My baby is 15 months old today!
I literally cannot imagine my life before her arrival; yet it feels like no time at all has passed since the first time I held her in my arms right after she was born.
For me, 15 months is significant because E is almost exactly 15 months younger than two of her (second) cousins, and when she was first born and they came to meet her, I remember thinking how "big" they were. Now she's the big one.
E is incredibly verbal. Some of her favorite words start with the letter B. She can (and often does) say: Ball, Baby, Boo (as in "peek a boo"), ba ba (as in bottle), bye bye, ball, beeps (as in blueberries) and bup (as in "up"). She says, mama, dada, bamba (as in grandpa), muh (more), done, dum (as in either done or dog, depending on the situation), treat, du-thie (as in Lucy, our dog), side (outside), and various other words that she repeats after hearing us say them. Her ability to communicate with us is amazing; even more incredible is how much she understands. She is able to follow directions and loves being praised when she does something right. She is running and climbing and dancing and spinning round and round. Her joy is palpable and she makes my heart full every day.
Happy 15 months, my girl. I love you.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Monday, April 4, 2011
Blog neglect
It's been almost a month.
I haven't blogged in awhile. I'm not sure why because I've actually been thinking about the World of Blogging quite a bit lately. I've recently started following a few popular mommy bloggers on twitter, and I have been regulary reading and commenting on various blogs. But I haven't had the urge to blog here.
It's weird. I'm really motivated to blog, I really crave the feeling of writing something for pure pleasure's sake. But I am getting too caught up in details.
I am obsessed with picking a name for this blog. I literally think about it all the time and I can't come up with anything that I like. Well, I have come up with a few ideas but they are either already taken or not catchy enough. I am also obsessed with organization and can't decide whether I should pay for a blog on WordPress or settle for this free hosting sight. I'm also wondering if most bloggers write out their posts on the computer and then transfer them to the internet or just type directly into the browser. Yes, these are things that have kept me up at night. It's sad, especially when there is a 13 month old in the picture and plenty of other reasons to be kept awake.
The other thing I am struggling with right now is which direction to go in: am I a "mommy blogger"? Am I a "Boston blogger"? Am I a "Food Blogger"? What's my hook?
Hmm.
Based on my track record, maybe I should be categorized as a "Slacker Blogger".
I haven't blogged in awhile. I'm not sure why because I've actually been thinking about the World of Blogging quite a bit lately. I've recently started following a few popular mommy bloggers on twitter, and I have been regulary reading and commenting on various blogs. But I haven't had the urge to blog here.
It's weird. I'm really motivated to blog, I really crave the feeling of writing something for pure pleasure's sake. But I am getting too caught up in details.
I am obsessed with picking a name for this blog. I literally think about it all the time and I can't come up with anything that I like. Well, I have come up with a few ideas but they are either already taken or not catchy enough. I am also obsessed with organization and can't decide whether I should pay for a blog on WordPress or settle for this free hosting sight. I'm also wondering if most bloggers write out their posts on the computer and then transfer them to the internet or just type directly into the browser. Yes, these are things that have kept me up at night. It's sad, especially when there is a 13 month old in the picture and plenty of other reasons to be kept awake.
The other thing I am struggling with right now is which direction to go in: am I a "mommy blogger"? Am I a "Boston blogger"? Am I a "Food Blogger"? What's my hook?
Hmm.
Based on my track record, maybe I should be categorized as a "Slacker Blogger".
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
To Stare or Not to Stare?
We all know it's not socially "acceptable" to stare at someone else. That's one of those things that we all learn early on, and, for the most part, it's a custom that is universally followed.
Except for when babies are concerned.
We took Eliza to Florida last week on a mini-vacation. (Of course, it's never a vacation with a baby, it's merely a location change). I really tried not to overpack, but with a 1 year old in tow it's virtually impossible not to end up bringing a ton of stuff. In addition to her clothes, toys and diapers we had to lug her giant carseat through airport security because I was too nervous to rent one. As we were standing in line juggling a sippy cup of milk, a squirming toddler, an empty stroller, a giant "barka lounger" of a car seat and all of the other million items, I suddenly realized something odd. All. Eyes. Were. On. Me. Well, on the baby in my arms, to be exact. People were staring at Eliza. Some were smiling and waving at her, trying to get her to wave back. Others were just plain staring at her.
Of course, the baby doesn't mind. In fact, she kind of loves the attention. But it was very weird for me. I'm not a person who loves being the center of attention. Part of the reason I haven't publicized the link to this blog yet - and maybe never will - among my friends and family is because I don't need people to know my inner thoughts. I'd rather fade into the background; observe others rather than be observed. But with a baby in tow? I might as well be on a stage. Instantly I started obsessing over my hair, my clothes, the fact that I was wearing my glasses. But then I remembered. I'm merely the mother of the star.
And this particular star has no clue that it is rude to stare.
Except for when babies are concerned.
We took Eliza to Florida last week on a mini-vacation. (Of course, it's never a vacation with a baby, it's merely a location change). I really tried not to overpack, but with a 1 year old in tow it's virtually impossible not to end up bringing a ton of stuff. In addition to her clothes, toys and diapers we had to lug her giant carseat through airport security because I was too nervous to rent one. As we were standing in line juggling a sippy cup of milk, a squirming toddler, an empty stroller, a giant "barka lounger" of a car seat and all of the other million items, I suddenly realized something odd. All. Eyes. Were. On. Me. Well, on the baby in my arms, to be exact. People were staring at Eliza. Some were smiling and waving at her, trying to get her to wave back. Others were just plain staring at her.
Of course, the baby doesn't mind. In fact, she kind of loves the attention. But it was very weird for me. I'm not a person who loves being the center of attention. Part of the reason I haven't publicized the link to this blog yet - and maybe never will - among my friends and family is because I don't need people to know my inner thoughts. I'd rather fade into the background; observe others rather than be observed. But with a baby in tow? I might as well be on a stage. Instantly I started obsessing over my hair, my clothes, the fact that I was wearing my glasses. But then I remembered. I'm merely the mother of the star.
And this particular star has no clue that it is rude to stare.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
A new million dollar idea: The Baby Mani-Pedi
I can't remember the last time I cut my own toenails.
Is that odd? I'm not sure. I used to self-groom my feet on a fairly regular basis. But then I got older, and had more money to spend and realized that I deserve to be pampered. So, every three to four weeks or so I head to the local nail salon where I enjoy an hour of massage chair, foot rubs and a new color polish. The thought of a pedicure brings a smile to my face. In between those visits? I do nothing and my feet look fabulous.
Unfortunately, there are ten more toenails and ten more fingernails that I am responsible for grooming. Twenty tiny little nails, attached to tiny feet, attached to legs that kick and twist at the first sign of the nail cutter.
I dread cutting Eliza's nails. She hates it, and I hate it. But I also hate the way long nails look on a toddler. Not only is she likely to accidentally scratch herself - or another kid - but she is also spending most of her day playing on the floor, and her hands get quite dirty. It's just not sanitary for her to have long nails. So, every three to four days or so I brace myself, bring her into the bathroom, and begin the grooming process. She shrieks, she squirms, she screams, and does everything she can to wriggle her way free. I take several deep breaths, hold on tight, and try to go as quickly as I can. On a good day she will relent and let me cut most of her nails before she starts the second round of her protest; on a bad day she will scream the entire time and end up with uneven nails that ultimately need to be trimmed again a few days later.
In short, giving Eliza a "mani-pedi" is usually one of the lowest points of my week.
If only I could bring her to the salon with me. I'd gladly pay a professional do the dirty work. While I soak my feet in a tub of warm water and catch up on gossip magazines.
Anyone want to invest in a new business opportunity?
Is that odd? I'm not sure. I used to self-groom my feet on a fairly regular basis. But then I got older, and had more money to spend and realized that I deserve to be pampered. So, every three to four weeks or so I head to the local nail salon where I enjoy an hour of massage chair, foot rubs and a new color polish. The thought of a pedicure brings a smile to my face. In between those visits? I do nothing and my feet look fabulous.
Unfortunately, there are ten more toenails and ten more fingernails that I am responsible for grooming. Twenty tiny little nails, attached to tiny feet, attached to legs that kick and twist at the first sign of the nail cutter.
I dread cutting Eliza's nails. She hates it, and I hate it. But I also hate the way long nails look on a toddler. Not only is she likely to accidentally scratch herself - or another kid - but she is also spending most of her day playing on the floor, and her hands get quite dirty. It's just not sanitary for her to have long nails. So, every three to four days or so I brace myself, bring her into the bathroom, and begin the grooming process. She shrieks, she squirms, she screams, and does everything she can to wriggle her way free. I take several deep breaths, hold on tight, and try to go as quickly as I can. On a good day she will relent and let me cut most of her nails before she starts the second round of her protest; on a bad day she will scream the entire time and end up with uneven nails that ultimately need to be trimmed again a few days later.
In short, giving Eliza a "mani-pedi" is usually one of the lowest points of my week.
If only I could bring her to the salon with me. I'd gladly pay a professional do the dirty work. While I soak my feet in a tub of warm water and catch up on gossip magazines.
Anyone want to invest in a new business opportunity?
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Dunkin' Dark Roast
I am not a coffee drinker by nature. I never craved it in the morning and did just fine throughout high school, college and law school on only the occasional cup of Joe. Things changed when Eliza arrived. The sleepless nights were harder on me than any late night study session, and the stress of caring for a newborn was more taxing than preparing for the bar exam.
New mom glow? Nope. I felt like shit. All the time.
But then I started drinking coffee. The fog lifted, the birds chirped and the baby's crying stopped annoying me. Well, not really. But life became tolerable again. After a medium iced dark roast with milk and Splenda.
For some reason I feel ashamed that I am so reliant on my morning java. I was oddly proud to have been a member of the no coffee club for so many years. It feels weak to be so in need of caffeine and I know it's not the healthiest beverage. So that's why, when asked if I drink coffee, I feel the need to explain my status vis a vis coffee.
Not a coffee drinker by nature. Just a temporary member of the coffee club.
(They sell 18 year memberships, don't they?)
New mom glow? Nope. I felt like shit. All the time.
But then I started drinking coffee. The fog lifted, the birds chirped and the baby's crying stopped annoying me. Well, not really. But life became tolerable again. After a medium iced dark roast with milk and Splenda.
For some reason I feel ashamed that I am so reliant on my morning java. I was oddly proud to have been a member of the no coffee club for so many years. It feels weak to be so in need of caffeine and I know it's not the healthiest beverage. So that's why, when asked if I drink coffee, I feel the need to explain my status vis a vis coffee.
Not a coffee drinker by nature. Just a temporary member of the coffee club.
(They sell 18 year memberships, don't they?)
Thursday, February 17, 2011
At the car wash
Drive thru. (Drive through? Drivethrough? Drivethru?)
However it's spelled, I am loving the concept. Today I dropped off our dry cleaning, bought a lemonade at Panera, and got my car washed all while Eliza took her afternoon nap. It was awesome and terrible at the same time.
Eliza's not a great napper. She is the type of kid that needs two naps a day or else she's a hot mess by dinnertime. Unfortunately, she hates going down for a nap in her crip. There have been maybe 10 times over the past year that she's gone down for a nap willingly; the rest of her naps have come after a fight, or taken place in the car.
The car. It's a glorious place where the baby is strapped down and I can sit, listen to music and sometimes even talk on the phone without interruption. Playdates at our friends a half an hour away? Bring it on. Doing errands while she sleeps? Even better.
The old me, the pre-mom me, the cool me that lived in Cambridge and could walk to the dry cleaner or to the local mom and pop owned bakery would cringe at how dependant I am on the car these days. But that me didn't have to carry around a 20 pound ball of energy everywhere. The former me didn't have a crucial two hour window between naps to accomplish a day's worth of errands and make lunch. The need for multi-tasking wasn't there. Like most of my friends without kids, the former me just wouldn't have gotten "it".
But the new me does get it. The car is my new sanctuary. That's why today I enjoyed every second of getting the car washed at the car wash . Sitting, car in neutral, foot off the brake, baby strapped in, watching the water spray the dash, and the suds hitting the windows and just doing nothing.
That's the ultimate drive thru experience.
However it's spelled, I am loving the concept. Today I dropped off our dry cleaning, bought a lemonade at Panera, and got my car washed all while Eliza took her afternoon nap. It was awesome and terrible at the same time.
Eliza's not a great napper. She is the type of kid that needs two naps a day or else she's a hot mess by dinnertime. Unfortunately, she hates going down for a nap in her crip. There have been maybe 10 times over the past year that she's gone down for a nap willingly; the rest of her naps have come after a fight, or taken place in the car.
The car. It's a glorious place where the baby is strapped down and I can sit, listen to music and sometimes even talk on the phone without interruption. Playdates at our friends a half an hour away? Bring it on. Doing errands while she sleeps? Even better.
The old me, the pre-mom me, the cool me that lived in Cambridge and could walk to the dry cleaner or to the local mom and pop owned bakery would cringe at how dependant I am on the car these days. But that me didn't have to carry around a 20 pound ball of energy everywhere. The former me didn't have a crucial two hour window between naps to accomplish a day's worth of errands and make lunch. The need for multi-tasking wasn't there. Like most of my friends without kids, the former me just wouldn't have gotten "it".
But the new me does get it. The car is my new sanctuary. That's why today I enjoyed every second of getting the car washed at the car wash . Sitting, car in neutral, foot off the brake, baby strapped in, watching the water spray the dash, and the suds hitting the windows and just doing nothing.
That's the ultimate drive thru experience.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Happy mom-anniversary!
I have a one year old.
My daughter's first birthday was yesterday. We celebrated with a family party over the weekend, which culminated in Eliza's first taste of cake. We unwrapped countless beeping, singing plastic toys and tore wrapping paper into tiny shreds that covered the carpet like confetti. It was a great party. But all I could think about the whole time was me.
So much has changed since the moment that helpless newborn was first placed in my arms.
I can now change a diaper in fifteen seconds flat while holding down a wriggling, squirmy little girl. I carry cereal and crackers with me wherever I go. My car is littered with crumbs of food and I no longer care. I am constantly humming a child's song of some sort throughout my day.
I no longer remember to look at myself in the mirror before I leave the house. I routinely have remnants of food on my sleeves and lower pants; I've been thrown up on more times than I care to remember. I am an expert in swaddling, and am able to argue both sides of a debate on the merits of Ferber versus Weissbluth. Sleeping until 7 feels like a vacation. Going on vacation is no longer a vacation; it's simply a location change.
I have experienced a greater connection with a person than ever before in my life.
The free pass that everyone gives new mothers? Gone. I no longer have a baby, I have a toddler and that is a whole new animal. I am a veteran mom. I am now expected to have my act together. That sweet little baby who slept in her carseat while I colored my hair and spent an hour at the bookstore? Gone. She is her own little person with needs and an ever growing ability to express herself.
Not everything has changed. The nervousness I feel over the fact that my husband and I are entirely responsible for Eliza's health and happiness? That's still there. The love I feel when I'm holding Eliza? That's still there. The utter disgust I feel when she drools, poops, spits up or rubs her sticky fingers on me? Still there.
I have a one year old.
My daughter's first birthday was yesterday. We celebrated with a family party over the weekend, which culminated in Eliza's first taste of cake. We unwrapped countless beeping, singing plastic toys and tore wrapping paper into tiny shreds that covered the carpet like confetti. It was a great party. But all I could think about the whole time was me.
So much has changed since the moment that helpless newborn was first placed in my arms.
I can now change a diaper in fifteen seconds flat while holding down a wriggling, squirmy little girl. I carry cereal and crackers with me wherever I go. My car is littered with crumbs of food and I no longer care. I am constantly humming a child's song of some sort throughout my day.
I no longer remember to look at myself in the mirror before I leave the house. I routinely have remnants of food on my sleeves and lower pants; I've been thrown up on more times than I care to remember. I am an expert in swaddling, and am able to argue both sides of a debate on the merits of Ferber versus Weissbluth. Sleeping until 7 feels like a vacation. Going on vacation is no longer a vacation; it's simply a location change.
I have experienced a greater connection with a person than ever before in my life.
The free pass that everyone gives new mothers? Gone. I no longer have a baby, I have a toddler and that is a whole new animal. I am a veteran mom. I am now expected to have my act together. That sweet little baby who slept in her carseat while I colored my hair and spent an hour at the bookstore? Gone. She is her own little person with needs and an ever growing ability to express herself.
Not everything has changed. The nervousness I feel over the fact that my husband and I are entirely responsible for Eliza's health and happiness? That's still there. The love I feel when I'm holding Eliza? That's still there. The utter disgust I feel when she drools, poops, spits up or rubs her sticky fingers on me? Still there.
I have a one year old.
Monday, February 14, 2011
My blog's first post!
I have a blog.
I've been kicking around the idea of blogging for a few months but never acted on it. That changes today. I was inspired by an old diary I found over the weekend that belonged to my mom. She documented her day-to-day activities in her role as a full time mother to a three year old (me) and a baby (my brother). Nothing in the diary overtly revealed any of her feelings; in fact, the entries were fairly mundane. But they brought to life another side of my mom that I never had the opportunity to know. I'm not sure why it means so much to me now to know that my three year old self loved her bath to be filled to the brim with water, or that I used to wake my baby brother up each morning by climbing like a monkey into his crib. But somehow knowing those details makes me feel like a more complete person, and gives me strength as I forge ahead on this incredibly scary journey known as motherhood without the love and support and guidance of the best mom that I ever knew: my own.
A few details about me: I'm 33, married to a wonderful, supportive and silly husband, and living in the greater Boston area. We have a daughter, who looks just like her daddy, and a labradoodle named Lucy who was our first baby. My mom died of breast cancer when I was 17. My dad has since re-married and I have gained a stepmother and two sisters: the best possible outcome. My brother is my best friend.
I'm a writer turned lawyer turned mom turned part time lawyer turned part time writer. I love the beach, the Red Sox and peppermint stick ice cream. I hope my daughter will never need to rely on this blog to get to know me.
Gulp.
I have a blog.
I've been kicking around the idea of blogging for a few months but never acted on it. That changes today. I was inspired by an old diary I found over the weekend that belonged to my mom. She documented her day-to-day activities in her role as a full time mother to a three year old (me) and a baby (my brother). Nothing in the diary overtly revealed any of her feelings; in fact, the entries were fairly mundane. But they brought to life another side of my mom that I never had the opportunity to know. I'm not sure why it means so much to me now to know that my three year old self loved her bath to be filled to the brim with water, or that I used to wake my baby brother up each morning by climbing like a monkey into his crib. But somehow knowing those details makes me feel like a more complete person, and gives me strength as I forge ahead on this incredibly scary journey known as motherhood without the love and support and guidance of the best mom that I ever knew: my own.
A few details about me: I'm 33, married to a wonderful, supportive and silly husband, and living in the greater Boston area. We have a daughter, who looks just like her daddy, and a labradoodle named Lucy who was our first baby. My mom died of breast cancer when I was 17. My dad has since re-married and I have gained a stepmother and two sisters: the best possible outcome. My brother is my best friend.
I'm a writer turned lawyer turned mom turned part time lawyer turned part time writer. I love the beach, the Red Sox and peppermint stick ice cream. I hope my daughter will never need to rely on this blog to get to know me.
Gulp.
I have a blog.
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