Boring Stuff Only Moms Care About: The Babysitter Continuum

A recent comment from one of you kind readers - Mom Brain prevents me from remembering which one, so please raise your hand - reminded me of the unexpected hijinks involved in finding a babysitter. Or babysitters, I should say, because it turns out that your sitters will insist on having things like boyfriends and real jobs and lives that continue even when they are not watching your wee precious darling. 

Hmmph.

File it under "The Many Things I Didn't Consider Pre-Baby", but I was surprised how difficult it was to find a sitter once the Anonymous Husband & I were ready for one (two). I figured between our church and living in a family-infested neighborhood, we'd magically have a bevy of virtuous, CPR-certified young applicants lined up around the block.

One internet posting - yes, there are sitter sites for this very purpose - and much hand-wringing later, I interviewed and hired who I considered to be the ideal sitter candidate - what I like to call Step 1 on the Babysitter Continuum. Here's the process as I understand it so far:

Babysitter Continuum

1) Undergraduate education at a minimum, preferably in a child related field, fluent in Mandarin and Spanish, Nobel Laureate preferred, extensive experience, stellar references, cute but not in that hi-husband-your-marriage-is-toast sense, CPR certified, arrives on time if not early, has own transportation. Oh, also - good with baby. 

(Stop laughing - I'm kidding about the Mandarin)(Though that would be nice, of course)(Parentheses)

Yeah, so candidate #1 lasted all of three weeks before being hired away due to being wildly overqualified. Sigh. Moving to Step 2:

2) Friend of friend with extensive sitting experience, her own transportation, and seems nice enough. Also, good with baby.

Sounds fairly simple, right? Yet I'm told this lasts a mere few months before reaching Step 3:

3) Has pulse and unlikely to set child on fire. 

I'm happy to report that the Pretty family is somewhere between Steps 1 & 2 at the moment. I've given up some of our more absurd stringent resume requirements and am learning, slowly, that a quality sitter doesn't necessarily need a fancy paper pedigree. We have two kind, lovely sitters in rotation now, both of whom I feel safe leaving darling Master P with, and that, as Her Highness Oprah says, is a good thing.

That being said - if you're in the market to babysit, I have a cabinet stocked with junk food & a DVR full of the televised equivalent. Bonus points for Mandarin, but...

The Mom Reaction

We've devoted no small amount of time here at the Pretty to what We - yes, the Royal We will be in effect for the whole of the royal wedding week - look like, most recently in our attempts to get our Operation MILF behind in gear.

On the flip side, I'm discovering that there's a Mom Reaction others give me when I'm out & about with Master P. It's less cut and dry than the Smug Married Genuflection I've discussed here before - to review, that's the once-over young married women give one another that inevitably goes (1) Hair; (2) Shoes; (3) Engagement Ring; (4) Handbag (with emphasis on step #3).

I may have to re-title my tagline ". . . ever so slightly more blonde than nature intended."

First & foremost, I've been surprised with how many more people approach me when I'm out with Master P. I'm not sure what I had expected - the given, visible horror of airline passengers seated next to a baby, perhaps, or at very least the "If I don't make eye contact that mom won't sit next to me lalalala I'm not heeere" Southwest Airlines tactic.

On the contrary, apparently babies are the gateway drug to small talk, and here I'd been thinking it was vodka this whole time .  . . in any event, this new conversational prop is a welcome development for me, a recovering introvert. 

The Mom Reaction isn't as easily divided along gender lines as I would have suspected - while a few more women gurgle in Master P's direction than the men, it isn't by much. 

And if you're guessing that it's the women who follow up the Mom Reaction with offers to assist with things like getting the stroller through a store entrance - no small feat, by the way - you'd generally be wrong. While there have been a few incredibly kind women - generally of grandmother look & age - who go out of the way not only to coo but also to help, it's the menfolk who are doing the literal heavy lifting. They look with less interest than they once did, but with more chivalry; though I miss the former in my weaker moments, the former more than makes up for it most days. 

As for the men in the non-chivalrous minority, their reaction can only be described as "flight" - their furtive darting down the nearest, b-a-b-y free aisle is nothing short of comical. I want to reassure them, "It's ok; I'm almost positive the baby isn't yours," except that my approach would only guarantee further panic in Aisle 10.

Lest you think it's only those few boys darting away from the b-a-b-y, a few of you ladies are also very visibly afraid. It's ok - I was there a few years ago myself. I promise to try & not laugh as you look at Master P as if pregnancy might be contagious.

Overall, it must be said that I've been happily surprised by all of this. Though it threatens my lifelong philosophy of not liking people a great deal, I admit this mom business is softening my rough edges a bit, social graces included.

(Emphasis on "a bit" - I still enjoy the terrified look in a fellow passengers' eyes as Master P & I board a plane. If only they knew I'm more scared than they...)

Taking a Royal (-ly Silly) Stand

The need to identify oneself as "for" or "against" something or someone seems to gain traction every now and again here in the Blogosphere - for example, you're either entirely for or against the President, and then there was that tete-a-tete involving a certain clothing brand Lilly Pulitzer here in Port au Prep . Maybe it's just the mommy blog / mommy blogger conventions / mommy blog takeover I see mention of now that I'm a mommy myself. Whatever the reason, it seems as though the pressure to "brand yourself" as a blogger, be it a Prep, stay-at-home-mom, Democrat, etc. is alive and well.

It's not just us naughty bloggers, either - witness the enthusiasm civilian people put into cataloging their interests in places like Facebook, "I Change Diapers!" being my recent favorite. There's a drive shared by blogger & non-blogger alike to wear certain interests on your web sleeve, as it were.

It takes me back to those storied junior high years, when young (ahem) ladies were forced to keep actual written diaries vs. the glorified digital versions we now keep here on the internet. Back then, I lived to Brand myself, to let the world - as defined by my family, a few friends, and dreamy Matt in Pre-Algebra - know where I definitively stood on vitally important topics such as the environment (yes) and Christian Slater (yes times pi)(whatever that is)(someone may have been reading "Sweet Valley High" under her desk during Pre-Algebra)(Parentheses).

My yet-to-be published memoir cover - as created & written in the 7th grade, that is. Apparently I stood for the environment and pre-crazy Tom Cruise. Yes, my parents remain proud.

Having grown up a smidge since then, there aren't as many things I see in black & white anymore, hence my usual hesitation to enter the occasional blogosphere quibble. There are the Pretty fundamentals about which I will say my piece, of course - my faith, thank you notes, my membership in the Tory Burch cult of leather goods, for starters. Otherwise, I fancy myself old mature enough to know what I like, to acknowledge that I may be wrong* & many won't agree, and have little interest in adding to the drama over whose preference reigns supreme.
*Unless in reference to the Crocs issue, because . . . no. I'm right.

In short, I don't miss junior high - at  all, though I never met a "Saved By the Bell" rerun I didn't adore. Fake junior high I miss.

There comes a time, however, when a blogger must choose a team. One can only remain on the sidelines for so long while one's heartfelt beliefs are being bandied about on Twitter like so many fascinator feathers (hint: foreshadowing).

Let me make it clear: I'm a feminist, albeit one of the pearl-wearing sort, who's also an ardent believer in stuff like representative democracy and tradition only within reason. I harbor no illusions of being nor desire to be an actual princess, frequent overuse of the Royal "We" notwithstanding.

Photo credit: Simon Spicer, with thanks to the IWOM for sending this utterly perfect card.

I am also . . . on Team Royal Wedding. There, I said it!

I, Pretty, - the one who was up at 3 am not long ago, quite involuntarily, thanks to dear Master P - have programmed my DVR & am considering setting the alarm & the Keurig for that same time this Friday. I, a person allergic to collectible anything (books & shoes don't count, because I said so), am awaiting a shipment of the tackiest royal wedding "tat" pounds can buy from my dear UK-based friend, the International Woman of Mystery.

Fire away, Team #icouldntcareless, but this Episcopalian never met a Pomp nor a Circumstance she didn't adore, fancy-pants weddings especially included. Or much involving England, for that matter, but my Anglophilia aside - it's just a compelling love story. Royals or no, that just doesn't get old to this Austen fan. A hard news story? Not even remotely, but I'll take this felicitous distraction over the usual La Lohan fluff.

So let's live & let watch, or not. Besides, it's an improvement over the Christian Slater years - right? Right???

It's Not About Me Anymore - Also, Easter

Hitting on any Easter brunch ladies within flirting radius, per usual.

Sometimes the Universe sends you a sign - we Episcopalians might mutter something about divine providence, though at the Pretty we welcome Betty White or whatever other deity you prefer - and, lesson learned,  you go on with your life having Learned Your Lesson. Or so I hear - naturally, I prefer the version where I struggle for months to figure something out and ignore the flashing metaphoric lights repeatedly bleeping "This is really stupid; cut it out." 

My most recent variation on this theme involves the desire for more Grown Up Time when I can't have it due to this new stay-at-home-mom gig. As Master P has grown older, it has been easier to get out of the house and socialize, which provides a nice break in the day for Mom here. Whether through our twice-weekly playgroup or Lady Lunches, these times with other grown-ups often give me the impetus to get up, MILF-ready, and out of the house as well as provide the adult conversation work once did.

Over the past two months, however, poor Master P has had one bout of sniffles after another (therefore, so have I), and of course I feel terribly about his being sick as any mother would. Alas, being the selfish creature I am, I confess I've also been feeling sorry for myself, since his repeat illnesses have necessitated our being home and therefore cut me off from my "adult" day time excursions.

While frustrated the other day by missing playgroup again, selfishly missing that adult time, it occurred to me - again - "It's not about you anymore." Like most mom stuff I've struggled with, this would be obvious to most, but I continue to need the reminder signs. My favorite advice column here, the lead-up week to Easter . . .  for whatever reason, the Universe / God / Betty White etc. put up those sign-posts for me in bright lights this past week.

It doesn't matter that I sometimes get lonely for adult conversation on those long days at home; those days will come again, soon enough. It doesn't matter that I want to sit in bed & read all day when I'm sick; I have someone else to care for. It's not about me anymore - and, though I may struggle occasionally with that, I'm incredibly lucky and grateful that it isn't. 

At church today, thrilled to be celebrating our first Easter as a family of three, I gazed at the Anonymous Husband as he held the happily gurgling Master P. "Bring the belief of a child to Easter," our priest encouraged. Looking at the beaming, bouncing, perfect child to my left - my child, I still don't entirely believe it sometimes - I got it.

Bring the belief of a child to Easter, yet I am not a child; it's not about me anymore. Happy Easter, friends.

Taking a flirting break to revisit Sofie the Magical Giraffe

Smug Mummy Style: The Mom Uniform Edition

 Subtitle: "Just Because I Had a Baby Doesn't Mean I Stopped Being Remarkably Vain" 

It was more a series of events than any one moment I can identify . . .

. . . maybe it was the morning the Anonymous Husband marched into the living room, freshly scrubbed & adorable in his business casual best, to say goodbye to Master P & me. He took one look at me in my usual morning-about-the-house getup - which I dearly wish I could tell you involves a fascinator & vintage smoking jacket, but in actual fact is more of the battered hotel robe & pj bottoms ilk - he paused, and sweetly whispered, "I think you have spit-up in your hair." 

. . . or maybe it was the 502nd time I sandwiched myself into my pre-pregnancy jeans, a process involving prayer and little oxygen. I've lost most of the 20 30 pounds put on in pregnancy but am left with different wobbly bits than before. Feeling the burn of waistlines past, I looked deep into bathroom mirror and wondered, "At least they're on?" before giving up and throwing on my out-of-date but comfy cargos yet again.

Whatever the motivation, I realized that I was inadvertently slipping into the Mom Look, one slippery slope and a few wine spritzers away from Chicoville. Not that I object to flowy pastel kaftans for Women of a Certain Age ("WOACA"), and I freely give myself & all other new moms a sartorial hall pass for the first six months or so of a baby's (whirlwind, sleep-free) newborn life. However, I've got a few more years to WOACA status and a reputation to uphold, so I'm not ready to let go and let Croc yet.

And so I'm setting about revamping the Pretty. Yes, there will be necessary concessions to my new stay-at-home-mom normal; I'll be investing in more quality ballet flats & sandals than my previously beloved heels. Any day dresses bought need to be at-home-wash friendly and long enough to let me bend & pick up my precious darling (vs. the "bend & snap" of years past). New tops need to acknowledge the changed landscape of my abdomen; abs, we hardly knew ye & won't again until time opens up for that tummy tuck those diligent workouts.

Another nod to reality - there will be sick days like today and "Why can't I manage to get in a shower? WHY???" days where the Mom-ouflage (baseball hat, giant sunglasses, yoga pants, workout-y top - classed up with pearl or diamond studs, naturally) will be in effect. We may not be rested enough to actually work out, but we may as well look as though we have & make everyone wonder How We Do It All - and trot out the Royal "We" while we're at it.

Let's bust out a Polyvore, shall we?  Here's what I've been going for lately Mom Uniform -wise, slowly adding items as naptime & revamped one-income budget permits .  . .

• Patterned Tunics: some may say tunics are merely a rest stop or two away from Kaftanville; I say there's a discernible waistline here, but one forgiving enough for the post-baby belly. The pattern is intentional, all the better for disguising baby ookiness. 

• Non-Diaper Bag Diaper Bag: Before baby, I devoted countless hours to finding just the right diaper bag - the one that now lives in the Trophy Wife Wagon with backup supplies because I fit everything I need in this (patterned & dark, to better mask stains) Le Pliage.

• Stylish Sandals: because if I buy one more be-logoed pair of Tory Burch, people will begin to think I've joined a shoe-based cult.

• Cropped Jeans, in my current size: Sigh. In white (Yes, I stained them within 10 minutes of putting them on) & dark rinse.

• Updated Accessories: Gold bangles - jangly ones to entertain Master P with - and fab tortoiseshell watch

More to come on the Smug Mummy Front, including dealing with (denying) the post-baby body wasteland, Mom-ouflage, and date night wardrobe updates...

Attempting to Stay (Smug) Married While (Smug) Mothering, Part II: Vacation

At sea aboard the "SS Mom Guilt"

As part of our desire to remain Smug Marrieds *and* Smug Parents, the Anonymous Husband & I decided a few months back, when our precious wee babe Master P reached the ripe old age of 6 months, that we ought to take a week long vacation - a vacation without said precious wee babe, that is.

Before you call in the Parenting Police, consider: travel has played an important part in our relationship since our long-distance beginnings. Our best times together often happen when we get out of town, just the two of us, and eat and drink our way into those meaty conversations work and Blackberry reception and, now, babies don't always allow for.

Also - sleep. Just after we booked this trip - to Cabo, for those keeping track - Master P began to sleep through the night (*again, cue angel choir*), but we were still short a good six months of slumber. Those impure thoughts I had when Master P was a newborn - the ones about a clean, fluffy, made-by-someone-else hotel bed - came back with a vengeance. 

And so we set about booking the trip, when - *cue mom guilt music* *whatever that sounds like* *maybe the cello is to guilt like the sax is to s-e-x scenes?*

"What sort of people are we that we want to take a vacation without our baby?" we - ok, I - wondered.  Many friends of mine, stay-at-home and working moms alike, wouldn't dream of leaving town without their own precious wee babes - why did we want to? Were we terrible parents? Most importantly, would Master P recognize me when we returned?

Guilt was a powerful cocktail, but the need for sleep and a swim-up bar proved even stronger, and so we booked the trip.

Cue two months later, when I was dropping off Master P with my kind Anonymous In-Laws, who not only were lovely enough to watch him while the AH & I traveled, but also pretended to pay attention to the written (single-spaced, multi-page...) directions I left them. I even held it together while delivering the approximately 4,305 items of baby equipment.

It was while I drove away from the Anonymous In-Laws that it hit me; I didn't cry, but I couldn't breathe normally either. Unconsciously I kept looking in the rear view mirror, searching for that grinning face in the car seat. I felt plagued with the feeling that I'd forgotten something, that there was a tangible, physical something (someone) missing. 

Operating under the "It will be fine, it will be fine..." mantra, the AH & I managed to get packed that night & off to the airport early the next morning. That phantom feeling still plagued me, but one foot in front of the other-style, I boarded the plane, and it got incrementally easier. I selfishly appreciated the uninterrupted hour I spent reading "US Weekly" "The Economist" and not having to inspect my clothes for spit-up stains.

And we arrived. We saw. We slept - until 8:30 am every morning. We had the conversations that only seem to happen when you're out of pocket - and Blackberry/iPhone reception. We called the Anonymous In-Laws at least once per day to check in on Master P, and those calls allowed us to just . . . at the risk of sounding too Sarah Maclachlan about it . . . be.

I confess to panicking the one day we quite literally sailed right out of cell reception; I gulped back another margarita my tears, remembered that I actually trust my in-laws - no, really - and decided to hold off the panic until the next day. 

I survived - and I'm glad we went. I've never been so relieved to board a flight home - or relieved, ever before, to be going home - but I'm still glad we went. That two-toothed smile on Master P's face when I picked him up - he recognized me! - was simply the best welcome anywhere, ever. 

And as much as I'm hugely looking forward to taking Master P to see the world, I'm looking forward to doing some of that just with the AH too, guilt be hanged - preferably by a swim-up bar...

Voila - our room with a view of the swim-up bar 

About to dine at Market, One of Our Favorite Restaurants of All Time ("OOOFROAT"); also, please note the clever concealment of roots behind the Anonymous Husband's happy grin.

Throwing the Baby Books Out the Nursery Window

Longtime readers - all two of you - will recall when I was cramming for Master P's arrival as if my AmEx credit limit depended on it. Though I suspected - correctly - that such study was foolish and destined to drive me a little batty, I tore through those tomes as if some dreamy emo teenage vampire lurked within their pages. The lawyer in me just couldn't leave well enough alone, believing somewhere deep down that there was no situation for which I couldn't cram.

(Stop laughing. We'll get to my comeuppance shortly.)

And then the actual baby arrived (cue laughter), and all of course all time to read came to an immediate halt, and I was forced to do as Yoda does and just . . . do. I couldn't put down the newborn Master "Fussypants" P long enough to consult those baby expert - ahem, "expert", books complete with annoying air quotes - books, and even if I'd been tempted, I was too pooped to comprehend written English anyways. I was forced to wing it & hope that my exhausted brain could recall a scrap or two of the "expert" advice I'd read.

Cue a few or six months later, when life with Master P eased a bit - read: he started sleeping through the night, in his crib and, lo, Heaven itself opened while the angels did sing! - and I now have a bit of time to do things like gather up my baby study materials for a pregnant relative. Thrilled to pack & send those "expert" guides along, I thumbed through those well-worn pages again to see the myriad ways in which I'd done it all wrong:

- Sleep: As a brand new baby, Master P would sleep in one place and one place only - the hospital. Once we arrived home from the maternity ward, he let out an ear-piercing shriek whenever put in the bassinet we'd so carefully selected for him based on the Baby Expert advice. Given that full-time hospital residence didn't appeal, the AH & I were forced to devise a sleeping arrangement in which either us or the baby, and preferably both, actually slept.

We tried a number of options - co-sleeping! the bouncy chair! hanging him by his toes upside down from the shower curtain! - before happening upon this miraculous swing. We wrapped up Master P burrito-style, strapped him into the swing, turned it up to full speed, and finally, finally our babe nodded off for a few hours.

I suspected that the Baby Expert Books didn't approve of this sleeping arrangement - rather unanimously so, based on my recent review - but needing sleep ourselves & armed with our pediatricians blessing, we swung away. We ultimately happened upon a few other illicit nap enablers which occasionally worked (the car ride & the Ergo carrier) before transitioning him to his crib around 4 months, but prior to that, the swing was the thing.

When inevitably asked by other parents how Master P was sleeping, I'd mumble something incoherent before guiltily blurting out, "He sleeps in his swing but we're confident he won't go to kindergarten like this ohmigod please tell me he won't go to kindergarten sleeping in his swing I'm a terrible mother" Just as inevitably, the parents would furtively glance from side to side before whispering to me, "It's ok; our Max only slept in his car seat for the first six months. You'll be fine."  In fact, you'd be hard pressed to find a newborn who did sleep when & where his or her parents thought he would (file under: "Why didn't anyone mention this to me before baby?").

When Master P had passed the newborn stage, and it was time to transition him to sleeping in the crib, I began a new round of worry / frantic reading / trial & error about the sleep training process - for the uninitiated, there's a whole Baby Expert subset of Baby Sleep Experts too. Sigh. 

In any event, armed with an phalanx of "expert" knowledge, I then went about putting it into practice; like with so many things baby, no one approach actually worked, despite my desperate attempts to enforce them to the letter. Like a serial dieter, I worked my way through one over-zealous theory to the next. However, over the course of a few months, it became clear that the "few days" of training (ie, putting baby down to sleep awake so he learns to fall asleep on his own) promised by the Baby Sleep Experts would in fact take weeks, that Master P wanted less naps & more nighttime sleep than any Expert deemed acceptable (note that my pediatrician deemed it perfectly fine), and that he'd occasionally require the highly frowned upon rocking to sleep for naps. And That Was That.

The moral of my sleep story - you know, since I have one entire baby and am therefore an expert on this racket - is to trial & error your way to what works for your own particular baby, run it by your pediatrician (who, I guarantee, has heard it & something much stranger before), and do what (safely) works, "Experts" be hanged. Despite Master P's non-expert-endorsed beginnings, he now usually sleeps when & where he is supposed to, and therefore, so can the AH & I. Bliss.

- Nursing: Ah, the breastfeeding booby bomb. I will not - not - get into the business of telling you what to do with your own ladybits & babe when it comes to this, nor am I terribly comfortable talking about my own chesticular endeavors. However, in case it's helpful to someone else, I will say this; I'd very much hoped to nurse Master P for the American Academy of Pediatrics' & Baby Expert Books 1-year recommended minimum, and in reality struggled to last just shy of 6 months while supplementing with formula.

You know that guy (or girl; we're equal opportunity here at the Pretty) who was perfect for you on paper? The one you wanted desperately to like, who you tried over & over again to fall in like with, but in reality he just wasn't the right fit? That's how nursing was for us.

 Master P took 45 minutes to an hour to nurse each & every time, often mewling in hunger even after that, despite the Baby Expert Books, 2 pediatricians, and 3 lactation consultants assuring me that it wasn't possible, and even if it was, he'd grow out of it (hint: he didn't). I can't tell you the crippling guilt that comes with being unable to feed your hungry, bawling babe, and how awful I felt having to supplement many of his meals while taking nursing supplements & doing extra time on the nursing pump.

At an hour a pop, eight to 12 times per day, Master P's nursing sessions also made it impossible for me to travel more than 10 minutes from home unless I was going somewhere I could set up the Milk Bar camp - a sexy visual if I've ever heard of one (you're welcome!); it made running simple errands like getting to the grocery store challenging if not impossible. Perhaps selfishly, it made me feel like a prisoner in my own home - a guilt ridden prisoner, that is, since the Boob Brigade (which I talk about here, and some random named Tina Fey describes in an actually hilarious, much better way here) had thoroughly indoctrinated me by this point. I also felt as if my body were still pregnant and, as a result, not yet my own again.

After limping along with nursing for a couple of months, I had a conversation (guilt-ridden, of course) with my pediatrician, who agreed that nursing to six months was more than sufficient. And, at our designated quitting point, I felt . . . utterly (udderly? I know, terrible...) relieved, to be honest. Thrilled that I could know with more certainty now that my baby was getting sufficient nutrition. Happy to see and feel my body morph back to a semblance of its old self, that I could actually meet a friend for lunch and not have to leave early to rush home; again, these may be selfish concerns, but any steps back to my pre-baby life helped me feel like my entire self hadn't been subsumed by Babyland.

The moral of this story is - again, since I'm such an expert with my one child - is . . . . do what you think is best, health-wise and sanity-wise, for your baby & for you, which may not be what you thought it might pre-baby, and with your pediatrician's input, of course. I may (I will) judge the clothes you're wearing, but I will not judge your choice or ability to nurse. For me, I'm glad I tried it, and I'll try again should there be any future Masters or Misses P here, but I'll also try be kinder to myself if it doesn't work.

Anyone else care to share the many ways you tossed the baby book advice out the nursery window?

Attempting to Remain (Smug) Married While (Smug) Mothering

My boys (Photo credit: Our 365 Newborn Photography)

They say - you know, the ubiquitous "they" who like to dole out pithy quotes as advice; let's credit Dorothy Parker, who seems to get attribution for 98.3% of popular quips not otherwise attributed to Coco Chanel or Mark Twain - they say that your first year of marriage is always the most challenging. I propose that those Dorothy Parkers never had a kid.

I recall my first year of marriage as a halcyon time of honeymooning and playing house and feigning embarrassment as I liberally sprinkled conversations with as many "my husbands" as I thought I could get away with. Sure, we had a squabble here & there, but the most worrisome problem I had was remembering to sign my married name on checks - remember "checks", boys & girls?

No, it was the impending arrival & actual appearance of Master P that gave us our true first marital challenge. Not - not not NOT! Nanny nanny boo boo! - to say MP isn't also our greatest blessing, but it gave us a Life Change in the way that getting married just didn't. With the specter of baby's arrival, the Anonymous Husband got those chilly feet he didn't seem to before we married; nothing terrible, mind you, but my social, work-hard play-hard fellow suddenly got a lot more social and upped the work/play ante for a time. I was too busy Googling "OMG What do I do with a newborn????" at the time to worry too much. We comforted ourselves by nervously swearing we'd still do weekly date nights and have a life outside our of kid, but looking back, I suspect we both assumed the marriage would take simply care of itself while we figured out baby.

Once our sweet, sweet wee Master P arrived, the alternate excitement/frustration evolved as the AH & I embarked upon the journey of figuring out our roles as parents. Since I was the one on maternity leave, I naturally assumed the primary parenting role (which largely consisted of figuring out which end of the diaper went where), but we struggled to figure out how to work Dad into the picture. When the AH came home from a long day at the office, I was in such need of a mental & physical break I nearly pitched Master P to him football-style as I sprinted to the bedroom for a 10 minute nap, barely pausing to acknowledge him - but the AH needed a break too.

Hadn't he been out working all day? Who's to say who was in any more need of a breather? But didn't anyone realize that I need to sleep at some point? How ungrateful was I to feel tired and stressed when I finally had the family I'd always wanted? Most importantly, who was grabbing takeout that night? Questions, oh how the questions swirled, but for the most part they remained unspoken; we were just too tired to actually communicate.

Two incidents distinctly stand out to me during that period . . . the first being one night when I awoke to Master P wailing for yet another middle-of-the-night feeding. Clearing the sleep from my eyes, desperately wanting not to hear the plaintive mewling from the nursery, I glared at the still-slumbering AH, who had the nerve not only to be sleeping but to look joyful about it too. "Resentful" isn't a strong enough word. It brought to mind the anecdote told by one of our wedding priests (we had two, operating under the well-known spiritual theory that "more is more") in which we were warned not to consider divorce, but that the concept of murder might appeal every now & again.

Second was the time - also around 3 am, if you're beginning to detect a theme here - when I'd been up to nurse Master P, who then steadfastly refused to go back to sleep. The poor thing by all appearances wanted to but just couldn't and was wailing his dear, now beet-red chubby cheeks off. After a half-hour or so of bouncing him around the living room, there were two of us bawling uncontrollably. Feeling awful about it but knowing I simply had to sleep, I woke the happily snoring AH - again, notice a theme here? - and begged him to take a turn (or 50) around the living room with MP. He did without hesitation despite having worked a long day himself, tucked me into bed, and was eventually able to get baby off to sleep as well. I vividly remember feeling so grateful that night as I was finally able to drift off for a few hours.

So if you can now picture that cocktail of exhilaration and exhaustion, shaken and stirred, a third ingredient came around the six-week postpartum mark when our OB gave us The Talk. Loathe as I am to discuss those 3 things my grandmother (or was it Dorothy Parker?) warned me One Doesn't Talk About in Polite Society (religion, politics, and s-e-x; let's refer to the latter as "Dorothy Parker-ing" to keep things appropriately uptight here), the uninitiated moms-to-be amongst you should be prepared for your heretofore trusted doctor throwing you under the marital bus a mere six weeks after delivering an entire human baby; that is to say, he - yes, he in my case, and I believe that may be a relevant fact here, Your Honor - will beam happily as he gives you permission to start Dorothy Parker-ing away just as soon as you're ready, wink wink!

If, like a certain blogger, you go to such an appointment having forgotten about the likely Talk to come, but also in the company of your significant other, approximately 50% of your marital team may feel as if the appointment has gone surprisingly well. The sleep-deprived, personal-time-free, possibly lactating feeling-like-a-dairy-cow, questionably showered other half could not feel less interested in the proposed Dorothy Parkering. As in, Not. At. All. If I had it to do again, I'd go to the appointment solo or show with a stack of $20's to buy my poor ladybits another month or six.

As with all things save Demi Moore's face, time marches on, and everything progressed as a result, that Thing We Don't Talk About included. Around 3 months of age, Master P started sleeping more, and his days became slightly more predictable. I also made the decision then to stay at home with him, which eased the burden on me & AH of pondering that and allowed me to proceed with figuring out this new line of work. At that same time, those date nights the AH & I had talked about suddenly seemed important again, so I found a good babysitter*, and we set about occasionally getting out of the house sans baby.
*Easier said than done, by the way. I've had root canals less intensive.

And now, with Master P nearly 10 months old, it all feels like the new normal. The AH & I regularly have date nights alone, though we'd agree that our favorite times are when we're home with Master P just loafing around - to the extent that a near 10-month-old loafs, which is to say only when he's forced to sleep. We've learned to communicate better when we need alone time; for example, when I'm thinking "What does a girl need to do around here to get an hour away for a pedicure?" I coyly ask the AH, "What does a girl need to do around here to get an hour away for a pedicure?" Most days I just feel fortunate to have such a husband and kiddo. Stupid fortunate (which is a fun alternative from the usual "stupid stupid").

As for the Pretty Pug . . . well, he is not amused by this new normal. Not. At. All. I'm not sure even Dorothy Parker has the answer for this one.

"But What Do You *Do* All Day?"

Sigh. There isn't a stay-at-home parent who hasn't fielded this gem at one point, inwardly cringing at the bewildered look of the interrogator as he or she attempts to imagine spending an entire day with a child.

Having been raised in the First Church of Thank You Notes and Being Nice to Everyone (At Least To Their Faces), I usually pause to let the red spots of irritation clear from my vision before chirping something about squeezing a shower in betwixt the dirty diaper changing.

Only after my last bout with the "What Do You *Do*'s?" - often asked by other parents, by the way, presumably of human children - did I realize that I myself asked that same question one year ago, while expecting with Master P & contemplating the stay-at-home possibilities. Still practicing law at the time, and having cared for a newborn at no time, it was around the 7-month-pregnant mark when my frantic "Newborn daily schedule help SOSOS" Googling began.

I enjoy a good indigant rage as much as the next Junior Leaguer, justified or otherwise, but it struck me that most of the "What do you *do*?"-ers might not be accusing me of having a pretextual baby in order to scarf bon-bons all day. Rather, they might be in the position I was not long ago of genuinely not knowing what in Hermes to do with a live human baby for a 24-hour period.

So in the spirit of stepping off my soapbox - every so briefly, mind you, as I do so enjoy the judgy air up there - I attempted to write down some examples of what exactly it is I do with Master P on our average day. Yes, I wrote a list; truth be told, my days now often zip by so quickly I can't remember what it was I did, and of course "Making googly faces, Noon-1 pm" isn't quite so easily quantifiable as time spent drafting a contract once was.

Bear in mind also that this is a schedule in motion; that is, with every phase of Master P's development our day evolves. The near-10 month old infant schedule you see below is very different than what it would have looked like six or seven months ago, when the "eat-poop-briefly-sleep-wail-to-eat-again" newborn chaos ruled the day (and never ending night. Gah.).

A final, important note: not to get too Yoda about it, but to a large extent, you just "do" a day with an infant - there is no parenting book containing the Magic Right Answer of How to Spend Time with a Baby. Believe me, if there was I would have found it. You just . . . figure it out. It's less scary than I imagined pre-baby, pinky swear.

My stay-at-home mom "inbox"

All Times Approximate - in fact, you should always read "-ish" into everything here:

(7:30 am): awaken to chirping from the nursery, followed by:

- 1 bottle (Master P's; mine comes later)

- Blearily snarfle down breakfast & load laundry while watching Master P entertain self in his play yard; feel lucky this is one of those days when he will entertain himself for a brief moment

- Watch Master P empty contents of kitchen drawers, I re-stack drawers; repeat

- Make Master P giggle by attempting situps; debate whether baby or abs laughing loudest

(9:30 am): attempt morning nap (Master P's; mine comes later)

(10:00 am-10:30 am): actual nap

- Think virtuous thoughts about completing chores like calling bank; instead, speed read 3 chapters "Bossypants" while fearing imminent baby wake-up

(11 am): mealtime (Master P & me both), bottle (MP only. Sigh.)

(Noon - 1 pm): walk, ie, pretextual exercise for people watching purposes

(1 pm - 1:45 pm): chase MP up & down hallway; MP removes books from bookshelf, I replace; repeat

(1:45 pm - 2 pm): Snack (MP)

(2 pm - 3:30 pm): Master P nap while I fling self into shower / attempt to silence barking dog / pray gardeners don't wake MP / change out laundry / check email / breathe

(3:45-4:15 pm): Mealtime & Bottle (MP)

(4:15-6 pm): Non-pretextual errands*, including Target trip not costing more than $75 (!)

- *Allow me to translate: as a new parent, often you'll grab onto any excuse to leavethehousealreadyOHMYGOD - yes, even those of us who love our stay-at-home gig - and running a quick errand at a large store where you could (a) presumably be getting something of vital importance for the household. Presumably. Also, (b) be accomplishing (a) in a place where a hypothetically screaming baby isn't entirely out of the ordinary.

(6 - 6:45 pm): Whirlwing of car unloading / pet feeding / mail sorting / trash . . . uh, putting outing? / Master P playing

(6:45 - 7:30 pm): Master P's bedtime meal, bottle, bath routine, in crib by 7:30 pm

(7:30 - 10:00 pm): I sit very still for about 10 minutes, then prepare & eat dinner if the Anonymous Husband is coming home to eat, clean kitchen/living room area, re-commence sitting still

Like with any job, there are some days when it's tedious, and your boss, Mr. No-Nap, is being patently unreasonable. Where you're out of entertaining baby babble by 3:30 pm. Where you'd pay for an adult, any adult - not even one you like very much - to come over & provide grown-up conversation and maybe a diaper change for just 5 minutes. On those occasions, quitting time and Mommy's snack / bottle time can't come quickly enough.

It must be said that the good days far outweigh the bad, however. No other job has given me the satisfaction that b eing home to see Master P crawl for the first time has or seeing his two-toothed smile gazing up at me while I read his bedtime book ("Goodnight, Moon" for those keeping track). This stay-at-home-stuff certainly wouldn't be the right job for every mother, but it is it for me, and I'm hugely grateful even on the rough days that I'm able to do it.

Now here's the part where you dive in & tell me I'm doing it all wrong. Ready? Set? Go...

*Sneaks Back As If 6 Months Haven't Passed...*

(Please be distracted by the deliciousness that is 9-month-old Master P)

To embark on excuses about a blog absence is akin to making bold proclamations about preserving one's virtue before attending Prom - both exercises in futility destined to end in dashed expectations and your dress around your ankles. Ahem.

Without excuse, then, but for sake of clarification . . . I've been hibernating away in the happy maelstrom that is parenting Master P. Savoring these non-newborn, mostly adequately rested moments. Enjoying the gradual shift from merely keeping my newborn son alive - "son"! It still sounds wonderfully foreign - to keeping up with my crawling, cruising, chattering near-toddler.*

*Not to be confused with "Keeping Up with the Kardashians"; also, here's hoping "my son" and "Kardashian" never again have cause to appear in the same paragraph.

So . . . hello! I'm ready to pop my head up here every now & again. To encourage that questionable inner voice that tells me spewing my thoughts to the Interwebs is a good idea. There may continue to be more high chairs than handbags here for the forseeable future, but I trust all three of you reading this will understand.