The other day I was thinking about Schmitty. Schmitty was our 15-year-old cat who got cancer and died in a very short amount of time. Schmitty was chubby, loyal, beautiful and probably one of the sweetest creatures alive. We used to say that if there’s such thing as an 8-fold path, he was most certainly at the finish line. When he was put to sleep on April 21st, 2007, he entered nirvana—enlightenment. He would have left this tangible world forever.

I used to brag about Schmitty. You see, he was directly responsible for turing at least three people into cat people. In fact, they liked him so much, they too adopted cats. The surprising thing about these three people is that they didn’t particularly like cats before they met Schmitty. I took great pride in knowing that cats were adopted directly because of Schmitty. (I still take great pride in that.)

Schmitty was always spreading compassion.

We had to say goodbye to Schmitty. But we still think about him all the time. He comes to me in dreams sometimes, which is always bittersweet because I wake up aching to see him again—like, actually aching. But it’s nice to see him at all.

We miss him. That’s about all I can really say about that because if I continue writing about him, I’ll cry and I don’t want to cry this afternoon.

And so.

Murray.

We adopted Murray a month or so after we said goodbye to Schmitty. We got Murray because I needed to laugh. And Murray is a hoot. I don’t have to convince you of that. If you’re reading this, chances are you already know and love Murray—goofy as he may be.

Well, Murray and Em get along wonderfully. I couldn’t have asked for a better, more baby-friendly pet. When Murray plays with Em, he’s surprisingly gentle, like he knows he needs to be. And they actually play together. Murray makes Em laugh almost as much as he makes us laugh, which is pretty remarkable if you ask me.

I swear if I were a less cynical person, I’d guess he’s doing this intentionally.

Their relationship brings me some bittersweetness as well. You see, watching Em with Murray is great, but there are times where I just wish he had a brother. There are times where I think, “Oh, this boy is entirely too friendly and outgoing to spend all of his time playing with a cat!” And I feel a little sad for him and then I take him for a walk and show him the colorful arrangement of drunk and dying men our neighborhood park has to offer. (Again, sad.)

About two months ago I started to realize that Emory simply couldn’t be an only child. I was surprised by the change of heart. All along, I have said one child, just one. But I think I was even more surprised when I realized who brought the change to light.

A cat. Another freaking cat!

And so I have to spell it out for myself. I simply have to write it down for the sake of history.

Schmitty was responsible for convincing a difficult crowd that cats make awesome pets. At least three people adopted a feline because of him. He passed and we “replaced” him with a fuzzy feller named Murray.

Murray is responsible for showing us—a couple determined to have only one child—that we simply cannot stop at only one. We simply have to give our son a sibling someday.

I guess what I’m saying is perhaps this is what Schmitty wanted all along.

But I have to admit, I’m having a little trouble figuring out a way to tell Em’s eventual sibling that he or she was brought into the world because of a cat.

I started teaching Em how to sleep (or nap, rather) a couple of weeks ago. I didn’t follow a specific method but not because I didn’t want to. It’s because I’m too stubborn (or busy?) to read a 400 page book about how to get my baby to sleep. Publishers of the world: do you really think new parents have time to read incredibly wordy books? And if they do have time, do you really think they want to spend the free time they do have reading about sleep? Doing it maybe, but reading about it?

Maybe it’s just me. But the last thing I want to do whenever I discover a few minutes of spare time is read about how to get my child to sleep in 400 short pages. And believe me I see the irony in this. Because most of the time I have free time is whenever Em is asleep and usually the hours leading up to said chunk of free time are filled with frustration because I couldn’t get my child to sleep.

But the moment he falls asleep, I run for the refrigerator, the shower, or the cleaning supplies. I most certainly do not sit down and pick up a book about how to get my baby to sleep more. Because that would make sense and I don’t make sense. And I certainly don’t read directions. I’ve never read directions and I don’t always make sense.

But this post will hopefully make some sense.

Instead of reading a long book about how to get my son to sleep (like I should have done) I spent 6 months reading paragraphs here and there (sometimes accidentally); listening to friends (and sometimes eavesdropping on conversations of strangers); observing the specie firsthand (like Dian Fossey only my subject is my son and not a gorilla baby. Although, I bet they are similar); and of course reading stuff on the Internet (not something I recommend).

What did I end up with? So much information went into my head, I thought I had too many pieces of gibberish equalling information overload—like whenever you mix every color together with good intentions and end up with something resembling the inside of a baby diaper.

At first I thought I was going to end up with a fountain of misinformation. But I surprised myself. I took all the information, added a little something called “intuition” and I ended up with something that looked OK.

My potpourri of information came out tasting pretty OK.

What good is information if you can’t pass it along to help and/or welcome critique? And so for what it’s wroth, here’s my recipe for getting my son to sleep better (or at all).

WHAT YOU WILL NEED

(Consider these items necessary, as one might need a spoon for stirring or a bowl for mixing.)

1). ROUTINE ROUTINE ROUTINE!—It’s true. Postpone trips to the store, vacations, and life. Postpone it all. If you want to teach your child how to sleep better, you simply have to make sure you’re around at the times you want him or her to nap. Make a schedule. Stick to it.

2). FAMILIARITY—This could technically go under routine, I guess. But I think it’s different. Routine is more about time and how you react the moment you realize your baby needs to nap or go to sleep for the night. Familiarity on the other hand has a lot to do with where you do this and what they are given when you do it. If you sing “Believe It Or Not” from The Greatest American Hero, then continue to do so. If you offer a bottle every time they go down, continue to give them something to drink.

3). PATIENCE—Said Woman, take it slow. It’ll work itself out fine.

I ain’t no doctor. I ain’t no nurse. Hell, I ain’t barely even a mother, but I bet that if you use all three of the items listed above—no matter what ingredients you use—I reckon it will work.

THE METHOD

The moment I see Em rub his eyes or grow increasingly more frustrated for no apparent reason, it’s time. I grab a bottle of milk, my book (or computer), his orange pillow, the monkey, and a pacifier. I put him in his crib on his back and give him the bottle, placing the pacifier next to him (or in his hand). I feed him some milk and place the pillow next to his head.

Then I wait with him.

That’s all I do. Wait. My presence is there only to reassure him that everything is gonna be OK. I sit in a rocking chair near his bed. I am there if he needs me.

The only rule I have is no matter how fussy he gets, no matter how much he cries, I do not pick him up until he has napped. I find other ways to get him to relax. I follow the “no pick-up” rule strictly.

The first few days were difficult. He fussed a lot and I had to console him several times. The whole ordeal lasted well over an hour and half. It could have been two hours. I don’t know.

Day three came around and that time got shorter. He was getting used to the fact that crib equals sleep and sleep equals play with mommy, books and happiness. I think by day four or five I had him asleep within an hour.

And then that time got even shorter. It was taking him about 45 minutes to fall asleep. I was still sitting back there with him, but I was quietly reading or writing the whole time.

On Saturday, Em fell asleep the moment his head hit his pillow. I was shocked as was Tobyjoe. Em slept for one and a half hours that day without making a peep. And that was nap two! Nap one was an hour long.

It became abundantly clear to me on Saturday, that our homemade, half-assed method was working!

IN SUMMATION

I am writing this from a silent apartment. The soft hum of the air conditioner in the bedroom can be heard over the baby monitor. My son is taking his second nap for the day, sleeping soundly after 25 minutes in his crib.

He didn’t even fuss.

I realize that this feeling of elation can (and probably will) fall away as quickly as it grew, but I’m going to enjoy it for now. It feels pretty good to learn that my son knows how to sleep for longer than 30 minutes at a time. It feels pretty good knowing that this week (and this week alone) I feel as though my hard work has finally paid off; I succeeded at something extraordinarily positive.

Dare I say this?

I feel oddly powerful right now. I know that will probably come crashing down tomorrow, crumble in place around me, but right now I feel the strength of a thousand mothers and I want to give you some because I can and I owe you and you’re awesome.

So, here.

I mentioned some time last week in the comments section that I was having some issues trying to live here and be a mother at the same time. I’m having difficulty with things like grocery shopping, alternate side parking, and just getting around in general.

One of the hardest problems I have had to deal with is alternate side parking. For those unfamiliar with the concept, every other day (for an hour and a half) you have to move your car from one side of the street to the other. Let’s say it’s Thursday right before 1 PM. The street cleaner has come and gone and now everyone from the Tuesday/Friday side has to move their car from that side to the other side to avoid a ticket the following day.

What you get is this: at around 12:45 PM at least five people get in their cars, move them, and sit there until 1 PM. That way, they are guaranteed a spot the following day and don’t have to drive around forever (or park somewhere dodgy, like I usually do) later on.

That’s all fine. I get that mentality. If I had the time and never used my car except to move it from one side of the street to the other, I’d probably do that too. My biggest problem, however, is in regard to our neighbors. The house directly next door is home to an extended family. They purchased the entire three-story home (which is split into three apartments) and three families (from the same family) live there. It seems they have about 5 cars total, but three are there all the time.

And these people drive me crazy. They simply refuse to follow any sort of social contract when it comes to alternate side parking. They don’t take up one spot per car. Instead, they take up anywhere from four to six car lengths. And one of their cars is a monstrous SUV.

Below is a picture taken an hour ago. Behind the tree on the far left, you can make out a little bit of the SUV. That car is owned by the older guy and he lives on the second floor. His car talks. It says things like, “PROTECTED BY VIPER! STAND BACK!” which is REALLY awesome when you have a baby napping. The car in the middle is owned by the guy living on the third floor. The car in the back is owned by guy who I think is the younger brother of the guy on the third floor. He lives on the first floor.

The amount of room in front of the SUV is double the space of what you see behind it. I can’t get a shot of that from here, but here’s an illustration:

And, no, this isn’t the fault of any other car on the street. These guys know exactly what they’re doing. They do it almost every day. Granted, they have no control over how close the car behind the last guy parks in relation to their own, which is why when the red car pulled in late last night after a rarity occurred and someone left, I snickered.

I can’t tell you how angry it makes me. I’m embarrassed by how angry it makes me. I’m embarrassed I don’t have the guts to say something to them about it.

This morning, as we left to see Tobyjoe off to the subway, I decided it was time to write a note. I put it on the SUV, (delicately of course as IT’S VIPER PROTECTED!) On our way back home, I removed the note from the car because it seemed too passive aggressive and pathetic. Plus, I know it’s not going to change anything.

And so…

I’m embarrassed I wrote this. But I simply don’t know what else to do. Yes, I could ask them to stop, but they won’t (and I’m too much of a coward anyway). They do this because they don’t want anyone scratching their precious hunks of metal (they never drive). (Edited to add: I learned from a comment that it’s for another reason entirely. I feel so stupid!)

I’ve watched my mother’s once mint condition, hand-me-down get keyed, scraped, dented, and smashed in only a year’s time. But I don’t do crap like this. Having your car’s bumper destroyed is one of the things you silently agree to when you live here with a car.

I’m not proud of myself for feeling this much rage over something so mundane and simple. I try and do the whole “Embrace it and let it go” thing—you know, breath in, breath out.

But I can’t let it go. It never stops pissing me off. So, I wore patchouli today in hopes of conjuring up some residual hippie vibes leftover from college. Someone’s gotta give and it simply has to be me.

I’m amazed at how quickly Em is picking up new things and I constantly wonder where he’s getting these new ideas from. Sometimes I think I get it, and other times he just starts doing something and I’m left scratching my head, wondering if he’s keeping night hours elsewhere.

They’re precise little human recorders, babies. It’s no wonder how they can turn out so graciously sweet or so horrifically angry.

His new thing is all about books. He loves reading books and then rereading books and then re- re-reading books and, well, you get the picture.

He crawls down off of my lap, walks over to where his books are kept, grabs a new one, walks back over to me, hands me the book and then turns around and waits for me to pick him up and read to him. Now, I can’t believe he does this. I can’t believe he enjoys hearing me yammer on about ducks, curious monkeys and blue horses, green frogs, purple cats and jumping on the bed. One day I read Brown Bear so many times I lost count.

One day, however, each time I finished reading one of his books, I placed it in his basket of toys underneath Huggy Bear. (Not the guy from Starsky and Hutch.) I realize this doesn’t qualify me as a patron saint of motherhood, but I was going cross-eyed and I needed to do some chores around the house. I can’t just not do it, you know?

I’m pretty sure that the fuel used to run a parent consists of few parts guilt.

Anyway, I wonder what the record is for number of times someone’s read a Super Chunky Good For Me! book in one sitting.

Last week I took him to a local “World Music” class a family-oriented café here in Williamsburg called Mamalus. The management is thinking of offering weekly classes. They’ve been offering freebies for the last couple of weeks. Most of the classes seem to be for older children, but we signed up for the two that included his age group. (Incidentally, I have noticed that Em is kind of in a bit of a “no-man’s age group” when it comes to classes. He’s either too old or too young. But we make due.)

So, we arrived early and it was already packed. There was a couple standing at the corner holding several different instruments. They were obviously running the show.

They pulled out drums and rattles and moroccos and bells and then bigger drums—all types of instruments. We went around the great big circle and the Cuban music man sang out each baby’s name to the beat of a drum. When he got to Em, Em was unsure of how to react. I told the man his name and the man beat the drum and sang EMORY! EMORY! EMORY! EMORY! Em just stared up at him, open-mouthed and perplexed—not frightened, but maybe a little unsure. (Or maybe he was just recording it?)

After every child had their moment in the spotlight, the room erupted. Parents and nannies danced; children sang, babies waved their hands in the air. And I’d have declared it a room full of chaos had it not been belted together by song.

Since our visit, Em has begun this adorable sing-songy chant of sorts. At first I wasn’t sure what he was doing, but then I realized that every time I sing, or every time I turn on one of his musical toys he would react. It’s really adorable and strange and I want to dance all over again.

Children are capable of making those normally seduced by shame realize that the only thing shameful about life is feeling shame at all.

So, whenever Em is older and he lets us know how embarrassing we are, I’ll tell him he has only himself to blame. And then I’ll thank him.

We’re leaving for Boston this evening. I want to leave at night—at a time Em is normally sleeping—so he doesn’t realize he’s uncomfortable. I really don’t like driving at night. But I dislike traffic even more. And I loathe driving in traffic with Em in the car. One time, it took us over two hours to get from Maplewood, New Jersey to our apartment in Brooklyn. The actual distance is 27 miles, give or take a few. It was an awful trip, especially for Tobyjoe who sits in back with Em because he faces the rear of the car.

Incidentally, when can I turn the car seat around? I know that they say a child must be at least a year old, 30 inches long, and weight 20 pounds. He’s met all of those requirements except for the year old part. Why a year? Why does one have to wait a year to turn the car seat around? Traveling would feel much easier if I could see the little guy. We have one of those mirrors, but it doesn’t work in our car. It’s main function is to dangle from the window so that Em can occasionally flirt with himself.

I’m looking forward to taking him to Boston. I’m not sure what we’ll do there. I have read it’s a much more family friendly city, so perhaps I’ll find some family things to do. The funny thing about that statement is, I don’t know what “family things” are. Pizza parlors? Zoos? Bowling alleys? He’s far too young to appreciate all that. Puppet shows seem to appeal to him. And he loves other babies. Perhaps we’ll crash a daycare.

It’ll be wicked cool.

I am writing this post fueled with excitement. My Kitchenaid ice cream making attachment arrives via UPS today. (Along with 50 bucks worth of agar agar, obviously a massive mistake made on my part that Tobyjoe will probably NEVER let me live down. At this rate, we’ll have vegan ice cream until we’re peeing in our own britches.) I took an ice cream making class on Monday over at The Brooklyn Kitchen where I learned how to make scrumptious ice cream from scratch. The chef taught us how to make milks, ice cream, frozen yogurt, and vegan ice cream.

And I ate her ice cream. I ate it right up.

Last night I cooked up some vanilla ice cream batter. It’s been in the fridge (soon to be the freezer) ever since. It’s ridiculous how excited I am about making ice cream. And if it turns out well, Em will have his first taste of the creamy goodness today.

I made another deal with myself, one I know I can’t keep. If our evenings and windows continue to be pierced by the sound of a warped ice cream truck jingle, instead of buying Em a popsicle, I’ll offer him fresh ice cream instead. I’ll have batter ready to go. And If he still wants ice cream from the Good Humor guy, I’ll give the kid a buck or two and eat the rest myself.

I’ll eat it right up.

Leave it to self-defeating me to make a deal and try and keep up with Brooklyn ice cream trucks.

I anticipate failure.

Em walked last night, like actually walked. He thought about it, realized he could do it, and then freaking walked. And both his parents shrieked like monkeys. Any droppers of eaves would have surely guessed a lottery had been won. But no cash prizes were attained. Instead, our son walked, over and over again, stumbling gleefully.

He’ll take about four steps each time. I imagine he’d go further, but our apartment is only so wide. He plops down the moment he reaches our bait, his goal (which was a plastic spatula last night and this morning but will hopefully be ice cream in few hours).

We tried to get a video. It’s difficult taking video of Em because he much prefers playing with the iFlip than any other object we use to entice him. Of course, it doesn’t help that the makers of iFlip put a groovy red light on its front letting everyone know, “HEY! I’M RECORDING!” whenever it’s on. He loves the red light. He loves bashing my iFlip onto the floor. He loves making movies with it, which consist of 90% blackness and can easily make a person sick within the first minute or two.

Anyway, this is the best I could do this morning.

In no time at all, he’ll be chasing ice cream trucks all over Brooklyn.

I woke up this morning and discovered Toby couldn’t move. His back had given out. He spent the better half of the morning hunched over the table, pale as a corpse, groaning into his bowl of uneaten cereal. He spent the hour before that fighting nausea while perched over a toilet bowl.

I had to hit the ground running. I made Em breakfast while he played in his closed, safe quarters. When I turned around to put him into his highchair, I discovered he had been playing in cat vomit.

“It’s organic.” I thought and washed his hands.

I left the apartment at 8:30 first making sure my husband wasn’t going to die. I left him lying flat on his back, still pale and unmoved, groaning. I told him to cancel work and our reservations for tonight. He was in no position to move. Of course, he refused.

I headed to McCarren Park to meet the other mothers for a weekly workout. This was my fourth session. I had missed it all last week. I wasn’t going to miss it again. Plus, I want Em to hang out with other kids. He must get tired of looking at me all the time. I know that I do.

Five of us showed up today, plus our trainer. It was hot but that didn’t stop us. We did push-ups, pull-ups, lunges, and tummy work. We jogged and talked, all the while exchanging stories about motherhood.

I’m not one for all-gal groups or groups for that matter. I haven’t ever been one for all-gal groups. (Except for soccer!) There’s a reason we gave up two R.E.M. tickets in order to have a quiet dinner out instead. That’s why I don’t go to BlogHer; I know I’ll clam up, expose a less than attractive side of myself, a side I have grown to despise but am forced to live with.

But this all-gal group feels different. I’m feel comfortable with the women who attend these weekly workouts. I enjoy hearing them talk. I can’t put my finger on why they’re different from, say, the women I met in the park a few weeks ago. But they are. They’re very different. Perhaps coupling group meetings with physical activity allows for more easygoing conversations?

I don’t know.

But I feel positively wonderful right now. Sure, I’m lightheaded from having only consumed one of my 21 allotted WeightWatchers points for the day. (Did I just write that?) But I feel great.

(Why?)

I had not one, but three adult conversations and all of them took place before 10 AM. I had them with other mothers. And I let myself relax while doing so.

(Maybe I’m different?)

I know I probably don’t say this enough, especially on here, but I have a really great life. I have a caring husband whom I trust and love with all my heart. I have a son who makes my heart ache and whose smile and eyes I discover for the first time every day of my life. I have a family that is hilarious and weird and I feel very close to them even if some of them moved all the way to China.

I’m a mother. And sometimes it’s not easy. Sometimes it’s downright lonely. Sometimes I want to sob into my hands and feel sorry for myself. Sometimes I leave the house, both shoulders draped in baby vomit but I wear both stains like war medallions—motherhood medallions of war.

All I know is this: today, I feel happy and hopeful. I love that I found at least five other mothers willing to laugh out loud—in public—because someone else just nonchalantly admitted that they caught their daughter digging through (and sampling!) their rabbit’s litter box.

Humility and motherhood go hand-in-hand. And I think we’d be a whole hell of a lot happier, mothers of the world, if we’d just admit it.

I wandered around Manhattan (for the first time since Em was born) with my dear friend Nico on Saturday. We had lunch outside at a café near Union Square and shopped until near exhaustion. (It was damn hot.) I got home just in time to watch the sky attack Brooklyn for several hours; the thunderstorms were awesome.

Unfortunately, due to uncertainty about where we’ll be living come December, I came home with only a ten dollar pair of sunglasses from Feline’s Basement and a small Father’s Day gift for Toby. (He enjoys making us both jam and cheese plates. I thought the nerd in him might find it funny as he sometimes writes code on graph paper.) I wanted to buy a whole lot more.

We had lunch with Brad and Laura yesterday. They are expecting a baby in July. She looks amazing, far better than I whenever I was that far along. Even her ankles looked great! Being with a pregnant woman made me realize how much I miss being pregnant. (Did I just write that out loud?)

I think I’m feeling this way lately because I’m nearing the time Em was born and will therefore fully exit a year of no longer being pregnant. I’m not sure if that makes any sense at all. I call this “The Overlap”. And usually, it’s a good thing. It usually helps me to get over something. For example, say a certain song reminds you of someone whom is no longer in your life making it difficult to hear. “The Overlap” requires listening to that song under new circumstances, with new people so that new memories are created.

I do this with food, smells, songs, periods of time, breakups, vacations, friendships, loyalties, bars, cities, towns, and now apparently pregnancies.

In this instance, however, it makes me a little sad. I’m really going to miss not being able to say, “Last year at this time, I was fully of happy hormones” or “Ndugu was kicking the shit out of me last year at this time!”

I’m not sure if that makes any sense. Maybe I’m a little nuts.

(Note to self: Must bookmark this post so that if I ever do become pregnant again I can go back at 8 months and read it and make fun of myself.)

This week should prove pretty pleasant. On Thursday we have dinner reservations at Gramercy Tavern. My mother is going to come for the day and watch Em. Toby and I are both looking forward to the night out, so much so, we passed on two R.E.M. tickets because the show conflicted with our dinner plans. A younger me would have kicked my ass for this. I simply adore R.E.M. I can’t even begin to tell you how much they mean/meant to me. But I think perhaps my older brother is the only person who will realize how crazy the choice I made really is.

I know this doesn’t make me very popular, but right now, I’d much prefer a quiet night out with my husband at a fine restaurant over standing in Madison Square Garden surrounded by thousands of other people who may or may not really give a damn about the band before them.

The times? They have a-changed, whether I agreed or not.

Right now, I am dying my hair brown, making toast, and desperately hoping Em decides to sleep for 45 minutes so I can rinse the hair dye out before he wakes up. It’s the all natural variety, but still. And I actually am only dying one hair brown, since I have lost almost all of it. I look like a coconut.

I figured I’d multitask while my toast is in the oven and write a quick post. I haven’t had much time to write lately because Tobyjoe is in Boston and I’ve been away. It’s just me and the little dude.

Speaking of the little dude, Em has decided in the past week that for whatever reason 1:45 AM seems like a perfect time to wake up from a deep sleep and sob until I feed him. This started about a week ago and hasn’t let up. And I have no idea where it’s coming from. Nevertheless, each and every night Tobyjoe and I have given in because, well, we like to sleep. But Tobyjoe is out of town, and so last night I decided to have a go at the “battle of the wills” and he flattened me. I caved after ten minutes.

I realize we’re creating a terrible habit—knowing he can’t soothe himself back to sleep and instead looks to midnight (or later) milk to help, that can’t be a good thing. And I know the answer probably involves “crying-it-out”, but what’s with the sudden change? And why does it happen at almost exactly 1:30 AM every night? Babies are strange.

I’m beat. But otherwise, things are going pretty well. Nico is coming into town tonight and I’m going to be a brunette for the summer. Also, I’m losing weight, albeit at a snail’s pace. But I hear that’s the better way in the long run? I hope so. I really want to get down to a healthy weight so I can get knocked up again and put it all back on by ingesting cupcakes and perogies. (Is that how you spell perogies? Or is it “a pocket of heaven”?).

And, yes, you read that correctly.

OK, I can smell my toast permeating over the smell of hair dye. Must eat, then rinse.

Holy crap! I forgot to mention the most important thing! Em took two steps. He was pissed off at the time, so I am not sure if he even realized it. But he took two steps!

(Please note: I can’t be held accountable for grammatical errors or spelling issues because I seriously wrote this in less than three minutes. I ask that you forgive me. Haste is to blame. And sleep deprivation, 10 months out.)

Edited to add: Pictures! Also, I am going to continue posting a few pictures of Em until he starts to become less baby and more boy. I am thinking at around 14 months? Anyway, more on that later when I write up the changes that will take place here eventually. Soon. Whenever.

Em is almost ten months old. He’s eating pretty much everything we put in front of him. Sometimes he moves so fast we’re forced to disperse food across the surface of his highchair. He’s a gulper, just like every other creature living under our roof.

I get such a kick out of giving him new foods, though. And I’m blown away about what this kid will eat. We have yet to see him spit anything out. It’s pretty awesome, having a baby who’ll eat anything.

Right now, he’s drinking formula (which we refer to as “milk”). Every morning he wakes up and almost immediately starts giving us the American Sign Language sign for “milk”. I love that he’s starting to understand ASL, but I do have a bone to pick with whomever created the sign for “milk”. On several occasions, he’s given me a very puzzled look.

“Why is Mama sticking a bottle in my mouth instead of waving hello?”

How does one explain to a baby, “No, honey, that’s not a wave. It’s sideways. Duh.”

To avoid confusion, we now practice by giving Em BIG GAY WAVES whenever saying hello.

While I’m on the whole milk/formula topic, what happens whenever he turns one? Do I just start giving him regular, extra-strength cow’s milk? is this something I need to test out before the year mark? Will he completely freak out? Obviously, I need to read up on this milestone.

I remember a mother on here (forgive me, I can’t remember who mentioned it) writing that it really freaked her out whenever she had to stop giving her baby formula. She said she spent weeks wondering if her little one was receiving enough water and/or vitamins. This comment has crept into my head a lot lately. What does one do at that magical point? How does one deal with this? Is it a direct change up? Do you just substitute formula for milk and water and/or juice?

While I feel as though my brain is somewhat mush-full and I complain that there are parts of it that I’m not currently using (for example, adult conversations are at a minimum), I learn something new every day about how to care for someone. And I get the feeling that whenever I look back on this year, I’ll have a greater appreciation for everything I’ve learned and how much I’ve grown as a person and (more importantly) a mother.

Are you a stay-at-home mother or father? Does your husband or wife work while you stay home and care for the babies? Does he or she have to commute in order to get to a job, a job that your entire family’s livelihood depends on? How do you both fit in your own time? When does that happen? Does it?

Toby and I are finding it difficult to work in a daily workout or time for ourselves. We recently priced buying a treadmill for home and discovered that it’s impossible to have one in an apartment. There’s a track nearby that I could use—I should use—but I’m not really into running outside. (I know, that sounds absurd, but I much prefer zoning out and working out on a treadmill.)

But today, putting my petty, personal problems aside, I’d like to instead pose the question: how you manage your schedule in relation to your spouse’s.

In a nutshell: Are you a single-income family? Do you have a weekly schedule? Are you ever frustrated whether you’re the stay-at-home or the person bringing home the bacon?

Does my question make sense at all? Eh?

Edited to add: Thanks to commenter Joey, I got over my fear of meeting new people and went to Mighty Mommies this morning at McCarren Park. It was perfect—just what I needed. Em was totally well-behaved, he even clapped for us when we were doing our squats. But now I have to figure out where Joey lives so she can come over and help me carry my baby upstairs—I can barely move my legs!

Also, thanks to everyone who wrote me and left a comment. Your words are always very helpful. I know more and more every day what I plan on doing with this Web site. Sure, Em might be off limits regarding images and videos, but I’m not ready to let go of the mommy stuff yet. So, thanks for showing me that.

I discovered this article today.

“Parents may be buying it because they believe that organic is healthier, but babies may have a reason of their own for preferring Similac Organic: it is significantly sweeter than other formulas. It is the only major brand of organic formula that is sweetened with cane sugar, or sucrose, which is much sweeter than sugars used in other formulas.”

I’ve been feeding Em Similac Organic since he was 4 and half months old. Naturally, when I read this, my first reaction was to freak out, throw everything I have left away, and then run out and find Earth’s Best Organic to replace it. (Earth’s Best uses sweetener found in lactose instead of cane sugar.) But then something really peculiar happened; I stopped myself.

My guess is this: parenting is going to come with many moments like the one I had this morning. And so after enjoying a good freak out, I began to settle down. I can’t protect Em from everything. I can try—I will try—but stuff is going to happen no matter how much research I do or don’t do.

In short, there are going to be hundreds of instances where I make what I feel is an educated, sound decision only to find out later it may not have been the very best one.

We have two months left of formula-feeding and then it’s on to cow’s milk. I know that I could change his formula now, or I could mark this one as a lesson learned in anxiety management, continue feeding him Similac Organic and couple that with feeding him home-cooked veggies everyday as I have been.

We’ll see how it goes. I’m hoping for the best but I will settle on better.

It’s probably pretty obvious by now that I’m what some may call a “cat person”. I love cats. I love all animals. But I love cats. They hold a special place in my heart, even the troubled ones. And so I am biased. I’ll admit that straight up.

Every day (weather permitting) Emory and I take a walk through Mcgolrick Park. There’s a dog park right by the Driggs street entrance. We usually enter there, loop around, hit the playground for a bit and then loop back around and exit through the Driggs street entrance. We always walk by the dog park and I’ll stop for a couple of minutes to show Em the dogs. He’s so used to being around cats, I figured it’s best to introduce him to a couple of the other 5,000 plus species of mammals. I’ve introduced him to Penn State bunnies, Mcgolrick Park squirrels, and several Brooklyn dogs. He’s also met a few birds, which he speaks to by grunting.

Yesterday was not unlike every other day except that the sky threatened us with dark clouds. The ground was wet as were the swings so we were unable to hang out in the playground. I spent a few extra minutes watching the dogs instead.

I don’t know a lot about dogs or dog parks because I haven’t ever owned a dog. I do spectate, however. When I worked in the city and Tobyjoe and I rode our bikes to work, we’d meet every single day at the Union Square dog park where I’d watch the dogs interact with one another. I can’t tell you what breed of dog believes in which law of butt-sniffing, or whom agrees with whom, but I get the feeling that a dog park holds more political heat than all the goings on on Capitol Hill.

There are the big dogs, the little dogs, the older dogs, the dogs that hump, the dogs that run from humping dogs. There are the dogs that avoid all other dogs. There are the dogs that want to hang out with all other dogs. There are friendly dogs, mean-looking dogs, dumb looking dogs and there are smelly dogs. There are dogs that cower, dogs that bark a lot, dogs that do nothing but run. There are dogs that want to just go home already! And there always seems to be one or two dogs that make all other dogs (and me) nervous, like, you just never know what they’ll do if you look at them the wrong way.

And so yesterday whenever the medium-sized white dog attacked the brown dog by going right for its throat, I very nearly threw up from the stomach acid that bubbled up from my belly. And Emory had no idea what was going on. Suddenly, angry barks filled the playground and all hell broke lose. Little dogs ran in the opposite direction from the fight. The owners (two hipster couples) tried desperately to pry their dogs apart with very little luck. It took an uncomfortably long time for the man from one couple to pull his white dog from the brown dog. And all the while the male owner of the brown dog screamed, “NO!!! NOO!!!! NOOO!!!!” at the top of his lungs. And they weren’t commands, he was pleading with whomever would listen. He was begging into thin air, trying to reason with angry dogs.

With humans, unless there’s a weapon involved, a fight doesn’t usually end in death. The way these dogs instantly went for the jugular, meant business and their business was with death.

I was stuck there, in space, watching. I couldn’t close my mouth, look away; I couldn’t move. It was terrifying, a truly horrific experience, one that brought tears to my eyes, one that will continue to haunt me for days.

Does this happen often at dog parks? Do owners constantly have to look out for the potentially troubled animal? Does the owner of the potentially troubled dog know that they’re dog could very well freak out at any given moment? Do owners of small dogs worry whenever a larger dog comes around? Are there people who avoid the dog park altogether because they worry about fighting? Are these things dog owners know instinctively or do they learn over time?

Yesterday’s incident was the second dog park dogfight I have seen in two weeks. The first one was less horrific because the owner of the dog being attacked was able to scoop his pup up before the other dog got a firm hold. That owner then promptly turned to the other couple and said, “Get your dog out of this park right now!”

Three weeks ago, I was out for a jog and I saw a dog suddenly stand up from a blanket and tackle a toddler who was running around with his mother in the park. The toddler was knocked down hard enough to warrant one of those silent screams. And the couple just yelled for the dog to return to their blanket. I would never hurt any animal, but if that had been my son, I am not sure what I would have done to that couple.

Either way, Em and I are going to have to find some other way to learn about dogs. Their unpredictable nature scares me too much.

And I’m reminded of why I don’t think I want one right now.

Edited to add: I am not anti-dog. I don’t have a huge amount of time to reread and edit my thoughts today sadly. I realize that’s irresponsible of me. Sorry, folks! I have tried to clear up any possible miscommunication in the comments section.

I’m nine months postpartum. One would assume I’d have all the kinks worked out by now. But I don’t. My mood still changes daily—sometimes drastically so. My weight still fluctuates a little too much and I still don’t have my hormone levels regulated. And up until last night I was still trying to convince myself that it might all be in my head. I wrote off the dizzy spells, the hair loss, the crying spells, the shortness of breath as “all in my head”.

Last night we were sitting around watching ER jump the shark for the billionth time. Emory had fallen asleep in my lap, his head against my chest. Tobyjoe sat to my right. We were still. My family sat still. Whenever the show ended, I got up and laid Emory down. That’s when I noticed a wet spot on my chest. I figured it was drool. (Emory has been drooling a lot lately due to teething. I hope.) I went to the bathroom to brush my teeth. That’s when I realized that the wet spot was a perfect circle.

And I hate that I’m about to be graphic. As of late even I find myself turning away from posts holding too much information. But it appears that I’m 9 months late on the whole lactating thing. It appears my body has only now figured out that when baby is put to chest, chest makes milk.

I was told by the specialist that my thyroid levels would even themselves out by 6 months. Well, that hasn’t happened. At the time, I was admittedly frustrated by the way he seemed to write me off as some crazy postpartum girl, one who should just wait it out. And if I were a more organized and defiant woman, I might start a crusade in hopes of being taken seriously. Instead, I become bitter and resentful and it’s entirely my fault!

I am not one to ask a doctor for help. If it’s not a visible wound, like, if I’m not bleeding from the head, I don’t seek medical advice. (Gynecologist, aside. You just don’t ignore the lady stuff.) But this time? This time I knew something had to be wrong. I was entirely too emotionally unstable for it to be anything other than chemistry. And it was.

But the doctor didn’t really offer me much help. He gave me Atenolol to stop the flight or fight response and then told me to stop taking it once my levels began to change a bit. He then told me to come back in three months to get more blood work done. I haven’t done that. I haven’t done that in part because I am a coward. And I haven’t done that because my doctor wasn’t taking my pleas seriously.

On top of all of that, Em just will not nap anymore. He just cries and becomes more and more agitated and insane and every time it happens I feel that I’m more and more of a failure for not being able to figure out how to get him to nap. I’m also not strong enough to let him cry. I simply do not have what it takes to block out the sound of him crying. I go from feeling rage, to sorrow, to self-pity, to anger, to love all within the blink of an eye. It’s kind of like opening every single program and every font you have on your Apple computer while running OS 9.

I have great days. Most of my days lately have been great. Sadly, I don’t really write about those. But today? Today is a very, very bad day. I need help. I need to call a doctor. Something needs to change. I need someone to help me with my hormones, chemistry, all of it. I need to stop worrying that doctors won’t be taken seriously and instead demand they do so.

I’m nine months postpartum. Shouldn’t I be better at this by now?

One last thing, I wrote the first half of this post early this morning. I wrote the second half directly after giving Em a bath in hopes of getting him to nap.

Guess what? He’s still awake and losing it.

Things will be better tomorrow.

Today has been the longest day of my life. Maybe.

I realize I say “I haven’t been able to record a video today” and I’m saying as much on a video. I don’t have much of a rational mind left today. What more can I say. No excuse. Simple truth.

(See previous Stories For My Son here.)

(Note to self: You know what’s funny about this one? This is the first video you took telling that particular story and when you totally derailed yourself midway through you went on to take a few more. Yet, after watching them all, you settled on this one because it’s more you and Emory will most likely appreciate that part someday—mistakes, fudgepacks and all. “Mama? What’s fudgepack?”)