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I recently decided to switch purses. Here’s what I found when I cleaned out my bag: - $2.31 in change
- 3 pens – only one of which still works
- 1 binder clip
- 7 of Commuter Girl’s hair elastics in assorted colors and sizes
- 3 lip glosses – 2 were the same color
- 2 containers of hand sanitizer
- 1 overstuffed wallet – not overstuffed with money, but instead full of receipts, store credits, and store membership cards
- 2 cell phones – my current phone and the old one that Commuter Girl plays with
- A handful of oyster cracker crumbs
- 1 snack package of goldfish
- The missing spare car key
- 9 random post-it notes containing various shopping and to-do lists
- 3 pairs of sunglasses – 1 for me and 2 for Commuter Girl
- 1 clean diaper
- 1 empty dog poop bag
- 1 used Kleenex with gum inside
My life is so glamorous!
When New Girl goes to the center each day, we call it “school.” When she runs to her teachers, we call them, well, her teachers. I’ve noticed that some people, friends, sisters-in-law, my mom, either roll their eyes thinking we’re inflating this experience, or laugh with a little “oh, how cute” to use those terms to describe what they think of as “day care” and “baby sitters.” But more and more every day, their brush off of New Girl’s teachers as somehow something less than a first-grade math teacher, or high school English teacher, or college professor, makes me angrier and angrier. In fact, these women are so much more.
I see the grace with which they teach these infants to learn. They teach babies to learn how to comfort themselves to sleep; they teach even the most stubborn 1-year-old to learn to use a cup; they teach them to learn to eat at the table, to figure out a new toy, to overcome frustration, to be proud of their accomplishments. They teach them that they can be loved unconditionally by people in addition to mommy and daddy. I want to say to the non-believers out there, “You try teaching someone who can’t talk, can’t walk, and can’t understand your language how to be a loving, gentle soul, and that the world is safe as long as you are there by his side. Teach someone who cannot hold a paintbrush how to make masterful works of art. Teach someone with no teeth how to enjoy the fruits of the earth. Teach someone who cannot support herself how to literally stand proud on her own. And then, teach them how to talk, walk, and understand your language. And do it all in just a few months.” New Girl’s teachers are the most miraculous people I know. They are amazing, wonderful teachers. And I haven’t even started on what they’ve taught me, but that’s a blog — or a tome — for another day.
I survived our trip. The car seat issue was solved – I checked our car seat. Commuter Dad did decide that we needed some kind of cover. I thought he was being overly worried, but I am so glad we had it. First, it has wheels which make it much easier to lug around getting to the ticket counter and getting from the baggage claim area to the car. Second, it was extremely beat up after our first leg of the trip! There were stains and rips…I’m really glad that was the cover and not the car seat. Commuter Girl was really good on the plane. I had been picking up little toys for a few weeks and wrapping them up in tissue paper. She was really excited to get presents throughout the flight, and loved her new treasures. Napping was a bit of an issue. On the way there she did not want to sleep on the plane. Her exact words, with tears and a big pouty lip, were, “NO SLEEP ON AIRPLANE!!!” The day gets pretty long when you are 2 and have only napped for 15 minutes. Luckily, on the flights home everyone around us seemed to be napping so she decided it was ok to sleep. Our big excitement is that Commuter Girl is now sleeping in a big girl bed. While we were away she slept on a futon on the floor. So, before we got home CommuterDad transitioned her crib to a toddler bed. She loves it! So far, she hasn’t really figured out that she can get up when she wants in the morning – I’m just waiting for a 5:30 am wake up call…in person!
Like most moms, I believe I have an incredible daughter but have found juggling motherhood and working full-time to be very challenging. With my chatty 15 month old and a career I love, it’s hard to find a balance. I recently stopped breastfeeding so I’ve decided to commemorate by sharing my most memorable moment. You may think it would be the time a male VP said hello to me in the hall while I held my pump parts, or maybe you’d think it was the time someone asked me what I was having for lunch when I pulled a steam bag filled with pump parts out of the microwave. Sadly neither of those stories top as my most memorable… I had an offsite meeting at a hotel and planned to sneak out midday to pump in a coworkers hotel room. However, when I arrived at her room I couldn’t get the key to work. Determined not to interrupt my male boss’s presentation and ask her for help, I opted to turn to the front desk. Unfortunately, it was strict hotel policy not to share room information even though I gave the male clerk the room key, the guests name, and what I believed was the room number. Putting aside my dignity, I explained to the man that I needed a place to pump. He didn’t know how to handle my request so he explained he would get the manager, who, as it turns out, was also a man. After explaining that I simply needed a room to pump, he proceeded to tell me in his gentle Irish accent that he really couldn’t help me out. Horrified, I asked if he expected me to pump in the lobby or even in my car in the parking lot. He didn’t seem to like either idea and so like a bright light going off, escorted me to a conference room. Once in the room with large windows, I looked at the doors and said “these doors don’t lock.” He looked at me as if I had just made an odd comment and said “no, they don’t.” I calmly explained that I needed a room with doors that locked. He said “Oh, well I don’t think we have anything like that.” In a hotel full of locked rooms, I decided I needed to be blunt, “I’m not sure if you understand, as I said, I’m going to be pumping… with my shirt off.” “Ohhhh”, he said, “well, I do have one more option, it is a small room but should work.” As I breathed a sigh of relief, I followed him out of the conference room and…into a closet. Ironically, it only locked from the outside, so I found myself barricading the doors with boxes filled with staff uniforms. I sat on a round stool with wheels which reminded me of the one in my grade school library. My heart rate raced the whole time just waiting for someone to open the door. I sat there wondering why my request seemed like such a difficult one in a hotel and peered in the corners fearing a camera was somewhere in the closet. That night, as I recapped the story to my husband, his response was “It’s funny, I actually saw the video on You Tube earlier today.” Ironically, I didn’t find that too funny.
Two weeks after NewGirl was born, I was already back to my pre-pregnancy weight. Now before those of you struggling with those last five pounds get out your daggers, listen to this. Now, several months later, I am back UP to my peek pregnancy weight — and then some. Admittedly, maintaining a healthy weight has never been my strong suit, but lately I’ve been wondering why I don’t even have a desire to try, and after much self examination, I think I have the answer. I think eating what tastes good and is convenient is the simplest self-indulgence I have. Everything else takes time. It takes time to cook, bake, knit, scrapbook, shop, exercise, get a pedicure, read, go to the movies, and all the other things people like to do for themselves. It takes about 2 seconds to reach for a bag of M&Ms or grab a cookie from the platter in the office kitchen. And the small slice of time I have in the morning and early evening with my daughter between bedtime and work is too precious. I won’t give that up. The same goes for the weekends. So all that remains is the time after NewGirl goes to bed (don’t even talk to me about getting up at 5:00 a.m. for a jog — I admire the women who do, but it will never be my shtick). And in that time, I’m making and eating dinner with NewDad, preparing NewGirl’s bottles and food for “school,” doing laundry, cleaning up, or running to the grocery store or pharmacy for some last minute forgotten item. I know every working mom, especially new moms, face this same dilemma, and yet when I drop NewGirl off and pick her up at the center, it is crystal clear that one way or another, all the other moms have got this weight issue licked. Meanwhile, all I’ve licked is that spoonful of Ben and Jerry’s.
I love to listen to the morning news while I’m getting ready in the morning. That is one of the little things I miss about life before motherhood. With CommuterGirl in the room (which she usually is) the TV is either on PBS, or not on at all. So, when I’m away from home I relish the luxury of listening to the morning news. The other morning they were making a plug for the upcoming stories when I heard them chuckle and talk about momnesia. A recent article in USA Today defines what happens to a mother’s ability to “remember it all” post baby. So, I guess I wasn’t losing it when I couldn’t remember how to get out the door and still remember my wallet , I had momnesia. So, why does it still feel like a lame excuse? Maybe because the news anchor made the “plug” for the story with a laugh. Or, maybe, it’s because I’m not willing to admit I can’t do it all…I can be super-mom, can’t I?
Like most moms, I believe I have an incredible daughter but have found juggling motherhood and working full-time to be very challenging. With my chatty 15 month old and a career I love, it’s hard to find a balance. The other morning while nursing my baby, I looked down and realized she wasn’t really a baby anymore. Teetering on the fine line of infant/toddler, it started to occur to me that this weaning thing I’ve been thinking so much about actually needs to start happening. A friend explained to me that the best way to wean is to literally disappear during nursing times. So during the bedtime routine, I should leave the house (she kindly offered to leave her own two children for the evening and meet me at a bar). In the morning, my husband should bring our baby downstairs and feed her a full breakfast instead of bringing her to me to nurse. Both evening and morning routines will now require my husband’s full involvement for at least a week in order to break the nursing habit. I approached said husband about this, and while he knows it has to happen, he is a bit horrified that this responsibility will fall on him for a week. Let’s not forget that these routines have fallen on my shoulders for 62 weeks now (but who is counting). It is starting to sink in that this wonderful cuddle time we have twice a day will go away — and rather instantaneously. It is sad to me to think that my baby won’t lay there resting and nursing while I play with her hair. Or that she won’t cuddle under the covers with me while I rub her back — at least not until she’s a bit older (since the only time she snuggles extensively now is during nursing time). I’ve truly enjoyed nursing. It’s been a lot of work, A LOT of sacrifice, but every second has been worth it. Freedom, however, is upon me. Wish me luck!
I read this article on Washington Post.com by a stay-at-home Dad blogger wondering how to define “sick” . Is a baby who throws up once, but has no fever and is otherwise in good spirits, too sick to go to child care? As the mom of a child with a very easy propensity to throw up — the GI specialist said the mere act of pulling herself up to stand could cause my daughter to throw up because of the pressure it causes on the abdominal muscles — I’ve wondered the same thing a lot lately. NewGirl was sent home “sick” several weeks ago after she threw up at the center, but she was her happy, pleasant, and cheerful self once we got home. I’ve missed a lot of work this winter as NewGirl — along with her Dad — has had one illness after another. I was so frustrated to be forced into yet another day off, and this time I just didn’t feel she needed to be home.
It left me wondering if I needed to talk with the child care center director about just what it takes to send home a “sick child.” I actually had that meeting scheduled, when NewGirl came down with a certifiable stomach bug — an entire week of throwing up, diaper changes, and often clothing changes several times an hour, and endless desperate attempts to get her to drink even just a little Pedialyte®. As each day passed, I crossed my fingers that she’d keep food down and be ready to go to school the next day. And then, just as it seemed she was ready, she lost her lunch in the produce aisle at the grocery store, followed the next day by an accident in the car. I’ve got some new empathy for those teachers trying to decide who’s well enough to stay at school and who isn’t. I don’t think I’ll reschedule my meeting.
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