't prioritize family, work, and your social life all at once (or is it family, work, and your health? I forget) but I'm not willing to accept that just yet. Sure, we can't all literally "have it all" — if you work a 100-hour week, chances are you don't have rock-hard abs and oodles of time to take your daughter to the playground. But can we achieve some amount of balance if we make the right compromises and adjustments? And is an ongoing conversation the only way to make it happen, by constantly reevaluating, trial and error, and a lot of "I'm gonna go to the gym — you take the kids this time" negotiating?*

How do you do it?

*Has anyone else noticed that it's way more enjoyable — even highly entertaining — to do baby tasks together with your significant other (like bath time, the bedtime routine, the playground), and yet, that's entirely less efficient than having one of you bathe the baby while the other makes dinner? Sometimes I hate being an adult 'cause it makes me think of stuff like this. I'd rather just be impractical. It'd be a lot more fun.

Friday Round-up (or WHAT. I. LEARNED.)

What I learned this week:

1) Being busy is good, but being so busy that you have to schedule brushing your teeth is not.

2) You can't do everything. You just can't. (But you deserve to congratulate yourself for crossing one item off your to-do list. Even if it was just "buy Kleenex.")

3) Moms move at warp speed, and the rest of the world does not. The next time you're in a meeting and the other people are chit chatting about pie, while you watch the minutes (and your free time) ticking away, remind yourself that you are not alone. (You may be technically alone in that moment. But other moms commiserate).

Happy weekend! And thanks for reading. I am totally flattered, overwhelmed and verklempt by how many people keep pinging (or, like, real life telling) me that they're checking in on Mommyproof. It means a lot. Now go "like" my fan page (kidding. Except not here's the link).

xo,
Rebecca

PHOTO CAPTION: That is a dinosaur. Now that I'm the mom of a toddler boy, I need to learn the diff between stegosaurus and you know, that other one.

Least Stressed Mom on the Block

I made it to page sixty of Harvey Karp's "Happiest Toddler on the Block," and I think I get the general gist: when your toddler freaks out, you need to sympathize by listening, letting him "talk first" (ie. scream, kick his legs, yell, point), then repeat what he's upset about. But you don't do it in a calm voice; instead, you take on some of his upset tone (even stomping your feet or gesticulating to get your point across — whatever works). And you have to speak in Toddler-ese, which Karp describes as "your little caveman's native tongue." Reasoning, rationalizing, explaining why we need to share — none of that's going to cut it. Baby wants the ball? You say, "Leo wants ball! Ball! Ball! Ball!" That's supposed to get his attention long enough to calm him down. Only then can you distract him with a new toy or explain why sharing is cool.

Karp's premise is that toddlers aren't little adults, so we shouldn't treat them as such. They're actually live cavemen. They're primitive, and the right sides of their brains (which are already larger than the rational left sides) totally take over when they're angry or upset. Speaking in short, simple sentences is the only way to get through to them. And acknowledging that you understand why they're upset by repeating their frustration back to them is apparently the key to raising a healthy child with high self-esteem who feels that his complaints/fears/concerns have been heard.

This all sounds peachy. But the last couple of times I've tried it (like when Leo was mad in his car seat and I yelled, while driving, "Leo want out! Leo want out. Out! Out! Out! Out") I'm not sure that it really worked (and it almost definitely made him yell louder). Can Karp's theory work on a baby this young (he claims it can)? Have any of you ever tried it? 

PHOTO CAPTION: Leo's second hair cut. Mommy messed up and let them cut the curls off the back. Leo, would you please grow your curls back right away so I'm not sad?

Bathtub Shopping 101

These days, "bath time" really only means one thing to me: plopping Leo in his whale-shaped tub and getting out his blue rubber ducky (we actually call it a "schnucky," not to be confused with the authentic yellow ducky). I haven't taken a bath at home in years, since I've never had a bathtub decent enough (or truly clean enough!) to climb into. We'll have space for one in our new place, though, so I've been looking around, trying to get a read on the "tub" scene. The short of it? There isn't really much of a tub scene here in SF. Most showrooms have, like, two on the floor because there just isn't room. And you can scout the nets all day long, but do you really want to order a bath tub you've never sat in? That sounds like one of things where everyone's like, "it'll be fine," but then you end up with a giant hideous white monstrosity that you can't return.

All of this led me to one of the most simultaneously fantastic and frightening places to exist on this side of the Mason Dixon: Tubz. That's right, with a "z" (classy). I drove all the way to Fremont (no, I don't know where that is, either) to check out a warehouse that claimed to have 400 bath tubs on display... and, in case you were wondering, that claim is not a lie (not that I counted). I even got to go in the "back room" (ie. the stock room, but "back room" sounds much sketchier and more fun) to see a tub that was wrapped up for a customer,* and I sneaked a photo of the bathtubs on those metal racks wrapped up like eggs in cartons. That last picture is a shot of the bathtub we're interested in, which they actually had on the floor (yes! 2-hour total car ride was worth it!) Would I recommend Tubz? Sort of. Do I hope I never have to go back? Absolutely.

*What is the point of showing somebody a tub wrapped in plastic that can't be unwrapped? The sales guy was so excited, though. "You can't really see it. But it's in there!" I played along.

PHOTO CAPTION: Isn't the Tubz sign sophisticated?