1. Gwynth Paltrow (for obvious reasons)
2. Anyone who tells me I look tired.
3. Anyone who puts a dirty dish in the sink while I'm washing the dishes. (I know, I know, what do I expect them to do? I'm glad you asked. Here are some acceptable alternatives: Wait until I'm finished and then wash it yourself. Wash it in the bathroom. Lick it clean.)
4. My husband on nights that he has a 6:00 pm soccer game.
5. People who comment on the fact that I drink iced coffee in the winter. (Do you drink hot coffee in the summer? That's what I thought.)
6. The weatherman when he uses the words "doozy" or "record-breaking low temps".
7. Waiters when they ask how I'm doing at the exact moment that I take a bite of food. (It's like they get pleasure from the fact that I'm forced to resort to a lame thumbs-up.)
8. Taylor Swift when I can't get "Shake it Off" out of my damn head. (Just kidding, Tay! I would never punch you!)
9. The woman in our baby gym class who named her son "Tash".
10. Me. When I can't stop watching KUWTK.
Sunday, February 22, 2015
Tuesday, February 10, 2015
To Wash or Not to Wash?
...that is the question that every mom who has a child who is attached to a lovey/blankey/stuffy/wubby of some sort asks herself every few weeks when she realizes that the smell emanating from said lovey/blankey/stuffy/wubby isn't going to go away on its own.
Even before Rory was born, I hoped that she would become attached to something that would bring her comfort during difficult times. I have a stuffed dog that I've had for many years that I take everywhere. It's seen better days, but I still feel the same sense of comfort and security every night when I lay down in bed and rest my head on the soft, worn fabric as I did when I was five years old. I wanted Rory to have something physical that would make her feel safe when she felt anxious or scared and I wasn't around to comfort her.
But you know what they say... be careful what you wish for.
A few weeks after Rory was born, my sister Whitney, offered to buy Rory an animal lovey that she had seen at a local store and have it monogrammed with her name. (I chose the giraffe because it was coming from auntie Whitney, who is super tall with freakishly small feet, like a giraffe.) It arrived a few weeks later, and it was promptly shoved into a drawer in her nursery because let's face it, a five week old can't even find her thumb, let alone form an attachment to an inanimate object.
Fast forward four months when we're in the midst of another sleep regression, and my sleep-deprived self somehow remembers to ask the doctor for sleep advice during one of Rory's wellness visits. She suggests that I put her to sleep with a small lovey (not a blanket, people) in hopes that she will take comfort in the object and use it to help her self-soothe. At that point, I would have tried anything, and who knows if it really worked or if it was just the placebo effect, but that night she seemed to sleep better. And from that day on, "girafa" made an appearance in the crib for every nap and at bedtime each night.
Fast forward another 4 months. Girafa now goes everywhere. I know hyperbole is one of my many gifts, but this is not an exaggeration. She goes to the grocery store, to the park, to the library, and to the gym. She' right next to Rory on the side of the tub at bathtime, and I literally had to pry it out of her hands when we went swimming last week.
The good news is that I have witnessed Girafa bring Rory comfort during rough times, like when we leave her with a sitter or she is having difficulty falling back asleep in the middle of the night. So, she is serving her purpose, I just didn't expect her to become another part of the family. Now when we go out, Girafa takes up the seat next to Rory in the car. She sits next to Rory in her wagon, and she gets poured the first cup of tea at all of our tea parties. And we all must be very quiet whenever Rory randomly decides that girafa is "seeping".
Fine, I can stomach the fact that I'm no longer the favorite, but do you know how hard it is to be in charge of a toddler and a small lovey? I'm constantly on the verge of a panic attack. Where's Rory? Oh, there she is, taking books off the shelves. Oh no! Where is girafa?! Take a breath, retrace you steps. Oh there she is...next to the books about separation anxiety we were looking at earlier.
But that's not even the hardest part. See, Rory has developed a habit of sucking on the corners of her lovey, which means that it constantly smells like spit. And as much as she loves the thing, she's pretty quick to drop it on the floor as soon as she sees something more interesting that requires both hands. (Like tormenting Marli or picking the neighbor's flowers.) So, poor girafa spends a lot of time on the floor and in Rory's mouth.
Which brings me to the original question: to wash or not to wash? To wash means that my germaphobe-self will be satisfied and I can sleep another night without wondering what obscure illness Rory will develop as a result of sucking on a germ-infested lovey. But to wash also means I have to trick my child into giving up her beloved giraffe for the better part of an hour, which is a lot harder than it sounds.
The first time I washed the lovey, I naively thought I could just take it gently from Rory's hands and calmly explain that her giraffe needed a bath and would be ready to play again soon. Rory spent thirty-three minutes sobbing in front of the washer watching her giraffe go around and around.
Now I know better. Now I know that washing Girafa takes planning and calculation. My strategy isn't quite perfect, but give me a few months, and I'm pretty sure I'll be able to work for the CIA. It goes something like this:
1. Offer her her latest food obsession. (This week it's kiwis.)
2. Give it to her in a bowl so that she needs both hands to carry it.
3. Turn on a short Baby Einstein clip.
4. Quickly and Quietly grab Girafa and throw her in the washer. (Set to rapid wash, obviously)
5. When Rory inevitably asks for Girafa before the wash cycle is done, offer her more kiwi.
6. Give the lovey back as soon as the washer stops.
(The dryer, you ask? Ain't nobody got time for that.)
Repeat every 1 to 2 weeks.
Even before Rory was born, I hoped that she would become attached to something that would bring her comfort during difficult times. I have a stuffed dog that I've had for many years that I take everywhere. It's seen better days, but I still feel the same sense of comfort and security every night when I lay down in bed and rest my head on the soft, worn fabric as I did when I was five years old. I wanted Rory to have something physical that would make her feel safe when she felt anxious or scared and I wasn't around to comfort her.
But you know what they say... be careful what you wish for.
A few weeks after Rory was born, my sister Whitney, offered to buy Rory an animal lovey that she had seen at a local store and have it monogrammed with her name. (I chose the giraffe because it was coming from auntie Whitney, who is super tall with freakishly small feet, like a giraffe.) It arrived a few weeks later, and it was promptly shoved into a drawer in her nursery because let's face it, a five week old can't even find her thumb, let alone form an attachment to an inanimate object.
Fast forward four months when we're in the midst of another sleep regression, and my sleep-deprived self somehow remembers to ask the doctor for sleep advice during one of Rory's wellness visits. She suggests that I put her to sleep with a small lovey (not a blanket, people) in hopes that she will take comfort in the object and use it to help her self-soothe. At that point, I would have tried anything, and who knows if it really worked or if it was just the placebo effect, but that night she seemed to sleep better. And from that day on, "girafa" made an appearance in the crib for every nap and at bedtime each night.
Fast forward another 4 months. Girafa now goes everywhere. I know hyperbole is one of my many gifts, but this is not an exaggeration. She goes to the grocery store, to the park, to the library, and to the gym. She' right next to Rory on the side of the tub at bathtime, and I literally had to pry it out of her hands when we went swimming last week.
The good news is that I have witnessed Girafa bring Rory comfort during rough times, like when we leave her with a sitter or she is having difficulty falling back asleep in the middle of the night. So, she is serving her purpose, I just didn't expect her to become another part of the family. Now when we go out, Girafa takes up the seat next to Rory in the car. She sits next to Rory in her wagon, and she gets poured the first cup of tea at all of our tea parties. And we all must be very quiet whenever Rory randomly decides that girafa is "seeping".
Fine, I can stomach the fact that I'm no longer the favorite, but do you know how hard it is to be in charge of a toddler and a small lovey? I'm constantly on the verge of a panic attack. Where's Rory? Oh, there she is, taking books off the shelves. Oh no! Where is girafa?! Take a breath, retrace you steps. Oh there she is...next to the books about separation anxiety we were looking at earlier.
But that's not even the hardest part. See, Rory has developed a habit of sucking on the corners of her lovey, which means that it constantly smells like spit. And as much as she loves the thing, she's pretty quick to drop it on the floor as soon as she sees something more interesting that requires both hands. (Like tormenting Marli or picking the neighbor's flowers.) So, poor girafa spends a lot of time on the floor and in Rory's mouth.
Which brings me to the original question: to wash or not to wash? To wash means that my germaphobe-self will be satisfied and I can sleep another night without wondering what obscure illness Rory will develop as a result of sucking on a germ-infested lovey. But to wash also means I have to trick my child into giving up her beloved giraffe for the better part of an hour, which is a lot harder than it sounds.
The first time I washed the lovey, I naively thought I could just take it gently from Rory's hands and calmly explain that her giraffe needed a bath and would be ready to play again soon. Rory spent thirty-three minutes sobbing in front of the washer watching her giraffe go around and around.
Now I know better. Now I know that washing Girafa takes planning and calculation. My strategy isn't quite perfect, but give me a few months, and I'm pretty sure I'll be able to work for the CIA. It goes something like this:
1. Offer her her latest food obsession. (This week it's kiwis.)
2. Give it to her in a bowl so that she needs both hands to carry it.
3. Turn on a short Baby Einstein clip.
4. Quickly and Quietly grab Girafa and throw her in the washer. (Set to rapid wash, obviously)
5. When Rory inevitably asks for Girafa before the wash cycle is done, offer her more kiwi.
6. Give the lovey back as soon as the washer stops.
(The dryer, you ask? Ain't nobody got time for that.)
Repeat every 1 to 2 weeks.
 |
| The famous "Girafa". |
 |
| Yes, that would be my phone number written in permanent ink on the tag. |
Friday, February 6, 2015
Things That Don't Matter When Your Baby is Having An Allergic Reaction
1. Leaving story time before it starts
2. Obeying the speed limit
3. Red Benadryl on a white carpet
4. Parking in a handicap spot without a permit
5. Leaving your purse in an unlocked car
6. Crying in front of the doctor
7. Getting thrown up on
8. Natural remedies
Wednesday, February 4, 2015
Cream Cheese and Dog Hair
Few things annoy me more than seeing this in someone's home:
 |
| Who the hell is Mary Randolph Carter, anyway? |
Or this:
Or this:
 |
| Seriously? |
I know at least five people who have similar signs in their house, and every time I see them I want to rip them down and use them to sweep up all the dust on the floor. I understand that not everyone can be Martha Stewart, but why in the world would you call attention to this fact by plastering it on your wall?
Not only is it tacky, but it doesn't make any sense. Cleaning your house is a waste of time? In order for a house to be lived in, it must be messy? If my laundry is done and my kitchen is clean, my kids are unhappy?
I grew up in a family of six children, and our house was practically spotless. Seriously, my mom can spot a dust bunny from a mile away. (Whitney- remember the piece of string?) Maybe that's why I believe in the importance of a clean, organized home. I do crazy things like vacuum, and dust the baseboards, and wipe the counters several times a day. I clean the bathrooms once a week, and I wash our sheets and towels on a regular basis. When Rory is finished playing, we (okay I) clean up before leaving the room. Books belong on shelves, clothes belong in drawers, and toys belong in baskets.
I can imagine that cleaning and organizing must be especially challenging for working moms, and if it comes down to cleaning or spending time with your children, then by all means, spend your free time playing and reading with your children. And then once they're asleep, you can clean. This may sound extreme, but I just don't think there is any excuse to have a dirty house. In the past month, I've been to one house with dried cream cheese smeared all over the kitchen table and sliding glass door, and another with what must have been the equivalent of two pounds of dog hair on the hardwood floor. (This woman has a crawling baby, by the way.)
I know moms should be building each other up, and I don't want to sound judgmental, but I did judge these moms. I couldn't help it. Being in these houses made me feel uncomfortable and anxioius, especially with Rory walking around and putting everything in her mouth. Contrary to the popular wall art pictured above, I didn't feel happier or more alive.
I read a blog post a few years ago written by a mom, who in a nutshell said that if people expected her to clean up before they came over, they weren't welcome at her house. Um, excuse me? I clean my house as a sign of respect to my friends and family because I want them to feel welcome and comfortable.
I read a blog post a few years ago written by a mom, who in a nutshell said that if people expected her to clean up before they came over, they weren't welcome at her house. Um, excuse me? I clean my house as a sign of respect to my friends and family because I want them to feel welcome and comfortable.
Now I'm not saying that my house is never messy. The basement playroom often looks like someone emptied every toy basket just for fun. (Because that's exactly what happened.) And more often than not, there is flour or coffee grinds on the kitchen counter, but it gets cleaned up. Not eventually, not the next day, but soon after. When Rory is engrossed in independent play or eating breakfast or napping, I take a few minutes to clean. Does this make me a bad mom? Perhaps. But Rory will never be embarrassed to bring friends over. She will go to sleep on clean sheets every night, and she will never have to wear dirty clothes to school.
So does keeping a clean, organized home make me a better mom? Absolutely not. That's my point...it has no reflection on how happy my daughter is or how well my time is spent, and it certainly doesn't mean that our home isn't lived in.
It simply means that my house is cleaner than yours.
It simply means that my house is cleaner than yours.
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