The Art Of Mommying, According To Me.

Noah fell in love with a little 7 month old Russian girl named Eva yesterday while on the grass under the shade of a tree at the top of the hill at Barnsdall Art Park. He gooed, smiled and gawed at her while attempting to gently paw at her hand and pretty pink dress. Amused but figuring that he was moving a little too fast, she smiled back while swatting at his grasping hand.

A little later the mommies that I had been waiting for arrived for our Wednesday "Babies On Blankies" playdate. The three of us kvetched about various typical SAHM's (stay at home mom) dilemmas--what will become of our careers, our multiple degrees, what about more kids and when, etc.--before all agreeing that being a SAHM is incredibly fulfilling and surprisingly loads of fun.

But all this talk about mommies and how to navigate the caregiver/wife/self road of motherhood, led me to ponder what kind of mom I want to be for my children--and husband, because let us not forget how important they are in this very equation. I am lucky to be married to a very handsome, incredibly sensitive, thoughtful and helpful husband who has read my mind more times then I give him credit for. And I think that marriages too often take the brunt of child rearing. The role of wife cannot take a back seat to that of being mom because it is essential to being a good mom. A mom who fosters lifelong loving relationships, and friendships for that matter, serves as a model for healthy interaction, trust, self-esteem and balance--essentially nurturing the child's awareness and development of these characteristics and behaviors while preparing the child to put them into practice later in life.

Therefore, I want to be a mom who has a healthy marriage.

I guess what it all boils down to is the problem of moms getting lost in the "duty" of being a mom. In other words, moms who get lost somewhere along the way in "momdom"--a place where she has lost the woman she was and has replaced it with a falsely frazzled and dull robot who superficially feeds her starving parent-child relationship. A mom who is in the midst of trying to provide materially for her children (clothe them, feed them, diaper them, bathe them, toy them, get them to and from activities, etc.) can easily lose sight of all the other aspects of mommying. Often a potentially deep emotional, social and intellectual connection between mom and child goes unfounded and lacking creating a relationship empty of intangibles--genuine communication and unfettered interaction--and full of "stuff"--replaceable and fleeting tangibles.

Therefore, I want to be a mom who gives my kids loads of "me", not tons of "stuff".

A mom who gets lost in the "duty" of being a mom isn't a bad mom necessarily--she's just a mom who has forgotten why she is mom. She's a mom who thinks she never has time because she doesn't create time. She's a mom who has gotten lost in the overwhelming amount of things that a mom must *or thinks she must* do day to day--and having multiple kids, I imagine, simply compounds the load. I mean, house chores alone are enough to engulf all of one's freestanding time without junior . . . forget about finding time to read, love your spouse, groom oneself, stay current with world events, practice a musical instrument, paint, garden . . . simply put, to stop and smell the roses of self fulfillment. But one must find time. Your gifts and interests don't die with an expanding belly, they become a conversation you can share, a lesson you can teach and a gift you can give to your child.

Therefore, I want to be the kind of mom who has hobbies, interests, passions outside of the home, goals, who always has room for self-improvement and never wants to quit learning--but, I never want to be too busy for my children.

"Momness" in all it's glory is all-engrossing. Frankly, it's hard not to fill every empty crevasse of my brain space with tot-centric tidbits of consumer report car seat ratings and grocery lists. But for Noah's and my sake I must not lose entirely the "self" that I was before kids. I guess what I am saying is that being a mom doesn't have to be a great sacrifice--you don't have to sacrifice time, relationships, hobbies, self. It's just about achieving balance between them all--a sort of happy place where they can all co-exist together. Granted some may dominate others at one time or another, but in the end they all get their fair share. It may mean that a load of laundry doesn't get done or the dishes in the sink may sit there for another day. Because in the end it's not those things that are important--it's not those things that Noah will remember.

Therefore, I want to be a mom who has a tidy, but not clean, house if it comes at the expense of my children being, well, children.

The amount of time we are given is finite, but the things we choose to do with that time is not. It's all in the way that you perceive the duty of being a mom that will determine how you spend your time as a mom. It's all about choosing what's important and keeping what's important in perspective. I am choosing now, before Noah has even uttered his first word, to spend my time wisely.

Therefore, I want to be a mom who is in control of my time and how it is spent, not one who lets time control me.

It is with these self-proclaimed axioms that I will progress forward and deeper into mommyhood. I know already that I will have to return to this blog, probably often, to read and remember all that I have promised. I know that success only comes through constant effort at achievement--meaning, I must never stop trying to try.

Solid Waste.

::This blog is dedicated to Kristen--thanks Kristen!::

We have finally started Noah on solid foods and as the title indicates there has been lots of waste . . . on the bib, on the floor, on his clothes, left in the bottom of the bowl and *sigh* on mom. I know, I know, that it's part and partial of the learning curve--the transition from a purely liquid booby diet to one of color, texture and fun new flavors. But the waste part matters when it takes a whole morning when I could be um . . . showering, pooping or *sigh* sleeping . . . to whip up a batch of yum.

I think the key is preparing large batches at once instead of just a measly few portions. That way there are no hard feelings when half a morning's hard work ends up in the folds of his feeding chair and outer ear. Nevertheless, whipping out the collection of organic bamboo spoons that I purchased before we even began to ponder baby names has been loads of fun. And it has been incredibly rewarding knowing that I am filling my little guy's tummy with fresh, wholesome, pesticide-free and incredibly pronounceable ingredients.

So far, avocados, pears, bananas and peaches have been the first on our ever expanding menu and sweet potatoes are on tomorrow morning's list of "to liquefy". In the meantime, I am just going to have to find a way to make room in our euro-sized fridge for the coming loads of peas and butternut squash. Move over frosty beer steins and forlorn ice cream pint (neither of which we ever get the moment to indulge in anymore) and make room for the peach purée!

Y'all Come Back Now, Ya Here!

My friend Jessica said that Noah was a bi-coastal baby while we were back east in North Carolina visiting family and friends this month--and I guess she's right.

Though I had never thought of it that way--I had always thought of Noah Finn as a left coast tot--he'd be missing an awful lot if he didn't fess up to his deep dark southern roots . . . and appreciate them. North Carolina vinegar-based BBQ, hushpuppies, sweet tea, humidity so thick you sweat getting out of the shower, nighttime choruses of insects and frogs, sea oat covered sand dunes and a seashelly warm Atlantic are all foreign west of The Mississippi and north of Virginia. Sure California has the rich and glamorous, the walk of fame and Malibu . . . but North Carolina has red necks with gun racks in their pick up trucks and hog hollerin' contests. The southern experience is a hidden treasure trove of little gems--to be enjoyed in small doses, but enjoyed nonetheless.

Every time I go back "home" to the southeast I enjoy it a little bit more. Perhaps it's because the longer I live here in California (going on 9 years now), the more all of the things that used to be familiar become foreign, thus, exciting and new.

I hope that we are able to someday somehow foster an appreciation in Noah for the beauty of the old abandoned farm houses, long drawled accents and lush tobacco fields. We'll have to be sure he visits, and visits often. We'll have to be sure he experiences the green scenic drive from Raleigh to the Outer Banks--we'll even be sure to pass through Beulaville again on the way and hope that we spot the same three shirtless drunk guys standing roadside wearing Viking-horned hats and waving beers in the air after a late afternoon summertime downpour.

Viva la fried okra! Viva la grits! Viva la Dixie, Darling!

Eureka! We've Struck Gold!

Enameled gold, that is! Like early west-heading proprietors excitedly seeking that sparkly stuff among riverbed rocks, new parents yearn longingly for the eruption of baby's first tooth--hoping that the months of excruciating pain for both them and their wee tot will, if only temporarily, subside.

Noah has been teething since he was three months old and for the most part--aside from the rosy red cheek rashes, sleepless nights and more drool than a St. Bernard--teething has been tolerable. That is, until the last three weeks. Dean and I were beginning to seriously consider taking our cradle crab to a baby behavioral specialist (Is there even such a thing? There should be!). We were convinced that the non-stop whining, clinginess and downright 24 hour dissatisfaction was due to either something we did or didn't do to/or for him during his very short 5.5 months here on earth . . . or we were cursed with a baby that would grow into a tot who'd get us thrown out of every restaurant, movie theater and theme park until his 18th birthday.

That is until this morning. While groggily chewing on Dean's fingers in the wee hours of the early morn--his favorite first thing to do in the morning after I pry him from my boob--Dean felt a razor sharp edge. After attempting to peer in the busy wet mouth for next to half an hour, we finally spotted in gleaming white, peeking out from beneath the soft pinkness of swollen gums . . . Noah's first tooth . . . and the reason we almost committed our little cherub to a cell with padded walls.

Cursed teeth . . . 1 down and 19 more to go. Why can't they just come already "attached" when born? Like fingers and toes?

Dean Slept On The Couch Last Night.

. . . not because he was in the doghouse, though--I slept there with him.

Noah's version of sleeping for the large part since he was born is, well, really not sleeping. He's never been a champion snoozer and with the addition of all of these fantastically exciting new skills he is picking up on a daily basis compounded with a furious case of the teething blues, he has turned into an downright insomniac.

So, after he finally went down for the seven-hundred-and-seventieth time last night, we hunkered down on our oversized craig's list couch at midnight and decided to call it our head's home for as long as he slept . . . so as not to wake him when we finally crawled into bed.

Sound crazy? Maybe. Yes, even! But . . . he slept for a delicious two hours! And we were ecstatic.

Mom Need Not Apply.

Tonight is the first night that Dean has fed Noah a pumped bottle of breast milk while I was at home . . . and it felt downright rotten.

What stunk to high heaven was not that I was able to freely frolic around the house at Noah's bedtime--which is usually my task and mine alone because of nursing and Dean's work schedule--but the "mom, you're not needed as long as I get my dinner someway somehow" part did.

You should have seen how greedily he was clutching the bottle with both of his tiny paws, panting as he slurped every last drip and drop. He seemed aware and almost accepting that his warm and snugly mommy humming soft lullabies was not the source of his sweet nectar. I strangely sensed that all the while he was contently gazing around the room as if looking for me so that he could say, "Your services are no longer needed here, Gertrude. You can go home early today."

Okay, so maybe I am being a little mellow dramatic, but I sure did feel suddenly useless for the first time in five months. I loved the temporary freedom, but I didn't liked being replaced by a hairy arm and a short glass bottle.

Remember me? I'm the gal with the soft warm milk bags that have fulfilled your every hunger pang regardless of the time of day every minute since birth?

Oh, how easily they forget.

To Party Like A Rockstar.

We don't want to run the risk of being banished from future guest lists, so the party host will remain anonymous . . . in other words, don't expect any scoop spilling or tacky TMZ tattling tidbits in this blog . . . but Noah was invited to his first rock star birthday yesterday--and it rocked. Rock stars--or at least rock stars with babies--party just like us . . . well, almost . . .

Gifts and beautiful people abound, the party was equipped with a "home delivery" petting zoo that was cute enough to make Old McDonald rethink his farming aesthetic. Under the shade of a tree sat "Lil' Red's Traveling Buckaroo Ranch" where a two-foot high freshly painted red picket fence housed together for two hours (and two hours only for the well-being of the animals, we were told) the following: one large white duck with a bright yellow beak, one big fat freshly sheared sheep, two brown-spotted chickens with lively afros (one of which spent the entire time standing on the back of the sleeping sheep), one black pot-bellied, one absolutely adorable white bearded billy goat and a frisky miniature black pony--and tied around each animal's neck was a neatly pressed bandanna.

Next to the pen was a golden brown pony ride ready with saddle and stirrups and adjacent was a bunny snuggling station--a small area with cushions laid on the grass and napkins (poop protectors) for your lap where you could snuggle baby bunnies until all of your bunny snuggling yearnings were satiated.

What was even more incredible then the fact that this myriad of farm animals were so happily cohabitating, was the sheer cleanliness of the entire operation. A husband and wife team clad in movie set quality matching bandannas, cowboy hats and flannel shirts saw to every detail all the while taking people on pony rides. The animals were groomed to the point where you would feel perfectly comfortable eating off of their well-fed backs. Tied to the outside of the fence with ribbons were small vintage napkin lined buckets holding hand sanitizer--and not a single turd was in sight.

It's so L.A., isn't it? Instead of going to the farm, let's bring the farm to us! Nevertheless, Noey Finn partied like an animal--slobbering on each four-legged friend as if to say "you're too clean, so here, take that!".

As fun as the petting zoo party was though, I suddenly feel exceptionally unfit and underfunded to host Noah's first birthday--which is still a far and away 7 months off. Perhaps we could pen together Miles and Linus for petting, and if we're feeling extra extravagant perhaps we have enough time before the big day to teach them a trick or two?!

Don't Wake The Sleeping Giant, Please.

Okay, he's not a giant by any measure, but his presence at any time after bedtime sure does feel portentous.

In response to my parent's efforts at keeping quite during their visit when Noah was three weeks old, Dean and I proudly declared that we were not going to have that kind of baby--one that you have to go out of your way not to wake. Nope. We planned to go about our domestic tasks as before and, as a result, the baby would become naturally acclimated to the sounds of our home. Yeah . . . no. That's not really the way it works in real life. No.

We live in a one bedroom apartment, but it's a fairly large well laid out one bedroom apartment. Nevertheless, all activity that produces more than a whisper of noise stops after Noah goes down for anything even resembling sleep. We tip toe, we whisper, we mute the t.v., we silence the phones, we plan showers or wardrobe changes prior to the sleep act else we must brave the world in whatever we find ourselves wearing without access to our closets or dresser drawers, we don't do dishes, we don't do laundry else the creaking of the wicker basket under the weight of a full dirty load is considered in the noise "danger zone".

Why do we do all of this? Because there are only very few things that return the babe to his sweet, albeit always brief, slumber--okay, there's really only one--my boob, and it cherishes its few sweet minutes of freedom from the sticky grips of drowsy infant paws as much as its owner does. And because the promise of a few minutes of rest for the weary, both him and us, is well needed on all fronts.

If anyone out there has any tips on helping an infant sleep more soundly we're open to all advice because the dishes and laundry are piling up . . .

Mommy Model# 2009: "Off Switch" Not Included.

During a free hour this morning while both of my boys napped, I fled to run boring errands with the greedy excitement of an escaped convict. To the post office I skipped, to the bank I frolicked and to the car wash I putted to get five months of grime, soot and other L.A. air poop off of our car.

Without baby in tow, I initially found my mind wonderfully free in its ability to drift, wander and meander about the most whimsical of thoughts. As I sat on the uncomfortably warm and sticky orange pleather seats in the outdoor waiting area, I studied the scene laid out before me: rows of wet cars amidst a sea of sweltering, Amor All soaked men dousing wheel wash onto dusty black threads of well worn rubber--an old cream bio diesel Mercedes with an USC alumni window sticker--a severely dented minivan with missing side view mirrors and chipping paint--"it's hard to be green" licensed plated new VW bug with a fresh daisy in the dash vase--a shiny red Land Rover with spinney hub caps and extra large muffler--a large blue nondescript SUV with fuzzy bunnies suctioned and hanging from the inside of the windshield next to a collection of air fresheners dangling from the rear view mirror.

I began to wonder how successful I'd be at correctly matching those waiting around me with their perspective vehicles . . . scruffy young guy in wrinkled pants with untied sneakers and tie dyed shirt. . . yes, that bio diesel is yours . . . and um, old Hasidic Jewish man with the long beard . . . yes, the dented minivan is yours (you'd have to live in a predominantly Hasidic Jewish neighborhood to understand)--and then--Noah! . . . is he still napping?, does he have a fresh diaper on? . . . . hmm, wanna-be gangster on my right, that spinney gas guzzling beast must be yours--and then--Noah! . . . is he happy right now?, is he comfortable?, is he hungry?, does he need me?, is daddy managing? . . .

Well, so much for my mind being wonderfully free in its ability to drift, wander and meander about the most whimsical of thoughts. I guess it's just a curse of being a mom--there's no darn off switch.

Bring On The Blankies.

So, since we've last reported we've made leaps and bounds in the sleep department. I don't want to speak too soon or jinx our newly found sleeping success (because things change very fast in baby raising land), but I must rejoice in the progress we've made. Well, and I shouldn't even say "we", because as everyone who has a child knows, there really is no "we" when it comes to a tiny tot's decision or readiness, as it may be in many cases, to do or not do something. It's solely the child's doing--we, as parents, just sit on the sidelines, powerlessly watching, wishing and hoping that whatever we are waiting for (potty training, sleeping through the night, weaning, etc.) comes with great speed and ease (either of which is rarely the case).

So what's all the fuss about, you ask? Well, today is day two--mark it, the second day of Noah napping twice--hear me, twice--in one day. Without a swaddle, without white noise, without bouncing, bopping, swishing or swaying, without waking up two dozen times, without clinging longingly to my boob keeping me a naptime prisonmate, without any tricks, trances or trepidation he has slept for two--hear me, two--hours twice--hear me, twice--a day.

Big deal, you say. Big deal? No. This is huge. For a child who has not napped twice (much less once lately) since he had his umbilicus stump still attached, this is huge and we are so proud. He's sleeping like a big boy, a real big boy. Leaps and bounds I say, leaps and bounds.

Much to our chagrin, however, he has recently developed a fondness for one fuzzy polyester (oie!) blanket from the PX (similar to a Wal-Mart, just on a military base) in Fayetteville, North Carolina to be his newest sleeping companion/naptime soothing/insomnia slaying trick--but hey, whatever, we'll take it. Opps, did I say we weren't using sleep tricks anymore? Well, okay, maybe just one.

Now, let's just work on nighttime. Opps, did I say *let us*? I meant, Dean and I will sit on the sidelines, powerlessly watching, wishing and hoping that Noah's "readiness" for nighttime sleep comes with great speed and ease (neither of which will probably be the case). But, we can wish, can't we? Because like everything else with our little Noah Finn, he'll surprise us when we're least expecting it. And, we'll be proud, so proud of our big, big boy.