Thursday, May 31, 2012

I'm not a germaphobe, but...

When baby B pulled the straw out of my frappacino while in the Barnes and Noble bathroom, and threw it on the floor, and then Miss H proceeded to pick up said straw, put it back into my frappacino and then drink from it, I had to cringe a little. Needless to say, I just let her have my drink...

Wednesday, May 30, 2012

A little thing called post partum depression...

After a good friend mentioned that she didn’t even realize I’d had post partum depression (PPD,) I realized that it is something I never talk about. Ever.

I mean, it took me a few months to realize I had it, and then another month before admitting that I had it. I hid it super well; J never even suspected there was a problem. But that’s because I was trying to convince myself that there wasn’t.

PPD isn’t prejudice in who it strikes. Not at all. There are things that can make you more susceptible to it, such as an unplanned pregnancy, ample stress during the pregnancy, the loss of a loved one, etc. But you don't have to have any of the prerequisites to end up suffereing from it. It wasn’t until after the fact that I was able to look back and realize how much stress I was dealing with while pregnant with baby B, which likely didn't help the situation.

Really, I wasn’t preparing myself for any possibility of PPD. I was just assuming it would all be as wonderful as it was with Miss H. I loved every single second of being pregnant with her. For real. Even when I was in labor, I thought it was all wonderful and beautiful. And although I was super excited to meet her, I wasn’t really “done” being pregnant with her. But then there she was in all of her beauty and glory. And I loved her dearly. I thought she was incredibly amazing. Mostly because she was. I mean, how could she not be? She was my child, after all.

Miss H was a vivacious baby. (And is a pretty vivacious toddler!). Her pediatrician labeled her “high needs.” It was a label I refused to accept until she was closer to a year. Then I realized her pediatrician might be on to something…

I loved everything about being Miss H’s mother. I loved nursing her, I loved waking up with her, even though she never slept for more than 45 minutes at a time, even at night…I was that sickeningly giddy person who was *excited* to wake up every 45 minutes because that meant I got the privilege of looking at my baby again (and this was until she was nearly a year old…). I held her 24/7 (which I mostly do with baby B, too). She was perfect and incredible. I was over the moon happy and in love.

And so I assumed it would be the same with baby B.

But my pregnancy with him was hard. Not physically, but emotionally. I questioned if maybe we’d made the wrong choice (we didn't!), because I was so afraid of everything I was "taking" from Miss H. I had a hard time seeing that it could possibly be good for her.

I was learning the hard way that blood isn’t always thicker than water. I was discovering who actually gave a flying frak about me and my family, and who really didn’t. This was incredibly stressful and heart breaking for me.

And then baby B’s birth experience was not the incredible one I’d had with Miss H. The people I had depended on to help me were not dependable at all. One person didn’t even bother to be in the same freaking state – she took off to a Nascar race even though I’d asked her to be there. The other was too consumed with herself and her beauty sleep and texting boys to help me during my greatest time of need. I needed someone to help with Miss H, and instead, I had to be left alone during the most horrendous part of labor so J could tend to Miss H. It was during that time that it truly felt like this ugly, dark cloud came over me that I later learned was my post partum depression.

After baby B was finally born, who I had been certain was my second little girl, turned out to be a little boy. I was never sad that he was a boy, I was thrilled. But my mommy-instinct had been killed. And I had not been prepared for a boy. I didn’t even have a name picked out for him!

So I gave him the first name that came to my head, and spent many months lamenting that perhaps it didn’t fit him (though it really does!).

I loved baby B immediately. Tremendously, fiercely, unconditionally. Just as I had Miss H. But I also felt a bit disconnected from him. And surprisingly, from Miss H too.

I felt like everything I was doing was wrong. That I couldn’t make my children happy. That everyone outside of my immediate 4-person family hated me. I felt like no one cared about poor baby B except for J and I. And of course, Miss H. She was in love with her baby brother immediately.

Juggling two babies turned out to be incredibly easy, but I just couldn’t get past the feelings of disconnect. Of doing everything wrong. And of being extremely alone. J was gone far more than he was home due to work travels. I didn’t have a single person to call when things got overwhelming, it was just really hard.

I was eager to leave B and H  whenver the opportunity would arise. It would only be a 20 minute trip to the grocery store while J stayed home with them, but I’d never in my life been eager to leave Miss H, and most certainly not as a newborn! I knew this was not normal.

And then we went to New Mexico for baby B’s baptism. Miss H had a UTI and was cutting molars, so she was a pill. I felt like an incredible failure as a parent because my children were not nearly as well-behaved as all the other children we came into contact with. It wasn’t until the last night there while I was taking a shower that it truly hit me that something was wrong. Very wrong. And with *me*.

My children are perfect. They are mine. I love them. Why did I feel all these overwhelming feelings of failure, when only two months ago no one could have rocked my mothering boat?

And it hit me. This is what they call post partum depression. When we got home I read Brooke Shield’s book Down Came the Rain and was amazed, and appalled, at how much of it I could relate to. To be honest, I was pretty disgusted with myself. How I could allow myself to feel this way. Really, it just made me feel worse to see all my feelings and thoughts in print.

It made me incredibly sad to know that even one single other human being had to feel the way I did. Ever in all of their life. Because no one deserves to feel that way.

But I took matters into my own hands. I finally broke down and told J what was going on. I told him 2 hours before he was getting ready to leave for a 2 week long trip. I know it killed him a bit. He was devastated. Devastated that I was going through this, devastated that he hadn’t realized it. But I assured him that it was not his fault, I had hid it well. Very well. One of  my biggest irrational fears during this time was that he would leave me. This was ridiculous, because when I could allow myself to think rationally I knew he loved me unconditionally, and would never leave me. He was totally supportive and told me he’d do whatever needed to get me back on the right track.

I knew medicine was not an option for me. I refused to take Tylenol while breastfeeding, so some prescription pills were not going to work out. I started taking tons of vitamin D, completely changed my eating habits to Paleo, and started frequenting the gym. It was a slow change, but it did happen. By the time baby B was 7 months old I could confidently say I was PPD-free.

Post partum depression is not something I would ever wish on anyone. It differs for all women who experience it. Some are able to overcome it without medicinal help, some are not, and that’s okay. Some need to speak with someone on the outside, a therapist or counselor, some do not. Some will overcome it in a few short months, others will suffer for years.

Do not judge these women. Forgive them for their words and actions during this time. You have no idea what they are going through. Unless you have gone through it yourself, you cannot even relate (count yourself lucky!).

I know that before having baby B I couldn’t understand how not everyone is over the moon, giddy and ecstatic after having their babies. Now I can. And it’s a very humbling experience.

More women experience PPD than many realize. Many just suffer in silence. But we’d do a lot better if we didn’t have to. PPD isn’t taboo, it’s very real, and women need to feel safe and able to talk about it. The more women speak out, than hopefully the less others will have to suffer. At least I really hope so.

A sitter before one

It’s only one o’clock and today has all ready been a success in my book. Breakfast and lunch both made and fed. A load of laundry done, four loads folded (don’t judge…). Six potential babysitters interviewed. “The Very Hungry Caterpillar” read about 6,233,235,654,134 times, because there is no such thing as reading a book only once in toddlerland. Oh, and we’ve gone rolie polie hunting for over an hour, and played with the water table.

And a super successful part of the day, B took a nap without being held or in the car, which is like monumental (but he was in my bed…which is a step from where he’s sleeping now…on my chest…). I keep joking to J that I’m going to stick B in the crib someday, but really, ever since the 2 minutes I left him in there like two weeks ago while I ran to the bathroom, I think we’ve both been pretty traumatized for  me to ever actually try that out in the near future. But never say never.

To think, some people think stay at home moms just eat bon bons and play on facebook all day (I mean, we have been forced to evolve some, most soap operas have been taken off air. But don’t ask me how I know that…)

Anyway, on to the best, and definitely very most successful part of this morning – I have finally found a babysitter! Two actually. I have interviewed well over 40 at this point since mid-April, none of them living up to my standards, go figure. My standards might be a little high for someone who hasn’t gone through the pain and effort of actually giving birth to them. But what can I say – they are my kids. I expect whoever is caring for them to treat them as I would. With compassion.

It’s kind of humorous how many applicants I have literally emailed the “answers” (aka my parenting beliefs) to before ever even interviewing them, and yet they still get it all, all wrong. When I said we refrain from yelling at our children, how could you (general you) think that the proper answer to a question is “I would yell…” Or when I said that we try to use distraction, how is “I would put her in time-out then…” be the right answer? And if I had a dollar for every time someone said, in regards to Miss H hitting, “I would tell her she’s being mean…” Um, no. I don’t tell my child she is mean. I tell her that her actions are hurtful, but never that she’s mean. Yeah, most people think this is awfully fruity, and I’m okay with it. It works for us. And if I’m trusting you with my kids, and paying you, it better work for you, too. Just sayin’.

But, I had two girls today that I really liked and  who at the very least put on a good show with my babes and said all the right things. So I will probably hire them both.

I really just need someone to watch them while I go to pilates while Jaime’s on travel, because I don’t trust the huge childcare center at the gym. It’s a personal thing. I’m sure they’re great, certainly don’t think they’re wrong to use (I stuck B in it at 6 weeks old while H did swim lessons!). But it just doesn’t do it for me anymore.

So I am absolutely elated to have found someone. Maybe this means J and I will even get to go on a date sometime. Woo hoo!  

Tuesday, May 29, 2012

And the painted ponies go up and down

And the seasons, they go round and round/
And the painted ponies go up and down/

We're captive on the carousel of time/
We can't return, we can only look behind/
From where we came/
And go round and round and round/
In the circle game/
~ Joni Mitchell

The first time I heard that song I was working as a camp counselor at a summer camp. I fell a little bit in love with it. The truthfulness and authenticity of the lyrics are nearly overwhelming.

As I looked at the photos on my bedroom wall this evening while I nursed my babies to sleep, my heart felt like it might explode. There are two photos of me pregnant with Miss H, and then a photo of her at 3 months old. Those moments seemed like only yesterday.

All ready her little brother is three times the age she was when the photo was taken. My pregnancy days are so long behind me.

And yet all of this time has passed by so quickly.

I had just turned 19 years old that summer I worked at camp. In a span of 5 years I have changed so much. My life has changed in ways I'd never imagined. All for the better.

The girl I was then and the woman I am now are such opposites. I'm not even sure if they would like each other a great deal to be honest.

There are the little things. That girl ate Lucky Charms every single morning for breakfast while at camp. I wouldn't come near Lucky Charms with a 10 foot pole anymore. Okay, so if someone bought me a box, I'd probably eat a bowl, feel like crap, and then agonize over what I'd just put into my body. And of course, I would then send the rest of the box to work with J so I wouldn't be tempted to indulge in it's wheaty-sugar-artificial-crap.

There are slightly bigger things. That girl was very materialistic. Almost superficial. What was on the label mattered. What other people thought, to an extent, mattered. Luckily, I'm so over all of that and couldn't give a flying frak what anyone, other than maybe J, and even that is limited, thinks.

And then there are the much bigger things. I'm very sure of who I am now. And more so, I'm sure of how other people fit into my life. I realize who and what truly matters, and what role they get to play. And I make all the decisions that affect me. I don't put up with the crap. I don't need anyones approval.

I'm certainly a better person for it all.

We all grow and change as time passes on. It's who we grow to become, and what we change that matters. We have the ability to make it all for the better, or to allow for it to be for the worse.

But when I look at those two beautiful babies, even on my worst of days, I know everything is for the better. I'm a pretty blessed woman.

It's just not a tortilla if it's paleo.

Baby B had the worst case of reflux, pretty much ever when he was a newbie. His doctor swore it couldn't be food related, but when the strongest meds at the strongest dose didn't even help a wee bit, I went with my mommy-gut and decided it likely was food related.

While doing some research, I came across the Paleo lifestyle. It was not something new to me, as I've been on a serious quest to healthier living since I became pregnant with my daughter. It was, however, not something I had really considered before as it always seemed too "hard." I mean, no dairy, grains, potatoes, processed food...ever??

But, during my research I also learned not only had it been proven to help reflux in many infants, it had also helped a lot of women who were dealing with post partum depression, something I was suffering from mostly in silence.

I decided at the very least trying Paleo wouldn't hurt. The first week was hell. Seriously. I can only imagine it was similar to how an addict feels during withdrawals. But, for all intents and purposes, I was going through withdrawals. From sugar. That shit is in everything!

But once I made it through the first week, I felt so much better. I lost the last 10lbs of baby weight that month. And another 10lbs the following (where I've remained). B's reflux completely disappeared. My head got clearer, and here nearly 6 mos later, I am very much free of PPD, and did it with nothing more than change of diet and added vitamin D. So for me, Paleo totally "works."

That being said, I'm not as crazy militant about it as I was in the beginning. I eat cookies and sandwiches at parties. If we go out to eat, all bets are off. I eat a crepe every Saturday morning for breakfast. I eat raw cheese (typically goat's) when I get a hankering for dairy. I buy "processed" almond milk and almond butter. And I eat tortillas when I want Mexican, because I've tried, but it's just not a tortilla if it's Paleo. Though I do tend to opt for gluten-free tortillas most often. Truth is, I can really feel it when I stray from the Paleo diet, but it doesn't mean I never do. But I try to stick with it as much as possible, which is actually easier than I had thought because I know how bad the non-Paleo food really are for you.

That being said, if I want a fucking cookie, I'm going to eat it.

Monday, May 28, 2012

Where's the rest of it?

What the flying frak, cowboy!? So I go to the mall today with the intention of buying some shirts that actually fit, instead of these potato sacks I've been wearing that make me look peculiarly like a cow. Just sayin'. But it seems like nearly every shirt in the stores are missing some fabric. Okay, a lot of fabric. Like all of it other than what covers the boobs. Um...

Even if I didn't have two pregnancies under my belt, I wouldn't want to wear these belly shirts, crop tops, whatever you call them. I do have some general day to day modesty. Personally, unless I'm at the beach or pool, I don't want to see anyones belly, no matter how rockin' your abs are! But that's just me. I'm also the crazy who won't let her 2-year-old wear a bikini (but happily rocks one myself!).

So, I ended up with 3 nursing tanks, 2 t-shirts (exact same, but different colors), and a pair of khaki shorts...guess I will try again some other day.

Clothes are hard. I don't want to look like a hooker, which seems to be how many of my age counterparts tend to dress (and that's cool, I'm not judging you!), but I also don't want to look 50. Yes, I'm a mom. But I'm also pretty young. There needs to be a Young-But-Mature-And-Responsible-And-Not-16-Looking-Mom's-Clothing-Store. They can shorten the name though.

Sunday, May 27, 2012

Teething Monster!

Oh, I've heard the stories. Those horror stories! Of teething babies who cry all day and all night and drool rivers and have runny diapers and don't sleep. Yeah...

Miss H was never one of those babies. We never knew she had a tooth until voila! A beautiful little white pearl presented itself. (Except for her molars, she had a mild fever for both her 1 year and 2 year molars, but was still overall "normal.").

Baby B though...wowzers! I mean, he's not to the extreme of some I've heard. I suppose it could always be worse. But compared to Miss H's teething experience, this is a bit nuts. Poor little man has had a fever since yesterday, he's generally a bit cranky and clingy. Hardly slept a wink last night (which means Momma hardly slept a wink last night...). He drools a bit as it is, but this is just soaking. I just feel so bad for him! I even gave him a bit of Advil, but it doesn't seem to do much for his general feeling of miserableness.

Really, it breaks my heart. I can't stand to see my babies in any kind of pain or discomfort. It makes me so sad for him. I hope it passes quickly.

Of course, we're at 9-months-old and this is his first tooth...so we have a lot more to go...

Saturday, May 26, 2012

Little sis graduates...will my kiddos?

My baby sister graduated high school today. Well, I guess she's really not a baby.

I found myself getting all teary-eyed during her commencement. Lord knows I didn't get weepy at my own high school graduation (or college!). I was so happy to get the flying fuck out of there, I didn't even want to attend my own graduation(s).

And yet, for a split second anyway, I found myself questioning if the decision J and I have made at this point in our lives, to home school Miss H and baby B, is the right one. By depriving them of a high school graduation (and a kindergarten one), would we somehow be doing some kind of irreparable damage to them?

As I said, it was only a split second of questioning, because I was quickly and easily able to remind myself that the damage of putting them in the school system far outweighed the damage of them never wearing a cap and gown and being handed a piece of paper in front of a few hundred people. At least in my opinion.

I think school is definitely a "to each their own" thing. And beliefs constantly change. A year ago I would not have even considered the possibility of considering homeschooling, now I have a hard time considering any type of school system, whether it be public or private.

Much like different parenting methods work for different families, I realize that different schooling works for different families. It's not a "one shoe fits all". Which is one of the reasons I really hate the public school system, as well a many private schools. They all teach all the children the same things, at the same speed, and the same way. And that doesn't make sense to me. Kids are different. They learn in many different ways. That should be realized and expanded upon. But it isn't.

I also really dislike that children spend 7 hours at school (sometimes more!) with only 2 thirty minute breaks (sometimes less!) and are expected to sit still and not speak and do what they are told and most especially, never question anything. I don't want a robotic sheeple of a child. I want a strong individual who is free to play and explore and question everything often.(I'm not saying that all children who are put through the public school system are sheeple, obviously they are not. But that doesn't mean that many of them are not either.)

I guess I'm just realizing that allowing my children to learn at their own pace, on their own terms, in a manner that is best for them is the better option for us. And if that means I won't get to take photos of them at a cute kindergarten graduation, or even a teary high school graduation, then that's okay. I'll still get to hear all about them from my friends and their kids, and I'll probably even get to attend some too! And that will be awesome. But, unless things change, which really, can always happen, those are just some things my kids won't experience. But they will have a bunch of different, great (and I'm sure not-so-great) experiences that kids who are "attending" school won't have. So it all evens out, right?

I hope so.

Thursday, May 24, 2012

I *am* successful.

It's funny, when the people I speak to who I've actually bothered to tell that I was accepted to Law School learn, typically all in the same breath, that I'm not actually going to attend, I typically get told that it's for the best, I'd miss these precious years with my babes, or that that's crazy, of course I should go! I mean, I actually got in! And then, one person actually said to me, "But don't you want to be successful in life?"

You see, this is where things get a bit gray. One person's definition of success is not necessarily someone else's definition.

It seems that many people equate success with wealth. With big houses, a 9-5 job, 2 car payments, and taking a nice vacation once a year.

Sure, if that's what makes those people happy, than that's great. But that's not how I view success. Not for me anyway.

I'm 24-years-old. I am happily married to the love of my life, I have two beautiful, happy, healthy children. I get to spend every single day with these children. And seriously, nothing makes me happier than my family.

If someone had told me ten years ago that this is what my life would have been, I'd have thought they were joking. And I would not have been impressed with myself. At all. I always assumed I'd have a big career, likely as a lawyer. I had no intentions of ever getting married - love was a ridiculous notion and I was much to practical for something so silly. Although I adored children, loved being with them, I never actually envisioned having any of my own. I thought I'd likely adopt, but not until well into my 30s and when I would be able to have a full-time nanny, because of course, I'd be much too busy to actually raise them myself.

But it's funny how life has a way of just happening, and all the pieces fell together beautifully and perfectly for me.

And I am successful. One of the most successful people I know, in fact. I am incredibly happy. I have no regrets in life. There is not one single solitary thing I would change about my life. I simply love being a mom and wife, shocking as it is, even to me.

So, maybe I'm not your definition of success, and that's okay, because we all have our own definitions. And really, all that matters is our own, right?

Wednesday, May 23, 2012

"You don't have a scar."

Because it is my birthday today, my dear husband scheduled me a massage. A few people had suggested he take the babes for the day and let me have "alone time," he was much smarter than that and knew I'd kill him if he took them from me all day (okay, not literally...). Sure, I like a break, who doesn't? But anything more than an hour and I get antsy for my babes. Needless to say, I don't have them away from me very often.

Anyway, after getting my massage, which was delightful, the massage therapist was talking to me and said, "You are so lucky! You don't have a scar or anything."

"A scar? What do you mean?" I asked.

"Oh, from your epidural from having your babies." (Do people really have scars from their epidurals? For some reason I find this hard to believe, but okay...)

I kind of laughed and simply told her, "Oh, I didn't have an epidural with them. I had them at home."

Now, when people learn that I had my kiddos at home I nearly always get one of two reactions.

1.) They think I'm some kind of super woman who is also a bit crazy.
2.) They think I'm some kind of ridiculous martyr who hates Western medicine and thinks that women who birth in hospitals are less-than.

Quite frankly, neither is true. (Well, okay, I'm probably a bit crazy).

There really isn't anything "super woman" about having a baby the way God intended. Women have been having babies naturally for millions of years. It's "normal" for all intents and purposes.

I do not hate Western medicine. I'm thankful for all the good it does, especially when one of my babes or I need it! I'm not against hospitals, not even for birthing babies. And I most certainly do not think that any woman who chooses to birth in a hospital, even with medicinal assistance, is less than. I think all women are pretty damn super.

I didn't intend to home birth before I got pregnant. In fact, only months before I got pregnant with Miss H I actually made a comment that home birthing was crazy, and why would anyone choose to do it, while speaking with one of my good European friends who lives in a country where it's the norm.

But, as it came to be, I'm a control freak. Like to the extreme. I truly disliked my OB who pretty much immediately ripped my birth plans to shreds and told me that although I was perfectly healthy he would not allow me to birth naturally because, in a nutshell, it wasn't convenient for him. I said fuck that, J and I left, and I announced that we'd be doing this at home where I could be in control

So we did.

So I'm not super woman or a martyr.

Just a control freak.

Tuesday, May 22, 2012

"Don't climb up the slide!"

It just drives me insane when I hear someone tell their child this.

Or worse: my child.

1.) Does it really matter!?
2.) Let them play - don't control their play if they're not being physically violent, in my opinion.
3.) MISS H IS NOT YOUR CHILD.

Maybe it's a horrid way of thinking, but if climbing up the slide is not a good thing to do (and really, who are we to say exactly how a child should play - it's playing for crying outloud!), she'll learn the hard way. Whether it be tumbling down it or having another kid plough into her while going down. I'll ignore the fact that she almost always immediately plops off the slide as soon as she sees another child wanting to use it "properly." But so what if she didn't? If you just stopped and took a step back and let kids be kids and let them handle the situation 1 of 5 things will happen.

1.) H will see that someone else wants to use it and move.
2.) The other child will ask H to move and she will.
3.) H will see that someone else wants to use it, not care, and the other child will play somewhere else.
4.) The other child will ask H to move and she won't, so the other child will go somewhere else to play.
5.) H won't move and said child will plough into her.
(And I'm sure there are soooo many more scenarios as well)

Sure, scenarios 3-5 may cause some tears. Heck, anything can cause tears in toddler world. But regardless of how the situation turns out, both children will learn from it. And surely we can all agree that that is a good thing.

Why as parents do we feel so compelled to fight all of our children's battles for them? If they cannot learn how to resolve the small playground conflicts on their own, then how can we expect them to properly handle the much bigger, and far more important conflicts later in life?

Of course I don't want to see H get hurt. But it's also a part of life. And allowing our children this part of life is actually good for them.

So when you see that crazy parent allowing their child to - gasp! - climb up the slide, or not forcing them to share (though encouraging is always good!), don't immediately judge and assume that they just don't care. We do care.

I do care.
But I just don't think it's my place to interfere.

The Family Bed

Hippies sleep with their kids. I totally knew that long before I had babes of my own. I'm definitely not cool enough to be a "hippy." So I'm not. And thus, I never intended to have a "family bed."

But I do. Actually, I have two. Two mattresses thrown on my bedroom floor and smooshed together. Baby B and I sleep on one, J and Miss H sleep on the other. Occasionally we all roll around and do a weird mix, but mostly, we stick to our own beds.

This was never supposed to be. Like ever. In a million and two years. Sleeping with your kids is crazy. It's irresponsible. It's for the lazy. Or the free-lovin'. So I thought...

But then I had Miss H and couldn't put her down for the first 72 hours after she was born other than to pee (though I did master holding her while peeing pretty quickly!). And that was okay. She was mesmerizing and amazing. I loved just holding her. And since I didn't put her down, she naturally came to bed with us. And that's just kind of where she stayed.

We tried the crib. We gave it a real honest effort. But she'd scream and I never have been one who can stand to let my babes cry, so she just ended up back in bed with us. I bribed her with picking out her own toddler bed. She picked a gaudy, tacky, awful pink plastic Princess bed (and she doesn't even freaking know what Disney Princesses are - she's never seen a single movie or read a book with them! They know how to lure little girls, that's for sure!!). She got the matching bedding and everything. And for an amazing 4 weeks she slept in her own bed....and then she didn't.

I keep saying maybe when baby B is bigger I'll just throw them in bed together. Maybe. Who knows? I'd love to go to bed with just my husband each night. To have him be the one beside me. I mean, I love my kiddos, but I'm with them all day long. A little space at night wouldn't hurt.

That being said, they are more than welcome to sleep with us as long as they need (though I'm really hoping it's not until they're in college). I'm a firm believer that everyone does what works best for their families, and for us, the family bed just works. Doesn't mean I always love it, but I certainly don't hate it. And my babes sleep well and are the better for it. And that's okay. It may not be conventional, and I'm sure a lot of people would disagree with it (I sure as hell would have before I had babes!), and really, that's okay. I don't think it's the "right" way, that's for sure. But I don't think it's wrong, either.

It just works for us. For now anyway...

Monday, May 21, 2012

Stranger in the Park

I love my town. I mean, really freaking love it. Without a doubt, it is the only town in my state that I could ever live. It's culturally diverse, pretty open-minded, and overall just likeable.

Until you meet the moms. Now, don't get me wrong, I have some really amazing mom friends. Unfortunately, they're not the "norm" from my experience.

Moms here typically tend to be "extreme." Either you are a mainstream parent, or a crunchy attachment parent, and God forbid you fall somewhere in the middle. Because if you sway from one particular parenting style, you are an outcast. So for someone like me, who teeters in between (though admittedly I'm more "crunchy"...just not enough) it's really hard to make actual "mom friends."

So when someone randomly comes along, much like today, I always feel so silly questioning myself. Randomly, I met a fellow mom at the park who struck up a conversation with me and she seemed so...normal. She didn't care how I parented my kids, I didn't care how she parented her daughter, but we were okay allowing them to play together and had a lot of fun just talking to each other. Like normal people.

Which never happens here. Like. Ever.

But I'm not sure if it's okay to just randomly make friends with strangers in the park? I mean, I guess it's no worse than joining my mom's group and having complete strangers over to my house. I suppose at least then there are more mommas around and theoretically someone else in the group is likely to know if someone is legit...

I'm trying to take this new found mommy friendship at face value and not over analyze it. We exchanged phone numbers all 7th grade dating style and everything, with promises to call. So, I guess I should at some point.

Right?

Pottty Learning...

"Momma, look! Look! The poopy is comin' out my bum!"

Who knew I'd ever be so happy to hear my 25-month-old daughter, H, say that?

She is, for all intents and purposes, 100% daytime potty learned. It was a roller coaster to get here, but totally worth it. Not only does she poop on the potty (yay! No more scraping poop out of cloth diapers!), but about 50% of the time she also wipes her own ass. Best. Thing. Ever.

H showed interest in the potty at a very early age. Around her first birthday. At about 16 months she was fully potty learned in the sense she would tell me when she had to go and then wait and go on the pot. Unlike now though, she couldn't put herself on the toilet or wipe her own bum. But hey, I was pleased as peaches!

Then baby B was born and all that potty learning went down the drain. (Why do I say "potty learned" instead of "potty trained" you ask? Well...she's a child, not an animal. I don't "train" my children. But that's just me. To each their own. If your little Fido...I mean Phoebe, would rather be trained, that's cool too!) Once there was a new baby, my sweet husband, J, thought sticking H in diapers for a few days until we got adjusted would be no big deal...yeah. Wrong!

So then we spent the next 5 months going back and forth with this potty business. We read books, tried so many different methods. One person suggested the 3 day boot camp method. Yep, didn't work. Another suggested rewards. Psh...she'd do anything for a "prize"...but I can't afford to give her prizes, whether it be a sticker or a piece of chocolate, for the next 50 years every time she pees in the potty, which was her train of thinking.

So I refused to push. J wanted her back on the pot. I said let her do it in her own time. And guess what? I was right! Ha. Of course I was...as soon as Miss H was given all the control again, she gladly went back to using the potty.

Hallelujah!

I'm pretty sure we lucked out with her being so young. I read somewhere once that like 4 is the average age of potty learning. Seems crazy, but kind of makes sense too. I'm pretty sure baby B will be much older when he potty learned than H...he's so different from her. He'd rather eat dirt and lick shoes anyway at 8-months-old...

But, for when the time comes, I'm always open to advice for potty learning (or training...). I hear boys are more difficult than girls...I guess since he's so easy in every other aspect, teaching him where to piss ought to be difficult. It's only fair.

It'll be fun to see how it turns out. This whole parenting process is a learning experience in itself. Why should potty learning be any different?