Christmas Came Early

Perhaps it is just me, but it felt as though Christmas snuck up on us this year. It could have been because many hours of my day are spent negotiating with, chasing after and, in general, raising an inquisitive, rambunctious, and all-around normal toddler boy. It could have been because we were in the early stages of being a new family of four. It could have been because just prior to the onset of the holiday season, this area was slammed by a freakish Nor’easter and by the time we had recuperated from the 7-days without power along with its aftermath of the “cancellation of Halloween”, insurance appraisals and tree removal, it was time to carve turkeys and decorate with pumpkins.

Like most people, I certainly became absorbed with the hustle and bustle of the holiday season. The television ads lured me in with their evil ways convincing me that I absolutely needed their fun and educational products for my eldest child in order to provide him a fulfilling childhood and pave his way into an ivy-league future. In addition, there was a self-applied pressure that was on to ensure that this was a memorable celebration for our family seeing that it was Ryan’s First Christmas.

The weeks flew by as our calendar filled up with holiday get-togethers and our home filled up with shopping bags, rolls of wrapping paper, and the seasonal scents of spruce and baking. We scheduled a photo-shoot to get a good picture of the boys for our Christmas cards and decorated the house with wreaths, lights, and other relatively kid-friendly trappings & trimmings. We purchased tons of batteries in all shapes and sizes to accommodate any toy that Santa might bring and both the digital and video cameras lived on their chargers so that they would be ready to capture any priceless memory at a moment’s notice. But BOY did this all take a LOT of work!

Before I knew it, the big weekend was here! We spent Christmas Eve with my side of the family. Over hors d'oeuvres, we shared many laughs watching the little ones unwrap their gifts and be charmed by the simplest of things. As Ryan slept the evening away in his crib, Caiden was enamored by a PEZ dispenser that looked like a Shop-Rite truck. And while my niece, Alison, played Santa Claus passing out all the presents to everyone and demonstrating her reading skills, her younger sister, Isabel, twirled around my living room like a ballerina modeling one of the three tutus that I gave to her. By 7PM, Dan was at work and I was at church attending the Christmas Eve service with my children enjoying the sounds of soulful gospel, hugging friends old & new, and relishing in the magic of the night as a whole.

On Christmas morning, I lay in bed nursing Ryan and basked in the quiet & calm around me (knowing that within a few short hours it would all be obliterated). As I traced the outline of his profile with my fingertips, over his button nose and around the curvature of his soft cheeks, I reveled in the beauty of my own creation and the joy that he brings to me. Soon after, I heard the familiar “thump, thump” of two toddler-sized tootsies hitting the floor above me and knew that it was “showtime” on Christmas Day. The priceless look on Caiden’s face as he came down the stairs and saw what Santa had brought was immortalized on home video and I know that many years from now it will be well-worth the jestly-hassling that I endured from my husband with regard to being “That Mom” with the camera in her hands at all times. Our morning was spent in a traditional manner of unwrapping our gifts to each other clad in pajamas and enjoying the ability to be as lazy as we wanted to be for a good portion of the day. Come 3PM, once all of the toys were out of their boxes and we had already memorized the incredibly annoying songs & jingles projected from each, we headed on over to Dan’s parents’ house to feast together and partake in the company and chaos that only a home full of 20+ guests can bring! While I enjoyed the comfort foods that were delicious and, moreover and better yet, not cooked by me, my boys loved being doted upon by their grandparents, cousins, aunts, uncles, and all forms of extended family and the like!

Yes, it snuck up on me this year, but a revelation came to me on the night of Christmas. After reading “The Grinch” to Caiden for the millionth time and putting him to bed; after making a new path through the fortress of Hasbro that overtook my living room; after sneaking in one more nibble of sweet, over-indulgence in my kitchen, it was time to feed Ryan once more. The closing of Christmas Day was much like its beginning. Again, I lay in bed nursing Ryan and basked in the quiet & calm around me. Routinely, I began to trace the outline of his profile with my fingertips, over his button nose and around the curvature of his soft cheeks, reveling in the beauty of my own creation and the joy that he brings to me. And then I began to think about “The Reason for the Season”. It is so easy to get lost in the commercialism that the holidays bring, but the true meaning of Christmas lies within the anticipation of a baby boy who will enter this world to bring happiness, wisdom, joy, and a legacy of his own to those whose lives he touches. As Ryan’s sleepy blue eyes began close in contentment, a feeling of overwhelming love and warmth consumed me. And then it hit me.

Despite the fact that I received many great gifts this year (including the laptop that this blog entry is being typed on), for me, the greatest present of all arrived a few months prior. And in a similar fashion as the "Reason for the Season", for me, Christmas didn’t come quickly this year… it, actually, just came early.

You Might Be a Momma If…

Remember Jeff Foxworthy’s bit on “You might be a Redneck if…”? Well, the other day I was at the gym waiting for my step class to begin when I put my hands in my pockets. My fingertips grazed over a very familiar object and despite the fact that my child was rooms away in the childcare center and these clothes were just put on, I pulled out one of his pacifiers. I laughed to myself saying, “Ha! You know you’re a mom when you never leave home without a binky.” This got me thinking about ALL the ways one could qualify for being a Momma.

You Might Be a Momma If:

• You’ve watched enough children’s programming to start wondering “Where the hell are Max & Ruby’s parents?” and can perform the entire choreographed end-sequence from The Fresh Beat Band.
• You could care less about what you look like in public just as long as you can run an errand ALONE.
• A good, solid, uninterrupted night’s sleep is more valuable to you than the Crown Jewels.
• You referred to your time at the hospital post the births of subsequent children as “your stay at The Hotel Baystate” because you were able to lounge around all day, got room service, and had zero responsibilities.
• ...You requested to stay the maximum amount allowed at “The Hotel Baystate” in order to take advantage of the previous-stated “amenities”.
• You throw up a little bit in your mouth every time you see the feet of an adult, but marvel at your baby’s tootsies daily.

• A trip to “The Lady Doctor” now qualifies as “Me Time”.
• The sights and smells of poop & puke no longer faze you.
• Your recycling bin is now considered a whimsical treasure trove full of rainy day craft possibilities.
• You realize that there is nothing sexier than your husband folding mountains of laundry unsolicited.
• You’ve experienced more exhilaration witnessing your babies’ first smiles than any amusement attraction you’ve ever ridden on.

• Professional photography sessions are no longer like an afternoon at Glamour Shots. Now you simply pray that you can get at least one good picture that doesn’t feature your kids crying, spitting up, fighting, or looking at anything except the actual camera.
• Date night now consists of PJs, Chinese takeout, and an episode of “The Office” and is soooooo much better than any dressy, 5-star joint and movie.
• Nothing and no one in your home is safe from the wrath, curiosity, and energy of your toddler.
• You are now painfully aware of how narrow parking spaces are when you are trying to squeeze your infant car seat in and out of your vehicle.
• You’ve considered purchasing stock in Duracell and Pampers based off of the excessive consumption of their products in your house alone.
• You’ve waved the white flag of tidiness in the “Battle Against Clutter & Disarray of the Playroom”.
• You now appreciate the value of a good bib, burp cloth, and/or baby sock that actually stays on your infant’s foot.
• You would eagerly sign a petition requesting that all public venues provide up-close parking for “Parents of Small Children” next to the handicap spots.
• You drive your husband nuts with the phrase, “Wait! Let me go get the camera!” wanting to capture every moment of quality family time, knowing that in the grand scheme of things, THIS IS WHAT WE WILL TREASURE FOREVER.
• You have come to terms with the fact that “child-proofing” your home is somewhat pointless because nothing can thwart or outwit a determined 2-year-old.
• The interior of your car reeks of coffee, crushed Cheerios, stale French fries, and … what is that?
• Amazon.com and online shopping, in general, is your new best friend.
• Stroller—or even worse, double stroller—in tow, you can now empathize with the fact that most places are NOT as “handicap accessible” as they claim to be.
• The baby swing in your home is almost, if not the most, important device in you home (next to your Keurig, of course).
• You now purchase your children’s clothing based not on its cuteness, but for its ease of diapering. (Seriously, who ever thought that it was a good idea to put a row of buttons in the crotch of a romper?)
• Despite how much you shake your head and curse at the train wrecks of “16 and Pregnant”, you find yourself misty watching the delivery scenes and flat out bawl during the episodes in which they choose adoption.
• Thanks to late night feedings, you know what they try to sell you on TV. Due to sleep-deprivation, you now actually contemplate purchasing the product.
• Dinner is now considered “Mealtime at the Zoo”.
• If you are all fed, dressed, and out of the house by noontime, it is a good day.
• The holidays have truly taken on a deeper, more magical meaning, but you still abuse the concept of Santa for behavior modification.
• You have 8 “To Do” lists going on at one time. You lose the lists, and then find them only to cross-reference them and learn that they don’t even match up.
• “Multitasking" is your perfected art form and you can do almost anything one-handed. (Today I cut up Caiden’s lunch while nursing Ryan. Standing up. True story.)
• You’ve been in the car or out in public and had that moment of panic in which you ask yourself, “Wait! Did I put on deodorant today?”
• Modesty about the appearance of your body and any of its functions went out the door the second you gave birth to your firstborn.
• You’ve secretly worn maternity clothes—including pregger underwear—even when you weren’t gestating just because you know how freakin’ comfortable they are.
• You no longer care if your toddler only eats peanut butter & jelly sandwiches or slices of Land o’ Lakes cheese every day just as long as he is eating something.
• You celebrate the utterance of every new word added to your child’s vocabulary even if you are the only one who can understand it. (Example: “Cha cha doh-na” is the equivalent to “chocolate donut” in “Caidenese”.)
• You sound like your mother more than ever.

When Fashion Falters, Family Flourishes

A few weeks back I was getting ready for church. It was a good day. Both boys were fed, dressed, and quietly content—and, best of all, we were right on schedule. Feeling good about the morning, I decided that today was the day I would “feel human again”. With some time to spare, I carefully chose an outfit that didn’t scream “minivans and soccer games here I come”. I cast aside the comfort of my trusty yoga pants and slipped into fitted jeans—with a belt nonetheless. My shirt was clean, stylish, and bore no resemblance to the oversized, baby-stained hoodies that I normally adorn. I used a hair dryer to style my hair and threw on some makeup. And finally, I zipped up my piece de resistance: a pair of uber cute gray suede boots that – GASP! —had heels. Now this may not seem like a big deal to the average gal but one must understand that I had not worn heels since becoming pregnant with Ryan 11 months ago. One must also understand that I have a passion for shoes and it is one thing that I miss indulging in now that I am a full-time momma. (Let’s face it: It’s not very practical to be playing Ring Around the Rosie in leopard print pumps.)

So that Sunday was a good Sunday. Feeling good after the service—inside and out—I started strutting my sassy, sueded self across the parking lot, back to our car, baby in his carrier, and Caiden by my side. Then. All. Hell. Broke. Loose. As I went to unlock my car, Caiden decided that it would be a great idea to let go of my hand and start walking into a field abutting the lot. Not a big deal if he just listened to his mother and obey her when she said, “Ok Buddy, that’s far enough. Come back and get buckled in.” No. My kid slyly peeked over his shoulder, looked over at a nearby playground (at the other end of the field) and BOLTED. IN a moment of sheer panic, I looked down at the infant in his carrier on my arm, then at the back of my sprinting toddler who could rival Flo Jo, back at my baby in the carrier and thought, “Holy s#!t! What do I do?!?!” Luckily, my friends were at their car right next to us, so I plunked Ryan’s carrier down beside the car and said, “Please watch him while I go catch his brother.” (What I was thinking, however, was “Please watch him while I go kill his brother.” But we were on hallowed grounds.)

(This is not an uncommon pose for Caiden nowadays. It's sorta the "try to get me" tease. He is ALWAYS on the run...)

Have you ever tried to run across a muddy field in 4” heels? This mad dash that felt like an eternity was punctuated by thoughts laden with curse words. Some were directed at my son who’s “joy run” (which ended up past the field and playground and into the neighboring woods) could have put him in physical harm, while the other thoughts damned myself for trying to be a hot momma that day. How dare I try to look good? As I wrangled my child and carried him back to the car, I began to wonder: Will I have to live the rest of my life in sneakers?

You know what? Currently, the answer to that question is “Yes.” And although my initial reaction is to cringe (Oh, how I love my red patent leather stilettos!), forfeiting the glamour and trendiness of it all is a small price to pay in exchange for moments no fashion designer could replicate. Manolo Blahnik can not melt me dawn after dawn with a sleepy voice saying “Gooooooood morrrrrrrrnnnnnin’, Momma”. Steve Madden can not craft the overwhelming joy that floods my entire being each and every time I see my 2-month-old smile in reaction to the mere sight of me. Christian Louboutin has nothing on the snuggles and story times, the kisses and coos, the love and laughter shared by my family and I. So if that means that I must trade in my stylish sandals for a pair of practical Nikes, so be it. My focus has now shifted from the latest pair of Jimmy Choo’s to Thomas the "Choo Choo" and instead of sporting peep toes, I play peek-a-boo. But I would rather be a mess of mommy that a fashionista lacking family. My children are, in essence, the best accessories that I have ever had—always drawing attention and compliments from others, making me feel good about myself, completing my “look” or the life, rather, that I set out to lead. So forget the chunky wedges and the adorable boots. Sneakers, like family, provide stability and comfort. Besides, my youngest’s initials are RPM. I think that it’s safe to say that I have many more years of running ahead of me…

(“Gooooooood morrrrrrrrnnnnnin’, Momma!”)

(You can't outdo this, Steve Madden!)

“F” Is For…

(Author’s Note: This post was originally composed in October during the week of the nasty Nor’easter that hit our area. With a week lacking power and two small children underfoot—the youngest being only 3-weeks-old at the time—there was plenty of time to sit back, reflect, and come up with a blog entry. 6 weeks have since passed and not much has changed so I still feel that the post is worth sharing, if not for the therapeutic benefits of venting, but for the humor of it all.)

With the recent addition of Ryan to our family, our household is currently in a state of utter upheaval, adjustment, and lack of routine. As I am busy trying to manage daily household tasks, diapering two children, nursing, and racing to the telephone to interrupt calls before they wake up my husband (who needs to sleep during the day after working 3^rd shift), it sometimes feels as though the only predictable element of our lives is the television lineup. Since Ryan feeds every 2 hours, I often find myself allowing Caiden to watch TV in lieu of more creative outlets because I know that it will maintain his attention and keep him put in a safe spot. As a result, Thomas and Friends, Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, and Curious George have provided entertainment for Caid while Sesame Street gave me some inspiration for this blog post. You see, every episode of this classic series still focuses on a number and letter of the day. During an episode from last week, as Elmo, Grover, and Cookie Monster informed my eldest that “F” was for “forest”, “freckles”, and “frozen”, I started to think about what “F” stood for in my life.

“F” is for Friends. It is amazing who comes forward once a new baby arrives. Friends from near and far have blessed us with acts of generosity and kindness. From mailing us a congratulatory card to dropping off gifts for the baby and the family (one of the best things we received was the gift of time when my friends took Caiden for an afternoon and I could rest and devote some treasured, quiet moments with Ryan), we have been overwhelmed by the outpouring of love and support and feel so very lucky to have these people as part of our family’s lives.

“F” is for Fortunate. This, for obvious reasons, goes hand-in-hand with “Friends”. An extension of this is geared, however, specifically for the generosity of new friends whom I have made through the MOMS (Moms Offering Moms Support) Club in town. These women, relative strangers to me, stepped forth immediately after Ryan was born and brought over wholesome home cooked meals, hand-me-down nursing garb, and even a present or two for Big Brother Caiden (so that he didn’t feel left out). How could I not feel fortunate to have them around?

“F” is for Fatigue. I haven’t slept since October 8^th, 2011.

“F” is for Feedings. Whereas Ryan eats constantly around the clock, many days I forget to eat meals myself. Breakfast for Caiden is often a scenario of him eating dry Cheerios straight from the box with a sippy cup of milk on the side. And then there is dinnertime. Caiden loves to cook. His mother, however, does not. See the following subcategory.

“F” is for Friendly’s, Fazios, and Fast Food. Without the assistance of the MOMS Club meals and these local institutions of cuisine, my family would starve.

“F” is for Frazzled. A typical “day in the life of Laurel” would include the phone ringing off the hook, the dog barking, the baby crying, the UPS man at the door, and Caiden running around half-naked. Enough said.

“F” is for Focus. Perhaps this is just an extension of “Frazzled” and “Fatigue”, but I seem to have completely lost focus on just about everything. I start something, get sidetracked, start something else, get sidetracked from that, and then look around and say to myself, “What the hell happened around here?”

“F” is for Fibbing. Whoever said that breastfeeding was easy, LIED.

“F” is for Feet. I can finally see and reach my own tootsies, so one of the first things that I did for myself postpartum was give myself an at-home pedicure. It was fabulous, so “F” can stand for that as well.

“F” is for FedEx. One of the things that I forgot about with regard to the early days of bringing Caiden home is the unquenchable desire to do online shopping and, even worse, make purchases from QVC. I blame it on the baby’s feeding schedule. There is not much on for entertainment during the wee small hours of the morning and, therefore, I often find myself tuning into home shopping stations that take advantage of my sleep-deprived state in order to convince me that I need these items. (Although I haven’t stooped low enough to buy a set of Forever Lazy, I wouldn’t be surprised if it were on the horizon. They do look quite comfortable and I am sure that the fabric it is made from is absorbent enough to even handle the rivers of spit up my kid produces…) Especially with the holiday season quickly approaching, the FedEx Man is hiking it up our hill almost daily in order to deliver something to us.

“F” is for Funky. This is probably how I smell since squeezing in a daily shower is a task unto itself. With the ability to shower at the gym, I have recently been contemplating bringing my gear to there just so I can clean up after my workouts without any interruptions involving a wailing infant or my toddler playing peek-a-boo with me using the shower curtain.

“F” is for Frumpy. In general, this is how I look and feel. Even when I successfully work my way into an outfit that doesn’t contain a strand of Spandex in it, I usually have to change it immediately because of hands covered in grape jelly or the wrath of Ryan’s reflux gets the best of me. And on a side note, there is no such thing as a sexy nursing garment.

“F” is for !@%$#%@. Yes, you read that correctly. Since Caiden repeats EVERYTHING, I don’t actually say this word aloud, but forms of this obscenity go through my mind daily. Examples include (but are certainly not limited to):

· Hearing Caiden in another room rummaging through something that he shouldn’t be rummaging through. “What the !@%$#%@ is he into now?”

· Changing Ryan’s diaper for the zillionth time, snapping, zipping, swaddling, only to finish and hear him squeeze out another rip-roaring deuce. Repeat the previous steps of changing, snapping, zipping, swaddling and then realize that he has spit up everywhere. “You have got to be !@%$#%@ kidding me!”

· Putting Caiden to bed. Then feeding Ryan. Then hearing Caiden get out of bed. Wrangle him back into bed. Get ready to turn in myself. Finally settle in. Look at the clock and realize that it is time to feed Ryan again. “!@%$#%@...”

· During a late night feeding I burp Ryan. He’ll spit up over my shoulder and onto my pillow. Do I change the bedding now? “Eh. !@%$#%@ it.” (Flip the pillow over. It can wait ‘til tomorrow.)

“F” is for Family of Four. And despite some of the inconveniences and hardships that sometimes arise as a result of that, I am, undoubtedly, Fulfilled.

Dirty Little Secrets

(Author’s Note: The following entry was written back in October during what I refer to as “Snowmaggedon”. Being without power for 7 days straight allowed for many hours of thought and writing, but actually being able to type, edit and post said writing took a little more time…)

A few weeks back I was hanging out with my good friend, Jenn. She, too, is a “new mom of two”. We first met back when our firstborns were, well, first born. Her eldest is 3 days younger than Caiden and her newest is 2 weeks older than Ryan. She is, in many ways, my mirror image when it comes to parenting and without her friendship I would truly be lost in the stormy seas of toddler tantrums, endless diapers, and late-night feedings. During this visit, we were sharing our “secrets” regarding the new “norms” in our homes. Usually, I would keep these facts quiet and to myself—feeling guilty and ashamed of what my current reality is—but with Jenn, there is no shame, nor hiding. Hell, it’s not even like I share it in confidence (although I know she wouldn’t be shouting my inadequacies from the rooftops if I had asked her to keep them hush, hush). With Jenn, I can just be myself and, in turn, learn that I am not alone on this ever-changing journey of motherhood. After talking with her for a few hours about how crazy and exhausting life now seems with the “simple” addition of another tiny human being, I now feel empowered by the raw honesty of it all and want to share all of my “dirty little secrets” with the world in the hopes of letting other moms feel normal. So here it goes…

DLS #1: I hate breastfeeding. So many outlets of society make this act look easy, loving, and even beautiful at times. Like it is a walk in the park and one of the best things about being a mom. YUCK. Not for me. Perhaps I lack some sort of maternal gene, but I find it to be hard, painful, time-consuming, and messy. The sensation of “letdown” feels like I am being punched in the chest by a set of brass knuckles encrusted with thumbtacks and no one ever warned me that my mammary glands could rival Ol’ Faithful once my bra was removed. (TMI? Sorry.) Everyone around me tells me that it will get easier and, although it has, I have yet to have that “Ahhhh, what precious time this is” moment. This less than desirable attitude towards breastfeeding makes me feel insensitive, nonmaternal, and downright terrible at times and I am sure that there will be some women out there who read this and think that there is something wrong with me. But regardless of anyone’s’ opinions (including my own), I will continue to stick with it because I do have a healthy, happy baby boy as a result of this feeding method. And it’s cheap.

(Ryan at 8 weeks old. His right eye gets all squished up when he's smiles just like mine does.)

DLS #2: I have a new babysitter. His name is Elmo. Since the arrival of my “itty bitty”, my big kid now lives in front of the television. It seems as though it is the only way that I can ensure that he is safe and in one spot while I get stuff done. I try to justify the endless hours in front of TV by saying that, “Hey, at least it’s educational programming”, but it never fails to make me feel like a parent who can’t balance her new responsibilities. I have every intention, day after day, to be the mom who wakes up, grabs her cup of coffee, feeds and changes her baby, then wakes, feeds, and changes her eldest, runs off to the gym, does the dishes, throws in a load of laundry, runs errands, and comes home to read books, bake cookies, and complete an afternoon craft with her eldest. But then 7am rolls around (aka: “REALITY”) and Ryan begins fussing because HE. NEEDS. FOOD. NOW!!!!!!! Then he proceeds to spit it all back up on me. Caiden runs downstairs and starts to take out every item in the Tupperware cabinet, the dog is barking at the FedEx guy, the phone is ringing off the hook, my breakfast is burning, milk is spilling, diapers need changing yet again, Caiden starts to chase after the dog with a broom, the sink is overflowing with crap, and God damnit I STILL haven’t even had a cup of coffee yet! So enters my good friend, Elmo, who can captivate my toddler’s attention for at good hour while teaching him his ABCs—in Spanish nonetheless—and I can at least pacify Ryan, rinse the baby residue out of my hair, and maybe vacuum the first floor. (On a side note, I sat nursing Ryan the other day with Caiden next to me in a “Mickey Mouse Clubhouse Induced-Coma” thinking, “Hmmmm, this certainly gives a new meaning to the term ‘boob tube’…”)

(Evidence of a typical morning in the Manley household including PJs, Mom's bed, and an episode of "Curious George")

DLS #3: I let my baby sleep snuggly in the Boppy at night. I could defend this practice by saying that I do so in order to keep him at an incline after eating so that his acid reflux is kept to a minimum. This fact is, indeed, true, however my real intentions rest in the reality that it also aids in me scoring a few extra hours of uninterrupted sleep. I am sure that the American Association of Pediatrics and SIDS gurus would be cringing at the airing of this tidbit of information, but seeing that I am usually solo for the night shift in my house and still have to run the day shift here, I see no problem in having the babe-o sleeping away soundly in his U-shaped pillow/my saving grace (thinking that he is being held) in order to provide us BOTH with a good night’s rest.

DLS #4: My kids usually aren’t out of their pajamas until lunchtime. You just read about what mornings are like here. Do I need to paint a clearer picture nor explain this further?

DLS#5: I am not usually out of my pajamas until—well, ever. (Author's Note: Since the original composition of this post, I have now graduated to getting dressed--after lunchtime, of course-- but it's usually in yoga pants and oversized sweatshirts.)

DLS#6: The interior of my home looks as though it could qualify for FEMA Relief despite all efforts to keep up with the laundry, dishes, and my eldest child. I seriously forgot about how much dirty laundry a 10-pound human being could produce. Granted, this is a child who suffers from GERD (gastro esophageal reflux disease), but hoooooolllllly moooollllly is there a lot of washing to do! And loads of his laundry are quite deceiving. New/Prospective Mothers Beware: One load of cute little baby clothes is actually the work of the Devil in disguise. When it reemerges from the dryer you will find yourself in a never-ending barrel of onesies to be folded and teeny tiny socks to be matched up. Keeping up with the dishes in the sink is an issue because we are in that phase of life with a new baby that involves everyone eating in shifts so there is always a plate to be rinsed and a pot to be scrubbed. (Thank God for our dog who is a gem when it comes to “pre-treating” all the dirty dishes. She is also like a furry little Hoover when it comes to flying Cheerios and exploding juice boxes. So for Mollie, I am thankful.)

(Woof.)

DLS #7: I sometimes resent the fact that my husband can go to work every night. I am completely blessed to be in a situation in which we can afford to have me be a stay-at-home mom and I am incredibly grateful to my hardworking hubby for all that he does outside of our home. In addition, there is not much that he can do here during the nights. Caiden is fast asleep and doesn’t need our attention and I am the only one able to feed Ryan. The resentment lies in the fact that he can go out, interact with other adults, use his education, provide for his family, and just simply get out of this house ALONE. Perhaps “resent” is a poor choice of word. “Envy” is probably more appropriate, but nonetheless, it is something that I have embattled now for 2 ½ years now and is a feeling that is a bit more exacerbated due to being run-ragged and reeking of spit up.

I know that some, if not all, of these dirty little secrets are shared within the hearts and minds of other moms out there. Perchance you are one of those parents who can say aloud, “Oh my God, ME TOO!” Either way, I hope that by venting these concerns and truths about my own life, those struggling with the difficult adjustment of a newborn coupled with their own sense of perfectionism can give themselves a little slack knowing now that they are certainly not unaccompanied on this journey. Good parents are not always going to be dressed to the nines by noontime and happy-go-lucky 24/7. Good parents are honest and use that honesty united with a bit a humor to learn, move on, and laugh at themselves. If you share one of these dirty little secrets with me, you are not a bad parent. And you, more importantly, are not alone.