Here’s the situation. He tolerates the seat just fine and has sat in it, NOT moving, for a bit without so much as a fuss. But as soon as the car starts to go, he screams. And it’s not a normal scream. It’s a terrible, nonstop cry. It’s the kind of cry with no sound at times. It’s a deep sob filled with hysterics. He cries so hard he vomits. It’s freaking horrible. I can’t say it enough, horrible.

Thankfully, we live in a city where driving isn’t necessary. So he’s only ever taken four roadtrips. Both trips were to my parent’s house in South Jersey. And both times he screamed and vomited the entire time he was awake. (He slept for an hour each way, so that’s good.)

We’re not sure why he’s doing this. Toby thinks it’s motion sickness and I’m starting to believe him. I don’t think it’s just that he wants to be held. (He loves being held!) You see, he does this thing with his bottom lip when he’s in pain. I’ve only ever seen it four times. Once when he was a newborn and they drew blood from his heel; once when he had his first (and only, so far) vaccine; once when I took off the tip of his thumb while cutting his nails (He looks like Edward Scissorhands because I am NEVER doing that again); and once in the car while puking and screaming.

He doesn’t get sick on the subway. He is perfectly ok with the subway. Toby jokes that he’s a true New Yorker: hates driving, prefers public transportation.

He doesn’t have to drive much which is good. But we’re supposed to go to Rhode Island in July and there’s NO WAY I’m driving with him in that state for four hours. NO WAY. So we’re faced with taking the train to Providence and renting a car from there. (The house we’ve rented is about 45 minutes from Providence.) But that means lugging with us two car seats and goods for a family of 4. The other option is to have Toby take him on the train and Emory and I drive and pick them both up in Providence. That way we can bring a bunch of toys with us and the car seats aren’t an issue. Honestly? I don’t know what to do. And I’m not sure why I just shared all that meaningless information with the Internet!

Has anyone had this happen before? Did your little people outgrow it? Someone said it might be acid reflux, but then wouldn’t he feel that way in the seat without driving? The whole experience is freaking awful and it breaks my heart to see him that way. If he’s sick or in pain or whatever, I don’t want to force him to do it. And I haven’t even begun to explain how it makes Emory feel.

Any information on this would be helpful. I’m at a loss here.

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• The Wrong Feet
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They come and go in intervals. Meaning, we go months without one and then BAM! They’re on and take place for weeks. This one has been going on for about a week and a half. He usually always stirs about 3 hours after going to bed at night, but the night terrors are very different from that.

This particular interval seems to have coincided with him coming down with a cold. The cold wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, he was still able to go to school. I reckon that’s irrelevant but I did want to bring it up.

There have been a few personality changes over the last couple of months as well. Em is now very much into his “babies”. He has three small stuffed animals (a cardinal, a baby duck and a baby bear) that he refers to as his babies. They need to be with him at night at all times. Sometimes he wakes up screaming about them. He brings the bear to school with him for naps and if we forget the bear, we simply must go back. He’s very attached to his babies. He likes to carry them in his winter coat hood or up his shirt and scoot to school. He introduces them to people on the street, at stores. It’s cute.

I know what you’re thinking! Pending new arrival = stuffed animal/baby attachment. But I’m not so sure this wouldn’t have taken place had I gotten pregnant or not. People probably say this a lot, but Em is a very sensitive child. He loves animals. He pets them (usually dogs) even though we’ve told him repeatedly he should ask first. It’s like he can’t help himself. He needs to touch furry things. (Like mother, like son!) He loves babies, and has for a long while. You should see him with his best friend’s baby sister. It’s heartwarming to say the least. It could have to do with my being pregnant, but I’m thinking, given his personality, it would have happened this way no matter what.

Anyway, why? Why is this happening? Is it a crash? Is this related to sugar? He has very little of it, but I’m not ruling anything out. (For example, last night I gave him half a homemade cookie an hour or so before bed.) He doesn’t drink juice anymore at all. Is this related to growing? He’s in school 3 days a week and loves it, but maybe it’s due to school?

Do your children have night terrors? Do they wake up this way? Agitated and impossible to sooth? Do they eventually go away? When?

Any or all information welcome. We’re getting desperate as we approach the arrival of number two when every minute of sleep will become a commodity.

Help?

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I’ve decided to leave it as-is. But wanted everyone to know that I was the one in the wrong here. And I apologize for how I handled the situation. Furthermore, I would like to thank Amy 2 for actually doing what I should have done in the first place.

Yay, sweet stranger!

______________

I usually stay away from topics like this one because I’m too much of a pussy anymore to deal with online backlash, but I can’t help it this time.

My lollipop adventure has me frequenting a baking supply store in Manhattan. This store has everything I need and at relatively decent prices. Plus, they sell in bulk. They’re also fairly convenient for me to get to—a mere 8 blocks from the 6th Avenue stop on the L.

A few weeks ago, Toby Joe, Emory and I headed into the city together. It was a Saturday morning. When we arrived, I saw the following sign:

I was annoyed, but fine—whatever. Toby Joe was there, so they waited outside while I rushed around for what I needed.

Fast forward to this week. I had rush order that had to get out. I wanted to get there quickly and immediately. I was preparing to take Emory into the city on the subway with me (I only have the nanny for a few hours each week) and remembered the sign. Since parking in that area during the week is impossible, I had three choices: I could leave the stroller behind and make him walk the 8 blocks from the subway which, as many of you know who’ve spent time with a 2-year-old, would take us forever; I could bring leave the stroller outside and hope that it doesn’t get stolen; or I could just not go and wait until I had someone to watch him.

I opted to wait. The order would have to wait. This is a “First World” problem. I know that.

But this is what I kept thinking: Why? Why are strollers banned from the store. Would a wheelchair be banned from the store? How about a walker? Why just strollers. And so I started to get upset about it—probably a little too upset because, considering in the grand scheme of things, this isn’t that big of a deal.

Someone suggested I ask the store owner if I could fold the stroller up and leave it just inside the store somewhere. And I could try that. I’m not sure they’d agree but I could try.

A few people suggested I leave the stroller outside and use a bike lock. Which, yes, is a great idea, but that adds one more relatively heavy item that I must carry around with me. Navigating the subway with a stroller and a toddler is hard enough, adding a paperclip into the mix can sometimes tip the scales.

See, that’s the thing: it’s when you start to add it all up—all the hoops you have to jump through when you have kids, that seemingly irrelevant situations like this one turn into the straw that breaks the sherpa’s back.

I understand why bars want to ban strollers. I’ve written about this before. There was a bar here in Brooklyn that put up a sign and were met with quite a backlash from those in the community with children. Granted, on the flip side of that fight (and boy was it heated for a while), there were a great number of people singing the bar’s praises because a lot of people believe that babies or toddlers should not be in bars. And I get that. I may not agree all the time, but I get it. But baking supply stores? There really aren’t many of them.

Here’s the bigger deal, however. I don’t believe this is about strollers. I believe this is about children. And if my cynical assumption is true, that’s discrimination discriminatory in nature.

I know myself. I won’t say a word to this establishment and hopefully once I figure out what I need every month, I’ll start ordering everything online. But I’m still annoyed. I’m annoyed that additional and unnecessary hurdles like this one are out there waiting us when I think we have enough to deal with.

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You see, Toby and I decided (out of nowhere) that we were going to take away the bappy. Y’all are like, What the hell is a “bappy?” That’s what my son calls his pacifier. He loves his bappy especially when it’s time for night-night or he needs to calm down.

Well, we decided it was time. Just like that. We figured we’d see how it goes for a day. And then when the world didn’t end, we kept going. This is day four and it’s been OK. I won’t try and make things sound too terrible. He has slept relatively well. Things are OK at night. We’ve gotten several desperate pleas for a pacifier, but we usually distract him until he forgets. And those pleas (not to jinx it) are becoming fewer and fewer in number.

But, what’s a nap?

There hasn’t been much napping and when he does nap, it’s a fall asleep where you’re sitting type of thing and it usually takes place the hours right before the bedtime safety zone. The other night he fell asleep eating at 5 PM. I knew that was going to mean later we’d face a great deal of trouble getting him to sleep, but at that point? I so needed a few minutes to myself that I just let him sleep for a while.

The part that’s been REALLY difficult are the tantrums. They don’t happen all the time—most of the time he’s wonderfully funny and sweet and I mean that. But when the tantrums do happen? There’s absolutely NO calming him down. I swear there are dozens of Brooklyn residents that think we beat our child. But that’s a story for another day. I’m not sure if it’s that we took the pacifier away, or if we’re just knee-deep in the terrible twos, but lately the tantrums have been brutal.

So, my days have been tiring and rough lately. And I need a break. I haven’t said that in a long time, but I do. I need a break. And now that winter is upon us and he isn’t in school at all (I will explain whole not moving situation soon) and we don’t have the ability to hit the playground, the days are killing us both. I need to get lost in a movie or something, with a pacifier.

Quite frankly, I have no idea how the anti-TV parents do it. Because the only (and I mean ONLY) downtime I get is when he watches Sesame Street or Night At the Museum for the 100th time. (Incidentally, whomever gave that movie an abysmal 2.5 stars was not a child nor did they speak to children. Stupid, adult movie reviewers.)

Some of you are probably wondering how I’m writing this post—like, what’s he doing right now. He’s building a choo-choo track in his room and begging for me to join him. So, I gotta go lay down some railroad, my friends. But I’ll try my damnedest to have a halfway literate Murray post up later today.

Because this one? Not so much.

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Make me feel better, Internet. You’re my only hope.

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Now, I’m going to try really hard to complete this post as unbiasedly as possible. I would hate for it to come off as my suggesting that my son is perfect (he’s not) and sweet and all the other kids are beating up on him. That’s not the case at all. I know firsthand that life throws at us strange relationships and confrontations; it’s natural for folks to not always get along. So I’m going to try and finish this post as neutral as a mother possibly can; I’ll present the facts and hope that someone out there has some answers.

Lately, Emory has been reacting to other more outgoing and vivacious kids’ by cowering. It happens while playing with kids he knows and doesn’t know. For example, he’ll be on top of the slide waiting to come down and another kid will come over and say MINE! (Perfectly normal, even Emory does it!) and instead of waiting or stepping aside, he’ll cower—sometimes he runs away. And more recently he’s begun to burst into tears. If he’s near me, he hides behind my legs. It’s really quite hard on my heart, but I want to teach him to face his fears and embrace confrontation in a healthy manner.

Lately, we’ve been telling him after the fact that when kids are mean to him it’s OK to say, “Please be nice to me.” He’s starting to understand more, so we want him to confront the situation instead of running to me or running away period. And bursting into tears solves nothing. Plus, it breaks my heart.

Just last night when Toby Joe asked him how his day went and he answered by telling him that a kid was mean to him.

A few weeks ago, all three of us were on the playground and one of his friends pushed him away and said, “Emory no! GO away!” And he ran away sobbing, like the kind where no sound comes out and no air gets in. As he walked toward Toby Joe and me he said, “I’m so sad, I’m crying.” It was heartbreaking. I wanted to scoop him up and protect him forever, but life doesn’t allow for that a great deal of the time, so we’re trying to introduce him to a happy medium. Does that make sense?

Naturally, I can’t help but blame myself for taking him out of school. But that can’t be it, can it? He sees and plays with other children, it’s just not always the same group of kids. Plus, he’s just two. I didn’t go to school until I was five. Certainly this can’t be that, right? It’s not like he’s not socialized.

I do hope that this phase goes away. My once joyful kid now reacts to others with wariness. And I don’t know how to help him without changing the world and I’m too busy to take that on. ;]

Has anyone else had a kid go through this? Thoughts? Suggestions?

Maybe he’s just going to be a more apprehensive kid. I’m ok with that. But I’m not ok with this manifesting itself in other ways and he thinking twice before doing something creative and carefree.

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Physically

I’m (finally) no longer pregnant. It took a while as many of you suggested it might. And it was frustrating, more frustrating than I can possibly say, but eventually things worked themselves out. What I find most interesting about the whole ordeal is that I got back on track physically right around the same time I felt solid mentally—like really solid. There were days I hated biology with every ounce of my being (sort of like when people hate the weather when it interferes with their sporting events or vacations), but perhaps it did me a favor.

Now that time has passed and I feel better, I realized once again that body and mind are not two separate entities. Why I tend to separate the two, I have no idea. All I know is that instead of hating biology so very much, I should have seen it as a necessary mourning period. Granted, I didn’t want to hear that back then. I don’t want to hear that now. You try telling that to a woman after a miscarriage, a woman who’s had her future ripped out from under her and wants nothing more than to get that future back again. She’s going to tell you to kindly shut the hell up. And if she’s too much of a wimp to say that to your face, she’ll be thinking it.

But retrospect is funny.

Mentally

I feel like a different person. There were days back then when I seriously questioned whether or not I was going to survive. No joke! It reads a bit melodramatic now, but I really felt that way. Granted, I did suffer postpartum depression again, and to put it bluntly: that sucked. But a month or so after the miscarriage, things started to get a little brighter; six weeks later, brighter still. I’m now 8 weeks out and I feel OK again, happy even.

I suggested right after the miscarriage, that I wasn’t the same person I used to be. And that’s still true. The difference is, I wasn’t particularly pleased with that fact back then. I worried I might not like the new person I was becoming, that she might be too cynical and bitter, resentful and anxious. But I’m not. I came out OK, hopeful even. In fact, this miscarriage put into perspective a great deal that I probably would have continued to ignore had it not happened. Don’t get me wrong, I’d do anything to not have a miscarriage be a part of my history, but since it is, I’m trying to see it in a positive light. (I did the same thing with 9/11 after the initial terror wore off.)

The cliché is true: sometimes really bad things give way to great things. I’m still waiting for the great this time around, but I have no doubt it’s coming my way.

On Motherhood.

Having a miscarriage made me realize just how much I love being a mother, and that my new title in life is Mother. I’ve been a little reluctant to embrace that fact. (Why do some working women feel that motherhood is somehow less important than making money in the corporate world?) Truth is, being a mother is a full time job, and an important one at that. I’ve said as much before, outloud with conviction. But it was only after having the miscarriage did I begin to see it for myself. Mothers are responsible for molding the next generation, a generation that will likely be saving us from the mess we created.

That’s important stuff! We’re important people!

(And don’t you forget it.)

On Womanhood.

I think the second biggest realization that came from this is that I love, love, love (times one hundred thousand) being a woman.

I received a great deal of email after my miscarriage. So many of your stories brought tears to my eyes. The pain many women have endured, the heartache they’ve been through, it’s baffling how any of us are still whole and haven’t lost our minds completely.

For weeks I read stories about great loss. But no matter how different each story, there was one common thread among them all: hope and strength. Every last email sent to me held at least one of those two themes. And that saved me from my loneliness.

Looking Ahead.

Who knows what the future will bring Toby Joe, Emory and me. But I do know this: I’m making it my duty from here on out to pay your kindness forward.

To my fellow women: Don’t ever stop reaching out to one another. I truly believe that by doing so we can save lives. We’re beautiful people, us women.

(And don’t you forget it.)

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But last night was really bad. We had just returned from Jersey, so perhaps he was confused. I don’t know. Whatever the reason may be, Em did not fall asleep until about 10 PM. And it was fitful. He woke up again at midnight and stayed up until almost three. Granted, he did doze off a few times, but only for 15 minutes here and there. And so I slept on the couch and tended to him whenever I could. Unfortunately we live in a New York City apartment (i.e. small), so even though I did the legwork last night, Toby Joe was unable to sleep through it.

All this to say, that the entire family is running on about four hours of sleep today. And it ain’t pretty, people. All the coffee in the world couldn’t bring a smile to my husband’s face as he left for work this morning. I’m barely moving, barely functioning and I’m slightly annoyed and partly jealous over the fact that somehow my two-year-old, the same two-year-old that kept us up all night, is running around with all sorts of energy today. Where does he get that from?

Oh, the humanity.

I’m also working right now. This morning I delivered a great deal of work to a client. The last couple of days have been very busy for me. Couple that with Emory’s inability to sleep through the night, and you’ve got yourself a big ol’ mess of a mom.

But I still kept up my end of the bargain and made our daily jaunt to the playground this morning.

Sometimes Emory poops while at the playground. I don’t know why this is. All I know is that an hour into our fun, he looked at me and said, “Mama. Poop.” like he was answering a question. He said it in such a way that made me feel silly for not knowing it.

“Mama. Poop.”

And then he pooped. And I was prepared for it. I changed him right there in the park.

We played for a bit longer. We did some swinging. We walked along the track and hit the wooded area he used to run around in when he was a wee baby. We stopped by the dog run. We walked through McCarren Park, and past the tree that looks just like a vagina. (Yes, I’ll get you pictures). We visited the grocery store, talked to a neighbor. We did it all. I did it all. I did it all looking like this:

It could have been worse I suppose. Instead of wearing the re-sealable sticker that comes with the baby wipes, I could have actually had shit on my shirt.

But, people? If you see someone walking around like this, don’t be afraid to tell them that they’re wearing trash.

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I’m not trying to sound pretentious or above it all; it’s just that “me time” is valuable and often non existent, so when I do find some, giving it away is hard to justify unless compensation is involved. 

That is up until recently when March Of Dimes contacted me.

I’m a March Of Dimes Mom. I take pride in this because I think they’re a wonderful organization. They do a great deal of good in the world. Who could argue with that?

I am not getting paid to write for or about them. I do it because I want to. That’s not to say they don’t send me the occasional treat.

Take this lovely necklace Red Envelope sent me in honor of Mother’s Day. If you can see beyond my devil of a hairstyle, you’ll notice the sweet little silver necklace hanging around my neck. And guess what? You can have one too! (Details below.)

Now, I know you’re probably thinking, “What is she going on about?” Yeah, I know. I tend to over think stuff. Annoying. But I couldn’t put this one up without some sort of explanation. I don’t want people to think I’m begging them for money while a third party gives me theirs. That’s just not the case.

So, this is just a suggestion. And it goes something like this:

Pro Flowers is donating 10 dollars from every order they receive to the March Of Dimes. So, if you are planning on buying flowers this week, I might suggest doing so from them.  I love me some flowers and I’m certain I’m not alone on this one, right ladies?

Also! The necklace! MOD is giving one away! They’re giving away a necklcae just like the one wrapped around my neck. All you have to do is leave a comment telling them why you like the necklace or what it means to you. That’s it. It doesn’t matter if you’re a man, a woman, a son or daughter, certainly you know someone that might enjoy receiving this as a gift. So, go leave a comment!

Now, if anyone out there knows anything about hair exorcism…

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And in any case, if a breast-feeding mother is miserable, or stressed out, or alienated by nursing, as many women are, if her marriage is under stress and breast-feeding is making things worse, surely that can have a greater effect on a kid’s future success than a few IQ points.

I didn’t have the best time when it came to breast-feeding. Obstacles began piling up for me the moment Emory was born. For starters, my milk never came in. I didn’t experience the engorgement all the nurses and LCs suggested I would. In fact, my breasts got slightly smaller after he was born.

My postpartum experience was not the best. I was depressed. Words can’t do justice in trying to describe that depression. Chemistry took over. Every time it occurred to me that the birth of my first child was supposed to be the happiest time of my life, I felt even worse because I was experiencing quite the opposite. How could I be a good mom when I felt so unhappy? What was wrong with me? The questions mounted unanswered, and while my head felt like it was going to explode, my boobs did not.

There is an alarming amount of pressure put on new mothers when it comes to breast-feeding. It’s so prevalent, that there are actually Web sites where women congregate in order to slam celebrities who did not breast-fed and praise those who have. There are wars waged against and on Facebook. And some of the pro-breast feeding literature out there borders on militant. A late night google search hoping to discover a little leniency can make one feel like even more of a failure. 

In certain overachieving circles, breast-feeding is no longer a choice—it’s a no-exceptions requirement, the ultimate badge of responsible parenting. Yet the actual health benefits of breast-feeding are surprisingly thin, far thinner than most popular literature indicates. Is breast-feeding right for every family? Or is it this generation’s vacuum cleaner—an instrument of misery that mostly just keeps women down?

It goes without saying that many women today feel very passionate about breast-feeding. I have seen fights break out over whether or not it’s OK to do in public. Nursing mothers here in New York have been known to make a statement by taking over an entire subway car. I have seen fights break out about whether or not it’s OK to lend your boob out to feed another person’s baby. I’ve seen people go as far to attack a person’s character because they chose not to breast-feed. 

Some women experience intense anger when another woman doesn’t breast-feed. And I would find this hilarious if their reactions weren’t so damaging. 

Haven’t we heard enough already? Can’t we be proud of our choices without making others feel worse for making another? And why brag? Boasting is ugly. 

Furthermore, if feminism is about making choices, and a woman chooses (for whatever the reason may be) not to breast-feed, she should not receive so much as a nasty look from any fellow Sistren boasting the word feminism. And yet, that often happens. Which begs another question: is it the men we need to talk to about equality? 

I welcome discussion and debate when it comes to breast-feeding, but this post probably isn’t for those likely to have breast-feeding listed as their religion. This is for anyone who went through (or is going through) what I went through two years ago. This is for all the new mothers out there overwhelmed by their new roles. This is for the new mother wondering why she can’t accomplish something as seemingly natural as breast-feeding. 

Here’s how the first few days I spent with my new son went:

The morning he’s born: I try unsuccessfully to get a latch. I summon the help from two nurses and one lactation consultant. He vomits every time I try. I think it’s me, something I’m doing. Am I gagging him? 

“Is the vomit green?” They ask. ”No. It’s not green.” “He’s fine then. Keep trying.”

Day one: A lactation consultant comes in to see me. I’m crying. I tell her I can’t get him to eat. I tell her he keeps vomiting. We try again and fail. She asks me how much milk he’s gotten. I tell her none. She inspects my nipples. Says I may have problems but we’ll succeed! We try formula. He vomits that up immediately. I continue to cry.

Later that day: Emory and I try again. I am told I am not vigilant enough, that I’m not trying hard enough. I am told that I need to be more forceful. I need to force my breast into his mouth. He throws up all over me, the color is green. I call a doctor.

Five minutes later: Emory is taken away from me and admitted into the NICU for reasons unrelated to breast-feeding (or lack thereof). I begin pumping around the clock in hopes of getting something, anything to come out of my breasts. This does not happen. 

Three days PP: Emory and I are sent home seeing zero success at breast-feeding. 

I should have just given up. Had I felt better back then, I probably would have. After all, Emory was doing well on formula. But I thought that I had to breast-feed. We just never did get the latch worked out so I exclusively pumped for 5 months. I supplemented with formula the entire time because my milk and the engorged breasts everyone warned me about, well, that never took place. At five months, I was diagnosed with hyperthyroidism and put on a drug that wasn’t safe for babies. I stopped pumping (or HUTH, for those of us EPers).

During that time, I received countless email letting me know how difficult it was for women when it came to breast-feeding, which helped a great deal. But in the wee hours of the night, when I felt my most insecure, I turned to the Internet, in search of anyone to tell me everything was going to be OK if I gave up pumping and just formula fed my son. (You’d be surprised how little there is out there for people in my situation. On nights when I looked for reassurance, I found I felt worse.) It took me a long time to realize that the only person I needed approval from was the person doing all the searching.

Truth be told, Internet, I still have a lot of pent up anger when it comes to how I was treated by some breast-feeding mamas out there. Usually, I try and focus on all the positive stuff, because I mean it when I say that when I was going through that rough patch, many of your emails got me through it. But that doesn’t mean the judgmental stuff doesn’t stick with me as well. 

The biggest problem as I see it, is that so many women are afraid to state outright: Hey, I didn’t breast-feed! In fact, I have met some mothers that whisper such things under their breath at the playground—like it’s some kind of fatal flaw, and I suppose that for some it is. I’ve also seen a few mothers breath a sigh of relief upon discovering that another mother in the room didn’t breast-feed her baby. 

What is everyone so afraid of? Judgement? Receiving a failing grade in motherhood? Getting demoted or fired by your boss? There are no grades or graduation ceremonies to speak of. And your boss really just wants to eat, poop, sleep and giggle. So what are we all so afraid of?

Sometimes, all someone wants to hear (or read) is that they’re not alone.

And so. Consider this a small drop of water in a bucket full of oil: It’s OK, new mama, if you are unable to breast-feed your baby. Formula is a wonderful option. You are not a failure. You’re a new mom! Rejoice in that. You are not alone. 

If you’re interested in reading the article, please click here. It sheds light on all the medical claims having to do with formula vs. breastmilk. It’s very enlightening. And it’s written by a breast-feeding mother of three.

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“FOWAH! FOWAH! FOWAH! ”

On Tuesday, we took a trip to the overpriced grocery store that just opened around the corner from us. I have no idea how these guys are going to stay in business, their prices are astronomically high. But I am constantly amazed at what people are willing to pay here in Williamsburg (ourselves included). I think this is the only neighborhood in New York where rents haven’t yet dropped. We’re immune to lowering rents. 

So perhaps this overpriced grocery store will stay in business. 

All that said, we only ever go there if it’s really gross out or it’s not wise for Em to be outside for too long. And since Em has been sick this week with yet another wicked ear infection, I took him to the overpriced grocery store.

We weren’t two feet through the doors when I saw his eyes light up. 

“FOWAH FOWAH FOWAH! MAMA! FOWAH!”

The flowers were wilted and each one cost me almost as much as a gallon of milk at that grocery store, but I simply had to buy  this kid a couple of flowers. 

Emory gets excited about chocolate (which is known as “treat” at our house and is pronounced “teat” which makes me giggle), and he gets excited when he sees me walk into the room after a day spent at school, but I haven’t ever seen him this excited. He carried them around like they were treasures, new relationships, tokens of love.

Granted, all three flowers were destroyed by nightfall. They didn’t stand a chance against The Destroyer. He picked one apart petal by petal and I wondered who he might be thinking about. The other two were used to slap things, including Murray who mistook it for PLAYTIME!

Like I said, the flowers didn’t stand a chance. 

But it was kind of worth it.

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Now, I saw a penis right away. But others felt I was grasping. Perhaps I was. I mean, what (relatively) straight gal doesn’t want to grasp at a penis every now and again? But I think it’s a no-brainer to suggest that the Catholic church make absolutely certain that all printed materials are free from the mere hint of a penis. Don’t they have a Penis Free committee for matters like this? If not, they should. I will head it up. (hehe)

But even so, I am now willing to retract my original belief that there was indeed a penis printed on that religious literature.

But this time? Well, if you suggest that it’s just me this time, then I suggest that you’re crazy.

What you see above is indeed an illustration taken directly from a children’s book my friend reads to her daughter. And we laughed long and hard (hehe) about it.

I am not sure what scenario would bother me more: that a man drew this for a children’s book and didn’t realize it was a penis; that a man drew this for a children’s book and realized it was a penis; or that a man drew this for a children’s book, did or did not realize it was a penis, and his editors let it slide (hehe).

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I think about you all the time, not necessarily you personally, because I haven’t ever met you. I don’t even know what you look like. The only role you had in my life was leaving a comment on my blog.

It read:

July 25th, 2007 at 02:21 PM

You only go through this a few times in your life. This time with your unborn baby and your husband are precious – don’t wish it away.

You were right.

I didn’t want to admit it then. Hell, I was about to meet my first child for the first time. I was sick of being pregnant. I wanted him out of me. I vowed to friends and family, “There’s no way I’ll sleep less when he’s born than I do now.”

(What a naive and silly person.)

But that’s not what this is about. This isn’t about losing sleep or having to pee a lot. It’s not about any of that. This is about what you said and how often I think about it.

I guess I never realized how true your comment was until friends of mine started getting pregnant—close friends, acquaintances, internet friends—just friends. And I promised myself a long time ago I would not become that person, ready to give suggestions without being asked. And I’m not accusing you of that; I can’t begin to thank you enough for what you wrote. But I continue to bite my tongue even though sometimes it’s unbearable.

What I wanted to say to you then was this: OH MY GOD, WHO ARE YOU TO TELL ME TO ENJOY THIS! I HATE YOU!

That’s a little harsh. I know. It was true at the time, but that’s because you weren’t really a person to me. You were just someone taunting me, pointing out something I refused to see.

Perhaps my hatred was due to the fact that a part of me (the instinctual mother part every woman is born with) knew you were right. I don’t know. I never will. But I hated what you wrote. I spit at your words. I told my husband, “HOW CAN SOMEONE TELL ANOTHER PERSON TO ENJOY THIS!” And, well, come on! I was having trouble sleeping. I peed myself several times. I had trouble doing “other things”. I could not be intimate with my husband. I couldn’t eat because of the heartburn, my ankles swelled up to triple their size. I had high blood pressure. I was seeing white or black spots every time I stood up. I wanted that baby out of me! I felt awful.

I was mad at you.

Well, Rae Rae, I’m no longer angry. In fact, I want to thank you for having had such a huge impact on my life and in such a small way.

I mentioned earlier that I don’t like giving people advice unless they ask for it, specifically when it comes to motherhood. I had so many ideas when I was pregnant and then my son was born and I could barely keep up with any of them. I had delusions of how it would (and should) be. I made plans. And even though I knew that things were going to be hard, I never knew exactly how hard. How could I have known? (They offer classes about how to give birth and how to breastfeed these little people, but no one really helps you out with the remaining 50 years.)

Anyway, I did something out of character the other night in honor of you. I wrote this on a friend’s Facebook page:

You know, I said the same thing and meant it. And one day someone emailed me and said “enjoy this time!” and I wanted to punch them and I hated them. you know what’s funny? I think about it all the time now because they were so right!

So I am going to be that asshole now: enjoy this time. Sleep. Have morning sex. Cook. Take walks together. Go out! Go out! Go out! Have a romantic meal.

He will be here soon enough, so enjoy this time you have alone.

I have never left a truer comment.

But don’t hate me for it!

Have you ever experienced that moment right before a fresh snowfall where the world becomes eerily quiet, cars distance themselves from one another, the sky turns orange or burnt sienna, everything seems at peace in the world and we’re greeted with a smashingly fine silence?

Do you know that moment?

Or, how about that moment during a kickoff where opposing teams stand guarded on an untouched field. The crowd roars, the whistle is blown, feet stomp, the rising sound is spectacular. The ball is kicked! And as soon as it leaves the kicker’s foot, the moment the ball departs his toe, a silence blankets the crowd as if guided by a maestro.

How about that one? Do you know that moment?

I look forward to moments like those. They give me goosebumps fueled by anticipation. Those undeniable rests that punctuate great big, audacious sounds are pretty outstanding.

Rae Rae, you were right.

I should have known to enjoy that time more. I should not have wished it away. That time was just like the moments I described above. I just didn’t realize it until after the game was in session, the cake was cut, and the blanket of snow had already fallen.

Sincerely yours (a year or so late),

Michele

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For a while now, he’s faced a great deal of frustration trying to poop. It can literally take him all day sometimes to get anything out and that’s after a great deal of straining and pain. And when it finally does come out, it’s rather hard. We called the doctor who told us to feed him lots of fruits and vegetables, which is just absurd because that’s all he really eats. (Unfortunately, this was left on a message as she was busy and I haven’t called back yet so I couldn’t then tell her no, that’s not the problem.)

A few nights ago, we woke up to hear Emory SCREAMING from his bedroom. He was making horrible sounds, like a woman in labor. He was trying to poop. He tried so hard, he threw up and it came out of his nose as well. (I am crying as I write this because he’s in school and I want so badly to hug him right now.)

Anyway, I decided that enough was enough, I did some online research. Several people suggested that babies who go through this type of situation often have milk allergies (which they eventually outgrow) and that it’s not often talked about by doctors. So, we decided to give him some soy milk instead of milk milk and see how that goes. We also added flax as well as prune juice into the mix. Things got better. They weren’t perfect, but they were better.

But then last night happened. I stupidly (I think it was the culprit?) gave him a homemade bread and cream cheese sandwich with chopped up dates. He ate it up fast—loved it. He drank some water and then some soy milk and went off to bed.

We woke up at 11 listening to him scream. He continued to go into contractions every 10 minutes until 4 AM or later. It was heartbreaking and there was nothing I could do for him.

I am not sure what’s going on with Emory. I need to fix it. I feel so badly for him. I am tired. I am making mistakes, fighting with my husband, flicking off construction workers, fighting with our passive aggressive previous landlord, discussing things with other mothers—mere strangers to me at his daycare—that I should never discuss. I feel as though I am bordering on that insane, hysterical mother—the one everyone whispers about when she leaves the room.

I have no idea how to control this, how to fix it, how to make him better, us better, me better.

I can’t help me. But maybe someone else can.

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I miss him. I don’t mean to sound dramatic, but I miss him.

After I left, I had the best run I’ve had in months. I think it’s related to how I am feeling. I imagine I wanted to not let myself think about it. Sometimes the best way for me to do that is to beat myself up physically.

So I ran. I ran really, really long and hard.

Is this how people cope with losing a parent, child or spouse? I found this thought meander through my head as I walked home.

I felt immediately shameful and sought to apologize to anyone.

This isn’t the first time I have thought this.

When Toby and I were packing boxes to move from Russell Street to where we are now, Em stayed with my mother for two nights. We were midway through putting Emory’s toys into boxes, when I tearily looked at Toby and said, “Awwww, I miss him.”

“I know! Me too! But he’s not dead.” Toby said. “We’ll see him tomorrow.”

I know, that probably seems like a pretty harsh thing to say, and out loud. But it was precisely what I had been wondering about but unable to say. The taboo many prefer to ignore was suddenly filling our half empty apartment.

“How do people deal with losing a child? There’s no way I could do this.” I said referring to boxing up a bunch toys and clothing. “I cry just boxing up clothing that no longer fits him!”

“You know, I hope to never have the answer to that.” Toby said, sealing the hole again.

Sometimes I think I let my mind “go there” in order to mingle with an ache I hope to never know firsthand.

That particular ache is something undefined, impossible to know—wordless. That ache exists all around us but it’s rarely let out into the room.

I hope to never know that ache.

But the ache I’m feeling now is a good ache. I miss him, sure, but I know that he’s having a blast and I know I’ll get to scoop him up in just a few short hours. This is the good ache.

I am lucky to know this ache.

^{(This post turned out to be really depressing and I hadn’t meant for that. I’m actually in good spirits. I am truly sorry for bringing up quite possibly one of the ugliest thoughts imaginable. My apologies all around.)}

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And so!

Emory had his first half day of school this week. They were to spend the half day in their classroom while we sat in a room down the hall, waiting there just in case there were any serious meltdowns. (You know, the ones that last longer than a specific amount of time and include a consistent and high level of desperation.)

Emory has been with me since the day he was born. I don’t have a babysitter, although, my mother watches him sometimes. I haven’t used a nanny, nor have I used a daycare. It’s been him and me from day one.

I anticipated a great deal of anxiety from him. I readied myself for a long few weeks of crying and screaming and carrying on. I readied myself for the worst.

There was one time that he was roughly 8 months of age, Toby Joe and I visited a gym where they have a daycare. For five bucks an hour, you can work out and drop your kid off while you work out

Ten minutes went by before a woman came to collect us. He had had a full-fledged meltdown.

And so I anticipated that sort of reaction from him. And I’m sure that by now you’ve already guessed the outcome.

It was WORSE THAN HORRIBLE.

ha! Just kidding!

It was perfect! Emory did amazingly well. He adjusted immediately. The only tears took place the very first day whenever I returned to the room. I think he was startled by all the parents, who crashed through the door unannounced and all at once. When he saw my face, he broke down. But the best part was how he walked up to me with both his arms open. I got the best hug ever. (Emory is not very affectionate, much to his parent’s dismay.)

Today went really well too. There was no crying at all this time around, even when I returned to collect him. He seemed to have a blast and his teachers said he’s doing exceptionally well with adjusting. I left bursting with joy and relief.

On Monday we can drop them off for the full day, or stick around if we want to. I anticipated having to transition him for a bit longer. But I’m thinking now that that’s probably not going to be the case. Which means my “free time” begins next week.

Keep in mind, that many of us “stay-at-homes” gave up full time careers the moment we had children. I discussed this today with another mother, who happens to be the main caregiver at their home. Our husbands went back to work right after our sons were born. They have had time to themselves (good or bad) and continued doing what they were doing before. The stay-at-home gives all of that up. We no longer have regular alone time. We all but forget what it’s like. In a sense, we lose a little bit of ourselves. At least temporarily.

When I realized that starting next week I will have a set number of hours to myself, I felt a little nauseous.

What am I going to do with this time?

I once compared motherhood to being on house arrest and I received criticism for it. (Granted, I also received a lot of comments and email from people agreeing with said sentiment). It’s obviously not entirely true and I don’t think that way all the time, but the alienation and the difficulty at which one can come and go is pretty on.

That comparison resurfaced again today.

I have heard that some people released from solitary confinement get into trouble the very day they are set free. (I think there is even a term for this.) They have been inside for so long, they no longer have any idea how to cope with the outside world, or who they were before that time. Whether it’s conscious or not, they simply freak out.

What will I do next week? I have been asking myself this repeatedly.

I will probably pace around outside, waiting to go pick him up so I can hug him, cuddle him, kiss his wonderful pink cheeks. I will think of all the things I can make him for dinner, buy him, bake for him. I will think about reading to him.

(My goodness, do I ever love this person.)

Truth be told, I don’t want to be “free” ever again. Imagining a world without my son is a world I want no part of. Yes, I am very excited that I will have a given number of hours all to myself every week, but I’d be lying if I said it didn’t also make me a little uneasy.

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How important is it to socialize children early on in their development? Because, when it comes right down to it, that’s why we’re doing what we’re doing. I know I complain from time to time about not having any “Me Time” but that’s because I’m an awesome complainer (you know, like most bloggers). When it comes right down to it, I love spending my days with him. I’m just not sure he should be spending every single day with me.

Em doesn’t get a whole lot of interaction with other children. Sure, I bring him to the playground and I take him on walks, but it’s getting increasingly colder here and the weather keeps us (and others) from venturing out much. I have brought him to a place called Mamalu’s here in Williamsburg, but now that it’s cold, it gets way too crowded and the bigger kids make him uneasy. He also always seems to get a new cold every time we go.

About a month ago, Toby and I started talking about ways to get Emory around other children—not only other children, but the same children. That’s how we ended up signing him up for school. (Well, that and I complain a lot about having no life—pathetic.)

But he’s not even two! He’s 17 months old. That seems so young! Is he ready? I know I am not, but is he?

I keep coming back to the fact that I was at home with my mother until I was five or six. I had my older brother around and we are very close in age, but he didn’t have anyone before I was born. And he’s relatively normal. (heh) My younger brother was even further away in age (six years), and so he spent early childhood alone. (I think. But only my mother could answer this definitively.)

We probably went to church groups growing up (CCD and the like), but not at aged two. And I know we went to camp but, again, not that early. I reckon my mother had other mothers over and perhaps they brought kids close to our age, but that’s not really an option much anymore (especially here) because most families around here do not stay home with their children and instead hire nannies. Many of the nannies around here are Tibetan. They know each other and tend to stick together.

What I’m trying to say is that I know of only one local mom who stays home with her daughter. That’s not to say there aren’t more, but that’s been my finding. Every other local mother I know works. So playdates are difficult.

Both Toby and I feel that socializing Emory is important, which is why we chose a school. But are we doing the right thing? Are we being over zealous? Are we possibly pushing him too early?

How important is it to socialize these little dudes at a young age? What are your thoughts on the matter?

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We were wrong.

Yesterday I noticed a few red spots on his face—just four—and lifted his shirt to check for more. Sure enough, there were a few more spots on his torso. At that point I took his temperature—a solid 100 degrees.

He was cranky all day, but it wasn’t any worse than whenever he cut his molars. We gave him some Tylenol and he was fine by morning. He’s back to his usual, insane, toddling self.

But we did notice something regarding the MMR and its apparent side-effects. They won’t tell you about this. So I am going to take the opportunity to do so. I hope you’re prepared. You may even want to sit down.

The MMR makes babies speak. It’s true! I watched it happen.

Prior to having been vaccinated, Em said a few words such as Mama, Dada, (a warped version of) Kitty Cat (that sounded like “Keecah”), Night Night (that sounded like this: “Nighnah”) and Hi. That’s pretty much it.

But since receiving the MMR words have been flying out. He’s like a little tape recorder! He now says Cracker, Blue, Blueberries, Mama (clear as day), Kitty Cat, Daddy, Hi, Elmo, Baby, Finished (not very well, however), Bubble and One, Two, Three.

I have deduced that the MMR vaccine makes babies speak. It may sound absurd, but then again, so does suggesting it causes autism.

Speaking of the MMR, there is a fantastic This American Life episode about a family who refused the MMR for their child. At age seven, he traveled overseas and brought the measles virus back home with him. The episode is about how he and his family brought an entire town to a screeching halt.

While all of that may sound really serious, it’s actually very funny. It’s well worth the listen.

(I know! Can you believe how much I’ve changed when it comes to immunizations? I am shocked by my transformation!)

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I am worried about the food situation, however. Emory is not an eater. He is very picky. Generally speaking, if it’s not a fruit or a vegetable, good luck getting him to eat it. He will eat bread sometimes, as well as cheese (but not too often) and meat tends to freak him out (although, we’ve only tried chicken, fish and turkey). We’re working on the eating thing. He loves his milk. He lives for the milk. I haven’t ever seen a creature drink and desire so much milk! He’s picky so I got a little worried whenever I read over through manual.

They don’t allow nuts (makes sense), peanuts (of course), whole apples with any skin (Em likes the skin), grapes (unless they’re cut up in fours), string cheese (unless it’s diced up. Part of the reason Em eats string cheese is because he thinks it’s fun to pull apart), dried cranberries, or raisins.

We’ll make due with most of it. But raisins? Raisins? Emory loves raisins, like, they are the most awesome snack on planet earth. He lets out a joyous gasp whenever he sees the container.

He’s going to miss his raisins probably as much as I’m going to miss him.

As evident in the video above, we’re still trying to get settled into our new home. Naturally this is going to take some time, especially considering parts of it are still under construction, which has Murray in a tizzy. He just doesn’t like all the hammering on the 6th floor, the strange smells, the weird voices coming from the hallway.

We’ve had some growing pains with the move. Moving always comes with some setbacks, but deep down I know that things are going to be great. The cost of living here is almost double our previous rent and we had an overlap of rents. We’re entering the Christmas season. We owed the school its first installment. Murray had the whole vet fiasco last month. Things are hitting all at once, and this has put a huge dent in our savings. But I suppose that’s what a savings is for. There’s been some bickering. Transitions (for this family) don’t come without some fender benders. I owe my husband a massage and a night out with friends for sure.

I know he could use some rest.

So! If anyone out there knows of anyone who needs some design work done—production, layout, even dancing the Charleston—please let me know. I am all yours. I need to pull my weight somehow, especially now.

Edited to add: To those of you who emailed, called, and commented about how amazed you were at how delicate Em was with the can of raisins, this is how Em normally deals with his snacks. :]

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So why do I do it?

On the one hand, many of you saved my butt when I was going through postpartum depression (which up until fairly recently I wasn’t able to admit that that’s precisely what I was experiencing). My goal since “getting through all of that” has been to write about motherhood and reach out to others in hopes of paying it forward.

On the other hand, I’m putting my family on display without the consent of my child.

Again, why do I do it?

As silly as it may sound, it really does take a village to raise a child and in our culture that village (or lack thereof) consists of people with full time jobs, people who pay other people to watch their children (whether they want to or not) and then send spies to the playground to make sure they’re “doing it right.” (True story!) For those of us who suddenly lose our village—who can’t take their kids to the playground in winter because it’s too cold and are met with dirty looks from restaurant owners and patrons because we’re seen as a potential nuisance—the communities we discover online are (in some cases) all we have.

I choose to keep doing this—for now—because it makes me feel a little less secluded. I go days and days without using the creative part of my brain—the part I have exercised since before I can remember. I’m not complaining about my new career; I love raising my son. But transitioning from “full time creative person” to “full time mother” has taken a great deal work, work I could not have done alone.

As mothers, we are scrutinized for ignoring our children. As mothers, we are scrutinized for how they behave. We’re scrutinized if we let them watch TV. We’re scrutinized if we don’t breastfeed. We’re scrutinized if we do. We’re scrutinized if they cry in public. We’re scrutinized if they move too slowly. We’re scrutinized if we dote on them. We’re scrutinized if we stay at home. We’re scrutinized if we hire someone to care for them. We’re scrutinized if we homeschool. We’re scrutinized if we send them to private school. We’re scrutinized if we take too long lugging a stroller up the subway steps. We’re scrutinized if we write about them.

What I have come to realize is that there’s always going to be at least one person who is annoyed with how we how we perform each facet of the job.

I once compared becoming a mother with being on house arrest. It’s a drastic statement, indeed. And some people have responded by looking at me like I’m a terrible person for saying as much. But there’s a certain degree of truth to it. And my son has nothing to do with it. (Make sure you read and digest the last line.) The sentiment has everything to do with our culture, the people around me, and my inability to let the nasty looks and disparaging comments roll off my shoulders.

Is writing about our jobs online selfish? Sure. And if you suggest otherwise, I think you should sit down and give it a little more thought. But! I think it’s born out of selflessness, seclusion and frustration. We seek out community wherever we can find it. We look for comfort from other mothers, whether it be right here in our own neighborhood or online. So if you find that you have a problem with mothers writing online—and many people do—how about using that energy to come up with solutions? At the very least, the next time you see a mother dealing with her screaming child, offer her a warm smile.

Do I think writing online is the best way to handle the problem? No, I don’t. (And, yes, I do feel that we as a society have a growing problem.) Is throwing Wellbutrin, Prozac, or Zoloft at a new mother the solution to dealing with her being thrust into alienation? I really, really don’t think so. Becoming a mother shouldn’t be treated as one might treat depression or mental illness (unless, of course, it’s chemistry we’re talking about) and that seems to be the growing trend as of late.

I would much rather live in a society that’s more tolerant of its mothers (especially since we all have one) and easier on its families. And until that happens, I probably won’t be able to shut up about it.

^{(Murray lovers: TWM will be back either later today or next week, probably later today.)}

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I’m annoyed that he hides behind a guise of curiosity. I don’t see a curious monkey, I see a stupid monkey, one that teaches our children it’s OK to be ignorant, bigoted, cruel and irresponsible.

It’s even worse because a lot of children really like bananas and I think sometimes (for them especially) the line between “Human” and “Monkey” is blurred and so they start acting like monkeys. And if this is going to be the case—with the bananas and all—I think we need a more educated monkey for our children.

It’s time that mothers everywhere come together and put an end to Curious George. We need to collectively stomp our designer shoes and scream that we’ve had enough. (Gather up the nannies too, we need all the help we can get!)

No more George!

Exhibit A: George acts carelessly and dangerously.

When asked what George rides around his room, we are told he rides a ball. (See below.)

My son will most definitely give this a try if given the chance. And whenever he falls off said ball, we’ll have George to thank for it. Does this mean I can’t go out and buy him a large ball? Thanks, George. He’s a boy. All boys need their balls.

Exhibit B: George hangs out with strange men.

Who is the “Man In The Yellow Hat”? Does this man have a name? He shows up twice out of the four Curious George books I own. George gets into a blue car with him, he even lets this man talk him into going to the moon. (Is that a euphemism?)

And he wears knickers. NEVER trust a man in knickers!!!!!!!

And while we’re on the subject of strange men, who is Professor Wiseman? I think I heard that name used on a recent episode of “Law and Order SVU”. Got news for you, creeps, adding “Professor” to the front of your name isn’t not going to make me (or anyone else for that matter) trust you.

While on the playground, please be on the lookout for any strange men wearing yellow hats and knickers. It’s a perfect disguise, one our kids have come to trust. This is just like the media letting terrorists know exactly where to find our least secure targets.

Curious George is a terrorist to our children.

Exhibit C: George is a pusher.

I don’t know about you, but this mother DOES NOT let her child eat cake or sugar of any kind. Curious George keeps cake around the house and that sets a terrible example. When I read that part to my son, I immediately had to explain what “cake” is. “What’s cake, mommy?” Naturally, I lied and told him that “cake” is fish food.

Lying is OK if it’s about God, sugar or sex.

Also, who uses cake to catch fish? An idiot! That’s who!

Exhibit D: George (an animal) is guilty of animal cruelty.

This one really kicks me in the cottontail. In one of the books, George is curious about holding a bunny, so George just takes a bunny from the bunny cage. (Poorly raised?) Naturally, the bunny runs off “like a shot!” (Pro gun?) And in order to find the bunny, George looks to its mother. He doesn’t ask the mommy bunny for help, instead he ties a string around the mother bunny’s neck!!!! What is this, Guantanamo bay for bunnies? (Terrorist?)

I have already sent an email to PETA. I have asked them to suggest that if this is going to continue—the printing of such dangerous literature—all future editions remove the bit about the string.

Exhibit E: Friends of Curious George think monkeys are more useful than women

Apparently this particular space organization was too busy hiring monkeys to hire any women.

Are women dumber than monkeys? NOT THIS WOMAN! Unite with me, mommybloggers. Curious George hates women, prefers strange men, condones sugar, and takes advantage of helpless animals. Please help me in my fight against George.

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Three days earlier I took part in a discussion on the playground about gloves and how difficult it is convincing them to put (and keep) them on. We all just kind of shrugged about it, unable to come up with a solution.

While on a playdate this morning, the question came up again. My friend asked, “What do you do whenever you’re at the playground? They can’t very well climb stuff in them, can they?”

What do you do with these little guys in winter? It’s really hard to climb stuff while wearing gloves and it’s certainly cold—cold enough to turn their bony fingers into tiny human icicles. What to do?

As of late, I’ve been kind of winging it, but I bet there’s something out there—some type of product—that makes everything better.

And while I’m on the subject of products, let’s talk squirters. (Incidentally, do NOT type that word into a Google Web search. Ugh.) I have a bunch for Em to use at bath time and I try and make sure and squeeze the water out after each use. But recently I noticed that the yellow lizard was growing funk. I pinched it and the funk moved around. Disgusting, right?

Naturally, he’s gone.

What do people do with these things? Do they bleach them? Do you not use them for this very reason? Is there something I’m missing when it comes to keeping them funk-free? If I have to clean these things every time he uses them, they’re going to end up becoming land critters.

And last but not least, there is one product that has helped us out a lot lately. We picked up a couple bib crumb catchers recently and boy have they helped cut down on laundry!

But stick with the flimsy, softer materials. We bought a couple of the harder plastic Baby Bjorn bibs and he hated it, refused to wear it. I think the hard plastic attachment was the culprit. (Also, they’re not cheap!)

However, they seem to have excellent reviews on Amazon, so maybe it’s just us.

Please feel free to rant and rave about any products you’ve discovered (or cool tricks) in the comments sections.

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The study included 20 babies. They were pushed by their parents for 1 mile. Half of that mile was spent facing outward, the other half, inward.

I can’t help but shake my head at this one. Did they take in consideration the amount of time each parent spends with his or her child when they aren’t out walking with a stroller? Does a baby whose parents work full time and is cared for by a nanny talk to his or her parents less than a baby who spends his or her days with one (or both) of his or her parents? (I’m not suggesting one is better than the other, I’m suggesting that there are dozens of other factors involved here.) Does the position of the baby in a stroller really have anything to do with how a child communicates with his or her parents? Wouldn’t a child have to spend hours per day in a stroller for this to really matter?

And if we’re talking strollers, why not take it a step further. Are babies that face the rear of a car also stressed out? Does that mean suburban babies are likely to feel more stressed out than city babies because they spend more time in a car?

I am not asking these questions because I want answers. I’m also not suggesting that the study offended me. What I would like to suggest is that we start analyzing the information we’re given and what we then choose to do with it. This study leaves me asking too many questions. It’s my opinion that this is more in line with what mommybloggers should be getting worked up over.

Lastly, I wonder if the study was funded by Stokke. heh

There was another study done as well. It compared babies being worn by their parents vs. babies that face outward in a stroller and the babies that were worn by their parents were able to recite Infinite Jest at 15 months while those facing out in a stroller were banging hookers and dealing cocaine.

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Nope.

It appears that some folks were upset because they felt that Motrin was belittling the act of wearing a baby. The whole fiasco was like something Dr. Suess would write about, only without all the rhyming and butter.

I think I was more offended that Motrin took the ad down in response to the backlash. It’s my opinion (and it won’t be a popular one) that what they said about wraps and baby-wearing has truth to it. Sure, they made some generalizations, but every advertiser does that. It’s their job to annoy us that way. I guess the difference this time is that they stepped on the toes of mommybloggers. (Do not mess with mommybloggers. Sometimes they lash out at you and bring their friends along. They have been known to kick below the belt and under the bra. I actually fear some mommybloggers, to be perfectly honest.)

To further alienate myself, I think that many mothers do buy wraps to look like a certain type of mother. I honestly believe that many mothers (especially women who research the hell out of their pregnancy and their baby-rearing days) treat buying a wrap like any other adornment. I’m not suggesting that means wearing your baby is something people do without any benefits. I don’t think Motrin was suggesting that either. But I think it is trendy right now. Buying a wrap is like purchasing a car; moms want the one that most represents their personality and lifestyle, without losing the security, safety and functionality. And if you don’t think people think this way, you’re being naive. Furthermore, if what I’ve written offends you, ask yourself why. (And then count to ten before sending me any hate mail. Also read this.)

I’m sick of this apparent readiness to lash out at other mothers who don’t function under the same belief system as a majority. I grew tired of this crowd mentality back when I was still pregnant and it just keeps getting worse and worse. If it’s not about breast feeding, it’s about vaccines. If it’s not about organic vs. not organic, it’s about whether or not you turned your car seat around too early. If it’s not about soy vs. whole milk, it’s about feeding babies meat or raising them vegetarian. If it’s not about that, it’s about whether or not some advertiser was “belittling mothers” by suggesting babywearing is trendy. I don’t know what’s going to be next, but I do know with this group there’s always going to be a next.

I was given three wraps and bought two of my own more before realizing that the utilitarian Bjorn was more my style (and my baby’s as well. He was always a face-out baby, no way he would have liked the wrap). That doesn’t mean I didn’t secretly wish that I could use one of those kangaroo type slings. Wrap-wearing mothers always make me think yoga instructor, hippie, or crunchy mom and I love a little crunch to my ladies. Plus, a wrap would have done a much better job at keeping Emory warm, but he just wasn’t having it.

I think that many mothers really do think a lot about the type of wrap they’re going to wear and what it says about them. The function of it is obvious—it’s meant to carry your baby. But that doesn’t mean its form and design needs to be an afterthought. Even the companies who make (and sell) these wraps are well aware of our thought process that goes into purchasing one and our desire to look and feel a certain way.

One woman donated a wrap to me and said, “This is what all the celebrities are seen wearing in all the magazines, but I couldn’t ever figure it out.” (I never did either.)

Is wearing your baby trendy? You betcha. Is wearing your baby in something trendy a bad thing? I personally don’t think so. Is stating as much? Apparently so.

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Naturally, being away from him was hard, but it wasn’t nearly as hard as I had anticipated. He spent two nights with my parents, just two.

Why does the number of days matter? It matters because we’re pretty sure they replaced our child with an exact replica. Even my mother joked during a text message conversation we had last week. (The flow of the conversation is shown in reverse. Incidentally, does the iPhone do this as well?)

Emory hasn’t ever been a sleeper. He doesn’t like going to sleep. It takes a while for him to do so. And he doesn’t stay asleep for very long. We’ve grown used to it. We’ve gotten used to spending anywhere from thirty minutes to an hour trying to put him to sleep each night. (Naps have been easier for a while.)

Well, the first Friday he spent with my parents, he was down in five minutes. This is particularly funny to me because I warned my mother over and over again before we left that she’d have a lot of trouble putting him to bed. I apologized profusely in advance.

Saturday night rolled around and the same thing happened. He went to sleep without a peep. All they had to do to get him down was say, “Get your paci? Go night-night?” And he’d run off toward the stairs—actually run off toward bed!

I haven’t wanted to mention this to anyone for fear that I’ll jinx the sheer awesomeness of the situation. But the truth is, ever since he spent the night with my parents, all we’ve had to do to get him to go to sleep is say, “Get your paci? Go night-night?” And every time since his stay he’s run off to his bedroom. Sometimes he even grabs his crib and waits for one of us to lift him up. He’s done this twice per day (he’s down to one 2 to 3 hour nap) since we picked him up.

What happened at my parents house? It remains a mystery. But we’re not looking a gift horse in the mouth. If this particular baby is here to stay, we’re grateful for it.

But I’m not bragging. Because he still wakes up two or three times per night. Since he was born, we have yet to sleep through the night. I’m thinking another getaway is in order. Let’s see what grandma and grandpa can do for us in that department as well.

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Then one day the batteries died. It laid dark and silent for months and months until recently when I pulled out a screwdriver and brought it back to life. I was so proud of myself! Not only did I NOT forget to buy a bunch of batteries, but I actually sat down one day and replaced the batteries to each and every toy that had died over time. (Parents-to-be: factor hundreds of dollars worth of batteries into your budgeting.)

Emory wasn’t nearly as pleased with my success, however. For reasons I may never come to understand, Em has decided that Mr. Glow Worm is the scariest thing ever. I wish I were exaggerating this point, but the mere sight of this small plastic, legless creature makes him lose his mind. His face fills with terror, actual terror. The glow worm triggers a part of his brain that spits back “FEAR”.

The first time it happened, we thought maybe he was just tired—maybe he had just seen a long day. So we kept it around for a bit. But then two days ago, when I put him down for a nap, I realized that it wasn’t his mood at all, it was the glow worm itself.

About an hour and half into his nap, I heard blood curdling screams coming from his bedroom. I was certain something terrible had taken place. I dropped everything I was doing and ran like hell into his bedroom. I found him standing upright and rigid in his crib, silently screaming. He pointed down at the glow worm, which I had stupidly placed in his crib (like I had done in the past). Tears streamed down his face. His lip quivered. And I hate to admit this next part, but if it hadn’t obviously freaked him out so much, it would have been really quite hilarious.

That’s not the only creature that invokes terror in our little boy. Balloo is guilty of it as well.

Em loves watching Elizabeth Balzano sing songs and play guitar on the show Bounce. He smiles when he hears her voice. I think he may have a crush on her. But as soon as it’s time for bed and Balloo appears, he completely freaks out. Again, this would be hilarious if it weren’t so terrifying for him. I think the funniest part about Balloo making his bedtime debut is how we act. As soon as she starts singing the goodbye song, one or the both of us sprint to the remote control in order to turn it off.

Yesterday, as I stuffed the glow worm into a box and sealed it shut, something occurred to me. I was afraid of everything when I was a child—ghosts and monsters and all things make believe. Tobyjoe had real fears to contend with and every time I hear him talk about his childhood, my heart breaks a little bit. I can’t imagine having to deal with real terror at such a young age. I much prefer my child-sized portions of it (if you call being afraid of poltergeists and skeletons terror) over his.

I’m hoping that my son remains afraid of things like a glow worm or an animated egg-shaped creature sporting suspenders. Because before you know it, adult-sized fears are keeping you up at night. There’s something to be said for prolonging innocence.

I’d give anything to fear a glow worm again.

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The video I have for you today features his other dance. This one is a little easier to capture because it lasts longer (since he doesn’t get dizzy right away). I love this one as well.

I’m two parts melancholy, three parts joyful today, so I thought this might be a perfect way to express as much. (You may watch Ted Leo play the song live here.)

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Perhaps Election Day should become a national holiday, so that whomever goes to work for a living can stay home while the primary caregiver gets out to vote. While employers face charges if they don’t give their employees time off to vote, babies don’t have to follow the law.

If they can’t give the nation the day off, maybe they should have a “Fast Track” option for those of us with toddlers who really don’t enjoy being confined to a stroller for very long. Not that I’m looking for special treatment or anything. ;]

Edited to add: Early voting could go nationwide. Maybe in four years, this won’t be an issue for SAHMs and Dads after all.

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In a nutshell, unless you’re the type of person who makes it now and spends it now, both candidates’ tax plans suck for you. That’s not to say that this is entirely their fault or that it’s something they have control over. This is a fault of how our system is set up.

If you have a second, read this.

(Thanks to Missy for the link.)

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