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

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.

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

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.

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

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?

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?

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."

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.

Mommyproof

A friend recently paid me the highest compliment, saying that I should start blogging about parenthood because she thought I might have something insightful and maybe not totally dumb to say about it. She may be delusional, but—at any rate—I've decided I *don't* have enough on my plate, what with my baby, my work, my writing, and adding things to my virtual shopping cart on Gilt, then quickly closing my browser before I can do major damage.

So I'll give it a whirl. And, in the meantime, why do they make babies' feet so damn cute? Is it so we'll buy them tiny little Converse high tops? Yeah, that must be it.

(On a separate note, why are Lamaze toys freakishly colorful, in a way that is most definitely scary to both me and my child?)