This is Nicholas, we call him Nik for short, or stinky fat butt, or chunky monkey man.  Notice that smug smile on his face, and the cutest, chubbiest cheeks.  I will give you a minute to take in his super cute chubby baby awesomeness. . . .

“ahhhhhhhhhhhhh”

Let me tell you this, looks are very deceiving.  Behind this façade of baby amazingness, is 25 pounds of karmic action at its very best.  He is a wonderful, cuddly, smiling, laughing, peek-a-boo playing, pain in my rear end.  It is all my fault he is the way he is, children are not born this way, they come into this world as tiny indistinct blobs of cuteness that you just want to cuddle with forever.  That, I believe, is the first and most vital step in their evil plans to take over the world. I mean, how could anyone say no to them?

No, or a lack of it, is the problem I am dealing with lately.  Nik, has been led to believe that he rules this roost, that he is the king of jelly beans as well as all of the ice cream cones.  He is the center of the universe called Mommy.  If anyone wants to tell him otherwise, be prepared for the storm which will inevitably follow, I will not be the one who rains on his parade of selfish baby glory.  (Which is my problem, what a vicious cycle.)

Raising the center of the universe, or Nik for short, is no small task.  It requires a tremendous amount of patience, and skill.  It demands that you are performing at your peak at all times, with a minimum amount of sleep/downtime.  One must learn to shower and entertain a small one allatonce, as well as forgetting that your second arm ever existed.

 Improbable, but not impossible, ask any mom.  We do all of this before breakfast.

Nik has been especially amazing at driving me insane in recent weeks.  Initially, I believed that I had actually broken him.  He was crying all of the time, was never content unless he was playing on top of me, was even more particular when sleeping, (He sleeps in bed with me), the list goes on indefinitely.  When Nik cried, I felt like crying too. Finally, after multiple trips to the doctor, and repeated fruitless searches on Google, the light bulb came on, it finally clicked.  I did not break Nik, he is not a defective model, he is just teething.  Relief flooded over me, I breathed a sigh of relief.  That feeling of peace was short lived, teething is a hell I would not wish on my worst enemy.

Fate has decided that it obviously hates me.  Nik, it seems, is getting all of his teeth allatonce.  We were granted a brief reprieve, perhaps a week, where he was his glorious, amazing self, then we were reinserted right back into teething hell.  Instead of sleeping next to me, Nik wants to sleep on top of me.  Instead of using the bathroom with Nik next to me, he is sitting on my lap.  While teething, Nik is a drooly, boogery, hemorrhoidial wreck.

We are on the top two front teeth now.  Four down only 22 more to go.

I find myself praying to multiple deities at times.  Creating offerings of incense and freshly slaughtered flowers.  Nothing works, but cuddles, snuggles, and Motrin.  Lots and lots of Motrin.

]]> http://speaker7.wordpress.com/2012/05/17/dora-the-annoyer/ Fri, 18 May 2012 00:11:31 +0000 speaker7 http://speaker7.wordpress.com/2012/05/17/dora-the-annoyer/ Six o’clock in the morning is really rough.

It’s not the best feeling in the world to know every morning you will get up at 6 a.m. regardless of the time you fall asleep. This is the life of a parent with a 2-year-old. In the past two years, the latest I’ve slept in has been 6:30 (three times), and it wasn’t even on any of those Mother’s days or birthdays. It was because he slept in until 6:30.

What makes it worse is sometimes it’s 5:30 a.m. There are things one does–things one is not proud of–to try to sleep an extra five to 10 minutes.

Maybe you do that thing where you pretend you do not actually hear your child crying. That is impossible. It’s like his cry is directly connected to my central nervous system. I say my because my husband could sleep through me jumping on his head with a pogo stick.

Or you get the kid, throw him into your bed and turn on the TV after six requests of “Watch show? Watch show? Watch show?”

The American Academy of Pediatrics recommends no television for children under the age of two. This is because they are doctors who can afford to have someone else watch their children, and have never played two solid hours of “What’s that?”

I don’t necessarily think it’s a bad thing that my infant son would rip himself away from my breast whenever the theme for It’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia kicked in so he could watch the opening credits. It is classical muzak after all.

I only wish that would placate him now. Because now, what he likes to watch at 6 a.m. is Dora the Explorer.

Ah, Dora…How do I describe your voice? Think of a beginning violinist scraping his unrosined bow across a violin with a shrieking cat strapped to it. Think of someone inserting a needle directly into your left eardrum while someone crashes cymbals against your right. Think of a cheerleader whose mouth is actually a megaphone screaming directions while 1,000 bagpipes play and 1,000 dentists drill into a giant mouth made out of aluminum.

And that does not even come close to Dora’s voice.

“My voice has broken the sound barrier!”

Dora is always excited and always going on adventures and always needs your help and always wants you to shriek along with her. It’s glorious. Especially at 6 a.m.

She drags along a monkey in red boots, and she talks to her backpack, and can catch stars, and I fucking hate her more than I have ever hated any cartoon in my life and that includes Scrappy Doo who is an unbelievable monstrosity.

There is a fox named Swiper, and guess what he does?

Swipes stuff.

Swiper, can you swipe Dora’s vocal box? Thanks!

Dora becomes very agitated whenever Swiper is around and begins to wail with the intensity of 13,000 ambulance sirens that we must stop Swiper. “SAY SWIPER NO SWIPING” she bellows over and over again while I begin to fantasize that I’m chained to some random restroom in Saw 17.

Dora is very big on audience participation and what you think was the best part of the adventure. At the end of the task, she scream/sings the “We did it” song and then asks what your favorite part was.

My favorite part was when Dora was not speaking, that .001 second of the show.

“Me too!!!!!!” she screams back. Then she shrieks and shrieks and shrieks some more until I lose all feeling in my face. And then we have another episode at 6:30.

And this is likely what I will wake up to tomorrow. And the next 300 or so tomorrows.

I have just written a check to the American Academy of Pediatrics. Good work, guys.

The last year has definitely been an adjustment period as a new mom, but I am so proud and overjoyed to have arrived at this stage in my life. Being a mother is the greatest gift and blessing. Watching my son grow and learn has been the most wonderful experience, it is almost difficult to express the amount of joy I feel as a mother and the love that I have for my son. Simply put, he is AMAZING!

I look at the world through a different lens now and I am more mindful of what is important in life and I don’t stress over the things that I cannot change, after all life is too short and I would much rather place my time, focus, and love on this beautiful treasure who every day touches me with his smile and presence in my life. And at some point, I will have time for the shower.

Here’s to Motherhood!

As I celebrate my baby girl’s half birthday (by crying at my desk for the better part of the day), I thought I’d reflect on all that knowledge, two nuggets of brilliance at a time…

1.  It is OK to feed your baby formula.

For real, it is. I promise.  Yes, I have read all the studies and statistics. Yes, I have seen you giving me the snark-eye in the restaurant when I mix up a bottle. Yes, I don’t give a good gosh darn about your opinion.

I started out breastfeeding.  It is not easy! Let me repeat: IT IS NOT EASY. At first.  It gets easier, I think. I don’t really know.  Between some latching issues, an impatient baby, and a bout with jaundice, I ended up being an exclusive pumper.  It worked for us, and my OB told me the first two weeks were the most important for passing along immunities. 

Eventually my supply started to diminish (due to bad pumping habits because I was clueless), and no amount of Fenugreek or special tea could keep me from having to supplement with formula.  By three months she was exclusively formula fed, which was fine because I was back to work full-time and it just seemed like a natural transition for us. 

She is happy. She is healthy. She is meeting and/or exceeding milestones.  I am not at all trying to discourage anyone from breastfeeding or at least giving it a rousing effort, but rather to empower moms to do what is best for themselves and their families – forget the rest.  Some diehard breastfeeding moms/websites are really judgmental and vocal towards those who formula feed, and quite frankly it’s insulting and annoying.  I know breast milk is better for babies than formula (although formula has come a really long way – I am very happy with Similac Advance).  But you know what’s even better for your baby than breast milk? FEEDING YOUR BABY, PERIOD.

Along those lines, disposable diapers and epidurals are also OK.  Come sit next to me on the Non-Crunchy Mom Bench. 

 2.  Don’t  bother putting a cover on your changing pad. 

The only place I change Ava is on the changing table.  That’s where all the stuff is, the height is perfect for me, and there’s no other space in the house available.  They sell ALL KINDS of cute covers for changing pads but of course nothing to match our grey and raspberry nursery.  So what did this brainiac do? I went with white.  GENIUS!  That poor cover has been washed so many times…

It’s just a fact of life:  your baby is going to pee or poop as soon as you take off their diaper.  Not every time, but a lot. Especially in the beginning when you don’t know their rhythms yet.  Just this morning my 6 month old did it! She thinks it’s funny and after one look at her cheesy grin, I have to think so too.  Literally one second after I took her diaper off and thought “Oh, she hasn’t peed yet”, that little stinker became a bubbling fountain! Oh well, you live and learn and laugh. And wash copious amounts of laundry.

Tip: Leave the cover off. It’s easier to just wipe down the vinyl pad and babies don’t give a hoot about cute covers.  Sad but true. Put the money towards more diapers, or a pedicure.

That’s all for this installment. Next time I’ll talk about the thief of joy and why crying ALL THE TIME during the happiest time of your life can be normal.

But moms want us to “step up our game” apparently, according to Cosmopolitan magazine, and Cosmopolitan magazine is rarely wrong. Its expose on the “50 Things to Do With Your Boobs” was revelatory (#47 – Shuck corn), as was its expose on the “50 Sexy Ways to Sexily Shuck Sexy Corn” (#26 – Go heavy on the anal bleaching).

Not all moms are the same. Some like overpriced gunk made by the tiny fingers of orphans working in non-ventilated sweatshops while others like products that need to be included in the magazine per the advertisers marketing agreement.

So what if you’re unsure of your mom’s type? Luckily Cosmo breaks it down into 12 essential categories of motherhood. I have lumped some together and narrowed it down to four, having learned much from Cosmo’s expose on “50 Sexy Ways to Reduce the Amount of Sexy Time Spent on Sexily Writing Sexy Blogs and How to Keep Him Coming Back For More” (#26 – Limit the number of crotch shots to 9)

Sentimental/Techy/Stressed Out Mom

Got a mama who tears up over cat food commercials? That goblet containing the ocean whitefish reminds me of my third wedding *sob* … Does it then remind her she has a fifth wedding to plan, and she needs to decide if she’s going to go with the candied almonds in a mesh bag or the engraved toothpicks for the wedding favors and she starts to get so stressed out? And you have to say Chill out, mama, and she screams back You were a mistake!! A beautiful mistake *sob*. . . and the cycle repeats for another 17 hours.

So if that’s her, then get her this:

Ionic Salt Bowl Lamp

Girly/Party/Trendy Mom

Does your mother speak in vocal fry? Wear her hair in pink pigtails and pink ponytails and pink whaletails? Does she rock ‘n roll all night and party everyday? Does she say the latest catchphrases like “I’m da bomb diggety dog doody wad dilly bum bum noodle noodle casserole stew”?

She sounds wonderful.

Then get her this:

Perfect for wet T-shirt contests.

Sporty/Artsy/Quirky Mom

Jesus–is this done yet? No.

Okay so does your moo-moo Zumba (Sporty Spice) while sculpting (Artsy Spice), but instead of using clay she uses Hamburger Helper (Quirky Spice)? Then this is the must-have:

Works with Hamburger Helper.

Adventurous/Traveler/Mommy Mom

Is your mom always out and about, wanting to visit the latest war-torn spaghetti factory or taste sea foam biscuit ice cream raisins? Is she also a Mommy Mom? And what is a Mommy Mom? Is she a mom who acts infantile and wants you to baby her? Or is she a mommy with a second or third family and that’s why she’s always leaving under the guise of being an adventurous traveler? Who knows?

Just get this and we’ll call it a day:

35 weeks pregnant... and counting.

Today, I am 35 weeks pregnant… give or take a week, according to the doctor’s calculations (I should be further along) and mine (I am right where I should be). As this pregnancy winds down, and I buckle a bit beneath the new impending shifts and weight and minor hassles of a rapidly expanding baby, I am struck by some hard facts… about myself, about my life, about my daughter, who is so forceful in her movements, she can move a pillow off my stomach, if resting there.

1. I cannot wait to get my body back. This is probably the mantra of every pregnant woman in history, but for me, it has numerous meanings. Yes, being pregnant is difficult. It’s a change. It shifts your body into unrecognizable proportions, all while doing this inconceivable, magical thing. My daughter came from a set of testicles! My daughter grew inside my womb! I have two brains inside me! In what world does this compute? How are we all here by the same divine result of science?

When pregnant, you get a different sort of attention. The world is a little bit kinder. You are allowed to go a bit slower, to take it slightly easier, to be nicer to  yourself. These things will be missed. However, the main reason I want my body back is the freedom to hug my husband as hard as I want to. To lay behind him, all pressed together and warm. To jump in his arms, to wrap my legs tightly around his waist and to just stay there, inhaling his neck and whispering into his ear. To take a dive and land on my stomach on my bed – which is my favorite reading position – and sip ice water and read a good novel, and dig my belly into the firm, pliable material of our Tempur-pedic mattress. I cannot wait to jump up if needed; to walk for miles and miles and miles. To do pull-ups and burpees and backbends. To be impulsive in body – to take off running, just because I can. To get back to the shape I am comfortable with, to have workouts that leave me drenched and proud of what I’ve done for myself. These are the things I long for and will never again take for granted. While I have not yet adapted a waddle, I am still slower moving, and the world from this pace isn’t quite as fitting for me… I want present motion. And I want to be fully present in it, in mind and body.

2. I will miss Sophie’s movements. Feeling your child writhe inside you has to be the most ethereal experience imaginable. What starts out as a flutter swiftly turns into rhythmic movements and then, as they grow, a full torrent of heels and knees and elbows using your womb as a playing field. I don’t know why it hurts when she punches me on the left side as compared to the right – why some of her movements literally take my breath away and others comfort me like a warm cup of tea. Why, if I haven’t felt her for a while, I will gently shake my stomach – as though it is a separate entity – and wait for her gentle rolling which will soon turn sharp and insistent as she pounds against me.

I think about that first shower post-birth, how I will have to come to terms with the fact that there is no more human being inside me; that I can’t keep her safely tucked with my organs; that the world, in all its glory and uncertainty, will now be her home, and it is our job to keep her safe, if not safer, than where she is now, inside me. It is a harsh reality – and one that I think will take a bit of time to come to terms with. How often will I press my hand against my belly, forgetting that she’s not there? How often will I gingerly sit up in the middle of the night, realizing I don’t have to be careful? How long until my stomach goes back to normal and this pregnancy fades from all-encompassing to a story I will tell?

3. I am terrified and yet not scared at all for parenthood. Depending on who I’m talking to, my conversations vacillate between a calm assuredness – an innate feeling of just going with the flow – and this disbelief that in a few weeks, we will be housing another human being with us for the next 18 years. How does one, whose thirty years have bordered on extreme independence, setting her own schedule, enjoying a strict routine, and the constant need for accomplishment, shift into the unknown? As I was in bed last night, reading, I tried to imagine the co-sleeper beside me, the impending knowledge of having to wake in just two hours to feed her, and then again, and again, and again, for the next few months of our lives. I tried to imagine the fatigue; tried to put it on like a big overcoat, and yet I couldn’t quite grip the fabric. It was just out of reach. In my imaginings, we are happy. We are happy to oblige our new roles; we are made for it. We are doing the work of being parents, but are also remembering to be husband and wife.

I think, in the grand scheme of life, there is no preparation for becoming a parent. There is no class or must-have list or suggestion or conversation that can ready you for what lies ahead. Because your journey is yours – it’s singular. It won’t mimic anyone else’s. And just as Sophie has her own set of genes and will be predisposed to certain behaviors or signs of health, the only thing I know is this:

Somehow, even before she is here, we are a family: Sophie, Neruda, Alex and myself. There is nothing scary about that. Her name, said on a daily basis, feels as comfortable as saying my own. What was our world without her? Just as I can’t imagine a time before Alex, before his sweet words and tender eyes and grand, romantic gestures (just last night, as I shot up in bed with the worst calf cramp – only my second from pregnancy – he immediately jumped out of bed and spent the next ten minutes soothing me and massaging it, gently working my foot into flexion), I can’t imagine a time before here. Before now. Before us.

No matter what happens – how hard natural birth will be, how smoothly or unsmoothly things progress – we will get through it because we are a family.

It is my own truth, and not revelatory, as families populate our world. But for me, it feels as a child would on Christmas, during that first Christmas of your life when you really understand what it’s all about. You wake with anticipation. You rub the sleep from your eyes. You tiptoe down the hallway, the scent of blueberry muffins and bacon and hot coffee prepping you for what’s ahead. You enter your living room – your plain, boring living room – which has been transformed. Now, beyond the brown carpet and white walls, it houses countless glittering presents, all hidden from you in shiny, red and silver paper. The lights from the tree flicker dimly. The sun is not yet up. A buttery softness drapes itself over everything. There is a warmth in your toes and fingers, that tingle of anticipation. The flash of the camera pops as your parents capture your expression. Later, they will mark the backs of the photographs in pen: Christmas 1986. You smile shyly. You shake with excitement. You fall to your knees in front of the bright display, wondering which is first, which is last, which will be the present you’ve always longed for.

And then, with a deep breath and the exhilaration of the unknown, you dive in.

I am ready to dive in. With my family.

And I have never been more excited. For it all.

Satoko in Ants' Town

to pray for a safe delivery. But, she also wrote of “her own children”, saying, “It has become a real joy spending time with these little disadvantaged ones. My heart swells with special joy for your child because I too have come to know the joys of motherhood — thanks to my children in Ants Town. By devoting her life to the children Satoko became known as Ari no Machi no Maria – Mary of Ants’ Town.

Another purposeful day winding to a close
I pop a handful of Pep-O-Mint LifeSavers
Gnashing the candied whites as I sit in repose
I contemplate the duo, the product from my labors

One, the fearless poetess, the apple of my eye
A will of steel and interminable drive
The other, a boy whose gentle looks belie
Mischief maker, ninja, and lover of all things sky

What an utter joy it is to watch them grow
Drinking in the pleasures of their childhood
Discovering the bliss of motherhood I did not know
Imbibing in something that was not understood

Now I wonder what my life would be if I had given
into all the frightful fears and the uncertainties
Would I have regretted having forgone female tradition?
For now, life is indeed better without those ambiguities

Your first question might be: What if I don’t wear a bonnet?

Good question. In the case of non-bonnet-wearing, grab the nearest lady item like a box of Massengill or a DVD of Sex and the City II. Now hold tight because the Mommy Wars are back.

What are the Mommy Wars? you ask.

Oh, you sweet, sweet little woman bird or you precious man bird, if you’re a guy and have continued reading past the Massengill reference. Let’s get educated!

Um…okay, I should admit that I know dick about the Mommy Wars. But I am a librarian, which means I can shush with the best of them, and I had a baby cut out of my uterus, which means I can classify myself as a mommy. Still you might want to head to some Mommy blog or to your actual mommy or watch Mama’s Family to learn the rich history.

You’re still here? Fine, let me search the databases, archives and primary documents (this sounds so librarian-y™ but really I’m just looking at Wikipedia), and let’s take the wheels off this bus. They ain’t goin’ round ‘n round no more. And if that driver tells me to “Move on back!” Mommy’s gonna cut a bitch. I hate that goddamn song.

Okay so the Mommy Wars began when a stay-at-home mom and working mom got into a cat fight over which type of Bounty cleans up spills better. It was vicious, and by the end, over 200 rolls of Bounty quicker picker uppers were needed to soak up the bile.

Blogs and books were written, mainly about rich women’s struggles to have it all or to have it all–while giant corporations continue to put shit in our food that will eventually cause our total zombification.

Things seemed to die down until in February, Gwyneth Paltrow told a magazine “I’m rich and successful, and I told someone you have to compromise to be a wife. Now I’m going to jet off to Italy.” Many people said “I didn’t read that, what did she say? Yeah sorry, wasn’t listening even now.”

Okay so the Mommy Wars flared up yesterday when some rich lady threw a verbal grenade at some super rich lady. The rich lady was like “bitch doesn’t work ever” and the super rich lady said “Butler, hold my calls because I’m gonna push the nuclear button and destroy all humanity. Or I’m going to tweet I’m a stay-at-home mom to five boys, that’s hard work. . . oh and my Mittens is doing kind of shitty with women in the polls because of the shitty things his political party does and says so thanks for turning the focus on this issue.”

This caused mass hysteria. The #IWantToEatJustinBiebersHairpiece was knocked from its number one trending perch. Some person hyperventilated on TV. Another Republican said we need to respect a woman’s choice and then laughed hysterically.  Someone made this travel mug:

The country quickly divided into two camps: Those who make millions in politics and media, and those who don’t give a shit. I am in the latter. That’s why this post ends now.

(Full disclosure: No one has asked me this)

The short answer is no.

The long answer is F*** no.

I might have mentioned I once worked as a newspaper reporter. Thank you. Oh, wait you weren’t applauding. I thought maybe you were applauding.

I was a serious journalist, and that is why I covered the annual Easter egg hunt at the local park. I asked some tough questions like “Why are you here?” “Do you think you’ll find an egg?” and “Is there a bridge nearby? I’d like to jump off it.”

It begins all nice and egg-free. The kids appear human as do the parents.

But as soon as the air horn sounds, it quickly devolves into something resembling a Black Friday stampede for the cheapest electric egg cooker.

Eggvidence:

"Screw the conch, I want me some eggs!"

Parents, who have already staked a position by an easily visible egg, pounce upon it like a pack of jackals, spraying their urine and feces freely to ward off intruders.

Okay, maybe not that, but they yell really loud and basically push two-year-olds out of the way. Once their grubby snot-nosed child picks it up (always snot-nosed, always dripping, always the child I end up having to interview at the end of the 3-second bloodbath, always manages to get snot on me), they move onto the next egg, bawking orders like chickens if chickens could bawk orders, and just generally making the Easter Bunny weep hot tears.

There should be a limit to how many eggs one can grab (correct amount is 1) and how many times one can bellow “C’mon! C’mon! C’mon! Right here!!! Right here!!! Get it!!!!  GET IT!!!!!” (correct amount is never)

Even after reading this, you feel you must subject your offspring to an early taste of dashed hopes and despondency, please follow these tips:

• Bring eggs with you. At the start of the hunt, put them in your child’s basket and say “Let’s go home.”
• Watch or read something uplifting to restore your faith in humanity.
• Enter a profession that will never make you cover an Easter egg hunt. One day you will find yourself writing sentences like these: “Thousands of children and parents packed the park. Many held plastic bags and baskets to load with eggs.”
• Weep hot tears.

Do visit logo-ligi.com to be part of this wonderful fun.

Buchi Emecheta is an African novelist of Nigerian descent who has published over twenty (20) books, including Second-Class Citizen (1974), The Bride Price (1976), The Slave Girl (1977) and The Joys of Motherhood (1979). Her themes of child slavery, motherhood, female independence and freedom through education have won her considerable critical acclaim and honours, including an Order of the British Empire in 2005. Emecheta once described her stories as “stories of the world where women face the universal problems of poverty and oppression, and the longer they stay, no matter where they have come from originally, the more the problems become identical.”

Needless to add that some if not all of Buchi Emecheta’s novels would be added to my TBR pile. Thanks, Kwadwo.

Before you start clicking your tongue in judgement and wondering whether you should compose a quick note to me drawing my attention to the joys of motherhood, and what I may missing, please don’t — really please don’t.  Not this week.

I love my kids – I know at times with the amount of emotional vomitting I do, you are starting to wonder at which point do you actually call Child Services.

I have realised I just don’t enjoy being a mother all the time.  The job is hard, it is thankless, it is monotonous, it does not pay particularly well, and it stretches your patience level more than your IQ level.  I know we are all programmed to say how much we doggone love it, and that it is the best job in the world, but seriously I have no idea which spin doctor is selling that sh&t to us, and more importantly why we are eating it up.

I am having some concerns it is possibly men who would rather go to the office than clean shit of tiles, and also previously disgruntled moms who figured if they had a shit time of it, there is no way they are telling in the event you find a way to get out of it and rob them of the happiness of watching you have a nervous break down.

I have no idea how this conspiracy was started.  But I appear to be as much of a “victim” as the rest of you chumps.

I know that I need to just keep my head down until it passes and I am all unicorns and fairy dust, until then, not so much.  But that being said this Blunt Card so perfectly tells you what I want to say – or say as a whisper to myself 1/2 the day at the moment.