Bambina Bellissima!

6 Apr

I can’t believe it’s been over two weeks since Baby and I returned from Italy and I haven’t written about the trip yet!  Actually, I can.  That’s what happen when you return from a trip to Europe to an impending move to Japan.  More details to come on that adventure later.  I must hurry and record something of  Elisabeth’s first trip abroad before I forget it all in my unremitting sleep-deprived, stressed-out haze.

So you don’t think I’m totally crazy, I did not just one day wake up and think to myself, “You know what’s a good idea?  Taking a four-month old to Italy!”  Some background: My youngest brother Jamie is studying abroad in Florence, and my mom was planning on visiting Jamie by herself.  I decided to tag along to keep my mother from getting lonely on her brief sojourn to Italy.  It was a selfless act on my part, really.  It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that Florence is one of my favorite cities in the world, that my husband was going to be out to sea for the better part of March, and that my house was half-empty with all our most important goods already packed and (hopefully) shipped to Japan.

Okay, maybe it had something to do with those things.  Who wants to be husbandless with a baby in a half-empty house when you can go to Italy with the doting grandmother who will take care of the baby in the middle of the night?

Still think I’m crazy for willingly packing up and traveling with Baby to Europe?  Fine, maybe I am a little crazy.  But it was totally worth it.

Did you know that Italians love babies?  No, really.  They love babies.  I didn’t really understand what that meant, but I found out quickly.  Apparently it means that extreme displays of affection that would get someone arrested in the United States are totally acceptable – expected even – when it comes to the Italians.

It was but minutes after arriving in Florence that I had my first “Italians love babies” experience.  My mom and I were loading our luggage into a cab.  I took Baby out of the her infant seat and handed her to my mom in order to battle with fold up the stroller.  I turned around to take her back, and much to my surprise, found my mother empty-handed.  Hmmm, that’s odd.  I thought to myself, trying to calm my momentary panic.  I’m pretty sure I just gave Elisabeth to my mom.  What could have possibly happened to her in the last 10 seconds?   Turns out, the cab driver happened to her.  After I passed the baby to my mom, the lady cab driver promptly lifted Elisabeth out of my mom’s arms.  Just straight up took the baby.  I quickly turned from my mom to the cab driver and was shocked to find her holding Elisabeth above her head, laughing and cooing and talking Italian baby-talk.

Note to self: In Italy, strangers will steal your baby.  But that’s okay; they give them back.

Upon arriving at our hotel in Florence, what seemed like the entire hotel staff abandoned their duties and congregated around Elisabeth while we checked in.  “I had to go get everyone to see the baby!” one concierge exclaimed, as around 10 people peered into Elisabeth’s car seat.  It was unreal.  When we arrived at our hotel in Venice, that concierge was more excited about the baby checking in to his hotel than I think my husband was when she was born.  He animatedly talked about how lucky we were and how beautiful she was and on and on and on – I didn’t quite understand everything he said, but I caught something about “big blue eyes” and creating a “large portrait” of her.  Whether he wanted this portrait for himself, or was just suggesting it for my own benefit, I have no idea.  At some point he became so overwhelmed with happiness at this baby that he abruptly stopped talking to us (I assume because we already knew how lucky we are and how beautiful she is) and walked to a back room to describe the glory of Elisabeth to another staff member.

Note to self: In Italy, it will take abnormally long to check in to your hotel because the staff will be too busy admiring your baby to deal with things like key cards and check-out dates.  But that’s okay; you secretly love when people admire your baby. And come to think of it, a large portrait of her beautiful blue eyes is a damn fine idea.

At the Uffizi Gallery in Florence, the security guard let us completely bypass the metal detectors, and thus, the annoyingly large tourist groups that had been in line in front of us.  Score!  Not only did we get to skip security, but we got to hold onto our water bottles that would have been otherwise confiscated.  Double score!  But not before complementing Elisabeth on her “beautiful blue eyes, just like her mother’s.”  Funny, he said that to her brown-eyed grandmother who was holding Elisabeth while I picked up the tickets.  Those sly Italian men.

Note to self:  In Italy, people become so elated by babies that they will completely disregard normal security procedures.  But that’s okay; you can bring in all the food and drink you want hidden in the stroller!

While leaving our hotel in Florence, the doormen complemented Elisabeth’s “big blue eyes”.  (This was a common theme).  “Isn’t she beautiful?”  he asked his fellow doorman.  “Ah yes!” he replied.  Then turning to me said, “Though I did not know if he was talking about the baby or her mother!”

Note to self: In Italy, the Italian men will still shamelessly hit on a tired, crazed, married mother.  Or grandmother.  (See: Uffizi Security Guard.)  But that’s okay; you could use the ego boost.

These sorts of encounters happened every day.  In restaurants, on trains, in elevators, on the street people would – without asking – lift the shade of Elisabeth’s seat to get a glimpse of her.  They’d stop to grab her feet and touch her hands.  “Bambina Bellissima!” they’d all exclaim.  If after a few minutes after venturing out no one had adequately fawned over her, my mother and I would turn to each other, confused.  “Why has nobody complemented her yet?  Is something wrong?”  It was never long before our concerns vanished as someone would intrusively, but lovingly, get all up in Elisabeth’s face.  “Bambina Bellissima!”

Perhaps Italians are so enamored by babies because their birth rate is so low.  Perhaps their birth rate is so low because their streets are so stroller-unfriendly.  Either way, if you are planning a European vacation with your little one, know that Italy will be a challenge, but you will be well-loved once you get there.  Elisabeth sure was!

There Will Be Cheerleaders In Hell

24 Mar

Let me start by saying I am not one of those girls that harbor secret resentment toward cheerleaders.  Actually, I was friends with some cheerleaders in high school.  (To be fair, it helped that I went to a school where the cheerleaders could form complete sentences).  I’m into school spirit.  Heck, I’ll watch Bring it On with you anytime.

But seriously.  I do NOT want to be stuck with an entire team of them on an airplane.

I know, I know.  I just got back from Italy and should be regaling you with tales of my time abroad.  Another day, folks.  Today Baby is having a bad day, so I’m having a bad day.  And when I have a bad day, I turn to my blog to vent.  Enter: Cheerleaders.

Before I vent, let me add a positive note: I have the best baby ever (even on her bad days).  She really is a stellar traveler.  In case you don’t believe me, you should at least believe the man in Business Class who sat right across the partition from us (we were in the bulkhead).  You know he boarded the plane, saw Elisabeth behind the flimsy curtain and thought, “Awww Hell no!  I did NOT pay all this money to listen to a screaming baby for the next nine hours!” At least that’s what I would have thought.  As we were deplaning, that man – with more enthusiasm than anyone should have after a nine-hour flight – said, “You have the best baby!  Seriously.  The best baby!  I have two and they weren’t like that.  Best baby ever!”  In case I didn’t get the point, walking to baggage claim he exclaimed again, “Man, the best baby!”  It was like he had won a prize by sitting near her.  So there you go.  Rock on, Elisabeth.

But back to the cheerleaders.

You know when you’ve been traveling for around 20 hours and you’ve had 2 flights and a 4 hour layover and you only have one 2-hour flight left and really what’s 2 hours after a 9 hour flight and there’s finally a light at the end of the tunnel?  And then that final 2-hour flight is delayed and you’re so physically and mentally exhausted from traveling all day with a baby on virtually no sleep and oh yeah you have movers coming the next morning at 8AM and that light gets a little dimmer?  And then you finally board and collapse and try to get the baby to sleep so you can catch a little shut eye because your body thinks it is 2AM but then AN ENTIRE TEAM OF HIGH SCHOOL CHEERLEADERS BOARDS RIGHT BEHIND YOU?  That light extinguishes.  And you might cry.

I had encountered these cheerleaders during my layover.  They were walking behind me, all wearing matching blue t-shirts, engaging in a mind-numbingly inane conversation (I’ll credit that to them being teenagers, not cheerleaders).  I managed to escape them when, after commenting on the laziness of some people, they stepped on the moving walkway.  Once I had settled at my gate, I saw them approaching but breathed a sigh of relief when they congregated a few gates down.  I just couldn’t handle all the peppiness right then.  But alas, my relief did not last.  For it was but moments after taking my seat on the plane that I saw the flash of a blue shirt.  Then another.  And another.  Did you see Snakes on a Plane?  Cheerleaders on a Plane is so much more horrifying.  At least snakes are quiet.

Their group made up about half the plane, I would guess.  It didn’t take long for the high-pitched shrieks and the yelling down the aisles at each other and the cheer clapping to begin.  Was it really necessary to practice their clapping on a flight?

I began to wonder what I had done to deserve such karmic retribution.  Then I began to wonder, where the heck are their chaperones!?  As it turns out, one of them was scared of flying and had taken 4 Xanax on her first flight, so I’m guessing she didn’t notice the shrieking and yelling and clapping.  I was thisclose to telling those nearest me that it really wasn’t appropriate to yell on an airplane and disturb all the other passengers when I realized that would officially complete my transformation into my mother, and refrained.

Them

 

Me

Now here’s the kicker: They weren’t just cheerleaders.  They were Mormon cheerleaders.  At least some of them were.  What kind of person was I to be hating on Mormon cheerleaders when you know that when they are not gathered together in a confined space on the way to a cheer competition they are probably just the loveliest, sweetest kids?  Their incessant chatter wasn’t laced with promiscuities or profanities.  They weren’t being mean or catty.  In fact, they were coloring.  (I kid you not; one of them had a Disney coloring book.)  And they even threw out some “We’re from Utah!” jokes!

But it boils down to this: They were still cheerleaders.  Loud cheerleaders.  Excessively perky cheerleaders.  With unnaturally high-pitched voices.  Practicing synchronized clapping routines.  And secret handshakes.  On a night flight after a really, really long day.  Instead of sleeping, I had to listen to the one closest to me flirt with a young Marine while coloring in Simba.  You can’t make that ish up.

All the while my poor baby just stared at me with the most pitiful look that said, “Mommy I’m so tired but there’s just… so… much… clapping!”

This brings me back to Baby’s bad day.  I’m S!-U!-R!-E! that she’s C!-R!-A!-N!-K!-Y! because of those cheerleaders.  Yeah, 2 days later.  That kind of trauma stays with you.

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Brief Hiatus

13 Mar

Hi Readers,

You may have noticed I’m not posting quite as frequently as I used to.  Crazy how a baby seems to suck all the time out of a day, isn’t it?  Not to mention that simultaneously packing for a 10-day trip to Italy, a 3-week to trip to California, and a move to Japan has left me a little crazed.  In fact, I’m writing this at 6:25 AM because it seems the only moment I might have to myself before Elisabeth wakes off and we begin a very, very long day of traveling to Europe.

Which brings me to my point:  I’m going to Italy!  Woohoo!  By this time tomorrow I’ll be – well, I’ll be on a plane, but I’ll be thisclose to the land of gelato and vino.  Good news for me, bad news for my loyal readers who are all just dying for me to post again (as I’m sure you all are, right?)  I’ll be gone less than 10 days, but I don’t anticipate posting till I get back.  Just wanted to keep you updated:  I have not forgone blogging, life has just gotten in the way a bit.  I’ll be back to it soon.

Now, please wish me luck.  I have 3 plane rides and 18+ hours of traveling with the little one, and though she was an angel on her first rounds of flights, this is a whole other level.

Until next time, arriverderci!

Striding Along

28 Feb

My quads hurt.  They’ve hurt for days.  Don’t worry; it’s the good kind of hurt.  And it’s not just my quads; it’s my glutes, too.  And there’s a twinge in my triceps as well.   Why all the pain, you ask?  I’ll tell you: Stroller Strides.

Let me back up.

After E. was born, Doc said no exercise for six weeks, minimum.  I cheated a bit and snuck in a couple of easy elliptical workouts at around five weeks.  I had to.  I was crawling out of my flabby post-baby skin and needed to move.

At six weeks, I upgraded to the treadmill.  I left for the gym one day telling to whomever was watching Elisabeth (I honestly can’t remember), “I’m just going to do an easy 30-minute jog.  Be back soon!”  I was positively giddy at the prospect of running again, but as it had been six weeks since I had last run, I knew I had to take it slow.  A 30-minute jog would be just the thing.

Right.

I stepped on the treadmill and began walking to warm up.  I gradually increased my speed.  Within minutes of “running”, I was clutching the side of the treadmill to keep from falling off, gasping and panting and seeing stars, frantically punching the decrease speed button.  Decrease, decrease, DECREASE FASTER DAMN IT!   The treadmill speed slowed and I steadied my shaking legs, utterly confused.  WTF is going on with my body?  Then I remembered:  It hadn’t been only six weeks since my last run, it had been more like 4-5 months.  I had forgotten my whole run-less third trimester.  Whoops.

My easy 30-minute jog was out.  As it turns out, any consistent running was out.  The Californian in me doesn’t run outdoors when the temperature dips below 60 degrees, and the paranoid New Mom in me doesn’t leave her precious little baby girl in the sketchy gym daycare.  I needed to get in shape. What to do, what to do?

Thankfully, Stroller Strides entered my life.  On the recommendation of another mom, I checked out a class in early January.  All I knew of the program was that it was a workout group that met in the mall.  I went in thinking it was a bunch of women strolling their kids around the mall, chatting and window-shopping.  It probably wouldn’t be the greatest workout in the world, but heck, walking is better than nothing, right?  And if anything, it would be something social.  Couldn’t hurt.

Ohhhh I was sorely mistaken.  (See what I did there?)  Sure, there was walking.  Power walking.  And stair running.  And squats.  So many squats.  Not to mention bicep curls and tricep extensions and rows and grapevines and high knees and planks and oh so much more.  OK, maybe it wasn’t all that in that one particular class, but you get the idea.  I left tired and sweaty and happy.  (By the way, it’s only held in the mall during the winter months.)

The next day my body burned.  Just like it does today.  I’ve been Stroller Striding for about two months now, and I love it.  Every workout is different and challenging and allows for several modifications to meet your fitness needs, whether you’re recently postpartum or preggers or whatever.  One of the instructors (ahem, Caitlin) has an evil obsession with lunges.  Hence the sore quads and glutes.  And today’s core work KILLED me.  Where the heck are my abs???  Oh yeah, Elisabeth took them from me.  That’s okay though, because workouts like these will help me find them again.

I would highly, highly recommend Stroller Strides to any mom looking to get – or stay – in shape.  You can expect to get your heart pumping with cardio bursts, compound movements with exercise tubing, body weight exercises, etc. etc.  And just to remind you that you’re really working hard, the instructors make you sing to your kids during the workout.  Have you ever tried singing while doing squats with a bicep curl and military press?  Yeah, I didn’t think so.  (At least it’s helping me recall those lullabies I had forgotten.)

I’ll add that Stroller Strides is more than just a workout class.  There are running clubs, a program called Body Back for moms of all ages, field trips with the kiddos, social events for just the moms…  In fact, my first night out away from Elisabeth was a Stroller Strides “Mom’s Night Out”, and it was awesome.

So.  Awesome workouts.  Awesome women.  What are you waiting for?

If you live in the Norfolk area and want to check it out, you can do so here.

The national website is here.

Any other Stroller Striders out there?  What do you love about it?

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Lucy in the Sky with Diapers

19 Feb

You’ve already read about our road-trip adventure with Elisabeth Lucy.  But last month brought on a new travel challenge: Baby’s First Airplane Ride.

Everyone says this age is the best age to travel with kids.  Yet the prospect of bringing Baby on an airplane – by myself, mind you – lead to anxiety-induced insomnia.  No big deal, it’s not like I’m sleeping much anyway.

Our cab arrived at the lovely hour of 4:15 AM, and though I had all our items waiting by the front door (including the baby already harnessed in her car seat – go me!), it took approximately forever to load everything in the cab.  I thought we had a lot of crap on our road trip, but the luggage required for the baby and me (a chronic over-packer) for over a week away was, well, excessive.

Being confined in a small space up in the air constituted a whole separate set of packing needs.  The terrifying thought of E. pooping all over herself and me while trapped in the middle seat between two mean baby-haters clouded my packing judgment.  I stuffed the diaper bag to capacity with extra diapers, extra wipes, extra outfits, extra blankets, extra burp clothes, and just in case, more extra diapers.  In addition to this 1000-lb diaper bag, my carry-ons alone included: a stroller, car seat, purse, sweater, coat, Moby wrap and baby.  Yes, I’m counting Elisabeth as a carry-on since I had to haul that chunky monkey around with everything else.  Now, what did I forget?  Ah, extra clothes for ME!  That error did not affect me till our return trip, but it is not a mistake I will make again.  More on that later.

Anyway.  After exiting the cab and surveying the monstrous amount of luggage I had to get all of 20 feet inside to the ticket counter, I panicked.  It is not physically possible for one human with only two hands to handle all this luggage by herself!  Not possible, I say!  Okay, it is in fact possible, but it is difficult.  Here is how it breaks down:  Baby in car seat.  Car seat in stroller.  Diaper bag in stroller storage area.  Duffel bag on top of suitcase.  Purse on shoulder.  Suitcase/duffel in left hand (thank goodness for swivel suitcases!).  Stroller/car seat in right hand.  Go.

Somehow, I managed to plough into only two or three unsuspecting travelers while maneuvering to the ticket counter.  Not too bad, considering.  But after checking in, I faced an obstacle even more daunting than before: security checkpoint.  I knew this moment was coming.  I dreaded this moment.  I was going to be that girl who holds up the entire line; it was inevitable.  I looked down at my feet and cursed myself for wearing my tall boots.  Argh!  These boots take FOREVER to take off!  My mind raced as I frantically tried to determine the most efficient way to screen my stuff.  Diaper bag first?  Or stroller?  Stroller, definitely stroller.  But I need to take the diaper bag out of the storage basket first.  And oh yeah, take the car seat off.  And take the baby out of the car seat!  THE BABY!  What am I supposed to do with the baby?!   Oh the drama!  I felt the eyes of impatient travelers burning into my back as I struggled to fold the stroller with one hand, baby in the other, bags piled across the entire screening table.  I glanced timidly behind with a Please Feel Sorry For Me look, when I realized with glee that there was virtually no line behind me!  It was a miracle!

A TSA agent kindly assisted me with the stroller-folding struggle (this is the same finicky stroller featured in the Target debacle), but not before commenting, “That baby sure likes to eat!”  Thank you, Captain Obvious.  Given that I’m the one that feeds her, I was aware of that fact.  I brushed his remark aside for the sake of my stroller, and managed to eventually get through security.  Another agent began to help gather my things and  commented on my delightful sleeping baby.  I welled with pride at my perfect child before he asked, “Where are you going?”

“California,” I responded happily.

“Ha.  Good luck with that,” he scoffed.  My brief moment of happiness vanished as I realized I still had about eight hours of travel time ahead of me, the trauma of the morning only constituting a tiny portion of my day.  Shoot.

I had futilely tried to schedule E.’s feedings around when we would get take-off and land, having learned that nursing during those times would help alleviate any ear pain she might suffer from the pressure.  Of course E. had other ideas, and woke up fussy and hungry as soon as we got to our gate.  No!  My schedule!  Since I couldn’t very well starve my child, I fed her, my anxiety mounting at the thought of the moment when Elisabeth, unwilling to eat, would burst into screams as soon as the plane took off.

I couldn’t worry too much about that, though, as I had to worry about actually getting onto the plane.  Sure, I had gotten through security successfully, but getting onto the plane itself was a different problem entirely,  with narrow aisles and passenger elbows to consider.  Not to mention I was flying Southwest, with it’s open seating policy.  I knew I would waste precious minutes folding the damn stroller at the door, losing my coveted A boarding spot as passengers callously bypassed me into the plane.  I was right.  Luckily the flight wasn’t full, so I got to bring the car seat on, which was a mixed blessing.  I got to stick E. in the seat for the duration of the flight (good), but I had to carry her in it down the plane aisle along with the 1000-1b diaper bag and all the other carry-ons previously mentioned (bad).  Newsflash: Babies in car seats are heavy.  Especially babies that like to eat a lot.

After doing shoulder presses down the aisle with the car seat, I found a seat and collapsed, with sore arms and defeated spirit – still 7 1/2 hours to go.  But E. crashed hard!  My fears of traveling with an infant were completely unfounded; she was a complete angel and slept the entire flight.

We did have a plane change in Chicago, where I had to repeat the traumatic boarding process.  This time, the flight was full, so I had to check the car seat.  While it was lovely losing the extra weight, I had to sit with E. on my lap the whole flight.  I chose to sit behind a family with 3 little daughters, reasoning that if E. should scream the whole time, they would at least be sympathetic.  Well, she was an angel again.  Sure, she was awake a bit more than I would have liked, but she charmed the pants off the other passengers.  When a tattooed, beer-bellied older man is making ga-ga faces at your baby, you know you’ve lucked out in the kid department.

So we arrived in San Francisco in tact, if exhausted.

The return flight went almost as seamlessly, except for the luggage situation.  I predict that as long as I’m traveling with a baby, the luggage situation will never go seamlessly.  Regardless, Elisabeth fell asleep before we left the house for the airport, and just kept on sleeping.   On the first flight we shared the row with a woman (a mom) who I am convinced saw the baby and me and asked to sit next to us in a most selfless and kind act.  I am 100% certain she thought to herself, “If that baby poops all over the place, I can handle it, but that bachelor/businessman behind me can’t, so I’ll take one for the team.”  I will forever be grateful to her, because Elisabeth did in fact poop all over the place.  The benevolent lady was unfazed, and even offered to help.

I had thought to bring an extra shirt for myself should this sort of thing happen, but hadn’t considered bringing extra pants.  Mom fail.  I guess sitting through several hours of flight time in poop-covered jeans is some sort of mom-initiation.  Of course this diaper malfunction occurred during a time of turbulence with the fasten seat belt sign oh-so-brightly illuminated.  Damn!  I couldn’t get up!  I didn’t want to be that person who got called out by the flight attendants over the loudspeaker!  How mortifying!

Then I remembered that I was sitting in poop-covered jeans, with a poop-covered baby, and decided that the situation was already fairly mortifying.  So I bucked the rules, undid my seat belt and brazenly made my way to the bathroom. Who knew motherhood would inspire such rebellion!

We made it through the rest of that flight, and the next, without incident.  Without consciousness, in Elisabeth’s case, as she didn’t deign to wake for anything except the feedings I forced on her.  Of course, the second we touched down in Norfolk E. woke up, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and ready to face the day.  Excuse me – ready to face the night.  It was 11:45 PM.  Note to self: Do not take flights that land at 11:45 PM if traveling with a baby.  Not only was I up all day, I was to be up all night as well.

In my haste to get off the plane and home into my bed, I forgot my Moby wrap in the overhead compartment bin.  Not the Moby wrap!  After changing Elisabeth in the airport bathroom, I realized my mistake and ran (as much as one can run overloaded with a baby and all her gear) back to the gate.  It was too late.  As we were the last flight in for the night, everything had been shut down and locked up.  I had to face it, the Moby wrap was gone.  I shed a tear, and then proceeded to get lost on the way to the baggage claim.  I somehow ended up in the wrong BUILDING.  So there I was, wearied by traveled, encumbered with bags, and lost in a completely empty airport after midnight.  Note to pregnant friends: DO NOT BE LIKE ME.

Naturally thoughts of ax-murderers entered my head, but I had to remain calm for the sake of my child.  Luckily, I did not get ax-murdered, and managed to make my way to the correct building with the help of an airport employee.  At least, I hoped she was an airport employee.

All in all, I couldn’t have asked for a better traveling baby, though I will schedule my flight times differently in the future.  Our next trip is to Italy next month.  I can only hope Elisabeth will hold up as well as she did this trip.  If she doesn’t, at least Grandma will be there to take her off my hands!

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My Pinterest Problem

30 Jan

Several months ago after lamenting my lack of craftiness, my friend Kate (Crafty Kate!) insisted I join Pinterest. So I did. And then did absolutely nothing with my account. The concept was way over my head. WTF is a pin? You have bulletin boards? Online? I didn’t get it. And I was too pregnant and tired to care.

Fast-forward to a few weeks ago. My friend Kim (Crafty Kim!) was visiting me the baby, and in the rare moment spent not admiring my beautiful baby girl, gave me a Pinterest tutorial. All of a sudden it clicked. Ohhhh, Pinterest is a site to collect decor ideas, recipes, fashion trends, etc. that I will never, ever use. Genius!

I was hooked. During those painfully early hours in the morning spent nursing when nobody is posting on Facebook, Pinterest is a great time-passer. And unlike Words With Friends, I can’t lose to my brother on Pinterest. Those 3 AM feedings suddenly seemed a bit brighter. It didn’t take long for me to realize how completely Pinterest is ruining my life. Here’s why:

1) A few nights ago the baby woke me up at around 3:30 AM. Feeding her with iPad at my side, I scrolled and pinned, pinned, pinned. Once the baby was satiated, I put her to bed and continued to pin, pin, pin. Wait, what? What chronically sleep-deprived new mom sacrifices any precious moment of sleep to PIN? At 4:00 AM, no less!? This gal. Conclusion: Pinterest has made me insane.

2) I am way to OCD for this website.  I can’t just open the page, casually peruse the latest pins and then shut down.  Oh, no.  I must pin every single insignificant little pin that catches my eye.  Coffee cake muffins.  Cinnamon glazed donut muffins.  Pumpkin chocolate chip muffins.  The muffins are endless!  And how about that leopard-print dress that someone I don’t know and don’t know how I’m following pinned?  I’ll never wear it, but heck, it has a cute trim so I’ll repin.  Why not?  This leads me to excessive and irrational time-wasting, as mentioned in #1.  Not to mention that the incessant pinning makes me reexamine my existing boards.  After pinning a bizillion or so recipes, my “Get In My Tummy” board will no longer suffice.  I’ll need separate appetizer, main course, and dessert boards.  And I can’t just have a “Baby” board.  I will need a “Baby clothes” board and a “Baby decor” board.  No matter that I already have a perfectly decorated nursery.  Once again, Pinterest is takes over my life.  It also leads to another Pinterest problem.  Please continue reading.

3) The likelihood that I actually implement any of my pins – whether a DIY project, a recipe, or party theme – whatever! – is slim to none. Who has the time, money, or calories? Or in Crafty Kim’s case, 17 bedrooms to implement all the nursery ideas she’s pinned? (Sidenote: she’s pregnant. She’s not just obsessed with nurseries.) I certainly don’t! I barely have time to shower, but I’m going to repaint a vintage dresser? Hah! (Yet I do find the time to pin the painted vintage dresser and seven others just like it. Evil, evil website.)

4) Pinterest is crushing my self-esteem. Even if I did have the time to attempt any of the cute crafty ideas or delicious recipes, I know in my heart I would absolutely fail. Those pretty decoupage coasters would end up a lumpy, glue-y mess. Homemade campfire bars would wind up with more marshmallow in my hair than in the dessert.  Yet I can’t stop, distracted and disillusioned by pretty pictures, filled with false hope that someday I can be a craft queen, that I can sew that gorgeous dress.  Then in a devastating blow to my self-esteem, I remember that I can’t sew a button.

Pinterest is Internet crack.  It’s self-destructive and soul-crushing, but I must. keep. pinning.  Someone send help.

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Lullabies and Lady Gaga

16 Jan

One of my chief concerns as a new mom was whether I was doing enough to properly stimulate and aid little Lucy’s development.  How do you “play” with a newborn?  Well, all the literature and websites and nurses and doctors said basically the same thing: all you need to do is cuddle, talk to and sing to your baby.  Hold up.  I’m supposed to sing?  Cuddling and talking, I’ve got down.  Singing?  Not so much.  In fact, I’m pretty sure that singing to the baby will actually be detrimental to her upbringing and impair any future musical ability she may possess.

But everything says it doesn’t matter if I can’t carry a tune – singing is good for her anyway.  I find that questionable, given the pained look that overcame Elisabeth the first time I crooned a tune.   But I figured I should keep trying, just in case the literature and websites and nurses and doctors happen to be  right.

Problem: I cannot remember any lullabies.  None.  Children songs and nursery rhymes have been crowded out by Lady Gaga lyrics and mindless movie quotes; I can still rap the Fresh Prince of Bel Air theme song, but I can’t recall the words to Rock-A-Bye Baby.  Mom Fail.  Although come to think of it, perhaps it’s a good thing I can’t remember Rock-A-Bye Baby, as I believe it is about a child getting blown out of a tree in his cradle and likely plummeting to his death.  How exactly is that an appropriate children’s song?

Over the holidays I turned to Christmas carols.  Well, 2 carols:  Silent Night and Away in the Manger.  Those were the only two I could think of.  (I think Pregnancy Brain has transformed into New Mom Brain.)  I’d rock Elisabeth, humming and singing these carols, leading me to wonder as I stared adoringly at my baby: did baby Jesus also have baby acne?  Such profound questions seriously distracted me from my musical priorities, so I had to shelve the Christmas carols.

I reckoned that any music would be beneficial for her growth and development, whether sung by me or Adele.  Adele happens to be a favorite of the Pandora “Lullaby” station, so Elisabeth has heard a lot of Adele.  And she’s not complaining!  However, the “Lullaby” station leaves something to be desired.  Since when were Taio Cruz and Rhianna songs considered lullabies?  Whatever happened to Twinkle Twinkle Little Star?

Frustrated by the dearth of actual lullabies on Pandora, I turned to the iTunes store.  A search of “lullabies” turned up the most interesting albums.  Did you know that there is an entire album of lullaby renditions of Journey?  I found another album that included lullaby renditions of Guns N’ Roses, Lady Gaga and Metallica, to name a few.  Forget Twinkle Twinkle Little Star!  However creepy the instrumental version of Enter Sandman may be, I was inspired!

The next time I found myself needing to comfort Elisabeth with song, I turned to what I know best: Bon Jovi.

Baby’s reaction?  She cried.

But I’m pretty sure they were tears of joy.

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