In Photos—Newborn vs. 1 Year

Once again, my beautiful wonderful insanely talented generous and sweet sister took some pictures of my family. We thought it'd be fun to recreate the photo that forms the banner for this blog; the "zen" photo that looks so peaceful and happy and calm and, I mean, zen. 

We had some fun. The differences between then and now?

A year ago, we took probably an hour or more to set up and take the photos. My daughter was just a few days old and sleeping so much that I'd have to wake her (and keep her awake) for breastfeeding. I remember, when guests were over, running away to my bedroom to nurse her because I had to nudge her and play with her cheeks and move around so much to keep her awake to properly feed. And that's awkward when you're sitting next to your father-in-law, udder cover or not.

This year? It was not so zen. Hurry up, take the pictures before she crawls (or cruises, or takes a step) away. Hurry up and snap it before she...oh. Yeah, that's my mouth.

And my nose.

We did get some beautiful shots, though.

The main difference between this year and last? When we took those first photos, I thought I knew how this was going to go. I knew how I'd be as a mom and I was going to be great. I knew my baby would be wonderful and I would keep loving her more than I ever thought possible and all the answers to all the parenting questions in the world would come to me naturally. I wouldn't get PPD because I'm healthy and everything has gone so well and my life is wonderful. 

Surprise.

Some of those things are true. Some of them are not. But mostly, I'm happier knowing that I don't know shit. I don't know how I'm going to be when my daughter goes through the million phases that make up a young life. 

Another difference? My hair is a lot shorter and I'm no longer wearing a nose ring. Both consequences of my daughter's curiosity and need to grab everything she can reach. You do what you have to do.

I am not always zen. It's great to aspire to that, and maybe I am relatively zen, but the most peace I get these days is from knowing that I don't know what I'm doing, but I'm doing a good job. I get the most zen from knowing that my daughter is happy. Now she's waking up. Excuse me while I grab the coffee I left in the microwave an hour ago.

A Happy Way to Be Sad About the End of the First Year

Though I was probably the most rested I've been on a work day in a long time, I had none of my usual makeup on, my hair was a mess, and I wasn't even sure I was dressed.

I may or may not have left homemade deep-dish pizza where my dogs can reach (and eat) it. My alarm didn't go off. My phone was dead. I woke up 50 minutes late. I had gone to bed almost 2 hours earlier than I usually do. I slept almost as long as my 1-year-old did. It was gloriously un-fabulous. Just needed.


I meant to write last night, before sleep took me. My husband encouraging me to just go to sleep is what really did it. It was hard for me to ignore the dishes in the sink, the dirty floors, the dinner unmade, the groceries in the car.

I meant to write about what a shitty day I'd had. I traced my mood back to shopping at Target. Great deals on baby clothes this time of year. I saw outfits in green with little white shamrocks on them reading "My first St. Patrick's Day."

And I cried. I cried because I already have my daughter's first St. Patrick's Day outfit, and especially because she's already worn it. Last year. I remember getting it as a gift from my in-laws and thinking she'd never be big enough to wear it. She's long outgrown it now.

I've never wished for a time back so hard; and especially not a time so recent. It was only 9 months ago. That makes me happy, a little, in that now my past consists of more things I'm proud of, more happy memories, more joy.



I wasn't myself with my daughter after that moment in Target last night. We were downtrodden. We had a rough day, both of us.

I gave people nasty looks in the parking lot and hurried as much as I could. I got home and fed my daughter dinner of blueberries and reheated deep-dish pizza. Mom of the year.

She laughed a little. She loves cheese. I got my saddest realizing that her first birthday marked the end of a year of firsts. She would never again have a first holiday; she wasn't my baby anymore, suddenly, and I could never get that time back. She then, like so many times in the last year, taught me something without saying a word. Her joy at tasting the pizza showed me that, if we're lucky, this is just the beginning. That though she's had her first Christmas, she has yet to make a list for Santa. Though she's had her first teeth come up, she hasn't had her first run-in with the tooth fairy.

And I smiled. It's easy to be sad about your baby's first year coming to an end, but it's better to be excited for so many firsts that aren't marked by a too-cute Target outfit. Better to be present for the little things, like a first taste of Chicago-style pizza. Better to hope that she has a lifetime full of firsts, that she's never too old to try something new. I hope she smiles every time like she smiled about that pizza.


I didn't leave the pizza out like I'd thought; the dogs didn't eat it. I didn't have a terrible day once I looked at it a little differently, and once I took the time to be present with my daughter's smile. My hair is still a mess. I'm not sure what I'm wearing. Makeup? Ha. But I'm smiling, now, too.

Moms and Cupcakes

I sat in the planning meeting with some brilliant women, only two of us having young children. The other younger mother said, "We should do cupcakes because schools frown upon bringing a whole cake as a treat...all the cutting and serving. Moms do cupcakes."

I'd been at the food magazine for about two years and my daughter was just over six months old. I hadn't known that about moms and cupcakes.

The conversation continued along the lines of guessing at what moms make and want to make for their children's birthday treats.

I didn't contribute much. All I could think was, "I don't want to be here talking about what moms do, I want to be at home doing those things."

I couldn't shake it.



I have so much to tell you.

I can't believe I haven't blogged about it at length yet, but I left that job. I was an editor, and oh, man, was that fun. It just wasn't right anymore. It didn't work with my life as a mom.

It wasn't a job I could leave at the office, which is funny, because it wasn't like I was saving lives. I was providing entertainment (and recipes) to the masses. But every time I cooked, every time I thought about or talked about or ate food, I thought of work.

That didn't work with my life as a mom.

Everyone at the magazine was so supportive of my leaving. I was shocked. Many said, "You're so lucky to be able to work part-time." And this is true. And while I have a hard time taking credit for some things, I have to allow myself the credit of being brave enough to leave a full-time paycheck for a part-time one. I have to allow myself that because part of me still feels a little like I failed at being a working mom.

Just before my last day at the old job, I confided in my sister. "I'm scared. I'm worried about money. Would I be a better mom to bring in more money and security for my daughter or a better mom to be at home and spend more time with her?"

My sister laughed and said, "Don't even worry about it. If the math works out, you'll adjust. You just can't shop at Anthropologie anymore."

(I have to tell you that I only used to shop Anthropologie SALE items, but yeah, I have cut that shit out.)

I know some women who define themselves as stay-at-home moms who happen to have a part-time job. I know some women who work part-time and define themselves as working moms.

It's been said before because it's true: Every mom is a working mom. Yes, some have it harder than others. Single moms who detest leaving their babies every day and work through postpartum depression without a father in the picture have it incredibly harder than moms who choose to work because they recharge at work and feel they add value to their families and the world at large by working. And the mom who stays at home and doesn't have to work because her husband makes a lot of money and abuses his family? See? It's pointless to compare experiences of motherhood. I'm sick of even writing about this.

I'm making my life–and my motherhood–what I want it to be, or it least it feels like that today. And today, I'm going to hold onto that and I'm going to be happy.

Now, I'm working at a nonprofit balancing two departments on a part-time schedule. It's been working out great. It's closer to home, it abuts a nature conservancy which just brings peace to my heart when I look out the windows and see grassland and water and turkeys. And today, I heard back about a posting my new company had made seeking a proofreader. It seems they're all on board (fingers crossed) with my taking on proofreading responsibilities, which is oddly fun for me. It looks like I may be able to shape this job into something I love and am really good at. (I'm great at proofreading except when it comes to blog posts. I swear. Don't judge. It's a blog forcryingoutloud.)


I haven't made cupcakes since I quit, but I've been playing with my daughter, managing our budget, grocery shopping with the elderly in the afternoons and baking lots of bread and cookies. Does that count?

How to Feel Grateful for Everything You Have

Yep, I'm talking about material things here.

Maybe you're like me and you feel grateful pretty regularly for the things that really matter: your loving husband, your healthy children, your ability to laugh through the shit and baby food flung around your used-to-be-clean house.

And maybe you're also like me (and the rest of America, I think) in that it's never enough. I'm talking material shit here, people. There's always something more: the next piece of jewelry that's just classic and essential and why haven't you spent at least $1,000 on your solitaire earrings yet? The next wardrobe piece that you'll want to drop $350 on because you'll wear it, like, forever, with anything, but you won't because let's all agree you can find a knockoff deal somewhere. The next stainless steel appliance. The next tablet or iPhone or smart watch or whatever the hell they're inserting chips and internet connections into now.


I've found (sadly, this is revelation-quality shit to me right now) that I'm so much more appreciative of the things (people I'm being shallow today so get over it) I have when they're clean. I can knock off the voice that wants more when I appreciate everything around me.

The one stainless steel appliance in my kitchen looks awesome when it's not covered in tiny fingerprints and milk drippings. At least I think it's milk.

The 1998 Corian countertop still looks pretty bangin when it's glistening-white (when the lights are dim I can pretend it's quartz).

The proportionately large bedroom (large compared to the rest of our home) feels like a luxury retreat without the piles of laundry and diapers and wipes and books and hangers lying around.

The office/guest bedroom feels cozy and cerebral when the focus can be on the stuffed bookcase instead of on the piles of papers and holiday gift bags and envelopes I cleaned out.

Secret: I clean like a pro when I've had a glass of wine. Whatever.

It's all the same underneath; no major renovations up here on the main level. It's just clean. Appreciated.  Taken care of. It took me days of sneaky-quiet cleaning while my daughter naps to get to this point. It's not easy when you're responsible for a little person (or two or three) sharing your home, but it's worth it. I promise it's worth it.

What Keeps Me Zen: Washing Dishes

When I was a kid, a really little one, I wanted so badly to be tall enough to reach over the faux butcher-block laminate counter and into the kitchen sink (see? really little) just so that I could do the dishes and, therefore, be a mommy. That was the dream. The very early dream.


Though it would've been lovely to bypass the labor and delivery thing, by number of dishes done alone I'm sure I could be initiated into the mommy club. My dishes are on parade, like in Beauty and the Beast, except they're not getting washed. Just marching, dirty one by nasty one, into the sink, where they pile up and wait for me.

Image: disneyscreencaps.com

And I wait. I procrastinate, usually, when it comes to dishes, but an article about the zen in doing the dishes has encouraged me to embrace the chore. There IS something zen about the white noise of running water, the scent of the favorite dish soap I picked out as a little treat to myself (sad, but true, that this amounts to a treat in motherhood). Something zen about the fact that the phone absolutely cannot be near me, that I'm accomplishing something, that I'm getting the kitchen back to a clean state, in which I can cook anything.

Even if I don't cook everything.

Even if I'm scrubbing a 13x9 charred with the remains of failed French fries. (I totally sliced up a potato, popped it in the oven and called it a French fry. I even *almost* photographed it before it went in the oven, thinking, "oh yeah, this is going to be delicious." Nope.)

I scrub and stare at the yellowing leaves on the almost-ancient maple outside my kitchen window.

Even if I'm washing all of the clean pots and pans that have been sitting idle in the cupboard, on the chance that they were pooped on by the little mouse who took residence, and ultimately met his end, in the kitchen this week.

I know I'm not the only one who does her best thinking over a sink full of suds—the challenge is getting started. Finding the motivation to begin the task. Ultimately, though, I can't tell you how many blog posts could start with, "So I was washing the dishes, and thinking…"

I wish I could tell really-little me to slow down, that motherhood will come eventually, to enjoy the days of not being able to see over the sink. But I'll settle for telling my daughter.

What Keeps Me Zen: Talking to My Plants

OK—this is crazy. And it certainly comes off that way when you're picking at a plant's dead leaves and softly saying, "Positive thoughts, man. You grow from positivity and warmth."

But you know what? It actually feels good to talk to your plants.

Some background: I've never, ever been good at keeping plants. I somehow fuck up the (supposedly) easy task of getting them the right combination of sunlight, water and...well, that's it. And now that I realize it's only two things (two!) I feel even sadder about it.

And I swear I'm not superstitious. But for our two-year dating anniversary, my now-husband got me a money tree. It was a sweet gift. I don't know why he chose the money tree, but they're pretty. They typically braid the trunk like bamboo and the rest grows green and lush if you're lucky.

I killed that money tree. Must've been either the water or the light. Right? I replaced the money tree (partially out of a mild belief in a superstition that our personal finances are tied to the well-being of this particular species of plant...keyword: superstition. Like I said, crazy.)

So what do I do? I talk to the money tree. Remembering something I read about saying happy words around plants, I tried to verbally coerce the money tree into being super healthy and robust in the hopes that we would be, in the words of Parks & Rec's Jean Ralphio, "Fu-luuuushh with caAaAayyysh."

But in the process I learned that really, saying things like, "You're growing, your leaves are beautiful, I hope you feel good today," to no one but a plant actually feels pretty good. Maybe with the right combination of sunlight, water and positive thinking, we'll all be alright.

Oh, and this plant? It's doing awesome.

photo credit: origami_potato via photopin cc

Save Money on Decor: DIY

I GOT CRAFTY.

Seriously. This happened.
(This never happens.) You can do it, too.

Step 1: See this piece of art at Target.

Step 2: Want this piece of art from Target.

Step 3: Tell your husband you want it and then realize you've been spending way too much money at Target.

Step 4: Walk away.

Step 5: Find a crate. Any old crate.

Step 6: Tear apart the crate. Carefully. (I started trying to take this crate apart with a jigsaw. Ha. It scared me, all vibrating and whizzing and sharp and all. I put the jigsaw away. Then I stepped on one part while pulling another part away. This worked. I was not injured.)

Step 7: Staple pieces together with a staple gun.

Step 8: Paint the back side for practice.

Step 9: Paint the front for reals.

Step 10: Love and hang. (I haven't finished the "hang" part yet, but I'll update when I do.)

And you just saved $30. That's a lotta baby food.

A few notes about the lettering: I used the end of a flathead screwdriver to paint the lettering. Not sure I'd recommend it, but it works in a pinch.
See the yellow post-it there next to "most?" I used that bad boy as a kind of ruler for size reference, so that the block lettering would be an (almost) uniform size.

Now go on, get crafty! What phrase would you paint on something like this?

10 Ways My Baby Made Motherhood Amazing Last Night

1. The way her feet tuck under her bum.
2. The way the feet of her footie pajamas are empty even though they fit perfectly, because her feet are tucked so close and so neatly.
3. The way this is how she lied in my womb.
4. The way this is how she was always comfortable.
5. The way this is how she was always perfect.
6. The way there's nothing that can take this moment away from me, staring into my daughter's room as she sleeps.
7. The way I'm resisting using heart emojis because I'm challenging myself to find the words.
8. The way there aren't words.
9. The way there never may be.
10. The way that's the most beautiful thing about being a mother, the way you can never know it until you feel it, the unspeakable. The silence. The love. My eyes close and stay closed. I've never needed so little sleep and never wanted so much of it.

What Keeps Me Zen: Early Bedtimes

I never, ever thought I'd be a mom who put her baby to bed super early and planned her life accordingly.

I remember rolling my eyes and mocking women who said they couldn't bring their child somewhere for fear of screwing up their routine.

Now, I know that fear. I know it well.

As the mother of a 6-month-old, I appreciate that routine as one of the things keeping me sane. Zen on a really good day. Her 8-o-clock bedtime allows me to unwind a little before bed. Have a glass of wine, even. Relax with my husband.

Tonight, I sat through less than one inning at the Milwaukee Brewers game (Lana's first). We had an adorably sweet old woman who was taken with Lana take our photo with the certificate that they gave us surprisingly unceremoniously.

I was home by 8:20. Lana was not happy. But she got to bed just an hour past bedtime. Not too bad.

So here I am, should-be-sleeping mama, typing away at her blog.

Should I blog when baby blogs?

I really do love blogging, though, guys. I have to encourage you all to start blogging if you have even the slightest inclination to do it. What's the worst that can happen? You create a new hobby for yourself that costs nothing?

That wasn't the point of this post. Anyway, you get the bedtime thing. The fear. The wonder that is a successful bedtime.

Not-the-mamas, bear with us. If you're really feeling nice (like I was not), save the eye-rolls.