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