“Is she sleeping through the night yet?”
It takes about 6 minutes post-birth before someone asks you this. At first, I assumed it was concern for my well-being, for my babies’ development. “How sweet!” I thought. “This stranger at Target really wants to have a dialogue about infant night-time habits!”
New parents, I am sorry to tell you that is a load of crap. There are two reasons people ask you if your baby is sleeping. The first is fear. There is a very good possibility that their baby is also not sleeping and they are looking for someone else with whom to toss around under-eye concealer recommendations in a 3 am group text when you’re all up rocking your babies back to sleep. You’ll recognize these people by their extra-large lattes, look of genuine empathy, and possibly mismatched shoes.
My kid was at his two-and-a-half-year-old well-visit the first time he said, “Fuck”.
“How are we doing today?” asked the doctor in his Snoopy tie and smart wire rims, breezily entering the exam room where my naked-by-choice toddler squatted under the exam table looking for lost change.
“Good,” Toddler replied. “I don’t have to get a shot and I didn’t say ‘fuck’.'”
“Good, good, glad to hear it,” the doctor replied, as luckily, while his vocabulary has always been expansive, my kid’s diction was about as good as his set of manners.
“She’s ready for her own bed now.” That’s what I announced to my husband yesterday afternoon. I had thought it the week before last and the week before that and, honestly, two months ago. But yesterday I said it aloud to hold myself accountable. To make it real. Continue reading
I had planned on telling the tales of our summer journey in chronological order. Start with our, ahem, interesting international flight and end with some reflections on all we had learned and experienced and ate and ate. But there is one story that everyone keeps asking about. When someone loses a body part on vacation, I guess it piques interest. So to save the real suspense for future stories that don't involve feet (because ewww), this is how I lost one of my toenails in Italian paradise.
26 days, 25 plane-ridden hours, 8 boat rides, 3 long-distance drives, 9 hours of car games and mild motion sickness, 5 cities, 2 houses, 3 hotels, 2 strollers, 3 car seats, 6 boxes of band-aids, 3 bee stings, 2 epi-pen close calls, and 1 missing toenail later. But we are back and almost entirely in the same condition as when we left. (Who needs 10 toenails anyway?) Continue reading
Fight club rules.
This is what I tell parents who begin to talk to me about how their babies are sleeping through the night. I know you don’t mean anything by it. I know you are just proud of your little guy or gal. You are proud of the systems you put in place to make it happen. You are proud of how much you can get done because you have your evenings to yourself. Maybe you even want to share with me how I can make my life better by helping my kids to do the same. Thank you for that.
But seriously, Fight Club rules. We do not talk about baby sleep. It is rule number 1 and if you want to be in this little club of ours, you need to shut that well-rested mouth of yours.
Ok, outdoorsy parents.
You did it. You got in my head and inspired me with your perfect pictures of your perfect family on the gleaming mounds of perfect snow in your bad ass ski goggles and matching down-filled romper thingies. (That’s the technical term, right?) I saw you. I heard you. And in a surprising move even to myself, I motivated. I took my tiny beasts skiing. And I would just like to say to you fabulous sporty friends, my inspiring super-parent friends, I hate you. Continue reading