I was hesitant to transition our two-year-old daughter from the confines of her cage–oh, sorry.   I think the politically correct term for that is crib. Crib. Let me start over.

I was hesitant to transition our two-year-old daughter from the confines of her crib to her big girl bedroom.  I feared that my years of controlling bedtimes and wake-times would be over. Would she be roaming the halls drawing on the walls, playing with knives, and lighting matches in the middle of the night while the adults slept upstairs? Or way WAY worse: would she wake us up before 8am?

In efforts to quell those fears, I bought this AMAZING clock and put it to use when she was evicted from the crib and relocated to her new bedroom.  It has worked like a charm.  The light on the clock turns green when it is time for her to wake up—a time I decide and set.  Then, and only then, she calls us enthusiastically, “Mommy, Daddy, my light turned green!”  And the day begins.   (My) studies have shown that, like dogs, young children have no real concept of time.  You have to be the one to guide them if you don’t want the bedtime/waketime situation to become a GD free-for-all.

A few tips for making the green light work:

• The key to making this clock system work for you and your child is to set the rules and enforce them. Your house, your rules.  At our house, our daughter is not allowed to come out of her room on her own accord after we tuck her in for bedtime.  She knows she has to stay in her room until morning when her light turns green.  If she wakes up in the morning before the green light, then she is free to quietly read, play, and explore the recesses of her imagination in her room.  We euphemistically refer to whatever the heck goes on in there before her light turns green as “Independent Playtime.”
• Consistency is key. Clearly set and enforced boundaries benefit the whole family.  A few times in the beginning Harper would call us in the morning before her light turned green. Knowing that she was safe and not being attacked by a tiger, we waited until the green light to go get her. Then we lovingly reminded her of the rules and we did our best to follow them too.  Do not cave!  Kids Can Be Tricky Little Tyrants. (←working title of my forthcoming parenting book).
• Both parents must be on the same page about the Ultimate Authority of The Green Light.  Even the softer, sweeter parent needs to be totally bought into the system. There is one in every parenting duo. I’m not going to name names, but if I were to name the name of the somewhat softer member of our parenting partnership, I would name the name of our children’s father.
• Pro tip: I set the clock for one time on the weekdays and usually a different, slightly later time on the weekends. If it’s been a late and wild Saturday night for the adults, we tick that clock back so that we can get some extra sleep in the morning.  Say it with me now, independent playtime. What a gift to have unstructured time to explore the recess of one’s own imagination! Big sis is nonethewiser and usually sleeps in a bit on the weekends anyway.
• We keep the clock on the highest shelf in the room so that our daughter can’t tinker with it and mess with the buttons.  No touching the clock allowed.
• When our children spend the night with their grandparents or when we go on vacation, the clock comes along. It is just part of the routine around here.  
• Of course, give yourself the gift of a green light. The OK to Wake Clock also makes an excellent gift for sleep-deprived mother’s of infants to let them know that there is a literal green light at the end of the tunnel.

In conclusion, if our house was on fire and I could save one thing from my daughter’s room, it wouldn’t be the heirloom dresses hand-smocked by her great grandmother or her woefully neglected baby book, it would be the OK to Wake Clock.  It is a tad more expensive than your typical alarm clock, but after seeing how well it has worked for our family, I would happily pay ten times what we paid for it—the peace of mind and sleep it provides are priceless.

FLASH FORWARD five years and I am revisiting this blog post on the occasion of moving my third child out of her crib, into a big girl bed, and onto the Green Light System. Each child has a Green Light in her room.  Last Saturday morning, I didn’t hear a peep until 8:45am when the lights simultaneously turned green and the day officially began.  I woke up feeling like a well-rested Disney Princezz. Granted, it’s been chaos since then, but I can handle the chaos a whole lot more joyfully when it starts in the late 8s. 

I spent the week before her official start date writing a dissertation on the care and keeping of my children. The mental and emotional load that we mothers carry is a heavy one to share. I did two days of training with Carol in an attempt to download all of the minutia about rules, routines, and the preferences and particularities of each of my girls. We drove the carpool loops together and along the way I pointed out the local parks. I introduced Carol to our neighbors, installed new car seats in her car, and gave her our house key.

I went to bed the night before my triumphant return to the working world confident that the two most important decisions were behind me. I had found the perfect nanny and I had found the perfect outfit to wear on my first day. I was ready to walk the road ahead in my sensible pumps and power suit.

Carol was supposed to arrive at 8:15 on Tuesday morning. Around 7:45 I got this text:

No worries. Neither me or my husband had to be at the office early that day.

Atlanta traffic is the worst, and though she had been to our house several times, she had yet to do the drive during morning rush hour. She quickly texted back.

Meanwhile my husband and I were wondering who would ever want to drive that far for work. We had a hunch that the commute would be too much and asked her MANY times thought the hiring process if the drive would be too far. She repeatedly reassured us that it wouldn’t be a problem at all. “As long as I have my music,” she said sweetly, “the drive won’t bother me a bit.” Then around 8:30am I get this text …

Of course she won’t. It’s way too far to drive for work, no matter how smart, funny and adorable my children are. I grumbled that I wish she had realized this weeks ago. Ugh. I texted back:

No response.

And crickets. I called her twice. No answer, no response, straight to voicemail. 8:30. 8:40. 8:50. The pit in my stomach grew and grew as my husband took the hopeful stance that GPSs aren’t always accurate assuring me that surely she will be here any minute.

I stood on our front porch in my power pumps with my baby on my hip, willing her tiny black car to come down our street.

By 9am when it was crystal clear that Carol was not coming, we sprang to action making a backup plan. I frantically packed a bag of baby paraphernalia, did some car seat shuffling, and made plans for my amazing parents to take care of #3 all day and pick up #2 at school. My husband took the baby to my parents’ house and I jumped in the car for my first day of work. On my commute, I called the elementary school and a dear friend to coordinate after-school arrangements for #1. Adrenaline pumping after the chaotic morning, I walked in the office on my first day a cool ten minutes early.

For the next 8+ hours I completely compartmentalized. I dove headfirst into my new role and tried to make at least a decent first impression with my colleagues. I even made a new friend in the IT department which, as you know, is essential. I got in the car after a great first day, with the peace of mind that this is exactly where I’m supposed to be.

On my commute home I interviewed yet another nanny. I held back tears as I explained to her what we were looking for and what went down earlier that morning. But when I walked in the door to find my mom holding the baby and my dad serving mac & cheese to the big girls, I started bawling. My oldest daughter started crying when she saw me crying. She LOVES drama and was on pins and needles as I tearfully recounted the morning’s events. My three-year-old gave me a big hug and kept telling me how sorry she was that my hair was turning brown. “I’m so so sorry your hair is turning brown, mommy” she kept saying. She understood the real trauma of the day. Roots.

I felt exhausted after putting so much time and emotional energy searching for the person to care my three most precious possessions– for nothing. I felt betrayed and lied to. Clearly Carol is a person of questionable character. Better that we know that now. She ghosted on me in my time of need. Screening my calls and not returning my texts to tell me she wasn’t coming was low. She had spent time in our house and babysat for my children the weekend before her official first day. I was sick to my stomach-and I still am as I revisit all of this. What did I miss? Were her references even real? Had she really been rear-ended the week before when we sympathetically rescheduled her training day? She sent me a PDF of her background check. Am I an idiot for not doing my own background check on her? My calls go straight to voicemail. And though I have sent polite texts requesting that she return the car seats, they are still at large. Was all this just an elaborate scam to steal a few Gracos from an innocent family? Oh yeah, and she still has our house key.

To be honest, I thought that the background check that she provided us with would have been adequate. However, looking back on it now, I definitely should have got a second opinion.

This weekend I’m back at the beginning. Calling references, interviewing nannies, making an appointment for highlights, and I’ll most definitely be contacting a locksmith about changing our locks. In this situation, it’s definitely better to be safe than sorry.

And to think, my #1 concern about Carol was that she seemed too nice.

*Name changed just in case that wakadoo googles herself.

For Christmas this year, I’m asking for the perfect Nanny for my three children.  In January, I am starting a new job at a new company that I am super excited about. BUT! We have less than three weeks to find our very own Mary Poppins. Let me give you a breakdown of the nanny hunt thus far. 

Step 1: Emailed all my friends asking if anyone knew anyone who knew someone who knew someone. A direct referral would be ideal. (net: one candidate)

Step 2: Put an ad on SitterCity, AKA Nanny Tinder.  (I got dozens of responses. some scary. some qualified. pretty hard to tell what’s what. )

Step 3: Put a post up on the local moms’ Facebook groups. (two leads)

Steps 4-8: Conducted phone interviews, face-to-face interviews, working interviews, contacted references, stalked Instagrams, and ran background checks. Thus, filling every nook and cranny in the already CRAZY month of December with nanny chatter.

Step 9: Lost excessive amounts of sleep wondering which one is the RIGHT one.  (Still not sure.)

Step 10: Drafted an annotated version of the letter written by Jane and Michael Banks that manifested into Mary Poppins. The bold words below are my personal requirements and wishes. I’m hopeful that by writing this down and putting it on the internet, our magical dream nanny will appear.

Before we begin, here is the video of the Banks children singing their nanny song to freshen your memory.

Wanted a nanny for two  three adorable, spunky, smart, kind, creative, clever children

If you want this choice position—so far I have held this position unpaid so perhaps a paid gig is choice? These are the most important people in the world to me and you will be spending a lot of time with them. So this job is a huge deal and we are taking choosing the person for this choice position quite seriously.

Have a cheery disposition.  Yes. I want my children to want to be with you.  I want you to blend naturally with our happy family.

Rosy cheeks, no warts!  Appearance isn’t everything but it does count for something. Being put together shows you care. One of many data points.

Play games, all sort.   We love games.  Play games with them but DO NOT let them win (or cheat).  One day we will release them into the Real World and they need to know how to win fairly and lose gracefully. 

You must be kind, you must be witty. Yes yes.  A good sense of humor is key.

Very sweet and fairly pretty.  Fairly is the right word.  Pretty but not too pretty.  I have been reading US Weekly way too long to know how that story ends. The hot nanny didn’t do great things for the marriages of Jude Law, Ben Affleck, and Arnold Schwarzenegger. Why play with fire? Amiright, ladies?  A 7 out of 10 would be just fine.

Take us on outings, give us treats. Take them on lots of outings (particularly to the places I don’t want to go) like the Aquarium, the Planetarium, and the germ-ridden bouncy house place.

Sing songs, bring sweets.  We love music so play the hits and dance, dance, dance. Sweets and treats are fine, in moderation.

Never be cross or cruel.  But don’t get walked over. They are crafty. Earn their love and their respect.

Never give us castor oil or gruel. But mandate that they eat all their vegetables if they want dessert.  Make them brush their teeth.

Love us as a son and daughter. Yes. Please please please LOVE my children. Get to know each of them individually.  Figure out the ways they feel loved, and celebrate and appreciate and adore them.

And never smell of barley water.  Good hygiene is key. Smokers need not apply.

If you won’t scold and dominate us. They will need scolding from time to time. Let’s try to be on the same team as far as discipline. Because it will be needed.

We will never give you cause to hate us.  Though they might test your patience and push the limits, they really are fantastic.

We won’t hide your spectacles  So you can’t see  (But they might throw minor tantrums when the Elsa dress needs to be forcibly removed.)

Put toads in your bed  Or pepper in your tea.  (But they will squabble over who gets which colored cup, who gets the map placemat, and cut one piece of paper into amillion little pieces that you will find all over the house)

Hurry, Nanny!  LIKE SERIOUSLY. On a deadline.

Many thanks.

Sincerely,

Jane and Michael Banks   Jennifer

Let’s go fly a kite.

What I didn’t share quite as publically was my second miscarriage that happened in December of that same year. Nine weeks, no heartbeat. You know why I didn’t write about it? It wasn’t that I wanted to keep it private. I learned from sharing the first time and getting a resounding chorus of “me toos” that there is healing power in being open with this all-too-common loss. I didn’t write about it because I had nothing to say. I was so so sad about our second loss, but having a second miscarriage also made me a little bitter. I was frustrated and feeling sorry for myself and just plain pissed about having to go through it all again. I thought I learned all the lessons the first go round and I simply didn’t understand why I – we- had to deal with another loss.

It took a few months before I was physically and emotionally ready to try again for baby #3. I had to feel okay about setting myself up for more pain and disappointment and the possibility that this could happen again. I know that some women, after experiencing the pain that I have been through, also plan for legal action to take place should anything go wrong during delivery. It’s no wonder why so many women who have been to hell and back look for the assistance of an injury lawyer such as the one you can find here. I can’t blame them, every baby is precious, but when you’ve lost a baby and you’re within touching distance of bringing one to full-term, it’s only natural to do everything you can to protect them and ensure they get the best care possible. I, myself, couldn’t quiet that desire for another child, and we couldn’t deny the feeling that our family wasn’t quite complete.

So eventually I got back on the horse (bow chicka bow wow) and started trying yet again for illusive baby three. And thanks to a cocktail of COQ10, Clomid, canoodling, Pregnitude, and prayer, in June of 2017, I saw the faintest plus sign on a pregnancy test. My heart skipped a beat but I immediately tempered my joy. I pressed pause on the imaginary highlight reel of this child’s life before I let it start running in my head. I even kept the news completely to myself for a few days, not even telling my husband, as I oscillated between excitement about the future and fear of the unknown. One morning over breakfast, I casually slid the positive test across the table towards My Man. He was excited… but guarded. We knew enough to know that a positive pregnancy test is just the first step, and that there are 40 long weeks ahead.

I didn’t immediately calculate my due date, nor did I sign up for the BabyCenter emails that inform you weekly which obscure fruit or vegetable matches the size of your growing fetus. I thought it best not to know whether my baby was the size of a radish, a Japanese eggplant, a kumquat or a star fruit. I didn’t let myself go there.

I went to the first ultrasound around eight weeks and I can clearly remember how badly my knees were shaking as I put them in the stirrups. The past two times I had been in that same dimly lit room, my heart had fallen through the floor at the silence and stillness on the screen. I started crying the minute the ultrasound technician opened the door. “I’m a little nervous” I told her. “I know,” she said. “I saw your chart.”

My tears started again when I heard the heartbeat and saw the little flicker on the screen. I was relieved and hopeful, but still hesitant to shout news of this pregnancy from the rooftops.

Back in at 10 weeks for another ultrasound and the blood test that detects chromosomal abnormalities and can also tell you the gender of the baby. Um, science is magic. We are finder outers as far as gender goes, but opted to not find out at 10 weeks. It felt wrong to know the gender before I even knew if the pregnancy was viable. Between appointments, my constant nausea and exhaustion were pleasant though uncomfortable assurances that something was hopefully happening in there.

It was a long walk to the perinatologist for my 13-week ultrasound. I was again on the verge of tears as we waited for the doctor. This one was big. It was this appointment where we got the sad news of my first miscarriage, and it is after this appointment that, assuming it goes well, miscarriage risk drops significantly. All was well. Exhale.

It wasn’t until after that appointment that my husband and I actually talked for the first time about the fact that I was pregnant and the realities of having another baby. Over lunch we discussed questions like Where will we put this child’s nursery? What if it is a boy? How would we feel about another girl? Who is the child’s father? Etcetera. We cautiously started to let ourselves get excited about our growing family.

After a successful 18-week appointment wherein I got to hear the pitter pater of the little heartbeat, I unpacked my maternity clothes. It had been weeks since I could comfortably zip my regular jeans, but in the beginning I was too afraid about the emotional toll of having to lug them back up to the attic if we got bad news. I was immediately reminded how maternity jeans are ah-mazing and how I will likely wear full panel elastic waist jeans from now till forever. And I finally FINALLY put the baby’s due date on the Google calendar. I don’t make a trip to the mailbox without putting it on the Google calendar so to think that I didn’t put such a significant event on the cal certainly says something.

The world loves a pregnant lady, but it took me a good while to accept congratulations on this pregnancy and partake of the perks that come with the prenatal package. In the early weeks, whenever anyone said congrats, I wanted to diffuse it and temper their expectations the same way I was always checking my own. “Congratulations!” They would say. “Well I had two miscarriages so we’ll see.” Or “Thanks, it’s still early though.” But as the weeks passed, I finally accepted congratulations, put my hand on my ever-expanding belly, smiled and said “thank you. We’re really excited.”… “And yes. Please carry my groceries to the car.”

I was gradually settling into this pregnancy, and each week that went by, I was able to remove a brick from the anxiety backpack I had been carrying. I let myself start dreaming about life with three children, and timidly pressed play on my dreams about the future. It was around this time that we told our daughters that I was pregnant.

Despite settling into the idea that this may actually happen, I had a chorus line of “what ifs” dancing in my head approaching the 20-week appointment. That is the ultrasound where you can officially find out the baby’s gender and where they carefully examine every vital organ for potentially scary abnormalities. I went in feeling anxious and left that appointment feeling grateful and relieved. We looked away as the doctor was scanning the anatomy and left the appointment with an envelope disclosing if #3 is a boy or a girl. SPOILER ALERT! A(nother) girl.

As my third trimester creept by, I did not take a single kick for granted. Bring on the nausea, the insomnia, the restless leg syndrome (most annoying pregnancy symptom), the cankles, and the corn flakes (#1 craving). I was so beyond grateful to be in the magical miraculuous baby baking business once again.

And on February 10th, when I finally got to hold the precious baby I had been praying for, I felt like I won the lottery. Having two miscarriages may have stolen my blissful innocence from the experience of pregnancy, but it made this child’s birthday that much more meaningful. Babies are freaking fracking MIRACLES and I am still pinching myself that I have been blessed with three. She was well worth the wait.

For our family, typical beach days are full to the brim with the application and reapplication of sunscreen and extreme lifeguarding as we schlep between the beach and the pool. When it comes to swimming, our children’s confidence far outpaces their actual ability, so my stress and anxiety is on high alert when my little daredevils are near open water. And when we are on the beach, they want to be IN the ocean, not quietly building sandcastles. This means that we, their parents, are in the ocean too, playing man on man defense between them and the crashing waves. Why even bother bringing beach chairs because there is absolutely no sitting during daylight hours. One child demands to be carried across the “dirty” sand, the other complains that her sunscreen stings, and both battle with us over who has to wear a puddle jumper and a swim shirt and who doesn’t. . It’s a week full of memories and glimpses of family fun, but man, it is hard work.

There has to be a better way! My husband and I said to each other after a particularly expensive and exhausting family beach week a few years ago. Well, there is! We just got back from a family beach trip and it was fantastic. I feel rested and refreshed and even more in love with my man and my little ones. YES, it’s possible. Lean in and listen closely as I share the two words that will help you turn your family TRIP into a true VACATION:

Beach Camp.

We are on our second summer vacationing this way and it is just the best.

Last year we went to Hilton Head, South Carolina and I scoured the internet to find a local day camp for our then 2 and 5 year-old daughters to attend. I found a precious Montessori preschool with spots for both girls and signed up. Double bonus that the camp happened to be in biking distance from our beach house. Each morning, we took the tandem to camp drop-off and hugged our chickadees goodbye, then headed off to enjoy 4+ solid hours of actual vacation. My man and I went out for breakfast, took long bike rides, and actually (wait for it) sat in our beach chairs on the beach. It was blissful. Then around 1:00pm, we biked to pick up our campers and enjoyed the rest of the day as a family.

This year we intentionally set out to find a new beach destination that had the option to put the biggest sisters in camp. We found a lovely rental house at Kiawah Island, South Carolina. It was a five minute walk to be beach, a four minute walk to the pool, and a three minute walk to Kamp Kiawah. And as you know, when you spell camp with a “K” it has to be fun. So that is where we spent the first week of June this summer. It was bliss.

In the mornings, we dropped the big girls off at camp and then enjoyed relaxing breakfasts on our porch. What followed would be some combination of golf, tennis, walking, beach sitting, reading, or exploring grounds of this gorgeous hotel. I finished a handful of books and actually got to have meaningful conversations with my husband. Both of those things made possible by the fact that I wasn’t lifeguarding all day long.

Meanwhile, our girls were having big fun at beach camp-I mean Kamp. They LOVED it. We’d pick them up after lunch and have the rest of the day to live it up as a family. Because I had spent the first half of the day recharging the ol’ battery, I easily transitioned in to super-awesome-mom-mode. I raced my oldest daughter down waterslides head first, collected shells, swam in the ocean, and carried the 35 pounder across the “dirty” sand without so much as an eyeroll. At night we swam until the pool closed, explored different beaches on the island, found a radio station that played Delilah, drank margaritas with a view, and played rounds of (naked) Headbandz-still legal in South Carolina. It was an amazing week.

Now that we have seen the light and tasted true rest during a family trip, there is no going back-at least not for a while. One day in the future, when each child has passed the YMCA swim test, can read chapter books, be trusted to apply their own sunscreen, and wipe independently, we will embrace a week of full-on family beachness. Until then… Beach Kamp.

It is never easy to know what to do when a friend is experiencing pain or a loss of any kind.  And miscarriage is particularly hard to discuss openly because it affects each of us who experience it differently and it is a tragically taboo topic.  It is the loss of someone we didn’t get the chance to know, the loss of a dream for the future family we imagine, and a loss of innocence for future pregnancies. As we approach the due date for the pregnancy we lost earlier this year, I wanted to reflect back on the things that other people did for me that really helped during that tough time. I felt so unbelievably supported and cared for because of the outpouring of love from my friends.  Here are some ideas of things to do for your friends if they are going through a miscarriage, taken directly from what my kind, generous, thoughtful and funny friends did for me:

Send a note, email, text, telefax or telegram.  It is so hard to know what to say when a friend experiences a loss like this, and it may seem easier to do or say nothing out of fear for saying the wrong thing.  Not sure what to say? Then say, “I don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry.” No matter how eloquent or ineloquent, every single letter, text, note, email and voicemail meant so much.

I was just settling into the second trimester when I miscarried, so that meant most people in my world knew that I was pregnant.  I was so grateful when a dear friend volunteered to tell our nearest and dearest about our loss so that I didn’t have to do the talking.  This may be a job best suited for a sister or bestie, so if that’s you, volunteer to be the bearer of bad news.

Drop by food. I was emotionally out of commission on the days following the no heartbeat news, and physically out of commission for a few days following my D&C.  I so appreciated the simple meals and sweet treats dropped at the door for our family when cooking wholesome family meals was the last thing I wanted to do.

Share your story.  After I shared my story about my miscarriage, so many people reached out and said “me too.”  It is at once heartbreaking and comforting to know that so many of you have gone through this.  Hearing your stories helped me know that I wasn’t alone.

Give a gift certificate for something your friend likes.  A thoughtful friend surprised me with a gift certificate for a pedicure with a note that said treat yo self.  It was such a treat, and definitely in tune with the be gentle with myself mindset I adopted as I healed physically and emotionally.

Remember the dad too.  It takes two to tango, and the baby’s father experiences his own grief.  It was amazing to see how supportive my husband’s friends were to him.

It’s certainly not an occasion for champagne, but a bottle of wine is always divine.  A sweet neighbor dropped off a bottle of wine at my door with a simple note basically telling me that she would totally understand if I drank it all by myself that afternoon.  Flowers are nice too.

A best friend who has been there before sent me a sweet care package with a cute tea cup, the makings of a vodka cocktail, cozy socks, and an awesome sticker book for my daughter that prompted hours of independent play. Getting mail always puts me in a good mood and this particular package made me feel especially known and loved.

Having a miscarriage sucked.  But it was made better by the fact that I had two precious children already.  That said, it is hard to be an emotional basket case in the fetal position and continue onward with perky parenting protocol as if nothing is wrong.  Sweet friends took my oldest daughter on adventures, ice cream outings and playdates while I was out of commission.  If a friend of yours is going through it, tell her that you are coming by to take her child on an adventure, outing, or playdate.  I’m pretty sure that my oldest daughter had the best few days of her life while I was feeling low…which made me feel a little better.

In some cases, it is best to tell, don’t ask.  So often we say no when someone offers to do something kind for us or offers to help us in anyway.  Instead of asking, “can I bring you dinner?” “Can I come get your big kid?” Tell.  “I’m bringing dinner. I’ll leave it on the back porch.”  “I’m going to pick up your daughter and take her to the park. Ill have her home by 6.”  Your thoughtful initiative will be appreciated.

Check in a week later, a month later, and around the due date.  Knowing that we were due in September, my nearest and dearest have asked how I am doing, or simply told me that they were thinking of me this month.

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Odds are that someone you know has had or will have a miscarriage. So if one of your friends experiences a miscarriage, take a page from my peoples playbook and show you care.   Any little word or deed will go miles to make your friend feel loved.

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Now, we can all agree that the best part about baby showers is the mimosas. But what’s the worst part? The creepy games? The mayonnaise-centric menus? Indeed, those are definitely low-points, but in my humble opinion, the gift opening marathon is THE worst.

Traditionally, everyone gathers round and watches the mom-to-be open the mound of gifts selected by friends, colleagues, and distant cousins. So as not to seem greedy or ungrateful, pregnant mama opens each gift painstakingly sloooowly without ripping the paper. Then she must come up with creative and gracious commentary about each burp cloth and nipple shield and off-registry wildcard to entertain the onlookers. Meanwhile, the guests have to react to each item with equal reverence whilst engaging in polite whispery conversation with whomever they are seated next to. Guests watch as each gift is unwrapped, appreciated, discussed, passed around, re-boxed, and recorded. At small showers the gifting bit is no big deal, but at large showers, the gifting process can last for days.

No one and I mean no one likes receiving gifts more than I do (hint hint hint), but being on stage in such a manner was a mildly uncomfortable spot even for me. Here is a montage of my Oscar-worthy performance of oohs and ahhs at my own baby shower way back when:

The traditional gift-opening approach is more than a smidge uncomfortable for the gift receiver and can be like watching paint dry for the gift givers.

But guess what? There is a better way!

Next time you host a shower, try this alternative gift opening method:

The Group Gift Opening Extravaganza

Step 1: Randomly pass out one wrapped gift to each shower guest and the remaining gifts to the Mom-to-Be.

Step 2: Everyone open the gifts at the same time.

Step 3: One by one, go around the room and have each guest give a quick show-and-tell about the gift she opened. Hold it up, show off the cuteness, and say who it’s from. For example: “A Pack N Play from Patricia.” “It’s a swaddle from Susie.” “A WubbaNub from Winnie.” Etcetera.

Step 4: Refill your mimosa glass and get on with it.

This is a fun, fast way to make the most yawn-inducing part of baby showers a breeze–and, dare I say, even fun for the whole group.

At my sister’s baby shower which *gasp* included men, they actually had the guys open the gifts and do the show-and-tell. It was pretty dang entertaining to watch the single guys explain the baby paraphernalia that can make even mothers blush. (like this. and this). Fun times.

A few weeks ago, I was part of the hosting team for a baby shower honoring a pair of pregnant sisters. Adorable. But had we done the present process the traditional way, we would have had to have a medical team on-hand to deliver the babies who would have been born before the girls were finished opening. Fortunately we had the foresight to shake it up and opted for the mass gifting extravaganza. Try it at your next baby or bridal shower and be a hosting hero.

I will leave you with this easy recipe for a delicious champagne cocktail that can take any baby shower or average Tuesday to the next level.

Mr. Funk of New Orleans (for a group)

• 1 bottle champagne
• 2 ½ cups Cranberry juice
• 1/3 cup peach schnapps
• Raspberries to garnish

Mix it up and serve chilled in a champagne glasses. Garnish with a raspberry or two.

Mr. Funk of New Orleans (for one)

• 3 ounces champagne
• 2 ½ ounces cranberry juice
• ½ ounce peach schnapps
• 1 raspberry

Pour the champagne into a stemmed glass, then add the cranberry juice and schnapps. Garnish with a raspberry and serve.

Happy celebrating.

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But you know what else is amazing for babies? Formula.

I said it. The F word.

((Before I continue, I want to remind you that this entire post is watermarked with Do Whatever Works Best For You. Only you can decide that for yourself and your children. And in case no one has told you lately, you are a really really good mom.))

Let’s continue.

The logistics worked out for me to breastfed my firstborn for seven months. I’m not going to get into nipply details (I elaborate a little more here), but it was tough for both of us. Many women are teary and nostalgic during their last breastfeeding session, but I wanted to sing Jon Secada’s Hallelujah Chorus from the rooftops once my baby was fully weaned. I felt free…but I also felt like a quitter for not making it to the one-year mark and guilty for not loving it every step of the way. In retrospect I realize that I was wishing away precious moments of my baby’s infancy ticking away at an arbitrary deadline (I set for myself) for when I would stop breastfeeding. I wanted things to be different the second go round. I wanted to silence the shoulds swirling around my head and not let them dictate my feeding choices or my feelings surrounding them.

So approaching the birth of my second child, I took the pressure off myself and my boobs and I held the whole experience loosely. I didn’t want that pressure to breastfeed to rob me of any of the joy of parenting. Here was my plan: If breastfeeding was making me and my baby happy and working out well for the other members of our family, then I would stick with it. If it wasn’t, then I would give myself permission to stop.

Things were going okay at first, but it wasn’t long before I started dreading every feeding. I was also dizzying myself with juggling the timing and logistics of nursing the baby while availing myself to lovingly parent the three-year-old. Before or after carpool? At the park? Leave now for the pool, or nurse now and tell big sis she will miss out on swimming with her friends? How much should I let what is “best” for one child dictate the program for the entire family? The struggle was real.

I knew our nursing days were numbered when I said the real F-word three times before 7am while that sweet baby and I both sobbed topless in her nursery. That day I ditched the all-or-nothing mentality. From then on, my daughter got a mix of breastmilk straight from the source, pumped bottles, and bottles of formula. By month three, my sweet baby was getting all bottles all the time and all of them were filled with formula. She was thriving and so was I.

It turns out that the alternative to breastfeeding is not poison. And you know what else I discovered? Formula is not made of tiny shards of glass and arsenic! It is actually full of good things that babies need. Feeling the freedom to feed Hallie formula has made her first year downright damn near delightful for our whole family. I am a happier, more present, more joyful parent to both my children (and a more pleasant wife and human) because I stopped breastfeeding when I did. And I would argue that giving my girls the gift of a happy and available mother has far greater benefits than any amount of breastmilk.

If breastfeeding is working for you, then stick with it! You are an awesome mom.

BUT if it isn’t working for whatever reason, or just plain isn’t an option, YOU are an awesome mom.

Maybe you are going to great lengths to try to make it work when it just isn’t. Maybe you dread feedings because each one is excruciatingly painful and time-consuming. Maybe you aren’t producing enough milk. Maybe you have had to make extreme modifications to your own diet because your child has an allergy. Maybe you have to head back to work. Maybe you are feeling guilty for quitting breastfeeding when there was more you could have done. Maybe the sacrifices you are making to breastfeed outweigh the supposed benefits of breastmilk. Maybe breastfeeding just wasn’t an option because you are an adoptive parent. Maybe you are the mother of quadruplets and breastfeeding is logistically impossible. Or maybe you just plain don’t like it.

If any of the “maybes” mentioned above sound familiar, give yourself permission to try something else.

Pop Quiz!

Question 1: Can you tell which of these adorable children received the most breastmilk?

Answer: Me neither. And no IQ test, blood test, juggling contest, spelling bee, regatta or footrace would tell us either.

Question 2: Can you tell which well-adjusted adult in the picture below was breastfed?

Answer: Neither. That’s me on the right and my younger sister on the left. My sister and I didn’t get a drop of breastmilk and we both grew into happy healthy adults who enjoy an extremely close relationship with our amazing mother (who still buys us matching clothes). I turned out OK, but my sister turned out great. She is a gorgeous, non-obese, valedictorian, athlete, gourmet cook, mother, and all-around gentle, generous, beautiful soul, M.D. She is a shining star-and a walking endorsement demonstrating that formula fed babies experience zero long-term side effects.

* * * * *

The decision to breastfeed is personal to every mother. We all have hopes and expectations going into motherhood about how it will go. We all have histories and convictions that make us more or less determined to make it work. And we all want to give our children the very best. But what if the “best” means different things to each of us?

There are so many choices we make as mothers-and I am here to say that breast or bottle is not the most important one. Not even close. It is so hard to remember that during the throes infancy. As mothers we have to make a lot of decisions regarding our children, decisions with actual long-term impact, and I know the stakes will only get higher as our children grow. So let’s take the pressure off of ourselves and each other about this one. Okay?

I’m awesome. You’re awesome. We’re awesome.

I was hesitant to transition our two-year-old daughter from the confines of her cage–oh, sorry.   I think the politically correct term for that is crib. Crib. Let me start over.

I was hesitant to transition our two-year-old daughter from the confines of her crib to her big girl bedroom.  I feared that my years of controlling bedtimes and wake-times would be over. Would she be roaming the halls drawing on the walls, playing with knives, and lighting matches in the middle of the night while the adults slept upstairs? Or way WAY worse: would she wake us up before 8am?

In efforts to quell those fears, I bought this AMAZING clock and put it to use when she was evicted from the crib and relocated to her new bedroom.  It has worked like a charm.  The light on the clock turns green when it is time for her to wake up—a time I decide and set.  Then, and only then, she calls us enthusiastically, “Mommy, Daddy, my light turned green!”  And the day begins.   (My) studies have shown that, like dogs, young children have no real concept of time.  You have to be the one to guide them if you don’t want the bedtime/waketime situation to become a GD free-for-all.

A few tips for making the green light work:

• The key to making this clock system work for you and your child is to set the rules and enforce them. Your house, your rules.  At our house, our daughter is not allowed to come out of her room on her own accord after we tuck her in for bedtime.  She knows she has to stay in her room until morning when her light turns green.  If she wakes up in the morning before the green light, then she is free to quietly read, play, and explore the recesses of her imagination in her room.  We euphemistically refer to whatever the heck goes on in there before her light turns green as “Independent Playtime.”
• Consistency is key. Clearly set and enforced boundaries benefit the whole family.  A few times in the beginning Harper would call us in the morning before her light turned green. Knowing that she was safe and not being attacked by a tiger, we waited until the green light to go get her. Then we lovingly reminded her of the rules and we did our best to follow them too.  Do not cave!  Kids Can Be Tricky Little Tyrants. (←working title of my forthcoming parenting book).
• Both parents must be on the same page about the Ultimate Authority of The Green Light.  Even the softer, sweeter parent needs to be totally bought into the system. There is one in every parenting duo. I’m not going to name names, but if I were to name the name of the somewhat softer member of our parenting partnership, I would name the name of our children’s father.
• Pro tip: I set the clock for one time on the weekdays and usually a different, slightly later time on the weekends. If it’s been a late and wild Saturday night for the adults, we tick that clock back so that we can get some extra sleep in the morning.  Say it with me now, independent playtime. What a gift to have unstructured time to explore the recess of one’s own imagination! Big sis is nonethewiser and usually sleeps in a bit on the weekends anyway.
• We keep the clock on the highest shelf in the room so that our daughter can’t tinker with it and mess with the buttons.  No touching the clock allowed.
• When our children spend the night with their grandparents or when we go on vacation, the clock comes along. It is just part of the routine around here.  
• Of course, give yourself the gift of a green light. The OK to Wake Clock also makes an excellent gift for sleep-deprived mother’s of infants to let them know that there is a literal green light at the end of the tunnel.

In conclusion, if our house was on fire and I could save one thing from my daughter’s room, it wouldn’t be the heirloom dresses hand-smocked by her great grandmother or her woefully neglected baby book, it would be the OK to Wake Clock.  It is a tad more expensive than your typical alarm clock, but after seeing how well it has worked for our family, I would happily pay ten times what we paid for it—the peace of mind and sleep it provides are priceless.

FLASH FORWARD five years and I am revisiting this blog post on the occasion of moving my third child out of her crib, into a big girl bed, and onto the Green Light System. Each child has a Green Light in her room.  Last Saturday morning, I didn’t hear a peep until 8:45am when the lights turned green and the day officially began.  I woke up feeling like a well-rested Disney Princezz. Granted, it’s been chaos since then, but I can handle the chaos a whole lot more joyfully when it starts in the late 8s. 

A wise friend encouraged me to be gentle with myself during this time while I heal emotionally and physically. Be gentle with yourself… what wonderful advice. I loved that and it really has been such a healthy mindset-and not a bad way to live period. Here is how I have been being gentle with myself and what I have been doing lately to help the fog lift:

• Doing the things that make me happy. Long walks, takeout, crosswords, music, magazines, Netflix, and spending time with friends.
• Doing things that make my children happy. I have been especially grateful for my little chickadees these past few weeks, and as a result I’ve been more indulgent (and more patient) than usual. Extra ice cream, park time, play dates and movies for everyone.
• Feeling the feelings, talking, writing and sharing. I was nervous to press publish on that last post. But it turns out that it was quite cathartic to put it all out there. So many of you have experienced the same sort of loss, and it has been so helpful to share my story and to hear yours.
• Getting back into the flow. After a few days of weepy wallowing, it was time to rejoin society. Returning to regularly scheduled programming and a routine that includes showers, under-eye concealer, real clothes and leaving the sofa is a good thing.
• Saying yes. So often in life we say no when someone offers to do something nice for us because we don’t want to be a burden or an imposition. But when I was recovering from the surgery and the physical portion of all of this, I just said yes. Can I pick up dinner on the way home? Yes. Need anything from Costco? Yes. Can Harper come play? Yes. Another brownie? Another episode? Another glass? Yes. Yes. Yes.
• Saying no. Sometimes no is the best answer. Spin class? No. Conference call? No. That thing you invited me to that I don’t feel like going to? No.
• Buying things. Contrary to what a professional therapist may lead you to believe, retail therapy may actually be helping. I bought a couple dresses to spice up my spring wardrobe, among other things. Since there has been a sudden spike in spending, I was not at all surprised when SunTrust called to see if my credit card was stolen. But it turns out that my card number actually was compromised. Some crook Ubered all over Miami, went on a shopping spree at Zara and made a series of charges to an online dating site for single parents. The jig is up, my friend. SunTrust is coming for you.
• Reading my reads. Currently reading and thoroughly enjoying this book and this book.
• Watching my watches. A friend who knows me well and loves me well recently gave me her HBO Go login information. She knew just what I needed in my time of need. I have been catching up on Girls, Togetherness, Veep and Olive Kitteridge.
• Going to church. We took the family to church the Sunday after everything. We’ve been trying to lean in and worship even though it aches a bit. It really helped us. I found it particularly healing, even though I was skeptical about going first.  I can’t begin to tell you how good it was to be surrounded by friends and a community of people who are all trying to believe. It was like every song we sang that day was chosen especially for us and our situation. This song and this song really got me. I ugly cried pretty much the entire service. It was humbling but quite healing.
• Not going to church. We made the obvious choice not to go to church on daylight savings Sunday. That day, being gentle with myself meant sleeping late and not rushing out the door. Instead we had a leisurely family breakfast and went for a stroll together on a nearby trail. The sun was out and my heart felt full of joy and peace and gratitude for the first time in recent days.

The fog is indeed lifting. I knew it would. There are still sad moments but the sting is gone. Time and distance from all of this is healing. And I think I will continue to put things through the being gentle with myself filter. You should try it.

“There is no heartbeat. I’m so sorry.”

The ultrasound technician left the room and went to get my doctor. I lay there alone in the dimly lit room and felt my heart sink through the floor. The tears came and wouldn’t stop.

*             *             *

I found that I was pregnant the day after Christmas. I was shocked when I saw the plus sign on the pregnancy test. I shared the news John by hiding the positive test for him to find among the ornaments as we undecorated our Christmas tree. He was even more surprised than I was.  Getting pregnant with Hallie and Harper took years and tears and a whole lot of trying. Now we were one of those “whoops, we’re pregnant” couples that I secretly envied.   We definitely weren’t trying for a third child just yet, but once the shock wore off, the joyful anticipation set in.

When I went in for the first ultrasound at six weeks all was well. Flickering heartbeat, due date set for September 7^th. We began to dream about having three children, and envisioned what it would be like with the last two being so close in age. Whoa. Sixteen months apart. Crazy, sure, but also ripe with joyful and exhausting chaos.

I had a second ultrasound at around ten weeks and all was well. Growing baby, measuring on time, strong heartbeat. We were excited and shared the news that we were expecting #3 with friends and family. Together we were not-so-secretly hoping for a little boy to complete our family of five.

Then another ultrasound at thirteen weeks.

Silence.

The days that followed have been the longest of my life. The news, the wondering, the waiting, the painful procedure, the emptiness. The moments in between  passed painfully slowly. And the nights were the worst. Darkness and sadness covered me, covered us. I tossed and turned, unable to get the image I saw in the ultrasound out of my mind. My precious, silent and still baby boy, a treasured life lost.

My doctor said that, depending on who is counting, the odds of having a miscarriage are 1 in 3 or 1 in 5. As you and I sit here and do the math among ourselves and our friends, we know that statistic is tragically true. That is why I share something so private so publicly. Too many of us are members of this sad sorority. It is heartbreaking that something so painful is so common.

It doesn’t matter how far along you are when things go silent–three weeks, thirteen weeks, thirty-three weeks. The moment a woman sees that positive sign on the pregnancy test, we are already connected and in love with the child growing inside us.  Our heads and hearts are already a million miles down the road.  When things go wrong we grieve what could have been and mourn the loss of the family we imagined.

John has been amazing through this, comforting me while he walks through his own grief.  And our friends have been incredible—many of them have experienced this kind of loss, and some have tragically been through far, far worse.  Their unshakable faith and their encouraging words have been our comfort.  Over the past few days, friends and family have called and written, sent food and flowers, and taken our oldest out for adventures. We have been covered with love and prayer. We felt those prayers and believe in their power. God is still good.

And what if, what if this was God’s best for us? What if this was His best for our sweet son? I have to believe that He has the aerial view while we sit down here, trying to make sense of the blur with our noses smashed against the screen.

I am grieving but I am also grateful.  I have two precious girls. Two!  My healthy, happy, hilarious children are the greatest gift I have ever been given.  I have been squeezing them extra tight.  I know that I am beyond blessed.

But still, my heart hurts.

I know that time and distance from all of this will be healing.  So I sit here waiting for the fog to lift. I know it will.

Thankfully it wasn’t long before I got my bearings and began to embrace and enjoy my new normal. I fell deeply in love with that baby and delighted in watching her discover her world. I lost track of time just staring at her and marveling at her squishy-ness and the tiny little dimple on the top of her cheek. Then I blinked and that baby grew into a hilarious adorable little person who makes me laugh every day and whose round little face I just want to squeeze because it is my absolute favorite face in the world.

We were in such a great groove with only child Harper before Hallie was born and as much as we wanted #2, I worried that the birth of our second child would turn everything upside down again. This time strangers in the grocery store were warning me that two is waaaay more than twice the work and telling me to buckle up because going from one to two is when your life really changes. I feared I would experience the same whiplash that happened when I first became a parent and I braced myself for the impact…

But you know what? Going from one to two has been really really good. Actually, it has been great. For starters, knowing what to do with a baby is a skill I already have so I got to skip most of the asinine Googling that went down round one. This time I am not constantly wondering if I am doing it right and giving myself heaps of grace when it comes to things like breastfeeding which certainly threw me for a loop as a brand new mother. Because this time I know a) what I’m doing(ish), and b) how fast it goes, I have been enjoying each day with the baby for what it is and soaking up these sweet days while my littlest is so so little.

And my world hasn’t been turned upside down because that already happened three years ago. We are firmly planted in the world of naps, parks, playdates, diapers, Daniel Tiger, timeouts, chicken nuggets, car seats and sippy cups. And I am surprised and delighted by how much I love it here. So adding another little one to the mix isn’t as big of a lifestyle upheaval. Obviously going from one to two hasn’t made my life easier or given me more free time or improved the quality of my sleep or deepened the grooves between my abs, but it has been pretty dang awesome. Our family life is richer and I am already getting small glimpses of what it will be like for those sweet sisters to have a relationship. The more the merrier. Seriously.

That being said…

The other night My Man was putting the finishing touches on Harper’s (12 step) bedtime routine and I was in the nursery bundling Hallie up and putting her down for bed. Lights off, sound machines on, doors closed. At the same time we walked out of their respective rooms, met in the hall, and high-fived as we walked downstairs together to begin the adults-only portion of the evening. Did you catch that? Instinctively we high-fived.

Bedtime with two children fees like crossing a finish line. No matter what we are doing, those divine hours between their bedtime and ours feel precious and sacred. Kicking our feet up and relaxing on parallel sofas is a well-earned luxurious indulgence. I treasure that unstructured time in the evening with just My Man when no one needs me. Ahhhh, to be single.

But sure enough I can’t turn it off.  Each night before I go to sleep I go peek in on my sweet sleeping children. I re-tuck Harper who has managed to fall asleep coverless and apparently in the middle of a game of Twister, her appendages strewn awkwardly between the wall, the bed, and the floor. I kiss her sweet dimple and simply stare at her.  Next I go in baby Hallie’s room, pick her up out of her crib and let her sleep in my arms for a few minutes before putting her back down.   I breathe in her smell and say a silent prayer of gratitude that she is mine.  Then I get into my own bed, my heart so unbelievably full it could burst.

Two is definitely better than one.

There was joy! There was love! But humm, how should I put this? …the first week home from the hospital was downright rough.

The miracle of childbirth did a number on my downbelow, so each trip to the ladies’ room took an entire CVS aisle of paraphernalia. My boobs grew two cup sizes overnight, which is not as sexy as it sounds since it comes with an immense amount of pain and a little leakage. And the night sweats. Why does nobody talk about the night sweats?

To make things exciting, the baby had her AMs and PMs completely confused so each day felt absolutely endless. She would sleep all day and be wired, wide awake and absolutely starving all night, so there was not much sleeping for me. Sleep when the baby sleeps? Ha! Arguably worse than not sleeping at all is finally falling asleep once the baby is quiet, only to be woken mere minutes later by a screaming newborn. Over and over again.

And holy hormones. Man did they play some tricks on me and my mental stability. One minute I would be fine and the next I was a puddle of tears, dreading what would surely be an entire lifetime of sleepless nights and endless feedings. I remember walking by the dishwasher in a sleep-deprived hormonal stupor, wondering if I would ever EVER have enough time or energy or desire to empty it. True story.

That was week one. But week two…

Week two was better. Physically I was on the mend, so my “free time” wasn’t spent on the sitz bath. The baby sorted out her days and nights so everyone was sleeping more, and praisethelord and thankyoujesus the wacky hormones night sweated their way out of my system. The question “how are you doing?” no longer brought me to tears. Victory!

Week three was actually pretty great. We went out for dinner and saw friends and went to the pool and the park and out on a date. On multiple occasions I even managed to get everyone fed, clothed, cleaned and out the door and to our destination practically on time. And there were even days when both girls took long naps at the same time. Mission accomplished, right?

By week four I saw glimpses of something resembling solid sleep for me and something resembling a smile from Hallie.  Be still my heart. I even felt up for dipping my toe back into the working world, mostly just to prove to myself that I could do it. So what if I had to mute my conference line to ssh and soothe a SCREAMING baby.  The others on the call were nonethewiser. I totally got this thing. (Mostly)

Oh…am I making it look too easy breezy? You are catching me on a good day after a full night of sleep. So there’s that. Not to mention the illusion of the internet–hiding the cast of characters, conveniences and comforts that have helped me get to this point:

caffeine, my parents who live 10 minutes away, under-eye concealer, my awesome neighbor friends who make me laugh while our children entertain each other,  my hands-free breast pump bra, the MealTrain deliveries that make me so excited about not cooking dinner every night,  Harper’s bevy of summer camps that keep her out and about and entertained from 9am-1pm most days, occasional supplementation with Earth’s Best formula, Netflix streaming service, and especially My Man who is ALL IN.

I feel like we are over the hump and doing more than just making it through the day. Things around here are actually pretty dang good. Tiring, but good. Maybe it is because this go round I know that this stage doesn’t last long– a perspective that helps me grin and bear it when I feel overwhelmed and exhausted, but also gives me the desire to appreciate and soak up this sweet newborness that will be gone so so fast.

*Aren’t I funny on four hours of sleep?

Off we go…

My contractions started on Saturday night, while attempting to do some semblance of dancing at a wedding. At 40 weeks and 4 days pregnant, I was beyond ready to get the show on the road so I was delighted when they began. Weeks before, I had a few little moments where I asked myself, “was that a contraction?” I was reminded that night the answer was no. You KNOW when you are having a contraction, if you have to ask it doesn’t count. I spent the night tossing and turning in between painful contractions, excited and anxious knowing this could be it. I finally gave into not sleeping and got out of bed at 4am. I went downstairs and laid on the sofa, timing contractions and excavating treasures on the DVR as the sun came up and the rest of my family slept upstairs.

It is a crazy thing to be at the precipice of such a huge life change, to know and hope and pray that what you have waited for and wanted for so long is soooo close to happening you can taste it…but to not yet know the outcome, if all will be well and the baby will be healthy. My anxiety and excitement increased the closer I got to my due date, but that morning I felt a sense of peace.

I took those hours before the house woke up to write a letter to each of my daughters. I wrote one to Harper telling her all sorts of things about what I loved about her, prayed for her and hoped for her and what she meant to me. I also wrote one to baby #2– a letter telling her about how badly we wanted her and telling her how loved she already is. It was something I had wanted to do for a while, and that Mother’s Day morning, the morning after Harper’s third birthday and the day my youngest daughter would be born seemed like the right time.

I was happy to hear Harper call me in the morning when her light turned green, knowing it might be her last day of being my only one. I went into her room and told her today was the day she would become a big sister. She was SO excited, and bounced in her bed saying “today? Really? Today!?”

Harper ran down the hall and into our bedroom to wake up her daddy to tell him the news. When I told him my contractions continued all night, he slightly panicked and said we should go to the hospital.  I said we should go out for breakfast. Priorities.

The three of us carb loaded for the day ahead, using a contraction app between courses to see if my contractions were getting closer. They were. Yowza! Pancakes helped with the pain.

After breakfast we hurried home to pack our bags. My parents came to pick up Harper and take her back to their house and My Man and I headed to the hospital.

Once we were at the hospital, we settled in and it was confirmed that yes, I was in actual labor. This I knew, but the doctor had to check and see for herself.  The pain was getting intense.

((As I lay there trying to get a camel to go through the eye of the needle, My Man complained of a recent golf injury and buzzed the nurse for an icepack and some Advil. Yeeeep. ))

Meanwhile, I outlined the intricate and extensive details of my birth plan to the nurse who recorded it on the whiteboard in our hospital room.

It took what felt like fooorrreeevvveeerrr for the epidural to get administered and activate, but once it did, we could all breathe a little easier. Before the wondrous meds worked their magic, I felt like I had been flying cross country, bouncing around with the cargo. Getting the epidural upgraded my flight to coach, perhaps even business class. I was still very much a part of the flight and I arrived at the same destination, but I was able to enjoy the view and have polite conversation with my travel companion.

My travel companion (AKA my birthcoach AKA the baby’s father AKA the one with the”golf injury”) got off WAY easier once I was medicated than he would have if he had to talk me through each contraction—getting his circulation cut off by hand squeezes and perhaps being the scapegoat for pain-induced verbal assault. Instead, we actually enjoyed the time together in that hospital room as we waited for things to progress. We listened to some great music, rested, read, prayed, and discussed some possible names for baby girl. It was actually pretty special.

It wasn’t long before I started feeling some moderate pressure and called the nurse to see where things stood. After a quick check the nurse immediately said, “freeze! Don’t laugh, don’t cough! Let me get the doctor.” Six minutes later, she was here!!

Experiencing the LITERAL MIRACLE of life and holding our healthy warm baby on my chest is a feeling I will never forget. There were tears.

Big Sister came to visit me in the hospital and meet her baby sister the next day. I had picked out a dress for her to wear and envisioned a magical moment when the two would meet for the first time. Things didn’t quite go as planned. Harper was like a bull in a china shop that day. She busted in, thrilled to meet her baby sister, but got really frustrated when we wouldn’t let her hold the baby allbyherself, or carry the baby allbyherself, or poke the baby’s eyes or take the baby’s clothes off. Her love, in those first moments, was slightly aggressive but entirely sincere. A good foundation for a best friendship, I think. This is the best we could do for a photo of the magic moment.

The baby didn’t have a name till day three. This drove My Man and I both crazy and was not the least bit amusing to our family and the friends who kept asking. We weren’t trying to be dramatic, but naming a person is HARD. We had it down to four names going into the hospital, then down to two after she was born. Seeing that sweet angel face did not help make the decision for us. Brand-spankin-new babies, on the whole, look more like aliens / velociraptors / old men, and not quite like Julias and Mollys and Kates. In the eleventh hour, we finally we signed the official papers and named our little girl Hallie. We think it is precious and will serve her equally as well as the CEO of a fortune 500 company and as an Olympic athlete as it will as America’s Next Top Model.

And just like that, our family of three is now a family of four. Bringing home our second daughter and placing her all healthy and bundled in her crib made our joy complete.

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Life is whizzing by so I figure now is as good a time as any to revisit this little cobwebbed corner of the internet with a post about what has been going on lately in my world.

One big thing comes to mind. We are expecting baby #2 in early May. That is less than two months away! Whoa, Nelly.

Onto some FAQs:

Girl or boy?

The week before Christmas, we took our sealed ultrasound envelope to an adorable baby store and picked out a girl and boy outfit. While we ran some errands around town, they opened the envelope and wrapped up the appropriate outfit. The box sat under the Christmas tree giving me a mixture of excitement and mild anxiety until we opened it Christmas morning.

I was nervous! You know why? Because I wanted this little baby to be a girl SO bad. Before we found out, I skipped the “all I want is a healthy baby” pleasantries and cut right to the fact that “all I want is a healthy baby…girl.” I was literally shaking like a leaf when we opened the box containing a little PINK dress on Christmas.

It’s a girl!! Harper will have a little sister and I am absolutely over the moon. My sister and I are BFFs and I pray that Harper and this little chickadee will follow suit. Sisters are the very best.

Do you have a name picked out?

No. Naming a human person is not easy. We have a list of five or so that we like, but there is no clear frontrunner. No name feels quite like The One just yet. No inspiration to be found in the names of our ancestors. Maternal and paternal grandmothers were named Beatrice, Roberta and Betty, none of which have made the shortlist. Suggestions are welcome and encouraged!

What are you most excited about?

Meeting this little baby girl. Seeing Harper become a big sister. Holding a sleepy newborn. Smelling a newborn. Those tiny little feet. Newborn sneezes. Sleeping on my stomach again. Sushi. Wine (full glasses in public without judgment). Matching sisters.

What are you most afraid of?

I confess that I am a tad anxious about the transition from one child to two. Going from zero to one rocked my world, so I don’t think adding another to the mix could be more jarring-but time will tell. We have it pretty dang good at the moment and I hardly remember what it’s like to be the round-the-clock physical embodiment of a bed & breakfast. I admit that those early days of sleepless nights are not my favorite. (Oh, and Harper told me the other day that was “so excited to feed the baby snacks.” Now I am envisioning Harper trying to force-feed the toothless infant child goldfish when I’m not around. Um, mildly concerning and representative of a whole new world of potential danger that I didn’t initially consider.)

What are you doing to get ready for this baby?

Harper doesn’t know it yet, but she is about to be evicted from her crib and the comforts of her nursery so that the baby can move in. She loves her crib and I love the fact that it acts as a cage of sorts that CPS and DFCS approve of. If I had my way, Harper would probably stay in a crib for at least another 5 years year if there wasn’t another tenant in line to take her spot. And she maaaaay be outgrowing it…

The clock is ticking, but I’m waiting on a few final pieces to arrive for Harper’s big girl room before it will be ready for her to move in. What kind mother would I be if I moved my precious child into a room without custom made blackout shades and coordinating lamps? See what I did there…I think they call it procrastinating. I’m of the ‘if it ain’t broke, why fix it’ mentality so this change is not one I’m looking forward to. Hopefully it won’t totally mess up her textbook sleep routine and hopefully I won’t wake to find her attempting to use the Ginsu knives in the kitchen in the wee hours of the morning. I bought this clock and this child-proof door lock juuust in case.

Any cravings?

An all-expense-paid trip to somewhere tropical. A foot massage, new episodes of Mad Men, pineapple and popcorn.

Anything else you’d like to share?

I read a lot of these “‘I’m Pregnant” (and the undoubtedly more annoying “We’re Pregnant”) announcements online and assume that everyone in the world gets pregnant on their first try. From the outside looking in, it all seems so easy and effortless for most people, so I want to pull back the curtain a bit on our road to baby #2. The honest truth is that we started “trying” when Harper turned one-so it took us a whole heck of a lot of “trying” before I finally got the plus sign on the ClearBlueEasy.

After a few months of ya-know-whatting on the reg with no news, we doubled our efforts and with each cycle that passed I added something to the mix to hopefully aid my fertility. It started with a search for ‘acupuncture richmond‘ and a few acupuncture treatments. After that, well… you name it, I tried it. Hippie herbal supplements, a big bitter cup of apple cider vinegar each morning, legs in the air, raspberry tea, more exercise, less exercise, pure queen bee pollen, ovulation predictor kits, and charting my temperature, just to name a few.

After all that homeopathic S, I turned to modern medicine. I tried a few rounds of the fertility med Letrozole and one round of Clomid and still nothing. The final straw was an $800 consultation with a reproductive endocrinologist (AKA a fertility doc) to scare my ovaries into ovulating. I found out I was pregnant a week before I was scheduled to begin her recommended (AKA OMG $$$) course of treatment. My Man and I couldn’t believe the good news. And we were in disbelief that it happened on its own, without any help from the hippies or the medical professionals.

There are a lot of lessons in there about waiting for something, and wanting something, and desiring control and releasing control, but the moral of our story is that God is good. We know we are the lucky ones. We have close friends whose road to conceive their first child has been a hundred times longer, more emotional, invasive, exhausting and expensive. ALL babies are miracles. We can’t wait to meet ours in May.

I never thought I’d be one of those mothers getting weepy because tear, tear, I have a two-year-old and tear, tear, the time is going by way too fast. But here we are. I am apparently that kind of mother. I get teary just thinking about how much I love her and love this age and want the whole thing to just slow the heck down.

I am also the kind of mother that felt the need to seriously celebrate the occasion of my little one turning two. Her first birthday went by without any fanfare but two was thoroughly celebrated. She is old enough to sing happy birthday to you and she is most certainly a birthday cake enthusiast.

It wasn’t a grand affair, but I would venture to say that two-year-olds and their mothers have never dined better on a Thursday afternoon at Beaverbrook Park. It was a low bar, but I think we crossed it.

The menu for the little kids included a turkey or PB&J sandwich, string cheese, an applesauce pouch, cheddar bunnies and grapes.

Harper decorated the lunch bags while I did some cooking and crafting of my own.

Oh haaaaay, Pinterest.

The menu for those over the age of five was roasted vegetable orzo, fruit salad, seedy crackers and chocolate chip cookies.  I portioned everything out into takeout containers and  assembled bagged lunches for each of the ladies which made serving everything at the park a breeze.

Many a mother has asked me for the orzo recipe, and I have to credit the Barefoot Contessa with that one. I followed this recipe for Roasted Vegetable Orzo virtually to the letter except for a few minor modifications: I used half as much oil as Ina calls for (because whoa she can be heavy-handed with the good olive oil), omitted the eggplant (couldn’t find it) and the pine nuts (too expensive), and squeezed an extra generous dose of lemon juice on top before serving. The whole thing can be made in advance and served at room temperature which makes it ideal for picnicking. So so SO good.

Harper was totally the hostess with the mostess, and by the time she left the park she was sweaty and watermelon stained, bruised and scraped. When we got home she took a cold shower and passed out on the floor. College.

But it’s not all Pinterest butterflies and cupcakes around here. I now have a two-year-old, and studies have shown that two-year-olds are a particularly challenging kind of child.  At two, she has OPINIONS and in a single minute she can demonstrate the entire spectrum of human emotions.  Don’t believe me? Then you be the one to tell her that we don’t eat cookies for breakfast or that she can’t wear her pearly white church shoes to the muddy park. Now be her total hero by blowing bubbles while singing “I’ve Been Working on the Railroad.”  Her ability to create real tears then immediately turn them off is truly Oscar-worthy.

I definitely caught a little glimpse of the terrible twos, so  figured it best to tighten the reigns before they came to stay.  That meant that Harper’s summer included some time spent in obedience boot camp…at our house with me serving as head counselor.  Until recently, Harper thought “come here” meant to laugh and run in the opposite direction. It is a work in progress, but she is beginning to catch on to the fact that I am the boss.  Progress! Now I only have to ask six times and threaten time-outs and corporal punishment to get her to do as I ask . Kidding. Sorta.

Harper is always testing the limits and learning what will fly. Thankfully, she got over the desire to stick her fingers in electrical outlets months ago. But recently she hasn’t been touching the outlets with her own fingers, but holding out her baby doll’s little hand to touch them. Then she looks up at me innocently, as a bit of a challenge to see what I will do. I am afraid that she inherited my penchant to creatively interpret the rules.

Harper is totally her own little person these days and I adore her spunky little independent spirit. She speaks in sassy little complete sentences and I really never know what she is going to say. (Hashtag no filter.) If she isn’t talking, she is singing.  Most days she is an absolute delight, though some days certainly require more wine patience. But every day she makes me laugh and every day I am beyond grateful for my joyful little bunny.

On the horizon for Harper: moving out of the crib into a big girl bed and potty training—and at the rate I update this blog, drivers-ed and senior prom.  Stay tuned.

Not really, but it has been eons since I updated ye old weblog.

Since last we spoke, we have traveled to Hilton Head to visit family, the North Carolina mountains with friends, Lake Rabun for a surprise engagement celebration, and to Nashville to see my sister and her man. We also took day trip to the Pumpkin Patch and Harper started preschool.  Man oh man do I wish I had taken the time to chronicle each of these events, but life moves way too fast. (And truth be told we started watching Breaking Bad which is pretty time consuming. Late to the game, I know, but daaamn.)

Our October began with a week at the beach in Watercolor Florida. This time it was just the three of us: My Man, That Baby and me. My Man and I take vacation very seriously and aim to squeeze all the resting, reading and relaxation from our time away. Our serious vacationing before the baby meant hours sitting on the beach while reading and listening to music, long bike rides, late breakfasts, and leisurely dinners. With baby, our beach vacation looked a little different. There were zero point zero minutes where My Man and I sat side by side poolside.

That Baby is fearless and never stops moving and therefore needs a fully-attentive chaperone at all times, especially when surrounded by open water. We worked in shifts and alternated who was on bunny patrol (suicide watch) with who got to sit in a lounge chair and sip sweet tea. Whilst on vacation, Harper even developed a taste for sweet tea.

The weather was perfect and the beach was empty. We took long walks, bike rides and afternoon naps, ate seafood dinners, built sandcastles and played boardgames. Vacation is the very best–even, and perhaps especially, with The Bunny in tow.

Now for an update on Harper, the hairless wonder:

Harper’s little personality is becoming more pronounced every day. She is an independent little extrovert who knows what she wants and is officially able to tell us. Don’t ask her a question unless you want the hard truth. She tells it like it is. Me: “Harper, can I give you a big hug?” Her: “No tank you.” Me: “Harper! Did you just stick your hands in the toilet?” Her: “Yeah. Uh-oh.” She says new words every day and our conversations have expanded well beyond me quizzing her on the animal sounds and the location of her body parts. And she has recently started to string together sentences like a little foreign exchange student. “Go see MiMi, yeah?” “Me go park, yeah?” She can even sing a version of The Wheels on the Bus that would make anyone opt for public transit.

Our little lady also makes persistent song requests from the back seat as we drive around town. Like My Man, she likes to hear her latest favorite tune on repeat over and over again until it’s worn out. Her current favorite is Hello Everybody, the mildly annoying, sing-songy first cut from the Music Together CD. She loudly and frantically shouts “Hello plees, hello plees plees plees” from her car seat until I finally acquiesce and cue up the track. Then she relaxes into it, smiles, and exhales like a junky who finally got her fix.

They say boys are all over the place and into everything, but I can’t see a little boy being any more hands-on than Harper. She is fast and fearless and unfortunately quite injury prone. I have a collection of signed incident reports from the gym childcare, preschool and the church nursery describing Harper’s accidents– noting the location of the bump, the presence of blood, and whether or not ice was applied. I have to sign them because I think they are worried that we will file a lawsuit. Just yesterday she ran full speed ahead into a wooden column. She is a human pinball. Good thing she has extra padding and bounces back fast.

And what kind of parent would I be if I neglected to post Halloween pictures of my costumed child on the internet? I’m pretty sure that is the reason for the season.

Harper was a strawberry for Halloween.

Aaaaaand she was also a chicken.

Certified free range organic.

For the second year in a row, I pulled a pageant mom and had multiple costumes for my child. It is not that off the wall to have options considering she attended no fewer than five (5!) costume parties in the week leading up to Halloween. Boom. Justified.

And I can think of no better way to end this long overdue blog post than with a picture of That Baby in a backpack.

Happy fall, y’all.

The first month of motherhood was particularly hard.  I knew my life would change but I didn’t know how much.  Finally she was here, and no books or baby shower or Bradley class could prepare me for what to expect when the one I was expecting arrived.  In those first few weeks I felt immense joy and gratitude for the blessing of a healthy, beautiful baby girl. I also felt…tired.  And emotional.  Totally par for the postpartum course.  I loved Harper like crazy from day one, but figuring out the complex Sudoku puzzle of a newborn baby is serious business, especially for first-timers.   The haze of hormones and exhaustion had me convinced that that the rest of my life would be lived in three hour cycles and at best, my nights would consist of a string of two-hour naps. And I know I’m going to get fined for saying this, but I sort of most definitely missed my old life. I had it really good.

My outlook improved once the hormones left my system around week two or three, but I still wouldn’t have used the word “fun” to describe my day-to-day scenario. I was eager to reclaim some sense of order to our days and sleep to our nights. Sorry hippies, but I was not okay with breastfeeding on-demand a zillion times a day and throughout the night. Though I have always thought of myself as a go-with-the-flow kind of gal, having my baby on an eating and sleeping schedule became the Holy Grail.  I heard rumors of 8-week-old babies who slept 12 hours at night and I was desperate to have my baby be one of them. I envied those babies’ mothers with the same awe and wonder I’d previously directed towards gorgeous houses with fine furnishings, my sister’s perennial tan, and Italians with 42 days of paid vacation.

Harper’s consistent daytime and nighttime sleep was a priority to me – for her sake and for mine.  But mostly for mine.  I asked my mom friends a zillion questions, read books and blogs on the subject, and trusted my instincts.  I got down to business when she was just a few weeks old, and soon enough that baby got her AMs and PMs sorted out. The first time she slept till 7am we threw a parade in her honor.  The first time she till 8am we decided to keep her.  Soon her naps became consistent and I was actually able to know when to plan things based on her eating and sleeping schedule.  What a luxury it was to be able to tell a friend a time to come over for a visit when my shirt would be on!

That’s a perfect segue to the next topic.  Before we dive in, I encourage the two men who read my blog to kindly reroute to ESPN dot com.  It is about to get national geographic graphic up in here.

Ladies, circle up and let’s talk about it. Breastfeeding.  These days the pressure is on to do it and love every minute. Otherwise, there’s a hundred percent chance that your child will be an obese biting asthmatic bed wetter forever in the slow reading group. I went to the classes and read the books and was delighted when things clicked and Harper was a good eater from the beginning.  But breastfeeding is hard, even when it’s working well. Nursing is, at the very least, incredibly time consuming. In the early days that baby was eating at least 8 times a day, 30 minutes a feeding. That adds up to a whole lot of time spent topless. For some mothers breastfeeding can also be painful and frustrating if the logistics aren’t panning out and there are latch and flow issues.  To be physically needed by your baby is both beautiful and incredibly intense.  I was the only one who could meet her needs.  Sure I could have someone else give her a bottle, but I would still have to pump it.  And pumping is a whole other level of awkwardness and pain that can be filed under “the things we do for our children” and “the things that repulse and confuse our husbands.”  Breastfeeding can also be pretty isolating for those of us who don’t feel totally comfortable baring it all in front of friends, fathers-in-law, dinner guests, and mall patrons.

On the plus side, I had breasts Real Housewives pay big money for.  Double D’s y’all. But on the minus side, they were achy and purely utilitarian.  You know your relationship has turned a corner when your man comes home from work to see his woman is sitting topless on the sofa and he doesn’t even bat an eye or do a double-take.  In the old days that would have been an invitation to get frisky, but not this time. Carrying on regular how was your day, traffic was terrible, what’s for dinner, do we need anything from the store conversation while one of us was half nude takes it all to another level.

Despite my occasional gripes and constant questions, (is she getting enough? Does she have reflux? Should I cut out dairy? Will I pop a button if I wear this shirt?) there were certainly moments of sepia-toned wonder where I felt like a winged radiant earth mother.  It is amazing to be able to provide all the nourishment your baby needs. And holding a drowsy milked-up baby is pure pleasure.

I (mostly) happily nursed Harper for a grand total of seven months. In conclusion: Glad I did it. Glad I’m not doing it anymore. I’d definitely do it again. I think.

Fortunately, those memories of the hard and less glamorous parts our first few weeks and months together are all but forgotten, tucked away with memories of the physical pain of the whole event, and upstaged by sweet thoughts of holding that tiny baby in my arms and becoming a family.  Nonetheless, aspects of motherhood can be (and will likely continue to be) confusing and isolating and disorienting and exhausting.  But those feelings have been in short-supply compared to the deep feelings of joy and pride and purpose and grace that I have felt this year.  Life is different now, but I can say with complete certainty that it is even better than it was before. So much better.  I love being a mother and not a day goes by that I take the gift of my little girl for granted.  Watching Harper grow and change and learn every day has been incredible. And watching My Man take to fatherhood so naturally has made me have an even bigger crush on him. No one in the world loves Harper as much as we do and we are obsessed.  Sharing her and loving her together is the very best. We freaked out (and continue to do so) with every new development. She grabbed a toy! She rolled over! She babbled! She climbed up the stairs! She walked! It’s all gravy. I am caught somewhere between wanting to freeze time so she stays this little and chubby and adorable forever and anticipating the excitement of the next stage.  Talking! Hair!

Before I go to sleep, I sometimes quietly open the door to Harper’s nursery to sneak a peek at my sleeping baby.  There is nothing in the world sweeter.   In that short 15 seconds of my day, I feel a deeper sense of pure resounding joy than I have ever felt in my life. There are no words for that kind of love.

So to you new mothers of newborn babies, perhaps reading this post by the light of your iPhone during a 3am feeding: I am here to assure you that it not only gets better, it gets fun. Right now you are in the trenches. Running on adrenaline—surviving and making sure your little Giga Pet is fed, watered, swaddled and rested. You may have seen glimpses of the good stuff, but it is headed your way in buckets.   One day oh so soon you will catch yourself laughing at and loving your little bitty human and wonder how on earth you got so lucky.

Watching…

HBO. We recently switched our cable service from Comcast to AT&T. (Side note: Take that Comcast! That’s what you get for refusing to lower our rates. We are with AT&T now. Those were not empty threats!) To sweeten the deal AT&T threw in three months of free HBO. Commercial-free movies? Yes please. Girls and Game of Thrones on-demand? Don’t mind if I do.

Wondering…

why we didn’t join the public library sooner? I confess that until recently neither me nor My Man had been in a library since college or shortly thereafter. Joining has been a total revelation. You guys. At the library you can borrow books and movies and audiobooks. For free! It’s all there for the taking and you can even place holds for your desired goods online with the click of a button. Instead of going to Amazon to buy the next book on my list, I go to the Atlanta Public Library website and reserve it and check it out. Just like that. Totally free. I know some of you are thinking “no duh” but if we have been missing out on the wonder that is the Public Library, I believe at least one of your loyal readers may be missing out too. Go there. Whisper. The librarians are still as loopy and meticulous as you remember. And the place smells exactly the same.

Reading…

• To stay current: New York Magazine
• To stay in touch with the past: The Old Testament
• To prepare for the future: On Becoming Pretoddlerwise: From Babyhood to Toddlerhood
• For kicks: The Family Fang: A Novel

Driving…

an electric car. You heard me right. Electric as in needs no gas to go. No gas at all. This, my friends, is the future. We got rid of My Man’s decrepit gas guzzler and added this one to our fleet. And the government gave us free money in the form of a tax credit for being so environmental. It was a steal and My Man is a tad obsessed with his new ride. I call him George Jetson.

Listening to…

NPR programming stream on my computer. I try not to have the TV on much when Harper is awake so that means that I don’t watch the morning news like I did pre-baby – that is if you consider The Today Show news which is highly debatable. So now I listen to it in the morning while Harper eats and plays and tries to put fireplace ashes into her mouth and attempts to stick her hands in the toilet to splash the water around. It’s like a delightful morning commute without the traffic. Once I have my fill of current events, I turn on the All Songs Considered 24/7music channel. It is a great way to discover well-curated new music.

Eating…

my very favorite scores from a recent trip to Costco: Angie’s Sweet & Salty Kettle Corn, Sheila G’s Brownie Brittle, and Homestyle Sweet Picked Beets.

Ya heard me. Beets! Don’t knock, ’em ’till you try ’em. If you like beets, which you should because they are colorful and delicious and do magical things for your health, then you’ve got to try these! The best way to enjoy them is in a salad with all the fixings. Recipe as follows: Greens (kale and/or spring mix lettuce) + Beets +apple + celery + green onion +avocado +dried cranberries + pecans + cheese (Gorgonzola or Goat or Feta) +dressing (Balsamic or Trader Joe’s Champagne Pear Vinaigrette)

Beets not your thing? Gurl you crazy. The good news is that this salad will still be delicious without them. Add some chicken or salmon and you’ve got dinner. Brownie Brittle for dessert.

Looking forward to…

a visit from my friend Marie and her baby Henry this weekend! My Man will be out-of-town whooping it up with his college friends so Marie and I will be housebound with our wee ones. Last time we saw each other we were both pregnant. You better believe we plan to take dozens of those adorably clich’d naked babies in the bathtub photos.

I’m also looking forward to a baby-free trip to New York next weekend to visit my friend Emily. Shopping! Shows! Wining! Dining! Good times ahead.

Loving…

my little one. Obviously.

God gives parents an amazing gift in that everyone thinks their own baby is awesome and wonderful and adorable and hilarious. It helps us get through the early days of round-the-clock feedings and the loss of personal freedom resulting from being housebound for naptimes and early bedtimes. That love helps diaper changes not smell as revolting as they ought to and helps us cope with the fact that no baby gate, play mat, or exersaucer will ever match our interior decor.

These days I just want to nibble those chubby cheeks and thighs and hug her tight. That girl is my heart. She cracks me up as I see her little personality emerge more and more every day. She laughs a lot and gets a total kick out of being chased around the house and crawling up the stairs the second I put her down. Harper is constantly on the move and finds pleasure in the simple things: plastic cups, spoons, blocks, books—and unfortunately can’t resist the lure of computer cables, outlets, open toilets, and the entry table I constantly tell her not to touch.

The sweet ladies in the nursery always comment on how happy and easy she is, but recently the report has been something along the lines of, “Harper sure knows how to take care of herself. You won’t have to worry about her.” This was a euphemistic way to tell me, her mother, that my sweet round daughter is something of a bully with the other babies. Apparently my little bald brute is a hair puller. I guess it is human nature to want what we don’t have. We’ll work on it.

I looked at Harper the other day as she was sitting on the rug, babbling at her bellybutton book and it hit me: She is becoming her own little person.  Until a few months ago, I knew all there was to know about her.  My body met her nutritional needs, I knew when she needed a meal, a nap, a cuddle, and a dry diaper. But suddenly she is becoming this adorable little girl whose tastes, preferences and personality is beginning to emerge. Every day I am discovering more and more of who she is but this I know for sure–she is a round mound of pure joy.

Here are a few tidbits about That Baby these days that I wanted to document.

Nine Month Milestones: she had her first taste of ice cream, she got her first black eye, she clapped, she waved (at herself, but I think it still counts), she now gives heart-melting slobbery kisses when asked.

Harper Likes: ceiling fans, red heads, Pat the Bunny, bananas, cornbread, mirrors (just like her daddy), putting leaves in her mouth, baths, watching the washing machine, cereal (just like her mama), when My Man plays guitar, appliances, other babies, electrical sockets, and her teddy bear.

Harper Dislikes: Carrots. Having her nose wiped.

I Like: when Harper laughs, reading to her, naps, Infant Tylenol. (The motto around here is “when in doubt, medicate.” You can pre-order my parenting book on Amazon.)  The Nosefrida The Snotsucker Nasal Aspirator -Those Swedes invented the very best device to clear up infantile congestion.  It works and it is more addictive than blue corn tortilla chips and the first season of Homeland.

I Dislike: Harper’s not-so-charming habit of blowing spit raspberries all the time: when she is playing, when she is eating, and when there is food in her mouth. Hoping this is just a phase she’ll outgrow. by tomorrow.

Things People Say: “She sure eats well, doesn’t she?!”  “She looks exactly like her father.”  “Look at those cheeks”  “Hey there little fella.”

Nicknames: The Bunny, The Bunns, Agent McBunny, The Agent, That Baby

What Harper is Up To: She is crawling now and has been for the past few months. That Baby is curious and loves to explore new places.  She is great at playing by herself and can happily lose herself in her books and blocks and kitchen utensils. Harper hasn’t met a stranger and doesn’t have separation anxiety when I hand her over to other people. (I try not to take it personally.) She can stand independently for a grand total of seven seconds and I am in no rush for her to start walking. Chasing a crawler to prevent her from putting her fingers in electrical outlets and stop her from putting fireplace ashes in her mouth keeps us plenty busy.

The first nine months have flown by. And I definitely have moments where I want her to not grow up so fast, to just stay this portable and joyful and adorable forever. I see why people have more than one.

In conclusion, the Oscar for Best Documentary Short Subject goes to “Harper Goes Nuts: A baby FREAKING OUT at her bear”

And how convincing is My Man’s bear impression..?!