Memorial Day (Cheesily) Remembered

After getting my parenting panties in the proverbial wad (and alliteration vortex, apparently) last week, I was in serious need of distraction. Sometimes a girl needs to escape her own head for a second, be it by leaving town, national holiday, or a glass of wine on the patio with her favorite armed services member.

As a believer in "Everything in moderation, including moderation" - stitch *that* on a pillow, Martha - I up and did all three, trotting off with the Pretty Family to San Antonio to see friends and family, then returning here to Austin to spend Memorial Day with my visiting bachelor brother (a handsome Naval aviator, for any single ladies out there). I wined, I dined, I slept in while the truly wonderful Anonymous Husband got up early with Master P. Yes.

Sometimes a day that isn't about you gives you exactly what you need. As my brother & I sat on the patio, ignoring the sweltering death Hell Texas heat & mosquitoes, we got to reminiscing about our late grandparents & appreciating their World War II service, amongst other things:

 
I only felt a smidge sorry for myself as I watched Master P toddle around & remembered once again that my grandparents aren't here to meet him. 

And, yes, then the inevitable Hallmark Moment du Fromage came when I happily recalled the important things they taught me that I get to pass along to my little guy. Frank Sinatra. The importance of family, even when family's not fun. The importance of Good Shoes (Grandmother, never "Grandma"); the importance of saving up to properly afford Good Shoes (Grandpa). School. Service.

Of course my grandparents weren't perfect, but yesterday today isn't the day to harp on that. Besides, I perfected my ability to icily ignore any problem on their watch, so in their honor my brother & I raised our glasses (spiked with a splash of Pink Elephant) anyways.

Fear not, dolls - we'll get back to the business of being Prettier Than Everyone Else tomorrow, complete with Our Lady of Perpetual Girl Crush, HRH Grace. Pinky swear. But for yesterday today, I simply remember.

Of Boyfriends and Babies

[Important Note: The titular "babies" refers to "infants", not "boyfriends", though in case of the particular boyfriend below you'd be forgiven for mistaking the two.]

Once upon a breakup, a wise friend advised me to get out of town, literally. "He'll miss you (note: this was the hugely ill-advised yet desired result at the time), and you'll be distracted from obsessing about it."

Not a month later, I'd moved to Texas for what I thought was a summer job and temporary change of scenery, and instead I landed a new hometown and new husband (and only husband, I might add, as well as my favorite). Turns out the move wasn't so much about the boy as it was about getting me, personally and professionally, in a better state of mind - as well as a different capital "S" State.

Speaking of states of mind, mine has admittedly been a negative one lately, and not in that fun, judgmental way where we make fun of hipster facial hair or what-have-you. I've had some personal stuff I won't bore you with yet.

Atop that sundae of fun, I've struggled to keep up with Master P's sleep schedule changes and health challenges.  Oh, how the maxim is true that as soon as you get comfortable with a child's schedule - or some boyfriends, in my experience - they up and change it on you unannounced. I don't presume that in the case of the infants said mixing it up is intended to keep you on your (pedicured, of course) toes, but the effect is much the same - a decidedly un-Pretty, writhing ball of self-pity, second guessing yourself, and general insecurity. I apologize that said mess has spilled over onto the pages on Ye Olde Blog here lately with my spectacular run of alternatively whiny and/or self-congratulatory mom-centric posts.

Anywhoodle, not to sugarcoat personal difficulties, but by this afternoon I decided to literally get out and get on with life already, at least for today. Master P had been a bit grumpy again with the teething, so I figured an outing might help him too.  Adapting my BFF's advice & also recalling that beneficial backyard adventure on last Friday's Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day, Master P & I set off for the fantastic local playground:

Master P sat & thought for a spell. I sat & thought for a spell. We toddled around for an hour or so, baby hanging onto my index fingers as he tentatively practiced his stiff little penguin steps. 

And lo, I was so preoccupied just enjoying being outside despite the death Hell South Texas heat and keeping Master P from nibbling random playground detrius that I forgot to feel sorry for myself for a time. Master P loved the new adventure. We both returned home in a slightly better state of mind. Turns out a change of scenery is good for the boy and the girl yet again, even if only for today.

Playing Chicken with Fashion: Pretty vs. Skinny Jeans

Of the many things I pretend to be, fashionable isn't one of them. Though I enjoy keeping up with What Kids Are Wearing Nowadays ("WKAWN"), I only incorporate trends that suit my figure or preference. I don't fancy myself the most novel dresser around, though I have a defined style I prefer. When I wear pearls, I do so with not a whiff of irony.

When the skinny jeans fashion came along lo these two years ago or so, I was content to wait out the skintight storm. I envy those who can pull them off favorably, but as one who has hips officially certified by a doctor as wide, I am not one of you.

Happily, ignoring things I don't like comes naturally to me, hailing as I do from a long line of people wholly unwilling to acknowledge any unpleasantness in our midst. You may keep your "Oprah"-style sentimentalism; we'll take our vodka sodas with a splash of Pink Elephant, thankyouverymuch.

I may be strong in ignoring that which I dislike, but as my old reliable bootcuts & flares started to die out, I also began to run out of replacement options, faced as I was with a sea of skinnies. Jeans are a non-negotiable segment of any Southern Californian's wardrobe, so you can see the dilemma.

Imagine my feeling of triumph, then, when I opened up the Gospel According to "In Style" and spied this:

I tried to avoid omnipresent La Gwyneth here. I truly did, but she is everywhere, always. Sigh.

Granted, I'm betting neither of these ladies have been deemed officially childbearing of hip by their OB - not everyone can be this fortunate - but I'll take a fashionable return to flattering flared jeans when I get it.

Most importantly, I take from this as a "win" for Team Pink Elephant - if we ignore something long enough, it will go away. Fashion being cyclical, it may not disappear forever, but we're a resilient bunch. Gwyneth, Our Lady of Pervasive Presence, consider yourself warned.

Motherhood & Other Extreme Sports

Once upon a yacht - that phrase just has a certain ring, doesn't it? - a Singleton lawyer acquaintance spent no small amount of time encouraging me to embrace extreme sports like marathon running & ultra canoe-racing (that's not a typo). "It's so satisfying pushing yourself to physical extremes. You don't know what you're capable of until you put yourself in that situation."

Obviously I have no idea what it's like to complete an underwater long-distance speedwalk or whatever; this is coming from the girl who circles the gym parking lot looking for the spot nearest the entrance. That being said, I had to restrain my Smug Mummy impulse from reminding my lawyer friend [of course she was an attorney, tedious macho sports being epidemic amongst us (tedious, macho) legal types]to remind her that as a new mom, I've spent the better part of the last year pushing myself to physical extremes without the bother of actually running. 

Once I overcame my inner Smug Mummy, I began to appreciate the similarities vs. merely snark about them. As a lovely post by Paisley Petunia recently described, new motherhood is also filled with times when you just. don't. think. you. can. get. up. one. more. time. Somehow, you dig deep to find all those other sports cliches that motivate you to get you up and out of bed to tend to your wailing babe at 3 a.m. I thought I was prepared for the middle of the night wakings, of course, but the sheer level of physical exhaustion & motivation needed to overcome it surprised me.

It was an extreme sports sort of day here at Pretty HQ today, where poor Master P has continued to struggle with mystery congestion atop an ear infection and teething. After a long night of coughing (his hacking, my listening), we blearily meandered through a day of doctor appointments. We ended the day with a tentative allergies diagnosis, an early bedtime (his), and a giant glass of wine (not his), but spent most of it violating every Operation MILF tenet I hold dear:

This doesn't even count as Mom-ouflage, just defeat.

Since I've already violated my own style standards, I may as well obliterate our anti-cheese standards (the sentiment, not the foodstuff - obvs.) here at the Pretty and confess - I'm sorta smugly proud of us new moms *and* our singleton extreme athlete friends. It is admittedly a pretty nifty feeling reaching your physical limits and dealing with your day anyways. Granted, I'll always pick the version that involves delicious mewling babes over long-distance Arctic turtle racing, but...

Operation MILF: Update of Supreme Wonderfulness and Awesomenity

Not unlike a stroke victim, a new mom has to relearn certain life skills. Grocery shopping. Taking a shower. Using the, er, facilities.

Like we've discussed here before, one of my biggest re-learning challenges has been figuring out how to incorporate my former fitness routine into my New Normal life as stay-at-home mom.

While I was prepared to not sweat the baby weight, figuratively and literally, until I finished nursing, I was not ready for certain realities when I did reach that milestone - for example, a baby who gets loudly bored on long walks in the (extensively researched, expen$ively bought) running stroller or a gym day care that neither of us enjoy.

Not to bewail this First World sort of problem - I also want to avoid those perilous "I had a life before I had kids, and now I only have pinot grigio" waters so many of us mom bloggers find ourselves adrift on - but my inability to get exercise in, and the spare tire result, has surprised me in how much it has frustrated me.

So imagine my smug self-satisfaction this morning when, after threatening & failing to implement a regular workout routine for weeks, I arose at the darkest hour of the morn (also known as 5:15 am) and achieved a personal first . . . I worked out *and* showered before Master P woke up. 

(***Photo of my signature bitchface circa 5:15 am redacted; with apologies for posting sans picture, but I just couldn't do that to you - or my ego.***)

This translates into my native Californian as - "Dude. DUDE." Miss Type-A Minus Ex-Lawyer here has just enough need to accomplish left in her to see this voluntary less sleep / more work thing as an accomplishment.

I realized something else as I blearily threw on my yoga pants this morning - it's not just the exercise, but the personal free time I need to somehow incorporate back into my New Normal life. What I used to see as an obligation turns out to be a healthy mental break; I thrived on that half-hour on the elliptical, zoning out to the teevee for a spell, physically unable to answer the phone or emails. 

Most importantly, I'm vain, baby or not. My extra waistline was not Raptured, and therefore those extra two hours of weekday sleep must be.

Smug though I am about this morning's accomplishments, I don't pretend that I've discovered the perfect solution to this. Carving out "me" time in a wonderfully baby-filled day will evolve as Master P's ever-changing schedule does.  I may or may not fall asleep facefirst in a pile of Puffs this afternoon thanks to my early wake-up time. The Greek Chorus of Wife Guilt, reminding me that my hard-working, billable-ing husband hasn't the time to work out lately, may render me inactive once again.

But, just for today, no one can take away the small happiness that was a well-earned shower while the rest of my little world slept.

Giveaway Winner - But First, Tell Me How Awesome My Child Is

Yes, it's Friday, and in the interest of starting off the weekend on a generous note, I could simply cut to the chase and tell you who the winner of the fabulous E-Mealz meal planning subscription is.

However, we can agree I'm neither generous nor brief, so first I'm going to force you to look at 11-month photos of my no-longer-so-wee Master P and further, implore you to comment on how delicious he is.

We parents like to pretend we have some valid excuse for foisting baby photos on innocents - something along the lines of "keeping everyone updated" blah blah blah. What we actually mean is, "Look, I'm trying my best here, there is no guidebook to doing this right, yet the baby is still alive. Please just give me some validation and tell me my kid is cute even if you secretly think he looks like a mini-Trump."

It has been a good yet challenging few weeks on the parenting front here at Pretty HQ. In addition to taking his first steps, Master P is also getting two teeth and battling an ear infection while we attempt to suss out the source of his ongoing sniffles. He's finally working on his "mamamamama", after months of cruelly going on & on about "dadadadada", and is wanting extra snuggle time* with the former. Signs of a burgeoning temper are popping up, complete with wails of being VERY ANNOYED INDEED with mamamama when he isn't at liberty to practice said walking every moment of the day.
*Show of hands - who thought the phrase "extra snuggle time" would ever be deployed here? Me neither.

What I actually mean by all this is, "Look, I'm trying my best here, there is no guidebook to doing this right, yet the baby is still alive. Please just give me some validation and tell me my kid is cute even if you secretly think he looks like a mini-Trump."

Ahem. And so I bring you Master P's 11-month photo shoot or, more accurately, our attempt at same:

 

And . . . cue validation!


***


Oh, and of course the super-duper, luck-duckiest winner of one three-month subscription to E-Mealz (click there to keep Mama in handbags) is . . . Misty! I'll put the kind E-Mealz people in touch with you in one hot minute. Thanks for playing, everyone!

Anatomy of a Handbag Justification

Step 1: Denial - "Ooh, that handbag is To Die For and would obviously be the final step in making me a fulfilled woman of substance, but I need to stick to my monthly shopping budget. Plus, look at that waitlist. I don't need it. Moving on."

Step 2: Anger - "I hate being old and responsible and having things like budgets. I miss the Singleton days when my biggest worries were making it to Constitutional Law (I didn't) and scraping together the pennies to buy my first Coach (I did). Being a grown-up - notwithstanding what I just said here - sucks."

Step 3: Bargaining -  "Who says I need groceries for the rest of the month? Won't it help me with the Operation MILF project if I spent that money on a Pretty Purse instead? And if I'm a Grace Kelly-style mom, that only benefits the Anonymous Husband. And think of the children - never mind the one I'm presumably responsible for feeding!"

Step 4: Depression - "Why can't I look nice and be Grace Kelly-style MILF of substance and keep my family in groceries? Now that I'm out of the Hurricane Newborn phase and can do things like leave the house with an attractive bag, don't I deserve to? Clearly this purse will complete me, and it will never be mine if I don't order it rightthisverysecond. Wah." 

Step 5: Acceptance - "Give in & get handbag as soon as next month's budget allows - or the formidable waitlist, at least. Because we've had enough of this acting adult stuff for one week."

Photo Credit: Marie Claire UK

S

*With thanks to blogger Sparrows & Sparkles, whose review convinced me that this Pippa bag by Modalu - yes, named for that Pippa who made this bag & shapely rear ends popular - is worthy enough to trot down the Kubler-Ross path of purse acceptance.

Signs You Are Growing Up (Subtitle: This One Has No Babies!)

*Important, Special Note: remember to enter fab E-Mealz giveaway here!*

Funny what you think will feel like the big, fancy "I'm a grown-up now!" moments, where the Hollywood music swells as you smugly claim your new, profoundly mature outlook on life. Wedding, home buying, and That Thing We Aren't Going to Discuss Here Today (rhymes with "rabies") were a few such moments I'd pictured in my mind...

Looking terribly wise, grown up, and not yet tipsy. Not entirely, at least.

. . . but, as is so often the case, those grand, made-for-movie (if only a "Lifetime" one) affairs were spectacular but not necessarily the moments when I felt like I'd most made some life progress. 

Rather, a simple thing or two over the past week gave me that, "OK, I may just be a card-carrying adult now" feeling that more often comes in those small, quieter moments for me:

- We gave away the last of our college-era furniture and cutlery, so that we may invite other adults over without having to artfully throw pillows, dim lights & overpour drinks to conceal the IKEA'd squalor (at risk of looking like we're hosting a swingin' key party). . . 

- We threw a dinner party at which all courses intended to be served were relatively on time & entirely delicious (all thanks to the AH), with only one hostess catastrophe (all thanks to me) (By the by, shouldn't those hand dish soaps mention somewhere that they can't be used in a dishwasher? I mean, really) (Parentheses)...

- We met with a financial planner to discuss mysterious, grown up things like retirement and investment portfolios. I left feeling terribly wise and mature - until I noticed that I'd had an entire garden of spinach resting itself on my front tooth for the entire meeting. Of course.

What are some of your self-satisfied, I'm-a-big-kid-now moments?

Giveaway: E-Mealz.com Subscription

(Note: this is a sponsored giveaway, though the review given here is 100% my own opinions & usual drivel)

When the kind people at online meal planning service E-Mealz.com contacted me to give one three-month subscription to one of you supremely lucky readers, I actually paused instead of hitting "delete" with the usual zeal I give to trashing PR blogger pitches. "What a rare treat to hear from a company I'd actually consider using myself, who apparently also spent at least a minute reading my blog," I thought.

Anywhoodle, E-Mealz allowed me to test drive their menu service for a few weeks before posting this giveaway, and I'm happy to report that I am, well, happy with the service. There are various plans accommodating an impressive variety of diets, family members (love the "couples only" option), and stores, and I opted for the "Low Carb, Any Store, Meal Plan for 2" version.

New menus & grocery store shopping lists post once per week, so getting my menu plan was as simple as logging in and printing two pages. With my demanding little CEO cutting into my cookbook reading time - let's pretend for a second I'd be reading cookbooks if I had free time - I particularly appreciated this swift simplicity.

And while the recipes at first glance looked like they'd be too simple to be good, in fact the ones I tried were tasty. While some options, like a turkey tortilla roll-up, were too "lunch" for my dinner tastes, the Anonymous Husband & I both enjoyed others like the easy to make and eat Pineapple Meatloaf (despite that kitschy, 1950's sounding name):

Ok, so meatloaf may not be the most photogenic of meat dishes. But before you get too impressed with our monastic low-carb lifestyle, let me show you what we served the meatloaf with:

Yes, that would be mac n' cheese, of the high carb, high fat persuasion. We at Pretty HQ believe in all things in moderation, even (especially) diets.

Verdict: E-Mealz looks to be a convenient time & money saver for families wanting to stick to a certain diet and/or one that eats at home regularly. With the Anonymous Husband's long, late, irregular hours as a fancypants corporate lawyer, the program isn't something we'd use weekly, but I hope to try it again if & when we get serious about a diet or his hours become regular.

But enough about what I think - who wants a shot at a 3-month E-mealz subscription? Leave me a comment - including your email address - below for one entry.

For an additional two entries, you can do as follows: 
(1) Visit the E-mealz blog here and "like" at least one post; 
(2) Tweet me & @Emealz which meal plan you'd like (you can check out the meal plans here). Oh, and. . .
(3) Let me know in your comment here if you do either of the above; I love you all, but it's a challenge following my wee precious son from on end of the house to the other, let alone y'all over the Interweb.

One winner will be announced this Friday, May 20th! Exclamation point!

Master P & the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

*With heartfelt thanks to Blogger and my child for the simultaneous Friday the 13th meltdowns. At least one of you has infancy as an excuse. 

In my previous singleton life, I would have called today a total waste of makeup. Given that my makeup "routine" now is a mere ghost of its Bobbi Brown past, I'd more accurately describe the events of today as a waste of my nice Mom-ouflage.

Call it teething, Friday the 13th, the ongoing sniffles we can't quite figure out, or merely the art of being a baby, but for whatever reason poor Master P awoke on the wrong side of the crib this morning. His nose was runny and his eyes were leaky and he wanted to YELL and he wouldn't nap and he wanted Mama until he didn't want Mama and why don't I magically know that and he didn't want to eat until he did want to eat RIGHT NOW and I think I'll move to Australia.

I'm learning that there are halcyon Smug Mummy days when your sweet babe is nothing but happy gurgles and smiles, naps more or less when he's meant to, and is just generally delightful. I'm happy to report that most days here are largely comprised of such unicorns and rainbow-like moments.

And then there are the days when, despite your adoring every atom of your child, top to toes . . . those days when you fly the white burp cloth of defeat. When you furtively watch the clock for baby's bedtime hour, feeling helpless as to how to help your fussy babe and preserve your sanity, or whichever comes first.

You can gather which sort of day we had here at Pretty HQ today. Having pulled out my usual fussy baby tricks - car riding! illicit remote control nibbling! Infant Advil! - all with negligible result, I gave up around 3 pm and stomped off with Master P to our backyard, where at least one of us could attempt to enjoy the fine spring sunshine.  Hmmph.

Begrudgingly, Master P began to explore, showing me the business end consistent with our general theme today...

Mini-preps, eat your heart out at this madras, be-polo'd (if slightly crabby) goodness

 

 

As we meandered around the patio, watching the Pretty Pug bark and sticking our toes in the grass, he forgot to be mad for a minute, now exploring in earnest and giving me a reluctant half-smile...

Note the troublesome new tooth up top, which didn't prevent him from attempted camera theft

. . . as a few more lazy minutes rolled by, the Pug sniffing curiously us as we climbed over the patio furniture, the smile grew a tad despite himself:

Lest you think this story has too tidy a happy ending, my little dictator then abruptly decided we should return indoors, where he resumed not eating and getting into the crystal cabinet and randomly crying and going about the business of reminding me Who is in Charge.

And lo, bedtime finally came, I've taken to my couch (sadly, not a fainting one a la Betty Draper Francis, but...), and the Anonymous Husband and I are sitting. Very. Very. Still.  Because we all have rough days every now and again, presumably even in Australia.

The Texas Chronicles: Teaching Baby About Home

***Warning: Sappy, cheesetastic post of questionable merit - yes, even more so than usual - ahead***

Whilst - yes, "whilst"; this is my blog, and I'll drop random Anglicisms Madonna-style when I want to - discussing the Texas opening of God's Chosen Burger Chain on Twitter yesterday and seeing native Texas befuddled over the big burger fuss, I began to daydream once again about introducing Master P to my glorious home state of (Southern) California.*

*I add the "Southern" intentionally; with apologies to my Bay Area friends, anything north of San Luis Obispo is basically Oregon & not part of the discussion here. 

I've chatted previously here about the reality that Master P will likely grow up a Texan. While I'm pleased this means he will understand still-mysterious-to-me things like the Alamo and UT football on that intrinsic, religious level natives do, I'm still questioning how to teach him about my sunny California roots.

Why is teaching your kid about where you're from important, you may be asking? What do California roots even mean, aside from a cult-like devotion to a certain hamburger chain and plastic surgery? I . . . uh .  . . I'm not entirely sure, to be honest. I just know that I adored growing up in San Diego. Not everyone is lucky enough to love their hometown - many of us can't wait to escape, of course - but I proudly claim mine. Whatever the reason, I'm desperate to share with Master P all the gorgeous, kid-friendly stuff it has on offer.

I may also be looking for an excuse to run home at every given opportunity to visit friends and stuff my Grace Kelly-style face with fish tacos. Naturally, now that I'm a Smug Mummy such levels of deception and self-centeredness aren't likely, given that my every waking thought is devoted to the betterment of my wee precious babe, but..

Whatever the motivation, if you'll indulge me this saccharine trip down Nostalgia Drive, here are the things aside from God's Chosen Burgers (and donuts and Mexican food . . .) I'm most looking forward to showing Master P back home, beginning this summer:

Source: bbc.com via Melissa on Pinterest

Balboa Park, home of some of the most unique, striking Spanish architecture anywhere, as well as fun kidlet stuff like the Junior  Theater I grew up attending and will torture MP with one day. We'll check out this following one a bit sooner...

Source: bing.com via Melissa on Pinterest

Followed by a trip to the Del at Christmas to see the incredible lobby display and during the summer to play on the surrounding beach...

Source: bigfloridacountry.com via Melissa on Pinterest

And to Opening Day at Del Mar, where we'll run by the adjacent horse arena to see where I grew up competing ...

Source: google.com via Melissa on Pinterest

Followed by a trip to the nearby Dog Beach, where we'll let Wallace the Pretty Pug be terrified of the water...

Source: flickriver.com via Melissa on Pinterest

And finally a cruise through Rancho Santa Fe to check out my childhood home & gawk at the loveliness of it all (while Master P inevitably snoozes in the backseat, of course)...

Source: sunsurfer.tumblr.com via Melissa on Pinterest

Anyone else share this mysterious need to teach your precious wee babe about your home? What is it you most want to show them?

I Was a Perfect Parent Until I Was a Parent

The smuggest Smug Mummies going are the ones who aren't yet mothers.

Confused? Longtime Invisible Internet Friend, the Brunette Foodie, sent me the link to an excellent post listing the things people tend to assume about babies before actually giving birth to one. Because no one - Pretty certainly included - is an expert parent quite like someone not yet or not ever to be a parent.

I giggled merrily as I read that list - until I realized just how many assumptions I myself had made before Master P's arrival. I may be Prettier Than Everyone Else, but I've realized I'm no more an expert on this parenting business than Octomom or Octomel or any other Octo-parent-of-eight-or-(hopefully)-less out there. Humility comes in a newborn-sized onesie, it turns out.

Lest my shame spiral of Mom Guilt about these assumptions pull me under, I'm spewing them out here in hopes of saving one of you aspiring Smug Mummies from laboring under the same, ridiculous apprehensions. And so I give you . . . 

Pretty's Top Five Ridiculous Parenting Assumptions PB (Pre-Baby) of Which I Am Now Deeply Ashamed and Refute Entirely:

5) Co-Sleeping is only for hippies: Or, as it turns out, for parents who actually want to get some sleep, some of which are my most J. Crew wearing, Junior Leaguing, Republican-est sorts of friends you'd ever hope (or not) to meet.

Or also the AH & me, who tried it when the wee precious newborn Master P refused to sleep anywhere upon coming home from the hospital. Turns out he wanted to sleep in the Magic Swing and not in our bed or anywhere else EVER, ahem, but, as Brooks Brothers is my witness, we tried us some dirty hippie co-sleeping before discovering that.

Moral of the story = when it comes to newborn sleep, all of us mistakenly start out believing baby will sleep where we want him/her to. Eventually, we do as the hippies (and, secretly, any number of country clubbing yuppies) do and overcome injustice (insomnia) By Any Means Possible.

4) Breastfeeding is Easy, and Only Lazy People Don't Do It: I'm particularly awash in Mom Guilt about my Gisele-ism given how, as I talked about in detail here, Master P & I never quite got the hang of nursing and, after limping along with it for six months, finally quit. I truly thought you just held up baby to the, uh, relevant area, and, ta-da! (ta-ta!), a minute or two later, baby is fed & content. Yeah.

I don't want to horrify the prospective MILFs out there about this, but suffice to say - get thee to a nursing class, with your significant other, when your pregnancy time comes. If you decide to nurse, that is. I've kvetched about this before, but it bears repeating - despite what the Boob Brigade will tell you, nursing is a choice - one I'm quite happy I made due to the health benefits to baby & hope to try again, but still - choice choice choicity choice choice nanny nanny boo boo.

3) Because I've always wanted to be a mother I will magically know how to do baby stuff (whatever that is): Cue to my frantic Googling at 2 am about how to survive sleep strikes, or frantic phone calls to mom friends about ohmigodwhywonthetakeanapalready.

Frankly, there are days when I feel paralyzed by the number of small decisions I now make - do I wake Master P from his nap to keep him on schedule? Am I feeding him enough? Is he sleeping enough?Are there green eggs & ham? Am I Sam I am?

2) Only lazy mothers leave the house in bedclothes or sweats: I kid you not, I pictured myself leaving the house with my (perfectly well-behaved, natch) newborn, speeding off to the market in the Trophy Wife Wagon, and emerging looking along the lines of this:

Photo Credit: Daily Mail / Inspiration Credit: Postpartum Insanity

Yeah, so the difference between this Real Housewife & the one pictured is one head of spectacular hair and a title and a few castles (hers) and one spectacular babe and a husband with a (full) head of spectacular hair (mine), but oh, the world of difference wardrobe-wise between the two. As we discussed in Operation MILF debriefing here, I'm working on the chic mom uniform, but the Duchess du Shopping look just isn't realistic as an everyday matter.

1) I will want to spend every waking moment with baby: I've learned there is a difference between adoring your baby every waking moment, more than you ever thought possible, and wanting him by your side for the same. A trip to the restroom, for example, is a time when that subtle yet important distinction comes into play - or I wish it would, rather.

Any seasoned moms out there willing to admit your pre-baby assumptions - once you've lowered the Eyebrow of Judgment at mine, that is?


Ashamedly Yours,
LBM

Happy First (Second) Mother's Day to Meeeeeee

On the Ed Hardy Scale of Things Best Avoided, Mother's Day used to rank a solid 8.5 out of 10 for me. My mother & I have never enjoyed a close relationship; though we continue to work on it, the easy Hallmark card "You're the best mom everrrrrrr!!!!" sentiment just isn't a fit for us. My grandmother, with whom I grew up, and I did have such a bond, but her passing a few years ago only further complicated my feelings about the day. 

And so it was with no small amount of gratitude that I celebrated my first Mother's Day yesterday with my new family of three and, for the first time, was largely able to let go of those tired greeting card expectations and simply enjoy.*
*(Technically it was my second Mother's Day celebration, since I'd gently "encouraged" baldly instructed the Anonymous Husband to honor massively pregnant ME on Mother's Day last year, but safe to say I had more street cred this time around.) (I'm not one to overlook a holiday honoring me.) (You could at least try to act surprised by this.) (Parentheses.)

Not to veer precariously onto the very Hallmark Sentiment Drive I've long swerved around, but this Mother's Day called to mind wise words a friend had shared with me eons ago - "You have two chances at a good family - to come from one or to create one yourself." As the AH & I stood around our friends' kitchen yesterday, sipping coffee as we watched our wee precious babes toddle around, I felt like I was making good progress on that latter option.

As if we weren't tottering precariously on the Cliffs du Cheese here already, would you believe that Master P took his very first steps on Mother's Day? Yes, I know that suspicious timing makes it sound like I'm making it up, but unlike everything else you read here, it's actually true. Mother & son both made some progress yesterday, apparently.

Of course, today we're back to the un-celebratory SAHM reality of doing laundry & grocery shopping & pretending to clean house - also, of Master P steadfastly refusing to repeat those awe-inspiring, indicative-of-sure-Ivy-League-success steps. He's back to his normal grind too:

Like father, like son: Master P enjoys rifling through our "Texas Party Drawer" of personalized koozies & Country Crystal

If you'll forgive me this maudlin turn down Cheap Sentiment Cove (caddycorner to Lifetime Channel Lane), we'll be back to our usual schedule of bitchery shortly. Hope y'all had a merry Mother's Day too, whether you be a current mom, aspiring MILF, or cheerfully child-free sort yourself.

Important, Special Note to Gwyneth Paltrow

Pretty Headquarters

10 Malevolence Manor

Principality of Monaco, via Austin, Texas

May 6, 2011

(Insert Imaginary British Title Here) Gwyneth Paltrow

123 Pretension Place

London

RLY 2QY

United Kingdom

Dear Madame GOOP:


Heaven - and our hairdresser - knows We love us an icy blonde here at the Pretty. Plus, any Anglophile worth her well-worn Austen novels has faked a British accent every now and again, so we'll hardly fault you for that. And my hat (a frilly fascinator, obvs.) is off to the working moms like you who appear to effortlessly manage many jobs both inside & outside the home in your case, presumably assisted by a mid-size cadre of nannies who seem to never get mentioned. 

As part of your apparent quest for global domination, you've appeared not only on our movie & television screens, but on our radios *and* in our inboxes *and* in our kitchens *and* on our bookshelves too. This might all be borne as the natural megalomania of an entitled blonde - takes one to know one, after all. However, your most recent foray into our handbags, as I first learned via Invisible Internet Friends the Preppy Princess and Tippy L, as brand representative for the omnipresent Coach handbags no less, is perhaps a step too far.

You're so able to be everywhere, doing everything, that were you starring as the inevitable chilly blonde in the latest Hitchcock mystery, that film might well be titled, "The Woman Who Was Everywhere." The same might be said of the unavoidable Coach brand, once an hallmark of classic simplicity, now an ode to the be-logoed stuff of nightmares and your Aunt Myrtle from Duluth. In that unavoidable aspect - quite literally, in that neither you nor those purses can be evaded - you might be a perfect match.

Enviable, everywhere... (Photo Credit: Getty Wire Image)

Any Hitchcock blonde knows, however, that a little mystery never hurt anyone. Perhaps a six month stint on the exotic isle of Far, Far Away is a good idea, no? Take a page from your fellow royals - we don't see Catherine Zeta-Jones or Kate / Catherine / Duchess of Cambridge on daily multi-media assault, do we? Rather, just recently they're scurried off to rehab or even Wales to avoid the fray, and it only enhances their (admittedly brunette) appeal. Supply & demand, darling.

There are so-called "People's Princesses" for whom regular public presence is a virtue via their good works - the late Diana and her charitable works, for example, or Betty White by mere virtue of being Betty White. You, dear GOOP, of acting and rock star royalty, are not one of the common folk, however, nor should you pretend to be via alliance with an all-too common handbag line. To pretend you're One of Us is disingenuous at best, though polite golf claps to you for thinking it even mildly possible. Adorable, really. 

To conclude - though this latest collaboration of yours might line your pockets, that particular shade of green isn't the most flattering color on an icy blonde, is it? We aspiring Brits must stick together, after all, and we - ahem, We - may as well look good, or "posh", rather - doing it.

Yours in blonde ambition,

Legallyblondemel, Pretty HQ

Operation MILF: The Mom-ouflage

I had a post cooked up for today which - wait for it - had nothing whatsoever to do with babies - when your overgenerous comments from yesterday made me realize perhaps I needed to clarify this MILF outfit project thingy.

Part of me is thrilled that any of you would think I strut around in spit-up free white jeans & a fancy top a la Mrs. Beckham day in & out. Lord knows most of the time I go out of my way to perpetuate that very misapprehension, so I thank you from the bottom of my icy little heart for playing along with me.

However, the other, slightly more vocal bit of me feels compelled to share with any other aspiring MILFs out there the outfit I throw on mornings when I don't have a special occasion sort of day (now defined as playgroup or a Junior League meeting, BTW) ahead, or when Master P just isn't cooperating with a shower-time nap - I call this the Mom-ouflage.

Plus, one of you seasoned moms reading my drivel will surely out me if I don't do it myself, and we all know what a crabby, overcaffeinated lot they can be. (Kidding - love you!) (No, really!) (Parentheses!)

Below is the version of my usual Mom-ouflage, tossed on this morning as I had to scramble out the door sans shower to make an appointment. I was tempted at first to retake this blurry photo, but the effect gives you a more realistic picture of this MILF-in-training attempting to save Master P from his swan dive of death to grab the iPhone:

If you squint you can make out the vague outlines of a workout outfit, worn both for ease of wear and to create (false) impression of having skipped said shower due to intense workout. I've added mascara & diamond studs so as to not totally offend those we encounter, but that is the extent of the fussy on a Mom-ouflage day.

Any brand new Smug Mummies or soon-to-be's out there, you'll be living in your variation of this for the first six months or so. Don't worry about getting your dressier daytime MILF wardrobe organized until your wee precious babe is a bit older; relax & go back to resenting people who are getting normal amounts of sleep.

So if you spot a newish Mom in the wild sporting the Mom-ouflage, maybe find a spot in your own chilly little heart to wish her well & a shower sometime soon. 

And so We conclude the honesty part of the program. You may all go back to believing I swan around in Jimmy Choos 24/7henceforth. Thank you for understanding.

Operation Smug Mummy: The Workout Ed.

Short version: "WHINE"

Slightly Less Short Version: "Not in search of sympathy - not not not! I'll freely admit when I require an ego stroke - but needing to vent about missing the pre-baby bod"

Twitter Translation: #whitegirlproblems #imsovain #cliche

Long version:

Darlings, it's generally acknowledged here at the Pretty that I'm the spitting image of a certain Grace Kelly substantial photographic evidence to the contrary notwithstanding. Trouble is, some ten months after Master P's blessed arrival, I'm a somewhat wobblier royal of Monaco and, to my surprise, it's bothering vain little (not-so-little) me.

I recommend a bit (a lot) of Veuve for purposes of comparison

Body change bother is a notorious refrain amongst new moms, of course, but one I mostly dismissed as a pregnant lady (for glaring example, here). Truth is, I'm lucky to have lost most of my baby weight - thirty pounds, for those of you keeping track. I'm not saying I'm enormous or don't recognize myself; however, I've taken on curves in strange new locales (tummy bulge, MUFFIN TOP, gaaaaah) and can't fit properly into some pre-baby clothes. Silly though it may be, I'm surprised to find myself frustrated about it.

Yes, I admit that I was sorta wrong. In writing. Anonymous Husband, go ahead & print this page out; no, I never thought this day would come either.

In the spirit not of complaint - well, maybe just a bit - but rather sharing my experience in hopes of helping any other aspiring MILFs out there, I think I underestimated how I'd miss parts of the old "me", both physical and emotional, once Master P arrived. Yes, I knew I'd have to put some time in exercising, but I hadn't anticipated the logistical troubles of doing so nor my mental struggle over dealing with another big life change. I figured my glee over having this precious wee babe in my life would override any body vanity; while the bliss is there, the vanity remains as well, sadly.

(*Cue Laughing*) My pre-baby visions of the MILF Life included a baby who cheerfully slept in his stroller or at the gym childcare while I breezily picked up my regular workout schedule again. Master P being the first newborn I've ever spent much time with, I had no idea about the logistical difficulties like Master P having "stranger danger" in daycare-type situations. I also didn't anticipate getting sick whenever baby did or just not having the energy to exercise until MP started sleeping through the night at 6.5 months.

My alternatives, hiring a part-time nanny or waking at 5 am to sneak off to the gym, just aren't feasible nor my preference, so I'm trying to stick to the following workout schedule: 1 hour walk Monday-Friday, at least 1 gym visit on weekends. Not enough to firm up that which used to be so, but enough to balance out my (non-negotiable) ice cream intake.

Until I figure out a more clever solution to my Operation MILF workout dilemma, it's back to some of that strategic dressing we talked about here. Note below the self-ASSessment now used before leaving the house to ensure said problem areas are disguised; also, note deceptively slimming side pose and tunic disguising drool stains and wobbly bits:

With apologies to my late but still fabulous Grandmother, who is surely raising an Estee Lauder'ed brow at my: (1) white before Memorial Day and (2) use of "ass" anywhere, ever.

The moral of my self-pitying story is . . . doing the best I can fitness-wise for now with the limited workout time I have and reassessing once Master P is a few months older. Also, camouflage. Finally, camouflage.

Pretty Party: 1st Birthday Planning

I blame the tiny wedding across the pond that absolutely none of us here awoke to watch at 2:30 am like a giddy child on Christmas morning. Or maybe it waking up this morning feeling a bit elated and safer thanks to weightier world matters.

Of course, the more likely answer is that I'm merely a bored housewife who tires of loafing around eating chocolates while her Ralph Lauren-style little prince of perfection raises himself. Of course.

Whatever the reason, I find myself in immediate need of planning a Big Damn Party ("BDP") (also, like that transition?). Lacking a wedding to plan, my current Anonymous Husband being my first and favorite, We (I) recently recalled that we have the very best reason to get all BDP-y.

"Master P is turning 1! You know this means we have to throw a party, right?" I exclaimed to the AH, visions of festive invitations dancing before me. "Of course, but you're not getting carried away, are you? He's just turning one; he won't know the difference," the AH intoned solemnly; I nodded earnestly in response.

Then we laughed as my mind merrily barreled along in full Type A Minus party planning mode. This California girl is whipping up a "beach" backyard barbeque using the following as start-up inspiration...

The birthday boy outfit, a perfect mix of Mom's California & traditional sensibilities, has been ordered... 

Photo Credit: Zulily

. . . the Pretty Paper invitation selections are in full swing .  . .

Photo Credit: Tiny Prints

Photo Credit: Tiny Prints

Photo Credit: Tiny Prints

Photo Credit: Tiny Prints

. . . and the party favor brainstorming has begun (and by "begun" I mean "blatantly stealing the darling idea of a playgroup friend")

. . . and there can't be a birthday party without the guest of honor . . .

Insert "foot in mouth" joke here