A Bug's Life.

Today we experienced a home invasion of the house centipede variety - although I'm still pretty convinced it was an alien life form come to signal an uprising by the machines living beneath earth's crust, but my husband doesn't believe me.

At first sight of the intruder - I scooped up my baby boy (before he could decide whether or not to eat the strange, moving object on the floor) and ran for cover, screaming for my dog to follow. My first plan was just to retreat several feet until I could decide how best to proceed (after I stopped screaming) but then the intruder started following us. If that isn't proof this animal was wired for something much bigger than a simple home invasion, I don't know what is.

It ran full speed ahead at us until I safely corralled my son, my dog and myself into the master bedroom and pondered what to do next. My first scary thought was that it could pretty easily slip underneath the door, so I decided I better drop a heavy object my husband's travel shaving kit on top of it, pray for accuracy and run.

As I sat on my bed, watching my son, oblivious to what had just happened, and my dog, probably angry I didn't just let him devour the bug alien life form, I had a profound realization.

I am the parent.

That seems dumb, right? Obviously I'm the parent. My son calls me "mom" daily hourly every minute, yet that thought very rarely sets in.

I'm the one in charge of scary situations like home invasions and extraterrestrial visits. If something goes wrong, I'm up. I'm the one at bat, poised to make the big decision. My son will undoubtedly look at me the minute anything goes awry and throw his arms up in the air in the most aloof fashion possible just as he does every time we ask "What happened?" before toddling in the direction of danger.

We spend our whole lives approaching adulthood, but I still wonder when I will feel like I've arrived at the destination. I remember my first apartment, a small 1-bedroom in San Francisco's inner sunset, and with that came a sense of responsibilty, but not an air of adulthood. I was 18. I was a kid. I remember my college graduation, holding the diploma in my hand, silly square-hat and all, living with my boyfriend (now husband), but still I was not an adult. I was 21. I was a kid. I remember my first real job. Full-time, 9-5, benefits and holiday pay - but alas, no sense of adulthood. I always thought it would come eventually, surely by the time I had kids of my own. But here I am, 26 years old and still pretty convinced adulthood must start at 30.

When I refer to "the parents," I never mean myself, my husband or my friends. Parents are people in their 50s. We're not parents. I mean we are, clearly, but we are not who people refer to as "parents." Right?

Occasionally it hits me; this overwhelming feeling that I am a mother. The feeling is usually fleeting, but for a solid 60 seconds I can feel the weight of the circumstance. I look at my son, quietly playing by himself, banging objects together, discovering a new sound, and it suddenly hits me. I'm that kid's mother. It's almost stifling, like 100 bricks hitting you at once, but in the best way possible. For those few seconds I am overcome by a harrowing sense of responsibility, a profound and unexplainable love and, usually, a little guilt.

Luckily, my son doesn't play alone for long, and he'll snap me right back to ignorance as quickly as I fell into reality.

Perhaps it's best that we aren't always consumed by the knowledge of parenthood. As long as we act with the full weight of the responsibility I don't think the conscious thought is all that important. It would be too much to feel that weight all of the time. I imagine it would become completely overwhelming. Instead, I revel in the small moments that I truly feel like a mother, and thank God that the moment will be fleeting so I can get back to enjoying playtime with my son.

-N.

Edit: After smashing the bug, and tipping the box off with my foot to ensure it was completely obliterated, I blocked the infected area with various objects from around the house so my son, my dog and I could all play safely until my husband got home to dispose of it. Also, the smashing process severely shrunk the bug, which is why it appeared much smaller than described on the phone. I swear.

Slightly Crunchy: giving in to some of the earth-preserving, "granola-esque" qualities that are often associated with mothers such as cloth diapering, breastfeeding and organic baby food-making, but without fully embracing the "make-your-own-clothes-wear-organic-deodorant-all-natural-everything" lifestyle.

It runs in the family.

My son is a comedian. At only 15 months old he will do anything for a laugh. My husband and I (as well as any unsuspecting person who comes into contact with him) must be on our guard at all times because if you dare laugh at a behavior - good or bad - he will continue said behavior until the end of time.

This has created weeks of patting his mouth like an Indian during mealtimes and bending at the waist before making a loud (and very fake) laugh. He also giggles every time he farts and burps (did I mention he's his father's son?)

Sometimes I can't help but laugh at the kid. He's just so strange, and most of his antics are amusing, but I try my hardest to be a good mom and not create bad habits. I admit, the amount of times I've had to leave a table with my hand cupped tightly over my mouth are countless.

When he catches an unsuspecting visitor off guard it's the best (I mean worst). Today during a play date with cousins, he banged his head on the wall and laughed. My unsuspecting cousin let out a little laugh in return and he immediately began a pattern of bang head-look at audience-laugh-bang head again. We had to attempt to ignore the constant bang-giggle coming from his corner of the playroom to get him to stop. But seriously, anything for a laugh - this kid is a clown!

I guess we could attribute this to genes. My husband and I both like to laugh. A sense of humor tends to top the list of many people's "important traits in a mate," but for my husband and I, it's the ultimate. Neither of us takes ourselves too seriously and laughter has been our biggest strength for the entirety of our relationship. My son, the splitting image of my husband, has gotten this trait from both of us. We spend so much time saying "the baby has your nose," "oh he has your laugh," "he gets his creativity from you" that I have to cherish this little piece of both of us and pray one day he finds people who love his sense of humor - head banging and all - just as much as we do.

-N.

Slightly Crunchy: giving in to some of the earth-preserving, "granola-esque" qualities that are often associated with mothers such as cloth diapering, breastfeeding and organic baby food-making, but without fully embracing the "make-your-own-clothes-wear-organic-deodorant-all-natural-everything" lifestyle.

To binky, or not to binky - that is the question.

My son is winning the binky war.

He's taken a binky since the day we left the hospital, and man am I glad he did! It's soothing, it helps him sleep and it seems to comfort him during bouts of teething. Lately, however, I've been trying to limit binky time in an effort to encourage more speech and assure I won't have a five year old still addicted to the pacifier.

I was holding strong, ignoring requests for his favorite "treat" and instead rerouting him to new activities. Even during a teething bout I was able to keep him binky free for the majority of the day.

And then it happened.

With the teething bout, came the constant finger in the mouth. And with that constant finger in the mouth, he remembered the gagging reflex he had discovered months ago.

Some background: At around 10 months my son discovered his gag reflex. At first I panicked, wondering why my little baby had suddenly decided to shove his fingers down his throat until he gagged. Was his stomach upset? Was there something wrong with him? A quick trip to my favorite baby source - Google - revealed that this was a common stage that would pass. It suggested I ignore the behavior and said that once the sensation became old to him, he would give it up. The best explanation for the odd behavior was that my son had simply discovered a new feeling and he was exploring it.

After a week of trying my best to ignore the gagging, it finally stopped and I thought we had moved on.

Fast forward 5 months later, we're in the car driving to the gym - my husband, me and my son - and he's gagging himself in the back seat. This time, however, he threw up. Now I know I'm supposed to ignore this behavior - according to the "experts" who post on mom boards, but that's simply something I can not do when my son is making himself physically sick.

He looked surprised and I hoped he was as traumatized from the experience as I was and that it would be a one-and-done situation. Until that evening when he did it again. And then he began using utensils at meal time to do the same. Luckily, I found a solution. As soon as he starts trying to gag himself, I pop a binky in his mouth and he completely moves on.

I can't help but think he did this on purpose. That he saw me taking away his binky more than he thought was acceptable and as a result crafted a situation where I would inevitably give in to his wishes. He must have sat down in his playpen and crafted the entire plan in his head - asking himself, what would I have to do to convince my mom that a binky is better than the alternative? Which is when he inevitably came up with this plan, racking his brain for the moments I reacted most terrified.

So for now, my son has won the binky war. But he's right; it is better than the alternative.

Has anyone else's kid done this? I was surprised to learn the gagging was a normal developmental stage that I had somehow never heard of.

-N.

Slightly Crunchy: giving in to some of the earth-preserving, "granola-esque" qualities that are often associated with mothers such as cloth diapering, breastfeeding and organic baby food-making, but without fully embracing the "make-your-own-clothes-wear-organic-deodorant-all-natural-everything" lifestyle.

The Art of Parenting

As a freelance writer, I cover a lot of topics. One of my favorites to cover is education. My son is not yet old enough to attend the schools in our school district, but as part of my job, I often cover the school board meetings.

At our most recent meeting, a presentation was made about an art program that occurs in classrooms at one elementary school in the district once per month. The other schools have little to no art at all, and even this school, which was praised for incorporating art into the curriculum, only sets aside one hour per month for an art lesson.

It's scary.

Art is SO important, and it should be taught in schools. Some kids will grow up to be artists, and they should be exposed to their craft early. I think it is a major failing in our school district, and probably one that exists across the country.

I introduced my son to art a long time ago. Since before he was 1 year old, we began making animals out of his footprints (we can't do hand print animals because he simply tried to eat the paint and never gives me a flat print on the paper) and exploring how colors mix with each other to create new colors. He doesn't attend daycare so exposing him to arts and crafts at home - even if it's a project I have to do most of the legwork for - is important to me. I want him to be as artistic as he wants to be. I'm not particularly skilled at drawing, but even I have creative outlets such as sewing, crafting and writing.

Now that my son is older, I am getting increasingly excited about the new projects we will be able to do. For now we mostly stick to toddler crayons and other age-appropriate art supplies, but in an effort to expose him to more mediums, we took to finger painting this week. Before you freak out, the paint was edible, and my son didn't even end up eating any. (YAY!)

Here is the recipe we used, sent to me by my sister-in-law. It was a hit, and now Hunter grabs his paintbrushes and makes the sign for "more." Looks like we will be doing it again soon.

Link to project: http://theimaginationtree.com/2011/03/homemade-edible-finger-paint-recipe.html

-N.

Slightly Crunchy: giving in to some of the earth-preserving, "granola-esque" qualities that are often associated with mothers such as cloth diapering, breastfeeding and organic baby food-making, but without fully embracing the "make-your-own-clothes-wear-organic-deodorant-all-natural-everything" lifestyle.

Taboo.

Last night, I rocked my son to sleep. It's taboo and frowned upon and probably one of the worst mistakes you can make during your child's first years, but it had been so long since we rocked together in the big blue chair in the corner of my son's room that I can't even pretend to regret it now.

I used to rock my son to sleep every night. He would nurse or have a bottle and we'd rock and rock until he fell completely asleep, cuddled in the crook of my arm. It became a serious sleep association for him, one that proved hard to break months later. So one might ask, why would I choose to reopen that can of worms? Why would I rock him again?

Well, it happened at about 10 p.m. I had only just fallen asleep, suffering from a stuffy head and throat that felt like I was swallowing sandpaper, when I heard his sad little cry vibrating through the monitor. This wasn't his little whimper he makes when turning over; it was a full-out cry. And it didn't stop. He sat up and rolled around and his crying just got sadder and louder. It broke my heart, and I knew I had to go to him. It's a funny thing when you're a mother how in tune you become with your child. I knew, after just a couple of groggy seconds, that his cry meant he needed me, that he was in pain, not that he woke up and just wanted to see if I would come.

So I hurried out of our bedroom. My husband questioned my decision to go to him so quickly (as he often cries for a few seconds in his sleep and then simply puts himself back to bed. In fact, going in there usually disrupts him more than the momentary bad dream or uncomfortable postion that originally woke him). But I knew. And when I picked him up, he was so stuffy he could barely breathe through his nose at all and tears were streaming down his hot face. So I rocked him in that blue chair for 30 minutes. He fell asleep, scrunched in my arms because that's the only way he'll fit anymore, and snored lightly into my side.

I finally laid him back down when we were both ready, but it was funny how much I didn't mind waking up. I was so tired and sick myself, but I didn't even care that I had to wake up. I missed the days I used to rock him to sleep. And I understand why I can't do it every night, why it's bad for him to have that sleep association, but it was nice. We used the stuffy nose.. whether it was teething or sickness I'm still not sure... as an excuse to pretend he was 6 months old again. And I'm not sure who loved it more, though it was probably me.

It's impressive the instinct that mothers have about their children. It doesn't work with other children - I don't hear a baby crying in a store and know exactly what ails them - but I know when my son cries exactly what he needs me to do. Scientists talk about this biological connection that exists between a mother and her child, this innate ability to do the right thing at the right time. I don't think it's actually biological. I believe mothers who adopt their children or have them via surrogate experience this same sychronization. Either way, it's the best super power we as mothers could ask for.

So, last night I rocked my child to sleep for the first time in months. Because now that he knows how to put himself to sleep, he doesn't need me to rock him at night. In fact, he often won't allow it; he just doesn't want to sit still. It was the highlight of my night though, those 30 minutes we rocked. In a way, I wish we could have more nights and I'd like to believe it isn't the last time he'll need me to rock him to sleep. Even though I obviously prefer him to be healthy and not need me, it's still nice to be needed.

- N.


Slightly Crunchy: giving in to some of the earth-preserving, "granola-esque" qualities that are often associated with mothers such as cloth diapering, breastfeeding and organic baby food-making, but without fully embracing the "make-your-own-clothes-wear-organic-deodorant-all-natural-everything" lifestyle.

Routine is just another word for slump.

Whenever I feel like we've settled into a routine, my son throws me a curve ball. Whether he stops eating cheese (after he wanted nothing but cheese for a week) or decides that golf no longer interests him (after I couldn't separate him from his golf club just the day before) it's always something new. Whoever coined the phrase "The only constant in life is change" must have been a parent.

Nothing throws a bigger wrench into our day-to-day activities than when my son changes his sleep pattern on a whim. We will have just got him into a good groove, napping at the same time everyday, when he starts cutting a new tooth (which results in shorter naps) or insists on sleeping with a binky in his mouth and spares to grab in case he throws one out of the crib or loses it under his blanket (which is a welcome change from darting into his room and removing the binky that fell out of his mouth earlier in the night because if he rolls on it, he'll wake up).

Our current problem is hard to complain about.

First, some background. Hunter hasn't always slept through the night. At about 1 month old, he slept eight solid hours (to which I responded by waking in a panic and immediately checking to make sure he was breathing before insisting he eat the second he wake up. I also called the pediatrician - obviously). This continued until the dreaded, "four month sleep regression," which hit us hard. I did as much research as possible to learn all of the tricks for combating sleep regression as well as educate myself about the scientific background for why all four month olds seem to give up sleep. It lasted probably six weeks -- during which I googled "sleep regression" more times than I can count -- before we fell into a new routine of waking up 1-2 times per night for feedings. I never wanted to sleep train my son and he was only waking me up once (since if he woke up twice the first time was before I'd gone to bed). Plus, he was breastfed and I didn't supplement with formula so I operated under the assumption that he really, truly might be hungry at 2 a.m.

This lasted until right before his first birthday. Trading off wakings every other night with my husband had made those months bearable. More than bearable really. We were all doing just fine. I still didn't want to sleep train. The thought of him crying in his crib by himself broke my heart. After all, he wasn't even a year old yet! And then, the week of his first birthday, Hunter got sick for the first time. We'd been so lucky that he remained healthy for his first year of life (an accomplishment I attributed to frequent breastfeeding and no day care) but when it finally happened, it threw us off.

Of course Hunter had really good timing. He waited for my husband to be on a business trip, during a week that I had limited help from grandparents and aunts do to their own schedules. By day three I was so desperate for sleep that when he woke up for the third or fourth time around 3 a.m., I plopped him right into bed with me and clocked a few more hours. It was the best either of us had slept in days and so I let it continue while my husband was out of town.

We had never really co-slept. In the mornings when my husband would leave for work, I would put newborn Hunter in his snuggle nest in bed with me to catch a few more hours, but he was so little it never affected his sleep patterns. I was dead set on not having a child glued to my bed, and his father was a horrendous sleeper so I always feared for his safety if he were to sleep in bed with both of us. Despite the nights I sometimes wanted to cuddle him in bed, I didn't give in unless there was a reason for his discomfort. I remained firm. And in that one week that Hunter and I were alone, I gave in. I wasn't strong enough on my own. And I was f***ing tired.

From there it spiraled out of control. He slept in bed with me more than not, and when he wasn't in bed with me, he was in my husband's arms, sitting in the rocker in his room (thank God that thing is comfy!). He awoke every hour after his first wake-up of the night and would immediately fall asleep next to either of us but cry the second we tried to lay him back down.

He was sick, we went on vacation, he got a couple teeth and he was sick again. All excuses we used to assure ourselves this wasn't permanent. But after one full month of very little sleep and a fairly complete breakdown that left me begging for answers, I gave in. I finally said "ok, we will sleep train." And the horrific, awful thing I never could condone other mothers doing finally made sense. My son had never slept poorly enough for it to be necessary. But now it was.

The first night was the worst. He cried for an hour. 45 minutes in, I cried, too. My  husband had to go in his room every 10 minutes to lay him back down and tell him goodnight. I literally couldn't do it. I knew if I went in there and saw him, reaching up to me and sobbing "mama" I would give in (even as I write this I'm tearing up). But after that hour, the strangest thing happened: he laid down, and fell asleep. He woke up once in the middle of the night, around 3 a.m., cried for 15-minutes and put himself back to bed. And after that night, it was done. He was sleep trained and the world was right again. But that brings us to our next problem:

Now that he sleeps through the night, he pees through his diaper. Every. Single. Night.

We used to always change him when he'd wake up around 2 a.m., but now that he wasn't waking up, we weren't changing him. I've tried SO many diapers, and so far - nothing has worked for more than two days. So while it is, in some ways, a good problem to have, it's still a problem. I'm too afraid to change him once in the middle of the night because - despite my efforts - he is a creature of habit, and as soon as we start waking him up at 10 p.m. for a diaper change, I'm sure he'll wake up every single night at 10 p.m. on his own for the rest of our lives. So, we don't.

But now, he wakes up TOO early. I have been spoiled with sleep and anything before 6 a.m. I have deemed unacceptable. But when he's crying, wet and cold at 5:30 a.m., I can hardly ignore him. So we get up, change every piece of clothing he's wearing, replace all of the bedding and throw his lovey (that he undoubtedly managed to pee on) in the wash. It's a process, a process much too in depth for 5:30 a.m.

I'd love to close this post with a happy little ending about how we found the perfect solution and all is right in the world again. But alas, we haven't. I've tried a couple of tricks - limiting late night water, sizing up in nighttime diapers - to push him back as far as possible, but he's still not making it more than 11 hours. An appropriate amount of sleep at least, but it's not consistent. I hope we find a solution soon. And when we do, I hope to share it with every other mother who has this problem. But for now, I'm just thanking my lucky stars that he's sleeping through the night. I mean, if he's doing that, what right do I have to complain about 5:30 a.m.?

-N


Slightly Crunchy: giving in to some of the earth-preserving, "granola-esque" qualities that are often associated with mothers such as cloth diapering, breastfeeding and organic baby food-making, but without fully embracing the "make-your-own-clothes-wear-organic-deodorant-all-natural-everything" lifestyle.

It's been a while.

Well, at 8 weeks postpartum I vowed to start a mommy blog, a special place I could share all of the exciting, and sometimes awful, moments I experienced as a first-time mom. After two posts, I got distracted. This happens a lot. I'll be texting one of my friends and all of the sudden, my son wakes up from a nap or falls down and I stop what I'm doing to tend to him - only to forget to text my friend back for two days. That's kind of what happened here; my son learned to crawl, then walk, then he fell over a few (hundred) times, woke up from God knows how many naps and interrupted everything I've attempted to do since he was born. So my apologies friends, I got distracted.

But now I'm ready. I'm ready to share mine and my son's life with the world. I'm ready to talk about my experiences as a first time mom, and I'm ready to write for myself again.

Since the last time I wrote, I have (semi-) "gone" back to work (I work from home, part time and I honestly still mostly identify as a SAHM), I have cried on the floor because I was so sleep-deprived and I just couldn't get my child to sleep, I have called the advice nurse at my pediatrician's office probably more times than necessary AND I have lost all of my baby weight - and then some (a rather large accomplishment considering I gained 54 pounds while pregnant, and I'm only 5'5").

My son was an early walker, so at 14 months he has now pretty much perfected the art. After a particularly nasty fall, I remember calling the pediatrician's office. He falls quite a bit, as babies do, so I don't usually bother, but this time he had hit the tile floor, face first and experienced (what I would later find out was just reflux) "spitting up" after. So I called. I remember the pediatrician telling me very sternly what my son could and couldn't do. It's actually funny to me, though I admit slightly frustrating in the moment when I was trying to make sure a trip to the ER wasn't necessary (it was too late to see his doctor.)

Pediatrician (on-call, not ours): Well he couldn't have hit his head that hard because he wasn't running.

Me: No he was running.

P: But he's 14 months. They don't run at that age.

M: Well, maybe not exactly like full out sprinting, but he was definitely running.

P: No, they don't. Which means unless he hit a corner, he wasn't going fast enough to really get hurt.

M: Um, ok.

I am not writing this to shame Western medicine. Overall, I would say I support Western medicine. Though the slightly crunchy tag does still apply. I'm writing it because it's funny. It's funny how different kids are and how much people want to press them into a little tiny "this is how kids are" mold. My son started walking at 10.5 months (and I DID NOT push him to do it. In fact, I secretly hoped he'd wait a little longer.) So by 13.5 months when this occurred, he was most definitely running. A skill I attribute to having a dog. Since he was 8 months old it has been his sole purpose to get that dog - and at 10.5 months he took two wobbly steps from the couch to the pen and finally achieved the most terrifying day of our poor dogs life. Now, he chases him relentlessly, pulls his hair our and takes his toys (though I promise we really, really are trying to break these habits). Mostly, our dog - a 4-year old Black Mouth Cur (read 90 lbs.) - loves him, and they play. Occasionally, our dog runs to the garage door and begs to be given a break from his energetic little brother.

I'm looking forward to keeping this up more and sharing my experiences with a toddler. Hopefully he doesn't fall down and distract me for an entire year again.

- N.

P.S. It's probably worth mentioning the following:

I breastfed my son for 13 months, our last session was Christmas Day, and I stopped pumping 1-2 weeks later. The transition was easier (for him) that I expected.

We cloth-diapered for one year, until my son gave up breastfeeding, started eating full blown meals and his digestive system started acting more like a full-grown man's. I mostly attribute this change to the weaning.

I made his own baby food the entire time he ate pureed baby foods, and occasionally do still make purees to spread on his toast or mix into his cereal.

He is vaccinated.

Slightly Crunchy: giving in to some of the earth-preserving, "granola-esque" qualities that are often associated with mothers such as cloth diapering, breastfeeding and organic baby food-making, but without fully embracing the "make-your-own-clothes-wear-organic-deodorant-all-natural-everything" lifestyle.