so there's that.

This morning I was trying to come up with a gameplan for today's activities. The news reported temperatures in the mid-60's and I knew we just had to do something outdoors. That's when I realized that on December 1st, one of our neighboring cities erects a 1,000 foot Christmas tree that actually houses a small exhibit inside the trunk. I thought taking Ethan to opening day at this always magical winter wonderland would be a perfect activity to go hand-in-hand with our cool weather. I dressed him in pants, a hooded sweatshirt and wool socks. I threw a sweater on myself, grabbed Ethan's hoodie and we were out the door.

It wasn't until I arrived at the site of the tree -- after a nearly half hour drive -- and saw only workers pressure cleaning the sidewalks and running around with plugs and oversized ornaments that I realized today wasn't December 1st. Okay, I'm giving myself too much credit. I stared hopelessly at the barren site with such obvious confusion that one of the city workers told me that tomorrow was December 1st. Ethan wasn't amused. I bought him a stuffed Bert from one of drugstores downtown and decided we'd just go for a downtown stroll. I'm guessing there is nothing interesting about swanky bistros and the people who frequent them when you're five months old as Ethan just wasn't having it. Following suite with the jumble of the day, he waited to have his meltdown until we were at the farthest point from where we were parked. In typical Florida fashion, the cooler temperatures excused themselves rather quickly and were replaced by nearly eighty degree weather. Our sweaters and warm clothing were as gone as Ethan's patience by the time we made it back to our car.

Yeah. Today didn't exactly go as planned. I think it took every ounce of strength I had to not join in during Ethan's afternoon nap. Here's to brighter tomorrows and the promise of that last fleeting bit of sweater weather before we're back to tank-tops and flip-flops.

so i'll send you my words from the corners of my room and though i write them by the light of day please read them by the light of the moon

This morning we were late for Mother Goose Time. It was all my husband's fault. Okay, it was probably just a little bit my fault, too. He treated me to a morning of sleeping in since I was up late last night...only he underestimated the process of getting ready and leaving the house with an infant on a 30 minute drive. In the rain, at that, as today was gloomy from start to finish. In between packing the diaper bag, grabbing the camera, loading up the car, getting Ethan fed, changed and dressed, I somehow had to find time to get myself dressed.

I sat Ethan up in our bed and sang songs and danced while I got dressed. It's the only thing that works. He is the audience and I am the performer, desperately trying to entertain him enough to keep away the waterworks while I try to make myself look presentable enough to make it out in public. I brush my teeth and do a makeshift tapdance at the same time while trying to sing some silly song a la Jan from Grease through lathered up gums. I share my make-up mirror with Ethan while I struggle to get eyeliner on the other eye once he decides the show is getting a little stagnant. I've learned to put on mascara without a mirror at the same time as I'm slipping on my shoes. All the while, of course, singing some obnoxiously bad rendition of a song Ethan probably can't even recognize.

Just another morning in our house. Just another morning.

I realize at 9:35 that we're still home. We can do this. We take the route the GPS advises us to take which I always avoid because it's filled with back roads through unfamiliar places and I'm as terrible at navigating as I am singing. It's the fastest route, the GPS assures me, and I listen because I have a hopeful little boy in the backseat who deserves to have his spot in the circle of happy babies and children engulfed in singalongs.

We get there. We miss the song where the teacher welcomes all of the children to the circle, but we get there nonetheless. I can't help shake the feeling of being rushed and the awkward feeling that comes with it. I feel like I could have an egg cracked on the top of my head and can't quite place what is wrong with this picture, like my legs are sitting across the room from my torso and I can't seem to figure out what is different. For once, many of the other children spend the class crying (I blame the weather) and my child is all giggles. He rolls around his blanket and talks, coos, laughs, looks around at all of the other babies as he wiggles around and moves his limbs in his own unique little dance. It was worth rushing for. It was worth the moment of panic when I honestly can't remember if I only have make-up on one eye.

Watching babies wiggle around on blankets is one of those entertaining bits about motherhood that I never thought about with a longing sigh. You know the staples: baby's first zoo trip, first smile, first laugh, holding a sleeping baby or taking a whiff of their clean baby scent fresh out of the bath. I never looked forward to watching my baby wriggle around on a blanket but, let me tell you, it is up there with my favorite parts about being a mother to an infant so far. They each have their own little wiggle-methods, their own way their limbs flail about as they twist around in their own little dance. It's adorable. It's worth rushing for. It's worth praying to the navigation system gods that your GPS knows where it's taking you when it tells you to turn down a street you've never even heard of as the rain pours down on your windshield.

For me, the days are rare that I'm able to begin with a mad rush and not only keep my composure but genuinely enjoy the day. Today was one of those days. Today was one of those days where I got into my pajamas, sat down and smiled at what a fantastic day that it was.

i hope that everybody can find a little flame

These past few days have been interesting at best. I haven't been feeling well and have tapped into that "inner mom-strength" that I never knew I had until I needed it. I've been wishing my stomach cramps away, popping Motrin and drowning myself in hot cocoa while still trying to juggle an infant and those errands that just can't wait any longer.

I haven't exactly excelled at this juggling act as cleaning our house has fallen by the wayside and I'm starting to feel a bit anxious about the ever-expanding piles of clutter and laundry. I'm sure there are Super Moms who manage to get it all done while standing on death's doorstep but I most certainly haven't reached Super Mom status yet. I'm mostly impressed by the fact that I have any "inner-mom strength" at all and that it warranted me the power to grocery shop and make dinner tonight when my body just wanted to crumble to the floor. I never thought I'd be a contender for anything with "strength" in the title but motherhood is just so full of surprises.

Though today was filled with a lot more cuddling on the couch or snuggling up in bed with storybooks than normal, Ethan didn't seem to mind. He took two of his three naps today curled up on my chest with my hair tangled through his fingers and despite all of the Motrin and hot drinks and even hotter showers, that proved to be the best medicine of all.

It was the least I could do, tapping into my "inner mom-strength", to make sure that Ethan and I still got to share our early evening dances to our favorite Pandora stations even though I stepped on a piece of glass and tried not to cry as I watched little droplets of red blood paint the tile with every step I took. Goodnight Elisabeth played on and Ethan rested his head on my shoulder and, again, his love was the best medicine of all.

I understood then where moms draw that inner-strength from and it is most certainly not from ourselves. Mine is just another endless gift from my beautiful little boy with his unruly hair and slate blue eyes who is able to bestow the utmost levels of peace and love onto my world by letting me hold him close. I never really understood the concept of finding strength in someone else or how one could be given strength by another until the moment he was placed into my arms. His very existence has given me the strength to do things and live through things I never thought I would be able to do or live through. There is just something about his soft breath on my cheek that makes me feel like I'm capable of invincibility and nothing short of it.

but with you i'd dance in a storm, in my best dress

Today has been one of those days that feels like weeks and months have passed when, in actuality, it's only been an hour or two. Ethan and I were both equal parts grumpy and overtired but I was determined to salvage the day as best as I could. It was a difficult task, beginning with the fact it took us 36 minutes to leave the house this morning to meet my father at Starbucks for our morning coffee date. Ethan was not happy to be sitting in his usually beloved carseat and I kept misplacing his bottle, or my keys, or my shoes. We trudged onward nonetheless and went on to add another morning of mall walking to our day. Power walking the mall for an hour until the stores open is slowly becoming our morning tradition. Today, however, that hour received the title of being the only actual nap Ethan was willing to take.

I understood how he felt today. I mirrored his sentiments and attitude exactly. If a red light lingered too long before turning green or I couldn't get to the phone on time before it stopped ringing, I felt it perfectly acceptable to cry about it out of sheer exhaustion. Sometime around noon I almost became used to the feeling of heavy eyelids and an endless supply of apathy. Ethan must have felt the same. I sang him each and every song (in it's entirety) from Matt Nathanson's Some Mad Hope album at naptime and it appeared he was down for the count. Twenty minutes later, he decided he was just too tired and cranky to sleep. I was right there with him. I was attempting to doze off next to him but my mind was too cluttered, too stressed, too frustrated to empty itself enough to welcome any slight sign of sleep. It happens, days like today.

We still trudged on in an attempt to make the best of it. Ethan is pretty good at making the best of it. Whenever I called him "crankypants," he'd burst out laughing and flash one of his biggest smiles. If someone called me "crankypants," I'd probably throw myself on the floor in a temper-tantrum that could put any kindergartner to shame.






Ethan begrudgingly humored me as we went about our daily routine. Instead of reading three books, he let me read one and a half before kicking his feet and quivering his bottom lip in protest. During tummy time, he decided that he forgot how to lift his head and instead would lay his head down on the mat and scream so loud I'm surprised the neighbors didn't call 911. He still stared at his reflection in his mirror with amazement, offering up conversation with his identical friend; little streams of baby talk here and there before deciding said friend bored him and he wanted nothing more to do with him. Still, I just called him "crankypants" and he'd shake his head from side to side with an unrelenting smile.

I felt like the "mommy version" of an overtired infant. For the first time ever, I didn't let the woman behind us in the check-out line at Target cut in front of us when she was buying a t-shirt and we had a cart full of items. I did and felt many things that made my husband all but call me a "crankypants" when he came home from work. I wasn't amused. I didn't laugh. I left him a heaping pile of dishes to wash in the sink.

It feels strange to describe today as a good day, at the bottom of it all. Ethan and I had many smiles (oddly enough, thanks in part to him being a "crankypants"), cuddles, snuggles and time together. He was a part of my day for me to hold, sing to, talk to, care for. There simply couldn't be anything bad about that, about the scent of his diaper balm and the way his soft, unruly hair feels as I try to tame it with my fingers. When I look at him now -- sleeping so soundly into the night -- I know that he didn't mind today that much, either. Life is too sweet and wonderful and meaningful to resent something so fleeting as a day. I began utilizing that way of thinking the moment he was born. He taught me that lesson, even if he didn't know it.


...He taught me that, and that sometimes it's okay to just be a "crankypants."

here's the story of a gassy baby...

One of my favorite things about being a mom are the cuddle sessions. Snuggling up in bed and watching him sleep or eat or absorb his surroundings with those big, inquisitive eyes. Those moments are moments I've come to live for, cuddling with Ethan and watching as he touches my cheek or grips onto my finger as he's falling asleep. The sound of his soft breathing, his gentle sighs.

Yes, it's safe to say I live for those moments.

...Today, however, was nearly altogether lacking those moments.



For ten glorious, relaxing, beautiful minutes before six o'clock this evening, we cuddled. He giggled. We practiced rolling over and read stories and sang songs. Oh, how the day began looking up. Thunder rumbled outside and I felt safe and warm, huddled up in bed and watching his eyes scan his surroundings and absorb them like a sponge.

Then it began. Again. The most god-awful, ear-splitting screams. The ones unable to be stifled. No amount of singing songs or Ergo walks or warm spongebaths can stop them from sending all four of our cats running under the bed for cover. The culprit? Gas. And lots of it.

Of all the exercises and Little Tummy's drops and belly massages out there, there is one thing that works to dry up those bright, blue eyes (did I mention how heartbreaking it is that he cries with tears now? Real, salty tears?): a car ride. I made the mistake of enabling this dependency on my car by taking advantage of the Dunkin Donuts drive-thru and the easy access it provides for my morning coffee. The crying turns into a whimper as I buckle him into his carseat. Once we're in the garage and he sees the car, his entire demeanor changes. By the time his carseat clicks into the base? He's all smiles. Jackpot!

Let's just say that I have spent the majority of my day taking car rides around the block. Barefoot, frazzled, tears streaming down my own cheeks, Johnny Cash's lullaby CD playing through the speakers. At some point in the afternoon, my mom and sister stopped by. They didn't find me at home, but frantically driving around the block for the fifth time. Literally. The fifth time. It was noon.

It became almost comical when I pulled into the garage and turned off the ignition. Ethan was fast asleep in the backseat. Before I could unbuckle my seatbelt, he began wailing. I turned the ignition back on and slowly began to reverse down the driveway. I peeked into the mirror and saw a content, happy (albeit spoiled) baby peering back at me. He couldn't be happier.

Adding on to the "if there's one thing I learned about motherhood" list, it's that every day is it's own. In the past, I've let a bad day drag on and somehow engulf my entire week in it's negativity. Motherhood has robbed me from the ability to dwell which is a blessing totally void of it's disguise. Motherhood has left me unable to contrast and compare my days or moods, but simply get through them all and await what the next day has to offer.

...Though I'll own up to the fact that I'm crossing my fingers and toes that tomorrow holds absolutely no car rides.

this one undoubtedly brought to you by starbucks

I've been hearing horror stories from my friends with children about this regression that happens when their baby turned 6 weeks old. Babies who sleep like champions and spend their days cooing and cuddling suddenly turn into life-size Chuckie dolls who scream and cry and refuse sleep. It was the stuff nightmares were made of but, seeing as how I've never had a baby before, I didn't fully understand it until Ethan decided he wanted to participate. Let's just say I've had no more than two hours of sleep for the past two nights. Ethan decided he wanted to wake up twice every hour nearly on the dot. In addition, he's been super constipated and absolutely miserable. That part just breaks my heart. It's the most incredibly upsetting feeling to not be able to immediately just take your child's pain away. (Let this also serve as a shout-out to Ethan's amazing pediatrician who has patiently and cheerfully tolerated what feels like my 5,000 calls to the emergency after-hours line begging for suggestions to take away his discomfort. She rules.)

All of this beginning, of course, the week my husband is away on his business trip...going out to fancy dinners, sleeping in a swanky hotel, texting me (with good intentions, of course) to tell me I should try to get some rest as if it was a novel suggestion I hadn't thought of.

This morning I tried to do a lot of things. I tried to save a baby bird, help an elderly couple broken down on the side of the road, pick up a prescription at the drugstore, run an errand at Babies 'R Us...and in the end, I ended up with a $200 speeding ticket and found Starbucks closed due to a power outage.

In other words...today wasn't my day.

Like a typical mommy, I cheered on Ethan as he finally produced a stinky diaper this evening after days of grunting, pushing, shoving and screaming in discomfort. It wasn't just your run of the mill stinky diaper, either. This one could definitely constitute as an explosion. I used sixteen baby wipes and, wiping all the way up to his armpits and shoulder blades, finally managed to get him clean. I was so excited that I took a picture of the aftermath and texted it to my husband with a happy, "look what Ethan did!" caption.

This, my friends, is what parenthood is really about.

As the evening starts to unwind, so is Ethan. He decided not only will he go down for a nap that has been a reflection of how sleep deprived he's been, but he's now chock full of smiles and giggles while his grandma sings him songs. Forget the fact I haven't slept in days (and have admittedly felt on the verge of a nervous breakdown), I feel so much better seeing him feel better. It's like an instant relief to see the smiles return to his face and watch him sleep so peacefully after such a rough couple of days. May this be the end of all of his discomfort! Keep your fingers crossed for him (and for me to continue to survive this week sans sleep and husband!).

When Husbands Go Back To Work: A Horror Story

My husband is quite the multi-tasker, as you can see. He kind of rules at being Ethan's daddy and a wonder-husband and an efficient human being. (I'm of the procrastinating, lollygagging, it-can-get-done-later variety. I can admit it.) He has been the biggest help since Ethan was born (hello, understatement of the year), especially considering the first two weeks of Ethan's life I was in and out of consciousness and he was responsible for his sole care-taking.

I know that I'm extremely fortunate to have had a husband with 6 weeks paid paternity leave. That's an awfully long time, and I can appreciate that. My husband hasn't been to work since he left the office for the day on June 22nd, the night Ethan ended up surprising us with his arrival. Still, I was dreading him going back to work for a few reasons. We'd gotten ourselves into such a great little routine that just worked so well. It was also nice to have someone to watch the baby while I cooked dinner or ran my needed errands without having to be rushed or flustered. We made a good team together in tackling those supposed exhausting newborn days and, really, we managed to beat sleep deprivation thanks to our great teamwork. I was also dreading his return back to work because, well, it was nice getting to just be a little family for the first time and spend our days in awe over Ethan, reading him books, snuggling on the couch and listening to music, et cetera. Having that time together was nice.

Mostly, though, I've been dreading my husband going back to work because as my down-and-out luck would have it, his first day back to work was disguised as a week long business trip. He left this evening for a mandatory work trip that begins bright and early tomorrow morning in Orlando. The fact he's only three hours away is both good and bad. Good, because he can be home quickly in case of an emergency. Bad, because it's almost kind of taunting that he's so close yet so far. Not only will I have to do the first-time mom worry-fest when my husband walks out the door for a day of work, but it'll have to spill over into the night hours...and then on and on until the week finally ends and he comes home again. (And I worry a lot.)

It's also kind of sad in that "end of an era" way. It was sad to watch my husband look pathetically miserable as he said goodbye to Ethan and had to leave him behind for the week. I admittedly cried, probably not makings things much easier. Ethan and I did sneakily make his daddy a card on which we traced Ethan's hand and footprints and sneaked it into his suitcase. He sent us a text message once he arrived saying it was his favorite gift ever.

I'm trying to pump myself up that I can do this! I can, I can, I can! I'm a little nervous but what doesn't kill us only makes us stronger.

...Right?

Weekend With Teenager

I grew up in one of those lived-in houses. We didn't have a separate living room filled with white carpeting and furniture that wasn't allowed to be sat in. Every inch of the house was constantly being utilized by not just us as kids, but by all of our friends who seemed to live at our house almost as much as we did. There were books, backpacks, crayons, toys never far from sight. More than anything, though, there was the wonderful sound of life and happiness and love and laughter! There was noise! "Want to do something this weekend?" as a teenager translated to do "want to come over this weekend?" We never didn't have people over at our house. My mom was never not in the kitchen making meals for our friends or schlepping us from point A to point B (and C, D, E and F) in her car. My mom's car almost served as a charter bus taking us from lesson to class to friends house to wherever-we-needed-to-go. This wonderful kind of chaos became a strangely comforting feeling and one that I missed immensely when I moved away for college.

Needless to say, when my parents asked me to "babysit" (is that term even still applicable?) my 14 year old sister from Friday through Sunday while they went away on one of my dad's business trips together, it seemed like a challenge I could definitely be up for. What I totally neglected to think about, or fully grasp, was the fact that as chaotically busy as I was as a teenager, it was nothing compared to how busy my sister is. What do I mean? Well, for starters, she dances on two (not one, but two!) hip-hop companies, takes a teen hip-hop class, takes acro, jazz, tap and stretching, has a math tutor and gets picked up early from school due to a PE exemption for all of the dancing that she does. That in itself is a lot to throw into a day where school takes up a great deal already, but factor in meals and homework and you've got yourself one busy day. (Understand my sister is 14 so you're also throwing in hair, make-up and an intense wardrobe selection and you've got yourself one heck of a busy day.) Suddenly I found myself behind the wheel of my mom's car, chauffeuring my sister from point A to point B with that same frantic behavior I knew so well. Suddenly I understood what my mom would freak out about when it was 6:00 and dinner wasn't on the table and we had to be somewhere in fifteen minutes, oh my god. (And suddenly it wasn't very comforting. Suddenly it felt like a nap came before food on the priority list.)

I lost track of how many relatives or friends called to say "how are you liking it?" or "enjoying life running around with a kid?" or otherwise laughing at the crazy fiasco that I found myself in when my parents called to say dad's car broke down, he got sick and they'd be returning a day late. Really? The answer was yes. I loved the chaos. I loved fighting the exhaustion that took over my eyelids as I begged her to please just get ready for bed, tomorrow is school. I loved the meatloaf cupcakes and the guess-what-happened-in-school-today and the taking her and her friend for ceramics painting and Mexican food. I loved the history homework and the teenage freak-outs in the grocery store over popcorn chicken. (The only part I didn't love were the torrential downpours we had here on Monday evening, though that is no fault of anyone other than the cruel weather gods.) It was busy, frantic, fun and a few times frustrating -- but at the end of the day, as I was laying in bed, she called out, "thank you for everything!"

...And suddenly it got a lot less frustrating. Suddenly it got a lot less tiring. Suddenly I didn't care that we didn't eat dinner until 8:00 at night or I wasn't able to get to the grocery store before round 500 of dance class.

Now I find myself back in my own quiet house, with four quiet kitties and a husband still at work (we'll save that for another entry called Why I Hate Being Married To An Accountant This Time Of Year) and it's back to being eerie. There's no one to drive to four thousand dance lessons. There's no one to fight with about taking a shower and getting into pajamas. There's no one asking me to help her decide what elaborate outfit she should wear to school the next day or to straighten her hair over breakfast.

Then that little baby in my tummy rumbles around and delivers a swift kick and I know that it won't be this eerily quiet for long. Those days of familiar chaos really, really aren't that far away.

(And I'm glad. Even after my sister asks me where we left the container of ice-cream that didn't wind up back in the freezer, I'm glad.)