Mama!

Max will do anything to avoid a nap...but he can repeat this trick-of-the-day anytime (and I've been waiting for it!).

After a brisk walk with the dog, a round in the jumper, some floor time and chilling on my lap while I managed some work emails, I decided it was time for Max to take a short snooze. It was past time. I set him in his crib with his lovie, a yellow blanket with ribbon tabs that he loves to rub between his tiny fingers. The textures are each different and interesting. He toyed around for a minute, lying on his back. Then he stiffened, and I stood there and watched his eyes widen and his lips form a tiny, pursed frown. He let out a whimper, as if to say, "Please - no nap..."

"Max, time for a nap...goodnight," I said to him softly with encouragement. 

Then, he looked me in the eye, and I looked at him. He spoke: "Mama. Mama." (!!!!!)
He said it twice, enunciating, even. There was no other babble, just "Mama. Mama." (Don't leave.)

My heart skipped and I lifted him out of the crib and gave him a big hug! "Mama!" I repeated, on the verge of waterworks.

Did he know he was calling for me, or was it a baby sound? Because of his expression, I have to believe it was genuine...and he might have even known that he wouldn't have to stay in his crib long if he simply called out, "Mama."

I've been waiting for your first word, little man. And that one (even if it was baby noise) was oh, so very sweet. I'm still melting.

Now, say it again Mr. Max...this time, with a smile.

Going Bananas!

Max has an appetite like a monkey. At least tonight... The fare? Pureed bananas. (Zoo monkeys would be jealous, you know.) Watch this YoutTube clip as Max opens his mouth like a baby bird, "Oooo, Ooo, mooore, mooore!") He's a foodie. And if smashed 'naners are exciting, wait until we can eat cookies at the mall!

And, speaking of bananas, here's a photo of Max Man rocking out his Baby Einstein exersaucer. He finds the plush star especially tasty, and Mayzie (remember...our Scottie-dog Manager) is amused by the Mooooo sounds from the farm animals sound buttons. Other than that, things are really normal around here. Ha!

Tummy Tub

It was the most expensive bucket I’ll ever buy. And it doesn’t even have handles. But Tummy Tub—a euro bathing tool that is an alternative to the stick-it-in-a-sink tubby—was worth every penny. And now that Max has outgrown the bath bucket, I’m really appreciating how easy it was to pop him in, dunk-tank style, and give him a quick scrub-a-dub. He would sit up in the T.T. like a little blonde Buddha, and once he got used to water, he began to enjoy tubby time. 

            Now, we have a typical (still plastic) oval tub that pops into the adult bathtub. I used it for the second time this morning, and Max and I were both bummed about the experience. He lays there on this stretcher that fits into the tub. I think he misses being submerged from the midriff down in the T.T. Oh, well. He laid their patiently while I craned over the tub and sudsed up his hair. When we were done, I awkwardly lifted his wet body out of the tub, wrapping him in towels that he tried to eat. (These days, he tries to eat everything.) Oh, my knees! (That ceramic floor is not very forgiving.) My back! The bathroom is a mess! I miss the T.T.

            But wait, here’s an idea. We have a vat-sized bucket in the garage—one made from super-sturdy plastic with thick rope handles. We used it as a beer cooler, but why not a tub? Could Max sit cross-legged in the beer cooler with his tub toys, splash around and get clean? Well, sure! The only problem: Not sure if that bucket will fit into our closet-sized bathroom.

            Stay tuned…

Wanted: Exersaucer

After trolling the Toys ‘R Us website earlier this week for an exersaucer (sounds like a space-age treadmill, doesn’t it?), and finding a nice selection of hundred-dollar jumpy toys, I decided to take my shopping elsewhere: to Craig’s List.

            I typed in “exersaucer”—not jumper, toy, kids games or other general search terms you’d figure would rile up a laundry list of offers. Just exersaucer. And a page full of listings confirmed I could pick up this bad boy for less than $40. In fact, I wouldn’t have to drive as far as Toys ‘R Us to get it either.

            Score. Craig’s List is my kind of garage sale-ing. No rummaging. No early Saturday mornings. No crowds.

            My first foray into Craig’s World was this summer when I needed to buy a $300 milk extractor (yes, breast pump) and a friend assured me that no, it’s not gross to buy a used one. You’re basically purchasing a motor. She was right, and I landed on a Medela for $75 that had been used only a few times. I met the seller in front of a Wal-Mart, traded cash for the boob sucker, and left feeling proud of my bargain. It was, by far, the strangest transaction I’ve ever participated in. It felt like mom mafia: Meet me in front of the big box store and I’ll trade you my lactation device for cold, hard cash!

            On the drive home, I contemplated what I could sell on Craig’s List...

            So, today we pick up the exersaucer, which should be as thrilling for a five-month old as being let loose in an amusement park—without mom! (The nice thing about the jumper is I’ve finally found something he enjoys sitting in so I can check email. With the addition of exersaucer, now I can shower, too. Ha!)

            The shelf life on these toys is so short that shelling out top dollar seems ridiculous. And, if he hates it, I won’t feel like I was duped. I’ll just rely on good, old Craig again.

They Really Didn't Know?!

"I didn’t know I was pregnant..."

I thought it was all that fast-food I had been eating.

I blamed it on pre-wedding stress.

I figured the heartburn was because of all the ice cream I was noshing on before bed. (Bad idea.)

I didn’t have any symptoms at all!

I thought the discomfort was because of my back problem—I had surgery a few years ago.

I woke up with terrible pain and went to the bathroom and…HAD A BABY!

Seriously? (By the way, I’m not, NOT, NO WAY talking about ME here.)

            This is the TLC show, I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant, and every time I flip on the tube when Max needs a bottle, I catch 10-minute spurts of this cable drama. It’s ridiculous, unbelievable. It’s on par with the free US Weekly subscription I was getting for a while. (Oh, US, how I miss your red carpet photo spreads. I do.) I hesitated to admit in writing that I have been watching this show…but why not? The drama sucks me in every time. And while half tuning in, half babbling to Max as he gulps, I catch myself reasoning: “O.K. So, maybe this is possible…I can see that…sure, seems like that could happen.”

            But really, you had no idea you were with child?!

            Hmm. Well, I guess I’m just very tuned into my body. Heartburn isn’t normal. Stomach tightening á la Braxton Hicks is not normal. Blimp-like swelling of my appendages, not normal. Looking down at your tummy and actually seeing baby’s elbow jut out as he shifts to get more comfortable in his bed-womb…I wouldn’t exactly call that indigestion.

            The thing is, in each of these women’s very unique cases—unique except for the fact that birthing au toilette is a common theme—I sort of can see why they thought their body changes were not pregnancy. I mean, who knows? We all respond so differently to having a little one grow inside us for the better part of a year. I, for one, would catch on to that basketball shape that gradually emerged and rendered leg-shaving impossible, but packing on a few pounds in the middle isn’t that abnormal for many.

            So, who am I to judge? And believe me, as I tune in (yes, almost daily), I’m not thinking, “Girl, you’re crazy!” I’m just hoping to God the couple gets that baby out of the toilet in time.

            Curious? Just turn on TLC some time today. Chances are, you’ll catch an episode.

Trick-or-Treat!

Max got to visit his Dad's work last week -- he checked in to Fairview Hospital as a Quack! The chicken suit got lots of wear, and why not? It's warm, it's cheerful and there's no reason why Halloween is the only dress-up day. Besides, I'm not sure how many years Max will let me get away with dressing him up as farm animals. (See Exhibit A: chicken suit; and Exhibit B: Moo hat).

Exhibit A: chicken suit

Exhibit B: Moo Man

Holding Court

Max made his first court appearance last week in Richfield Township.

The guilty party: Mom, with traffic citation in hand for a minor fender bender that thankfully occurred while driving solo.

The strategy: Bring Max to 6 p.m. court date (ie. dinnertime) in hopes of potential fussing speeding along the process (no pun intended).

The plea: No contest.

The judge’s remarks upon approaching the bench: “My. That boy has a lot of hair!”

The conclusion: $105 in citation and court fees, and ogle-fest by the registrar’s counter spurred by Max’s ham act.

A Sundae & Single-Scoop

Lakewood hosted their annual Spooky Pooch Parade yesterday, so Max and his fearless fur sister, Mayzie, dressed for the event. Mayzie in her ice cream sundae suit....Max in his single-scoop knitted hat. (Actually, it's a cupcake, but some polyfill in the cap made for an easy retrofit.)

The Rice Cereal Experiment

It smells like paper pulp—a watered-down cardboard goo. It’s anemic-looking, too. These grains need a good tan, I say. The unmixed raw material is fluffy and made a bit of a mess when I poured it into a small plastic container. Poof!

            It’s rice cereal. 

            Max had his first mouthful yesterday, and he was not impressed. He was also starving, so the frustration of having a dollop of pasty yuck come in contact with his mouth was surprising—and disappointing. (Max much prefers the boob-fet.) 

            The second try was more successful. Max has been showing interest in eating—that is, studying my chewing moves as I pop chocolates or slurp down dinner. Often, this happens right over his head while he’s in his carrier, and I admit that his hair collects a fair amount of crumbs. (We shampoo regularly.)

            Max cooed and smiled as I pretended to eat the rice cereal from a little plastic tea spoon I got in Japan several years ago while traveling on business.

            “Mmmmmm!” I tempted him, pretending to nosh on the cereal, which I haven’t actually tasted. I like Cream of Wheat and oatmeal. This smells like neither of those adult options.

            “Riiiiiice cereal!” I chime.

            Max poked his tongue out and takes some of the cereal from the tiny spoon. He rolled it around in his mouth and it covered his gums, coating them in goop. He grinned, chuckled, and allowed the cereal to drip out of the corners of his mouth on to the bib. (Why this bib is cloth, is a lesson hard-learned. There is no way I’ll be laundering countless bibs as we test various mushy foods.)

            Max might have swallowed a grain or two of the rice cereal. I’m not sure. For now, “solid foods” are more for entertainment value than actual eating. Because as soon as I put away that plastic cup ‘o muck, he started rooting like the boob fan he is. (The obsession starts at a young age, I see.)

            The rice cereal lacks one very important ingredient: Mom.

Understanding the Brown Swing Set

 Now I get it. Now I understand why my parents painted our metal swing set bark brown, the color of dirt, mulch, brick, leaves, wood. It blended nicely with the natural environment. How boring for a 6-year-old.

            Of course, back then, I didn’t appreciate the aesthetically driven decision to mask the loud red-and-blue racer stripes and tone down the shiny silver-coated frame of the old swing set. This was before the days of fancy play sets—the ones that look like they are constructed from Linkin’ Logs, with built-in clubhouses, plastic swervy slides and cool tire swings. Ours was your standard-issue swing set circa 1984: 2 swings (of course), a bar for skinning the cat and doing flips (for the Gumby types), a simple slide and…well, that’s it. And ours was dark brown, or “poop brown,” as my younger brother, Erik, and I would have described (snicker).

            Now I get it.

            And I’m painting my baby world brown, too.

            I’m talking to a girlfriend who comes to visit Max. She surveys the living room and is shocked that it hasn’t become Romper Room (yet). “That swing actually looks good in here,” she says about the automatic rocker that puts every kid to bed except Max. (Go figure.)

            Sure, the swing looks O.K. in the living room. Because it blends. The seat cover is shades of pewter, olive and taupe. It is positioned in the corner, discreetly taking up real estate by a plant. It’s not a piece of contemporary furniture—it’s not material for Dwell. But it doesn’t look like a prop for The Ringling Brothers.

            It’s “brown.”

            I’m talking to a college sorority sister, whose EDD (estimated date of delivery) is in a couple short weeks. “Where did you find the glider in your nursery?” she asks me. She’s talking about the most heavenly comfy chair I’ve ever owned—and the ugliest thing in our house.

            “It’s impossible to find one that looks half decent!” I say. “I’ve looked everywhere. They don’t make sleek gliders. Contemporary gliders don’t exist.”

            “I know!!” She agrees. She has also looked…and looked, and found only the frumpy, country-style specimen that is oh-so-comfortable that you just overlook the sad reality: It’s F-ugly.

            “If you find a modern glider, let me know. I got mine at BRU. It’s the same one you find everywhere…but I took a floor model so I wouldn’t have to assemble the thing,” I say.

            And, I found mine on sale, which justified bringing home the rocker. I was looking for something vintage, something edgy, anything but the same glider you see everywhere. But you can’t always be different

            But at least I found something “brown.” The glider has oatmeal-colored upholstery and a white frame. It blends. And I have spent more waking hours in that chair in the last four months than I have in my bed, I’m afraid. So it’s a keeper.

            Now, our basement is slowly transforming into a home-office/Max party zone. (Sorry, Haven. Your man cave is under siege by a four-month old with bigger toys than you and me.) I’m not sure how long we’ll stay “brown” down here…Bumbo seat is purple, Tummy Time mat looks like an underwater spectacle, hanging over the Pack ‘n Play is an array of colorful lures that Max likes to grab.

            So far, the carnival is being contained to Max’s “office.” But we’ll see how long that lasts! (Mayzie: Watch out, girl. Your cozy dog bed could get a new neighbor once I assemble the Baby Jumper!)

           

Moms with Multi-Tasking Mojo -- Share!

 I’m the type of person that thrives on feeling productive. I like to get stuff done. The more, the better. Now as a work-at-home mom with a business, a baby, a dog who I treat like a baby (I realize I have it much easier than most with just one tot!), I’m finding creative ways to cross off those to-dos on my list. And there's not a lot of crossing-off lately, I’m afraid. Still, I leverage naps for precious writing time or handling admin-like things. And I’ve figured out new ways to multi-task—you have, too! (Get ready to share!)

On days Max decides to revolt napping all together, it’s time to get creative. (Here, Max shows me that he's got work to do, too.)

For example…

I can nurse and conduct effective phone interviews with sources, who will later be cited in articles that I will write at scary hours of the day.

I can walk the dog, sift through email and ogle at Max in his stroller while burning off the cookie I ate for breakfast.

I can prepare lunch while nursing Max (one-handed sandwich making trick) and scratching the dog’s belly with my toe.

I can fold laundry, listen to voicemail, entertain drooling Max (who plays with unfolded laundry) and play ball with Mayzie.

I know you have many hidden talents! Please share your multi-tasking wizardry!

Snap - Get to Work!

I feel like I'm back on deadline in the newsroom, trying to jam like a crazy mother (literally) during these "snaps" (they aren't real naps unless they last beyond 17 minutes, right?). Time to jam. Lots of writing to do ... then later, hopefully some Momma's Write-ing. Until then...

kh

Mompreneur Monday

Thought you'd enjoy reading about Suzie Gorski and her business Zeebabee Designs. (The piece ran in Inside Business.)

Cheers!
Kristen

Cutting the Crazy Mullet

To be three-and-a-half months old and so follicle-ly endowed. I’m talking about hair, and lots of it. Max was born with a stylish faux hawk (really), and his hair had natural highlights that women shell out a good hundred for at the salon. It was blonde in various shades…and then the new grew in as the old faded, so Max really didn’t suffer from any hair hardship at all while his  new ‘do emerged.

In fact, the hair kept growing…and growing. It’s thick (lucky guy), and now looks like a strawberry blessed his noggin with a shot of delicious red that’s just enough to look like a sunset. He’s going to make a lot of girls jealous, that guy.

But the ‘do needed a little trim—not the formal “first hair cut” (insert trumpet sounds). Just a little cleanup job. Because as strawberry and full and as well endowed as his head of hair was, he was sporting a mullet. That’s all there was to it.

Meanwhile, after a four-month salon fast, my own mop had grown into a motley sight. I’ve got naturally big hair that overpowered a once-sleek cut that I decided to ditch along with my skinny jeans and caffeine. (So far, no losses suffered.) The big is back, but it needed taming, so Max and I made a visit to Crazy Mullets in Lakewood. Fortunately, the little guy had his own crazy morning and had lapsed into a serious nap that allowed me to take care of business (ie. shampoo, cut, style).

As he slept soundly in his carseat carrier, I knew removing him was practically illegal. But I did. And he sat on my lap all Humpedy Dumpedy in a happy post-sleep haze. Our stylist carefully snipped the fringe creeping down his neck and threatening to form a rogue mullet. (No offense to mullet aficionados…it just isn’t Max’s look.)

Aha. Success. Tiny clippings were collected in a Ziplock. (Remember, this isn’t the first official haircut – I think of it as a mere prelude to the real deal, which will surely involve gel, some styling and a coo of appreciation from Mr. Max.)

Mom and Max departed the salon feeling better about life. (Or, at least mom did.)

The ordeal called for celebration with a bottle. (Max, mine is off limits until you’re 21, kid.)

Covering Your [carseat] Ass-ets

I told you about my bodacious rental mom-van with freight-like storage. And Amber, a mother of two, emailed me with this snippet concerning car seats following fender-benders.

She provided this informative link: http://www.nhtsa.gov/people/injury/childps/ChildRestraints/ReUse/RestraintReUse.htm

Here's what Amber has to say:

When Katie was 2 or 3 I was rear-ended and replaced the car seat. (Well, I added it on to the insurance claim, so the at-fault driver's insurance replaced the seat). Insurance companies will handle a claim like this (as in, the car seat) and still consider it part of the auto insurance (as opposed to theft of items in the car, which is generally handled by homeowner's/property insurance).

Good to know, Amber!

Yes, I'm Parking a Mini-Van

…but it’s not mine. Thanks to Enterprise Rent-A-Car, I’m motoring around the vehicle I said I’d never own. Never drive. It’s “never” on four, voluptuous wheels—and it has more underground storage than we have in our attic, plus the crass bonus of being able to tune in to Howard Stern via satellite radio (Max: earmuffs!). I have room to haul a mob squad (can you buy those at Heinen’s?), or perhaps more important, space to cart home anything including lumber from Home Depot (or bags of sale items from Dillard’s).

Sure, it’s a bus, but it’s sleek. And, besides…it’s just a rental for two weeks, while my VW gets fixed after a fender-bender. (Thankfully, this occurred during one of the few times I have driven solo with an empty car seat in the last several months.)

           

Did I mention that Chrysler Town & Country Touring (with all that storage!) takes up 75 percent of our driveway and has surely spurred neighborhood talk? Is she pregnant again already? Did they get another dog? Is she freelancing for Fed-Ex, delivering freight? And, of course, “Wait, didn’t she just get a new car?!” (Full disclosure: I traded in my happy-mobile, a Beetle, for a more grown-up Tiguan back in March, after a few trips to Babies R Us and a wakeup call that even an umbrella stroller was a squeeze.)

So far, me and The Mom Ride XL 2000 are doing just fine. (I even mimic the beep-beep-beep truck backing sound when exiting our driveway.)

But truly, to set the record straight: I do not own a mom-van.

But…never say never. (Storage!!)

Welcome to Momma's Write

I didn’t think I wanted to blog about life with my new son. Too personal. Who wants to read about more boobs and poop? Aren’t there already about 2 million mommy blogs? And why should you care about my weekend, which could be summed up like this: infant suppository, primal screaming, bloody thumb. (Curious?)

Who wants to read more baby stuff?

Well, I do, I realized. And we probably have this in common. I want to read more, and I can’t get enough! It’s like dark chocolate with sea salt (you must try). It’s like buttercream-frosted cupcakes. It’s like a runner's high (if I could remember what that felt like). I’m addicted to the glut of reading materials on everything baby. (Aren’t you?)

Yes, I want to read more about boobs, poop, reflux, binky, blanky and bedtime. And apparently, loads of other moms and dads do, too.  Case in point: the parenting shelf at your local bookstore. More importantly, I realized I want to write more about it. (Yes, about the boobs and poop.)

See, I’m a freelance journalist and author of nonfiction books (Dog Lover’s Daily Companion, John Deere’s 52 Landscaping Projects and others published by Quarry Books). I spend my days interviewing interesting people and writing about them for magazines. I’m a feature writer. And I’m a copywriter who collaborates with design firms and corporations to generate branding materials, marketing collateral, websites, all sorts of stuff. Words are my life. And now, those words have collided with a perfect storm named Max.

I’m afraid if I don’t start writing about the episodes Max and I—and our fearless Manager, Mayzie the Scottie dog—confront on a daily basis, they’ll disappear with the quick-paced calendar. He’s already 15 weeks old and all I’ve got are crib notes (pardon the pun) with good intentions to write soulful entries for his baby book. This will never happen if I don’t start writing—and let it all out. Because as a professional writer, I’ve got a hang-up about writing things that are just “for me.” I obsess over the content, the flow, the language, the grammar. It never gets done because I’m on deadline for something else (that pays me). But enough of that noise. I’ve decided I don’t want to lose precious memories, so I’m going to shut down the bossy editor who lives in my head and start telling these stories.

So here I am, after quite a hiatus from writing blogs that are personal and not marketing-driven for my business, WriteHand Co. I’m inspired, big time. (Thanks, Max.) I’m going to start pouring out my daily babble and maybe even entertaining a few people in the meantime. (You can let me know if I’m accomplishing this by commenting on my posts.) And I’m going to write three times weekly. (This is my personal accountability stunt: hold me to it.)

And here’s the best thing: I’m inviting you to join the party. (BYOB—that’s Bring Your Own Baby…and beer, or both.) So, don't be surprised if I contact you for an "interview." I’ll feature sections of my blog, including:

• Birth Stories: Everyone loves to read and share the details of their very own Labor Day. I'll be asking you to share yours.
• What’s Up With That? It happened, you cringed, you laughed, you cried, then you figured out how to move on. (Thank goodness!)
• Recipes: For baby, for families, for mom’s cravings..
• What I Learned About…Moms share snippets that save us money, time, sanity.

I hope you’ll find this blog to be entertaining, resourceful – like a much-needed coffee break with a good friend who feels just as exhausted yet elated, frazzled yet empowered. (Isn’t it funny how these emotions all do the tango?)

Now it’s time to get started…here’s hoping you’ll suck down the words on Momma’s Write and love them like your first postpartum beer.