Dirty Little Secret

If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times. This blog is supposed to by my no-holds-barred, safe to write freely, able to voice what I want, honest to goodness place to write. So why have I been holding onto this dirty little secret? Maybe because I know how much other mamas judge me for it. Maybe because I feel like it’s my weakest point as a parent. Maybe because it is honestly one of our biggest points of contention, an incredible stress, and it isn’t exactly something I’m proud of.

Our son will be 16 months old this month, and he doesn’t sleep through the night. You know those signs that display safety stats in factories? “43 days since our last accident!” Yeah, I’m getting something similar for our house. “X Days in a row Bean has slept through the night!” Except that more often than not, that sign would display a big fat jerky zero. 

The low down: Bean slept only on either me or Hubs for the first four weeks of life. There was just no other way. Bouncy seat, car seat, swing, crib, blah, blah, blah. No deal. Swaddled, un-swaddled, white noise, total silence, total dark, a little light on, nothing. He would not sleep on his back and off of us, so we went with it. At about the one month mark we decided to give in and, against all SIDS warnings out there, we put him to sleep on his tummy in his own crib. And he took to it like a moth to a flame my friends. To this day, this boy is a tummy sleeper. It may not be the “right way”, but it was our only way. 

By 8 weeks old he was sleeping through the night, all on his own. No sleep training at all on our part (we’ve always chosen to be baby-lead), he just stopped needing us in the middle of the night. We were thrilled! We were happier, had more energy, and were finding time to connect as a couple again (which was much harder to do after Bean’s birth than I could have expected.) Sleep can make or break a household, and at this point in time, we were on cloud nine. This baby thing wasn’t half bad after all.

Then the ear infections started. The whole story there is a saga for another day (really, I could take up multiple posts just on that mess alone) but let me give you the abridged version. Bean had his first ear infection at about 7 or 8 months old. From there, we fought our way through more than 5 more ear infections, one nasty cold, plenty of teething, two stomach viruses (or reactions to his many, many antibiotics. We still can’t be totally sure, unfortunately.), and some fancy schmancy Hand, Foot, and Mouth disease. We broke away from our pediatrician’s advice in February and had tubes surgically placed in B’s ears (hopefully curing him of all further infections.) However, this meant that B, with very very few exceptions, had not slept through the night from about 7 months old, until his surgery at 13 months old. We were freaking tired. It doesn’t matter if your child has legitimate reasons for being up all night, sleep deprivation sucks either way. We knew logically that it wasn’t Bean’s fault, that he was in pain/ too snotty to breathe/ his head throbbed from teething/ his head throbbed from ear fluid build-up… but logic means almost nothing when you are that exhausted. 

I envied my friends whose babies were only ever up for the occasional illness or two-night spell of teething. I felt like I was doing something wrong when people (including my asinine pediatrician) suggested that we just let him cry it out, despite the fact that he had legitimate medical reasons to be up at night. I knew that without proper sleep his development (and even his growth) could be delayed. I hated all the meds we were pumping into his little body, but it was either pain medicine and antibiotics or no hope of any sleep at all. 

At the time his tubes were placed, his molars had begun to break through, so although we got a couple of nights in a row right after surgery, it didn’t last long. As the molars continued to come in, all four canine teeth decided to make their debut, and that’s where we currently stand. One more @#!@&* canine tooth left to break gum, and then, hopefully before the 17 month mark, we’ll have our chance at sleep.

I know not all babies have disrupted sleep with teething, but mine does. Not all babies even lose sleep while ill, but mine does. My child will lose sleep if over-stimulated, over-tired, too thirsty, in pain… the list goes on. Part of this is attributed to the fact that he’s just a high maintenance kiddo (also a saga for another day.) Part of this is totally legit from months and months of painful ear drum pressure, scary high fevers (104+) and an exhausted little body trying to fight infection after infection. I know logically that we did nothing to bring on these infections. (Per multiple doctors and all of my reading, Bean’s Eustachian tubes are just genetically predisposed to this sort of thing, and nothing other than surgery would have helped). I know logically that no amount of sleep training or crying or whatever would make a difference based on the kind of kid he is and what he’s been up against. But that doesn’t mean I don’t feel like a failure. That doesn’t mean that I don’t get totally frustrated at 3am and want to break down sobbing because my 30lb toddler can run, play, feed himself, turn off our TV in the middle of an awesome show, call 911 from my locked cell phone (another story for another day) and even hold a piece of sidewalk chalk, but he can’t. Freaking. Sleep.

 I know it affects my kid. I know it affects my mood. I know it affects my marriage, my health, the kind of parent I am, and everything in between. Failing at sleep means failure at so many levels, I don’t even know where to begin. Feeling like a failure, by the way, doesn’t actually feel all that groovy. I know. Shocking.

I’m hopeful the light at the end of the tunnel is just around this bend. I know we’ll still have nights of illness and bad dreams and whatnot to come, causing bouts of interrupted sleep and cranky parents. I’m just hoping, wishing, cashing in all my good Karma, that someday soon we start getting more nights of sleep than nights of crying, screaming, painful sleep deprivation. I’m hoping that soon, my little safety sign will read “5 Nights in a Row Bean Has Slept Through the Night!” 

Actually, at this point, I’d even take two nights in a row.

Okay, blog fans. Fess up. What are your dirty little secrets? What do you feel you have to keep to yourself? Tell your favorite Jen.  She's a good listener. Promise.

Gender Neutral

I find myself becoming more and more aware, lately, as to how incredibly impossible this concept is for some parents. Sure, most parents are likely to dress their boys in blue and their girls in pink. Girls wear bows in their hair/ have them plastered to their heads, and boys wear sneakers and baseball caps. Girls might have a pink blankie or car seat and a boy will probably tote a GI Joe instead of a Barbie. My son, admittedly, wears sweatpants instead of sparkly purple tights, and “boyish” brown shoes instead of anything with Dora on them, so I get this concept, to some degree.

What I struggle to understand, however, is when parents appear not only hesitant to allow their child to mix with the stereotypical icons of the opposite gender, but outright terrified. It never crossed my mind that a boy parent might go so far as to take away a toy that is “too girly” or outright ban the toy from the house entirely. I’m serious. I truly had no idea parents (most often, parents of boys) were so concerned with keeping their children tucked safely into their opposite gender corners, never to mix or mingle for fear of…what, exactly?  From what I’ve heard, it can be anything from “He’ll get made fun of!” to “He needs to be more tough and manly”. Seriously?! I promise you, no toy or book or hair bow is going to change your child’s gender, sexual preference, or whatever the hell “manliness” looks like in a toddler. 

So what, I ask you, is the big deal? Bean is in a tight-knit playgroup consisting of a whopping three babies: Bean, Boy Baby, and Girl Baby. We meet at each other’s houses or parks or malls, and, especially now that the kids are toddlers, they trade toys like mad. Bean is just as likely to get his hands on the flower Girl Baby wears in her hair as she is to snatch up his dinosaur toy. And us three mommies just don’t care. In fact, I kind of love when Bean gets to play with Girl Baby’s toys since she is likely to have things B never plays with on a regular basis: purple, pink, glitter…Poor Bean just doesn’t have much of it. (Bean and Boy Baby, on the other hand, seem to have many toys in common.) And from a tactile and cognitive developmental standpoint, it’s probably good for the kid to experience a variety of textures and colors. Plus, glitter is pretty rad. The boys in the group will, over the years, get to sit at a Princess table and sip fake tea from tiny cups and drag dolls around by their hair. On the flipside, Girl Baby will have no shortage of Tonka trucks dragging Spiderman action figures through the dirt on the way to meet up with a pile of dinosaurs. I love it. (And I am far from being a totallygender-neutral maniac, just for the record.)

Being a child is all about discovery and exploration. Getting a chance to see all the cool things the world has to offer, learning new things, and stretching creative muscles. In one afternoon your kiddo can practice walking on the moon (thanks to Astronaut Barbie), tuck a baby doll in for a nap, mold Playdough into the form of your family dog (or is that a turtle?), stack blocks into the shape of a tall building, and inside have a meeting going on between three Star Wars action figures, Elmo, and a T-rex. How freaking awesome is that?! And, more importantly, who the hell wants to take that away, just because all those toys weren’t “gender appropriate”?

My sister-in-law passed down some books to Bean and, as she has a daughter and a son, some of the books were more “girly” than others. So what did I do? I read B the Barbie book this afternoon. And you know what? He loved it. None of his books have sparkles or rhinestones. None of his books have bright pink dresses or hot blondes. We read the book, then two from Dr. Seuss and part of a nursery rhyme book before he, fairly abruptly, told me it was time to dump out his blocks and put them in his sock drawer. (Like any good mama I followed his lead and didn’t ask any questions.)Rest assured, blog fans. I have checked three times since the Book Incident and, so far, I am happy to report that his penis has not actually fallen off. His voice isn’t higher and he has expressed absolutely no desire to work as a commentator on The View when he grows up. With any luck we will walk away from this whole Barbie book fiasco unscathed.

Honestly, though. Not only do I see no harm in crossing stereotype lines, I see nothing but benefit from it. Why should a girl sit in a corner and dress her dolls and paint her nails if what she really wants to be doing is throwing the football around with the boys? Why do people get so up in arms over a little boy asking his mommy to paint his toe nails? What do they think will happen? Bean could be described by most as “all boy” (or as someone who would make a very unattractive girl). He shows many tendencies toward the stereotypical male side of things already. And, if tomorrow while putting on my lip gloss Bean reaches for it and wants me to put some on him, I won’t hesitate (unless it’s my MAC gloss. Mama doesn’t share the good stuff.) I would let him carry my purse around the house and should we ever decide to spawn again (ha!), I would probably run out and buy him a baby doll in practice for a new sibling. Also if I were ever to find myself a parent to a newborn again, I would likely run out and do my best to obtain a Xanax prescription, but only for me. Again, Mama doesn’t share the good stuff. 

Your child was born exactly the person he or she was meant to be. Be a good parent, and don’t screw that up with your petty biases, stereotypes, and unfounded fears. You’re only getting in the way of the beautiful child your kiddo is trying to become.

Now, if you'll excuse me, it's time for me to check B's estrogen level again, as I have every hour, since I let him read that terrible, trouble-making book. Barbie is just not to be trusted.

One and Done

As soon as a couple gets married (or even engaged) everyone’s favorite question for the blissfully (ignorant) happy couple is always the same: “When are you having babies!?!?!?!” 

When the husband and I were thrown this question early on, our answer was always the same. “We aren’t”. Folks didn’t believe us and continued to press, but after a while the questions died down and Operation: Watch Jen’s Uterus seemed to come to a halt. The truth was we really weren’t sure if we wanted children.  We knew so many people who either had babies by surprise (as in, “Surprise! The Trojan malfunctioned!”) or by default. You are supposed to get married, buy a house, and have babies, right? That seemed to be the way of it for many folks we knew, anyway, and we wanted to think outside the bassinet for a moment and see if that was really what suited us best. What if we wanted to spend our lives traveling the world? What if we would rather take the time/ money/ energy we would be using on offspring and use it to open that animal sanctuary we always talked about? (Wow. How lame are we?!)  What if (and this is where it gets serious) we decide to become parents and find out we’re really bad at it? This is the one job on the planet you can’t resign from because it didn’t turn out to be as fun as you expected.  (Well, as long as you’re a decent, fully functioning human being.) A child would be the most commitment either of us had made to anything in our lives, and that was a lot to think about.

Ultimately, and after much deliberation, we decided that being parents was an experience we wanted to have in our lives, and thusly, The Bean was born. (Well, there are some other details in there too, but for the sake of brevity and resisting my urge to overshare, we’ll just leave it at that.) And we are in love. We are getting everything out of it we expected and then some. I get to see hubs in a whole new light (which is, so far, a good thing) and our lives have undoubtedly taken on a more firm direction and purpose since B’s birth. And of course, now that Spawn Pt. 1 is here, everyone we know has launched into their favorite question/ form of verbal assault again: “When are you going to have MORE babies?!?!?!?” And our answer for this, again, seems to bother folks: We don’t know if there will be more babies. One and done, more often than not, sounds pretty darn good to us. We really might just be a family of 3 (well, 6 if you count the dogs, but again, I’m straying from the main point.)

What I never expected about being a parent was how much other people love to weigh in on the decisions you make for your child/ family. What B eats, how he sleeps, when I’m going to stop dropping the F-bomb around him…all these seem to be topics that family, friends, and total strangers are dying to harass us about. And as much as the general advice/ verbal battery annoys me and catches me off guard, the response to our only child idea is outright shocking. Some of my favorite responses to date:

“You can’t do that to B!” Um, I didn’t say I was going to set him on fire and sever a limb. I said he would not be a big brother to anyone who doesn’t have four legs and a wagging tail.

“He’ll be so spoiled!” Said by someone who openly admits to giving his multiple children more toys than Toys R Us

“But who will help him take care of you in your old age?” We actually thought we’d be full grown adults and make plans to take care of ourselves/ pay for our own care when the time comes. We’re goofy that way.

“He’ll be so lonely!” We aren’t sending him to live on a desert island with nothing but some bottled water and a volleyball for companionship. He is still allowed to make friends and speak to other humans.

“How will he ever learn to share?” I had three siblings, and absolutely no sharing going on in my upbringing. Siblings don’t teach you to share, they teach you to resent sharing. They also teach you to pour water into the bottle of vodka so mom and dad don’t realize the bottle is getting suspiciously low. Moving on…

“Don’t you like being a parent? Why don’t you want to do it again??” We do like being parents. So much so that we’ve decided to soak up every single moment with our one and only son and not get distracted by silly things like extra kids and paying our taxes on time.

“You’ll change your mind” Maybe. But one thing I won’t change my mind about is wanting to punch you in your fancy parts every time you take that condescending tone with me.

“But aren’t newborns just the best?!” Sure, they have their high points, but I read an internet rumor that’s going around that says every time you make a newborn you wind up having to raise a child, so…I’m just not sold on this one yet. 

So here’s the deal. We haven’t made any “official” decisions in this department yet. Since our vet is booked solid through next July, neither hubs nor I have been able to get appointments for spaying or neutering yet, so there’s always a chance of a Bean 2.0 being launched in the future. But if/ when that happens, it will be our choice, not yours. And if we decide to raise our one and only and then permanently shut down all operations involving my uterus, that’s up to us. It doesn’t mean we hate kids. It doesn’t mean Bean will be a serial killer (although we do strongly encourage him to become anything he wants to be when he grows up). Having only one child means that while you’re still screaming at your high school/ jr. high kids about doing homework and not getting pregnant in between classes, hubs and I will be checking in with our college senior. From our beach house in the Caymans.

Unsolicited Advice

As a parent I have found myself in a position to need to ask (beg) other parents for advice on a number of occasions. Everything from teething to newborn poop to first foods can all be pretty rough terrain for a first-time mom, and it’s nice to have a “mommy network” of sorts to turn to when you find yourself at your wit’s end. (And let’s be honest- that can practically be every week of that ridiculous first year) I cannot express how grateful I am for the women (and men!) who have offered me a tip on how to properly suck snot out of a screaming baby’s nose, a shoulder to cry on at the peak of sleep deprivation, or a book or article recommendation when the ear infections just won’t cease, and I’m halfway into packing my bags to move out of state. Alone. It’s absolutely vital to have somewhere to turn when the going gets tough in the trenches of parenthood.

The other kind of advice, however, that has been sent my way at least 10 dozen times since my son’s birth, is not at all appreciated. It is not helpful or comforting or even very often well thought out. It can be snarky and snide on a good day, and totally crushing and hurtful when you’re at your worst. Unsolicited advice is not unlike that one damn mosquito that got in your house one day and just wouldn’t leave. It’s obnoxious, it assaults you when you least expect it, and for the life of you you just can’t figure out what possible purpose it serves on this planet. (Aside from spreading malaria, that is.)

More often than not I find myself able to brush this advice off and carry on about raising my child. When the older gentleman in the grocery store looked at my son I was expecting the typical “How cute!” or “How old is he?” Instead, I was hit with “No socks, huh?”, and a disapproving look before he sauntered off into the frozen food section. Whatever. I know my son has no socks on his feet because, after he removed them for the 14^th time between exiting his car seat and getting into the shopping cart, I decided it was not a battle worth waging, and tucked the ellusive socks into the diaper bag before heading into the store. I know that we are in a temperature-controlled climate and my son runs a very low risk of hypothermia and subsequent foot amputation. I know that he will be seated in the cart the whole trip and won’t have his poor, sockless feet touching the germy floor of the grocery store, potentially resulting in gangrene or the like. I really didn’t give the Sock Police a second thought, and his “advice” of sorts was very soon forgotten.

Even when it comes from family or friends, you can sometimes brush it aside and chalk it up to “trying to help” or “not knowing any better”. When a particular person repeated to me for the 914^th time in the first two months of Ben’s life that my coddling him and responding to his cries was only spoiling him, I tried to tell myself that they really were attempting to “help” a silly, first-time mommy who didn’t have a clue. In their mind I was doing something I would later regret, and they were trying to save me from, what they perceived to be, a giant mistake. To this individual I should be thanking them, not avoiding their calls at all costs and hiding when they dropped by unannounced. 

But sometimes it catches you off-guard, and you lose it. I hadn’t slept in two days (literally, not one wink of sleep) as Bean was battling his first cold. He could only sleep upright and on my chest, and I looked more like a zombie than a human from lack of sleep, lack of showering, and lack eating anything other than half a banana and 43 cups of coffee. I wasn’t even a potentially attractive zombie. No one would have looked at me and thought “You know, I bet she was one hot piece before she was bitten.” Nope. I was even a total hag by the standards of the undead.

I stumbled into the pharmacy at 9pm, Bean in tow, to pick up a humidifier as I had been told this would be the answer to my prayers, and the thing that would keep me from moving out of the house. I push him in a cart to the back of the store just in time to snatch up the last humidifier in the store, (or possibly on the planet. When you’re that desperate everything seems a bit more dramatic.) when a woman comes up to me and starts touching Bean’s face and cooing at him. I was less than amused and tried to brush her off and head to check out with my Sanity Saving Humidifier tucked safely under my arm. She finally took her grubby hands off my baby long enough to ask me why I wasn’t using a cart cover. Wanting to avoid a total confrontation (and ending up on the news in my current physical state) I told her it was in the car and I just hadn’t thought to grab it. (Which actually was true.) Again, I attempt to walk away, only to be assaulted with some “helpful” advice and words of wisdom. “You don’t want him to get sick, do you? If you don’t want your baby to get sick you really need to use a cart cover. Why would you want your baby to touch all those nasty germs?!” 

Honestly, lady? First of all, at this point I’m pretty sure he has the plague anyway, hence our current run to the store and all that fancy snot he’s slinging. Second, whatever diseases he doesn’t presently have were just given to him care of your dirty, crusty hands all over his head and face, so thanks for sharing the Monkey Pox with us. Lastly, bite me. Just bite me. If I carried a concealed weapon you would be missing both your kneecaps by now, so move it along. At this point I tried to beat her to the check out so we could make it to the parking lot in time for me to slash her tires, but I quickly realized that a) I probably couldn’t outrun anyone until my next Red Bull kicked in, and b) I had unfortunately forgotten to pack a shank in the diaper bag. Dammit.

I really do try to take most advice in stride and see it as an attempt on behalf of a stranger to be helpful and caring. What it often comes off as, however, is that you know how to raise my baby better than I do, and frankly that pisses off Mama Bear faster than anything. You don’t know my baby better than I do (he came out of my body, for Pete’s sake. We’re sort of close, the two of us.) You don’t know our circumstances better than I do, either. Maybe he’s acting out because he hasn’t slept in a week thanks to a particularly heinous ear infection. Maybe he’s not responding when you talk to him because he’s only 9 months old and just kind of big for his age, not a severely delayed 2 and half year old like you assumed. Maybe he isn’t wearing shoes because I refuse to feed him on Tuesdays so he ate them in order to avoid starvation. Unless you see me doing something that puts him in grave danger, kindly take your advice and shove it, thank you very much. 

If I set him in the trunk of my car next to the milk and a carton of Marlboro Reds and go to drive off, feel free to offer me some car seat tips. If I take him into a store in the middle of a snow storm wearing a baseball hat and nothing else, maybe make mention of what aisle the diapers are on. If you overhear me offer to split a margarita with him at a restaurant (no salt, though. Salt is terrible for babies.) perhaps you could offer to share some water with him (while someone else in your party calls CPS). But please, please, please leave me the eff alone otherwise. He’s managed to make it all the way to 14 months despite my horrific parenting, so maybe he’s just tough enough to survive another 17 years or so of sockless, germ-filled chaos.

Mom Attire

Being a parent means an enormous shift in attire, and not only in the most obvious ways. Sure, I’m not terribly likely to wear my favorite 4 inch wedges to the park to feed the ducks, and my hair and makeup will not often be very flawless due to time constraints. These changes I expected, and even embraced. But some changes I couldn’t have expected because no one talks about them. The things about my appearance that are, at times, almost indescribable except to say that it’s part of my “mommy look”. The things that make me wonder why my husband hasn’t taken my advice and found himself a mistress yet  (Don’t judge - I could use the rest.)

In the newborn phase it was a total disaster, to say the least. My ta tas were leaky, my ass had disappeared thanks to wider hips from birthing Bean’s fat head, and I hardly had time to so much as brush my teeth, let alone shave anything. Any yoga pants I hadn’t bled onto were considered high fashion, and bras with lace and silk had been replaced by monstrosities large enough to cover a Smart Car. In fact, undergarments in general those first few weeks (months?) were so unbelievably plain and unattractive I could not have even sold them in an Amish sex shop. I was fortunate enough to lose the baby weight pretty quickly, but with the Great Migration of body parts that takes place postpartum, I had so little desire to see myself in the buff I spent countless hours trying to figure out how to shower with my clothes on. (Just in case I ever had time to shower again.) I remember sitting there in my nursing tank top trying to figure out how to put in a fresh bra pad without waking the baby who was sleeping on my lap, and thinking to myself “How in the hell does anyone ever have two of these?” (Babies, not bra pads. Obviously I understood why those needed to come in twos) Suffice it to say, the early days were not kind to my physical well-being.

I assumed (erroneously) that once the sleeplessness of the first few months was over, I would have the time to be a bit more put together, for both my husband and myself. I now had time to brush my teeth, shower, and sometimes even put on makeup. My outfits matched every once in a while, and I was  getting more sleep, but Heidi Klum I was not. I would get ready to walk out of the house triumphant in having had the time to attend to my personal hygiene and apply some mascara and gloss, only to realize I still had on a bra that contained just a teensy bit of baby vomit, and possibly a piece of the sandwich I was eating earlier and forgot to retrieve. I would change clothes after Bean spit up on me, only to walk around for hours still being able to smell the rancid aroma of formula and stomach acid. I changed his clothes, my clothes, and washed my hands 7 times. Unfortunately, about ¾ of the way through the day, I realized the smell was wafting from my hair (It’s always the last place you look, isn’t it?) By the time he hit 5 months old I figured it was time to change my toenail polish from the pedicure I had been treated to before my baby shower. (If I could have figured out how to type with my toes, I’m sure it would have made a nice clicking sound as if I were wearing acrylic nails.) When would I be back to my old self?

According to toddlerhood, never. I can’t wear earrings because he pulls on them. I can’t wear my engagement ring because it’s pointy and has scratched him more than once. For the sake of all the folks who see me out and about in a day, I really need to learn not to wear a top he is able to pull down, thus exposing my “rack” to the general public. (Why is this word is quotes? Because quite frankly I’m just not sure what to call the total disaster I keep hidden under a bra these days.) I’ve gotten back to wearing heels and tall boots, but these are usually paired with pants stained with avocado (at least I’m pretty sure that’s what that is) and a top that has no buttons, sequins, beading, or anything else a toddler might think looks fun to bite. My nails are kept short so that when I sweep his mouth for contraband (for the 19^th time in a day) I won’t scratch him. My hair is of no consequence, so long as it’s at a length I am able to tie up and out of the way of grabby, chubby hands. 

And, of course, it’s all totally worth it to have a wonderful child to share my life with blah blah blah. But seriously. I just can’t wait for the night when I go to do a striptease for my husband and an Elmo cracker doesn’t fall out of my bra. (Bonus: we’ve been out of Elmo crackers for three days now. Where the hell did this come from?)