I’m so sure! Like, she’s totally rad in that blazer!
And she went to college, so she totally knows not to flush that dirty diaper down the toilet:
Posted in Entertainment, Moms in the Media, Photopost | Tagged babies, bathrooms, Diapers, humor | Leave a Comment »
I have a feeling I’m going to piss a few people off with this one, but that’s okay. It’s all true, and I have extensive experience with both puppies and babies, so I’m qualified to hold forth on this topic.
So: 12 ways in which puppies/dogs are like babies — and vice versa.
1. Consistency is key when disciplining them.
2. They look at you adoringly, often when you’re just about to lose your grip.
3. It would be beyond awesome if you knew what they were thinking.
4. Drool.
5. Shredding paper products is a favorite pastime.
6. They make you very mindful of what you leave on your counters.
7. Parts of them are so soft that “soft” is an inadequate descriptor.
8. They trip over their own feet.
9. They bring unparalleled joy and wonder.
10. They occasionally make it necessary to end the day with chocolate and wine.
11. Sometimes they smell more wonderful than wonderful. Other times, not so much.
12. Teething toys. Chew toys. Gnawed-up books. I rest my case.
Posted in Daily Life | Tagged babies, children, dogs, humor, Kids, motherhood | 4 Comments »
First, some housekeeping: This post is partially about boobs and what they were made to do.
For the record: I am pro-breastfeeding. But I am neither pro- nor anti-formula, despite having raised my kid on it.
For the non-parents: When a formula baby turns one, it’s time to switch to cow’s milk. This blessed event happened recently at our house, and man. So great. No more measuring, carefully jiggering sticky powder into a bottle, shaking like mad, hoping it all dissolved. No more calculating how many bottles I’d need over the next 24 hours (they turn to poison after that!). And a bit more ease in the budget — even though the price of milk is way up these days, formula is still vastly more expensive.
I did not plan to use formula. For reasons including an unexpected C-section and other events around the birth that left me rattled and sad, and perhaps the simple, hard fact of my age, my body never produced what my baby needed to thrive. This, despite trying everything I had the energy for while caring for and worrying about my newborn: Pumping around the clock. Going to a lactation consultant when the baby was two weeks old. Drinking a certain tea. Eating certain foods. Keeping the baby in skin-to-skin contact as much as I could, so much so that I dozed off with him on my chest a few times and scared the bejesus out of myself.
Now, if you’ve met me, you know what a cruel irony this is. I am built like a peasant. I broke an underwire bra last week, for crying out loud. And still, I could not get my inborn faucets to turn on.
For a long time, I couldn’t think about this intensely personal failure without crying, which sounds dramatic, and was dramatic. But it was just one more disappointment, one more baby-related thing that didn’t go the way I thought it should have. So being bitch-slapped by the reality that my body was once again not going to do what it was designed to do was heartbreaking, and infuriating. The one consolation: Baboo didn’t give up on my boobs until he was five months old.
All of this, the totality of my experience, is why I am neither pro- nor anti-formula. I didn’t want to use it. I called it horrible names. But I needed it. My baby needed it. I am grateful for it.
I still believe breast is best, but if that’s not the best option for whatever reason, then go Ye with my blessings and spend your precious ducats on formula. I will not judge you, not only because that’s not my job, but I judged myself so harshly, and guess what? It didn’t help, and it didn’t change anything.
And if you do use formula, oh Honey! Call me on the day you get to ditch it for cow’s milk — I’ll come to your house and cheer as you crack open that first, liberating gallon of milk.
Posted in Happiness, Milestones | 1 Comment »
Don’t worry, I’m not going to talk about poop in this post. Really, I don’t see the point of doing so unless it’s for comedic effect, and there ain’t much comedic about this topic.
Baboo remained blissfully rash-free until he started solids, at which point he, like many babies, developed a wee rash that was easily dealt with. And then, during our Christmas travels, he spent 14 hours in an overnight diaper only meant for 12 hours. A few nights in a row. And that’s when the real nastiness began.
Opening a diaper to find a big red rash in full bloom not only on my baby’s backside but his frontside remains one of the saddest moments of my mom career. After trying what had worked before (a prescription ointment meant to combat strep and staph), and trying something else that had worked before (Lotrimin), I took him to the doctor. He didn’t seem particularly bothered, but I was disturbed on his behalf.
Yep. That’s right. I took my kid to the doctor for a diaper rash. Or as he says, diaper dermatitis. His recommendation was to try Lotrimin on one side, hydrocortisone cream on the other, and see which cleared it up faster, and then use that on both sides moving forward.
So I did that, and switched diaper brands, and started using the super-thick Desitin. But then I started thinking: If dryness begets a happy bum, then let’s get serious about getting that bum dry:
Yep. I pointed a fan at my baby’s junk. And for a while, he seemed to like it. Then he didn’t, and I started patting him dry using my ridiculous stash of old bandannas. But I’m ready to get the fan back out if that’s what it takes to keep my baby’s bottom as smooth as, well, a baby’s bottom.
Posted in Daily Life, Ugh | Leave a Comment »
The baby has had a cold for the past four or five days. And so I added snot-wrangling and extra cuddling and gentle back-thumping to my usual routine. (He is much better today, and it was never serious, just sneezing and coughing and weepiness.)
I also added extra hand-washings and preventive neti pot sessions to my days. With a show coming up, I was determined not to catch this bug. And gig or not, I don’t like being sick. I mean, duh, who does, but when you have a baby to look after, you know that unless you are unable to crawl out of bed, you will still have to feed and diaper and play and wash and chase the baby. Only while foggy and grumpy and sneezy and weepy. Yay.
So there I was, scrupulously avoiding touching my face and nose, washing my hands after every few nose-wipings, keeping his snot-rags sequestered on a remote corner of the kitchen counter, resisting the urge to smooch his face, turning my head or holding my hand up to the baby’s mouth when he coughed near me.
And then yesterday, around 2:30, he sneezed into my mouth.
I’m still not quite sure how it happened. It was during a diaper change, and for some reason putting him flat on his back spurs sneezing and coughing, so I should have been on high alert. But usually he draws in a little breath before a sneeze. Not so this time. And I must have been singing or making a funny open-mouthed face to keep him from breaking down, because — this is gross, sorry — I felt sneeze particles land on my tongue.
I went off to sing feeling tired but not sick. I had fun and one glass of wine, woohoo! I went to bed late but not horrendously so. I woke up with a sore throat.
Next time the kid gets sick, I’m wearing a surgical mask during diaper changes.
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When Baboo was five weeks old, my Aunt Su from Kalamazoo (her real name) came to visit. She’s been involved in the healing arts for at least three decades, so when she offered to teach me a few baby massage strokes I was all, Hell yeah!
Every night since then (with the exception of a few nights right before Christmas that were nutso), I’ve given the baby a full-body massage as part of his bedtime routine. I talk to his body parts as I go, thanking his legs for carrying him everywhere, praising his chest for being so strong, telling his hands they did a great job grabbing stuff all day.
Even when he’s flailing and goofy instead of blissed out, even when he’s so overtired I only do his legs for a couple of minutes, it’s often my favorite part of the day because of the depth of the connection it brings us.
On Aunt Su’s recommendation, I use Weleda’s calendula baby massage oil, part of a line made for babies that’s full of skin-soothing calendula (a type of marigold). It’s mostly sweet almond oil, it’s all-natural (and made in Switzerland where that actually means something), and it smells fabulous. All of which means I have no qualms about using it on Baboo even though he’s had a touch of eczema from time to time and we’re under orders to use only unscented shampoos, soaps and lotions on him.
Posted in Daily Life, Stuff I Like | Leave a Comment »
My coping mechanism of choice.
A few years ago, I tended my father during an 11-day ICU stay. When he regained consciousness, I asked if I could bring him anything.
“Yeah,” he said, “a seven and seven.” Possibly, he asked for a Cuba Libre. Can’t quite recall. Either way, I laughed and reminded him we were in a hospital.
“Well, there’s gotta be a bar in here somewhere,” he replied.
Now, granted, he had had a massive stroke years before, and was pumped full of 80 different drugs and battling septic shock, but still, he had a good point: Why aren’t there bars in hospitals? Why must the stressed and grieving stow flasks in their purses and hide bottles in their pants? (For the record: I have not done either of those things. But I have seriously considered both options.)
I thought a lot about all of this this yesterday while sitting in the kitchen, staring into the middle distance and sucking Nutella off a spoon. I had just put the exhausted, sad baby down for a nap following his one-year checkup, which included four shots. FOUR. IN A ROW, not simultaneously, which would be the smart way to do it. Just sayin’.
Anyway. It seems to me that traumatized parents in need of comfort beverages and/or snacks are a gravely underserved niche market as well as a huge business opportunity.
I’m completely serious.
Just think: If you were anticipating having to hold your child’s arms while he got jabbed with needles and screamed, wouldn’t it be nice to know you could have the adult treat of your choice, in the foyer of your pediatrician’s office, either before or after? You could pick up a vodka shot of some sort to consume as soon as you got home, or order a cab if you were unable to wait that long.
Taking the idea beyond alcohol: Nutella-banana crepes, or a Nutella latte, or, for purists like me, a giant jar of Nutella and a spoon. Or perhaps you would prefer a chunk of Valhrona chocolate as big as your head, or an extremely mayonnaise-heavy chicken salad sandwich on a croissant.
I see this as a concierge service. Would you like a violinist to serenade your family as you’re driven home in a limo stocked with Champagne and Valium? Not a problem. Five different flavors of macarons in a gorgeous box tied with a bow, flown in from Ladurée this morning? With pleasure. A nursemaid to tend the cranky baby, and a beefcakey dude to draw you a bubble bath? Done. Perhaps you long to lounge in a vat of rice pudding. You’re weird, but you’re the customer, so, okay, enjoy!
Of course none of that would make up for the agony of knowing you must see your child in pain; the idea is to prevent the day from being a complete horror. But until such time as someone snaps up this idea, I’ll make sure I’m never short on Nutella when Baboo is due for shots.
Posted in Growth & Development, mama life hacks, Ugh | Leave a Comment »
You are one year old.
Your favorite bath toy is a plastic travel soap dish.
You think fake sneezes are hilarious. When you hear your Daddy blow his nose, you imitate him. We think that’s hilarious.
You point and grunt when you hear an airplane, a truck, or anything loud outside.
You used to make unhappy noises when you heard the ice machine and the food processor. Now, you smile and laugh at them and want to be picked up so you can watch them.
You point at all the artwork on your walls as soon as you are picked up from a nap.
You have six teeth. This has been the case for some time.
You don’t like it when Mama cleans your teeth after meals, but you tolerate it pretty well if she sings the “brushie-brushie” song and/or turns you upside down on her lap.
You’ve been climbing the stairs for a few weeks. You like to stop and look down, and when we carry you up and down you like to throw yourself backwards.
You loved watching the flame on your birthday candle and reached for it over and over, and almost got hold of it. However, you refused to touch your birthday cupcake and made faces and unhappy noises at it. We think this was because you were very tired by the time we sang to you.
You love to see and feel the inside of people’s mouths. You also love to explore people’s faces with your hands. Daddy is the only person who is brave enough to let you do this.
You are not walking, and you don’t seem to be in a huge hurry to do so. But you are very good at walking around your crib while holding the rails, and cruising around chairs and baby gates, and sometimes you let go and stand for a few seconds before plopping down on your bottom.
Your fingernails are a completely different shape than they were 12 months ago. You still love to do things with your hands, though.
Your nicknames are Baboo, Mamoush, Chickoo, Chickoo Boots, Little Boots, Boots, and Little Pooper.
You cackle when someone lies flat on the floor, and come rushing over to ram your face into that person’s face. We’re pretty sure this is your version of a hug.
You still grab for your bits during diaper changes, even when there are socks on your hands.
You say, “buh-bah” and wave when someone is leaving. You also say it when you hear Mama say “bye” when she’s on the phone.
You have shorter hair now, and that makes you look much older, and much more like your Daddy.
You cry with great sadness when you bump your head.
You cry with great indignation when you get shots, but you recover quickly when we distract you with toys and funny noises.
You have recently gone off all your favorite veggies and fruits and will only eat Cheerios, yogurt, bread and peanut butter.
You are one year old, and you are quickly becoming a little boy.
Posted in Growth & Development, Happiness, Milestones | 2 Comments »
My gym, more or less.
I hate the gym. Always have. Which is why, when I finally got tired of being pudgy, I began an exercise regime centered on gross inefficiency.
See, there are two flights of stairs in our house. Often, I forget to bring something from one level to another — a bottle I meant to rinse out is still up in the nursery, or the diaper bag I wanted to replenish is on the couch.
But now that I’m consciously trying to lose weight I leave things on another floor so I have to make more trips up and down the stairs. Four things to transport from the nursery to the kitchen? Four trips. Three stacks of laundry to bring upstairs? Three trips. You get the idea.
If the items are small and I really want to feel the burn, I carry the baby. I can always feel the extra strain on my joints when I do this, which makes me feel both grateful and sorry for my knees, because I’ve lost at least the equivalent of two of him. I’m not sure what the precise number is, because although I had a great laugh with my OB-GYN’s nurse the day I blew past 200 pounds, I stopped weighing myself after that.
At this point, I’m a few pounds above my pre-pregnancy weight, but things have, um, shifted, so some of my old clothes don’t really fit. Call it Post-Partum Lesson # 15: Just because you can close the zipper doesn’t mean you should wear those jeans out of the house.
Posted in mama life hacks, Milestones | Leave a Comment »
If I catch the baby in the right mood and moment and ask him, “Who am I?” while patting my chest, he will say, ever so softly and sweetly, “mama.” Oddly, the right moment is often just after a diaper change — somehow, vanquishing a dirty behind leads to a tranquil interlude.
I’ve known for a long time that he knows who I am, but there’s something profound about hearing the word issue from his little baby mouth. He babbles all the time, but this is different. He thinks about it, locks eyes with me, and carefully forms the word. I should really be recording that, I suppose, but so far I’ve been too busy enjoying it. Also, the sight of the phone would almost certainly distract him from his appointed task, i.e., making his mama cry a few tears of pure joy.
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Mama-Come-Lately 