You Might Be Pregnant If...

So, being pregnant again, I find myself without the creative spark that usually fuels my writing and an odd inability to focus on anything not related to pregnancy.  Hence the topic of today’s blog.  But as a disclaimer, I must note that not all of these have actually happened to me.

You Might Be Pregnant If:

-          You fall asleep while eating dinner but battle insomnia from 2-4 am every night.

-          You anxiously await the day when your “bump” appears and you’re finally showing, then whine about looking fat.

-          You get up to pee two or more times each night.

-          You consider peeing in bed because you’re so tired you don’t want to get up each time.

-          Water gives you heartburn.

-          You cry at sad commercials.

-          You cry at happy or uplifting commercials.

-          You cry at funny commercials.

-          You cry because you CAN’T STOP CRYING.

-          You stop brushing your back two teeth because your gag reflex is too sensitive.

-          You stress about not gaining enough weight, only to worry about gaining too much weight a month later.

-          You are hungry even while vomiting.

-          You can distinguish brands of pretzels simply by sniffing the bag.

-          You Google the safety of Tums and Tylenol but steal tiny sips of your spouse’s wine.

-          You pee when you sneeze.

-          You pee when you cough.

-          You pee when you laugh.

-          You break out like a teenager.

-          Your mouth constantly tastes like you’ve been licking pennies.

-          You eat jalapenos by the jar but are repulsed by any orange foods.

-          Your hair grows two inches in a month.

-          You have to buy unscented everything because smells make you nauseous.

-          You can’t remember what you ate for dinner the day before, but can rattle off your top ten baby names at the drop of a hat.

-          You count down the minutes to Friday, eager to head to bed by 9:30pm.

-          You choke down prune juice like it’s your job.

-          You’re too exhausted to clean your kitchen for five weeks straight but pull an all-nighter wallpapering the shelves of your linen closet and compulsively alphabetizing your cleaning supplies.

-          You require four separate pillows to sleep comfortably.

-          You crave pickles.

-          You count climbing the stairs while holding a toddler as your daily workout.

-          Shaving your legs requires a series of yoga moves.

-          You’re so hungry you order two hamburgers and then feel miserably full after a third of one.

-          You keep a mental tally of all the things you’re looking forward to once you’ve had the baby, only to miss pregnancy a week later.

You Might Be a Parent If...

                I’m sure as you read this, most of you are fairly certain whether or not you are a parent.  But since it’s the holidays and we all have a few spacey moments, this should help clarify things for you.  If any of the items listed below apply to you, you might be a parent.  If most or all of them apply, you probably have lots of kids.

 

You might be a parent if:

-          You stash wet wipes in your vehicle;

-          You’ve ever wiped someone else’s nose on your sleeve;

-          You know what BPAs are and whether anything you own contains them;

-          Your cell phone’s protective case could survive a deep sea dive;

-          You drive a Honda Odyssey;

-          You find spare cheerios in your pockets, purse, car, closets;

-          You fantasize about sleeping;

-          Your purse contains someone else’s backup underpants, emergency fruit snacks, and/or goldfish crackers;

-          You know what I mean by “emergency” fruit snacks;

-          You frequently refer to yourself in the third person;

-          You regularly spell swear words;

-          You’ve ever uttered the phrase “we don’t say ‘stupid’”;

-          You regret not buying stock in Clorox wipes;

-          You could stand your ground in a lengthy debate about costco vs target brand diapers;

-          Your morning routine takes less than fifteen minutes;

-          You catch yourself tying your shoes by making two bunny ears;

-          There is an Elf on your shelf;

-          You’ve ever gotten out of bed at midnight to move said Elf;

-          Your Facebook feed is consumed with photos of other people’s kids, birth announcements, and complaints about circulating viruses;

-          You know what a “sleep sack” is;

-          You buy multiple gallons of milk each week;

-          You’ve ever written Mattel to ask them to stop selling Barbie wearing shoes;

-          You know how to swaddle;

-          You can say “we don’t eat boogers” with a straight face;

-          You schedule everything around nap time;

-          You eat dinner before 6pm;

-          You have chicken nuggets in your freezer;

-          You’ve ever hidden in your laundry room to eat candy;

-          The bottom three feet of your Christmas tree are completely bare;

-          You refer to acquaintances as _____’s Mom rather than by name;

-          You handle glitter like hazardous waste;

-          You hang signs by your doorbell, threatening anyone who dares ring it;

-          You’ve caught yourself singing “Old Macdonald” or “Twinkle Twinkle” in the  shower;

-          Your lunch often consists of half-eaten and/or rejected portion’s of other people’s meals;

-          You’ve ever said aloud that you have to go potty.

Happy holidays everyone!!! Thanks again for reading and sharing!

Mom Means Worry

 

Last week, a friend of mine, who is newly pregnant with her first child, innocently asked me at what point in pregnancy she would stop worrying.  Her question threw me.  Initially, I couldn’t fathom ever worrying when your child is still tucked safely inside you, incapable of choking on a Barbie shoe, chasing a ball into the street, or falling off the monkey bars at recess.  But then it all came back to me—the panic about miscarriage, genetic abnormalities, pre-term labor, complications during delivery, and so forth and so forth.  And that oh-so-common worry about how something as massive as a baby’s head can fit through such a tiny hole without causing permanent emotional and physical injury, not to mention the stressful decision of whether you’d prefer to have a stranger jab a needle in your spine or just feel every moment of delivery.  Pregnancy is filled with worry.

But even once I remembered that, I still couldn’t answer her question.  What was I supposed to say—that once her baby was born, she would wake him every hour for the first few weeks just to confirm that he was still breathing?  That she would literally OBSESS over the color, frequency, and texture of her newborn’s poop?  Or that she would, at some point, call the after-hours pediatrician number so fraught with worry over something that turned out to be as simple as a burp?  She probably wouldn’t have believed me if I had told her that.  Or if she did, she might then ask me when the worry does stop, and that answer, as you all know, is never.

By the time her child is a toddler, I suspect she will no longer worry about the contents of diapers as much as she will worry over the fact that everything in the normal household is a potential deathtrap for an inquisitive toddler.  Once she gets over that, she will worry that her preschooler is homesick when he first starts school.  And as soon as her child starts elementary school, she will suddenly find herself overwhelmingly worried about school shootings, even while complaining to her parents about the excessive security involved in entering the school building. 

Last night, I started to worry about paying for college for my kids.  And that led me to worry about them drinking too young, walking home alone in the dark after a late lecture, or making bad decisions at frat parties.  My oldest is seven.  I eventually fell back asleep, comforted by the thought that with the way I’ve been parenting, it’s possible my kiddos won’t even get into college, let alone opt to attend rather than to join a circus.  I did notice, however, that my husband slept like a baby.  I’m pretty sure he has never worried about how he would get all the kids out of their car seats if the minivan plunges into an icy ravine during an accident.  It’s also a safe bet that he has never considered the possibility that our toddler’s ability to eat six pieces of toast in one sitting, while still weighing 20 pounds, is evidence of a parasite.  And I guarantee he’s never tried to figure out if plastic party silverware contains BPA.

That observation led me to my conclusion, that being a mom means worry.  Lots of it.  Some valid, some ridiculous, but no matter how fleeting each concern is, the worry never ends.  Still, you can’t say that to a pregnant woman any more than you can tell her that the baby weight won’t really just fall off if you breastfeed.  She’ll figure it out for herself soon enough. 

Motherhood by the Numbers

                It’s 9:40 AM on my easy day, known to the rest of the world as Wednesday.  This is the day all three of my kids are in school for a few hours, hence it being the “easy” day.  So far today, I’ve nursed one baby, filled three sippy cups of milk, and three thermoses of water.  I packed three lunches, cutting 1 sandwich into a heart shape and 2 into the shape of penguins.  I wiped up two milk spills and drank four cups of (half caff) black coffee.  I made 4 beds, opened 16 blinds, and let the dog out twice.  I lost one contact lens, then found two on the floor (yuck...clearly need to sweep more thoroughly!)  I brushed four sets of teeth, located 5 mittens (the 6^th is still hiding somewhere), and packed three backpacks.  I started one load of laundry, poured two bowls of cereal, and toasted three pieces of bread.  I opened one yogurt container, wiped up one spilled cereal, and broke up two arguments over the cartoon selection.  I brushed two girls’ hair and made two baby pigtails.  I ignored one tantrum over the baby wanting to cut her own toast with a knife and comforted one preschooler whose toast got eaten by a pesky dog.

I listened to “Let it Go” four times, overheard part of the same Barney episode twice, and rocked out to some old school Nirvana once (while out of earshot of the kiddos).  I carried two kids to the bus stop, raced back inside for two due library books, and waved goodbye to one excited first grader.  I changed one diaper, made three phone calls and read twenty-seven emails.  I prevented one naughty baby from coloring on the new couch and wedged four resistant arms into winter coats.  I buckled two kids into car seats, drove to one awesome preschool and trudged into the building carrying one kid, two lunches, one purse, and two backpacks, arriving right at 9:15.  In short, it was a typical, if not smoother-than average morning for me.

As I was rushing through all of this, it struck me how much of my day—every mom’s day, really—is determined by the numbers.  To some extent, motherhood is all about the numbers.

There’s the important numbers, like how many kids you have, how old they are, maybe even how old you are.  Then there’s the less important stuff, like how many bites it takes your preschooler to eat a banana (seriously, I have a 4 year old who can drag a single banana into a 45-minute, 30-bite ordeal) or how many Barbie shoes you may or may not have thrown away the last time you vacuumed.

There’s another number that always seems to run my day, and that’s the number on the clock.  Pre-kids, I was never late.  I was virtually always early, in fact.  Now, I’m occasionally on time, never early, and no matter how early I start getting everyone ready for school, the 8:31 bus pickup time always catches us by surprise.  Then there’s preschool drop-off, preschool pickup, dance class, baby music class, bus drop off time, and gymnastics class.  Nap time, dinner time, bath time, bed time…there’s never enough time and I’m always checking that number on the clock.

When we have a newborn, the numbers that matter are simple: how many times did baby eat in 24 hours and how many times did she pee and poop?  At some point, hours of sleep start to matter too (for baby, not you… that’s not going to be a number you’ll have the luxury of worrying about for another decade). 

Numbers become a source of stress once our kiddos reach toddlerhood, if not before.  Then, we get lectures on their health numbers—their weight, height, whether their percentiles changed.  This is also the age when we all start comparing the milestones… If your neighbor’s son walked at 11 months, should you be worried that your 13 month old still crawls?  If your 2.5 year old isn’t potty trained, well you bet your aunt can tell you all about how hers were out of diapers by 20 months.  How many words does your 2 year old say?  What time does he go to bed?  How often does he bathe?  It’s all about the numbers.

It’s not much better when they reach elementary school.  Between the standardized testing that begins in September of the kindergarten year and the weekly Rocket Math / Minute Math speed tests, your kid is measured by numbers. Then for the parents, there’s the constant discussion of the class size, numbers of kids from certain income groups or neighborhoods in each school, and the unending fundraising goals.

We’re still in the toddler-preschooler-and early elementary school phases, and I’m already dreading the big numbers…you know, the SAT scores, the number that dictates when they can drive, vote, drink, date (can we make a law for that one???)… EEEEEEEEEEEK! 

There’s the professional numbers, which vary from job to job, but for me, involve billable hours each week and year, numbers of continuing education classes I’ve completed, word count of my latest novel, and deadlines for manuscript edits.  And don’t forget those personal numbers that matter…you know, like the last five pounds of baby weight (and how many times I’ve lost and regained it), how many miles I’ve run each week, how fast, etc.

I’m not a math girl, never have been, and never will be.  All of these numbers really make me want to do like Elsa and LET IT GO!

Sadly, I don’t anticipate suddenly letting go of the focus on the numbers.  I’m pretty sure that even if I consciously try not to count, I’ll still know when Jeremy whines about changing a diaper blowout that I changed the last eleven.  So, my goal for the rest of the week is to focus on the fun numbers… the number of baby giggles I elicited; the number of spins my preschooler does before toppling over, and the number of time Sophia says “like” or “awesome” before catching herself talking like a teenager and laughing uproariously. 

Thanks again for reading, and if you like this post (or any of them, really), please share the link with friends. 

25 Things I'm Thankful For

                It’s that time of year, folks.  You know—when we suddenly all realize how lucky we are and start literally counting our blessings.  So, that’s what I’m doing.  But this probably won’t be the hokey list you’re accustomed to.  While I am of course thankful for my family, my health, blah blah blah, there’s also quite a few things that I’m grateful for that don’t often get credit.  Here’s a little shout-out in honor of these awesome things I’m taking a moment to appreciate:

 

1.       Disposable contact lenses.  Yes, my kiddo looks awesome in glasses, but I don’t.  And I hated losing those suckers back when it was a hundred dollars per lens.

2.       Nail polish.  Not all of us are daring enough to make permanent statements with our bodies via tattoos or even semi-permanent changes like drastic hair dyes, but nail polish is a quick and easy way to jazz up your hands and show a little personality.

3.       Self-adhesive stamps.  Remember sending Christmas cards back when you had to lick each stamp? Yuck!

4.       The flashlight app on my phone.  My dad told me to always keep a flashlight in the car, under the bed, and in the basement where I could easily reach it.  But…shocker…I don’t always listen well.  Fortunately, I’m rarely sans-iphone, so I always have my flashlight in a pinch.

5.       Tampons.  Admit it, if you’re a girl, you’re thankful for these.

6.       Fun size candy bars.  I would never eat more than one full size Snickers in one sitting.  But have I ever eaten three (or more) fun sized candy bars at once?  You betcha…I may even be doing that right now!  Even though it’s more candy than one whole bar (despite the annual shrinking of the “fun” size which the candy manufacturers seem to think we don’t notice), but somehow I can eat them with less guilt.

7.       Colorful running shoes.  Because it’s way more fun to run in hot pink or neon green than boring old white or black.

8.       GPS.  I’m not certain I even own a paper map.

9.       Microwaves.  Where to start on this one…

10.   Diet coke.  Yes, I know…I’m basically pouring toxic chemicals packaged in a caffeinated brown liquid down my throat, but what a yummy way to get my post-coffee caffeine fix!

11.   Disposable diapers.  For those of you who cloth diaper, rock on!  But for the rest of us slackers who couldn’t imagine dealing with washers full of poo (or the dreadful safety pin mechanisms of the old-school versions), these suckers are a lifesaver.

12.   Eye drops.  I use these to combat allergies, dry eyes, hangovers, sleepiness, and red eye.  Plus I hear they temporarily take the redness out of acne too.

13.   Bubble bath.  If I dare to take a bath some evening, I guarantee it’ll only be a matter of minutes before at least 2-3 people come running into the bathroom with some “emergency” for me to fix.  It’s much easier to relax knowing I’ve got a shield of bubbles covering my goods.

14.   Smirnoff Ice.  If you know me, you know I don’t drink beer.  Not on principle or anything; it just tastes like sweat.  But thanks to this lovely bottled drink, I can pretend to be a pseudo-normal drinker on a night out.  It’s just too hard to fit my wine glass in a beer koozie.

15.   Seasonal candy.  No, I’m not seven, but I still get really excited about candy corn in the fall, mint everything in the winter, and jelly beans in the spring.  If only someone would invent a summer-specific candy…

16.   Seasonal everything else.  You get sick of pumpkin spiced crap?  Not me!  Nor do I mind Christmas carols blaring everywhere I go in December.  Life could get boring if every month were the same.

17.   Liquid hand soap.  Bar soap just grosses me out.  And if you get the yummy scented ones that foam up or also scrub off the old skin on your knuckles, even better!

18.   Treadmills.  Because sometimes it’s 90 degrees outside.

19.   Condoms.  Hopefully this one doesn’t require explanation.

20.   Laptop computers.  I’m not fully converted to touch screens yet, although I’ve used the ipad, kindle, and whatnot.  But I certainly can’t imagine being stuck in one spot while I type my masterpieces!

21.   Yoga.  Some days, I feel like a nap, but really want the satisfaction of knowing I’ve done something that somehow classifies as a workout.

22.   The suburbs.  Yeah, yeah, yeah there’s some cool stuff in the cities, but I can do without the constant traffic and pedestrian congestion.  I like the open space and neatness of it all.

23.   The library.  Lately, I’ve read some books that…well, let’s just say I’d be pissed if I’d paid money for them.  I love the chance to read books, watch movies, and get CDs all for free, plus taking the kids there for story time or summer reading program nets the kids prizes and makes me feel like I’ve done something meaningful as a mommy.

24.   Popsicles.  Not just the store-bought kind.  I love that you can stick nearly any liquid into the freezer and an hour later have a tasty treat.  Try freezing diet A&W when you get home.  Yum!

25.   Netflix, and specifically the wide variety of kid’s programming it offers.  Some of us are too cheap for cable and would never get laundry done without our babysitter named Netflix.

 

There's my list--what's yours?  Sign in with your gmail or google account and post the most unappreciated or overlooked things you're grateful for during this season of giving thanks.

What Happens at Target Stays at Target

                I think it’s time we all band together and start demanding that what happens at Target stays at Target.  Yes, I know there are some things that can’t stay at Target—like the insane amounts of stuff we buy, the plastic bags we tote it all home in because we always forget to bring the reusable totes into the store from the trunk of our vans, and of course the bills for all this stuff.  But the experience?  That should stay at Target—never to be spoken of again.

                Why, you ask?  Well, let me begin the explanation by comparing Target to Las Vegas.  For us moms of small kids, the similarities between Target and Vegas are astounding.  You’ll see us on the first day of school, strolling slowly through the aisles, sipping our still-hot Starbucks, casually browsing the shoes or testing fall nail colors and grinning like we just won the lottery.  Seriously—have you ever seen the expression of pure joy on someone’s face as they win a huge jackpot in Vegas?  No?  Well, let me tell ya, it’s the same expression you’ll see on the face of any mom with small children when she is shopping alone at Super Target.

                However, when we take our kids with us, the scene resembles something straight out of The Hangover.  We look (and feel) confused, agitated, and distracted.  Our hair and clothes look as though we slept on the roof of a hotel.  We are likely wearing mismatched socks, and if you listen closely, you’ll probably hear us call our kids by each other’s names at least once. 

                My point is, like Vegas, the Target shopping experience can either be really great, or really bad, but whereas the Vegas trip’s success hinges on gambling wins, the Target trip’s success is entirely dependent on whether we’re shopping without our kids (win!) or with them.

Why am I so insistent that it all stays at Target?  Let me describe for you some of my recent personal experiences there.

                Early in my pregnancy with Daughter #3, I awoke one morning to find that I did not feel like vomiting.  Hallelujah!  Certain the nausea wouldn’t be absent for long and desperately in need of basic household goods, I quickly (i.e. 90 minutes later, which you know is ridiculously fast if you’ve ever tried getting two small children ready to go anywhere) piled my daughters, then 2 and 4, into the minivan.  I was prepared for this trip—sippy cups for both girls, backup outfit for the youngest, fruit snacks as a bribe and snack traps filled with those surprisingly good baby wheat puffs.

                I’ll spare you the details of this shopping spree and fast forward to the point where we had only three small items left on the list and we were in the far back corner of the store.  As you know if you’ve ever taken small kids to Target, this is the exact point when one child will have to go to the bathroom, which is exactly what happened with us.  I politely asked Sophia if she could hold it for a few minutes because we were ALMOST done and she informed me that no, she had been holding it.  Then, in a much louder voice, she announced that if I didn’t take her to the bathroom right away, there would be a “poop explosion” all over our cart (yep, her words). 

                I sprinted to the front entrance of the store as fast as possible while pushing a cart with one wonky wheel and a toddler who has learned to unfasten her safety restraint if you don’t keep your hand wrapped firmly around it.  Unable to take our full cart into the bathroom, I parked it by a checkout lane, lifted the four year old out of the cart and placed her on the ground, unfastened and removed the toddler from the cart, then unburied my purse and diaper bag from the cart, grabbed the four year old’s hand, and dragged her into the bathroom, silently praying the explosion hadn’t yet occurred.

                “Emergency,” I mumbled to the lady slowly heading to a stall as I brushed past her, ushering Sophia into the closest stall.  Still holding Samantha, I tugged Sophia’s pants down and then reached for toilet paper to lay on the seat as a barrier.  There was none.  I peeked under the stall to see if anyone was next to us who could hand us a spare roll, but the surrounding stalls were empty.  I unlocked the door, pulled Sophia’s pants back up, and dragged the whole crew to the next stall.

                As I locked the door, Sophia informed me she no longer had to go.  A rookie mom might have accepted this, but I knew better.  “That’s okay,” I said.  “But you’re going to sit on this potty until something comes out of your butt.”

                I ignored the snickering from a few stalls down, covered the toilet seat with paper, then pulled Sophia’s pants down.  I turned to hang my purse and diaper bag on the back of the door, but of course the hook had broken off.  So I awkwardly lifted Sophia onto the potty, still holding both of my bags and the squirmy toddler. 

                “Privacy!”  She shrieked.

                Samantha and I turned to face the door.  Sophia began singing “I see the light” from Tangled.  By this point, Samantha was flailing wildly, wanting out of my arms, so I offered her some puffs from her snack trap to keep her occupied.  An eternity later, I heard some noises which indicated Sophia was done. 

                I turned and handed Sophia some toilet paper.  She used it then requested more.  I handed her more, and she abruptly hopped off the toilet, spun around, and stuck her butt in my face so I can “check” if she had been thorough.  Of course, she hadn’t, so I set Samantha down and finished wiping Sophia.  A nanosecond later, I turned, just in time to see Samantha bend down and pick a Cheerio off the ground.  The next few moments passed in slow motion, as I yanked up Sophia’s pants with one hand while desperately trying to knock the dirty floor Cheerio out of Samantha’s hand before it reached her mouth, but of course I was too late.    

                I cringed, cursed silently, then tried to convince myself that maybe, just maybe the floor had been cleaned right before we walked into the bathroom.  And that if not, maybe she would only get those good germs that allegedly help build a child’s immune system. 

                “What’s wrong Mommy?”  Sophia asked in her sweetest voice possible. 

                “Samantha dropped some of her Cheerios on the ground and then ate one,” I explained, gesturing to the Cheerios remaining on the floor.

                Sophia’s face wrinkled instantly into that familiar angry expression.  “Why did she get Cheerios?  You only gave me puffs!”

                As the realization hit me that my child had eaten someone else’s food off the floor of a public restroom, my morning sickness returned.  I lunged at the toilet but since I still hadn’t flushed since Sophia went, I hesitated and ended up missing.  I mean, some of it hit the toilet, but some of it landed in my hair and on my shirt.  I wiped things up as best as I can with two now-crying children, a diaper bag, purse, and hands in desperate need of washing, flushed the toilet, then headed to the sinks.

                Five minutes later, we were as clean as we were going to get, so we left the bathroom and headed straight for our full shopping cart, determined to pay and get home as fast as possible.  Except the cart was gone.  Vanished into thin air.  We searched for a few minutes, unsuccessfully, and then gave up.  Target-1, Mallov family-0.

                This was likely my most traumatic Target experience, but sadly not the only scary one.  Other incidents involved spit up, diaper blow outs, children nearly falling out of the cart, my pregnant belly knocking over an entire rack of shirts as I tried to squeeze between rows, and a VERY pregnant and hormonal me having a full meltdown at Customer Service over a coupon.  There is always something dropped from my cart (usually a necessary item of clothing, like a shoe, or a critical possession like a pacifier) on trips with the kids, and often stuff gets swiped off the shelves by children in the cart and I don’t discover the stowaways until we reach the check out. 

                So what about you?  What are your worst shopping mishaps?