I hope you dance.

Before we have kids, we think about all of the benefits; how the addition of a miniature human will enrich our lives. Somehow along the way those good feelings seem to get muddled with poopy diapers, muddy hands and screaming fits, but it's important to remember why we have kids in the first place - not just so when we are old and incontinent they will return the favor, but because kids truly make our lives better in (almost) every aspect.

Sure there's the love, affection and overwhelming sense of purpose, but those aren't the only upsides to parenthood. Parenthood makes you better; at least it made me better. So many aspects of my life, and myself, got better when I had my son.

I was mid-spin at 10:30 a.m. as I had this revelation: having a child had taught me how to be a kid again. Hunter was nap fighting like a champ so I decided an impromptu dance party was the best way to pass some time before we tried again - and hopefully a good way to wear him out. We like to have dance parties, usually while I get ready in the morning to keep the little busy. However, now was as good a time as any. Nap fighting can cause a lot of anxiety, mostly for me as my OCD likes the reliance of a schedule, but this time I chose not to fret the fighting. Instead, I chose, in that moment, to overcome the obstacle (I'm pretty sure I've read these catchphrases on a motivational poster somewhere). So we danced to Top 40s hits via Pandora, and as David Guetta sang Bulletrproof, my son and I hopped in circles. We probably looked ridiculous. And it was perfect.

It was a solid 30 minutes before the little wore out, pooped and was ready to actually sleep, but that 30 minutes were a snapshot of what I always imagined parenthood to be. While I was pregnant, I thought a lot about what parenthood would look like, and it's always amazing to me when those thoughts become a reality. It's happened before... reading books to a 3 month old, sprawled out on a dino blanket. I first had the visions as I made the blanket during my second trimester and the first time I laid there with him reading the stories my hear leapt.

Hunter has taught me how to enjoy life in a new way, how to see the simple, enchanting wonder kids get giddy about. Sure, kids are weird - they're just about the weirdest creatures out there - but it's the best kind of honest weird you can be. Hunter has made the dance parties aplenty. I can't remember the last time I kicked a soccer ball in the house, finger painted or really drew something before he came into my life. All these simple pleasures that slipped away as I become an adult I am slowly regaining as I watch my son grow. We sing silly songs about our toes and jump for no reason. We make animal sounds in the car. I wish everyone could remember the lighthearted life of a kid. I'm lucky I get to partake everyday and learn how to be carefree again if only for a moment. Hunter balances me. I'm my best self now.

I made a pact with myself years ago not to sweat the small stuff and I try my hardest to stay true to that. Becoming a parent gave me a lot more small stuff to sweat but I'm always proud of myself when I can let it go (let it goooooooooo), and it's better for Hunter and myself. We both end up happier and everything works out in the end.

-N.

The Toothbrush Thief.

My son is getting taller. When I look straight at him I can't tell that he's grown at all, and according to the doctor's charts his height definitely isn't breaking any records. It's as I have to slowly move the drying rack and kitchen appliances back several inches on the counter that I realize just how much he's grown. Sure he's up on the very tippiest part of his toes, stretching as far as he can to grab whatever forbidden object his heart desires at that nanosecond in time (before he moves on to a particularly expensive glass object or my favorite bottle of wine from the wine rack) but nonetheless his determination couldn't stretch him that far a week ago. That's how I know he's growing.

It's usually when I see him actually holding said object that I realize his most recent growth spurt. I try to be good about the baby proofing -- though I'll admit I think redecorating the entire house to accommodate tiny, disobeying hands is a little overkill - but objects nonetheless get left out. On this particular morning, it was a toothbrush my son had gleefully shoved in his mouth in the split second I was focused on putting away dishes that alerted me to the several inches he had obviously grown overnight.

My husband works the early shift, which means he 's up before our son. In an effort to not wake him, thanks to the unintelligent way our house is designed with a master bathroom that shares a wall with the same wall the baby's crib is on one room over (okay, maybe it's partially poor planning on our part), he brushes his teeth in the kitchen. This means, said toothbrush, along with the tube of toothpaste we share, is on the kitchen island every morning when my son and I wake up.

Since my 16-month-old has a (healthy) obsession with brushing his teeth, he took advantage of the opportunity that presented itself that morning, and quickly began brushing his full-set of pearly whites with my husband's toothbrush... or so I thought.

What I didn't realize, until my husband got home and I recounted the story of his toothbrush, pointing to the stolen object now safely placed several inches back on the counter, was that it wasn't his toothbrush at all. It was mine.

That morning I had taken my toothbrush into the kitchen with me to brush my teeth for two reasons. 1) It would allow me to keep an eye on my son while he ate breakfast in his highchair - and fed half to the dog - and 2) The toothpaste was already out there. The little stinker had stolen MY toothbrush, which actually makes more sense because everything that is mine is at least 100x better than my son's. Most mornings we brush our teeth together. I let him scrub mine while I shine his, or its a no-go.... Kids are weird.

Now it's probably important to mention that I'm OCD. Not in the I-have-to-turn-the-lights-on-and-off-seven-times-before-I-leave-a-room-for-good-luck sort of way, but more in the I-can't-stand-when-my-picture-frames-aren't-perfectly-asymmetrical-in-just-the-way-I-like-them sort of way.

Two years ago the thought of someone else using my toothbrush - even my husband - would have resulted in one of two scenarios 1) making an impromptu Target trip to buy a new one or 2) boiling it in hot water for 10 minutes until I had time to make an impromptu Target trip to buy a new one. Instead, I shook my head in disbelief, smiled briefly the way you have to when your child gets into harmless mischief and relocated my toothbrush back to the safety of my vanity in the master bathroom - where I would use it again that night without so much as rinsing it off.

They always say having kids changes you - and my stretch marks are proof of that. But most important are the changes on the inside. I can no longer stomach sad stories posted on Facebook about the horrible things that happen to babies (please friends, stop posting them) and I've somehow also become a more efficient, motivated individual. I didn't notice this particular change until that moment: my illogical OCD wasn't as bad as it used to be. Sure I still vacuum the baseboards now and again and a pile of laundry anywhere but inside the washing machine makes me cringe, but the germaphobia is a little less. I guess having a boy will do that to you. I now gladly stick out my hand for stray pieces of hardened mud found in the house (dragged in by the dog) as my son happily places them in my hand. The excitement on his face to hand me an object to throw away is priceless, only made better by the times I let him throw them away himself. (I guess that extra OCD energy is being transferred somewhere). And I can see, in this simple experience, that my son, the toothbrush thief, isn't the only one growing.

Now if my husband uses my toothbrush, I'm still running to Target.

-N.

Little Boys & Super Heroes

Ok, confession time: I hide books from my son. That's awful, right? I'm 100 percent for reading to children. In fact, my son and I have been reading since before he was born. I'd read my books aloud when he was still growing in my tummy in a valiant effort to produce a human being that is smarter than my husband and I. Even if he was listening to Nicholas Sparks novels and What to Expect When You're Expecting, it was better than nothing right?

Books were a huge part of my life growing up. I was always reading something - usually not required school reading - and I'm happy to see my son take after me in that sense. Although, lets be honest, I'm happy to see my son take after me in just about any sense considering he's the carbon copy of my husband.

Now, however, he gets stuck on his favorite things, including books. No matter how many dozens of books I buy him - mostly for my own sanity because a person can only read "Where's Spot" so many times in their life -  he wants to read the same ten or so every time we sit down to read. And usually, he prefers to read the same book several times in a row, before moving on to the next.

I make a game out of this practice, mostly to make round 300 of "Ten Tiny Toes" bearable. I change up voices, I make different sounds and try to include interactive portions for my son. I started doing it to help myself, but in the long run I can see it helping my son. Some books, however, do not lend themselves to creative storytelling and are therefore a lot harder to read 100 times over.

My son's favorite book as of late is called My First Batman Book. His aunt bought it for him partially because little boys tend to like super heroes and also partially because Batman is his dad's favorite, but the problem is he could read the Batman book until the end of time, never reading a single book in between, and be perfectly content. There are few ways to get creative with the already slightly interactive book and my voice is quickly growing hoarse from trying to sound like Batman. I've given sounds to the fake "buttons" inside the book, prompting my son to push them when directed and even make "zoom" and "zip" noises as Batman drives his Batmobile with Robin or ziplines across tall buildings.

The realization eventually came to me that perhaps I had made the book too fun; that in an effort to quell my own boredom I had made the book more desirable in my son's eyes. So I quickly changed my approach. I began speeding through the pages quicker than my son could turn them and speaking in monotone voices, with no cool sound effects or added interactive ploys.

To my dismay, it didn't work. My son still loves the Batman book and it only angers him when I don't add in the extra "fun" parts. I don't know why every little boy member of the male population has an obsession with Batman, but it seems to be universal.

I tried hiding it once. I slipped it behind his stuffed animal bin and forgot about it for weeks. Until the day my son tipped over said bin and uncovered the "lost" object. His eyes lit up when he saw it as he immediately handed it to me and promptly sat in my lap for 20 or 30 straight readings. I tried to pick up other books in between but he wouldn't be swayed. It was like a brand-new toy and the weeks it spent missing from his easily-accessible collection only added to its worth.

I guess I learned my lesson. Damnit, Batman.


-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.

Dogs Best Friend.

My son thinks his friends are dogs.

The other day we were having a play date with our cousins when Hunter joyfully decided to share. I usually encourage this behavior, because as an only- and a non-daycare-going- child, I want him to learn how to play nicely with other children. The problem is that when Hunter shares, he likes to shove toys right into his friends' mouths.

This odd behavior was proceeded by Hunter getting in trouble for not being gentle with his playmate.. hitting him a little too hard and throwing an object in his direction, hitting him square in the chest. But what happened after I said the words ,"be gentle" gave me some serious pause.

Hunter promptly looked at me, his little face clearly registering the command, and then proceeded to pat his play mate lightly on the head and then lean in for an armless hug (basically Hunter putting his head on the other boy's chest). This behavior was not received with the good intentions with which it was meant because the petting was invasive, probably a little to rough and slightly condescending, and the hug registered as a rather strange gesture given their was no actual hugging involved.

Hunter's playmate quickly looked from Hunter to the adult supervisors in the room with a level of confusion and disgust that resulted in a priceless face I wish I had a picture of, and an immediate push as he tried to remove the small human from his chest.

The thing is, Hunter's behavior was supposed to be nice. He was petting his friend. And, in all fairness, this is my fault (because his dad wasn't around to take the blame).

We have a dog and I'm a huge proponent of pets for kids. I think the right pet provides a lot of benefit for young children. Not only have studies proved that kids with dogs tend to have stronger immune systems (probably because the dogs constantly expose them to dirt, germs and crap they otherwise wouldn't usually be around) but I credit our dog with helping to teach our son to walk. It was the determination to catch up with his dog, after all, that motivated Hunter to take his first steps - right toward our 90 lb. Black Mouth Cur, who immediately ran for cover, horrified that this small but loud lump had suddenly learned to move on its own. But our son has also learned how to play with others based on how he plays with our dog.

The command "be gentle" most commonly comes in response to Hunter using our dog as a drum - or a horse, or a step stool - so when I made the warning, he jumped into action. Responding exactly how he would to our dog with a series of nice pets and an animal-appropriate hug.

Despite the hilarious awkward inappropriate exchange, I can't help but marvel at how children view the world. In a way, his immediate reaction shows an impressive amount of acceptance and tolerance as well as the true innocence of a child. He doesn't see an animal as lesser than another human being - to him, he was treating his playmate with the same respect and love he shows his own brother. To Hunter, that was the utmost compliment (or perhaps it was a knee-jerk reaction to my command, but let's pretend it's not). Either way, PETA could learn a thing or two from Hunter.

In closing, my takeaway is simple: We need more human play dates.

-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.

Things aren't always easier the second time around

As soon as you get married, the questions start. Every relative from your third cousin thrice removed to your Great Aunt Jo want to know when you'll be bringing a baby into the family. As annoying as the constant pestering can get, it's hard to blame them. I admit, I bug my married friends about their plans of the ovary variety from time to time. My intentions aren't to bother them, I am just legitimately excited about the prospect of a new baby to play with.

The only pestering worse than this, however, is the constant conversation that happens after you birth a child. No sooner does that child reach 3 months old than the entire family has barged right back into your ovaries again - figuratively speaking, of course. Because once you've started, you're expected to act as if your sole purpose is to cook and pop out babies like your families own personal baby factory - most enticing to those either too old or too young to produce on their own.

I've said since pregnancy, when I was experiencing 24/7 morning all day sickness that I would be waiting a solid 4-5 years for baby number two. This notion was perposturous to most, especially those pregnant at the same time as me, clamoring to be pregnant again by the time their little one reached one year old, but for me it was the only way it'd ever work. After all, I was throwing up so much and so often that I was barely capable of taking care of myself some days so how was I supposed to care for two babies at once? Especially when one was already outside of my womb? (Three babies if you count myself - which you should).

I am happy to report that none of those mothers actually ended up pregnant by their little one's first birthday, but I am still sometimes surprised by the number of people who had kids at the same time as I did, having another already. Aside from the awful sickness, I actually have several valid reasons for postponing postpartum round two. And they are even better than the perfectly acceptable "I'm f**king tired."

When all is said and done I'm actually proud of myself for how well I've done with my son. Not for a second am I going to pretend I have it all together (just this past week he gave up naps in his crib), but overall, I achieved what I wanted to. I breastfed my son for over a year, I cloth diapered for the same amount of time, I successfully kept him healthy for the entirety of year one, I made all of his scheduled doctors appointments, I made all of my own (mostly organic) baby food and I stayed home with him - and still do (something I never envisioned for myself). But now, with the impeding thoughts of baby number two eventually (see: eventually) coming, I'm afraid. I'm not sure if I can be as good of a mom the second time around.

It was exhausting doing all of those things. Obviously I did them for the betterment of my child's life, because I personally feel they are important, but the idea of pumping milk several times a day and spending hours peeling, steaming and pureeing apples sounds exhausting. Add in child number 2 (now 4 or 5) who is likely bringing home sicknesses from school and feeding my baby chicken nuggets when I'm not looking, and the task seems daunting. And then I'll spend my whole life feeling awful because I was clearly a better mom round one. (No, really, I will. I'm that type of person).

So before you ask me about kid number two, be sure you're ready for a loooong explanation. Because these are the thoughts that go through my mind when I think about kid number two, and if I was having a good day before you asked me, I likely may not be once this conversation is over.

-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.

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.