It's not easy being green

No, I'm not talking about these (although green jeans are pretty rad).

One of my goals with this blog is to learn more about how to live greenly and discover (and compare and contrast—since, yes, this is ninth grade English class) green and eco products. So far, we've switched out a bunch of our cleaning products to Seventh Generation brand—as we have with our diapers—but that's been the extent of it.

Once a week, I'll check out a new green blog and look for products that seem like must-haves (or at least "interestings.") Next week: The Honest Company. Is it like Honest Tea? Because Ethan loves that stuff.

On a (slightly) related note, I was at Day One in San Francisco the other day and spied the ultimate Bay Area toy: a green recycle truck. If I were into twitter hashtagging, which I'm not because I kind of don't really understand it, I would start one called #getemyoung.

A Month of One

My baby's first birthday is coming up in just a week, and I can't believe it. When I first found out I was pregnant, I never in a million years would have thought that anyone would say to me, "the first year will go by in a flash" – perhaps because, as much as you hear people say "it all goes by so fast," most parents make the initial few newborn months sound interminable (and joy-filled, of course. Just... interminable first. Then joy-filled).

Today was a friend's baby's first birthday party, and the cupcakes, decor, and music were all big hits with the under-3 set. When we arrived at the party, I talked briefly with my friend about how just a year ago we were in the hospital giving birth. She sounded remotely nostalgic, if you can say that about labor, and though I nodded my head, I didn't say out loud what I was really thinking—that what I remember most about our stay at the hospital was that obnoxious and incredibly tight band they wrap around your already ridiculously stretched and contracting midsection that pretty much makes what-might-have-been-bearable-pain-sans-epidural nearly impossible to endure. That band was most definitely designed by someone who has never been in labor. Probably a man.

In all seriousness, I do have fond memories of the hospital where wee one was born—most of them memories from after his birth, once everything had gone relatively smoothly and I had an actual baby to show for my efforts. The truth, however, is that labor and giving birth still feels a bit like a movie that happened to someone else, not me. Even the first moments of seeing my baby and holding him... I have to look back at the photos to confirm that it was really him, the baby I now know and love and adore. Oh, I'll say to myself as I look at those pictures from his first day and recognize his little frown-y face (the one he still makes when he's mad), that was you. I'll then smile to myself. We didn't really know each other then, but we do now. Oh, yes. We do now.

PHOTO CAPTION: First birthdays (we've had two in a row now, so I've done my research) seem to include one or more of the following: a) cupcakes—homemade at both parties. Double impressive! b) cute little cakes for the babies to smash and c) parents who look ecstatic, yet frankly surprised they made it this far. The party today was totally adorbs. Ours might not be quite so put-together, given that we still need to find some basics like, ahem, a table. Wish us luck.

PHOTO CAPTION 2: Don't those cupcakes looks divine? They tasted even better. I wish I had one right now.

Guys with Kids

Why can't shows about parenting be, well, better? Check out my review of the very un-good Guys with Kids here. Jimmy Fallon, I think you need to rent a kid for a week. I'm just sayin'.

Parenting 101

This is a great article on modern parenting that can be summed up like this: "If, at the end of the day, your kid(s) are alive, not screaming (or even if they are...) and you are alive and not screaming (or even if you are...), it's all good." Those are my words. The author says it even better.

PHOTO CAPTION: Boo dada 0[9q2uroiajofi910#(*Q(@). Translation: "But Mommy, yogurt is so much more fun to play with than to eat."

The Mythical Momshell

Ever since I became a mom (all eleven months ago), I’ve started paying attention to the “wars.” The Mommy Wars, the Nanny Wars, and now (worst of all), the Body Wars. I wrote an essay here about the post-pregnancy belly a couple of weeks ago, not knowing that ex-US Weekly editor Janice Min would tackle the very topic in a recent New York Times piece titled “Can a Mom Get a Break?” Min bemoans the fact that moms in 2012 are caught in an incredibly unfair battle of the bulge. Did you look like Heidi Klum before having children? No? That’s O.K. But if you don’t look like a supermodel after having children, maybe you just aren’t trying hard enough.

Yes, it’s ridiculous that Min is taking this stance when she (possibly singlehandedly) “invented the sport of celebrity baby-bump watching” and put stars on the cover of her mag months (or even weeks) post-partum with totally flat mid-sections. Yes, she’s probably very (or at least slightly) hypocritical, and yes, that makes her almost as annoying as those stars with the flat stomachs who seem to defy nature (because no amount of Pilates will make your belly look like that three weeks after giving birth, unless you are a droid).

Does Min still have a point? Totally. But you know what I think? I think that Min is making at least one wrong assumption when she says: I’ve noticed an unconscious reflexive once-over from others’ eyes, looking to see if I’m “back” to my old body or how my weight is faring. In the way men can’t help but check out a woman’s cleavage, women glance repeatedly at my midsection.

Janice, I have something to tell you, and I thinkhope you’re going to like it. Those other new moms glancing at your mid-section? They aren’t doing it to judge you. They’re doing it because, like you, they’re caught in the same “physical netherworld” you reference, inhabiting bodies they hardly recognize anymore—lives they hardly recognize anymore—and they’re looking at your middle, not because they want to see if you’re experiencing the same confusing alien-body-takeover they are… but because they want to see if you’re experiencing the same confusing alien-body-takeover they are! And if they see that you are? They’re secretly thinking, “Thank God—somebody else understands!”

My wee one recently started swim class every Saturday, which mostly involves him looking terrified-slash-momentarily-pleased while we pretend he knows what’s happening. I was nervous for the first class, not feeling totally “back to normal” or ready to don a swim suit, even as I was dying to take Baby swimming. Swim class was (for lack of a better metaphor) a great splash of cold (though in this case, heated pool warm) water in the face. You know why? Every single mom had on a one-piece bathing suit. Every single mom looked glowy happy, but slightly worse for wear. Not a single mom was judging any of the others. And as soon as I got in the water and saw how much my kid loved (okay, hated, but would soon love) swimming? I wasn’t judging me, either.

Mom Musings

Who are we now that we're moms? Are we still ourselves, only slightly more tired versions? Are we different people entirely? Can we (should we) still spend as much time thinking about all the things we used to think about {I'm referring to you, bad tv}? 

So far, I'm finding that being a "mom" means paring everything down. I recently told a friend that all my time these days feels borrowed. It's not a bad thing—it just means that I'm writing this, for example, while standing at my dining table, listening to my baby play in the other room (safely) while I don't make my presence known, lest he cry out for me. Yet, I'm not sitting down, because I figure I'll be jumping up in less than thirty seconds, give or take. (For the record, I don't think dads feel nearly as much like this. My husband (endearingly) still takes a good two minutes to put on his shoes. He's amazed when I have the diaper bag messily prepared, yet prepared, in the time it takes him to brush his teeth).

Conclusion? Mom = genius.

PHOTO CAPTION: I still love my jeans with the three rips in them. The ones about which my friend once said, "The 80's called. They want their jeans back."

First Birthdays

We went to our baby's BFF's first birthday party today (they met on the playground 8 months ago and have been like *this* ever since). I can't believe it's been almost a year—our wee one's birthday is coming up in just a few weeks. 

The sweet treats at the party today were homemade, but (shockingly) I think we'll be going with cupcakes from Mission Minis for our party, since there's about a zero point two percent chance I actually bake anything.

Funny going to a birthday party where the birthday boy has no clue what's going on and is probably thinking, "I wanna take a nap."

Flying with my toddler is crazy

My husband I are probably certifiable. No, we aren't dreaming up conspiracy theories or plotting a twelve-point strategy for our 11-month-old's college admission (not yet, anyway). But we are considering the impossible: taking aforementioned baby on a 14-hour flight to New Zealand when he's a mere 1.5 years old. 

To quote Corinne Purtill in her fab essay, Flying with my toddler is easy (yes, that's meant to be tongue-in-cheek): I’m nervous about this flight. She’s a full-blown toddler now, 23 pounds of raw id and energy. She’s mobile, aware of her surroundings, expects multiple hours of unleashed outdoor time each day and is about as big as she can get without having her own seat (airlines require purchase of a separate seat for children at age 2). The only difference between toddlers and uncaged ferrets is that one is bigger and, astoundingly, allowed to roam untethered in the cabin of a passenger plane.

Flying with a tiny child is actually not that hard, as long as you do not relax for a second and maintain the alertness of a ninja for 12 hours straight. ... Hungry? Here’s a Cheerio. Thinking about punching that seat? Here, let’s play patty cake. Bored? You ever seen a seat belt go clickety-clack? Well, let me blow your mind.

A million questions zoom through our sleep-deprived (okay, let's be fair, since Baby sleeps through the night now: sleep-in deprived) minds as we contemplate this journey across the sea. Will he sit still for longer than 30 seconds without grabbing the flight attendant-the lady next to him-my hair-his foot-the drink cart-the flight attendant? Will he sleep on the plane at all? Will he desecrate the plane floor like he does routinely (but cutely) in restaurants? Will the other passengers hate us? Will he be so bored out of his mind he resorts to screaming for pure pleasure? Will the other passengers hate us? Whenever I bring up this topic with friends, those who don't have kids usually pull out the three B's: "Bring baby benadryl." Those with kids? In that trying-to-be-helpful tone: "Maybe the grandparents could come out and watch him....?"

I don't know whether or not we'll dare to make the trip. If we do, I plan to document every minute for a very long, very boring memoir that I will force you to read.

The Trouble with Napping Is

Napping is an incredible thing. What, I ask you, what would we do if our babies (brace yourself for this one) didn't take naps? My mom has informed me more than once that when I turned two, I declared that I would no longer nap. And guess what? I no longer did. Not ever again. Not once.

I never understood why my nap protest was such a big deal until now. The hours my eleven-month-old sleeps during the day are magical. Don't get me wrong, I love every minute of his raucous, let-me-climb-all-over-the-sofa-and-grab-every-hazardous-item-in-sight-not-to-mention-stick-my-finger-in-every-electric-socket wakefulness. But nothing, and I mean nothing, would ever get done without those naps (not to mention the fact that if he didn't doze during the day, he'd most definitely crumple into a sad little pile of tears and mush by 5pm).

During a recent BBQ-slash-pool-party that my husband and I attended for his work, which happened to take place smack dab in the middle of wee one's afternoon nap time, I strollered my baby for a full hour, round and around the pool, hoping against hope that he'd fall asleep, even though he generally refuses to pass out anywhere except his crib (usually a blessing, but other times, not so much). By the end of the endless loop, my baby was asleep, and I was mildly inebriated from the margarita mix that I sipped as I circled (hello, that's why we bought the City Mini cup holder add-on).

A mere twenty minutes later, Baby was awakened by an overly-lively coworker. I just smiled and said in a margarita-induced haze, "Oh, that's okay!" while secretly wanting to scream, "WOULD IT BE EVEN REMOTELY ACCEPTABLE IF I CAME OVER TO YOUR HOUSE AND WOKE YOU AT 2am!" but, at the risk of sounding like a lunatic, I refrained.

PHOTO CAPTION: The calm before the (napless) storm.