on breaking the first rule of fight club.

..commercial district of Raeford Road, 8:30 a.m...

Henry: Where we goin', Momma?
Me: I can't decide between Walmart and Target.
Harper: Walmart!
Henry: Yeah, Walmart!
Me: ((huge Walmart-hating sigh)). Ok. But you know they don't have many kid carts and you'll have to get in a regular one together. And Harper, you have to ride since you have a splinter in your foot. Can y'all do that without fighting? In the same cart?
Henry: We not fighting.
Harper: We can fight nice.
Me: Impossible. No fighting. Understand?
Harper: Yes.
Henry: I don't need to be in duh cart.
Me: You will be in the cart. No fighting.
Henry: ((sigh)) Can we listen to Puff Daddy?


....Pause....


Harper: Can we go in another store after Walmart so we can fight?

doin' alright for the shape I'm in

I knew I'd be sleep-deprived, but the beauty of the hell that is the perpetual worry of your first child is that you get to nap. If you can tear yourself from ensuring their chest rises and falls during their nap. Seriously... I watched Harper while she slept. Just in case.

Generally, though, when they crash, so can you. It's a beautiful thing. On maternity leave, if you want, you can nap every.single.time they do. With any luck, by the time your significant other arrives home for the evening, you can manage a coherent sentence or two.

When you have two children (or more.. bless your hearts), you aren't as nervous. You have tricks up your sleeve. You can burp a baby with the best of them. You can change a terrible awful diaper and they don't even cry. You know when they're hungry, when they're tired and how to get them to sleep. With any luck, your significant other also knows these things so that every once in a while, you get a 5 minute break.

Here's where the other shoe drops. The trade off: You can't nap. So in those first few weeks when your newborn sleeps all day and eats/fusses all night, all you can do is look longingly at the occupied Rock 'n Play and wish you were 21 inches long while you hoist a 30 lb toddler onto a slide - specifically labeled for outdoor use but unabashedly assembled in your basement because you'll do anything to keep your toddler occupied in the cold winter months - or climb into their playhouse (also far too big for the basement, but in there anyway..or this could just be me).

I'm managing to shower every day. ...because when you only sleep a few hours each night, sooner or later, you're gonna look in the mirror and scare yourself. Showering helps. Most days, I wear clothes that you won't confuse for pajamas. Some days, I even wear make up. I'm making this look easy.  

It's not.

I have finger paint on my clothes, something sticky and hard stuck in my hair and my socks don't match. Whatever you do, don't try to carry on a conversation with me or listen to what I say. Generally, if you look closely, you'll hear and see things like this:

1. Newborn care: Vaselining the wrong end of diaper. Thrice. Vaselining outside of diaper. Twice.

2. Housekeeping: Hoisting the regular, gross diaper-laden trash into the bright blue, amply marked, enormous Recycling can.

3. Disciplining my child (with nonsensical gibberish): "You can either stand here and scream about nothing or you can go to timeout." ((confused look from toddler))

4. Safeguarding my toddler from the wiles of a suddenly insurmountable mouthful of chocolate covered almonds: "Spit that in my mouth, right now!"  ((toddler: confused, again))

5. And because Brandon, my darling genius husband, is never exempt from scrutiny, and because he's been on vacation and keeping a few more of my newborn hours, it's gotten to him, too: A few days ago, he almost lost his marbles on the scale because he had gained 10 lbs in two days. ...but he was actually just holding Henry and forgot. Boom. Doctored.

More to come from the trenches..

It's my aeroplane.

Actually, no, no it's not.

I just read an article on Yahoo! where parents are bellyaching about airlines creating 'baby ghettos' on the back of a plane so that the crying and general shenanigans won't upset other passengers.

...The parents complain that their seat assignments get screwed up and they're constantly at the mercy of  other travelers to help their families stay seated together.
...They complain that spacious seating - best for privacy in diaper changes and facilitating squirmy toddlers - is too expensive for families to afford.
...They complain that they get the stink eye too often from other passengers.
...and that the airline won't check their big stroller, only their small one.

Allow me to introduce a foreign concept:

Don't. Fly.

Duh, emergency situations will present themselves where 'it' (the fresh hell that is flying with a toddler) can't be helped. Where you have no other choice. And friends, you'll just have to white knuckle it through, but...

Did you not think your life would change when you had children?

Did you think you'd be able to do everything you used to do as a goofy, stink-eye-doling, cheap Chardonnay-sipping, business class-flying single or couple, whose heads you skim with your diaper bag on the way back to the 'baby ghetto' at the back of the plane?

Seriously, shut up.

If you're flying for 'convenience' to be where you want to be for the holidays or for vacation in a timely manner, suck it up.  You're making the choice to go there. And while, yes, you did acquire three super human abilities shortly after the birth of your child - an impervious shield to the atrocities of poop, vomit and screaming - others have not. And those three things? Bad for business.

Don't tell me you haven't winced at the sound of a crying baby before you had one.

Yep, I'm lookin' at you.

...If you want to avoid the small quarters, the hours in the airport, the stink eye, the 'no privacy' for diaper changes, pack up your big ass minivan, arm yourself with juice boxes and Goldfish crackers and drive to your destination. If you do it just right, you might even have enough space for that mobile home you like to call a jogging stroller.

how to tame a black cat

We've been practicing for a week, now.

We've watched many showings of the Dora Halloween special.

We bought ears and tail two weeks in advance so that she could warm up to the idea. Mainly, this manifested itself in my own (and Brandon's..which was infinitely more entertaining) wearing of the ears and tail. She liked for us to meow, also. "Ooooh! Deh's duh scawy bwack cat! Meooooow bwack cat!"  ((cue uncontrollable giggle fits))

We planned the costume with her normal clothes - not scratchy, not strange. Familiar. Unassuming.

Brandon was a doubter, "She's not gonna go!"

But, I talked it up all day.

We started putting on the costume one piece at the time at 5:30.

Black pants.

Leopard socks.

Black tutu.

Black shirt with cat face.

We had to appear apathetic - because Harper rarely wears anything I want her to - but with the successful donning of each piece of black clothing, my excitement grew.

When she let me paint whiskers on each cheek and a black heart-shaped nose and she started to meow and smile at herself in the mirror instead of scream in horror, I knew we were getting somewhere.

And as soon as the first princess and pirate came to our house for candy, she was ready to hit the trail.

I barely got her coat on in time - in a clutch & coordinating play, Grandma just happened to arrive yesterday with a double-breasted black pea coat that completed the outfit.

Stealthily and unbenownst to Harper, Brandon pinned a long black tail on her coat as we headed out the door.

I threw on her cat ears headband while she was busily examining the two pieces of  'starter candy.'

As our rookie stalked across the grass with her lime green pumpkin and up to the front door of our most friendly neighbors, we rehearsed, just as we had for a week:

me: "What do you say when they answer the door?"

H: "Twick oh Tweet!"

me: "Great! And how many pieces of candy do you take?"

H: ((silence))

me: "One."

me: "And what do you say after they give you candy?"

H: "Dank you! Happeh Hawwoween!"

Our girl had this down cold. She was so, so ready.

And much like her momma, the girl went on auto pilot as soon as our neighbor greeted her sweet and soft little knock at their door. Much to my (and Brandon's...and every neighbor's) delight, our rehearsals went out the window in favor of instinct:

She excitedly sat her bucket at their feet (I do not know why... but it was fantastic.) and said, "Hiiiiiii! Put duh candy, pwease! Dank you!"

Our plan was to go to 3 houses...

And after the 11th, she began to slow - weighed down by the considerable booty she insisted on carrying herself.

At the late hour of 7:15, a small, tired, 'scawy bwack' kitty cat - a seasoned pro - trudged back through our yard and proclaimed that she would like a few "de-wish-us tweats."

Happeh Hawwoween, indeed.

When Brandon went to get a juice box and came back with a Miller Lite,

I knew it was time to go home. 

But really, we had a great time at Disney.

In an elaborate dinosaur-themed restaurant at Downtown Disney, I turned 28 and got the very best birthday present I could have imagined: Harper fell asleep in my arms (y'all...this just does not happen) and I got to hold her like a baby for 30 minutes.

Lowlight: Harper got the pants scared off of her in a ride at Hollywood Studios. I'm still not sure B and I are back in the circle of trust. The best part? The brochure warned us that it might frighten small children. Epic parenting fail. We did not commemorate this with a photo. Honestly, I don't even know why I'm telling it now.  Except maybe to say this...

After she had napped off the horror of the scary ride and after Brandon drank that Miller Lite, he convinced her to go on a different ride by calling it a 'gondola.' He's not the type of guy who says 'gondola,' either, which I think was the highlight of the trip. Him. In a deeply persuasive conversation with our 2-year-old about a 'gondola.'

We stayed in a hotel that reminded me so much of being on Bald Head Island. Had it not been for an extremely merciful military discount, we could have purchased Bald Head Island for the price of 4 days in this hotel. The front desk was extremely attentive to Harper's every need.

The fountain drinks with ice in each park were spectacular. Seriously. It was perfect ice. I am in total withdrawal.

The food? Meh. Just before we left, I hastily threw together a bag of lightweight, non-perishable items to eat in our hotel room - because I am the child of Billy Butler - and I'm guessing that bag saved us at least $200.

We randomly happened upon Boyz II Men performing at Epcot - to both of our disappointment, we just missed them rocking the house to Motown Philly, but wheeled Harper up right as they were cranking out End of the Road. Y'all, there were some really really excited late twentyandthirtysomethings spilling $8 beer - but you wouldn't know it from the picture. It's b/c we were in the thick of the ruckus. And the Boyz' microphones were jewel-encrusted. Harper loved their groove beyond measure, which shocked us, b/c she's more of a disco-era girl when it comes to unexpected arms-in-the-air stroller boogying.

In other famous person-spotting news, I thought Burt Reynolds was in a pontoon boat next to us at one point, but it was just Brandon telling me that our hotel had boat rentals..

In general, it's impossible for a toddler to fully catch up on sleep each night, so Disney kinda turns them into glassy-eyed zombies who fall down a lot. True story: After we got off of It's a Small World in the Magic Kingdom, a 4-year-old girl in a Snow White princess dress tripped over her little brother's stroller and she sprawled out on the pavement in a huge, stiff royal blue and yellow polyester heap and was so tired she just lie there for a few seconds, to which her mom said, "Dammit, I think you just broke the iPhone! Get up!" ...the most magical place on Earth, indeed.

Just to get through, you have to ply them with sugar, or this happens:

Even if they take a three and a half hour nap in the middle of the day:

For example, Harper ate an entire Mickey Mouse ice cream bar by herself. I do not think she dropped a single bite, which is impressive, because sometimes she still misses her mouth with a spoon.

We won the battle of memorabilia, unless you count all of those $5 drinks where I really just wanted the ice - we came home with a mouse ears ball cap and a spinny, light-up Tinkerbell toy that Brandon is taking to work after Harp tires of it to mesmerize horrified children into doing his eye exam bidding.

Overall, the biggest hit with Harper was the Animal Kingdom.

She almost lost her marbles when this giraffe ambled up to stick his nose in our safari jeep:

She liked the petting zoo, but didn't actually do any petting. Fine. By. Me. Those goats had no space bubble:

She enjoyed trains of all sorts.

She really liked the characters and wasn't shy at all. She had brief chats with Jiminy Cricket and Chip & Dale. To Jiminy, she said, "Come on! Wets go pway!"

Enjoyed a conspicuously Dumbo-like dinosaur ride:

Loved the jumpy water fountain at Epcot:

And by our last night there, Brandon and Harper, loopy from sleep deprivation, took to taking self portraits..

And then we got on a plane and went home. And maybe one day, when she's 28 and has children of her own, I'll share with her the story of the plane ride home. So she won't completely lose hope in her parenting abilities and continue to procreate.  Apparently, the stress literally crossed my eyes..which particularly disturbs my husband, but I laugh every time I see it..with my one good eye.

practice makes perfect

We twick-oh-tweet at Hah-puh's house, Momma!/In this installment of "Harper Dresses Herself":

Buckwheat Sings

At the risk of peppering my blog with too many SNL references from the 80s that no one understands, Harper would like to submit the following lyrics for your deciphering pleasure:

Duh stahs ah nigh ah big an bwight, deep in da ha-puh Tecas! 

No? Another verse? Sure!

Duh pwaiwee sky is wide an high, deep in da ha-puh Tecas!

Come on.. Don't give up. 

Duh sae in bwoom is wike puhfume, deep in da ha-puh Tecas!

Sing with me now!  

Weminds me uh duh one I wuv, deep in da ha-puh Tecas!

Nee-haw (yee-haw)! Happy Monday!

Conversations with Harper

Tuesday morning, 6:20 a.m.

Mid-way through decaf coffee, which only annoys me in its uselessness.

Harper is watching Dora save something from the something in three easy steps. And Dora uses a map, not GPS. ..a disproportionately large-headed girl after my own heart.

Cinnamon rolls baking. . . . reminding me that it's finally Fall. Perfect.

I think Harper might be just a little chilly, so I wrap a blanket around her, which she kicks off. "No blankie. You have it."


I accept and settle in to check the weather amid the hum of the city: The occasional siren, car doors closing, engines starting, the rumble of garbage trucks. Everyone's awake.


Wait.. garbage trucks?! OH CRAP.

Y'all know how to dance goes from here - sweaty head, pajama pants, wet flip-flop feet striking out across the grass, pretty much looking like something out of the attic of Jane Eyre..

Two hands full of cardboard from the inside trash, when I realize I can't open the back door without disrupting the stack of Jenga'd boxes I'm balancing.


I cut my eyes at the small little lump on the couch with four potentially helpful appendages. On a whim, I give it a try. After all, she surprises me every day:

Me: Harper, can you please open the door for Mommy?

Harper: Oooh, boxes. Yes!

Me: Yes, boxes. I'm taking them to the trash can. Can you help?

Harper: Oooh, trash can!

Me: (resorting to cave woman talk) Yep. The door. Open. Please?

Harper: Oh-Kaaaay! (doesn't budge.)

Me: Humph. (open door on my own, somehow, some way. hear me roar.)

Harper: Great job, Mommy! You did it! Yay! (claps)

the quiet after the flash

Harper has had a flair for the dramatic for the last couple of weeks..

Now, I don't mean that she'll throw down her blankie and delight the crowd with a sonnet from Henry VIII. No, no, I wish.

Instead, we'll be in full-on tantrum lookout, after which a tooth will erupt, a rash will develop or she'll suddenly grow out of her shoes. And as cagey as I like to think I am in thwarting, snuffing out, and pinpointing causes before they even become the single dissatisfaction, she sometimes surprises me.

Like last weekend when we had to make an unplanned trip to see a patient with Brandon, which Harper usually loves, but Brandon put on a scary headlamp and turned the lights off so that she couldn't see him and then she saw him with the scary huge black headlamp and decided she needed to save him from the headlamp eating his head while I carried her kicking and screaming out of the clinic and all the way to the car, but not before she pulled down my tube dress in a fit of rage and I flashed at least 10 old men.

Get all that? Good. The wound is still too deep to separate into sentences and paragraphs, and there's a long version that includes much cajoling and coddling and niceness and mothering, but I'm waiting for it to actually be funny to me before I post it.

The good news is, the general malaise scooted on out the door sometime late last week and we had an absolute peach of a toddler this weekend. Meanwhile, I can only hope those old men suffered from vision-clouding maladies.

As evidence of her airy disposition, she allowed me to gather and photograph her very first ponytail.

antics to which I should become accustomed

This afternoon, after we ran out of things to do and after a pointed request from the back seat "Park. Swing-a-swings. Slide, please, Dadda," we steered the car in that direction for the second time today, somewhat begrudgingly, as there was no morning breeze or shade or Starbucks to power us through games of chase and hide and seek.

Totally glad we went.

After about 15 minutes of swinging (she's an enigma. she won't sit still for anything, but put her in a swing? ...a zen calm rolls in like fog) another family begins the approach - a dad, an infant and a girl around Harper's age. Harper greets them "hi boy! (to the girl) hi baby! (to the baby)" Totally enthusiastic. Totally typical.

Harper swings on... watching the other family closely. From her Zen perch.

What comes next? The best/most embarrassing part of my day.

out of the blue, it begins:

"Hiiiiiiii Grandpa!" says Harper, looking square into the face of the other dad.

..Brandon and I just look at each other quizzically. I giggle nervously. I glance around. ...no Grandpa-looking men around. Just the other dad. In a ball cap, of average apparel, of average youthful appearance. Pushing their small baby in a swing.

And again, "Grandpa! Swing a swing!" Loudly. Pointedly.

Mild panic sets in, along with the inability to control my laughter.

"Grandpa! Come on! It'sssss Grandpa!"

All the while, I'm quietly shushing, telling Harper that it's not Grandpa. . . especially not hers, who looks NOTHING.LIKE.THIS.MAN. I giggle on. I can't help it. Harper knows she's tickled my funny bone, which only encourages her.

"Hi Graaaandpa. Grandpa's got a baby!"

At this point, I'm sending up silent prayers. I'm talking loudly over her trying to distract her. To drown her out. Anything.

"Grandpa, Grandpa!" ((more unintelligible toddler babble regarding grandpa, the baby and the girl))

Brandon is of no help at all. He's humped over in an adjacent swing, laughing silently, yet so furiously that I can see his back shaking in my peripheral vision. Which only encourages me.

After about 45 seconds of sweat-inducing swing peek-a-boo theatrics, I think she's forgotten Grandpa and Grandpa's baby 10 feet away and I begin to relax, yet remain fixated. ..as evidenced by the next thing that comes out of my mouth, "Hey, look Harper! Grandpa's swinging with you!" (I meant Brandon, obviously).

Which starts everything up, again. "Ohh, Grandpa!"

I collapse into a defeated fit of laughter as the other dad. . . (possibly mortified. possibly amused. possibly hating Harper's guts. possibly questioning his sense of youth & vitality) pulls his baby out of the swing having never acknowledged the hot mess of a family next to him and gracefully turns his attention to his 2-year-old on the slide 30 feet away.

I can't imagine all uh dis is going to get better. . . before it gets worse.

I'm having too much fun to smile.

Like Brandon, Harper strikes a balance I'm still trying to achieve - she's intense and mellow at the same time.

I think this may be why, after all this time, I still like Brandon, not just love him.

Each day, I see more and more of our personalities in Harper. I see more and more I like about her. Somewhere along the way, she turned into my friend - not just someone I love out of motherly instinct or duty or because she's 1/2 of me.

So today, we went to the mall to return some stuff, scope out a kitchen gadget, ride the glass elevator to the top floor three times. . . you know. The usual.

I found myself oddly unencumbered, save the umbrella stroller, and Harper is really, really into trains right now, so when we glimpsed the kiddie train running through the mall from our perch atop the 4th floor, it had to be.

Words do not describe the child's excitement. . . She chose the green cart and in we went. I tried not to snap too many pictures. I kinda just wanted to soak her in. Besides, she was moving around so much, half of the ones I took were a blur of arms and legs.

When I showed Brandon the pictures of her great adventure, I started with, "Well, I didn't catch a smile. . . . ," and looking at it, you'd have to wonder, but she was too busy having fun to smile. No perpetual grin for my girl. She feels and she loves and she's serious about it.

Not pictured: The jig she danced between Ann Taylor Loft and Williams Sonoma when the conductor played a rousing train whistle version of Yankee Doodle.

something to file away for when I'm bouncing another newborn at 2:00 a.m. wondering why on Earth I did it ..again.

Scene: 7:15 a.m. Bed. ..Wait. I'm in bed at 7:15? Pinch me.

Brandon is bustling around the house getting ready for work while I wait to hear the first squeals and babbles from the room next door. I've been up since 6:00, forcing myself to keep going back to sleep. Thanks for that stellar Circadian Rhythm, Harper.

Oh! There she is. "Good mawwwwnin'!" I hear first. That's Harper, not Brandon.

Brandon walks into Harper's room, "Good mornin' to you, too!"

"Hi Daddy! (babble babble babble). Paci Bwankie!" (More excited babbling because due to work, he usually doesn't field the morning wake-up. This is an epic surprise for a 2-year-old.)

Brief discourse regarding toast and Dora and a backpack ensues.

Pause....... then I hear the best part of my day.

She says:

"Where's the momma?"

Vintage.

Life isn't all flowers and sausages.

Every once in a while, Harper hates life, which reminds me how great life truly is. She doesn't like my cooking. She doesn't like my games. She doesn't like her daddy, but screams bloody murder when he leaves the room or goes to work. She doesn't want to nap or go to bed. And she pitches an unGodly fit to let us know that, which leaves me physically shaky with a lump in my throat and a knot in my stomach. Yes. Clearly, I have this Mom thing cracked. No. No. After a day like that, I'm cracked.

Fortunately, for the sake of the proliferation of the human race, most days are like today.

She starts babbling at 6:15 a.m. instead of 5:15. We play crazy games and I hear big belly laughs until it's time to get dressed. And when we get dressed, she picks out an outfit and doesn't feverishly claw at its embellishments and frills like they're going to come to life and swallow her up. She chooses a bow for her ever-lengthening wisps of blonde hair and actually leaves it in. And then we go to Gymboree. She and her friend Charlotte lie on a parachute together and giggle and roll. Then she takes a nap. Peacefully. And she eats. And she poops (parents will identify with this victory. otherwise, it will be gross. sorry). And we play outside. And she talks to me and I understand. And at bedtime, she curls into a motionless ball in my lap with her blankie and she lets me sing to her and hug her and kiss her until I tear myself away. When I lay her down, I hear a sleepy little "Night night, Momma. Sweep tight. Wuv you" and I shut the door, aching for 6:15 a.m.

Language Barrier

Many of our friends don't have children and some know absolutely nothing about babies.

Their knowledge level is, oh, exactly where mine was until the day Harper was born.

So it's easy for me to remember that they don't know baby lingo. Before I babble on about a Snap-n-Go stroller frame vs. a travel system or say "Bumbo" or try to explain to them why I can't pop by their house and "just let Harper nap in the guest room," I remember that I'm speaking nonsensical gibberish. Harper may as well be explaining it.

So I attach pictures when I talk about baby products, b/c I would have been all, "What the heck is a Bumbo?!" before Harper actually needed one.

And when I tell someone to get Harper a board book for her birthday, I tell them that they're the big thick cardboard kind that don't rip.

B/c what the heck is a "board book" to a non-parent?!

I have never, ever, ever judged people because they don't know about kid stuff. Or processes. Why would they know? How would they know?

Until today.

Harper and I were in line at a craft store when Harper struck up a conversation with a twentysomething woman waiting behind us. After Harper dazzled her with stories about her purple toenails, white shoes, stickers and crayons (not that the lady had any idea that's what Harper was talking about), she asked, "How old is she?"

"23 months," I replied.

Quizzically, she looked at me and asked, "What does that mean? How old is that in normal people terms?"

How I wonder what you are.

I had a great life before Harper. I wanted for nothing. I was fulfilled.

But I'm glad I didn't know what I do now, because until I heard her rousing rendition of Tink-Uh Tink-Uh We We Ta, there was a gaping void.

Trust me, I'd rather growl through the door.

Twice today, I've heard the sound that drops me in my tracks, sends me quickly, stealthily crawling through the house to avoid windows, pleading with a toddler to, "Shhh.. Be quiet." to which she replies loudly, "SHHH! I quiet! Thank you!" and with a surgeon's steadiness, pulling back a curtain precisely two millimeters to reveal uninvited, unexpected visitors on the porch.

It's been happening more and more frequently. . . and I'm over it.

Earlier today, it was the creepy neighbor next door who wears no pants. After two knocks and one door bell chime, he placed some of our junk mail in our mailbox and left. You wear no pants and have a criminal record. Junk mail from Verizon isn't your golden ticket, Snackshack.

Just now, it was a teenager with a big cardboard box. He obnoxiously rang the bell 6 times then pounded on the door for good measure.

While I stood just two feet away from him in a cold-sweat panic, begging him to leave and not wake the sick, snotty and coughing baby who I had just watched struggle her way to sleep, I briefly thought of my options:

Come out brandishing a golf club and knock some blooms off the azaleas to demonstrate my seriousness?

Growl menacingly through the door (my bark is not as impressive as my quack these days. . . A duck isn't scary)?

Cock the shotgun and hope he hears it?

Unfortunately, all of these options would, of course, rouse the babe. So I stood. And prayed for him to leave.

Then, when he mercifully relented, slammed our screen door, and indignantly huffed his way through the yard, I knew immediately what I needed.

No. . . not a taser-wired Welcome mat.

Everyone has that jerk or crazy person on their street with the sign. . . depending on their mental status, its either huge and obnoxious or scrawled crazily in a hodgepodge of capital and lowercase letters with excessive punctuation.

Tonight, I join the ranks, although I'm telling myself it's with a little more grace.

If you want one, too, it's from this Etsy shop!

A Letter to Me

No one tells it like it is when it comes to having babies. Not even other moms.  Maybe it's because it's not as hard for other moms as it was for me.  Maybe they've blocked it out.  Maybe they didn't want to scare me. I don't know. ..but no one managed to get it through my perfectly colored, washed, dried and curled hair.

True story: My cousin tried to tell me at my baby shower after presumably spending the entire morning prepping, packing things and driving to said shower. As everyone crowded around to admire her beautiful and new pink bundle, I met my cousin's gaze.  Her eyes were kind & tired. She looked beautiful, but worried. Put together, but pulled in a million directions. She only said one thing, "It is really, really hard."

At that point, I nonchalantly told myself the lie that all expectant parents tell themselves in order to procreate: "Yikes. ..But my baby will be easier."

"Ha!" says my current self.

Doesn't everyone wish they could write a letter to themselves to snap our former selves into reality?

To the well-rested, naive, slightly swollen lass of 24, I would have said..

Hey you.

Swing by Cookout on your way back to Maryland and grab a milkshake, because it's the only dairy you'll have for a year. Harper's gonna have a milk sensitivity that will take you from hero to zero if a piece of cheese crosses your lips.

Enjoy that extra hair. It's going to fall out after the baby is born and that is.. strange.

You will know when you're in labor. Don't waste four Post-Its charting non-painful contractions at your desk.

When you can't breathe, talk or smile, that's when to call the doctor.  NOT after four Post-Its full of non-painful contractions.

Fifteen people will be in the room when Harper is born. At least half of them will be watching the process and it won't be with a bird's eye view. ..and, assuming you've had an epidural, you'll still be aware of it. And it will be very, very awkward.

Which brings me to...

An epidural is your friend. Sure, your "birth plan" can be to go as long as possible without it, but.. why the crap would you do that? 

When Harper finally arrives, banged up from your hip bone and she's gray and not pink and she doesn't breathe or cry for the first two minutes, you will feel like you're dying but don't die. She'll be fine...and loud. She will be the loudest baby born that whole week.

After three days of doctors and nurses telling you what to do, you'll feel like you can't do it on your own. You can. If you have any sense at all, you know best because you're the mom.

It's OK to holler into a pillow or cry while you're feeding your child. It hurts that bad, but it'll get better.

Harper will only sleep while she's being walked or bounced. Could you, like.. start some kind of pregnant cross-training program. . .nowish-ly?

And when, two weeks postpartum, you have to walk around with Harper for two hours at a time, you will feel like your insides are being turned inside out and that your butt will fall off. They won't, and it won't.

You'll think you'll never be normal again, but you will.

It will be worth it. Better than you ever dreamed.

See?

Love,

Me

Is a pocketbook, by any other name, as mysterious?

"God! Why does my purse smell like bananas?!" ((less annoyed, more Napoleon Dynamite))

Husband has just been rhetorically wifed. He shrugs.

"I mean, there was a banana in there, but I took it out yesterday! Why on earth can I still smell it?"

((inserts whole head into purse, takes long, disgusted drag. removes head. shakes head in defeat))

Am I wrong to assume that most moms of toddlers have a banana (or two) in their purse 83% of the time? or that we smell things that shouldn't be smelled without reservation or pause?

A few days later...

Scene: Grocery Store Check-Out.


"Omg! Why are my credit cards stuck in my wallet?  What did I spill in there? It's brown and.. creamy. What did Harper put in there?"

At this point, it is safe to assume that I no longer carry an expensive bag. Or have an expensive wallet. Or have failed to annoy a single grocery store check-out girl.

"Oh GOD! Is it poop?!" Did Harper go rogue?!

<<horrified gasp from cashier>>

"No. It can't be.. It smells like.. bananas."

But I took that banana out three days ago and I didn't notice that it had even been split open.  It wasn't even brown.  In fact, I ate it.

I suppose a Type A would have done it right away, but. . .

Later that night..
Intent on discovering the source, I began removing items from my purse with the eventual intent of throwing it in the washing machine.. b/c I'm a Mom and have a washable purse ((blushes in recognition of the travesty)).

. . . paci. . .toothbrush. . .1/2 eaten cookie. . . gooey wallet. . . receipts. . .coupons. . . paci. . . paci. . .small blanket. . .sippy cup. . . . .freeze-dried strawberries. . . applesauce. . .diapers. . . .wipes. . .paci wipes. . . make up. . .keys. . . .loose change. . . hand sanitizer. . . screwdriver(?). . .scotch tape. . .board book. . .

"What is the source of the stench that plagues me so?!" I didn't really say that.

In a defeated huff, I walked to the laundry room with an empty, black winter banana purse in tow.

Spring needs to be sprung and I'll tell you why.

In anticipation of its bath, I carefully checked each inner pocket one last time, wincing at the thought of unexpectedly plunging my hand into the source. ..Coming up empty, I tossed aside the bottom board shaper and lining.

I audibly squealed in shock as a long, skinny, slimy, wet, completely black object loosed itself from the innards, became airborne, did slow motion flips and landed on my beflipflopped foot with limp clap. 

Paralyzed with fear and disbelief, I stared:

A dead black FISH!?

A DEAD MOUSE!?

OMG. It's a snake.

..but dead snakes don't smell like three week old bananas..

Harper rages against the dying of the light.

Fairly often, Harper will find something hilarious.  The belly laughs, which are so uncontrolled and unexpected, often completely knock her off of her feet. A Budweiser Clydesdale throwing a snowball will reduce her to a lump of bumbly, stumbly, snorting adorable.

When this happens, as most parents can attest, I feel it, too. I smile and laugh along, but really? To see her so happy is like someone is hugging my heart (gross, but that's how it feels).

When it happens, I soak it in. . . because as often as she collapses in a fit of laughter, she collapses in a puddle of tears and screams.

..because I insist that she hold my hand and not roam freely through a busy Chicago Starbucks.

..because she doesn't want to get in the stroller.  She wants to walk, just like us.

..because she's tired, but can't fall asleep because she doesn't want to miss one.single.thing.

..because too many people are staring at her and talking to her and I'm holding her hand and she can't retreat from the intimidation.

She's been on the earth a short 21 months.

It's par for the course.

She can't control it.  She feels, just like adults, but she's too little to contain it. Or express it with words. Or blog about it.

I beg of you.  Harper & I beg of you.

Remember that she's a tiny person with big feelings.

Even I don't always remember that.

..especially when she lets fly with a blood curdling scream in Starbucks before I can quickly usher her out the door into the cold so as not to fluster the regulars.

Please try to understand.  Trust me.  I'm mortified.

I might sheepishly smile (because what else can I do) while I try to quickly fix the problem, but no one is hugging my heart. It's being ripped out.  By your disapproving stare.  By her unhappiness & frustration.

It's OK to feel upset that the bliss of your morning routine was interrupted.  Harper is upset, too. . . She envies your freedom & eye-levelness (as opposed to butt-levelness) & ability to sit in a chair untethered & your coffee instead of her milk.

But if my toddler gets the best of you, if your emotions get the best of you, and you can't help but glare angrily or furrow your brow or roll your eyes in exasperation, a wonderful alternative is to take your ass out of the public place that we want so desperately to leave, and have coffee at home.

Come again?

Before I had a child, every now and then, I'd hear a toddler "talk" and - amazingly - their parent would swiftly decode the (and let's call it what it is, here) gibberish.

This unnerved me.  Foreign languages have never come easily. I've been trying since high school.

So this morning, I stood at the counter and blearily succombed to muscle memory as I made coffee and a sippy cup of milk & oatmeal for Harper.

Just then, I heard a small but stern voice issue the diktat: "Hi! Borsch gurts gah dish!"

Without pausing to whip out my Toddler to English dictionary, I replied, "Ok, but only one. You haven't even had breakfast!"

So, I opened the refrigerator, she handed me the pressurized whipped cream, opened her mouth, and again, I said, "Only one" as I squirted a minuscule dab of the sweetly combustible dairy onto her tongue.

"Mmm. Danks."

Y'all, I'm bilingual.

-- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  - - 
Harper to English: Entries 5,000-3
borsh - four.  In context: "wunn, teww, freee, borsh, fie."
gurts - squirts
gah dish - whipped cream and/or ice cream. Origin unknown.

Enjoy the "pitch."