Motherhood Uncensored

I want you to want me

Margot has been sleeping with me the longest out of all the kids. After waking up 3000 times with Quinlan, I finally realized that it was way easier for me to roll over, pop a boob in their mouth, and go back to sleep with her in the same bed.

Then around 4-5 months, my kids start sleeping worse in the bed with me, which sort of defeats the point of having them there in the first place, and I transition them into their crib.

Easy. Done.

But not little Margot. She refuses to even nap on the bed or in the crib, waking up instantly when I pull my boob out of her mouth or rest her down from my arms.

BAM! She wakes up like I just put her on a bed of nails and then acts like she's been sleeping for an hour - refreshed and rejuvenated.

But night time has gotten terribly worse, with her waking up about 15 minutes after I get up after nursing her. She totally realizes that I'm not there and then freaks the fuck out.

It's a little rough getting anything done after bedtime now, unless I can cram in writing 4000 words in 15 minute increments. I feel like I don't even get to take a complete shit anymore, let alone do anything that actually takes continuous brain power.

And lately, I've just been giving up and spending the rest of the night watching Real Housewives of the OC reruns until I fall asleep.

Needless to say, the girl is almost literally attached to me all the time, save the couple of times a day where I can get her to nap in her carseat that's swinging rapidly by the Graco Sweet Peace. But even when she's with my husband, she cranes her neck to find me - like a little vulture keeping an eye on her prey. And when I'm gone, forget it. She refuses to sleep at all.

Don't get me wrong. I love being wanted and needed. And part of me absolutely enjoys having her little legs propped up on mine every night when we're in bed together.

But damned if I need just a little bit of personal space and breathing room before I go completely and utterly insane.

New glasses

I just finished my second long weekend in a row with the kids, which usually leaves me physically and emotionally depleted. I realize a weekend, even a long one, isn't that much time in the scheme of things, but when you've got a baby who has decided to attach herself to your boob from dusk til dawn, the 6:30am wake ups come a bit too soon, and the 7pm bedtimes can't come soon enough.

Weekends seem to be the toughtest times to be alone because not only do I have all three kids all the time (save the few hours Drew and Margot may nap), but there's a lot of fun things to do around Atlanta that are not so easily managed alone. Going out requires a fair amount of preparation on my part, and attempting to actually get them out of the door within a 15 minute window is like wrangling baby pigs. You tackle one only to have him undo everything you just did when you're chasing after the others.

And with lack of sleep and the requests to replace the same fire hat on the same damn Playmobil fireman 400 times and the whines because the television will not be on all day SO HELP ME GOD, I turn into mean mommy and expose my inner demons in a not so pleasant way, especially when you've got a non-napping toddler who after a long day of dress fittings and impromptu playtimes at ToysrUs breaks down right when you're supposed to head over to your local Relay for Life.

But then your neighbor texts you to say that your ass looks tiny, and you find your book on pre-order at Amazon (cover art to be revealed soon!).

WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

And a sweet pregnant mom comes up and thanks you profusely as you try to make it up to your kids with ice cream and tells you how she just needed to see you sitting there with your happy well-behaved kids because she was getting scared that she wouldn't be able to handle two under two.

And suddenly the rice all over the floor, the dishes piled in the sink, and laundry piled up on your bed doesn't seem quite as bad. You see these weekends alone as quality time well spent with your kids - time you soon won't have.

So don't get me wrong. My kids still watch television and have their afternoon quiet times. And I still lose it more than I'd like to admit.

And you better believe I'm looking forward to getting a weekend away.

But for now, I'm trying to enjoy seeing things through my new glasses.

I guess I'll never be a world class sprinter.

I was most nervous about opening the health and traits section of my 23andMe profile, mostly because I wasn’t really sure what to expect. But my curiosity got the better of me and I logged in and clicked through to see what it was all about.

The Clinical Reports page shows your disease risks, carrier status, traits, and drug responses, all of which are way less scary than you might think. Of course, I didn’t know what half of them were, but I figured if I hadn’t heard of them, then they couldn’t be completely terrible.

Even so, I decided to take it slowly and check out the traits section, which provides you with interesting information on physical attributes completely determined by your genetics. So, for example, my genetics determined that I don’t flush when I drink alcohol (which is a common trait in some Asians), I can taste bitter, I have wet ear wax, and I probably have brown eyes (which I do).

Perhaps I didn’t need to spit into a container to learn all that information about myself (especially since I already knew it), however, it just goes to show you how amazing this research really is. Amongst the more interesting traits include resistance to various diseases, like Malaria, Norovirus, and HIV Aids (none of which I have). And I’m sad to report that I’m unlikely to be a sprinter based on the lack of a gene that produces a special protein.

So much for that career change.

If you’re curious as to this whole 23andMe adventure, visit their new Pregnancy Community. Their continuing research (which I’ll talk more about next week when I share my carrier statuses) is amazing!

Eeny, Meeny, Miny, Mo

For the last week or so, Margot has turned into a cranky, whiny, restless baby requiring the frequent attention of my boobs. It's not anything atypical for a growing, teething, "who the hell knows what is wrong but make it stop" baby, but when you're used to an extremely easy going baby, even the smallest whine can send you over the edge. And because that whine is probably the 4th in a long line of whines I've heard throughout the day.

So at one point, after my usual over supply was completely depleted, I decided that perhaps she was ready for baby food.

Now you'd think that at this point in my parenting tenure that baby food would be a no-brainer. You grab a little bit of rice cereal, maybe some jarred fruits, and you go on your merry way.

But then someone says "Well, why does she need cereal? That's what they used to do way back then, but not anymore."

Oh. Okay. No cereal then. Sure. It tastes like the bland meeting the bland in a teeny tiny spoon, but it's cereal. Everyone starts with cereal.

And then someone else tells you "Yeah, but you don't want to start with fruits because those are sweet and you don't want her to only want sweet things."

Hmmm. But breastmilk is sweet and that's all she eats so am I setting her up for a life in the Dunkin Donut's drive thru?

And you can't forget the mom who's completely against baby food altogether and tells you to just give her a chunk of avocado or banana and let her go at it.

Yeah, that would be my uber crunchy "make your own baby food and yogurt in the 1970s when everyone was celebrating the invention of formula" mom.

And then she's not old enough or she's way too old so "what the hell were you waiting for why isn't she eating food yet?" and then you're just ready to just let her gnaw on a steak and some potatoes and let her fend for herself because who the fuck knows what she's supposed to eat.

With Quinlan, I read "the books" and started her on rice cereal, which she spat right back at me like I was feeding her tar. So, I got scared and didn't try again until she was about nine months old at which point she would only eat jars of organic sweet potatoes. It's a wonder that she's not completely orange.

So with Drew, I skipped the cereal and headed straight for the sweet potatoes, which he proceeded to sling right back at my face until I fed him rice cereal. He ended up hating baby food after about a month of it and ate table food like a pro before he was even eight months old.

And Margot. Well, after rolling the rice cereal off her tongue for a few days, she finally sucked it down, slept like a champ, and then broke out in an entire body rash that's still clearing up.

A poor excuse for an Asian, I say. (ha!)

Last night she took some pieces of banana, and seemed to actually enjoy it rather than look like I was conducting some sort of weird science experiment on her. I'm watching her vigilantly for the signs of a new rash development.

And I'm realizing that no one completely knows what they're talking about when it comes to feeding babies. And that once again, a lot of this parenting stuff is just sifting through the massive amounts of advice and opinions.

Or better, playing "Eeny, Meeny, Miny, Mo."

Mother's Day Gifts - They Ain't What They Used to Be

With mother's day only a few weeks away, the PR pitches have turned my email inbox into a veritable smorgasbord of bizarre gift ideas.

I pray that no poor unsuspecting husband happens to fall upon my email box because all of you beautiful lovely moms would beat them silly if they actually decided to give you what these PR pros are trying to peddle as the greatest Mother's Day Gift (shameless link, tyvm).

But since it's mother's day, and we moms are desperate for something wrapped up in a bow, we don't actually care what it is. It's the thought that counts, apparently.

So exactly what thought does Soft Soap send, other than "I think I will never have sex with you again"? 

Probably the same thought that a monster-shaped jump drive might inspire.

Don't get me wrong. I do not need a diamond heart shaped necklace from Kay Jewelers or even a day at the spa (although, those two things pitched to me in an email would make sense). I'd personally just love a complete day or even half a day or fuck, even TWO WHOLE HOURS to spend doing nothing but cuddling up in bed with a good book or let's be honest, the entire season of Rock of Love Bus and a bottle of champagne, and basking in the silence (interspersed with the sounds of drunken hos in thongs slamming shots in the back of a pink bus of course).

But Spanx. SPANX? (Which I totally love, pee hole and all).

What not just get a card that says "I honor you and your lumpy ass today"?