Do You Believe?

The most exciting day in my career as a fifth grader was the day of The School Christmas Party. Why yes, I am old enough to officially say, "Back in my day, we called it Christmas...not The Holidays. And we all lived."

Fifth graders had the prestigious honor of donning Santa Claus hats and parading around the school as Santa's elves to hand out candy canes to the younger kids. I couldn't wait. 

I was a nerdy kid with the keen ability to take any situation and blow it wildly out of proportion.

On the day of the big parade, the fifth grade teachers sat down 60 kids hopped up on Christmas break jitters to explain how the festivities would work.

Except...well...

Everyone knows it is of the utmost importance to blend into your surroundings and not draw attention to oneself in the fifth grade. If a popular kid makes fun of you, you get blacklisted and are suddenly eating lunch by yourself. 

Upon hearing my teacher's proclamation, I noticed my classmates did not jump onto their desks demanding Mrs. Shaw be arrested for slander. In fact, there was a lot of solemn, knowing nodding going on around me. 

I had to keep it together.

Somewhere the lines of communication had broken down. Notes had been sent home to parents about the Christmas parade, but apparently the school did not include any information like, "Oh by the way, we plan on crushing your child's hopes and dreams by letting them know you, as parents, have been lying to them for the past 10 years about their favorite holiday. Merry Christmas!"

This information might have been useful for someone like my mother who was on a different timeline than everyone else's parents.

We lined up to begin the Christmas parade. I was not the harbinger of All Things Christmas I had previously imagined.

I didn't have the heart to tell my parents what I learned in school..."I'll give them one last Christmas." So on Christmas Eve I went to bed knowing the empty stockings and Christmas tree would be overflowing with gifts in the morning - put there lovingly by my parents.

That night I was in my room contemplating existentialism when I heard a noise on the roof of our silent house.

My newly wizened self was sure there would be some logical explanation for a noise on the roof on Christmas Eve. A really fat squirrel chasing a raccoon. A UFO making a pit stop on its way to Nevada. 

But...what if...

My heart quickened. 

I raced out of my room.

I went back to my bedroom to pout. 

When the noise from above came again.

Ten whole minutes passed and I couldn't take it a second longer. I ran out of my bedroom into the silent house.

On Christmas morning I made a beeline to the small package I had found in my stocking the night before. An orange bracelet that neither my father or mother could remember purchasing sat in the box.

And how could they remember buying it...? They hadn't.

Santa had brought it to me.

So this year remember, Christmas is a time to hope, dream the impossible and keep the magic alive for just a little longer.

And question everything your fifth grade teacher told you.

Happy holidays all!

You're Welcome, In Advance

Turns out Christmas is THIS weekend and not 3 weekends away as I was imagining it to be. Boy, that came as a shock.

Every holiday season, there comes a day (read: Christmas Eve) where I head out to some general Buy Crap Here store because I have bought zero presents and am left to find the perfect gift among the remnants left by savvy shoppers who finished their shopping on Thanksgiving. I usually have a meltdown somewhere in the midst of trying to decide if my mother would prefer a birthday cake scented candle gift set or another pair of plaid pajamas startlingly reminiscent to the set I bought last year.

I'm not sure if you guys have heard of this thing called the Internet, but it's pretty amazing.

But this post isn't about Christmas shopping and how I want to make out with Amazon and its two-day free shipping because now I don't need to step foot in a mall.

This post is about The Holiday Card.

One of the main perks of becoming a parent is the seemingly easy holiday card business. Get a shot of the kid, choose a bland holiday saying, order a postcard, print labels and send. No handwritten, customized blurbs. No finding a cute, but poignant, but funny, but serious holiday card. 

Easy.

As long as you remember to order the card.

Which I didn't.

So on Saturday, I was standing in my grocery store when I remembered I needed to do holiday cards. The display table wasn't inspiring: 3 boxes of cards showcasing the Virgin Mary, Baby Jesus and a Bible verse, 1 box adorned with a menorah and a box of cards with Precious Moments figurines in a nativity scene had been opened and rifled through.

Maybe I could wait and do New Year's cards? Or Valentine's Day cards...people wouldn't expect that; it could become our shtick.

And I headed home feeling guilty. Convinced The Bean would find out that for her first Christmas I didn't dress her up like an elf and send a photo of her to every person we ever met. What kind of therapy would she need to overcome that?

Then I thought for a minute. The Internet! It MUST be able to help!

20 minutes and $4 later, I had myself a mother-loving Christmas miracle which we sent out today AND saved trees (PLUS! now my friends aren't left with the awkward decision of determining when is the appropriate day to throw out all the photos they received of people's kids - January 18th, FYI).

Happy holidays!

This free digital greeting card made with Smilebox

Because I'm Not Giving Out Free Funerals Here

Me: Things currently in our garbage can - 3 chicken carcasses, 2 grocery bags full of dog poop and 1 dead squirrel. It's like the 3 days of Christmas, but grosser.

Michael: Woah. Wait, you mean Ginger didn't eat the dead squirrel?

Me: Of course not, there were perfectly good turds to eat...I was cleaning those up when I came across the squirrel. I think I'd like Ginger better if she actually ate all the poop and not just some of the poop.

Can you just throw away a dead squirrel? I wasn't sure what else to do with it...I mean, I'm not interested in hosting funerals for animals I don't even know. We can't have word get out that I'll bury everything that dies in our yard. We'd suddenly have a bunch of old animals wandering in the backyard waiting to die.

Michael: True...we already have one animal we want to die...can't be taking on more.

Me: Anyway, I imagine the trash guy is happier with the dead squirrel than the 20 bags of dog crap we throw away each week. Maybe we should start composting...but I wouldn't want to eat anything growing from poop and carcasses.

Michael: I think a burial at sea is the preferred squirrel way. A solemn ceremony where other squirrels can look on in mourning.

Me: Are you saying I should've flushed him? Our toilet gets backed up if you flush a used tissue...remind me to get a card and some cash for the trash guys this week.

It's Not Easy for Anyone

The Bean keeps fluctuating from 'loving on everyone' to 'everyone but Mama can set themselves on fire and play in traffic for all I care.' As one can imagine, this is wildly upsetting to her father who wants nothing more than to love on his baby without her scratching out his eyes while shrieking like a rabid Velociraptor.

After a few discussions with some of my mommy friends, I discovered this a common phase that doesn't go away until EIGHTEEN MONTHS (give or take a day). And causes more than few spats on the home front because everyone wants to pull their hair out.

So I'd like to share a few words to all the Dads out there, because it seems like everyone just accepts this phase and it deserves a little prodding.

Dear Frustrated Fathers,

Just thought you would be interested to know: We're winging it too.

Despite what you think, mothers do not have a secret recipe for Happy Baby stashed away somewhere; hidden for the sole purpose of making you miserable. If I knew what series of events were guaranteed to make The Bean stop crying I would publish and distribute it to everyone I knew. I could use a night or two of sleep.

Soothing a child is a lot like playing a game of Hot/Cold. Every action will result in more or less crying ("You're getting warmer..." or "Oh My God, you are so cold it hurts!!!"). You need to keep guessing and trying different permutations until the crying stops.

That said, here's a helpful list of things to consider when faced with a child whose crap has been lost:

• Try everything...ever: Things known to quell my screaming child: a roll of paper towels, hanging her upside down by her toes, a spoon and chewing on her fingers (me chewing them). How did I discover these things? Desperate times people.
  
• Don't try anything for more than 1 minute: If it didn't work immediately, it is not going to work and will only increase the spew of hatred being emitted by your child. It doesn't matter if the activity you're trying worked before...if the crying did not slow within 15-30 seconds, IT WILL NOT WORK, MOVE ON.
  
• While you can NEVER be certain about what will stop the screams, it is usually some combination of "Hold Me Before I Burst Into Flames," "Bring Me to Where I've Imagined the Fun I Think I'm Missing Is Happening," "Give Me Something, But I Will Make You Try 50 Different Somethings Until I Find the One I Deem Acceptable," and "It's Been Three Whole Minutes Since I Last Ate, Where's The Grub?"
  
• Very rarely does more noise help an already screaming child. In this instance, music does not calm the savage beast. Music, a story, loud toys or self help books on tape will only serve to make your child scream louder since they think you can't hear them. (Caveat: A Wiggles video can solve almost any meltdown.)
  
• When all hope seems lost, turn to the Ergo, the stroller, the car...something that moves and will hopefully lull the banshee to sleep.
  
• Sometimes you just have to let them scream. There isn't always an answer. They will tire themselves out. They scream at us all the time too and we had to suck it up many times.

Lastly, when you throw the child at their mother in a fit of exasperation and the little bugger stops crying immediately, take heart. Right now, the child isn't doing anything on purpose or out of spite. Those special tantrums and battles are reserved for their mother when the child is older and YOU are the cool parent, YOU are the fun parent, YOU are the one they turn to when "Mom is being unreasonable and just doesn't understand anything and how come she can't be more like you?"

Mrs. D-Zo

Why It's Difficult To Be Me

Thanks to a slight case of OCD, I have very clear definitions of right and wrong on certain hot-button issues.

For instance, whether counting stairs as you climb them increases your likelihood of not falling, if insisting food should be separated by color before eating it is appropriate and, perhaps most importantly, which way the toilet paper hangs.

Most people have a preference on toilet paper orientation; I have a compulsive need for the roll to hang over, not under. OhMyGodNotUnderTheWorldWillBurstIntoFlamesIfTheToiletPaperHangsUnder.

I have been known to adjust how the toilet paper is hanging in other people's homes. I'm sure they would thank me for righting this clear wrong; if only they knew I was the mysterious toilet paper adjuster - I tend to not broadcast my random acts of toilet paper kindness and usually perform these good deeds when there are multiple people around who could be blamed applauded for promoting proper toilet paper hanging awareness.

We go through a lot of toilet paper at our house these days. I work from home, we have a nanny here watching The Bean most days and Michael doesn't believe in tissues and he's had a cold for about a year and half now.

The other day we were nearing the end of the roll and I didn't want the nanny to have to navigate her way around The Closet Which Holds Everything Ever to find the toilet paper. So I pulled out a roll and put it in the bathroom in case we ran out.

I have defined a new level of crazy.

Naturally, the nanny hung the toilet paper under. After my seizure, I simply got up and left the bathroom without changing the toilet paper's orientation.

Because I didn't want to offend her. I mean, you know how often people are offended by that sort of thing. It's right up there with dropping F-bombs, discussing religion over dinner and racism.

I'm Sort of a Big Deal

So now that I'm a major celebrity, I expect lots of fan mail, swag and stalkers.

What? You didn't hear? Oh yeah...I'm all sorts of being interviewed by the darling Nicole over at Pampers & Pumps today.

You should probably check me out before I get too big to be hanging around with you all.

If you're here for the first time after reading my compelling, insightful and touching interview, welcome! I'm totally sweet and I love you already. Mean it. Check out some of my other posts and I hope you stay awhile!

Fear Does Not Exist In This Dojo

The Bean's DNA has really kicked in over this past month.

For anyone who has read this blog for any considerable time you will, no doubt, know of my tendencies towards total cowardice, physical awkwardness and extreme dislike of all things extreme - except maybe extreme ice cream eating, as long as it's plain chocolate.

Naturally, I married a man who climbs mountains, owns more motorcycles than I have pairs of jeans and considers a vacation a trip involving sliding down a mountain on a plank of wood or racing across the desert on 4-wheelers for 8 hours straight. I file these activities under "Don't Do These Things Unless You Like Extreme Pain and Better Yet Just Stick a Hot Poker in Your Ear because At Least that's Warm;" he files these activities  under "Fun."

The Bean is her father's daughter.

It started with the flying. You know what I'm talking about...lift the child up in your arms and zoom around the room like they're Superman. The Bean is convinced this is the only civilized way to be carried throughout life. And you had better be humming some John Williams' inspired theme music while you are flying her around or else, what's the point, really?

If you try to sit her in your lap, The Bean will wriggle free and begin to climb down your legs - head first - while you frantically hold on to a toe to keep her from crashing to the ground. The shit-eating grin on her face during this interaction has convinced me she will be jumping out of planes by the time she's 5.

I made a vow when I became a mother that I would encourage all things daring in my child so she does not end up a 33-year old who breaks out in a cold sweat when in close proximity to bicycles, ice skates and skis (like some people I may or may not see when I look in the mirror).

Lately The Bean has been hard at work on sitting up. She's quite good at it though there are times when the head size she inherited from her father knocks her off-balance and sends her careening into the floor.

My instinct is to rush over and pull her back up and check her head for major signs of trauma...but I resist the urge. Instead, she falls, looks at me all confused-like, I cheer, she smiles and life amazingly goes on.

The other night, however, we both got a little over confident in her sitting ability. Let's just say The Bean, the couch and then the floor were involved. Infants move quick, especially when gravity is involved.

I rushed over ready to swoop up my child who would most certainly break into tears any minute having rolled off the couch in hot pursuit of a rogue block.

Instead I was greeted with a child looking at me as though she wanted to do the whole thing all over again and how come I kept this awesome activity a secret from her. She broke out into laughter and the daredevil glint in her eyes made her look exactly like her father.

There is no doubting this kid's paternity; the maternity is still in question.

Operation: Sleep For God's Sake

Apparently I'm the only one in the house ready for sleep training. Well, I could potentially put the dogs on that list too, but really they're more complacent on the topic.

But Michael, The Bean and the cat (yes, the cat - he's a better hippie than me as he's a big supporter of co-sleeping) are far more skeptical about my attempts to instill Operation: Sleep For God's Sake.

This was going to take a lot of work. Up until now, The Bean has been (1) sleeping in the Pack-n-Play in our bedroom exclusively; (2) soothing via binky or feeding with help from me or Michael; and (3) not sleeping through the night.

I appointed myself Dictator of Sleeping about a week ago. For starters, Michael is a giant soft touch when it comes to matters involving The Bean. His general go-to response with her is 'Make It Stop Crying Right Now I Don't Care What It Takes.' Also, his sense of urgency around Operation: Sleep For God's Sake is far less pronounced than my own. Mainly because he's not the one waking up to soothe The Bean back to sleep.

Like any good dictator, I made up all my own rules for sleep training. Armed with minutes of internet research and a previously unproven intuition on such matters, I went into battle. Knowing I would need Michael's support to make my sleep training efforts succeed, I mapped out our plan: Do what I tell you to do.

The Battle of "Hey That Wasn't So Bad" - Day One
After our usual bedtime routine, The Bean started to drift to sleep in my arms. I waited until she was conked out to put her in the crib. [Why yes, I ignored all the advice telling me to put her in her crib when she's drowsy. Advice was intended to be ignored. When I put her down too soon, she gets all cocaine eyeball-y at me and then it takes another 5 hours to get her to sleep.]

She slept until 3 AM. I consider 8 hours of sleep a wild success. So when she started to fuss, I happily retrieved her and put her back in the Pack-n-Play because why be traumatic on the first night of sleep training? She's actually slept in her crib! In her room! For a long period of time!

The Battle of "You're Fired" - Day Two
The second night of sleep training was not so smooth. After about 20 minutes, The Bean started her fussing. As Dictator of Sleeping, I instructed Michael very carefully: "You are to go in there and not say a word. See if the binky has fallen out of her mouth and if so, so just pop it back in without talking to her - she'll fall right back asleep."

He marched off, the good soldier, and opened the door to the nursery, "Hi Baby! What are you fussing about?"

Ugh.

He called for reinforcements, "Babe, she looks really freaked out."

From Dictator to Mother in .4 seconds flat.

Day Two ended in an aborted mission. And Michael is no longer involved in sleep training [perhaps part of his greater master plan...touche, my friend].

The Battle of "Maybe I Can Make This Work" - Days Three through Six
3 AM became the magic time. The Bean would go down (most nights) without trouble, but at 3 AM she would wake up. 3 AM is a really inconvenient time to implement a sleep training routine. One's resolve to let an infant Cry It Out disappears when you could also just pop into the guest bedroom next to the nursery and lie down in bed together and GET SLEEP.

The Battle of "I Hate You 3 AM. Die. Die. Die." - Day Today
In an effort to not let 3 AM be the new black, I decided that if sleep training at 3 AM is what it takes, so be it.

3 AM struck and The Bean was awake. I went into her room and without speaking to her we do a quick feeding, change her diaper and get her back in the crib.

By 3:30 I was ready to throw in the towel. Maybe she just isn't ready for sleep training. She was not having any of this go back to sleep in the crib business. Not when the guest room was right.over.there.

So, I picked her up...

And she fell asleep nearly immediately, so I put her back in the crib. This is new! This is good! This doesn't last...

She wakes up at 4 AM...but I don't pick her up this time. Just put her binky in, adjust the blanket and stroke her head...she bought it!

We repeat at 5 AM. 5 minutes ago. She's still in her crib and back asleep...

Dictator of Sleeping is advancing. Stubborn infants beware.

Hypothetically Speaking...

Let's pretend for a minute that you woke up in the middle of the night screaming for me because you pooped your pants. Like, really pooped your pants a lot.

Because I presumably love you, I clean you up - while you scream in my face the entire time. I'll go ahead and chalk that up to the fact that no one likes to sleep in an inescapable container of their own poop.

Now, let's assume you're a bit of a hog and since you're awake, you decide you might like a little snack and who can blame you really. I just cleaned up a good portion of your body weight; so it stands to reason you would be a little peckish.

While we're at it, let's conjecture that your favorite meal is milk...from my breast. And we all know I'm a giver. So I get us set up in a comfy chair because it's 3 in the morning and I want you to have a full stomach so you can go back to enjoying your blissful dreams.

To recap our imaginary scenario: It's 3 AM. I've cleaned your poop mess. I'm getting ready to feed you because you're hungry.

Why, I ask you, why would you thank me with a titty twister?

The Sunny Side of Life

OK. Before friends and family start a suicide watch on me, call child protective services or run to the doctor's for vasectomies, I have a confession to make.

Parenthood? It doesn't all suck.

Pinky swear. No backsies.

It's easy - and a lot funnier - to focus on the mishaps and trials of parenthood because you go into parenthood thinking you have it all figured out; only to be rendered completely useless and frazzled by something weighing 10 pounds and unable to lift its own head.

Talk about humbling.

But when it comes down to it, parenthood is awesome and I wish I had done it sooner (you know, when I was younger and staying up all night was what I wanted to do).

Month 1 sucks (totally sort of kidding). The child eats, sleeps and poops - mostly sleeps. Which would be awesome if you weren't completely amped up on adrenaline and convinced the only way the child will survive is if you stare at it. Forever.

Month 1 involves a lot of TV.


Month 1


In Month 2 you learn to sleep when the child sleeps which makes your own survival through parenthood bootcamp possible.



Month 2

By Month 3, you are suddenly grateful for being alive. Not because you've made it this long in parenthood bootcamp, but because you realize it took great restraint for your own parents to not kill you when they went through this crap with you. There are some major Mother's and Father's Day presents on the horizon for Nana and Grandpa this year. 

Month 3


Month 4 brings with it baby smiles and baby laughs that can melt your heart...or extremely embarrass you because your child sounds like a dying hyena when she laughs and then it hits you that she is mimicking what she hears from you.



Month 4

 And by Month 5 you realize you have a little human on your hands. It's a person already becoming independent and having their own thoughts; most of which do not coincide with your own...a theme that will last throughout both of your lives.


Month 5

 It's amazing.

It's tough.

It's worth it.

Mostly.

We Need to Talk

It's time someone blew the cover off the greatest conspiracy of all time: Parenthood.

I'm not sure when all the parents in the world got together and decided to become a gang of lying bastards. Misery really does enjoy company, doesn't it? That is the only explanation for why people I know and trust would lie blatantly to my face.

Despite my sky-high levels of skepticism regarding parenthood and platitudes, I blindly believed the following statements. Because they are the only explanation for why people actually CHOOSE to have children. Now that I've discovered everyone's a lying scoundrel, I can't make heads or tails out of deliberate procreation.

• It's different when it's your own child

 No...it really isn't. A scream is a scream is a scream. Five straight hours of screaming is not music when produced by your own child.

• Relish every moment; the time flies

I'm reminded of this scene from The Jerk...officially we're on day 156, but it feels more like day 344,349.

• After 4 months, everything gets so much better

We're on month 5 and I'm pretty sure the one I got is broken. Or else she's really bad at being 5 months old. Maybe I need to let her go? But that's awkward around the holidays.

• The good moments make you forget all about the bad ones

The good moments are why the child survives past 9 months old. You don't forget the bad moments. When The Bean turns 16 and starts sassing me, I plan on waking her up every 2 hours for 5 months straight so we can have some milk. Or maybe I'll just scratch at her face for a few hours because it makes me feel better.

• It's a phase

But OH! how you forgot to mention that it's a phase followed by another phase, then another, and another.

This post was brought to you by Sleep Training Day 1. A wildly unsuccessful program which makes all parents question why they decided to throw their lives into complete upheaval by having children just when they were getting the hang of mature adulthood.

Mondays. Oh I Hate Mondays.

Mondays are a particularly bad day in the D-Zo household. A Monday after a holiday erases all residual memories of turkey-induced joy and makes you wonder why we need a day to celebrate anything at all; particularly if the celebration is going to interrupt The Schedule.

It's time for the useful tip portion of today's story: Infants do not remember CRAP if it doesn't happen every flipping day.

For the past three months, my Mondays look something like this:

This is every Monday. For the past 3 M.O.N.T.H.S.

Because on Monday morning, The Bean is fairly certain I've let an infant-eating, psycho lunatic into the house to tend to her while I go watch Wiggles videos all day long.

She has zero recollection of the events she participated in a mere 2 days earlier:

But today. Today, my friends, was a special Monday. A Perfect Storm of a Monday.

Fact 1: The D-Zo clan is all getting over a cold because God hates us and after 5 years of not being sick has bitch slapped us with 2 sicknesses in one month. This, naturally, means The Bean has been even more of a parasite than usual...I didn't know it was possible either.

Fact 2: It was a rainy, cold day in Atlanta today. This is important because one of the nanny's go-to Bean meltdown diffusing techniques is a walk outside.

Fact 3: The Bean opted to not take her morning nap this morning because, hey, it's Monday. A time for daring and thinking outside the box.

Fact 4: And, of course, the piece de resistance - we haven't seen the nanny in SIX WHOLE ENTIRE OH.MY.GOD.DID.SHE.EVER.EXIST.WE.JUST.DON'T.KNOW. DAYS.

Normally, I lock myself in the office and watch an episode of Top Chef with the volume cranked become so engrossed in my work that I don't even notice the screaming. See *I* know that if I run out there every time The Bean screams she will eventually learn this behavior and we will never break her of the habit.

*I* know this.

Guess who else was working from home today?

You're never going to guess.

As we all know, the whole D-Zo clan caught this cold. Men. Sickness. Need I say more?

9 AM rolls around and I hand The Bean off to the nanny and within 20 minutes (far longer than I thought, to be fair) The Bean has hit her stride and is in perfect voice.

Her father cannot cope. Because he is a sucker.

He runs to rescue his baby. But his idea of rescuing is talking to The Bean while the nanny holds her.

2nd Helpful Tip of the Day (because it's the holiday season): The most efficient way to elevate an infant meltdown to window-shattering, eardrum-rupturing, tear your own face off levels is to stick her with a "stranger," walk away and then come back and taunt her by not picking her up.

The Bean turned magenta.

It was time for Mama Intervention.

I pick up the child who is now violently purple, soaking wet from her own tears and covered in scratches from clawing her own face off out of anger.

0.000000000000005 seconds later, she looks like this:

Manipulative little bugger.

I can hardly wait for the two-week Christmas vacation extravaganza we have planned.

Dear Santa,

Wine.

XOXOXO - Mrs. D-Zo

Remember When I Used to Post?

Me neither.

The Bean and I have been in an epic battle of wills. I'm sort of insistent she sleep. At some point. Ever. She's pretty sure sleep is for suckers. So during the time I used to set aside for blogging, we intellectually debate the impact of a good night's sleep on one's ability to make it through the daytime hours without melting down because the air is touching her.

We will begin sleep training next week. So you can start sharpening your daggers now since I fully intend to Ferberize The Bean. Don't worry though, I skimmed half of an article about the Cry It Out method on BabyCenter, so that pretty much makes me an expert. The main lesson I've gathered is that you can make adjustments to the technique so it works for you and your family.

Which clearly means I can let The Bean cry it out while I don a pair of noise-cancelling headphones and enjoy a martini.

New posts soon as I plan on pawning The Bean off on her grandparents during the holidays and sleeping...then posting.

Safe travels!

Hippie Membership Cancelled

Dear Breastfeeding,

Suck it (pun totally intended...unless it wasn't funny).

Hearts and sparkles,
Mrs. D-Zo

Look, I'm not a touchy-feely person. In fact, I'm the awkward person you meet who never goes in for the hug. I have to know someone an average of 25 years to feel comfortable hugging them. You could be coming at me with wide open arms and I will place my hand shaker firmly in position. Because hugging is confining and what are you doing behind my back anyway Marcus Brutus?

Cuddling? There is a reason the bed is this big. Get on your side unless you want to be shanked.

During The Bean's Vomitpalooza last week we had to use a bottle so I could regulate how much milk she was getting at each feeding. More than 1.5 ounces and the boob juice would gush forth...from her. So we pumped, we measured, we fed, we didn't throw up.

What I'm about to say will oust me from the Hippie Mom Club for life.

I didn't miss breastfeeding for one second. Not a one.

The Bean has inherited my aloofness and her father's desire to not.miss.anything.ever.or.I.might.die. So breastfeeding for us is not this dreamy bonding time where we are surrounded by flying fairies, singing squirrels and dancing cupcakes. There are no snuggles, coy gurgles or shared secrets.

It's a business transaction. Boob. Milk. Make it happen.

In fact, I find it downright intrusive, especially since The Bean has a new found fondness for swinging from my nose hairs, or eyelids, or whatever else she can grasp with her shockingly strong grip.

This past week was liberating.

I'm sure mothers around the world are gasping, but it's the truth. And if I feel this way, there is bound to be one other mother out there ready to pull her hair out strand by strand because she is tethered to whipping her boobs out every two hours for someone who doesn't even have the courtesy to check my schedule for important events like conference calls, eating chocolate or contemplating if potato chips would indeed make the best hot dog topping.

It's empowering being able to whip your boobs out on your schedule.

Now unbunch your panties. She still gets breast milk only (I haven't let go of all my hippie tendencies) and we still feed straight from the hose in the morning and evenings, but we are using the bottle more and more.

My name is Mrs. D-Zo and I do not enjoy breastfeeding. Bite me.

Raining, Pouring, Overreacting...The Usual

Triage Nurse: So, what's going on with this little cutie?

Mrs. D-Zo: She went all Linda Blair on me.

Triage Nurse: Aw, poor thing. OK...so what else?

Mrs. D-Zo: Green puke isn't enough?

Triage Nurse: Are there any other symptoms or changes in her behavior? (The Bean coyly grins at the nurse and giggles.) She seems pretty happy.

Mrs. D-Zo: Well, that's a change. She's normally a miserable git...she's also been lethargic.

Triage Nurse: Oh. That's not good. She's been spacey and can't focus on you?

Mrs. D-Zo: No...I would've said that if I meant that. She's lethargic. Sleeping. A lot.

Triage Nurse: That's not what lethargic means. It means not active physically or mentally, but awake.

Mrs. D-Zo: (Under breath) Hate. You.

Triage Nurse: So...you brought me a happy baby that sleeps?

Since I hate to act like a typical first-time mom, having it thrown in my face so bluntly and accurately was a big blow to my ego. To be fair, I called the pediatrician before hauling The Bean to the emergency room and they were all "Bring her in. STAT!"

But in the interest of full disclosure, we called from the emergency room parking lot.

New post in which I don't discuss vomit coming soon.

Holy Crap. That Sucked.

It's exceptionally jolting to be awoken by a vomit shower.

You see, The Bean is 4 months old now. And back in my blissfully naive "I'm so going to rock this being a parent thing" pregnancy days, she was to be sleeping in her own room by now. And by now I mean something like 2 months ago.

But then I realized, I liked sleep. And I liked my child a whole lot more when she got sleep.

So instead of trying to master the sleep training thing, we sleep at night. And I have to admit that we seem to be moving further and further away from independent sleeping and closer into the co-sleeping camp.

The Bean is still waking up at around 3 AM for a night feeding and I've gotten lazy. I used to get up, feed her, rock her back to sleep and put her in the Pack-n-Play (which has done very little packing and instead has set up permanent residence in our bedroom).

That's what I used to do.

Now I lift her out of the Pack-n-Play, plop her on the bed next to me whip out a boob and everyone falls asleep happily in bed.

Happily until vomit explosions happen.

I did well for a first-time mom. I waited a whole five hours before calling the doctor demanding a new, non-puking baby. Or at least a baby that would puke on the nanny and not me (seriously, the nanny didn't get hit once while I was in Tropical Storm Vomit).

Apparently, there are no refunds on these things, but there is Pedialyte.

I'm getting Christmas presents for the makers of Pedialyte. And I don't care how terrible it might be for my child (because I'm sure someone out there is ready to strip me of my hippie mom card since Pedialyte is not local, organic OR sustainable). It could be made out of kitten buttholes and dirty toenails and I would still give it to my daughter because after she drank it -- there was a noticeable absence of puking all over me.

And that's totally sustainable in my book.

We're on the mend. We're not 100% yet as sometimes I get overzealous and give The Bean just a little too much boob juice (one ounce at a serving is a cruel joke to play on a starving infant and she is not afraid to let you know how pissy it makes her) and we end up covered in the less-than-awesome sauce.

So our current status is:

Yea Parenthood!!!

Update: I'm Sorry Lunch

Apparently, my lunch did not try to kill me. Some other disease-ridden grossness got to me while I was out on my lunch break.

I know this because I have gone through three outfits and The Bean has gone through twice that many since 5 this morning when her vomit fest started.

So I owe an apology to my lunch. But not my lunch break. Which is still the root of all evil.

Death by Lunch Break

The last time I took a lunch break was roughly three and a half years ago. Overdeveloped work ethic? Martyr complex? Does it matter?

Yesterday I decided I was going to take a lunch break. I never do nice things for myself (because taking a lunch break is a real splurge) so I wasn't going to go too crazy, just pick up a sandwich from a new shop in town and bring it home to eat. I was desperate for a good sandwich. That is how pathetic my life is.

So at 11:30, I leave the confines of my home office and venture out. In public.

I enter the sandwich shop nervous because new things are intimidating for me. What if I don't know how to order a sandwich the proper way and everyone points and laughs? But I'm excited. I've been jonesing for a sandwich since before pregnancy.

I walk up to the counter.

"Yeah, we're not doing lunch today."

No good reason. This is the only day ever.

Of course it is.

Now I'm in a panic because I didn't account for needing a back up lunch plan. I buckle under the pressure and suffer from extreme unimagination (I think I just made that word up) and head to the local, crappy noodle shop. It's three feet from the sandwich shop, so naturally it's the only thing I can come up with on short notice.

Since it's now only 11:35, there is me and one other woman in the joint placing a to-go order.

Yep. They gave my order to other woman and I have to wait for them to make my order. Again.

This is why I don't leave the house. Lunch is a production.

For some odd reason, the noodle shop gives me her order and my re-made order so now I have all the food ever. I decide to take this opportunity to practice being a glass half-full girl and am pleased I now also have dinner for tonight.

After relaying the story of the Great Lunch Outing of 2011 to the nanny, my girlfriend, Michael and a neighbor I ran into on the street, I decide to laugh the whole thing off because it's just lunch for God's sake.

Except when you're me.

At 4:30 I eat one of the items I ordered -- tofu noodle crappiness. By 6:30, I realize something is drastically wrong with me.

That's right kids. Food poisoning.

Let's pause here for a moment to introduce two other relevant facts to this story:

• Michael is working late on this particular evening. Like 10 PM late. So I'm on my own.
• Ginger, the turd connoisseur, is having an extreme flare-up of arthritis and can barely walk.

Back to the story.

The Bean, thankfully, did not get the memo about Daylight Savings and I am able to put her down at 6:30. She's usually good to sleep until a dream feed at 11. So at least I can wallow in my food poisoning misery without also carrying a child around.

The puking commenced at about 7.

At which time, The Bean woke up and would lose her eyeballs every time I left the room.

The scene in my bathroom looked something like this:

All because I took a lunch break.

Caution: You're About to Feel Old

Mrs. D-Zo: So how was the trip to the park?

Nanny: The girls had a great time! Didn't we girls? We saw all the trees, the dogs running around and our friend was there!

Mrs. D-Zo: Wow, Bean...you have friends already? You're officially more popular than your mother.

Nanny: We got to see our friend Damien at the playground.

Mrs. D-Zo: WHAT??????? You've introduced my child to the Devil's spawn!?!?! I didn't realize I needed to include 'forbidden to play with the Antichrist' in our contract.

Nanny: (laughs nervously) Yeah...my dad made some joke too when I told him. It must be something from your guys' generation.

Mrs. D-Zo: (I actually couldn't say anything because I was dead on the floor. People from my generation have dodgy hearts.)

Deep Thoughts for a Friday Morning

From the outside looking in, being 4 months old seems a lot like living inside a giant claw machine game.

How frustrating.

Wherein I Start Writing about Parenthood Again - Like I Was Supposed to Be Doing

Depending on how you look at it, I hit an all-time high or an all-time low in my parenting the other night. I'm going with all-time high owing to the ingenuity and on-the-spot decision-making I exhibited. Since this is my blog and my story, my opinion is the one that counts.

All you mothers should totally be taking this stance too...blog or no blog. Last time I checked the thesaurus I could not find where 'parenthood' was a synonym for 'everyone should judge me for the choices I make when raising MY child because someone who spends less than 24 HOURS A DAY with my child is probably way more informed than I am and should voice their opinion even if I didn't ask for it."

Wow. Where was I?

All-time high.

I go shopping for myself roughly once every six and a half years. Not because I don't have the time or the money (though there's not much of either), but because I hate it. There's the crowds of people who make you wonder how they managed to get out of their house alive, the sorting through 1,343,587 items of clothes to find the one piece that makes you look less fat than all the others and the 'I most definitely would rather be sleeping' factor.

So when I needed to go buy a new pair of shoes for an upcoming event, I was less than enthusiastic.

The shopping isn't the focus of this story, but I will have you know my superpower is going to the discount shoe store and finding the three pairs of shoes NOT on any sort of sale and with no discount from their designer counterpart. And of course, I had to have all three. I'll also have you know, I have since returned two of those pairs of shoes and can now afford to eat the rest of this week.

The point is, I was out of my house and in a public place that was not a doctor's office (which seems to be the only reason I leave the house these days). This was a pretty big deal.

So when the girlfriend I was with suggested we grab a quick cocktail at the end of our shopping jaunt, I got caught up in the moment and agreed.

Even though The Bean was with me. Even though she would be hungry in mere minutes. Even though it was nearing bedtime.

I was desperate to feel like myself for half an hour. Not Mama. Not Wife. Not Worker X at Company Y. Just me.

We sat down, placed our orders and immediately the judge machine in my head whirred to life. "You know The Bean is about to be hungry and as soon as you have this drink, you won't be able to feed her for two hours. There isn't a bottle of pumped milk at home so you're going to have to use formula. It's her bedtime Right. Now. You're messing with the schedule just as soon as you created it. Why are you doing this, you selfish beast of a woman. Shame. SHAME. SHAME."

And then The Bean started fussing.

So before our drinks came, I went to the restroom to change her diaper. At least I could solve one issue.

The changing table was inside the handicap stall - which is a critical piece of information. You see, once The Bean was on the table and I was bending over her to change her diaper, I noticed something. Something very interesting.

Her head was at boob level.

Oh yes I did.

5 minutes later, The Bean was changed and had enough of a snack to fall asleep while Mama enjoyed her cocktail and good conversation related to nothing about children, work or husbands.

Sometimes you just need to press the sanity reset button. Even when you feel insane doing so.

RIP Ninja Shoes - Updated with the Actual Story

I promise to get this post up later today...I'm actually leaving my house this morning. I know! As in interacting with the outside world. This is a pretty big deal for moms who work from home.

In the meanwhile, pray for my shoes.

UPDATED:

This is the story of why I can't have nice things.

A mere month ago, Michael came home with a present for me. Travel slippers/ninja shoes. Tomato/Tomato (turns out that phrase doesn't lend itself to the blog format). And I loved these shoes. I hugged them, I kissed them, I called them George.

They were the perfect house shoe. They kept my feet cozy-warm and, Michael's favorite part, were far more stylish than the orange fuzzball slippers that up until this point were the mainstay of my daily uniform.

And they turned me into a ninja.

So naturally, I never wanted to take them off. Ever.

Going to bed? As a ninja!
Need to feed the dogs? Ninjas are animal lovers.
It's Tuesday and the garbage needs to go out? You've never seen anyone take garbage out so sneakily.

Turns out, taking out the garbage was more precarious than I initially anticipated. You see, ninja shoes and concrete driveways are not lovers.

One trip to the sidewalk and my ninja shoes were showing signs of fatigue. The traction bottom of the slippers were being torn away by the abrasiveness of the concrete.

But because I am lazy indestructible, I continued to wear my ninja shoes outside. Ninjas need to move the sprinklers around the yard, get the mail and pick up dog poop so nasty turd-eating dogs don't gorge themselves to sickness - ninjas draw the line at cleaning up poop-riddled puke. They'd rather set fire to the house and start over.

And pretty soon, there was no traction, grippy stuff at the bottom of the ninja shoes. And guys, do you know what?

Ninjas totally need traction.

Before (full of sticky traction goodness):

After (traction eaten by malicious driveway):