Veggie Tales

And this is how our particular tale goes (names have been changed to protect the innocent).

There once was a little girl named Stella. Stella became a very picky eater after she stopped nursing. She loved cheese- lots of cheese. And she loved bread- lots of bread. And sometimes she would eat pasta (but only as long as there was cheese on it). She did not, however, like peas, carrots, green beans, broccoli, sweet potatoes, squash and cauliflower- or anything that did not resemble cheese or bread.

So she ate cheese and bread for lunch and dinner. Over and over and over again.

The mommy tried to hide carrots in her cheese quesadilla at lunchtime. Stella discovered them when she took her first bite and got so mad that she threw her quesadilla on the floor. The mommy went and beat her head against the kitchen counter.

The daddy showed Stella how to eat her veggies to encourage her to try them. Stella decided to kindly offer her daddy the rest of her veggies instead. Then proceeded to dump them on the kitchen floor. The mommy went and banged her head against the kitchen counter again.

This continued every evening with no end in sight.


The end.



*A sad and rather short story.* (Hey, I never promised it would have a happy ending).

#%@& happens.

A lot, when you're chasing after a 14 month old. And it comes in various forms. The literal kind, that you wipe off a pair of butt-cheeks 2 or 3 times a day and that- if you're unlucky enough to have raging pregnancy hormones- will sometimes leave you gagging for the duration of the diaper change. Then there's the more metaphorical, yet very real bull#%&@ that abounds in everyday life. (If only a box of wipes could take care of that, I'd have it made, but I digress).

The point is, %@& happens. And sometimes the actual word, "s**t" happens as well. I admit, it's more of a common word in our household than it should be, and this is one that I can't put on Jake. And so at last, I "out" myself. For years, I have taken some unknown, great pleasure in saying this word. Maybe it's the way you can really get into the "ssshhhhhh" part of it, especially if you're really peeved. In those instances, I pride myself on taking a one-syllable word and stretching it into two. More like "ssshhhheeee-iiiiiiitt!" It just feels good. And I justified this for many years. I figured, it's one thing to do it by yourself and no one's there to hear you as you sit behind the wheel of your Mazda V6 Wagon (because that's the kind of car you buy when you want to dominate the highway, right?). I also had a theory that there's a direct correlation between the amount of pain I'm in and the number of times I get to say this word. So that 5 lb bag of ice I dropped on my toes? That was worth a couple of expletives. But the sneaky thing about this word is that if you're not careful, it starts to randomly show up before you have time to stop it: your computer freezes and you're right in the middle of a facebook status update. (#%@&!) Then you can't open a jar of spaghetti sauce (#%@&!) You step in dog-doo (quite literally- #%@&!) You stare at a positive pregnancy test on a random Saturday afternoon and then it's HOLY #%@&! (saved for those truly momentous occasions). 10 months and 1 week later, and you've been in labor for 16 hours when the doctor informs you that you're going to need a c-section. (#%@&! #%@&! #%@&!)

And so life continues, and #%@& continues to make an exit from your lips every now and then. And it's all good for awhile because your little girl is just a baby. There's no need to censor the Lil Wayne and Nelly CD's just yet. But the weeks turn into months, and now you realize she's starting to listen to you. She wants to communicate with you. You think this is pretty much the coolest thing ever. And you're not much worried about the few times you slip, because she's still so little. She doesn't understand the meaning of that word anyway.

But she doesn't need to.

Because kids don't need to understand what they say before they say it. Remember the show "Kids Say the Darndest Things?" Someone got seriously rich capitalizing on little kids who made total @$$es of their parents by saying things within a context they didn't understand or repeating things they had no business repeating. And most of the time, it's cute. When you wait so long to hear them say their first word, the last thing you probably worry about is whether that word will be sandwiched between some expletives. Ella has always been quite the chatterbox, and so I became accustomed to listening to her experiment with combinations of vowels and syllables and talking nonsense to her Sophie and other animal friends for months. And like any other mom, I melted the first time she said "mama" and giggled at her attempt at "banana" ("nanana") and "kittycat" ("keekah"). And then one day- whether by chance or perhaps by, ahem, some *other* coincidence- I heard a different set of syllables and vowels coming out of her mouth. At first I reasoned it must have been the word "spit," but really, how likely was that? I walked back to her room, watched her throw her binkey on the floor and then, right on cue, "#%@&."

Fabulous.

It got even better when we would go to Target or the grocery store. I was now very well aware of her newfound vocabulary and as if in slow motion, I would watch as she would animatedly point at something and then proceed to yell out the same 4 letter word before I could get my hand to her mouth or shove a cracker down her throat. We got a few looks, needless to say. I prayed it was a phase. And thankfully, it seems to have passed for now. (And you better believe I've made Jake clean up his language....ahem...)

So I guess it's time for me to come up with another word that is just as gratifying to roll off the tongue in less than happy circumstances. I think I'm actually going to miss it. But it must be done. Apparently, little cornfields have big ears.

Things I Wish I Had Known (A Letter to Myself)

A few months back, a good friend of mine asked me to take part in a project she was doing for work that aimed to uncover certain universal truths about the mother-child bond. In this project, her agency asked for women who are mothers to write letters to themselves the night/day before they have their first child. What would we tell ourselves? What things do we know now that we would have loved to know then? What legacies do we wish to carry forward with this next generation?

I jumped at the opportunity to write about the relationship I have with my Ella-bug and immediately dove into the recesses of my memory, trying to re-live the last few days, hours, minutes, before I was catapulted into "first time Mommy-dom," with it's steep learning curve, rollercoaster hormones and 3-a-night feedings. And as I reflected back, I realized that- excited as I was about meeting this tiny person who had been shoving her feet in my ribcage for well over 5 months- I had become afraid of her. I had heard one too many stories from (I think) well meaning people who told me that my life, as I had come to live it, was "over" once "that baby comes along." Things like, "forget sleeping in," and "I hope you enjoy infomercials because that's all you'll be watching at 2 a.m. when you're up feeding the baby," and "your time is the baby's" and "you'll forget what it's like to have a real date night with your husband...." reverberated through my head. In spite of all the wonderful things people were speaking into my life about becoming a mommy and how I would fall head over heels in love with this little creature (which I totally did), I instead chose to hang tighter onto all of the negative things. Isn't that the way it always goes?

And guess what? I lost sleep. A lot of it. I cried a lot in those first 2 months of Ella's life. But more often than not, the tears were happy ones (hormones, I tell ya, hormones...) I actually *did* get to sleep in, because I have a wonderful husband who would get up with Ella when it was obvious that I needed a break. And we started having "real" date nights again after about 6 weeks, when Jake's parents offered (and we gladly accepted) to keep her for us on a Friday or Saturday night almost every single weekend. To this day, she still goes over there one night every weekend and we still get to be "Kristin and Jake," not just "Mommy and Daddy."

I was scared for no reason. And as I started to write this letter to myself and reflected back on the last days before Ella's arrival, I realized that I haven't missed out on a single thing. Nothing at all has been taken away from me that I wouldn't gladly give up. (Obviously, because I'm about to do it all over again in 6 months. ;) ). Life is more rich because I'm Ella's mommy. She has given me more than I could have ever given myself in the 27 years I had before I knew her...



Dear Kristin,

You have been waiting impatiently for your little girl to get here for 10 months and 1 week now. Your labor has started up and then just as quickly fizzled out every day for the last week and as far as you're concerned, time could not be going any slower. But please, hold onto this moment. Enjoy feeling her move in your belly. Savor these last precious moments you have with your husband as just the two of you. Life is about to change dramatically in less than 24 hours. Yes, after 276 days of pregnancy, you have only hours left to wait. Don't rush this. Because once you hold your daughter tomorrow, time will never be able to go slowly enough for you. You will blink your eyes and the tiny 6 lbs 15 oz peanut you cradle in your arms will soon be an independent, spunky toddler who refuses to let you rock her to sleep. You, too, will become the cliché you swore you'd never be, who asks, “where did the time go?”

Right now, you are wondering how you could ever love someone as much as your parents love you. You've heard people talk about this kind of love, and though you would never admit it to anyone, you're afraid you may be the one exception. You worry you won't love her enough. But rest assured, your heart will break in a completely new way when you lay eyes on her tomorrow. You will dream bigger, pray harder, laugh louder and love more deeply than you ever knew you could. Jake will continue to be your rock, and though you might find that you disagree over the little things, remember that they are just that- little things. He will astound you in the way that he loves and cares for his little girl and your heart will be so full as you watch her eyes light up when he comes home from work. Please don't take him for granted. You will be emotionally and physically exhausted at the end of each day, but remember that he will be too. Lean on each other and your love will be stronger for it.

Now is also a good time for you to admit that you don't adapt well to change. You have a certain idea of how things should be once Ella is home with you. Be prepared to throw these pre-conceived and idealistic notions out the window. This is going to be messy- both in the physical and metaphorical sense of the word. Make the decision right now to adjust the amount of pressure you place on yourself. You will not be able to clean the house, fix dinner, take a shower and tend to all of Ella's needs, every single day. Your outfit may not be coordinated some days. You may not get a chance to put on makeup. This doesn't make you any less of a woman, and it certainly doesn't make you a failure. You are using up every resource available to you to take care of this little one and that in and of itself, is a beautiful thing. Don't stress about the pile of dishes in the sink or the dust bunnies lying on the floor. You have the rest of your life to clean up your house, but only so many years where she will actually want you to play with her. Get down on the floor with her at her level- every day. And remember that it really is okay if she doesn't go down each night right at 8:30 or if she doesn't finish all of her veggies. Be prepared to question yourself on a daily basis, regarding everything from over the counter meds to sleeping arrangements and discipline, but resist the temptation to carry around the infamous “mom-guilt.” Don't let yourself fall prey to anyone who makes you feel that you aren't enough. Remember that God has hand-picked you to be Ella's mother and thus, has given you a strong intuition specifically for her. Trust it and go with it. If you remember to do anything as a mother, extend grace as much as you ask for it.

No matter what you ever knew or thought you knew about God, you will experience Him in a whole new way tomorrow when you hold your newborn baby girl. You may, in fact, get just a glimpse of how much you are loved by Him. Your daughter will be a constant and precious reminder that life is to be lived. Get ready for the celebration.



K

The Gender-Defender Post

Ever meet those people that assume that when God created dogs, they were all female? I happen to know these people exist because I've heard them say, "hey there girl!" to my dog, sometimes within seconds of him cocking a leg over his favorite pee stone. I was never offended when this happened to our dog though. Stupefied, maybe, (considering my dog tried to hump everything with legs), but dogs are dogs and cats are cats. It's a different ball game altogether, though, with the tiny human I'm strolling around, whom I grew in my belly for 10 months. For the record, I did not create a unisex baby named Pat. So I would like to ask why, better yet HOW...someone's brain processes an oversized bow on the head of a baby (who also happens to be wearing a floral print shirt) and then proceeds to comment on how cute "he" looks or how badly they want to pinch "his" cheeks.

In the beginning, I tried to be gracious about it. It's a known fact that my daughter was an onion-head at birth. No hair to speak of, so no point in trying to pin little bows to her shiny bald head. Even so, I always thought she had very feminine features that made her look overwhelmingly like a girl, but given the gender-neutral car seat and gear, I tried to cut people some slack during those first few months. (This was a real feat considering my crazy post-partum hormones). I'm also not big on dressing my little girl in head-to-toe pink. I don't like anything frilly or lacy. I usually prefer to dress Ella in the same color palette that I would wear, perhaps with a few exceptions. I can see where this would also cause a bit of confusion so I gave the benefit of the doubt. But as Ella began to get older, she grew more hair. And out came the hair accessories. Then the weather got warmer and I stocked her closet with sundresses and baby- doll tops. I stood back and gazed at her closet and breathed a sigh of relief. I was convinced that we were officially past the "thank you very much but this is actually a girl" correction phase. Surely no one would ever mistake her for a little boy now.

Wrong again. So a few messages..

To the man at Subway who bent over and commented on the cute baby, I appreciate the compliment. I think she's cute too. And you could have left it at that. But unfortunately, when you asked her name and I responded with "Ella," and your next remark was "such a handsome lad," you left me no other choice but to think you're a complete dumbass. And that you teleported here from the 1930's. No one says "lad" anymore here in America, dude.

To the woman in Target who was too young and dressed far too hip to make a faux-pas such as this: did you not see the pink blanket with the daisy applique that was laying across her car seat? Do you also speed through red lights because you think they're green? I hear that color-blindness strikes one out of every five people. Stupidity strikes one out of every three. Good luck.


To the woman at the coffee shop who pointed and said "look at him lovin' on his mama..." did you see a penis poking out from under her skirt that I wasn't aware of? By the way, that sound you just heard was my jaw hitting the floor.



So a word to the wise: if there's any doubt in your mind at all about the gender of the little peanut in the shopping cart in front of you, perhaps it's best to simply smile and be on your way. However, if said peanut is wearing any type of bow, headband, hair accessory or has random splotches of pink in her outfit, you're 99.9% safe to assume it's a girl. It will make that mother's day, I promise.

Five Hundred Twenty Five Thousand Six HUndred Minutes...

How do you measure a year?

The past 525,600 minutes (I refuse to type that out again) have, indeed, been the most precious of my life so far. At 7:49 pm on a warm Saturday evening in June, all at once, I fell in love, had my biggest dream fulfilled and felt my heart break in a completely new way. I remember a very real feeling of panic as they placed this tiny peanut-person in my very shaky, unsteady, new-Mom arms. "Can't these nurses see that I don't know what I'm doing? Are they really going to leave her with me? What now??"

Looking back, I wish I could say that I remember more of our first few days and weeks together as a new family. Unfortunately, for about the first 3 months, I walked around my house half-robed in a zombie-like state, searching for either a paci, the coffee maker, or a burpcloth. So perhaps, the last year could be measured solely in the amount of time I spent awake when I should have been sleeping. I'm gonna guess it was about 495,000 minutes of the 525, 600.

But I have a confession. I didn't write in her baby book this year. *Bad Mommy.* I had every intention to. I even went out and bought a scrapbook, stickers, paper and special markers to do her very own scrapbook. And every time I open my hall closet and see all the materials still neatly tucked away in their original packaging, I laugh at my own naivety. Sure, after the baby goes down, the house is picked up, dinner is made and errands are run, why wouldn't I want to sit down and spend a couple of hours with a glue stick, scissors and stickers? I have a sneaky suspicion the book and all of it's components will be hanging out in our hall closet- quite possibly- until she's in college. So unfortunately, I wish I could tell you the exact date she said her first word, rolled over from tummy to back and vice versa, ate her first food and took her first steps, but I can't. But maybe knowing the dates isn't so important after all. I lived those moments with her, regardless of whether I made note of them elsewhere. And while my Mommy brain may not be functioning on all cylinders all of the time, I have come to realize that those moments are etched in my memory just as clear as if they happened yesterday: the way it felt to hold her for the first time, the way I melted when she smiled her first real smile (and I knew it wasn't gas), the first time she said "mama" to me and held her arms out to be picked up, the panic and helplessness I felt the first time we made a trip to the ER at 5:30 in the morning when she spiked a fever, the first time she walked to me....

These moments make up just a small fraction of the grand-total, but they are the ones that have helped define me as a mommy this year.

"In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights and cups of coffee" (and there were a lot of those)

"In inches, in miles, in laughter and strife

"In five-hundred twenty-five-thousand six hundred minutes

How do you measure a year in the life?"

How about love? There's been an abundance of it this past year and for that, I'm so grateful. :)

Where did the time go??

Many transformations happen when you cross the threshold into motherhood. There's an obvious physical realm that many can recognize right away. Your hormones take a trip to hell and back- sometimes several times a day- for the first 5 months. Your husband will not understand this and will eventually resign himself to sitting beside you on the couch and gently rubbing your back every night around 8 pm while you cry for no good reason. The emotional rollercoaster continues as you celebrate the gains and mourn the losses that coincide with becoming a first-time Mom. Among the things you gain: insight, patience, a new-found respect for your mother, an overwhelming sense of contentment and a pretty amazing pair of boobs (which your husband also loves, but- much to his dismay- is often not allowed to touch). Among the things you lose: your precious REM cycles, sanity, some babyweight (if you're lucky), and the concept of time. Days and weeks begin to blur together and your life, at least for the first 4 months, is measured in 3 hour increments.

Then there are the changes that take place in the less visible- albeit very real- emotional realm. You realize that you have been forever catapulted into this new state of being and suddenly, there's an intense awareness that every reason for your existence is for this tiny person who depends on you for everything. You will spend minutes- that turn into hours- holding her while she sleeps, memorizing her tiny features, inhaling her sweet baby smell, listening to the rhythm of each little breath. You will wonder how anything in life can be so pure and good. But your heart will break like it's never been broken before. You will never again watch a news story about an infant being abandoned/left/beaten/starved without feeling outraged. Hearing tragic stories of loss will devastate you on a personal level and you will forever be haunted by the thought, "what if that was my baby?" Inevitably, you will dream bigger, pray harder, love deeper than you ever knew you could. You will watch in wonder and pride when she smiles for the first time....babbles...sits up on her own...pulls to a stand...laughs from her belly....reaches out to hug you...says "mama"....holds her own bottle...takes her first steps...and all the while, you will think, "I'm not ready for this. This can't be happening so soon." Before you realize it, you will find yourself on a playdate with a friend, reminiscing about big bellies, 2 am feedings and post-partum hormones. And you will shake your head in disbelief while uttering that famous mom cliche- "where did the time go?"

Congratulations. The Mom transformation is now complete.

But seriously, where did the time go?

I used to think I had a lot of time on my hands. A month before Ella was born, I had a little too much of it. (Go ahead and ask me what I was doing to induce labor. No, really). I used to pride myself on keeping track of dates, appointments, get-togethers, etc., and while I haven't always been the most punctual person, it was a rare thing for me to completely "lose track of time." (My dad, on the other hand, has this down to an art). Perhaps, for the latter half of my adult life, my Type A personality prevented me from ever not knowing what time it was, or where I needed to be, or when I needed to be there. But that was then, and whatever was left of that concept of time was more or less obliterated at 7:49 pm on June 13th, 2009.

Today, I am happy to announce that I am chronically 15 minutes late to just about everything. I am guilty of oversleeping whenever Ella does. I have forgotten doctor's appointments. On days that I could be out, I have defaulted to spending them at home, on the floor with my little girl. Because children beg for us to lose ourselves, don't they? To momentarily forget that it's 3:30 a.m., no matter how tired we feel. To forget where else it is we think we need to be, because whatever it is will always be there, and because maybe, something inside us knows that our babies will not be babies but just for a minute. They will only cling to our legs for a few days, really. They will only nestle their heads in the nape of our necks for just a few nights.

So, maybe my blog hasn't been updated for the last seven months, but as you can see, I've been busy trying to lose track of the time...

Ode to the Woombie

What's the value of a full night's sleep?  Can you put a price tag on sanity, you ask?  Well, I'm here to tell you- YES- yes, you can put a price tag on it.   I'm happy to announce that for me, the cost was a mere $28.95 (plus shipping and handling).   Don't be fooled by appearance.  Your sweet little baby might look as though they are imitating a Jimmy Dean sausage roll, but it will guarantee you at least one REM cycle, heck maybe even two.  I had pretty much decided that I would be willing to dress Ella up as Hannah Montana if it meant that I could sleep longer than 3 hours at a time.  Luckily, I was able to put away the blonde wig and sequins for another time....and instead, found this cocoon of cotton, polyester and lycra.  It's designed to keep baby snug and secure while still giving them the ability to move their arms and legs inside the sack, much like the way they are in Mommy's belly (hence, the name "Woombie.")  The typical swaddle blanket, when used correctly, can work pretty well and will help to pin their arms down, but inevitably, they will get big enough and strong enough to break out of their swaddle and startle themselves awake.  So, as fun as it was for me to hop in and out of bed ever 25 minutes to re-swaddle Ella and shush her back to sleep, I knew there had to be a better way.  I'm *overjoyed* to report that the first night she slept in her Woombie, she went for 7 hours straight.  Seven hours!  I woke up that morning and looked over to see my clock say 5:33 am and I almost wet my bed in excitement.  The next night, she went for 8 hours.  The night after that- and every consecutive night since- she has gone at least a 9 hour stretch.  Last night, we put her down to bed at 9:45 and she slept until 8:30 this morning.  *Nirvana, I tell you.*

I'm sold.  I will buy this for every friend of mine who gets pregnant from here on out.  If the $650 I paid for my epidural was the best money I ever spent pre-baby (and it was), the $32-odd dollars that I paid for this sweet sack of sanity is the best money I've ever spent post-baby.  Such a small, seemingly insignificant article of clothing that I credit with restoring some normalcy into my crazy, overtired, hormonal life as a new mommy...