The Honest-to-God Truth About Having Kids (That Nobody Else Will Tell You)

I've been thinking a lot lately about whether or not it's good (or bad, or in-between) for parents to be completely honest with parents-to-be or those-considering-the-parental-lifestyle. I've been thinking about this partly because I try to be super duper honest on this here blog, and also because I, myself, feel slightly shocked by some of the stuff I've experienced since getting pregnant with Wee One, and I wonder if it would have been better for me to know.

I also wonder if it's possible that being kept slightly in the dark isn't such a bad thing. I'm pretty sure I've scared a few readers, which was not my intention (I promise!) and I KNOW FOR A FACT that I scared my friend "Friend" the other day after our hot yoga class when I showed her my stomach and she couldn't stop her eyes from TOTALLY WIDENING UNNATURALLY as she said, "Whoa. It really got... stretched!" This was after I was thinking it was really improving. Ah, the irony.

Anyway -- I'm pretty sure that "everything in moderation," which is basically my motto for chocolate, life, and Muppets videos that I show my toddler, works here, too. It's good for moms-to-be to know that labor is hard (obvi). It's good for them to have an inkling that breastfeeding might be a challenge. It's good for them to know that work-life balance isn't easy. Is it good for them to know that breastfeeding can sometimes be so painful in the beginning that you are thisclose to feeding your child ANYTHING ELSE even coconut milk? Um... maybe not. Because all of the things that were SO FREAKING HARD BUT I WOULD STILL DO AGAIN? I got through them. I made it out the other side and I would turn around and do them for a second time with child #2. So it's not like knowing anything would have stopped me the first time or stop me now.

There's just one exception, and that's pumping. I HATE PUMPING MORE THAN I HATE CAMPING. OR INTOLERANT PEOPLE. Trying to jump back into a totally full-time job while pumping away in a window-less room three times a freaking day for nearly 45 minutes each time, round-trip, while I just got more and more behind on work and my boobs got more and more ANGRY AT ME and I knew that if I were just breastfeeding I would actually get more than a friggin' trickle of milk was genuinely terrible and made me cry daily. It seems especially cruel to me that just after you leave your wee babe for the first time, you are thrust back into a stressful work environment where you THEN must sit by yourself THINKING ABOUT YOUR BABY SO THAT YOU GENERATE MORE MILK (this is a real thing I swear!) and then sobbing the shit all over your laptop when you get about a shot glass' worth. I would avoid pumping at an office again, if I could. I know I sound dramatic. But I think some of those pumping sessions were some of my darkest moments ever! Do I need therapy for this?!)

Oh geez. Now you're just dreading pumping. Which is why being honest might prepare you — but will it help you? I think it's time to end this post. Proposal: tomorrow I will be annoyingly honest about how AMAZEBALLS parenting is (because it really, truly is).

xox,

Rebecca

PS: About this blog post title. I lied -- lots of people will tell you lots of stuff about parenting, so much so that you'll be all TMI! TMI! I don't know; it just sounded catchy.

Is Your Pre-Baby Self Gone Forever? (Please Advise).

This post by Renegade Mothering that I discovered over the weekend is a brutally honest (and brutally beautiful) essay on becoming a mother, and how it's exactly like becoming a homeowner or a pet owner or a doctor or a writer. Except not at all. Because those roles don't bring a permanence and a responsibility and a kind of fear that can cripple you and awe you at the same time (if you really, really love your iguana, then maybe you fall into that category, too. Iguanas are awesome, yo).

Most of the commenters on the post were so grateful that somebody addressed the hardships and the shock and the "loss" that comes with having a baby. And I thought the essay was superb and poignant, and, yes, I completely related. No amount of stroller shopping can prepare you for the change — one that seemingly happens overnight, forget those long nine months — that slaps you in the face (and elsewhere, too!) after your wee babe enters the world. It's huge. It's scary as shit. And it's forever.

The author focuses a lot on those first few months after the baby arrives, which are admittedly really, really hard. For me, though, that time after Leo arrived, when I was sleep-deprived and up half the night breastfeeding and happy just to make it to the shower, things were so SIMPLE — so basic — and life was so streamlined that I was able to make it through without feeling as much of a sense of sadness or devastation as I thought I would. My expectations for my life while I had an infant baby were so low, that the only things on my agenda each day were "feed baby. Feed self. Shower. Get baby to sleep. Get self to sleep. Take one 45-minute walk with baby in the stroller, up and down the San Francisco hills, to try to burn off some of the baby weight. Watch a whole lot of bad TV." That was pretty much it. It felt like a time suspended OUT of time, and I enjoyed a lot of it for exactly what it was: survival, and snuggling with my little one.

Life SINCE then has been much harder. The older your child gets, the more you hunger for some of the independence and time and freedom you once had. For me, I've felt the loss of my "self" a lot more ever since my little one turned one. Because I expect I can be my old self AND my new self. Because I'm not really a "new" mom anymore, so can't keep saying that I am. Because reality has really, really set in, and I know that if I want to write or work out or further my career, I have to figure out how to do that while also playing Peek-a-boo.

Reading Renegade Mothering's post also made me realize something else, and (drumroll) it's this: I don't mourn the loss of my pre-pregnancy body because I'm superficial or shallow. I don't mourn it because I think I won't love myself or others won't love me if I have more imperfections than I had pre-baby. I mourn it because it's a fuckin' SYMBOL of the woman I used to be. The woman I was for 33 years before my little one arrived. Moms take a lot of beatings when they have kids. It feels like a (small) injustice that our bodies go all haywire, as well. And so, when I absentmindedly squeeze that tummy pooch in hopes I can massage it away, maybe that's just my little way of acknowledging, and learning to accept, that life has changed. For the better? Absolutely. That doesn't mean it's not a total, mindblowing culture shock.

xo,

Rebecca

It's Official

Ethan and I both went to bed at 10:15 last night. And I didn't even have to forcibly tuck him under the covers and shut the lights off or handcuff him to the bed or drug him.* We were both, well, tired. And so I think it's official: we are capable of organically going to bed earlier. And I say "organic" because I mean that it just happens (not every night, but some nights) without either of us even talking about it like it's some big thing. Not a big thing? I think that means it just is.**

I'm really looking forward to the weekend because we have a bunch of one-year-old birthday parties, which you can never get enough of, and we have Leo's "gym" class, which he can never get enough of.

Happy weekends, everyone!

xox,

Rebecca

*Why would I have handcuffs or drugs? I don't have handcuffs or drugs.

**Two years ago? We would have patted ourselves on our backs for "going to bed so freaking early"! Now? It's just survival.

The Mommy Wars, Continued

Guess what. Apparently, we're in a civil war. We (and by "we," I mean moms) are still freaking fighting about whether or not it's better to stay home with our kids or better to go to work. Seriously? We're still fighting about this? In 2013? After we've pretty much PROVEN SCIENTIFICALLY that moms who want to work should work, moms who want to stay home should stay home, moms who want to work part-time should work part-time and dads should consider these options just as actively as moms? We're still battling this one out, even though other moms are exactly the people we should be ganging up WITH to fight EVERYBODY ELSE for guaranteed maternity leaves and better, more affordable childcare for moms across the country? Even though other moms can and should understand how hard it is to attempt to "have it all" and are therefore the single best resource we can all tap into to continue to break through that glass ceiling and help moms enjoy the freshman years of parenting rather than spending them writhing around in a hole of guilt, self-doubt, and "what ifs"? 

One popular mom blogger wrote about the issue here, and in case you don't have time to flip to her page and read her entire essay, I'll give you the most relevant part:

"If every woman made the same decision, how would my children learn that sometimes motherhood looks like going to work to put food on the table or stay sane or share your gifts or because you want to work and you’ve earned that right. And that other times motherhood looks like staying home for all of the exact same reasons."

The blogger basically concludes that moms lash out at each other's choices because they're-we're inherently a little bit conflicted (or perhaps even resentful) about their-our own. Nobody except maybe Halle Berry* or (insert other random celebrity here) can be a stay-at-home-mom who also has the ideal career, supports her whole family, is fulfilled by her work and fulfilled by parenting and who never misses a school bake sale. It's not realistic — and so we get defensive. We judge. We worry about what we're missing or not giving our kids or not giving ourselves. Guess what: that woman "on the other side," who has the high-powered job or gets to chaperone every school field trip? She feels the exact same way you do.

*I have no idea how Halle Berry manages her work-life balance. She hasn't gone into too much detail with me when we've had lunch.

xox,

Rebecca

I'm Not F'in Sorry And You Shouldn't Be, Either

I thought my New Year's Resolution of not saying "sorry" for a year was going to be excruciatingly hard. Harder than if I were to abstain from TV for a year (I mean, I'm not a television junkie but come on. That would be torture) or go forgo my other favorite activity, showering. (Please don't make me go camping. Please). Amazetown-ly, it hasn't even been one-ninth as hard as I thought.

It's been a month so far, and yes, I've said "sorry" a smattering of times, but that's nothing compared to how much I used to sprinkle sorry's throughout my day. Here's where I slipped up. (There are so few of them, I can count them on one hand. Huzzah!) 

1) The post office. I told Leo he had to hold my hand "the way that little boy over there is holding his mommy's hand." Little Boy Over There looked up at me with an indignant scowl and said, "This isn't my mommy!" Penitent, I quickly spat back, "Oh! I'm sorry!" (Does apologizing to a five-year-old even count? I'm going to go with no.) 

2) The front door. Our nanny, who had come over to babysit Leo for the evening, had been standing outside for several minutes in the cold because I hadn't heard the doorbell ring. I barely even hesitated on this one. "Sorry!" (If you're a parent, and you have a babysitter or nanny you rely on, you'll do or say anything to make them happy. ANY-THING).

3) On the phone with Air New Zealand. Let's just cut to the chase: I couldn't understand a word the (extremely nice and patient) customer service rep was saying. I think I said, "I'm sorry?" about a hundred times. (Bridging the telephone-accent gap? I think "sorry" is appropriate here).

4) I dreamed that I actually did something really bad (it's foggy in my mind now, which is just code for "I can't tell you what the dream was about because then you will start analyzing what it means and I don't want you to do that.") I remember, in the dream, being very worried and concerned about how I was going to apologize for what I'd done without saying "sorry." Needless to say, I woke up and was pretty happy that I hadn't actually done anything I needed to apologize for. (Conclusion: infractions committed in dreams do not require me to break my resolution. Whew.)

That's it! I've started saying "excuse me" EXCLUSIVELY for bump-in situations. I NEVER say "sorry" to Ethan anymore (and it feels greeeat!). I was late to visit my friend the other night because my cab stood me up, but instead of texting, "I'm so sorry!", I just explained what was happening and employed a frowny-face. (Emoticons: the new "sorry" stand-in? Perhaps).

I haven't put my finger on exactly why I've been more successful with this experiment than I initially expected, but I think motherhood has a lot to do with it. As moms, we're so busy and so focused on changing a diaper while writing an essay or running a board meeting — we just don't have bandwidth to be sorry anymore. And that's a gooood thing. (Here's a great essay on the topic that I totally related to. I am no longer sorry, Jezebel! No longer!)

xox,

Rebecca

PHOTO CAPTION: Not my Vespa. I would never ride a Vespa because I'm majorly afraid of head injury. I love that color, though. I could live in that color.

The Secret Life of the American Toddler

Is it just me, or does everyone have that one, wiser parent friend from whom you get all of your recommendations (on products, on sleep training, on how to stay calm in the face of a spiking fever or an exploding diaper)? I have such a friend, and she is fabulous, and I pretty much copy most of her purchases and techniques because she knows everything. Thanks, Victoria, and thanks for the tip on the learning tower (pictured above) — Leo used to spend a lot of time with his arms in the air, following me around the kitchen, wanting to come "up." Now he can stand next to me while I cook, and if I'm lucky, he'll happily play with a salt shaker for a good 13.7 minutes (caveat: move away the knives, and supervise the kiddo... it's definitely possible to fall from this contraption).

On an unrelated note: this blog is about parenting, and not specifically my kid (and it's definitely not a journal — thank God! Who would want to read that? "Dear Diary, today I tried to distract my child with a poor rendition of Elton John's "Rocket Man" while I shoveled yogurt in his mouth. Then we went to the playground. The end.") But I thought it might be nice to every so often make a note of what my little one is up to, so maybe (maybe!) one day I can look back and actually remember what his hobbies were (you know — like scavenging for milk and organizing the recycle bin).

Here's what Leo's up to this month:

1) Using his toothbrush to brush the teeth of his rocking horse (naturally).
2) Lining up his shoes and sticking his feet in the general direction of them in hopes they will magically appear on his feet (good technique).
3) Pulling me towards him as he sits in the grocery cart, opening his mouth wide, saying "ah", and then "kissing me" on the cheek, openmouthed (sometimes, he burps in between the "ah" and the "kiss." Those besos are extra special).

What are your kids into these days (and what hilarious things are they saying)?! Tell me so I can cute over them.

xo,

Rebecca

PS: The title of this blog post has about zero to do with this post. You try coming up with witty AND relevant titles every day. It's hard, dude. It's hard.

The Momshell, Revisited

This photo of this reality star that I know nothing about because I make a point of categorically boycotting celebrities who do not actually act, sing, dance, or at least host something has been annoying me all weekend.

I get it: we read gossip mags for the escapism. For the few glorious moments of "what would life be like if...". For the fashion and the trends and for the downright fun of thinking about something other than diapers, spreadsheets, and what we're going to make for dinner tonight. I fully buy into the gossip mag phenomenon and think that with the right attitude (or glass of Pinot), flipping through one of these babies can be a really enjoyable activity.

Except when I see pictures like the above. And that's where I draw the line. Where I get all uppity and "no you didn't" because honestly? THIS PICTURE IS JUST GOING TO MAKE LIKE TEN MILLION MOMS FEEL BAD. MAYBE MORE. I can deal with how gorgeous Jessica Alba is at the Oscars or how hot Gwyneth Paltrow looks in a bikini. I think moms should get glammed up and flaunt their fabulousness as much as their non-mom counterparts! But this "let me push my five-week old baby in the stroller while I show off my perfect calves (made perfect-er by the height of my heels), my non-existent post-baby pooch and my TEENY TINY LEATHER SKIRT (who wears that even if they DON'T have a newborn, I ask you?)" is just a virtual slap in the face to all the new moms out there glued to their couches breastfeeding a five-week old with dreams of making it to the shower... one day.

Let's get realistic about this photo. Here are a couple of facts: 1) There is no way (and I mean No. Freaking. Way) this person walked more than two feet in those shoes. Like, I can guarantee you that she walked across that parking lot — maybe not even ACROSS, possibly just one or two parking spots-worth — and then sat down. Like on a bench. Or at the table at a lovely outdoor bistro. Where somebody else held her baby the whole time. Or took said baby home! 2). There is no way (and I mean No. Freaking. Way) she drove in those shoes, either. Definitely not with a baby screaming in the back, and on no sleep. Her driver drove her, obvi! 3) She's wearing two pairs of Spanx. I promise. 4) She's either smiling like that because she's thinking "Wow, this whole baby thing isn't so bad when you've got ten nannies!" OR it's a smile of desperation because she's plotting her escape. From the world. (That open-mouthed smile does look a little deranged... no?) 4) There's a good chance there's no actual baby in that stroller. 5) That ugly (I mean... expensive) shirt is actually a newfangled nursing bra. And the leather skirt is great for wicking off spit-up (it's actually pleather, so you just use a baby wipe).

I'm not saying you have to wear mom jeans now (God forbid). These two lovely ladies (here and here) are my mommy fashion idols (the kids are pretty cute, too).

xox,

Rebecca

PHOTO CAPTION: I think I've worn heels twice since having a kid. My go-to mom shoes are some variation of these boots. Pros: they go with everything. Cons: they jingle when I walk.

I Got 99 Problems, Fish is One.

Happy Friday! Yay, it's almost the weekend – which means sleeping in, no work, lazy afternoons and/or hitting up that hot yoga class. Unless you're a parent, in which case NONE OF THE ABOVE. (But it will mean plenty of pajama play time where no one bothers to get dressed until noon. Wait, that's every day).

It's Friday, but not just any Friday (Dunt dunt DUH): Today is February 1st. As a kid, I totally hated February for obvious reasons (okay, the obvious reasons are that it meant the holidays AND my birthday were over. Naturally). Now, I kind of love Febs. It's sort of a random, low-key month where I feel like I can finally buckle down and get to work on some goals (my book, this blog, finally watching one of those "critically acclaimed" "good" shows like Homeland, seeing how long we can wait to cut the curls on the back of Leo's hair before he starts looking like a wild animal).

Last year, Ethan chose February to be his very own personal "vegetarian month." He'd been wanting to go veggie for a while — as a personal challenge? To see what it was like? To give him an excuse to buy every single tofu sausage offering at Whole Foods? — and chose February because (obvi): "It's the shortest month." Now, he's at it again, only he's going to let himself eat fish, so I guess we'll call it his pescetarian month. I am not planning to limit myself to only eating fish and will still get some daily doses of my beloved oven roasted sliced deli turkey, but I do plan to try to cook a lot of fish this month, so please ping me with any good fish recipes, because for the love of God I don't know why our fish dinners are so bland (except I do, it's because I just put olive oil and lemon on the fish and nothing else because I'm LAZY).

My own "healthy" plan for February is going to include more regular Pilates classes, some yoga if I can fit it in the old schedule, and fewer carbs + more fruits and vegetables + less dessert (I'm talking about you, almond dream ice cream bar thingies).

Happy February. Go take a nap. (Oh, yeah, going to bed earlier: another February goal. That means not just getting into bed early but then staying up late watching Girls episodes, but actually closing one's eyes).

xox,

Rebecca

How Bad Could it Be? (Rhetorical. Don't Actually Answer)

We did it. We decided — against all better judgment, against the advice of, well, those inner voices that repeatedly tell us stuff like "cookies are not vegetables," and against everything we've come to know and believe in these past 16 months since we became parents — to (wait for it) take that trip to New Zealand. With our toddler. On a plane. For 14 hours. God help us all.

I'm being seriously dramatic right now. I mean, it won't be that bad... will it? We've broken the news to several friends, and we've gotten these responses:

Friend 1: Baby Tylenol! Baby... Benadryl?... Um, I mean. Can't you just drug him?
Friend 2: Oh! It'll be so FUN! Oh, I wish I had a wedding to go to in New Zealand so that we would have to go to New Zealand! Don't worry it'll be GREAT!
Friend 3: You'll survive.
Friend 4: Is that a direct flight? For 14 hours? (quickly) Just curious.
Friend 5: (said not to me, but to another friend) Oh my god. I would not want to be them right now.

Guess what, lady? I DON'T WANT TO BE YOU. BECAUSE YOU'RE A PESSIMIST. AND MY CHILD IS GOING TO PET A SHEEP. WHAT IS YOUR CHILD GONNA DO?

New Zealand. Boom!

xox,

Rebecca

How To Be Selfless

I have no idea how. In fact, there's often a running dialogue in my head that goes something like this: "I am not selfless enough to be a mom. How did my mom do this? She must have been tougher-less wussy-less selfish-bionic-Katniss Everdeen's long-lost twin. How does that woman over there with the three under three do this? She must be scrappier-made of steel-descended from a robot-grittier than me, and she probably only needs 3 hours of sleep a night but I need eight, ideally nine!"

I know, I know. We all have those thoughts. And even though I know that I'm a good mom (and so are you!) and that being a parent and being yourself is like, literally the definition of CONFLICTED (look it up!), I still feel like I do a lot of things every single day that feel totally selfish to me, whether they actually are or not. Here are a few:

I take Leo around the hill near our house almost daily for a jog so that I can (selfishly) get in my obligatory exercise. Yes, he sees his beloved doggies (not selfish), but I usually extend the run for one lap more than he has tolerance for (selfish). I don't buy or borrow new toys for Leo just to make him happy; I pull them out to distract him during those key moments when I need to make dinner (not selfish) or check Facebook (selfish). When I let Leo watch videos on my computer, I only click on the ones I personally like and can stand to listen to forty-seven times on repeat: Muppets - CHECK. Other random cartoon characters I don't know about yet like that yo gabba thingie - NOPE. (Selfish). At story time, I steer him towards the books I enjoy (Goodnight Moon) and sometimes bury the ones I don't like under the pile (or, better yet, flip the pages quickly for him without actually reading any of it!) SELFISH!

Of course, there are all the things Ethan and I do every single day and night because we love our little muffin to muffin top pieces, and those things aren't selfish at all. And we didn't do any of those a year and a half ago, but we sure learned quick (and so did you). Our world orders have shifted. We are inherently less selfish than we used to be, before-we-had-kids. The rest is a work-in-progress.

xox,

Rebecca

Why We're All Just Waiting for the World to End

No, not in the Mayan sense. But for parents, "doomsday" is always just around the corner. I never understood this before I had a kid of my own, but as parents, WE'RE ALWAYS WAITING FOR THE OTHER SHOE TO DROP. Hell, we're just waiting for the first shoe to drop. Because those first few months, when Baby would close his eyes for a blessed half-hour (or even a couple of minutes), and the house would go quiet, and we'd get even a couple of minutes of reprieve from the constant feeding and diapering and crying that comes with a newborn, well, those precious minutes were more valuable to us than a whole lot of Apple stock or a million hits on our cat's Youtube video. And after our little one got sleep trained, and we learned what a twelve-hour stretch of "Baby sleeping peacefully in his crib" could be like, we'd do anything — and I mean just about anything — to ensure he did that the next night. And the next. And the next. 

Here's the thing: my baby sleeps through the night now — he's 16 months; if he didn't, I would actually have lost my mind by now. He naps fairly consistently. He can go on a trip and not totally lose his shit (operative word being totally). He's pretty adaptable now — and he still goes back to his old routine after we mess with it. And yet, Ethan and I are still terrified beyond all reason that he won't. We're still completely convinced and disproportionately afraid that any deviation from his schedule will cause irreparable harm to this extremely precarious routine we've cobbled together after all those sleepless nights. Why do we always think disaster is going to strike? Because we're suffering from a kind of baby-induced, sleep training-induced PTSD.* The idea of going back to the beginning again is so scary that we still walk on tiptoes while Baby is napping and we still view his white noise machine as the greatest invention since the ipad. We think the world is going to end ALL THE TIME, when, in reality — and much like the end of the Mayan calendar, or Y2K** — it never does. (I will still continue to not flush the toilet while my baby is napping. I swear to you, that child has bionic ear drums).

*A brilliant friend of mine had this stunningly accurate insight the other night. I am stealing it here. (I also fully acknowledge that parents don't have real PTSD which is obviously a very serious condition not to be taken lightly. What we parents do actually have is a condition where the sound of our babies crying-slash-screaming in the middle of the night causes us to make all kinds of unrealistic bargains with God, ourselves, or our spouses. These bargains are quite problematic when we wake up. It's why we aren't going to have Child #2 until I'm 47).

**Doesn't that make you feel old?

xox,

Rebecca

I Survived My Birthday (and More)

I think I've turned a metaphorical corner. I realized this weekend — my birthday weekend — that as much as I value having fun, I now, as a mom, value efficiency and productivity and an organized house even more. Oh, and getting to bed early. I value getting to bed early. I guess it's fitting; I'm officially old now.

Okay, old-er. And I did have a lot of fun on my birthday (thanks, friends, for taking me out and even corralling our little group to a hip hipstery bar, where luckily I was not turned away at the door by the rule-abiding bouncer even though my license was about to expire in 45 minutes. You have to renew those things? Say what?) But after a *fun* weekend where your little one is sick and refusing to eat, and you're worn out from going to said bar when you are clearly no longer cut out for barring, and you've stayed up so late that you're past the point of tired and so you stay up even later reading Beautiful Creatures on your Kindle, by the next morning you are ready to get your healthy, boring productive on. So that's what I did. I even printed out the form to apply for a new license. Which should arrive in 3-6 weeks.

Hope your Mondays are going swimmingly, and that they're super productive. I just wrote a blog post. So... check!

Oh, and thanks for all the birthday wishes. They made a girl feel remembered.

xox,

Rebecca

The Un-Birthday

Tomorrow is my birthday. Please, everyone I know, write on my FB wall so I feel loved. (Kidding! Totally, totally kidding. I mean, at least a little kidding. Okay, fine, we all love getting those virtual birthday wishes... but that's not why I'm writing this post).

I'm writing this post because today is my last day of being 33, which means that tomorrow I'll be 34. Yes, I saw This is 40, and yes, there was a marginally funny (but not that funny) scene where Leslie Mann's character has lied so many times — and inconsistently – to her gynecologist about how old she is, because she doesn't want to face up to being 40, that every nurse has a different record of her age. I am perfectly fine with turning 24, I mean 34, (whoa! What just happened there? Freudian keyboard slip?!), because I have so much in my life to be thankful for (read: cute baby, healthy family, Downton Abbey, this Starbucks panini sandwich I'm enjoying for breakfast even though it's most definitely a lunch offering) and anyway, 34 is not old!

But (there's always a but!), 33 went by so freaking fast. And that is why I'm having a problem, albeit a slight one, with turning 34. Because I barely noticed 33. And that's because when you have a little one, they NEVER STOP MOVING. And so you never stop moving. And also, you get obsessed with counting how many months old they are, but you never think about how old that makes you. And so, I have a lot to do — a lot of living to do, a LOT of writing to do, a lot of parenting to do — and I just really want to make sure that I do as much of those things this year — in year 34 — as I possibly can.

So, happy birthday: to Leo, who turned 16 months yesterday. Love you to itty bitty tiny chewable macaroon-sized pieces.

xo,

Rebecca

Sick Days

Wee One has been sick (nothing too out of the ordinary, thankfully) these past few days, and because Ethan's had a couple of evening commitments — and because I couldn't send him (the baby, not Ethan) to his nanny share because I didn't want him to suck on some other baby's Elmo toy, inadvertently starting the sick cycle all over again  — we've had a couple of solid days of mom/kid time that, as hard as it's been, I wouldn't trade for anything in the world. Not even the chance to meet JK Rowling RIGHT NOW. Not even. Seriously.

Little ones, though snot-crusted and sometimes even downright fussled when they're sick, can be cuter than ever because they need you so damn much. Last night, as Leo was curled up in my lap, pajama-clad and all cozied up in his fleece sleep sack, and he just calmly lay there looking up at me, with a serene little smile on his face, and he wasn't flailing or trying to grab a book or the power cord to the sound machine or the baby powder or something else really bad (but not really that bad) that I shouldn't let him grab, my first thought was: is he okay? I promptly felt his forehead, assuming that he probably had a fever because why was he acting so calm?!, then took his temp and saw that it was only slightly elevated. Reassured, I gave him a couple of extra besos before depositing him in his crib, handing him his favorite book to read (he reads in the dark. It's weird. I don't know how he does it) and turning off the light. I walked out of the room feeling exhausted but happy: that we'd survived the day, that he was okay, that I was okay, and that we'd gotten a couple of extra "off the grid" hours together. I'm not one of those moms who's all "carpe diem enjoy it while it lasts THEY WILL BE EIGHTEEN BEFORE YOU KNOW IT" because I think that's like, patently absurd, but I will definitely remember days like yesterday, 'cause, well, they're just the best.

PHOTO CAPTION: Love the yellow-gray combo. / Love that sign but wouldn't drink that juice in a gazillion years — it might as well say "germ-infested haven for bacteria; tastes like cherry." / Curls. / Geek pillow.

xox,

Rebecca

The Mom Syllabus

I'm sure I'm not the only one who regularly finds herself going down a rabbit hole of blog posts that lead to blog posts that lead to blog posts (and eventually to me X-ing out all of the tabs on my browser in an attempt to get back to what I was originally working on, which at this point I no longer remember starting). Yesterday, I took such a trip, beginning here — with one mom's manifesto about how mothers judge each other, and how they judge each other for judging, and how that all really needs to stop — and ending here, with some badass Connecticut moms who bared their bellies to show the world that we should be celebrating, not hiding, our post-pregnancy bodies.

I am a total sucker for essays and articles about momhood. About parenting philosophies. About career-home life balance and about whether or not French people really can get their kids to eat several courses of vegetables, or whether that's an elaborate hoax they've set up to make us feel bad while they scarf down brie and get wasted on fancy French vino. Clearly, there are thousands — millions? — of other moms just like me out there, or all those Huffington Post parents pieces wouldn't exist, and mom blogs wouldn't exist, and I wouldn't have a nightstand full of books like Toddler 411 and Why Have Kids? and Twilight (oh, wait...). 

Maybe we read and comment and discuss because parenting is the hardest job we'll ever do. Or maybe it's because it does take a proverbial village, only very few of us actually have one (or even close to one). Maybe it's because we're searching for answers or afraid if we don't read it all we'll miss something huge, maybe even that one thing that could be totally defining and change the course of our child's life, or ours, and everyone else knows about it but us, and they would have told us if we'd just asked, but we didn't know what to ask, so we missed out. Dramatic much? Maybe. But I do feel like this sometimes, as a parent. Like there's some key thing I don't know. Usually, it turns out that no one else knows it either, and that they were guessing, too. Let's just all admit we're guessing, okay? (Those of you who aren't guessing because you actually do know what you're doing, why don't you just keep that to yourselves.)

And now, off to read Toddler 411, except not. (Because, let's face it, I was definitely that nerd in high school who read every page of every book on the required reading list. But I'm lazier now, busier now, and most of the advice in those books is impossible to follow as well as weirdly contradictory, like "keep your baby up at all costs between 4:42 and 7:38pm but don't put him to bed too tired and make sure he's drowsy but awake but also not too drowsy and also not too awake.")

xox,

Rebecca

Why Hipster (Parents) Need Date Nights, Too

Ethan and I decided last week to make regular date nights a priority (which really means that we're going to attempt to make regular date nights a priority and probably fail miserably but perhaps a little less than we've been failing up until now). We were both pretty tired (read: zombie-eque) on Saturday night, but our lovely babysitter arrived and we rallied to go see Les Miserables, which is a particular favorite of ours (I mean, that whole "I stole a loaf of bread and now I am on the run FOREVER" thing is kinda sexy, no?) The movie turned out to be pretty much just okay (still see it, though; Anne Hathaway really is the bomb) and we were too tired afterwards to grab dinner, but at least we took the time to go... right?

Before we had a kid, I admittedly rolled my eyes at the mere mention of a "date night" — it seemed like something you didn't have to consciously think about, like wouldn't you just naturally go out often enough with your other half, and wouldn't planning it just seem I don't know, lame or at least a little bit mid-life crisis-y? Not to mention the fact that the recent Tina Fey/Steve Carrell flick with the aforementioned title is about "a bored married couple" who are so dull and sick of each other that it takes getting kidnapped and nearly shot to put the romance back in their relationship. Yikes. It's easy to see why the idea of a "date night" made me want to poke my eyes out. But clearly, this assumption of mine was pre-baby, and clearly, I now see the massive error of my ways.

Um, yeah. I get it. With wee ones at home, you need a babysitter to go on a date night. You have to actually email or text that babysitter ahead of time if you want the evening to materialize. And, yes, the cost of the date like, doubles and yes, you're probably so tired that you wonder why you're even making the effort when you could sit on your couch in a Slanket watching Homeland (side note: that's a perfectly respectable date night in itself). But going out is probably "important" and "a good thing to do" to "make sure you don't forget why you married your spouse in the first place." (Note the air quotes).

A New York Times article on the topic (which makes me feel this much closer to middle age than ever), says that you need to inject novelty into your date night to really see results — whatever those are. But the idea of "injecting novelty" — which I assume means something actually fun but so cliched you can't bring yourself to do it, like salsa dancing — into our marriage definitely makes me want to stab myself in the eyes after poking them, so I think we'll just stick to movies, dinner and the like. I mean, how old are we, anyway? Do we really need to go make clay pots together to be happy? Please say no.

Have you mastered the date night? Are you and your spouse one of those couples who even has a designated night for date night? (I've heard such couples exist, though it may be urban legend). Tell me! I need inspiration.

xo,

Rebecca

Oh, a PS: I won't speak for Ethan, but I am not a hipster, as much as I might wish I were a character on Girls. If you are a hipster, though, and you have kids, you can go on a date night. I am officially making it okay.

What to Like, Actually Expect

Back in December, I wrote this post about "having it all" and promised more posts on that topic, then epically failed to provide them. It's Friday, and even though I went to bed at 10 I feel disproportionately tired and more than a little aggravated at my body for not being able to handle caffeine like a normal, American, coffee-drinking person, so I'm going to make this short, and I do promise more (not "145-more" more, but more) in future posts.

This was going to be a psuedo-philosophical discussion of why I think this entire debate is misnamed and misleading (who really has it all, anyway? Men? I don't think so) but my brain is too momified today to produce something even mildly intellectual, so I'll just say this: I think our expectations of life post-baby need a massive reality check. (I say "our" to like, include you and a whole bunch of other people I don't know, but if you don't like that then feel free to think of "our" as strictly me, because really I am just one person so what do I know about "our"?)

We hear that life will change post-baby. We understand that life will change post-baby. We see friends leaving New Years Eve parties to get their little ones in bed by 7pm. We see other friends moving to the 'burbs to houses with more space and better schools and bigger yards and majorly huge refrigerators. We know that minivans exist. We know that nannies exist. We know that some parents work in the home, some work out of the home and some outsource their own job to China. But do we actually synthesize this information, and really get it, before that baby arrives? I know I didn't. I didn't understand how the exhaustion and picking up after/feeding/dressing/entertaining/comforting/teaching a little one would affect me, how much mental space I would have left for working or a career or my writing, how stressed or strung-out my husband would be as he tried to be a super supportive spouse and present dad with a full-time job, and how we would tackle any of this while still finding time to watch Downton Abbey.

I, like many of you, have a heartstoppingly sweet one-year-old. I have a super-cool, thoughtful, barnyard-animal loving husband. We both have careers we want to pursue that we're passionate about, and we both really want to be there for our kid. We are batshit lucky on so many fronts — but we are tired sometimes, and we are a little freaked. We are overwhelmed and we are uneasy. We are clueless and we are terrified that we have woken up and found ourselves as parents. We're also still, in many ways, operating as our old, pre-parent selves. Our expectations of how much we can fit into a day and how many friends we can see and how much we can exercise and how much time we'll have for each other — sure, they're slowly adapting and shrinking and settling down to a new status quo. But I know I'm still clinging to certain ideas of how productive I can be. And I think I need to stop doing that. Because I'm just going to be disappointed. And, on the flip side, maybe I don't write as much every day as I could if I didn't have a baby — but then I wouldn't have a baby. In short (because I said this would be short and it most definitely isn't): don't expect to have as much energy as you used to. Don't expect accomplishing your career goals to be easy. Don't expect much free time. Do expect crazy cute smiles. Do expect to love reading to your kid. Do expect hours of your time spent happily lying on the ground rolling around with the sweetest little muffin on the planet (that's the child, not your dog. Do expect your dog to be a little jealous. Do expect him to get over it).

Happy weekend!

xox,

Rebecca

Emotional Blech

I'm in a mom's group on Facebook where most people tend to post practical questions like "how do I get my baby to eat lentils" or "which car seat will my baby not hate"? Every once in a while, I'll find myself in a hole of emotional blech and post something about my dislike of my post-pregnancy pooch, or — most recently — this:

"Anyone else feel like the stress of having a 15-month-old (or whatever age!) has you so on edge that you have way more snippity/frustrated moments than ever -- is this normal? Is this life from now on? I don't like being this way but the stress of constant mess/clean-up/child won't eat/we just ran out of milk/exhausted/child won't nap/too many chores/not to mention career-work-accomplishing anything sometimes makes me feel like freaking out (I'm fine, really. But this morning when my husband asked me - after I was ordering our lunch at a sandwich place - "why did that take so long?" I answered by yelling (pretty loudly) "BECAUSE THEY"RE REALLY FREAKING SLOW HERE!" (am I alone?)"

Let's just say that I got a ton of responses, and I am clearly not alone, which makes me feel much better but also, in a weird way, much worse, because I don't understand why we've been having kids for centuries ("we" being humanity), and yet we still can't figure out how to do it, in 2012, without at least sometimes losing our minds.

Two other incidents occurred since I posted the above rant. 1) I got a parking ticket — I literally ran out to see the cop placing it on my windshield after my meter had just run out probably two minutes before — and I almost yelled at him, before reminding myself that I didn't fancy a trip to the pokey. 2) The other night, I was up waaay too late and apparently adopted a certain "tone" that Ethan called out (justifiably) as being fairly unpleasant. He said something like "I hate when you get that tone" and I responded, so eloquently, "Yeah, well I hate when you do a lot of things." Right. Great comeback, Mommyproof.*

Just so you don't start pulling your hair out if you're contemplating having a bebe, a bunch of fellow moms wrote that things really start to improve once Little One is 2 years old. So, here's to that (as long as you don't have another one and start the clock all over again).

*I have noticed that my level of snippiness seems to have increased dramatically this week. I am blaming my coffee experiment. I thought it would make me more productive, but I fear it's just made me more anxious/manic. They should warn you about that on the cup.

xo,

Rebecca

The Filtered Life

Yesterday's post really got me thinking (yikes, you say, and you would be right) about what it means to be authentic. About whether that's even possible via one's writing (the personal kind, anyway) when that writing is public. About Instagram and how all those photo filters make us look good and feel good. About how I really want a red velvet cupcake right now.* 

Speaking of filters — I don't think Instagram was just a brilliant idea because of all the cool stuff it allows you do with your photos to make them look hipster-y. I think Instagram is amazetown (and a bit of a social commentary, really) because it helps us show ourselves to the rest of the world with cool filters applied that hide everything from the blemishes on our faces to the clutter on our kitchen countertops. It's kind of a metaphor, isn't it? For how we filter our lives, our appearance, our true selves before presenting those selves via the interwebs? 

I was playing with my phone camera last night, contemplating that "reverse" button that allows you to turn the lens on yourself and take a photo. This option always make me laugh, because every time it gets "accidentally" pressed and I take a photo of myself, I am awed by how truly bad that photo is, and I immediately delete it. But last night (God knows why), I decided to snap a couple of photos ON PURPOSE using that reverse camera button, and the exercise actually turned out to be quite liberating. I was wearing my oldest, ugliest t-shirt. My hair was all crazy and unkempt. My face (un-make-up-ed) looked tired and — big sigh — even a little haggard (least favorite word on planet). But I took the photos anyway. And I applied fun filters. And I posted them here. And by the end, I actually felt better about myself, not worse, even though my typical idea of "fun" doesn't include posting pictures of myself where I'm feeling like I just climbed out of a sewer.

Note for those who want to try this at home — and you should try this at home — the names of the filters (I used a site called Picmonkey to make further enhancements, which means I double filtered, oh boy) are delicious all by themselves: that penultimate one is called "Gritty," and the last one is (what else?) "Warhol." Warhol yourself! I promise it will put you in the best mood.

*Tangent: I tried to write this post last night but had to pause here because this is literally what came out of my momified brain: 9;lidjf[()))@)))**************oi cupcakes.

One last picture, because I want to show you the clutter — here's what I look like every single night. Hoodie. Hair in a frizzy bun. Mess and ugly red chairs behind me. Glazed-over look in my eyes. The end.

Teeniest, Tiniest Furniture

I am kinda-a-little obsessed with Lena Dunham. If you've followed everything I've ever written (which of course you have*), you'll note that I've rambled here about her indie film Tiny Furniture — the one that was critically-acclaimed and led to her opportunity to write, star in and executive produce her hit HBO series Girls — and here and here about Girls itself. Read all of those NOW or never come back here. (Kidding. Please come back here).

I could go on for twenty years about her and how she's witty and super smart-sounding in interviews and how she's for realz and all that stuff everybody's already saying, but I won't; I'll just say she's a lovely, mega-talented lady who sounds like a mega-genuine human being, and she's totally badass and brave to boot.

Speaking of being brave, I am not even like, a quarter as bold in my own thoughts as Lena is in front of the entire planet (or at least the HBO-watching planet), which is why as much as I reveal a lot of vulnerabilities on this blog (I let my baby play with trash; I'm a bad cook; I have an alien pooch stomach), I still rarely post pictures of myself because the truth is, I usually look like a not-hot, unshowered mess — or maybe I should say that I THINK I LOOK LIKE A NOT-HOT, UNSHOWERED MESS. But in the spirit of Lena and Girls, I am going to try to post more photos of myself on Mommyproof. Starting today. See above photo. Now go back to whatever you were doing.**

(One more thing. Have you purchased a play kitchen for your little one? Like, some actual "tiny furniture"? Any recommendations? I hear this is actually an un-dumb toy with longevity, since kids will play with it from age one to six (unlike that stupid singing panda bear you wanted to throw out the window after two point seven weeks).

*add a "not" right there. Yup.

**I haven't seen Episode One of the new season of Girls because I am currently HBO-less, so I am pathetically behind the times, but I hear it ends with a braver-than-brave body shot, so she has again proven herself more courageous than everyone else. Hats (and everything else) off to you, Miss Dunham.

Asking for Help (Easier Said Than Done)

How were your weekends? Mine seemed to fly by in a flash of milk droplet trails dripped all across the floor, much like Hansel and Gretel's breadcrumbs (my little one's new favorite trick) and birthday parties so chock-full of kids that I worried I might get mowed down by a very determined two-year-old boy clutching a glittery My Little Pony.

I had a few "freak out"** moments on Saturday and Sunday that culminated in a somewhat panicked call to a friend, where I vented about everything from the fact that my child likes to grab the floor lamp and laugh hysterically, to my own struggles with all the chores, constant vigilance (to use Harry Potter terminology, which you should always do), and loss of sanity that comes with chasing after a one-year-old. She reassured me that a) first kids (and one-year-olds, especially) are hella hard b) I should ask for more help and not be ashamed of that and c) I should ask for more "me" time (to address the loss of sanity). The chores I'm stuck with, at least until Leo learns how to wash his own bottles and change his own diaper.

If there's one thing I've learned since having a kid, it's that there is no "standard," no roadmap, and definitely no "normal" for how parents divide up parenting duties. Every couple does things differently (a little or a lot), and so much of it depends on your own personal circumstances — careers, finances, priorities, etc — that it would be pointless to try to make any rules or generalizations about "what works." But my friend wisely reminded me that there's one rule of thumb that applies to everyone: If you need help, ask for it. That could mean a gajillion different things (a few extra hours of babysitting a week so you and your significant other can go on a date night to see Katy Perry, I mean the opera; switching off weekends where one of you gets up and the other sleeps in; carving out an hour a week for your Zumba or Pilates or belly-dancing class while your spouse or Grandma or the neighbor watches your little one, etc, etc, etc, etc.) Parenting is one of the hardest freaking jobs there is. Asking for help doesn't mean you're failing – it means you know what you need to succeed. Of course, that's easier said than done, for a ton of reasons like the guilt you feel when you leave your kid to go to the gym or the outrageous $20 an hour you're being charged by a teenage babysitter who "swears she doesn't smoke." Still, it's important. Do it. I'm going to.

PHOTO CAPTION: "I love straws, my Levi's, blue skies... but not this newfangled garbage can. How do I open it, dammit?"

**One of the freak outs definitely involved me yelling extremely loudly in a coffee/sandwich shop for no particular reason except that the sandwich-makers weren't moving at warp "mom" speed. Not my best moment.

Forty

If you've been reading Mommyproof for a little while now, you've probably noticed that I tend to start books and movies, review them when I'm only twenty pages (or minutes) in, and then mysteriously "forget" to report back later on how it all ended. (NOT because I didn't finish. That is totally not why. Not at all).

Okay, that's totally why – but Ethan and I did manage to watch the rest of This is 40 last night, and I reviewed it here if you're interested in all the reasons why it was uncomfortable and not great but still somewhat edifying (as edifying as Lincoln? I don't know. I haven't finished — fine, started — that one yet).

I think most of of us in our thirties are seriously curious (read: terrified) about what it will mean to turn forty, which is why the title of this flick is the most brilliant thing about it — though it should really be called This is 40 with Kids. It's pretty clear that the main characters probably wouldn't have made it this far (or even be married in the first place) if it weren't for their teen and pre-teenage daughters. On the other hand, maybe they'd be married and so happy that the film would be called This is 40! (Who knows, it's not even real. But let's face it: kids change everything. They're amazing and glorious and so cute you want to bite them, but they can also make you crazy.)

Do you feel like your age affects you? Defines you? Or completely and totally has no bearing whatsoever on your life? How old are you? (Kidding. Okay, fine, tell me).

Have a great weekend!

xox,

Rebecca

Not That Sorry.

Today my brain feels more like baby oatmeal than a well-functioning brain, so I'll make this quick. I'm doing far better with my New Year's Resolution than I originally anticipated. Yes, I've definitely said "sorry" a couple of times in the past week (examples: "Sorry, what did you say?" and "Oh, sorry, I thought that was my hippogriff.") I need to catch myself more quickly and stomp out that reflex habit, I know. But I've noticed I've really improved when it comes to apologizing profusely for things that seem momentarily important but are really about as important as The Real Housewives of Whatevertown. Yesterday, on an email chain when there was a golden opportunity for me to pull out my favorite word and apologize for not being all-knowing about a friend's non-preference for sushi, I didn't. And, even more notably — I didn't even realize that I didn't. Which means this experiment is working, because it's starting to take hold without me having to mentally punch myself in the face before every potential infraction. (Thanks, friend, you know who you are, who pointed out to me that I hadn't used the "s word.") It's only been ten days, and I've vowed to keep this up — and keep improving — for a whole year, so I don't really deserve to celebrate just yet. Small victories, though — right?

I want to take a quick second to thank my friends and readers near and far who have been so supportive of Mommyproof. Your words and shares mean a lot — and Mommyproof is getting a new look in a few weeks (with a better commenting system and some other really cool stuff) so please continue to check in, follow Mommyproof's Facebook page or tweet me with future post ideas. (I know you want me to write one about sex post-baby, but I'll have to figure out a way to disable all of my mother's devices first).

xox,

Rebecca

A New Addiction

Coffee.

I'm know I'm like, 8,000 years late to this party and I'm probably not even invited anymore. But I think I am *finally* understanding why people (read: parents) drink it. It used to make me so jittery and miserable that every time I had the non-decaf variety, I would spend the afternoon in an unusually OCD state, fumbling around trying to arrange my post-it notes into some semblance of brilliance (if you look at the above post-it notes, which Leo ate and actually found delicious, you'll see that's a fool's errand).

But the past two days, I've drunk "real" coffee and felt strangely invigorated (and only slightly manic). I didn't long for an afternoon nap with the desperate fervor of a young child itching to play Angry Birds, and I even managed to make our first bonafide family dinner where we ALL ate together (note to self: you can't mash potatoes without some kind of potato masher. Rebecca's mashed potatoes = epic fail).

I've always loved the smell and taste of coffee and the way cradling a cup (or better yet, monogrammed artisanal and eco mug) of it makes you feel like a big fluffy muppet is holding your hand. Now I'm drinking the real stuff and look at me, I'm so hardcore.

Do you live for coffee? (Or does coffee allow you to live?!)

xox,
Rebecca

On Being Mom Enough

I read this post yesterday by a fellow mom and felt a sort of heartbreak and shared pain for this person I don't know but who sounds like somebody I could know — or somebody who could be me. She talks about how she feels she's constantly failing when she compares herself to other moms with picture perfect kids and nurseries, while she's just "getting by." She also admits that mom blogs make her feel bad because the moms on there are always whipping out crafts that would take regular people a year to make and are just basically a virtual "f you" to everybody who is normal and trying to keep peanut butter out of their hair.*

I don't know about you, but I find parenting, parenthood, and living my life as a parent incredibly difficult. And I know I'm not going to be the first to say this, but comparing ourselves and judging ourselves is beyond counterproductive. I get it: we love our kids more than anything in the world. They are the "perfect" versions of us we can give our all (and if we don't, we feel like we're failing them). They are cuter then us, smarter than us, and they deserve everything their friends have and more and more and more. Guess what? For every choice to give them one thing (that "thing" being an object or opportunity or pair of purple pants), you could also not give them that thing and it is impossible to know whether they'd be better off with that thing or without it. (Unless that thing is love, duh). Even twenty years from now, you won't be able to say, "My kid turned out great 'cause I did this or that" because, for all you know, your kid may be great IN SPITE OF this or that. It seems to me that raising kids is a (very non-scientific) experiment (with no control group), no matter who you are or how much experience you have. (And, of course, the irony is that the people who actually "know how" to raise kids  — those who have done it before – are retired from the childcare game and probably pretty happy about that).

I don't remember whether my mother bought me the purple pants. Sometimes she did. Sometimes she didn't. She was a great mom. I know she didn't obsess about what other moms on the internet were doing (yeah, because it didn't exist. Obvi). She just did her best, and that was "mom enough."

xox,
Rebecca

Postscript: Those crafty bloggers show off all those shiny photos of birthday cakes and glitter muffins 'cause it's a job. I bet you anything that if you went into their home, they'd have paint in their hair and glitter muffin crumbs under their nails, and all those crafts would be literally eating them, so they'd need to go on one of those Hoarders shows or else, like, die.

*Could somebody please explain to me why (and when) elaborate-ness of one's craft projects became an indicator of the quality of parenting in our society? Like, is making an exact replica of two hummingbirds in love and placing them on a home-baked red velvet cake going to get my kid into Harvard or ensure he's a nice person? I'm confused; thanks.

Twenty Thirteen

Apparently, New Years Resolutions are so nineteen ninety-eight, and if you make one you are just proving that you're older than Taylor Swift (but maybe not older than Babs). Instead, everyone's making "Happiness Project" lists, and I haven't read the book because I'm pretty sure I'll read half and not have time to finish the rest and then I'll have to explain at a dinner party* that I "sort of" read that book — but the idea sounds rad.

I don't think I have the time to map out goals for each and every month or the time to focus on each month separately because let's face it, it's January already and I barely knew it was December. But I've got a few happiness goals of my own for 2013. You already know about my resolution to not say "sorry" — but what about everything else? Lately, I'm all about efficiency and streamlining. The days literally go at warp speed, so efficiency isn't just my middle name, it's my first name and my zodiac sign and my religion. My hope is that if I'm efficient enough, and I weed out all the "stuff" that I used to spend time on pre-baby that was, well, stupid, I'll carve out enough time to really accomplish my writing goals.

In 2012, which was for sure the hardest year of my life, I made a few changes that are helping me reach higher efficiency levels (yes, I sound like a corporate HR person right now). 1) I only shop online (except for food). Unless I just happen to be in a clothing/furniture/other store and I just happen to have ten free minutes,** my browsing all happens, well, on my browser. 2) I try to get most of my exercise with Baby in tow (saves on babysitting and Ethan-sitting***). And here's the biggest/most important one: 3) I try to use my "in-between everything else" minutes to write, even when it's hard. That's the one that I need to laser focus on because it's just that important. And that's why I may scribble something down and stick a post-it on my arm. It happens.

Can efficiency equal happiness? Maybe — maybe not. Either way, I think efficiency just might give me the breathing room to finish that novel and write that damn blog. What are your "happiness" plans for 2013? I'd love to hear!

PHOTO CAPTION: I got super excited by what I thought was installation art on Bernal Hill but turned out to be a run-of-the-mill (okay, still pretty neat-o) music video shoot. I dragged Leo back outside with my camera to capture it and he was definitely like, Mom, why are we watching a weird glow-in-the-dark-tree, I want milk.

*What dinner party? Good point.
**I don't.
***Ethan-sitting is NOT a thing because he is Leo's dad and so he is IN NO WAY BABYSITTING HIS OWN CHILD. I do not ever want to hear the word babysit come out of his or anyone else's mouth in reference to a father watching his own child. "Ethan-sitting" just sounded cute in that sentence so I used it but YOU CAN'T.

Is This 40?

What are your Saturday evening plans? Ethan and I tried pretty hard (okay, not that hard but a teeny bit hard-ish) to find a babysitter for tonight so we could go see Les Miserables at the movies since I'm a musical geek and Ethan loves singing villagers, but alas, Urban Sitter failed us. Instead of going out, we're going to attempt to make some chicken and kale dish we found that actually doesn't sound all that tasty but perhaps will surprise us and then we'll love it and have to eat kale all the time. We're also going to watch one of the WGA screeners I got in the mail — I'm voting for This is 40, but there's a good chance we'll decide to go with Lincoln so we can tell people we saw something edifying.

Have a great night!

xo,
Rebecca

PHOTO CAPTION: Some of my favorite images from 2012. (Fine, the cupcake one is my favorite because it makes me drool. The others are just okay).

Studies Show: Binge Sugar Habits Good for Kids

Okay, I have no idea what studies show. But I'd love to see a study that said children at Harvard or Stanford or Japan or wherever ate freakloads of candy and did better on standardized tests.

On a totally unrelated note, I feel a little bit like I gave my baby a bad rap when I recently said he bit me. He just has super sharp teeth and sometimes gives besos (kisses) a little too aggressively. He really is the sweetest little guy with the bestest of intentions. Don't hate on him, okay?

And, finally, something to make you smile as you head into the weekend: the other night, I was so exhausted after returning home from LA (and surviving two 7.5-hour car rides) that I literally leapt into bed... only to completely miscalculate the position of, well, the bed, and fall off the edge onto the cold, hard floor. I'm lucky I didn't hit my head, but I guess I totally deserve the bruise on my leg and the sore shoulder, since I obviously never passed going-to-bed-101, where you learn how not to fall off.

Happy weekends!

xox,
Rebecca

Hormones and Zombie Babies. Not Unrelated.

I want-slash-need to be clear about something. If you are a non-parent, and you read this blog (or even if you're a parent and you read this blog): YES. Having a child is life-changing. It's remarkable. It's crazy-bat-shit amazing. You suddenly see all the little (cute, not icky) bugs on the leaves. And you appreciate colors again (and not just because you're high). The thrill you get from your child's first smile is like falling in love, and the adoration you have for their tiny feet would be considered a foot fetish if it weren't unapologetically accepted by society. But let me add a slight dose of reality to your unbridled joy. Raising kids is DAMN hard, and I only know about one-eighteenth of it. So when I read a quote like this on People.com, which yes I read don't judge me:

“I know now what happiness feels like. Everything just looks brighter, the world just looks sunnier. I think it’s the hormones or something because I feel fantastic. I feel truly like I have purpose, and that purpose is not about me.”*

It makes me want to conjure up my most evil-ist villain laugh and mutter: "Get back to me in a year and a half." Because, people, that child who is the sweetest darn thing you've ever laid eyes on WILL try to scratch your eyes out at some point. And I just want everyone to know. Because it drives me crazy when people paint this picture of parenthood that is so rosy that it makes all the other moms and dads out there who are struggling to not raise zombie babies feel bad. (Not to mention all the potential parents-to-be, who read the above Moon Bloodgood quote** and imagine strolling with their unborn children in unicorn-land licking magic euphoria popsicles). 

I love you, Baby, and you're definitely the cutest thing I've ever seen and the sweetest and I want to eat your toes. But yesterday you bit me. I'm just sayin'.

*It's the hormones.
**Who the hell is MOON BLOODGOOD, a friggin Harry Potter character? And why-God-why did she name her daughter PEPPER? I'm gonna name my next baby SALT. It's perfect 'cause it works for a boy or a girl. Salt Kurzweil. Deal with it.

xo,
Rebecca