House rules

Yesterday, I told of how we moved the baby into our bedroom.  This comes with a new set of master suite rules:

1.) If it's yellow let it mellow, if it's brown...let it mellow

You heard me right.

My environmental science professor at school insisted we practice sustainable human waste disposal, best remembered by her mantra "If it's yellow let it mellow, if it's brown flush it down."

If it's brown and the flush is going to disturb the baby's ridiculously short sleep cycle, let that thing disintegrate. You are in trouble if you flush it down.  Just think of the good you're doing for the New York City Waste Management system.

I might also insist you drink coffee only in the mornings. And forget about fiber after 3pm.

2.) Starlight, Star bright...

We will never sleep in true darkness again.

That adorable little star nightlight that was originally in the nursery?  It's plugged into our wall now. I need it so I don’t accidentally step on my glasses or Hudson. Excuse me while I wake up every 2-3 hours.

If you happen to be up in the night, don't even think about turning on the bathroom light.  Use your phone to guide you to safety and to light your passage back to bed.

In fact, no water after 8pm.

3.) Feeling Hot hot hot...

No air conditioning.

The baby might be too cold.  I know I'm the one who likes to sleep through all seasons with the air on, so this is actually worse for me. Now I only have the sounds of garbage trucks and sirens to fall asleep to, without the soothing roar of the AC.

It's a sacrifice I'm willing to make. And I'm going to still keep my thick Harrods duvet on the bed, thanks.

4.) So I creak, creak, yeah…

No bed creaking.

Once in bed, you have a few minutes to find a comfy position for the night. When you're there and you're cozy, if you could just stay that way until morning, that would be greaaaaat.

Keep in mind my husband is 6'4" and 240 lbs. There is no delicate turning of the midsection for him. When he changes positions in his sleep, the dog and I are both involuntarily bounced around until Andy's rotation is complete. We end up in totally different spots as a result, yet we manage to just stay there.

If Hudson can learn to turn quietly, we all can.

5.) No sighing loudly.

I’m sorry you feel neglected.

I know you do, but your excessively loud sighs don’t really make me feel bad for you.  They just make me want to “Shhhh!” you but I can’t, because we dare not talk.

6.) No talking.

See above.  If you need me, text me, or write a note on your iPhone notepad and show me, or wait until morning.

7.) No coughing.

Ok – have a sip of water before bed.  Put the glass down quietly and nobody gets hurt.

8.) No naughtiness.

This is obvious.  We’re not going to be doing anything for a few years.  Go back to sighing.

It's My Party and I'll Cry If I Want To...

(you would cry too if it happened to you!)

OHMYGOD,OHMYGOD,OHMYGOD!

Get your mind out of the gutter! Did you forget my new Pope-y motto “Only for procreation, Not for recreation?”

OHMYGOD, OHMYGOD, OHMYGOD!

I don’t think I can do this anymore!  This baby hasn’t stopped crying for the past two hours.  I don’t know what’s wrong.  Why couldn’t he have started this when my house was still full of people?!  My mum just left, Andy has gone to visit his parents, and I’m alone with this tiny creature that just refuses to be happy.

I’ve tried everything.  Rocking him gently, swinging him from side to side (maybe I swung too fast?), jigging him up and down, throwing him in the air (am I even allowed to do that?), and the pacifier, which has been thrown to the ground and washed more times than I care to count today.

And the nursing.

And the baby bjorn.

I’m so tired.

In walks Andy, fresh from a lovely afternoon with his family, outside of the apartment and away from anything remotely baby related.  And the first thing he does is lament his “exhausting” day.

What???

He must not have seen me.  I’m over here, the one with the crumbling face, smudged glasses (de rigueur these days), and look of desperation in my eyes.  The same eyes currently throwing daggers at him and trying SO HARD not to get angry.  Because he really didn’t do anything.  Except for leaving me here.  And then having the gall to complain about his day.

I want to throw the baby at him.  And I do just that, as I grab some foil-wrapped goodness from the take-out bag he brought me.  I can’t even bring myself to leave the kitchen (where I was, due to the drop-wash-repeat pacifier cycle we were going through).  Also, he's with the baby on the sofa now and I have no desire to be anywhere nearby.  I perch on the lid of my garbage can (Thanks, Simple Human for making such sturdy products), and season my sandwich with large, salty tears.

Dramatic, I know.  But so true.

I used to equate the sweet sounds of a newborn crying with the mewling of a tiny, adorable kitten.  No matter how tired I was in the night, once I heard those cries, I would jump up out of bed and happily cradle his swaddled little form and kiss the top of his soft, silky head.

But I was seriously unprepared for these mid-afternoon cryscapades.  After this experience, I understand how stressful it is to hear a constantly crying baby screeching in your ear.  How do these Teen Moms do it?!  How are they mentally mature enough to understand not to take it personally?  Are they better than I am?

All I can say is thank God they made me watch the “Don’t Shake the Baby” video before I left the hospital.  I can understand how frustrated, sleep deprived parents who just don’t know what to do anymore, can make the mistake of taking out their exhaustion on a baby that seems to have a personal vendetta against them.  I thought we had at least 14 years before that happened.

I may have kind of yelled at the baby.

Hence the tears.  Utter guilt for being upset at this small, sweet darling, remorse for feeling angry at him, feelings of helplessness and hopelessness. This is really, really difficult.

And cue the peanut gallery.  “Ohhh…he’s colicky.”

Shut the fuck up.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard that to justify and generalize the state of a baby crying and in discomfort. In fact, if I ever say “Ohh he’s colicky” to you, you have permission to slap the words out of mouth. If course, he could be colicky. But I am soooo tired of calmly explaining “Actually, I believe colic is defined as a period of crying spanning more then three hours a day, three days or more a week. This is not what we were dealing with. So there!“ It doesn’t do anything to make me feel better, and the offensive person doesn’t get it anyway. They just give me that sideways, pouty face smiley-look that screams “Poor thing, she doesn’t know what she’s talking about! Not everything can be learned from a book. With experience, you just know.”

Oh, if I ever give you that look, you know what to do by now. Slap me.

He didn’t have colic. Thank god for that. My heart goes out to all parents who deal with a colicky baby. I see you, in the elevator of my building. With your under-eye bags, pushing the stroller back and forth as if by reflex, on your way to a much-deserved Starbucks run. What our baby had was a mixture of gas, acid reflux, and general discomfort. It lasted awhile, and he cried a lot. Some called it colic. His pediatrician told me to have those people call her (Love you, Dr. Kercher!)

He grew out of it soon enough and returned to being the sweet little vampire baby we knew.

I would venture to say that most parents go through something like this, when they try and try but their baby won’t stop crying. What we need is empathy, not pity! Tell us how you went through it, offer to take him for 5 minutes so we can pee and cry, or just be quiet and stay close in case we need you to wash a pacifier.

The only thing to do in this situation? Check off all the boxes (diaper, hunger, gas, temperature) and remember to find pleasure in the hundreds of little joys in your new life.

Andy had brought me 6 yummy, calorific treats.  And I still had 5 left.

Silver linings, people, silver linings.

pump it up!

I don’t know why Breast Milk isn’t publicly traded.

We have Gold, Orange Juice, Cattle, why not human milk?!  It’s waaay more valuable than Gold.

And yes, I did just capitalize Breast Milk.  It’s that freaking important.  I’ve long envied those who could either produce such a plentiful amount that it seemed as though they were meant to be Brad & Angie’s nursemaids (btw what is UP with having so many kids and going back to your figure in 6 days?  The adopted ones aside, that’s still like 3 or 4 kids, right?!), or those that just couldn’t make enough / didn’t want to nurse, and went straight to formula.  What freedom!  Oh, to be able to pull out your booby on demand, or to pull out that tiny bottle of Similac, anywhere, anytime.

But what about the plight of the mommy who wants to nurse, but also needs the convenience of a bottle?  Why, breast pumps, of course!

And so our saga begins.  Yes, I bought the ultra-expensive top-of-the-range hands-free Medela.  It may even have Bluetooth somewhere.  But wow is pumping a pain in the ass.  It’s stressful, uncomfortable, and highly traumatic for the guys to witness.  Andy would wince every time he’d inadvertently stumble in to me pumping away.  How do you think I felt?!  If you’re thinking “but you’re used to it” I will literally burst through this screen and rip you to shreds.

It’s enough that I’m sagging from everywhere post-delivery, but now there’s a contraption that will make me feel even more like a cow?

Yay, science?

My mother told me about the manual pumps of yesteryear.  I picture something similar to a spinning wheel, where bedraggled mommy has to floor the pedal in order to pump (through a wooden cone?)  I don’t know.  It sounds awfully splintery.  Or is it a rubber cone you attach to your breast and squeeze the bulb at the other end (like the old car horns in cartoons)?  I know manual pumps are still available, I don’t care.  I have enough nightmares about my robotic double-pump, thanks.  And I have never used that “hands-free” strap.  That pump is heavy and I’m not convinced of the strap’s anti-gravity properties.

Growing up on nightmare stories of saggy boobs, I’m always terrified of breasts that will sag later.  So I developed a highly-scientific method to pumping.  I would attach that sucker (how horrible is it that it’s an actual sucker?), holding it up by the bottle, and at the same time pull up my shoulder, so that I was uncomfortable but at least defying gravity.

And I would also squeeze.

I don’t know what the squeezing did.  I like to think it helped move the milk along.  Or that it just held me in one place so that the weight of the pump didn’t bring me down, man.

I never knew or bothered to research how best to pump.  I didn’t know it should be on a schedule.  I would only pump when I knew I had to miss a feed, or before bed, in the hopes that someone else would feed the baby at 2.00am (Please?  Someone?  Anyone?)

I’d pump in front of the TV, while we watched The Borgias at night, with my mom raising the volume and my dad studiously ignoring me, sitting as far away as possible even though I had my nursing cover on.  There’s no mistaking that noise though.  When my brother came to visit the baby, he slept on the sofa (and The Borgias marathon didn’t pause for his sleep either).  One night he woke from his jet-lagged slumber only to demand what the HELL that sound was?!

Sorry.  It’s me.  If I don’t have a baby attached to me, I have a mini-Transformer attached to me.  It’s awesome.

I’ve pumped in the back of a packed car of friends, on the way to a weekend getaway.  I was wearing a rather voluminous blouse.  The kind you start buying while pregnant and never stop wearing.  Pumping in front of my friend and her husband felt kind of awkward, but you know, it had to be done.  My first weekend away from the baby ever, and I still had to wake up twice a night to relieve my uncomfortable boobs with that pump.

Unfortunately I tried to store all my pumped milk from that trip in small Medela ziplocs, which I then put inside a Veuve Clicquot champagne bottle cooler.  The price of desperation and poor planning.  The milk was TOTALLY ruined by the time I got back.  Yes, I may have tried to pass it off to the baby anyway, hoping his evolving palate wasn’t that discerning.

It was.

I think I shed a tear as I watched all that watery, weird off-white breast milk pour down the drain.  Was it even worth going away?!

There comes a point in pumping, when your boobs are parched.  You can hear the whir, whir of the pump but instead of watching streams whiz down into the bottle, you only see droplets.

Droplets!

Then we get to the ungraceful part (Oh, you thought we were there already?  No.)  That moment when you know you’re as dry as can be, but you don’t stop.  The aim of the game is to eke out enough milk to hit that 6oz. mark.  The unbelievable part is when you finally concede that nothing else is coming out, so you detach and perilously shake your boobs over the rim of the funnel, savoring the plink of every last, hard-won drop, as it hits the tiny little reservoir of milk below.  Six...Ounces...Or...Bust.

Phew, I’m exhausted.  We haven’t even gotten to the Nursing portion of our program.  Next week.  I’m off to lovingly gaze at the gallon of whole milk in my refrigerator now that my nursing days are done, and perhaps tighten my bra straps a bit.

working mom a.k.a That Time I Typed "brb" & you waited 5 months

Remember me?  Here I sit, sheepishly waving at you.  It’s been a while.

What happened?  Well, I decided to experiment with the land of the working 9-5 (9-8 really) mother…and lost all sense of time!  I don’t know how you do it, working moms.  Hats off to you.  Between watching helplessly in horror every morning from inside a hurried steamy shower while my toddler opened all my Chanel nail polish bottles to amuse himself, to frantically texting plans for playdates while in the back of a cab en route to work, and rushing home at night only to inherit a freshly bathed, sweet-smelling, cranky little boy who was ready for bed, it just seemed like I needed to find another solution that fit our family.

I see I neglected to mention my husband, the one who received harried phone calls begging him to be home in time to take over from the nanny so we didn’t have to keep paying her time-and-a-half, the one who became so adept at ordering dinner from Seamless every night without complaint, and the one who took over all dog-walking duties.  That one.  I think he's glad to be allowed off the roller-coaster, along with my anxiety-prone doggy, who is just happy to have me back at home for now.  Someone has to watch him skulk around all day, acting like a cat, after all.

I look at my many wonderful Superwoman friends who manage to juggle their careers with their families and think, “Wow!  It IS possible, I just need to find the right thing!” which for me means flexibility.  Also I REALLY missed not having the physical and mental prowess to sit down and think of anything to write to you, my one-sided penpals.  So I took the summer off to regroup.

I’m happy to be back to Posh Pooping and I…pledge to poop frequently (and poshly)?  Will that do?  Shall we talk more about poop tomorrow?  Because we’re going to.  See you on Friday!

Oh and when I said I’d come home to a toddler who was “ready for bed,” I meant MY bed.  Ah yes, there comes a point, usually after approximately 10 midnight visits to my room in a 3-hour span, where even I give in and just move over.  I am ashamed to say now his little starry toddler pillow has won a permanent spot in between ours.  My little vampire has risen once again.  And again.  And again.  FML.

Actually, don’t FML.  It’s September 11th and it’s been a depressing day in the news.  Seeing all these families grieve not only makes my heart break and relive every second from that day, but more importantly makes me fervently appreciate all the loved ones I do have. 

Hug those you have a little tighter tonight, to honor all those who can’t. 

Too Posh To Poop

...or just plain terrified.

For many blissful years we lived with a separate but equal bathroom policy. We did everything in front of each other, except for that.

Let's face it. Women DO do Number Two (I cringe as I write this and I will also vehemently deny it once this post is up). I don't want to talk about it, but I fear I must because no one else does, and it was such a terribly unexpected part of my recovery.  My doctor never mentioned this, neither did the birthing coach.  So discuss it we must.

The only time we actually don't do it is post-delivery. And that's not because we don't have to, it's because we don't want to. Imagine you have just pushed out a baby - do you want to know what your body feels like afterwards?

I'll tell you.

Imagine taking a cheese grater to your nether regions, pulling out some innards, and perhaps taking on a few stitches along the way. Yes, it sounds bloody awful, I know. But everything down there is Bombs over Baghdad. It IS awful.  You can also imagine that any sort of pressure down there after this is a fearsome, horrible thing.

We can barely bring ourselves to sit on the toilet, let alone DO anything there. I tentatively approached the bathroom only when my body desperately needed to go, perched gently on the seat and squeezed my eyes shut, praying my body wanted to keep it all in.

But that isn't the way we function, sadly. What goes in must come out. It took days. I needed those days just to re-learn how to pee.

When the function that shall not be named (POOP!!! POOP!!!) finally did need to make an appearance I thought I was dying. No I'm not being dramatic...DYING! I was in pain giving birth all over again. I felt light-headed and saw dark spots swimming before my eyes. I had visions of Andy finding me indecorously slumped on the marble floor, stretched out used-to-be-cute undies around my ankles with my loose track pants pooling at my feet. I don't even want to talk about the thought of popped stitches (shudder)!

I called to him. Okay, truth be told, I screamed for him to come and sit with me. He might have held my hand, perplexed at what was going on.

We have never been closer.

There is and was an easy solution to my hard, er, difficult, problem. The next day he came home and gently placed a tiny little bottle in front of me. Colace? What was this?

"The doctor had mentioned you might want to take this to...um...help."

What was this tiny little red capsule going to help me with?  I couldn't imagine this bottle actually contained magic.

It worked. It was almost a...pleasure...to make the trip to the loo. I no longer feared that cold bathroom, or that hard seat.  The embarrassment of having broken the golden rule of our marriage thus far remained (remains) but you know, it was time to break down barriers.

Now if you see me walking down the street please don't pause to chat; I don't want to look any of you in the eye. You know too much. 

Shit Happens. 

Nay-shun-wide is in my heaaad, & other abject parenting terrors

SO, what did everyone think of the Nationwide commercial during last night's Superbowl?  I have to admit, I only heard about it this morning on the news.  After 14 years of living in America, I'm still blissfully unaware of all things football unless I've picked up something from watching The League.  I know that a touchdown requires an epic dance move, the half-time show created the term "wardrobe malfunction" and that Supermodel Gisele married a football player and moved to some town which is NOT New York.  Whaaaat?   Oh, and that the WHOLE point of sitting through men in tights tackling each other (not that I'll ever tire of buff men in skin-tight clothes...or stop giggling at the position of a "Tight-End") for an seemingly endless amount of time is to watch the uber-expensive, creative, and witty Superbowl commercials.

People are pissed. The Nationwide ad caused a furor for it's fear-mongering.  It's a depressing moment for the millions of families eagerly awaiting the next fun commercial.  It comes across as a public-service ploy by big business, playing on every parent's scaredy-cat emotions.  People are irritated that they dared cross this line, all on a platform used to garner millions of new customers every year.  How typical of an insurance company, nonetheless!  However, let's forget about that.  The ad wasn't really about that poor little dead boy.  It's about the anguish every single parent would feel if they were to cause the tiny mistake that led to a child's death.

Ever since I became a parent I've lived every moment in abject fear and terror.  "What if...?" is the question that marks my every thought.  Should he go to the park?  What if some pervert grabs him?  If my husband is looking after him while I nap, what if he falls asleep on top of him?  If grandma gives him a bath, what if she leaves for a quick second to grab a towel?  What if the nanny I hired is tired and irritated and hurts him when I'm out one day?  More recently, what if some crazy gun-toting person walks into his preschool and goes nuts?  They've just started a new type of safety drill at my son's school; filing into a small room and practicing keeping quiet.  That is equal parts crazy and common-sense to me!

Writing down these few running fears off the top of my head, I feel I can't be the ONLY parent who thinks like this.  Right?  I can't be the only parent who would mar a rare good night's sleep by waking up constantly to make sure my restful baby was breathing.  I can't be the only parent that sends emails full of instructions to family members charged with caring for my little kids for an evening or a weekend.  And yet I'm always being told that I need to relax more, that our parents used to put us to sleep on our tummies, on soft mattresses, with pillows and blankets, leave our bibs on in the crib (if we even had one), never used car seats, that seat belts were scoffed at, that nothing is going to happen.  But What If...?

We've moved into the era of helicopter parenting, where nothing is too little of a threat, and no parent can be too vigilant.  Yes it is unnecessary and extreme sometimes.  There does need to be a balance.  While we can't protect our kids every second of every day, while we can't help if some freakish accident were to occur, if it were totally preventable and our fault, life would not be livable.

I visited the site Nationwide set up for safety, Make Safe Happen and it's a perfectly useful tool for parents and grandparents to educate or remind themselves of basic safe practices within the home.  Stuff that we all know, mainly.  If it had been set up by diapers.com, babycenter, or webmd, it would be applauded.  Yeah, I KNOW.  Even the best corporate social responsibility initiatives are designed to sell, sell, sell, albeit subconciously.  Look at TOMS or Warby Parker.  Giving away shoes and glasses is wonderful, and it definitely pushes me towards purchasing their products.  I'm not offended by the Nationwide ad at all.  I like that there's a site I can visit for child safety at home, I like feeling like I'm not crazy to think of these things.   Also, I can't be mad at them when they redeemed themselves by airing a laugh out loud, Superbowl-y spot featuring Mindy Kaling and Matt Damon.

If you've been living under a rock and missed them, you can watch both spots here:

Sad and Depressing

Invisible Mindy Kaling

What are your thoughts, people?

Masseuse Does Manhattan - The Postpartum Massage

“Call her, you won’t regret it!” read the text message.

The “her” in question was Anu, a masseuse schooled in the art of post-partum massage.  New moms all over the tri-state area swore by her for themselves and their infants.

This is going to be great! I enthused, envisioning myself blissfully floating on a comfy massage table while a white-coated professional soothed my aches away.  My back and shoulders really needed some platonic lovin'.

On the day of, I excitedly opened the front door to be greeted by a squat, no-nonsense woman, sans folding massage table.  She bustled in and immediately demanded to be shown to my pantry.  Er, okay.  

“Vhere is mush-tard oil?”

“What?  I have olive oil, vegetable oil, sesame oil…truffle oil…?” I helpfully suggested.

“No.  Mush-tard.  Good for the strength” she exclaimed, pounding her chest with vigour.

Huh?  Was she going to use it as a base to diffuse lavender essence?  After much searching through the depths of my cabinets, we finally happened upon a small bottle of totally sealed mustard oil (Where did this oil come from?  Who had brought it?  We'll never know.)

Warming it for a few seconds in the microwave, she shot me a quick glance.

“Naked.”

“Hmm?”

“Naked.  On floor.”

Yeeeah, no.  She must not know how this works.  I slip off my robe and lie down on a comfortable surface, all undergarments intact.  If I actually tried to get a massage without my nursing bra on, it would be madness!  They might fall off me.  And what is all this floor bull?  Does she know how much a new mom's boobs hurt even lying facedown on a soft mattress?!

We negotiated.  Bra?  “No nuthing.”  Lie down on the bed?  “No, floor only.”  A soothing essential oil blend?  “No.” Right, she said that already. 

There I stood shivering in the middle of the nursery, feeling like I had just lost the world's least fun strip-poker game. I suppose the fact that I managed to keep my undies on was a small victory.

Having prepared her materials, the masseuse turned to me.  "Hot HIGH," she said, wriggling her eyebrows suggestively.

Oh! I was disarmed for a moment.  A most unexpected compliment from this stony-faced matron?

No.  A direction to blast the heat in the room.

I timidly lay down on our makeshift massage mat (a yoga mat lined with one of the old towels we use for Hudson), too scared to close my eyes (anytime someone's about to touch you and they take the time to ferociously push their sleeves up to their elbows, be worried.)  She poured the oil into my belly-button, and I calmed.  She MUST know what she's doing.  The actual massage will be fabulous, right?  I waited for the soothing magic her hands were sure to finally bring.

"Owwww!"

Tears sprung to my eyes.  What the hell was this?! It was like she had a personal vendetta against my uterus and was determined to make it groan in pain.  As her incredibly strong, calloused hands scraped their way across my body, I vowed she wouldn’t be allowed near my baby.

"Um, can you do it with less pressure? It's hurting me," I croaked.

"No."

Of course. Why did I even ask?

Sixty excruciating minutes later, the utterly non-sexual, female Christian Grey declared we were done.  Why did she not look satisfied?

“Stomach dark.  Not good.  I DO!”

What?  Please...please don’t come near me again, especially not my stomach, I begged inwardly, too frightened to move in case one of her muscular arms shot out to hold me in place.  I didn’t think I could handle being pummeled any further.

There was no point in arguing.  I was to stay put until she was happy with my belly, the color of which was the very least of my problems with this particular body part.  She disappeared into the kitchen for some time, no doubt perplexing my mother with her culinary requests for chickpea flour and yet more oil. Returning with a doughy mixture of the two, she proceeded to scrub my belly with this dough, pausing every so often wonder at the difference it was making to my skin color.

“See?” She proudly held up a darkened dough ball for me to examine.  It was amazing.  My stomach, which since the delivery had been a few shades darker than the rest of me, was returning to its normal skin tone!

This was wonderful…almost worth going through an hour of pain and discomfort!  When she was satisfied she looked at me and queried, “Head?” before grabbing my skull in between her palms and vigourously rubbing our seemingly never-ending supply of mustard oil into it. I closed my eyes and tried to distract myself with quadratic equations (No, not solving them...wondering what they were, did I ever learn them in school?  How come we were always told that we would need these math skills and I've never used them?  Have you?  Kiss my x, you liars).

Finally, reeking of fried food, greased up, and exhausted, we were finished.  Remember that Kim Kardashian shoot that almost broke the internet?  The one where she was drenched in oil?  Yeah, she probably got that look from me.  It was like, the same, except for the lack of makeup, a very rounded belly instead of toned abs, and in lieu of champagne we had breast-milk dripping everywhere.  You're welcome, world (and Kim K).

I couldn’t wait to jump into the shower and wash this crap off me.  I couldn't possibly get any less attractive; thank God Andy was at the office.  My skin, the rag that used to be a decent pair of Victoria's Secrets, and my towel were all stained an unseemly shade of dirty yellow (dog pee on old snow kind of yellow).  Sigh, it was not to be.

The masseuse glared at me disapprovingly.

“No.  No bath.”

What?!  Apparently one is supposed to let the oil's "strength" sink into the skin for an undetermined period of time.  At this rate I’d never be able to scrub the stench off me.  Hmm, this might be the best ever form of birth control.  As I reluctantly put on my robe, wondering if I should just stand on the yoga mat for 20 minutes until I could shower, since I couldn't bear to contaminate any other surface of my apartment, the door opened and in walked Andy.

Eurgh!

Hit by the heat of the room and the mustardy fumes, he took in the strange tableau before him and whispered a bemused "Hello" to the masseuse.

She held his gaze and declared slowly,

“I. Do. You. Now.”

Coconut Cilantro Tilapia

I might be the most reluctant chef in the world, however I do have a husband, toddler, and various playdates to feed, and THIS is my new favourite recipe!  Minimal effort + Maximum flavour!  The best thing about this is that at its simplest, the flavors are really fresh and yummy, and it's also easy to dress up and embellish for more accomplished chefs (which I most certainly am not)! I spend so much time making sure there's some sort of non-vegetarian food in the house that I routinely forget about myself, and then I end up ordering Seamless.  So I suppose the ABSOLUTE best thing about this is that the sauce can also be used for tofu and noodles, and you can have both dishes made in the same amount of time!

The way I like to make it is as follows:

Fish:

2-4 tilapia fillets

1 Tbsp of Toasted Sesame Oil

1 Tbsp of Soy Sauce

1 Tbsp of Fresh Lemon Juice

First, preheat your oven to 425 degrees. I always forget this until I'm totally done.

Mix the sesame oil, soy sauce and lemon juice in a baking dish large enough to accommodate the filets.

Wash the tilapia and pat dry, then place in the baking dish, making sure to coat both sides with the marinade.

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Coconut-Cilantro Sauce: 

1 cup of low-fat Coconut Milk

1 cup of Cilantro Leaves

2 large cloves Garlic

1" Ginger

1/2 tsp Garam Masala

1/2 tsp Salt

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What I love about having a Vitamix is I can just chuck all the ingredients in there and blend on high speed until the sauce is very smooth.  So you know, 10 seconds at the most! An entire sauce in 10 seconds...amazing!  If you don't have a Vitamix you can of course use a regular blender, making sure you chop up all the ingredients properly first.  

Then...

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Pour some of the mixture over the fish filets (as much or as little as you prefer...I personally like to serve it with lots of sauce so I use about 3/4 of the mixture), and bake for approximately 15 minutes.  Once the fish easily flakes with a fork, you're done! Serve over rice or noodles.

If you're vegetarian, like me, sauté chopped scallions over high heat in a little butter and toasted sesame oil, add tofu and chopped veggies, with a dash of soy sauce and Sriracha.  After a few minutes, reduce to a low heat and toss with cooked hakka noodles.  Finally, add 1/4 of the sauce mixture and toss to evenly coat.  Keep the heat on low until everything is nice and hot.  You'll get a deliciously delicate coconut-cilantro flavour on the noodles, while the tofu and veggies stand out on their own.  I could literally eat an entire wokful of this dish (hence, no picture)... my mouth is watering right now.

Try it and let me know what you think!

Who Let Me Adult?

When this shirt showed up as a sponsored post on my FaceBook newsfeed, I thought to myself, How Do They KNOW?!  These social media algorithms are creepy.

I don't really need the shirt though, because the thought is permanently etched on my face.

Let me set the scene for you.  It's 6.15am.  I've been up since 5.30 (I was also up at 2.30am, by the way).  I'm hunched over the couch (scrolling through Facebook, naturally) with a 3-month-old laying across my lap.  He's finally back asleep.  It would be peaceful were it not for my 3 year old, right next to me, jumping up and down on the sofa.  Side-eyeing him, he looks like he has a perilously saggy diaper, and I'm wondering what the next landing will bring.  He needs to be watered and fed.  He wasn't supposed to be up for another hour.  I was supposed to go back to bed.  When I try explaining this to him he points to the lightening sky and says "No-but Mommmee it's Good Morning Tymmme!"  Right he is.

The nanny isn't due to arrive until 8, at which point I'll be wide awake.

There are lots of days where I wake up to wrangle the toddler and the baby and I think to myself, how on earth did I get here? Where did these tiny people come from? How am I supposed to shape their lives and futures, and turn them into responsible adults? Isn't that rather a tall order?

I go to a parent-teacher event at my son's preschool, where I have little sidebars with myself while I'm talking to the other parents.  They're so grown up and put together! And I feel a teenager with a bigger wardrobe allowance!  I'm not sure how they could possibly take me seriously.  Then I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror and realize, I look just like them.  I'm in my early 30's, I have TWO kids, and somehow our apartment hasn't burnt to the ground.  I'm not an impostor!  

That feeling I had when we had been released from the hospital after delivery, walking past the nurses station realllllly slowly, waiting for someone to say "Hey! Stop!  You can't leave with that baby!  You're not ready!" never quite goes away.

Do you ever have moments like these?  It's bewildering.

Another Day, Another Diet

I write this having just admonished myself for grabbing another Galaxy Ripple chocolate bar from the fridge. Every morning I wake up and promise myself “Green Juice!” as much as I dislike it, “No croissants!” even though I love me some real Viennoiserie, and “Vegetables!” though I really just want rice and pasta.

I wouldn’t call it “lying” to myself, really. I like to think I just start the day remarkably optimistic, considering I know how things will turn out by 6pm. This day though, this day shall be the day to change all others. This day I will finally be…healthy. And I’ll never look back.

Until tonight, when I will shame myself by thinking of all the shit I just ingested because I was tired, stressed, and hungry. Sigh.

I’ve tried to get excited about vegetables, I promise I have. They’re so…green. And FRESH! YAY! But as I miserably chomp on stalks of broccoli and asparagus, I can’t help but think that some Spaghetti Aglio e Oglio would go really well with it. Last week I met a friend for lunch at Fred’s and ordered a SALAD. No profiteroles. No Sancerre. It was depressing but she was a Size Two and I just couldn’t do it. I promptly came home and made up for it by inhaling my new delivery from Instacart. Damn you Instacart! I don’t even have the excuse of “Well, I walked to Fairway…sooo…!” It’s just…there. All the British goodies I love at the click of a button. Sure, I order healthy stuff too. That butternut squash has been taking up a significant portion of my fridge for a few weeks now.   Is it still fresh, by the way?

I make complicated salads and mix in nuts to fill me up…but I’m hungry an hour later. My nanny stares at me eating these gourmet creations straight from the salad spinner, because, portions. I don’t have any receptacle large enough to fit a whole bag of baby spinach, walnuts, avocado and quinoa. A feeding trough, that’s the next step.

I was so thrilled at 7 weeks post-partum, when I could slip on my jeans again! Silly me, throwing away my maternity pants. “Where’d your belly go babe?’ asked Andy in wonder. Proudly I congratulated myself on my nursing schedule and my relatively healthy diet. If I could just keep this up, I’d be back into my wedding clothes in no time! But then…my mother left and reality (and fat cells) came raining down upon me.  I went from getting 10 hours of sleep a night to waking up multiple times with the baby, sneaking treats from the kitchen to give myself something to look forward to at 4am. Gone were my breakfasts of fruit and eggs, replaced instead by 2 strong cups of Earl Grey and half a packet of biscuits.   Salads are cute but pizza is oh-so gratifying.

A few weeks ago I wore my jeans and they felt a big snug. Hmm, I wonder if they shrunk in the wash? The next day my toddler came traipsing in to the bathroom as I was showering (Sidebar: Why does he choose to come in and poop in his diaper at this very moment? When the shower is hot and the bathroom is steamy, amplifying the horrendous odour? I’ve tried switching the time of day I shower, hoping to evade this phenomenon, but it’s like his bowels just know when to go.)  Anyway, yes, my son came in and as I was toweling off he put both his tiny hands on my belly and asked if I had another baby brother still coming out. It was then I took a good look in the mirror and saw, with horror, that I did indeed look 5 months pregnant. When had this happened? I HAVE to go to the gym!

So I went, once.

I’ve been busy, ok?! And it made me really hungry.

Tomorrow. There’s always tomorrow. But tomorrow I will pick up my son from pre-school and try to walk right by Eric Kayser, refusing to allow the scent of freshly baked Pain au Chocolat to lure me in. A minute later, while I’m line to pay for the pastry, I’ll try envisioning the cellulite forming on my thighs; it won’t serve to dissuade me. “Today it’s ok. Just today,” I tell myself.

The world’s most pathological liar.

No I'm Not Still Pregnant, I Just Look Like This Now.

"HEY! So did you have the baby yet...or not?"

Errrr.....Not the question anyone wants to hear.  Especially not as it's shouted from across the street.  I looked at him in embarrassment and horror.  He looked at me in horror and embarrassment.   My mind went blank.  Responding with a smile and a "Yes, 3 months ago, actually," would make me feel waaay worse, so I said nothing.  There was no saving the situation.  So we just kept staring at each other until he tried to dig himself out of the hole he'd created.

"Err...I mean, of course!  Of course you had the baby!  I didn't see you when you turned around, that's all!"

Where's a convenient pothole when you need one?  I needed to disappear, stat!  I looked down at my turd-brown puffer coat, referred to affectionately (or maybe derisively) by my husband as my "dog-walking coat," which really means it's only aesthetically fit for walking a dog, in the dead of night, far away from the well-lit buildings all over the Upper East Side.

I was on dog-related business that late afternoon.  Hudson's poo got stuck to his swishy tail the night before and I had to give him a bath at 10pm.  So I thought I'd better give him a short cat-like haircut before I had to spend another cold winter's evening hunched over the bathtub, being sprayed with loose, flying dog shit every time he shook out his fur.  That brings us to this fateful day, when I was picking him up from his grooming appointment, innocently wearing my dog-walking coat.  Notice how I've spent a lot of time subliminally blaming this coat for the whole are-you-still-pregnant-or-what comment.

Because that's really what it had to be.  An unflattering cut.

What's worse is the guy who made the comment was one of the owners of the establishment.

"Jeez, she probably wants to kill me!" he half-joked to his partner, who was behind the counter, a safe distance away.  He looked pretty amused but said nothing.  Smart.

"You know, my wife's pregnant," said the perpetrator, as if that was to make it better.  "You're kinda chubby but don't worry, so is my wife," is what I heard.

Ah...I can't wait until he has sympathy cravings and packs on the man-pounds.

How many times have you seen someone and whispered to the person next to you, "Is she pregnant?! I can't tell whether to say congratulations or just ignore it!"

And now it was actually happening.  To me.

The three things I've learnt from this skin-melting experience:

It's NEVER okay to ask this question!

I need a new coat.  For this I need to lose weight so I can fit into my regular size.  You see my conundrum.

Hudson is throwing major shade at me from the corner of my bed (where he's taken up residence since the incident.  Not sure if he's silently protesting with me, or if he's pissed he looks like a pussy. Cat.)

In other news, when I went for my pedicure today, the nail technician leaned forward as I was in the midst of unzipping my coat (yes, same stupid coat!) and ogled my stomach while rubbing it (tummy, not coat).  All her Korean cronies started Oohing.  I think the time for rubbing my belly ended a few months ago, when the baby CAME OUT.  Now it's just molestation.

Perverts.  Or should I be kind of flattered?

Sleep Regression: Babies Is Pimps Too (Go On Brush Your Shoulders Off)

Where have I been for the past 2 weeks?

In New Baby Purgatory, otherwise known as 4-Month Sleep Regression, otherwise known as the Land of the Barely Living.  Our anthems? "Stayin' Alive" and "I Will Survive."  Maybe a little Aretha, if I'm feeling sassy (and really, when am I not?)

What is sleep regression?  It's when your adorable, chubby, sweet little bundle of eyelashes and spit bubbles basically acts like a bit of an asshole.  For weeks.

He won't nap, but he'll be super pissy and cry for an hour.  This doesn't mean I can sit in the glider and scroll through BuzzFeed's latest must-read list (15 Ways You Know You Went To Boarding School in England).  Oh, no.  It's an hour of standing up, bouncing, swaying, praying, shushing, rocking.  His little baby-radar goes off as soon as I try to get comfortable (how does he KNOW when I'm sitting down?)  I swear, my butt-cheeks start to quiver as they approach the couch.  Feed and repeat at the next naptime.  Long walks in the stroller?  Nope.  Wide-eyed and full of wonder, he'll happily stare at every freaking branch we pass, but God forbid he closes his eyes for longer than a blink.  Actually, is he mocking me?  I swear he didn't even blink.  It was like his eyes just took turns blinking, so yeah, a series of winks.  Lest he actually fall asleep.  When he does deign to sit, it won't be in his bouncer, rocker, or any of the baby accoutrements we were suckered into buying, instead insisting on sitting upright on my lap, just so, mind you.  A degree off here and there will Set. Him. Off.

So what is the big deal?  Well, naptime is when I eat breakfast - shower - write - take a full breath - think. It's when I collect sanity for the next few hours.  Especially for bedtime.

Bedtime. It used to be so simple.  We had a whole bedtime routine.  Bath, feed, sit in bouncer, swaddle, sleep.  Now it's Bath, feed, moderately successful burping effort, and the second his sleepy, heavy body touches the bouncer he is up again.  With a vengeance.  As I helplessly watch his placid, sweet little face turn bright red with anger and his eyes glower with rage, it's kind of hard not to take this personally.  When he starts to roar at me for DARING to put him down, and punishes me for the next hour by continuously crying ("See? I'm rocking you now...like a maniac...doesn't this make you happy with me?" "Bitch I'll teach you to put me down like that again...") all he needs is a tiny little PimpCup and a cane.  I'm in uber-exhausted mode.  We're both crying and screaming.

Right now I'd settle for the lack of R-E-S-P-E-C-T to get some S-L-E-E-E-E-P.

When he finally does suddenly fall asleep I'm such a bag of nerves that all I can do is zone out for an hour and then fall into my bed, teeth unbrushed (I know, it's so awful, don't judge), living in fear of when he will next wake.  The nightmare isn't over.  He'll be up multiple times, at which point I'll cycle through patting&shushing (squinting without my glasses in the dark, to ascertain whether we are about to enter the "feed me now or you'll regret it" phase), rushing to the living room with a sleep-sacked baby over my shoulder, while simultaneously popping buttons on my pajama shirt, desperate to pull out the boobs before the shit hits the fan, and then sitting in the dark for 45 minutes until he digests.  Because if I put him down to sleep too soon, I'll have a crib full of congealed breastmilk to deal with.  And even though I seem to bathe in it, I do not like congealed breastmilk.

I know I owe you recipes, a Favourite Thing, and a story...but have pity patience.  I'm working on it!

Oh, how did we get through the sleep regression?  I'll let you know when we get there.  Still cursing about 16 hours a day, sleeping about 4 hours a day, and somehow eating cookies 24 hours a day. 

Sleep Regression: Insane In The Membrane

As a continuation of my enviable state these days, let me invite you into a night in my life...

8-9.20 pm:  Crying.  In my ear.  WHY won't he sleep?!

9.30 pm - THANKS BE TO GOD all is well! I must reward myself with some reality television (Hey there, Real Housewives of Melbourne!  You and your Australian accents will remain my dirty little secret.  Dirty because that's what I am.  And not in a fun way.  I mean, I used to be, in a fun way.  Now I'm just actually dirty.  He spat up down my chest and inside my shirt.  It was warm and kind of lumpy.  And now it's so, sooo cold.  I couldn't put him down because, shitfit, and so I just let it pool in my bra, and dry.  This is why I need you, Real Housewives.) And dinner. I'm so hungry.  Wait, there's only a spoonful left of the food I made yesterday.  After facing the reality that I might eat my own arm by the time Seamless gets here, I'll just have peanut butter on toast.

11.00 pm - BED.  Is there any feeling more wonderful than cool, freshly laundered sheets underneath my aching limbs? I do a little starfish dance to luxuriate in this pleasure before I pass out.  I'm so tired. I secretly hope hubs doesn't want to "cuddle."

12.00 am - WAAAAAAAHHHHH!  What. The. Fuuuuuck.  Shush/pat doesn't work. He wants to nurse; off the living room we go.  Shitshitshit! I forgot the nursing pillow in my toddler's room! I can't go in there! I proceed to nurse on stacked couch cushions, one hand preventing the baby from slipping off and the other holding a boob in place. I can practically feel them sagging with every suckle. Stupid stupid me!

1 am: He must have digested by now. I'll wrap him and put him back in his crib. He's asleep. I'm awesome. I hear an angel's chorus as I get back into my welcoming bed.

42 minutes later: Crying. Again! WHAT is going on?  He spat up! Thank god it's not on him though.  Perhaps he'll be more comfortable out of the crib. I throw him over my shoulder, and we go to fetch the Rock'n'Play.  BURP! A little cottage cheese on my tee shirt; no biggie...EWwww! It's in my HAIR!!! Like a bird poo in a tangled nest! That shit'll brush right out, right? (It won't. I'm currently mustering up the energy for a shower).

When I reswaddle him I notice parts of it are wet with spit up. Whatever, I'm sure he won't even notice. Except now he's awake and gurgling at me in the dark. I can feel him staring. Ignoring him, I poke one foot out from under my duvet and rock him. Once. Because I've fallen asleep. Not to worry though because a few minutes later...

1.52 am: A door creaks. That ominous sound is my toddler's calling card. Suddenly he appears at the foot of my bed, a tiny shadow staring at me and pointing to my bed, wanting permission to sleep with us.  I get up to take him back to him room.  "But I eurgh lebyrch" What?? He says it louder. Nope. Whatever it is, I can assure you it's a nope. I scoop him up just as his face starts to crumble into that high-pitched, elongated wail only 3 year olds can master, and run with him back to his room.  I plop him back into his bed.

Wait, why is there a wet spot on his pajama pants? It's too large to be from tears, but it's in such an odd place that it couldn't possibly be pee, could it??? Mystery wetness be damned! Let's cuddle and sleep. I tuck him in and head back to my room after a few hugs.

4.00 am: Loud lip smacking. Baby is happily chewing away at his chubby little fingers, loud enough to wake the dog up.  But I got 2 solid hours of sleep! I can do this. He wants to eat.

We go.

5.00 am: Guess who's back, back again? Mommy's back, back in bed...I practically faint into a deep sleep.

6.00 am: WHY? WHY IS HE AWAKE? Why is this happening to me?!  This can't be happening! He can't be hungry. I pick him up and try desperately to rock him back to sleep. IT WORKS! Hallelujah!

As I'm putting him down...the toddler comes back in. Oh. My. God.

Defeated, I don't know whether to laugh or to cry. I send him to my bed and get in. Only I can't sleep because his tiny little feet are burrowing into my butt crack. How? Why? What the hell? I'm losing my temper. Hubs wakes up and tries to cuddle him (by putting him in a headlock).  Now I'm worried and can't sleep. I get up to reposition him. I fall back down and try to sleep. Andy feels my seething anger and quietly takes him to the living room.

7.00 am: Baby is awake for the day.  I want to shoot myself.

Today I have subsisted on a diet of chocolate biscuits and a bottle of wine.

"Sleep Like A Baby"

I think it's safe to assume that the person who coined the term "Sleep like a baby" was a man.  Obviously some well-coiffed buffoon paid a visit to the nursery on his estate and, while the exhausted nanny struggled to remain upright and awake for Sir's visit (which cut into the brief rest she was to have), remarked upon how envious it was to be able to "sleep like a baby," while chewing on his pipe and peering down into the bassinet. Requisite fatherly duties dispensed with, he exited the room in a puff of foul-smelling Turkish tobacco smoke and in his sound-insulated, wood-paneled study, put quill to paper to record for centuries the most maligned term in English language.

Sleep like a baby, my ass.

In fact, I hope he spent the rest of his days sleeping like a baby.  Waking every three hours desperate to eat, crying for no apparent reason, and shitting his pants.

Between the baby being awake, and the short spurts of blissful sleep, there is an arid wasteland of putting the baby to sleep.  It is in this desperate time period that we are at our most harried, exhausted, sensitive, and imaginative.  There will be WORLD PEACE if only I can get this baby to bed.  I will dance in a field of flowers with sunlight streaming through my hair, if ONLY I can get this baby to sleep.  Woe betide you who interrupt me from this task.  The blinders are on.  There is NOTHING more important and completely necessary than getting this baby to shut his eyes and sleep.  On a recent car journey, with the baby refusing to sit in his seat and instead spending three hours wailing away in my arms (I possess biceps like the Hulk at this point), when Andy asked me to wipe our older son's sticky face, I almost picked up the car seat and threw it at his head. "Cleaning his face isn't on my priority list right now!" I snapped back, before being absorbed back into the hellish world from whence I came.

But once the baby is asleep, oh then, it's all summery breezes and butterflies.  The tornado raging away around me dies down and everything is beautiful.  Unless he is just pretending to sleep, of course.

This happens only when I MOST need the baby to sleep.  Say, for example, when I have been up for hours at night and it's finally morning naptime.  He's pissy but through a dizzying combination of bouncing, patting, and continuous swaddling of those tiny fists that love to break free and pull out the pacifier just as he is falling asleep, it's working!  Eureka!  Now I totally know how Archimedes felt! I have an out of body experience as I forget my weary limbs...I'm completely focused on my task of putting the baby to sleep.  Suddenly, I can climb mountains.  I start imagining all the wonderful things I can achieve when he (definitely) sleeps.  I could NAP!  Wait, who has time for a nap when there is food to be had?!  I could eat a HOT breakfast!   I could write!  I could shower AND brush. my. teeth!

My head swimming with dreams and possibilities, I realize I am bone tired.  I need to sleep, before anything.  All else can be achieved...later.  I'm still bouncing, I'm still patting, but my eyes are heavy.  The baby is breathing steadily and sleeping soundly.  My eyelids are drooping.  I'm actually already dreaming.  Dreaming of the cool sheets under my tired body, the soft feather-stuffed pillow beneath my weary head, the fluffy duvet insulting me from reality...I just can't wait.  I'm already there, even while bouncing with the baby in my arms.  I just need to transplant him successfully from my body to the crib.

Half-asleep, I glance down before I make my stealthy moves. One.  One tiny little beady eye is open and is peeking up at me.

Sigh.

Then, a gummy smile.

Shit.

The beautiful, peaceful world I just built around me comes crashing down.  It's really cold in here, I really need a shower, and my eyes are burning.  Stupid hopes and dreams.

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

I was in bliss - bliss being a piping hot shower.  I had leisurely washed away the dried spit up, spilt breast-milk, and other bodily fluids that seemed to always find their way onto my tired, depleted body every day. I felt so clean.  Yay for me! As I rinsed, I suddenly felt something foreign making its way down my body.  Paralyzed with fear for a moment, I risked a glance down and jumped back in shock as far as I could (within the confines of my shower cubicle), trying to get away from the tarantula that had just snaked down my leg and lazily dropped to the floor.

Only, upon squinting at the thing, I realized it wasn't a tarantula at all.  What it was, was a rather large knotted clump of what used to be my beautiful, lustrous hair.

Shit.  This was more frightening than when it was a tarantula.

I quickly thought back to how many prenatal vitamins I had left in the bottle by my bedside. Had I been taking them every day? Did I skip a few? This wasn't supposed to happen for many months yet! In any case it wasn't going to happen to me because my hair was Just So Perfect.

It's not fair!  Being a curly girl, my hair has been a daily struggle since I was born.  My corkscrew curls as a chubby toddler made way to wiry, wavy hair that was neither here nor there (This was the 80's.  Side ponytails were not a good look on me, and now you know where my dislike of scrunchies comes from), then to a greasy-rooted but fluffy-ended pyramid during puberty, and finally, FINALLY into perfection.  We had a rough past but things were glorious from then on out...until I had the baby.

I try not to blame him.  It's not healthy.

One has to go higher up the food chain.  What false, woman-hating God is this who screws with new moms in this manner!?! Were they recovering from some Deity all-night rager, on the day they had to decide the minutiae of how our bodies worked?  Were they just sitting around on their respective clouds, nursing some holy headaches and trying to get through the work day by being particularly imaginative?

God A: "You know what would be fun? Let's make their bodies too small to actually hold the baby, so that their bellies have to stretch out...like play dough."

God B: "Cool! OMG and they should totally squeeze the babies out of a tiny hole in one end!  SO fun! The bleeding should only last like, 6 weeks, tops.

God A: "Yes! And afterwards, we can blur the line between their waists and hips so that their entire midsections are just amorphous blobs.  (Solemnly) The only way to get their waistlines back are through sacrifice and physical exertion.  It'll be a nice way to make them appreciate the bodies we bestowed upon them."

God B: "Hmm...I'm feeling artistic.  I kinda just want to draw a magical dark line down their bellies.  Hey, vertical stripes are slimming (giggles)!"

God A: "Do it, bro! We'll call it something exotic, like "Linea Negra" We can make sure it fades with the passage of time (waving arm through air dramatically)."

God B: "Waiiiit, you know that utterly gorgeous hair we gave them a few months ago? Let's have them shed it...

God A: "Like dogs?"

God B: "Duuude.  It's like you always know what I'm thinking (shakes head in awe)!"

Back to Earth.  Indeed, soon every time I ran my fingers through my disappearing locks, an alarming number of strands would pull away into my palms. One fine day my shower stall turned into a mini bath-tub and I had to call our maintenance guy up to unclog the drain.  Embarrassed, I joked about how hairy my husband was, and hid in the other room until he was done.  Part of me didn't want to see the horrific findings, and part of me didn't want to see the look of wonder on his face as he pulled out more than a scalp's worth of hair.  I debated lecturing him on how humans shed 50-100 hairs per day, but how when a woman is pregnant, her body hangs on to every strand until a few months post-partum...but it's an exhausting explanation and I think he just wanted to leave my house of horrors.  You see how I decided to hide away.

I still maintain that was all Andy's chest hair, but whatever. I guess some of it could be attributed to me. Not my chest hair. I don't have chest hair. That would be weird.

Let's talk some more about the hair on my head.  I tried everything - rubbing warm coconut oil in it (that brought back memories of school friends in India, who had to oil and double-braid their hair every morning as part of the school dress-code.  I used to feel sorry for them but now they have the most fabulous hair of all time!) I tried the latest and greatest elasticizing and deep conditioning at-home treatments.  In the end I had to settle for chopping it all off.  My stylist looked at my split-ends and rat's tail in surprise and said "What happened to you?!" before she took her shears to them and mercifully restored some dignity to my fading mane.  Thank God (but not those A and B a-holes) that the Lob is in.

Hopefully the passage of time will indeed bring back my hair, my waistline, and my sanity.

Do you have an inexplicably gorgeous head of hair, even after your baby?  If so, please share your secrets below! I will literally try anything.  If I had a placenta handy I'd eat it, if that would help. Or rub it into my scalp. Potato, potahto.  

Paranormal Activity

I seem to have developed preternatural hearing.

I swear, even in my deepest sleep, I can distinguish between the roar of the air-conditioner, Hudson’s snuffles, and the telling mini-creak of the floorboards when tiny feet carry my sleepy toddler into my room so we can all “be to-ge-ther”. At the sound of him approaching I usually get up and am ready to escort him back to his room, no matter what the time.

Recently, he has become something of a master negotiator. First he tried perseverance. After the fifth visit to my room, I could see him smiling every time I led him back to his bed. He knew he was just going to give it 10 minutes and try again. He knew he would break me in a battle of wills. Toddlers are not to be screwed with. They will make you PAY.   Now he tells me in a surprisingly clear voice “I just wanna lie down in your bed a LITTLE BIT…” It’s 3 a.m. and I’ve done the dance between our rooms 7 times already. I want to cry. Or laugh. I’m not sure if I’m super proud of him or if I hate him just a little bit. But I’m hardly likely to argue with him. There’s no reasoning with a toddler. Smart SOB.

I KNOW if I bring him to bed, I stand no chance against his hard little fists and fidgety legs. It’s really cute to feel his tiny hand across my throat in the morning, but it’s a bit alarming in the middle of the night. Once the sun rises, a sweet little foot on my back is adorable. But not ALL. NIGHT. LONG. And not when that foot ends up in my pajama bottoms (Sorry for getting mad at you, husband), and not when I have to listen to an accompanying chorus of Andy harrumphing in annoyance (it seems our little guy likes to furiously rub his feet on a hairy chest). Hey, if you’re willing to get up and put him back in his room - go for it! Yay Papi! No? Oh, well then. Stop your near-silent judgement and move over.

Lately though, since the baby came along, my abilities have diminished. I can’t discern if the sounds I’m hearing are from Andy (who sleeps with a pillow over his face as insurance against all child-led noise), or from Hudson, who has a habit of choosing the dead of night to continuously lick his paws/drag his face across the carpet/bark at phantom intruders. Or is it the new baby, who has some weird sleep snort thing going on, which I’m obsessed with? All this has me feeling insecure in my powers, and I find myself randomly sitting up multiple times a night, making sure I know which sounds are coming from every creature in the room.

Among the normal cacophony on any given night, the toddler’s nocturnal visits have become a little creepy. I haven’t been able to hear him approaching at all. I must be so sleep deprived that I faint and miss the telltale creaks. Sometimes I open my eyes and he’s just…there. Like last night, when he went all Paranormal Activity on me. It was the middle of the night, I was fast asleep but I felt my skin prick…like someone was watching me. I opened my eyes, saw him looming ominously over me, and screamed! A second later, I realized it was just my child, silently staring. My harmless, loveable three-year-old. Not a demon hell-bent on torturing me (although one could argue that they are one and the same). Nonplussed by my scream, he proceeded with the business at hand.

“I want to sweep wit you.”

“You can’t, let’s go back to your bed.”

“But I want to SWEEP wit you.”

“I know baby, let me cuddle you in your bed”

“But I just came to cuddle you in YOUR bed.”

Since I never heard him coming into my room, I didn’t get out of bed. Hence, I was attempting to negotiate with this sharp-minded individual (who really should be wearing pin-striped pajamas) from the drowsy warmth of my cozy duvet and pillow-top mattress. Hardly a position of power. My sleep threatening to leave me at any second, I hastily agreed and moved aside. I wonder if tonight he’ll just lie there and be still. Yes! Tonight he’ll be fine! I’m so optimistic I’m starting to feel giddy. Fool.

Up I get to fetch his little toddler pillow and his TeddyCat (it’s neither a Teddybear, nor a Cat. It is, in fact, a dog. But he refuses to believe me and so we have the first hybrid-cuddly toy ever. Doing great things for the Trans (species) community since 2012). Upon my return, I find he has made himself very comfortable on my down-filled Frette pillow and is already sleeping peacefully. On my side of the bed.

Andy doesn’t even know he’s in here (or he’s pretending like he doesn’t know). I can’t very well leave! Or maybe I can. Toddler pillow in hand, TeddyCat in the other, I use my foot to push the baby bassinet into the other room and tuck myself into the twin bed.

Best night’s sleep I’ve had in ages.

The Minefield

I steady my breath, willing it to be even and calm. My muscles are taut, poised to gently rise up, one limb at a time. I balance nimbly on the balls of my feet, sending a blessing to my pre-natal yoga instructor for the hundreds of Warrior poses she made me do. As I slowly make my ascent, I say a silent prayer. Katniss is about to enter the arena.

Or is it a silent plea? Please let me make it out of the minefield.

If my ankle cracks - it's over. I navigate my way towards the exit in pitch darkness, holding my breath, taking a moment in between each step to ensure I make the right choice of floorboard to step on next.

While I play the parenting version of “the floor is water and it’s full of crocodiles,” a mantra plays in my head. Please don't creak please don't creak please don’t creak.

I wonder, what will it be that does me in this time? The ankle? The stupid parquet flooring which only seems to creak while he is sleeping (bastard flooring), or the ominous sounds of the door squeaking (note to self, smile at maintenance man tomorrow and ask for WD40.)

Who ever knew a nursery with a sleeping baby in it could be fraught with so much apparent disaster at every turn?

I make it to the partially open door, and visualize myself as a snake, willing my body to suddenly attain a flexibility it has never possessed, as I try to squeeze through silently.

I’m at the threshold...I allow myself a brief turnaround to glimpse my sweetly sleeping baby, pivot, and ever-so-gently Shut. The. Door.

Hallelujah! I strut through the hallway of my apartment, receiving accolades from my imaginary audience. Screw the diet! Chocolates and tea all around!

This adrenaline-pumping experience is a twice daily routine. Lest it get boring, the exact stage of sleep the baby is in does change things for me. Sometimes I army-crawl across the room (who convinced me to buy this long pile sheepskin rug anyway?) dropping to the floor at any little whimper or deep exhale, waiting for my break to continue scuttling across like a cockroach. Sometimes I play the weight-game, where I’m patting the baby and I slowly remove my hand, hovering directly above in case he makes a sound, at which point it will come crashing back down upon him, the lullaby I’m humming increasing in pitch and sounding more frantic than ever. Sometimes I make it back outside, only to realize the bloody monitor is still inside the nursery, next to the crib.

There's nothing like a another nerve-tingling roundtrip to make me crave a soothing bottle of wine. Sancerre for naps and Pinot Noir for bedtime, sounds about right and not at all disturbing, yes? YES?!

And sometimes, having risked a look back, I'll see the baby watching my tribal dance across his room with fascination. He lets me know that he appreciates my efforts at entertainment by making guttural cooing noises and flailing his limbs like he can fly. Once we lock eyes of course, (his full of mirth and mine full of panic), his expression darkens and the wailing begins.

I'm at a crossroads. What is the right thing to do? If I quickly hide behind this convenient wall, will he wonder if he made up the mommy-sighting and just go to sleep?

Let me try it.

Nope, he's really pissed now. Should I leave and shut the door?

Oh, my bad. That just resulted in blood-curdling screams. I briefly imagine the neighbours calling the police and child services knocking at my door (presumably during naptime). I rush back in and resume patting, pretending like I never left, unable to look at him. He won't accept my apologetic actions.

Pick me up or else, Mother, if that even IS your real name.

As I oblige and cuddle him, he rears back his head to show me the full extent of his displeasure by screaming in my face, tears and snot streaming down his. I can't believe I did this to a poor, helpless baby! I'm sorry!

Having taught his errant mother a solid lesson in obeying orders, he soon settles down just enough to sleep, but only as long as I'm holding him.  The minute his sleep-sack laden legs touch the mattress he's twitching like a fish out of water. I'm stuck between a rock and a hard place. Immobile but finally a little less frazzled, I am content to hold him like a bag of flour, because mommy-guilt.

It seems the little shorty has indeed won the battle.

Tell me you have gone through this too. Please.

Yours in Desperation,

V

The Mom-iform

"Babe, you look so pretty!"

My eyes immediately rolled back into my head as I thought about what my husband could have possibly done to tell me such a bold-faced lie.  What trouble was he in?  Where was he last night? Why was there glitter on his pillow this morning?

I hadn't slept more than a few hours a night for weeks now. I was running on chocolates and coffee (disappointingly putting on all the pounds I had shed while nursing), and would eagerly stare at the front door around 8 each morning, when the nanny was due to arrive.  I needed to nap, shower, and to get all my errands done through my mom-haze before she left again at 6.  Oooh, that sounds so productive, but let me be clear: my nap would turn into a 3 hour sleep which left me feeling more fatigued than I had been before, and I would spend the rest of my day half-assing all the errands I had to run.  Before I knew it, 6pm was upon me and my bed was still unmade, I would be dependent on Seamless for dinner yet again (can we talk about a New Mom discount please, Seamless Web?), and looking pretty wasn't really something that happened to me anymore. Oh, and of course this was all punctuated by the baby needing to feed every 2-3 hours.

"Um, I know I look like shit actually," I challenged, nodding my uneven bird's-nest bun and make-up free face.

I would catch this liar!

"It's just nice not to see you in pajamas," he sheepishly admitted.

SO BASICALLY you're agreeing that I DO look like shit.  I stared down in disbelief at my crumpled, saggy jeans and loose blouse (miraculously not spit-up upon yet.  Or maybe it had dried into the pattern). Not exactly an ensemble to be proud of.  But an ensemble, no less! I always put on clothes during the day. It dawned on me that he just never ever saw me in them. When he left in the morning, I was in pajamas. When he returned in the evening, I was another, fresh set of pajamas.

"I don't only wear pajamas!  While I run around all day I wear..."

Yoga pants.

I couldn't even say those ironic words.  I wore yoga pants for everything but yoga.  I wore yoga pants like they were couture.  I actually wore them to one of our lunch dates once.

Oh, the disappointment! How had this happened, to moi?!

When I was growing up in England, I always had a school uniform and oh how I hated it. I would Houdini out of it on the minibus ride from my boarding school to the train station (Sidebar: No wonder the driver was always grinning at me.  I thought I was slick but I'm pretty sure he caught quite a few glimpses of my skinny, opaque-tight clad legs). Never would I have thought that I would unknowingly choose to put on a new uniform when I had kids.

Of course then I worked in the fashion industry and succumbed to the whole "I only wear black dahling" ethos, but truly, that was mainly because I was too lazy to plan my outfit in the mornings.  Black, white, and red are stylish at all times. Yes, a friend's husband once asked her why I was dressed so morbidly, but c'est chic, darling. And I was really into this thing called sleep back then.  All the kids were doing it (apart from mine).

In the days B.C. (Before Children), I used to look at mothers my age and snigger at how unkempt they were. I'll never wear a ratty old sweatshirt! I shan't go out with unwashed hair! I can't possibly imagine leaving the apartment in gym clothes! Who were these women?  How could they let themselves go like this?  It just wasn't acceptable!

In the days A.D. (After the Death of style) I realized how wrong I had been to judge those women.  It's so HARD to find clothes that fit, that don't hang weirdly on your deflated, sagging, tired body.  One could argue that your body is more messed up after giving birth that it ever is during pregnancy!  Maternity clothes feel funny after you've abused the lycra content through 9 months of belly-growing, though I'll admit those stretchy, high waistbands allow for a semi-decent silhouette on date night.

I can't abide by having a momiform. I need a Resurrection. From now on, yoga pants are for physical exercise. Maternity clothes are firmly packed up, leaving me no choice but to Spanx it up under my regular clothing.

That comes with it's own set of problems.  My poor husband is too used to touching my wasitline and feeling the unusual firmness of control underwear in all its beige-toned glory. And let's talk about how sexy they are. Not exactly giving me a leg up in the wasteland of post-partum romance, are they?

The other night instead of pajamas, I wore a nightie. I mean, don't get too excited. One could generally classify it as a long tee shirt, but you catch my drift. As my husband got into bed, he gently touched my back. Then paused. Then slid his hand higher. Then paused. Then higher, and again another pause before whispering to me in frustration "How HIGH do your pants GO babe?!" As I blankly stared at him, he caught on and we both dissolved into fits of giggles. And then the baby woke up. And then it was all over, before it had even begun.

In short, the whole pajama thing can't be helped, don't fall into the habit of wearing false workout clothing on the daily, and Spanxing is only to be done in public, but never in private.

5 Beauty Products for the Sleep Deprived New Mom

After reading 5 Beauty Tips for the Sleep Deprived New Mom, a lot of people reached out inquiring about which products I use for each tip in the post. Read on for my go-to brands and products...

Tip 1 - Flesh-toned Eyeliner: Many people use white eyeliner to line their lower lash lines, but this just looks really odd. A skin-toned liner pops just enough to brighten, but not enough to fake you out.  I LOVE Nars Larger Than Life Eyeliner in Rue Bonaparte. Yes, paying $25 for an eyeliner that looks like your actual skin seems a bit stupid, but a.) it works, and b.) I just replaced mine after 3 years of almost daily wear, so it is WELL worth it!

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Tip 2 - Eyelash Curlers: Since I first found out there was a contraption to prettify my short, stubby lashes I have used Shu Umuera's eyelash curler. It's available worldwide and lasts a really long time. It comes with 2 pads (supposedly to use for 6 months each but I've had each one last for years before having to buy a new curler.) I literally will not leave my house to walk my dog in the dead of night without curled eyelashes. Seriously.

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Tip 3 - Dark Sunglasses: I like wearing the shaded versions as much as the next stylista, but my absolute GO-TO sunglasses are always the darkest of the lot. I can't handle my morning drop-offs without my pitch-black Chanels. Hey, If Karl Lagerfeld won't be seen without them, neither will I. Plus, like I mentioned before - I need them to check out what everyone else is wearing on the school run, Duh. Does it make me seem standoffish, and keep people away? Yes. Just what I want early in the morning. Save the "Hi, how are you's?" for your barista at Payard. Just kidding, talk to me! I'm actually super-nice usually sometimes if I'm in the mood. Mine are about 5 years old and due for retirement, so I'm currently crushing on these MiuMiu ones.

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Tip 4 - Bright Lips: Just stop reading, go to Sephora or Barneys or Saks and buy just about every color of these Nars Lip Pencils. I could write an entire post solely on how much I love these. There are tons of shades in 3 different finishes (Satin, Velvet Matte, and Gloss) and they are UH-MAZING. Easy to stash in your pocket, diaper bag, or wallet. The only thing that would make me love these more is if they came with a built in sharpener, like the eyeliners do. My all-time favourite is Dragon Girl. It's a wearable poppy-red which - no joke- suits ANY skin tone. I have at least 3 at home. Other colors in my daily rotation are Mexican Rose, Yu, and Hopi (a glossy tan; very unlike me and my love of bright lips but very flattering for those sun-kissed, just came back with great colour from the French Riveria, days). I only wear that one during or immediately following a sunny vacation, like when wearing bright lips with a deep tan would look a little...Miami-Geriatric-chic. Not the look we are going for.

Tip 5 - Dry Shampoo: Klorane all the way, baby. It's soft, smells good, and I like that it also comes in a dark version so it doesn't look powdery on my hair. Sometimes I forget to use this, and when I catch sight of my greasy mane in the elevator mirror I am fully mortified. But at least my eyelashes are curled and my lips are painted. And I'm wearing shades so you can't see the panic in my eyes when you try to talk to me.

I'm kind-of invisible. Maybe I'm Batman.

Probably not, but in re-reading this post, I do seem terribly vain! Whatever, get-up-and-go has never been my style! And I prefer to look like I really belong in the world outside, even though I spend a fair amount of my time in my apartment, playing with Hot Wheels and trying to stop my toddler from itching his butthole right after I wash his hands. See? You can't blame me for wanting to remember what I looked like B.C.!  

Do you have any products you can't leave the house without using? Share! 

*Please note that these are products I actually use. I haven't been compensated for my recommendations, nor am I paid for the links included in the post above.*