Mommy Must Haves & Mehs

Lol @ "see y'all in 2022." WE JUST BLEW RIGHT PAST THAT. I view my blog posts like Taylor dropping her "Taylor's version" albums - you have no idea when it's going to happen and someone may cry. (Me. I may cry.)

It's hard to find humor when you're full to the brim with bitter. 

Bitter isn't funny. Cynical, sardonic, snarky - all step riiiiight up to the line but remain identifiable and - more importantly - relatable, and therefore acceptable. Bitter crosses the line. You've made things awkward. People start to talk. Words get thrown around - depression, therapy, medication. It's a whole thing. (Although toss me a handful of xanies and a few adderall, and your girl will be juuuuuuuust fine. We'll get to that later.)

Hitting the highlights - I became a SAHM, we moved from our cool but untenable downtown apartment to a cool but untenable downtown adjacent townhouse, the Senior Associate is turning 2, we acquired a Junior Associate, and we're about to move to a decidedly uncool suburban house. I could really use an intern, but like...a real one. Not a "these are funny nicknames for our children and we love a theme" intern. 

My brain is broken. It's the battery from a 2008 MacBook purchased for college that's still running LimeWire and has never been shut down properly, just restarted over and over and over again. Except the old "turn it off, then turn it back on again" isn't working for my brain. At random times, it sounds like it's going to take off, the rainbow beach ball of doom is spinning, and the mouse is responding more and more slowly with each passing day. Lists are all I can do now. My brain is just bullet points and a low buzzing noise. 

MUST HAVES

• Extra t-shirts & burp cloths So so many of these. I am in the throes of my second reflux baby and I. am. damp. Constantly. With my first, I invented the burp cloth bathrobe; now, with Younger Child, I have just given up. I'm pickling in bodily fluid. Doctors are studying me as the first case of Trench Shoulder in medical history. ShamWow is featuring us in their next late night infomercial (Don't worry! We'll be awake! WE'RE ALWAYS AWAKE.). Spit up is my past, present, and future - I know of nothing but spit up. Just when I think we've turned a corner, Younger Child turns his head and sends it back from whence it came - all over me. 
  
  
• "Toys" the likes of which Mr. FAO Schwarz has never seen and would never sell. Ever the connoisseur, my older child loved his pacifier clips - not for their ability to haul a toy in like a lil fishing line, but for the metal clip end that attached to his clothes, duh. We should probably make sure he's up to date on his tetanus shot. You may have thought that your old high school geometry TI-84 would just gather dust until the end of days. Au contraire. Elder Child learned early the importance of closing those parentheses, as well as how to spell BOOBS upside down (advance apologies to his teachers). The nice watch I got Tyler when he became a father? Property of Elder Child. I live in fear of the day he discovers the fine china. Younger Child hasn't quite had the opportunity to develop a taste for toys because Older Child sliiiiiiiiides right in to retrieve the things he hasn't so much as glanced at in at least a year his most prized possessions.

• Grace, with a healthy heap of humility. Or a sense of humor. Or resignation. Whatever you want to call it. Baby will choose dad. (Although Elder Child said "mama" first so I'll be living off the high from that victory for the rest of my life.) You will accidentally flash the nice church man while trying to feed your *very* distracted baby during Mass. Acceptance is the first step. 
  

  

  Pretty much exactly how it went.

  
  
• Speed Do I mean drugs or a quick pace? Honestly, both. It took all of two days for the Senior Associate to go from that weird-stick-bug-rocking-back-and-forth to wind sprints across the wood floor. He's obviously training for something. The Junior Associate is just starting to experiment with rolling and half the time I give him the slightest toe nudge back to flat. YOU'LL ROLL WHEN I SAY YOU CAN ROLL. I can only deal with one mobile-and-not-very-good-at-it child at a time, thankyouverymuch. I'm 2 seconds away from a Jessie Spano-style breakdown and we are here for it.

Live footage of me trying to blockade the kitchen from the invading forces my toddler.

• Nanny For half a second, before Elder Child was born and during my all-too-short maternity leave, I contemplated not getting any childcare, and working before Baby woke up, during his naps, and after he went to bed. And then I laughed and Tyler laughed and Baby laughed. We love to laugh. What we don't love is the holy terror that is Care.com. We really lucked out with the two longer term girls we used, but there have been some...misses (including the one who fell asleep lying down on the couch with my infant on top of her). Godspeed to parents who have to work outside of the home because the only way my paranoia could handle this was by being *constantly* just around the corner. Productivity was at an all-time low.
  

  

  Elder Child @me every day of his life.

  I'm now in my Stay at Home Mom era. (Although I'm keeping my license active, just in case I need to flee in the dead of night/want to work when the kids start school - provided I don't need to homeschool because the secular and non-secular school systems are a dumpster fire AND provided oil and gas hasn't been entirely outlawed by that time.) With the birth of Younger Child, productivity has somehow reached a new all-time low. I spend my days attempting to justify rehiring one of our previous nannies, if only for companionship. I lived vicariously through our favorite nanny, who was also named Mary and was dating a Tyler and had a dog-child named Willy. I'm only 90% sure I didn't hallucinate her, and I would like to know what our little family has been up to in that alternate universe. 
  
  
• Terrifying child development apps & websites to scroll when baby is napping. Sleep when the baby sleeps? Nah, I would rather find out if my child is 2 weeks behind on milestones, or showing signs of autism/delays/cancer, or isn't eating/pooping/talking enough. Honestly, the entire internet is fear porn for a hormonal postpartum mom pre-disposed to anxiety & hopped up on *exactly* as much caffeine is allowed a nursing mother. Saw 10, step aside - The Wonder Weeks is here.

Note: I put no stock in the Wonder Weeks at all. No shade if you use it. I just got tired of being told that all fussiness and clinginess was due to a "leap", and leaps occur every other week. You know what babies often are? Fussy, clingy, etc. No leap necessary. The Senior Associate screamed for 3 straight months. We knew of nothing but fussiness. Maybe new parents need to be told that there is importance and purpose in baby's whines, and that we can help them through it, even if that is a complete lie. But that feels awfully Truman Show-ey to me, and I don't like being manipulated or patronized. I prefer doing it myself.

MEHS

• Toys that are immediately recognizable as toys Misfit or otherwise, Elder Child didn't really care for them until about a year old. And the ones he did seem to enjoy, I wanted to fling off our balcony. 90% of the light up, noise making machines can get wrecked. 
  
  
• A House Who needs a house with space, and a yard, and a safe neighborhood? Overrated. My babies are urban children, learning the ways of the world from their homeless friends. Elder Child will get to kindergarten with more street smarts than your average adult. He may not have ever felt grass (for fear of pee, human or otherwise) and his sound machine is the bass from our neighbor's all-hours EDM music, but he'll have street smarts, damnit. 
  
  
• "A Village" Cue "I had a baby in a pandemic" blahblahblah. But let's not dismiss that just because it's overused - it is true and difficult and changed a lot of things that people took for granted. I also had a baby in a city in which I don't have many friends (because "law school classmates" is just another way of saying "worst people in the world") or family and the friends I do have don't have kids. I also began this journey juggling working with momming, and all the mom playgroups occur on weekdays when I was supposed to be working. My "village" is made up of panicked phone calls to mom, the internet, and the constant blather of adult voices on the news (so I don't go insane, obvi - but now Elder Child knows way too much about Ukraine & Scandoval & Idaho murders & pooping in beds [#justiceforjohnnydepp] and has v strong opinions). And the internet has its flaws - mostly, that it's made up of people and people are stupid. I'll find someone likeminded to follow on Instagram, only to find out that she's a freebirther and I somehow missed that very important piece of insanity.
  
• Work clothes Remember when I was cute and walked to work and wore button downs for any other purpose than easy access for a nursing child? I wore suits sometimes! Now it's but a distant memory. I pull on whatever is somewhat clean, comfy, and relatively water-resistant.
  
  
• A relaxed attitude Never really been a thing for me. Especially since going to law school, into which I entered a fairly uptight rock and left a very anxious diamond. Motherhood has only served to polish that stone. With each child, I've struggled more with PPD/PPA. This time around, for the sake of my husband and children (and until I stop breastfeeding and can partake in the more holistic CBD-type things), I've been utilizing Mommy's Little Helpers. PSA: TAKE THE DAMN PILLS. SERENITY NOW. I still wouldn't call myself relaxed, but at least now no one needs to call CPS on me. 



Feelings that aren't all rage-y.

Godspeed to the children. 

Adventures in Babysitting

We're finally out of the newborn phase, which means I'm an expert in all things newborn and it's finally hitting us that no one is coming to pay us $20/hour and then drive us home. 

As Alanis once said: you live, you learn/you love, you learn/you cry, you learn/you lose, you learn.
There has been a whole lot of learning (and so so so much crying, from everyone involved). 

For my first post in almost a year (Bebe was but a twinkle in my eye!), I've decided to bless you all with my wee one wisdom. You're welcome.

NECESSITIES

• Noise cancelling headphones to ward off the unsolicited advice. We've decided against safe sleep practices, thank you very much. I've just been placing my child--drowsy, but awake--outside on our 4th floor balcony with a space blanket and SIG P365 (safety on, duh; I'm not a monster), and checking on him in the morning. Survival of the fittest is the new sleep training. No, we won't be getting an Owlet; Zuck and comrades will just have to find another way to track my baby. Cry it out? Obviously. Any other way would be treating our baby like such a baby. I'm not here for that sort of paternalism. 
  
  The above is full on sarcasm, and how I wish I could respond. Please don't report me to CPS - we follow the ABCs and the AAP. I would even consider AA if they came out with opinions on child safety/sleep. (But not the AARP. Don't come to me with your outdated opinions, ma'am.)
  
  
• Sesame Street for the entirely new letters we're learning regarding bra sizes. Breastfeeding is a trip, y'all. And that's all I'm going to say about that. 
  
  
• Baby Shusher. 3 months ago, I would have VASTLY undervalued a small machine that literally just makes a shushing noise. Even still, I think there are some improvements to be made - its shape makes no sense (like a little rocket ship, but the speaker is on the only flat side), it needs an option greater than 30 minutes (like maybe...8 hours), and why does its design make me feel like a waiter at Olive Garden offering my child some cracked pepper? That doesn't stop us from (silently) sprinting into the room as soon as the 30 minutes are up and Bebe begins to stir, to crack some more pepper (AKA twist the little knob for another 30 minutes) and keep. him. down.
  
  Oh, white noise machines exist? Yes, and we use one of those too because we have the most demanding child in existence. Back in your day you just shushed your baby yourself? And that gets old about 10 minute in, and you know it. Let's not be a bitter Boomer Betty. There are apps that do the same thing, you say? Since this child came into the world, my phone has been at about 4% battery. Between tracking his food, sleep & diapers, nonstop pictures & videos because he is the cutest baby alive, Reddit for late night nursing because looking at his sweet little face will only get me so far at 4 in the morning, and Youtube TV streaming perpetually (WHERE IS BRIAN LAUNDRIE?), my battery life may never recover. One more app going and my phone will just pack its little bags and head to the first childfree home it finds. 
  
  
• Every burp cloth in existence. And then I sewed some more. My washing machine doesn't even know how to do anything other than white loads now. Burp cloths cover every surface of this apartment, and still he finds a way to spit up on me. I'm in the process of creating a jacket made entirely of burp cloths (patent pending), which I now realize is just a bathrobe. 
  
  They're going to find my body buried under a giant stack of burp cloths. Like a very soft, very sad episode of Hoarders.  
  
  
• Ceiling fan. My tiny Don Quixote, tilting at modern windmills. What do Northern babies even look at? Are they slightly deficient because of the lack of ceiling fans? Is this why Northerners are mostly Democrat? Regardless, between the ceiling fans and the noise of running water from the sink, the apartment infrastructure is doing the damn thing. 
  
  

NOPES

• Electric nail file. Instead of cutting your baby with nail clippers/scissors, you now have 2 options: baby shivs (filing the nails into little points) or baby butcher knives (filing the nails flat, but with two incredibly sharp corners). Ten of them, on a being who has not gained complete control of his limbs yet. Snuggling him means wrangling a tiny, strapped-to-the-teeth octopus. A teeny Edward Scissorhands. Cutco should be selling these door-to-door. Please don't tell me this thing works for its intended purpose. His little noodly flail devices prevent me from gaining a firm enough grasp, plus he seems to sense what is about to happen and curls his little hands into impenetrable fists.
  
  
• Pee pee teepee. My Southern lady heart is hurting at having to utter type those words, but here we are. I have been peed on approximately 7 million times. I don't know if my child is a whizzard or if I'm just incompetent, but the next Steele dossier will be written about me. Lately, it seems like he waits to make his move until Tyler is home; I can't help but think it's to make me look like an unfit parent. However, we have all fallen victim: me, Tyler, the diplomas hanging on the wall above the dresser/changing table (which seems like a weird place to hang them, but (1) we lived here before Bebe ever did, and (2) we need to flex hard on Bebe so he learns his place). Bebe is particularly adept at getting himself in the face, and I'm hoping that will be a lesson to him. But he is a baby and his head is full of fluff, so he will likely learn nothing and continue to pee while diaperless.
  
  Such is the way of the world.
   
• Snap footie pajamas. Reason #65412 of why I could never be Amish. If zippers are of the devil, send me straight to hell. Logically, I understood the appeal of zippers versus snaps before I had ye olde baby. I will now no longer accept anything else. I have an advanced degree, but at 3 in the morning in the peak colic phase, snaps were beyond me. Snaps are a trash fastener for trash people.
  
  
• Fire alarms. Hot take: no building should have a fire alarm ever. You either see/smell the fire and get out, or the world is rid of you and your garbage DNA. We are in our third year of living at this complex - we had zero fire alarms until Bebe arrived on the scene, and now we've had 4 in his short lifetime. (If I hadn't been with him literally every single hour of his life - minus 1 in which I went to Target and things at home fell apart - I would suspect my little cherub of pulling the alarm.) Let me tell you, I have never moved so fast as when the complex-wide alarm has gone off and I feared for his tiny little eardrums. You've never truly lived until you find yourself in your pajamas on the sidewalk with all of your neighbors, nursing bra unclasped because you had to evacuate during Bebe's second breakfast. We've now invested in baby noise cancelling headphones for this very reason (and so he, too, can tune out the words of every busybody. See above.)

There is my blog for the year. See y'all in 2022. (Kidding...maybe.)

Can't Spell Furlough Without Ugh

Texas has begun the gradual reopening of the state.
I, however, will continue my social distancing because:
(1) Why risk it?
(2) I never really liked seeing other people to begin with; and
(3) I was furloughed.

The dreaded F word. Luckily, I saw it coming, so I didn't take it too personally.
I get that everyone is stuck at home, but if y'all could just gas up, drive around until the tank is empty, and do that about six times a day...I would really appreciate it. Hopefully, this will blow over quickly. But as they say, hope is pouting in advance. Hope is the richer, bitchier sister of faith.
So I won't hold my breath.

This is not entirely uncharted territory, though.
Lest we forget, this blog was borne out of a time of less-than-employment. We shall overcome, y'all.

And misery boredom loves company. Practically no one is experiencing normal work/life circumstances right now. It just occurred to me that two of our first six months of marriage have been spent inside our apartment, rarely seeing other people. Newlywed phase times a thousand. I'll be registering Tyler as my emotional support animal when I finally have to go back to work.

This quarantine has been a TRIP, though.
Like the rest of the world, we've binged the entire internet. Unlike the rest of the world, I was most intrigued horrified captured by Doc Antle's tiger sex cult. We can all agree that Carol killed her husband, and Joe definitely put a hit out on Carol, but everyone just breezed past the tiger sex cult. And that is now twice that I've typed "tiger sex cult." This is what quarantine has done to me.

In the pursuit of health & safety, I experimented (but a single time) with curbside pickup at H-E-B. You will never hear me utter a disparaging word against the Texan Mecca, but this...this was an experience. I understand that quarantine panic-shoppers caused an unprecedented run on completely unpredictable products. I also understand that stores were changing protocols to meet new health and safety orders. They have my full sympathy blahblahblah.
But the dingbat personal shopper who thought substituting my requested FOUR pounds of various cuts of chicken for FOURTEEN pounds of the largest chicken breasts I have ever seen was a logical move has some explaining to do. I have spent the last month trying to find enough recipes to get rid of what must have been several Dolly Partons worth of chicken breast.
And while we're on the subject, giving me 12 travel size ground coffees instead of a single 1-pound of coffee. I am now dealing with issues not seen since 4th grade Oregon Trail: I have too much meat, and my coffee won't fit in my covered wagon/pantry.

Obviously, I have been driven to drink.
Anyone who hasn't boosted his or her spirits with something spirited is no friend of mine.
Be it warm and comforting, tall and iced, or room temperature and watered down,
I have spent many an afternoon (and morning and evening) whiling away the quarantine with a drink in hand.
So here are my expert recommendations.

Just Another Day in Quaradise 

Also known as a Smirnoff Sparkling Seltzer (or any hard seltzer of your choosing, really).
Pairs well with daily Pure Barre workouts (lift-tone-bubbly?), needlepointing, and delusions of productivity.

Social Distancing Sangria 

Directions:
(1) Desperately forage in your bar for drink materials.
(2) Realize things are dire; run to the bar downstairs and purchase their sangria cocktail kit.
(3) Mix all ingredients; add the leftover bottle of champagne from Easter because they probably didn't include enough booze for your taste/tolerance.
(4) Enjoy! (If you have enough life left within you to actually enjoy something, at this point.)

Rum & COVID-19

Rum + Diet Coke + a squeeze of ennui
Drink while gazing longingly at the apartment pool from your balcony, like a drunken caged bird.

Olde Fashioned

Exactly like an Old Fashioned, but prepared by candlelight with the knowledge that the economy is ruined, half of your children won't survive to adulthood (according to MSM), and you may never escape the shackles of serfdom WFH. Serve (cold enough to cause crop failure) to your feudal lord and return to the fields immediately.

Rainbow Six 

Ingredients: whatever is left because you drank everything else.
Also called a "I've Been Inside So Long Island Iced Tea."

Boxed-In Cab Sauv

Don't judge me. One box holds four bottles. DESPERATE TIMES, PEOPLE.

White-Like-the-Walls Russian

The eggshell walls of my rental apartment are closing in. Yes, I could paint them. But that's a hassle and lockdown is not the time to expend unnecessary energy. Just stumble your way through making a regular White Russian. Loose measurements preferable. If you aren't wearing your robe while doing so, à la Lebowski, who even are you?
Optional: Add a Tide Pod to defeat coronavirus once and for all.


I have yet to find any cocktail recipes involving chicken, so once more unto the breach, dear friends.
And God as my witness, I will never bake bread during this quarantine.