Did you think I un-friended you?

My lack of presence in your newsfeed is not because I “unfriended” you, as one of my friends asked me.  However, since I probably have exactly three minutes to write this post before baby toddler W wakes up from his nap (yes, he turned 1 a little over a month ago [sob]) I’ll get right to the point.  On the 1-year anniversary of my entry into the blogosphere, after a 3 month hiatus, I have a request of you…I need your help.  Holding me accountable, that is.

Joy.  But, seriously, there’s far less commitment than you might imagine.  Read on.

If you’re anything like me, you likely know it’s easy to fail at goals you don’t tell anyone else about.  That’s because I pretty much thrive on being held accountable by someone…or to someone.  Someone other than myself, that is.  My fear of failure, or my desire to make others happy, is actually my greatest motivator.  (I’d like to think I do most things for my own betterment, but when I’m honest with myself, that’s just not the case.  I’m working on it, but that’s for another post.)

That’s where you come in, inter-webs and follower friends.  A place to cement my intentions and goals.  A place where I can’t take back what you’ve written.  A place to hold me accountable.

Without further ado…my resolutions are:

  1. Be more present (the former educator in me cringes at the vagueness of this resolution, and how challenging it will be to measure this…but)
  2. Write one blog post a week
  3. Read one book a month
  4. Get selfishly active 3x a week (that doesn’t mean lifting W, or taking him on a walk…that means exercise just for mommy!)

They’re not uber complicated or crazy.  Simple.  Realistic, I think.  My first step to making any of these happen?  Just write a fucking post already!  However short or poorly written this is, it’s intended to help me break the ice.  Otherwise, I just keep thinking to myself, Ugh, well I can’t write about Z without writing about X and Y first!  So, there are going to be many posts to come, highlighting all the fun and crazy things that have happened since my last post in early December (W’s first Christmas, learning to walk, I started working part-time, more drama related to his lip-tie, his first birthday, learning sign-language, our first family vacation to Disney, my creation of a cleaning chart…).

But, today, I’ll have to be satisfied with at least stating my intentions.

So, at the risk of letting myself down looking like a failure in front of others (a Type A person’s WORST NIGHTMARE), I’m now compelled to follow through on these things.  Because you’re waiting for updates on them, right?  ;0

Yours accountably,

MomME

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Lions, duc(ts) and lip-ties…oh my! [The Final Chapter]

So, last time I sat down to write this post, I crashed our computer :/  However, after thinking we lost all of W’s baby photos, we’re up and running again (with most pictures recovered) on a brand new iMac and, boy, is she a beauty.

But, because I know you’ve been on the edge of your seat wondering how this saga ends, I’ll continue the story where I left off last…a trip to the ENT to have W’s lip-tie evaluated…

As luck would have it, a friend of mine (whose little guy was due the day before W was, and born the day after W!) happens to be a otolaryngologist in Philly.  She answered a ton of my questions, told me exactly how the frenulectomy would be conducted if we chose to have it done…and did all that with far more compassion and charisma than the ENT we saw.  Oohhh, doctors…male doctors…young, new male doctors…young, new male doctors without kids…

Nonetheless, the ENT we saw confirmed W had a moderate tie, though there is no official scale.  He also noted that because a lip-tie often has no impact on the child or the mother, he’d only performed one frenulectomy…but the mother was EXTREMELY happy with the outcome.  He also mentioned that most of his lip-tie patients don’t have a gap between their teeth (a permanent gap between the two front teeth is something a lip-tie can cause)…and little W did.  Again, it’s an elective procedure, so aside from stating the above facts, he didn’t say anything to steer us in one direction or the other.  He did say, though, that if we waited to have the frenulectomy when W was older, it would be a more invasive procedure because he’d likely need anesthesia to keep him still.

So, my husband and I discussed our options.

Given my reoccurring clogged ducts we decided to move forward with the procedure.  Best case scenario, we’d prevent some cosmetic dentistry, expressive language delays and have a better go at nursing.  Worst case scenario, well, there just didn’t seem to be one aside from the 2 minutes of discomfort baby W would experience.  However, we felt it best to do that now while he was young enough to forget it.  While we chickened out from getting the procedure done at the consultation (it’s that simple he could have done it right then and there…) we scheduled an appointment for the following week.  I mean, we had swimming lessons the next day…we couldn’t bear to ruin that for him!

The following Wednesday, bright and early, we headed into the ENT’s office and nervously waited for him to get the show on the road.  Honestly, for as simple a procedure as it is, it was pretty extremely emotionally traumatizing for my husband and I to have to hold the little guy down while all this was happening.  The doctor and his nurse assistant swaddled W while I held his feet down and my husband held his arms down.  We’d agreed that my husband would be the one to “watch” and reassure W face-to-face so that we weren’t both upset.  They started with a quick shot of lidocaine and epinephrine to numb the pain and help with bleeding.  They let that take effect and in about 30 seconds they put a clamp on the skin to cut off the blood supply.  In another 30 seconds or so they were ready for the snip…and just like that, with a pair of scissors, it was done.  He then cauterised the would with silver nitrate and it was over.  Sure, it was over in less than two minutes…but it’s quite possibly the hardest thing in the world to hear your child scream and know you are the cause of that pain 😦

Within a minute of the procedure, baby W had calmed down and was nursing peacefully…every once and while pulling off the nipple to fiddle with his still-numb lip.  It was hard to tell whether or not the procedure had impacted his latch just yet, as I didn’t want to flange his lip.  I still haven’t really fiddled with it yet, or tried to inspect it, since it hasn’t been a week yet.  (We head into the doctor’s this Wednesday for our one-week follow-up to make sure all is well, though I’m expecting it will be given what I can see – a super happy little guy!)

The only sign he’d had anything done?  A bit of swelling and traces of black/silver on his upper lip from the silver nitrate…

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For all the time I spent researching, reading and worrying about whether he had a lip-tie and whether or not we should correct it…it was over in an instant.  But, so far, I’m glad we decided to have it done.

Sigh.  Another milestone in the book: his first procedure/trip to the doctors.  And, like most milestones, baby W seemed to be far more fluid, resilient and unphased with the event than we did.  Funny thing with milestones, though, they seem to come one after the other and far too quickly for my liking.

Our latest milestone?  W’s first serious cold and cough and ANOTHER trip to the doctor’s office earlier today.  We had a touch and go night last night with some pretty serious coughing and trouble breathing.  Yet again, my heart was in my chest.  Thankfully the doctor said it’s just the crud and nothing more serious.

So, here’s to more Tylenol and Motrin…a Nose Frida, saline spray, Boogie Wipes, humidifiers and steam baths with eucalyptus.

Snotfully yours,

MomME

Bumper sticker fist-bump

Bumper sticker fist bump

I pulled into a sweet parking spot at Target, giddy to be so close to the entrance and right next to the cart return. As I put the car in park, about to gather my ErgoBaby and grab W, I looked up and smirked. It really was the perfect spot. The bumper stickers on the van in front of me read:

“Breastmilk: it’s never been recalled”
“Cloth, Love & Wear” and
“Wearing is caring”

I liked this mom already, and I didn’t even know her. During the rest of our Target outing (during which, of course, W pooped on my nice chambray shirt) I smiled at the other moms we passed…imagining each of them as the breastfeeding, baby-wearing and loving wonders they are.

As I drove off, I gave a little nod of agreement and raised a fist-bump towards those bumper sticker truths.

G is for gratitude

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Though the title is sarcastically crooned to the tune of the annoying alphabet CD that W loves (if you’ve been in my car you probably still have nightmares thinking about it), I really mean it – “G” is for gratitude.  That is, the immense gratitude I have for the phenomenal women in my life.  Ya, there are a lot of sacred bonds in life…but when I’m running low on sleep and and I can’t sing another round of the ABC’s, nothing is more important than the bond I have with the women on this journey with me.  From my own mum, to my boobie group mamas, my neighborhood ladies and my girls…you ladies are the shit.  Srsly.

Though we may not see each other every day – nap-time routines seem to trump coffee dates these days.  And we might not talk on the phone – who has time for that now that W is starting to crawl?  Frankly, we might only know each other through Facebook – but I think that counts these days, right? Despite all that, we might as well be life-long friends.  Because the bond forged through a shared experience so traumatic and funny and gross and awesomely beautiful makes us part of the oldest club around.  Motherhood.

So…

To the woman who gave birth to me and who still drives an hour a day, every day, to spend time with us.  To the women who walked through every inch of Babies ‘R Us with me and told me what I really neededwho hand-delivered homemade dinners for three weeks after W was born…who have heard every minute detail of my birth story and seen my boobs more than they can count…who laugh with me when I get pooped on and still sit next to me at lunch…who fiercely defend my right to parent in a way that’s best for me even if it’s different from theirs…who offer kind words of support…who acknowledge when things are plain old shitty…who have taught me about compassion, humor and acceptance…who just listen.  To the women who just are: thank you.

Knowing they’ve you’ve got my back – that you’re standing alongside me as we face the challenges that come with each and every next step – that’s enough to remind me of the strength, beauty and sheer awesomeness I posses as a mother.  You remind me I’m doing a good job at this whole “life-sustaining” business.  And while you’re here, let me take the opportunity to tell you that YOU’RE doing a great job, too.  

Gratefully yours,

momME

image from http://legendofanomad.files.wordpress.com/2013/01/gratitude.png

Pooparazzi

Why is it that when we become parents, it’s suddenly OK to start taking (and sending) pictures of poop?  Sure, it’s your child’s poop, but come on, it’s still poop!

Nonetheless, I’ve become oddly obsessed (and strangely proud) of W’s poops, especially since he’s started solids.  So much so, I feel the need to snap a pic and send to my hubby while he’s at work.  As if that’s really what he wants to see on his lunch break.  But, now that I’m a SAHM, validation of my productivity and stellar work are no longer in the form of praise from my boss…or recognition on a team call…or leading conversion rates in a data report.  Input and output have a WHOLE new meaning now…and I look for validation of my life-sustaining skills in a size 3 diaper.

Since no one’s here to see it, though, and it quickly makes its way into the trash, I guess I feel the need to document it and prove its existence.  As poor W is laying on his changing table, cute little butt exposed and vulnerable, I sometimes wonder, Is this what Kim Kardashian feels like?  People snapping any shot they can get, the worse the better?  Well, whatever, W doesn’t seem to mind.  In fact, he loves the iPhone.  So, onward with documenting the nasty.

Just call me the pooparazzi.  Validation of my new career now comes in so MANY different shapes…sizes…textures.  Yum.  Here’s a few I’m especially proud of:

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The “Play dough” poop – this was the second poop in a post-constipation trilogy.  It was pretty malleable… (The first was the “I haven’t pooped in 5 days pellet.”  It literally rattled around in his diaper.  Poor little guy).

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The “liquid lava” poop.  An explosion of poop.  Enough said.

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The “sweet potato soft serve” poop.  I was lucky enough to be changing him when he decided to squeeze this one out onto a wipe.

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The “Mommy, you didn’t pack an extra pair of pants for YOU?” poop.  Luckily this happened at my nursing group, though we were on our way to Whole Foods.  The lady behind me in line at the quesadilla counter thought it was REALLY funny.  Yeah.

NOTE:  Honorable mention goes to several others whose existence wasn’t captured –  the frothy “avocado” poop, the “I haven’t pooped in 5 days” pellet and the “fully intact green bean” poop.

Yours poo-ly,

MomMe

Chew on that, mom

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Lots of things are complicated when it comes to a new baby, but I didn’t think feeding W was one of them.  Until, like most things lately, I did a little research.

When the topic of starting solid food came up I didn’t think twice – we would spoon feed W yummy purees.  Being on the healthy side, I’d actually MAKE the purees here at home.  Take that, store-bought-purees, I thought.  I’m going to feed my baby the best.

Sigh.  Yet again, my new-mom-naivete slapped me in face. There is new research.  There are new schools of thought.  More decisions.  More explaining those decisions.  And that’s when I learned about BLW (another annoying mommy-blog-o-nym short for baby lead weaning…or baby lead solids).

The concept makes sense, I’ll admit that.  Baby learns to eat just like we eat.  Give them normal food in a sort of soft stage and let them feed themselves.  It puts the wheel (or the carrot stick) right in baby’s hand.  They decide if they’re hungry.  They decide if they’re not.  Research shows that babies who eat in this way are less picky because they’re introduced to more foods and textures.  Research shows that babies who eat this way have less allergies because they’re introduced to more foods.  Research shows that babies who eat this way choke less because they learn how much they can or can’t put in their mouths…and they actually learn to chew before they learn to swallow (with purees, they learn to swallow first…so when they begin to need to chew they’re tempted to swallow first).

Choking.  That’s where I’m stuck, folks.  I can NOT get passed the fact that gagging is a normal part of this learning phase with BLW!  I have an active imagination as it is.  I go into worst-case-scenario-mode in a matter of seconds.  To make things worse, this isn’t something totally imagined (like when I’m driving over a bridge and I start to think how I’d get W and the dog out of a sinking car if the bridge collapsed…).  This is actually happening, and the line between gagging (there is noise associated with this) and choking (silent) is so very fine.  I.Can’t.Deal.

Bottom line, I have to wait for the hubby to get home because I can’t do the BLW by myself.  If anything ever went wrong I couldn’t live with myself.  As I’m typing this, I’m thinking, Wow, this sounds so serious…like you’re talking about letting your kid play with knives while you’re home alone.  Nope, just talking about eating some avocado.

When did eating go from my FAVORITE pastime to something that now scares the living daylights out of me?  Where’s the fun in that?  I certainly don’t want my anxiety to scare W into thinking that eating is scary.

We’re going to keep trying.  Little by little.  Wedge of food after wedge of food.  Some nights I might have to call it quits after a serious gag/choke.  Some nights I might survive a few.  But, if it means he’s less likely to choke when he’s older…I guess I’ll *try* to stick with it.

Updates to follow.

Anxiously yours,

MomMe

Breastfeeding in Public – yay or nay?

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I whipped them out in front of the Apple store.  Yup.  That’s right.  I bared my breasts in the middle of the mall.  And I liked it.  And so did the elderly woman sitting next to me.  She actually applauded me.

This was the second time I’d whipped them out in public and BIP’d (insert obnoxious use of mommy blog-o-nym…means breastfeeding in public).  My little love bug got hungry while we were at Whole Foods having a delicious lunch with some visiting friends and my husband.  But does BIP really count at Whole Foods?  I’m not sure it does.  Just like it doesn’t really count when I’m at my mommy group or my breastfeeding group.  Granted, I was in the MOST high traffic area – the tables at the end of the check-out line, closest to the exit, where EVERYONE leaving the store had to walk by.  But, I just think the clientel at Whole Foods is far more accepting of things like breastfeeding – I mean, they’re spending about five times more for everything just to make sure it’s organic!  What is more organic than breastfeeding?  So, anyways, that experience definitely gave me the gusto to whip them out at the Mall…

I share this, though, not to recount my weekend activities.  But, I’ve come to find out that breastfeeding in public is a really controversial topic.  Before having a child I would have never thought twice about this!  Being the feminist I am, I’m really fascinated (ok, pissed off) with people’s thoughts as to why women should cover up or go home to breastfeed their babies.  But let’s be honest, I’m really just hell-bent on doing it to prove that I can.  Yup.  If you tell me I shouldn’t do something just because I’m a woman, I’m going to make darn sure I do it just to show you I can.  But really, folks, weren’t you hanging off your mother’s boob at some point, too?  A little hypocritical, no?  I mean, a kid’s gotta eat when a kid’s gotta eat.

It’s not my problem that you can’t walk by and realize there’s nothing more natural than a baby breastfeeding…that breasts aren’t a sexual organ…that there’s nothing unsanitary about FEEDING my child at the mall (umm, there’s a whole food court full of kids eating – do you walk by and give them the evil eye?).  It’s not my problem that you’ve been programmed to think of women, and women’s breasts, in a hyper-sexualized way.  Or maybe it is my problem.  Maybe that’s why I’m determined to BIP.  So that we can begin to normalize breastfeeding.  I mean, if I didn’t BIP, I’d be at home ALL day – that’s how much my little milk-monster eats!

But before I start sounding all self-righteous, I’ll be honest – I’VE been socialized to feel uncomfortable with breastfeeding…and as much as, ideologically, I believe in our right to BIP, it’s been a bit nerve-wracking and it probably will be for a while.  But that doesn’t mean that I won’t do it…I’m determined to BIP whenever my little love bug wants to eat!

So, what do you mamas think?  Bare it anywhere or barely acceptable?

Yours truly,

MomME

Image from http://www.raisingthefawn.com

Top 10 mommy “blog-o-nyms”…and how to decode them!

Who knew I would have needed a third degree just to decipher the acronyms that pepper the world of mommy blogs? I wasn’t prepared for this…a trend I’m starting to notice…

I’m no stranger to acronyms. I can pick them up and throw them down with the best of them. I mean, I’m on maternity leave from one of the top non-profits in the country where we practically speak in acronyms. When people join staff we give them a million-pager as part of their on-boarding process. But, where was that one-pager for new moms? Where was the chapter in “What to Expect When You’re Expecting” that told me I’d first need to master a new language before I could extract any shred of information from any one of the thousands of blogs? I’m your typical Type-A, over-achiever and I HATE feeling out of the loop – especially when it’s something I could have prepared for. I mean, if I’d known about these crazy acronyms, I might have made some flash cards. I probably would have color coded them. I definitely would have quizzed myself in the weeks leading up to my due date. Yeah, that’s just the kind of student I am. And yeah, there are that many acronyms that this kind of measure would have been an appropriate action step.

So, ladies, let me share a few of my favorite mommy blog-o-nyms so that YOU don’t have to experience the same outsider-ness that I did when I turned to the web to answer some of my most burning, post-baby questions. Selfishly, too, I’ll probably be obnoxious and use some of these in my future posts and that would be unfair to not provide you the code beforehand! Be sure to read these, and more at the link below, before venturing into the world of mommy blogs:

1. LO = little one
2. DH/DF/DP = dear husband, dear fiance, dear partner
3. BIP/NIP = breast feeding/nursing in public
4. EBF = exclusively breast feeding
5. FF = formula feeding
6. FTM = first time mom
7. SAHM = stay at home mom
8. WOH = work out of home
9. BM = breast milk (but be CAREFUL!! can also mean bowel movement…)
10. EBM = expressed breast milk

Yours truly,
MomME

You can find even more here: http://www.babycenter.com/community-help-abbreviations

Red lipstick in labor

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My birth plan included red lipstick and fake eyelashes.  I’d even Googled “red lipstick in labor” to see if anyone else was feeling as bold as I was.  Not much luck.  I got a post telling me to wear waterproof mascara – not what I was looking for.    Call me shallow.  Call me narcissistic.  But I called it living out my inner feminist and I was hoping to find another momma who’d shared my gusto.  I mean, at what point in a woman’s life is she more in touch with her inner warrior-goddess than when she’s giving birth?   I wanted to look as radiant, glowing and ferocious on the outside as I felt on the inside.  I was even resolved to do it without meds, something many of my mommy friends raised their eyebrows at.  I mean, my mom did it without meds so I should, surely, be able to do the same right?

When I mentioned my vision of labor – red lips, glam lashes and no meds – I opened up the door to a flurry of strange looks, raised eyebrows and I’m sure many an internal dialogue that friends didn’t verbalize.  These two tenants in my plan seemed to be polar opposites to other folks, but honestly, it wasn’t their labor.  They hadn’t carried this little bundle of joy for nine months.  They weren’t going to try to squeeze something the size of an orange out of something the size of their nostril (proportionately speaking).  So, thanks for the thoughts, y’all, but this is my baby, my vagina, my birth plan and my way 🙂  I was sticking to my guns.  I was going to rock some red lipstick in labor and do it the old-fashioned way…

As much as I champion women who want to rock red lipstick in labor, I’m also a staunch believe that women have the right to change their minds.  And change them again.  Thus, scrawled across the top of my birth plan, in big bold letters, was “This is the plan until I say it isn’t.”  As all of you reading this who have been in labor before know, this is especially true during childbirth.  Labor isn’t really something you can plan.  Let’s be honest, the term “birth plan” is really an oxymoron.  Now, it should be known that I wasn’t THAT naive to think labor would happen exactly according to my plan.  I mean, I’d been to classes, read my Ina May Gaskin book and was totally at peace with the fact that our little love-bug would make his entrance into the world however he saw fit and there wasn’t anything I could do to change that.

I had a flexible mindset regarding labor.  The kicker here, though, was that in my mind “labor” (the intense, screaming, otherworldly experience) occurred at the hospital.  In my mind, we’d lounge about at home in between contractions until they got to 3-4 minutes apart for an hour.  In my mind, and written in my birth plan, I’d have time to take a shower, blow-dry my cute bob, put on my mascara, fake eye lashes and throw on a coat of my favorite MAC Lipglass.

Well, my water broke at 7am on Sunday, February 3rd – a day after my due date.  But, contractions didn’t start right away.  I was thinking, this is what I’d planned – let the lounging and prepping commence.  When I felt my first contraction, I decided it was time to head upstairs and take a shower so I’d be ready when it was time to go in a few hours.  By the time I reached the bathroom, I realized that things were happening a bit faster than anticipated.  Go figure.  I could barely get dressed – the contractions were so intense and left me with no time to recover before the next one hit.  As I stood over my vanity, barely able to put on my Bare Minerals, I was beginning to think that applying my fake lashes might result in me gluing my eyes shut it I attempted them in my current state.  So, I grit my teeth and put on my Bare Minerals until the next contraction hit.  Then I’d walk to the closet, bend over the window seat in pain, and when it was over head back to the vanity to apply the next step in my make-up routine.  If there wasn’t time or physical ability to wear my fake lashes and red lipstick, I was at least going to put on some blush and mascara 🙂  Though it was a bit of a hack-job application, I left the house feeling like the warrior-goddess I was.  I was also feeling pain like I’d never known, but I was a warrior-goddess nonetheless.  To make a short story shorter, we arrived at the hospital in active labor.  I changed my mind – because I had the right to – and requested an epidural.  However, by the time they got it all ready I was 10cm dilated and ready to push.  Back to the original plan it was.  I closed my eyes and imagined my inner warrior-goddess rocking red lips, and pushed.  Several pushes later our little guy was in my arms.

While, in the end, I didn’t rock my red lips and lashes…I don’t look back and think it was silly of me to want that.  For the most part, my “plan” to rock my inner and external warrior-goddess happened in some way, shape or form.  In fact, next baby I might just wake up every day in the days leading up to my due date, and put on my lashes and lips just to make sure I don’t miss the chance again.  I share this not to start a trend of women laboring with red lipstick (though that would be amazing), but because it’s symbolic of my greater beliefs.  Symbolic of our strength as women.  Our beauty – whatever that means to you.  Our agency.  Symbolic of a woman’s right to make choices that are right for HER, and HER alone, at that moment.  Knowing that she might make a different choice in the same situation in the future that doesn’t mean that one choice was right and the other wrong.  So, don’t let anyone talk you out of wearing your proverbial red lipstick.  Whatever your “red lipstick” is, rock it proudly, ladies, and reserve the right to change your mind.

Happy International Women’s Day.

Yours truly,

MomME

photo courtesy of Pinterest here http://pinterest.com/pin/259519997247135810/

Continue reading “Red lipstick in labor”

Babies don’t care…

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Do you ever wish your life were more like a fairy tale?  Well mine is.

I don’t say that to sound coy or pretentious.  I say that in full recognition of the fact that I live an incredibly privileged life full of all the material and immaterial things anyone could ever ask for.  My husband and I are high-school sweet-hearts who re-kindled our love after having gone our separate ways in college.  We’ve been dating on and off now for over 14 years and when he proposed in November of 2009 I eagerly said yes.  We were married in January of 2012 on a cold, sunny winter day after a fresh-fallen snow.  Two years and a few weeks after we said “I do”, we welcomed our little bundle of joy into this world.  (It was a far less tranquil arrival than that description alludes to, but I’ll save that for another post…)

But, let’s be honest, babies don’t care about your fairy tale life.  He doesn’t care if you’re wearing your favorite pair of designer jeans or the latest trendy blouse – he’s still going to poop that seedy, breast-milk, pea soup-like poop all over it.  He doesn’t care that your hair look hideous if you don’t shampoo it at LEAST every other day – he’s still going to fuss at the exact moment you’d planned on taking a shower.

But that’s just it – babies don’t care about all the things you once would have worried about.  He doesn’t care if you’re wearing designer jeans and he doesn’t care how greasy your hair is (or even if you have the WORST morning breath in the world when you wake him up with a smothering kiss on his pouty lips).  To him, you’re the sun and the moon.  You represent all that he needs and wants.  You fill his most primal needs.  You are the boob (and wow, did THEY get huge!) that feeds him and the heart beat that lulls him to sleep.

My hope is to to capture all of the messy, stressful, hilarious, joyous and hair-pulling moments that can only happen to a first-time mom in Maine.  And as I write this, my little milk-monster just woke up screeching for the boob!  Alas, duty calls.

Yours truly,

MomME