Once Upon a Time

“On the night you were born,

the moon smiled with such wonder

that the stars peeked in to see you

and the night wind whispered,

“Life will never be the same.”

Because there had never been anyone like you…

ever in the world.

…

If the moon stays up until morning one day,

or a ladybug lands and decides to stay,

or a little bird sits at your window awhile,

it’s because they’re all hoping to see you smile…

For never before in story or rhyme

(not even once upon a time)

has the world ever known you, my friend,

and it never will, not ever again…”

An excerpt from the beautiful picturebook entitled, “On the Night You Were Born”, by Nancy Tillman.

This was the first bedtime story we read to our daughter, the first night that we brought her home from the hospital.

I sat rocking her on our plush, pink glider as my husband lay stretched out on the carpet, reading by the night of her glowing, pink nightlight.

He read to her,

to us,

as we both cried.

As we told our daughter,

“You are the one and only ever you”,

in so many more ways than one.

I guess lying on the floor, crying over a picturebook has become quite the theme for us,

but we wouldn’t have it any other way.

Because in many ways, our baby came about so many years earlier,

the first time that we decided to read a picturebook together, while lying on the floor, with tears streaming down our faces. That’s when we first became a family, and neither of us could have dreamed of all of the beautiful, magical, insane love we’d soon discover,

upon living

Happily Ever After.

jeggings for everybody!

Today is a big day.

A milestone,

so to speak.

On this day, for the very first time,

my daughter is wearing her very first pair of jeggings.

I know, fiercest baby on the block.

you know you’re watching too many Grey’s Anatomy reruns when…

….you yell to your husband, in the next room,

“I need you to bring me a nasal aspirator, STAT!”

slumber party

Sweet sleep.

I can remember the days of sleeping on my very own schedule, in my very own bed, to my very own heart’s desire.

That changed once we expanded our family.

And I’m not talking about when we had a baby.

No, our sleep has not been our own since we brought home our first child,

an extremely rare hybrid creature, half-canine/half-princess,

also known as our Yorkshire Terrier named Lola.

I really believe that we became parents two and a half years ago when we first held our precious, furry baby in our arms.

I cried when she first nuzzled up into my chest.

Lola was more than a puppy to us; she has brought us immeasurable joy, laughter, anxiety, and, of course, dress-up opportunities.

When we adopted Lola, we also adopted the sleep schedule of new parents.

We could no longer sleep in on weekends.

But, it was OK, because Lola was worth the early morning wake-up-calls in the form of a tiny, pink tongue that has no built in snooze-button.

But, we got into a routine with Lola, as parents always do, and settled comfortably into the rhythm of our new life.

And then our threesome became a foursome.

Nope, still not talking about the baby.

Last summer, in the first week of my pregnancy, we got a call from a rescue agency we had been working with.

They had the perfect dog for us. A small, friendly, non-allergic 3-month-old lhasa-poo (read: mutt).

How could we say no?

And so, Lola got a brother. Ziggy came home on a beautiful Friday afternoon in July and a new routine was born.

But, nothing could have prepared us for the arrival of our daughter.

Apparently, you can’t put a baby in a crate, cover the crate with a towel and leave the room to let her bark herself to sleep.

All of those times that I thought I felt tired,

you know, after a long night out,

or a late-night college cram session (oh, who am I kidding?),

I was WRONG. Oh, how wrong I was.

There is nothing like the sheer and utter exhaustion of new parenthood.

You know what is rough? Waking up a perfectly contended, sleeping baby,

a baby that took an hour to fall asleep,

so that you can give them a middle of the night feeding, which, in the beginning, is hard and painful and confusing.

But, you just do it.

You do whatever it takes to survive.

And so, when the baby cries when you put her down in her bassinet, you pick her up and try the carseat.

And then, you bring the carseat into the bed.

Whatever works, right?

And then, when it’s 4am and the baby has been roused from sleep to eat and is ready to be put back down, and then cries when being placed back into the carseat, you know, the carseat that is situated smack in the middle of the bed,

you let the baby sleep on the Boppy pillow….

on your chest.

Whatever works.

We found a miracle solution in the form of a Snuggle Nest,

a small cocoon that fits directly in the middle of the bed, so the baby can feel close and comforted and is easily accessible for a nursing mom.

The snuggle nest has been our salvation.

It plays “Lullaby and Goodnight”, it has a heartbeat sound effect, it lights up, and, most importantly, it allows the baby to sleep through the night.

But, did I mention, it’s IN OUR BED?

Yes, our baby sleeps in our bed.

We got the go ahead from the pediatrician,

and it has proven to be very effective,

but there is still a part of me that worries about the repercussions of having our baby in our bed.

I want her to feel secure and safe, and every part of “Snuggle Nest” screams “cozy”, but I want to start to foster some semblance of independence in our two and a half month old.

Mind you, she has an absolutely beautiful nursery. I painstakingly designed every aspect of her crib, down to the luxurious custom bedding. And to this day, the baby has been in her crib exactly twice.

Once was for a short nap when we first got the baby monitor,

kind of a test run.

And once was a photo opp of the baby and her big sister, Lola, snuggled up in the crib. (What? Together they’re less than 20 lbs, and it was just so stinkin’ cute).

Obviously, any kind of transition to her crib has been stunted.

But, I’ve been trying to think,

is it her, or is it me?

If I just let her go in her crib and get used to her own, special space, wouldn’t that ultimately be for the best?

But she doesn’t seem ready. I don’t seem ready.

I have been perseverating over this dilemma over the past few days, and happened to come across this note.

Now, it is written by Kourtney Kardashian, I recognize that.

A child-rearing expert, she is not.

However, she’s a new mom,

and on some level, aren’t we all in the same boat?

In reading her own sleep struggles, I realize that it is, in fact, all about survival on the S.S. Mommy.

And that even though these days, or, should I say these nights, our bed contains two adults, two dogs and one two-month-old,

it’s what works for us.

And even though there are some babies, and some mommies, who are perfectly OK with crib-sleeping from night one,

I may not be one of them.

She may not be one of them.

But, that doesn’t mean that there is anything wrong with either of us.

Someone gave me great advice today. She told me that it doesn’t have to be a hard and fast rule. Sometimes, if the baby seems content, she can sleep in her bassinet, or crib, or Nap Nanny, or swing, or even carseat. But, other times, when need be, she can sleep next to us in her Snuggle Nest.

There is something comforting to all of us about going to sleep with the same “Lullaby and Goodnight” song playing on repeat, lulling us all softly to sleep.

Together.

So, I’m working on it.

I’m figuring things out.

I’m enjoying having my first “dog-ter” snuggled up on one side of me, while my daughter is snuggled up on the other.

And really, what’s so wrong with that?

I know she won’t be in our bed forever.

And I know that if I try to crawl into her crib with her, I will break it.

The separation will come,

as it always does,

but for now, I’m just trying to keep us afloat,

in our little snuggly nest of a bed,

and if it means that all five of us get a good night’s sleep,

I’ll take that any day.

Or, should I say, any night.

A baby will make love stronger, days shorter, nights longer, bankroll smaller, home happier, clothes shabbier, the past forgotten, and the future worth living for.

-author unknown

swim(un)suit(able)

I have a dirty little secret.

I’ve been marked.

Stretch marked.

Yes, I’m one of the unfortunate few who have been permanently branded with a scarlet letter.

Or should I say, letters.

A red alphabet that stretches across my middle, like graffiti.

I remember the innocent days of a mark free stomach.

I also remember the evening when the first, tiny, innocuous mark appeared.

I thought it was a bug bite.

Oh, how wrong I was.

And to think, I actually laughed off this first little sucker.

On a lark, and because I tend to do so with everything, I, of course, googled stretch marks.

Apparently, there are certain risk factors that make women prone to such markings.

Age: Nope, definitely not age.

Weight gain: Unlikely, I’d gained very slowly, almost below average.

Not enough water: NO WAY. I drank my bodyweight in water on a daily basis. My thirst made any hydration issues next to impossible.

Genetics: I did research, and no one else in my family had ‘em.

So I had to ask,

Why me?

(and please, let me explain that I ask that as in “why did I get them when I have no risk factors?”, not as in “Whyyyyyyy meeeeeee?”)

It’s so interesting.

I never planned to be back in my two-piece bathing suits the summer after giving birth.

It would take awhile to get back into pre-baby shape.
I’d surely have loads of extra skin to tone and get rid of.

And, with a  c-section, there would be a scar.

No more bikinis for this mama.

But, remarkably, none of those things turned out to be my issue.

Most of my weight turned out to be water weight (not so shocking, as I’m not exaggerating about how much liquid I drank during my pregnancy)

My body may not have bounced back 100% to what it once was, but it was close enough, and I couldn’t care less about the change in shape.

And my c-section scar was a masterpiece, as far as scars go. Thinner than a pencil-line and “below the belt” so to speak, so not an issue, either.

Never in a million years would I think that the thing keeping me out of my swimsuits would be angry, red lines stretching across my skin.

I would be lying if I said that these lines don’t bother me.

I look at my fuller hips and think of my baby growing inside of me and how she started out the size of a poppy seed and grew to….well….7lbs12oz.

I look at my c-section scar and wear it like a badge of honor. This is how my daughter was brought into the world.

But the stretch marks?

Hard for me to put a positive skin on them.

Oops, did I say skin?

Spin.

A positive spin.

(had to leave that slip in there, it was just too good).

I can try every cream under the sun, but I have a feeling that these guys are with me for the long haul.

So, I can hide my marks from the world.

Or, I can display them proudly,

And tell people that I’ve been attacked by a tiger.

Or something like that.

Because the more I think about it, I guess they do represent something pretty cool.

Without these marks,

Something,

No matter what it may have been,

Would have been different about my pregnancy.

And because  it was my pregnancy that brought me my daughter,

I wouldn’t change it for anything in the world.

So, I will go down in the ranks as a marked woman,

Just like Hester Prynne before me,

And I will try my best to wear my scarlet “M”s with pride.

Because”M” is for mom.

And a mom is the best thing I’ve ever been.

So, on a nutritional scale of 1-10,

how would animal crackers rank as a healthy, well-balanced breakfast?

save the date

So, yesterday, my husband I were chatting.

I asked him about our baby’s first birthday party.

You know,

our baby,

who just turned 10-weeks-old…

I was only kidding around!

Well, kinda.

I may be crazy

But I’m not THAT kind of crazy.

Anyway, I was just daydreaming about our little girl,

her hands and face covered in globs of pink cupcake icing,

with a giant “1” candle in front of her giant new-toothy smile.

So, logically, we needed to brainstorm themes.

Or, more accurately, I needed my husband to brainstorm themes.

(What can I say?
These kind of conversations are entertaining for me!)

And so, here are the theme ideas, in the order that he gave them to me, verbatim, for our baby’s first birthday in April, 2011:

Cuteness

Princesses

Movie Stars

Fairy

Glee

Sleeping Beauty

Rent

Weebles

Looney Tunes

Glowworms

I like Glowworms

Cute Dogs

Barbie

Flower Child

Disney

So, mark it on your calendars. It is sure to be the social event of the season.

And, remember, BYOG.

Bring your own glowworm.

“This is motherhood for you,’ said my own mother. ‘Going through life with your heart outside your body.”
-Jennifer Weiner

a pregnant pause

This morning, as I rifled through my freezer, I was hit with a memory.

It was almost exactly a year ago that I was doing the same freezer-shuffle at breakfast time.

Now, this time, I was only going in to retrieve some ice for an almond milk breakfast smoothie (and no, it’s not yummier than it sounds, but I’m off cow’s milk for awhile, so I’m making it work), but I couldn’t help but smile in thinking of a very different freezer breakfast from a very different time.

I was pregnant. Very, very newly pregnant. So early that I, myself, did not yet know that I was with child.

I was searching for something quick and easy to grab for breakfast before I had to leave for summer camp at the school where I teach.

Yet, nothing appealed to me. After tearing apart the cabinets, I went full-on-spelunking through my freezer, as a last resort.

Eggos? No go.

Frozen berries? Nah.

Soy Buffalo chicken nuggets? Ummmm YES. Yes, Yes, Yes. I want them, and I want them all.

Now, shouldn’t that have been my first clue?

I told my husband and he totally smirked. He knew I was pregnant. I was just the only fool who refused to believe it without further proof.

And so, if there ever comes a morning that you find yourself a little extra tired, a bit moody, and insane over a box of frozen spicy mock chicken,

RUN, don’t walk, to the pharmacy, pick up a little HPT and pee on that stick.

Actually, on second thought, no running for you. At least not for nine months.

Little known fact: Tiny baby toes…..they’re magically delicious.