If Only-Itis: Staying in the Present

I've long suffered from "If only..."-itis, putting the cart-before-the horse expectation-wise - when I was a lawyer, I just couldn't wait to be a mother; when I was a student before that, I couldn't wait to have a grown-up job, and so on - so this should come as no surprise.

I won't bore you with some cliched "Live in the now" zen-style revelation I've had - we here stand for being Prettier, not more cliched than anyone else - but I will say that an excellent post by Miss ILYMTC here has me pondering how often I'm eager to do stuff with Master P where he's not quite there yet. I do try & capture the small moments of young toddler joy with him but, more often than not, I'm daydreaming about how fun it will be when he's old enough to truly enjoy the zoo, or I can be the homeroom mom for his classroom or take him to cultural landmarks like Bergdorf's.

On the one manicured hand, looking forward to the times to come as my child grows is a good thing. As guilty as I felt about not being much of a baby person at the time, I feel fortunate that I enjoy every passing month with Master P more than the one before. Not that parenting is about one's selfish enjoyment of the enterprise, I hasten to add, but having fun while you're at it doesn't hurt. And some aspects about parenting an older child - my longtime desire to run the PTA with the zeal of a third-world dictator, for example - are so integral a part of me that I could no sooner stop wishing for them than I could stop craving Pretty handbags.

On the other, I fear that I sometimes miss appreciating my parenting time now in that looking forward. "Gah, this will be so much easier once Master P can be trusted to walk in public," I'll think to myself as I lug all 25 pounds (!) of him through some 108-degree'd parking lot to run errands. Maybe it will, but I'll surely miss that time snuggling as I lug, too. Plus, as I've learned so far with this kid stuff, with each phase comes some ease and some additional difficulty I hadn't considered.

While I struggle to find some balance here, I'm looking forward to incorporating some older kid stuff in the meantime by way of Sunday School volunteering. One half-hour with some kindergarteners each week outta knock the forward looking right out of me, I'm guessing - or, at least, scratch that itch so I can enjoy these younger days with my younger man (in the child, not the Madonna/cougar, sense):

Know what I mean? Any advice on not focusing on future events or handbags, not necessarily in that order?

Primping for Playgroup & Other Silliness

Show of hands - how many of you (*raises hand*) have...

Dressed up to see your girlfriends more than any romantic person of interest?

Cleaned your house before the housekeeper - that is, the person kept in employ thanks in part to your sloth - arrives?

The Anonymous Husband delights in making fun of me for this sort of thing, claiming that I do things like dress for other women more often than him. It came up again last night when I was frantically cleaning Master P's play area in anticipation of the playgroup we hosted today, and again this morning when I woke up early - ie, pre Master P - to shower & get gussied up for the same bunch. This is the playgroup filled with women who would most understand why the play area might not be perfectly tidy after I've been traveling for a week or, ya know, taking care of a whirlwind one-year-old.

Hmm. Maybe he has a point. Is it a strange that my primping efforts, both for self and home, aren't always - ok, usually - motivated by the husband and child types I'm theoretically meant to be, you know, creating a nice home for and stuff? Or whatever it is that so-called housewifes, of the non- reality TV sort, are supposed to be doing?

Source: motifmagazine.wordpress.com via Johnna on Pinterest

Before the Internet Mothering Brigade gets their feminist dukes up, let me clarify - I'm in no way rescinding my right to wear my Secret Sweatpants (in home only, mind you) or the Mom Uniform or have things like opinions. I have no desire to return to anything remotely 1950s aside from the spiffy dresses. That being said, I'm just wondering - does it matter what's motivating the effort to present a decent appearance?

Eh. I think it's ok to take pride in keeping a home & one's self presentable. That being said, the house isn't always often clean, and there are days like any mother has when I'm sprinting to get a shower before the AH arrives home. Whatever the motivation, I think that I'm trying when & where I can, even when impressing the playgroup isn't at stake, though I should be mindful of that too. Surely that - and the occasional  Secret Sweatpants, because don't deny that you have them too - is enough.

Flying with 1-Year-Olds, Hurricanes, and Other Good Ideas

***I'm hardly the first to traverse the young toddler trip territory (or excessive alliteration), so many thanks to you, you, you, you, you, and the many more of you I'm surely forgetting for your prior posts & helpful advice to me on the subject. Please let me know if I've inadvertently neglected to credit you here.***

Hello again! We're back from a whirlwind week of travel, first to visit my darling newborn niece in Dallas & then to an entirely different, less cuddly form of hurricane for an East Coast wedding.

Anywhoodle, I've long promised you a list of advice on how to navigate air travel with one older infant or young toddler. Given that this weekend marked five round-trip flights down in his 14 months of life, one of which Master P & I did sans help/husband, we're obviously experts on the topic. Obviously.

Plus, we at the Pretty like nothing better than kindly but firmly telling people what to do. Well, nothing except for a bottle of Veuve and an ocean view, perhaps, but - since those are unlikely (if welcome) companions to a piece on toddler travel, I'll take the bossing you around bit.

***Mildly Important Sidenote: my toddler travels to-date have all been domestic US & with my one & only 1-year-old, so my expert advice (ahem) is given with those limitations in mind. Those of you traveling internationally and/or with multiple children . . . um, good luck?***

Advice on younger toddler travel tends to fall along two lines: "In an ideal world" and "Reality Budget / Toddler Temperament". I don't presume to know your situation, so I include both here & will attempt to make note of where the advice may depend on budget considerations.

Before You Travel:

• Pay someone else to do it for you.

• Ok, truthfully - remember that, at least in my experience, young toddler travel isn't as bad as we think it is. More on this later, but I'm being serious. No, really.

• Know your child's best time of day & schedule your flights accordingly (*In an Ideal World/Budget Note*): Many 1-year-olds are morning little people, and Master P is no exception; we notice a big difference in his happiness & therefore ours when we've flown early. We're better off waking him early to do a morning flight than cutting his mid-day nap short & taking an afternoon one. 

• As usual, direct flights are your friend (*Ideal World/Budget Note*) when possible. We've done flights as long as one 3-hour stretch, and that went much better than two 1-1.5 hour flights with a layover.

• Check your airline's bag fee policy before booking your tickets, because you want to check every bag you can. Remember: Your kid is not the enemy with navigating toddler travel - all the extra stuff they come with is. Note that most airlines don't count car seats as a checked bag for charging-you-$$ purposes; none that we've flown as of this writing have, but double-check this.

• Buy a separate seat for your child (*Ideal World/Budget Note*). On many airlines, children under 2 years of age fly free as a lap passenger with you, but that extra seat buys you magical space in which your toddler can wiggle - versus running up the aisles and swinging from the drinks cart. This one also works well if your child happily sits in a car seat, because most airlines (all we've flown, but double check) will let you bring at least an infant car seat onboard.

• A separate seat wasn't an option for us budget-wise, so we took our chances on not having a full flight & flew Southwest. Master P loathes all car seats, so we check his; on flights that haven't been full, however, that extra space allows him to wiggle without annoying other passengers - or annoying other passengers less, that is.

• Get a copy of child's birth certificate to bring to the airport with you. Again, this varies airline to airline, but more often than not I've had to show one to prove Master P's under age-2 status - yes, even when he was all of 3 months old.

Arriving at Airport:

• Have someone drop you, child & bags at curbside check-in; if traveling alone with your kid, have that same person accompany you through getting bags checked & as far through the security line as allowed.

• Buy one of these (with thanks to Mrs. MMM, who first brought it to my attention with her excellent post here) if checking your toddler's car seat. The bag not only has backpack straps to make the trip from car to ticket counter easier, the overpackers amongst us (ahem) can squeeze a few more items in this roomy bag without paying an extra bag fee. Our Britax Boulevard fits it nicely & has sustained no damage to date.

• Dress your child with enhanced TSA security in mind, just as you dress yourself - as few layers of clothes as possible, no metal nunchucks in pockets, etc. And, yes, your wee toddler who may or may not yet be walking will likely have to remove his shoes. 

• Plan on security taking at least 5 minutes longer & adjust your time-to-gate plans accordingly; more often than not, Master P's snack/drinks bag (more on that below) gets an additional TSA screening.

• Gate check your stroller: Maclaren has the best reputation in the lightweight travel stroller business for a reason; we travel with this one (NB: I found ours on Gilt, which puts these up for sale occasionally). The one-handed fold is so helpful when standing on the jetway with your wee angel wiggling out of your arms & a line of passengers behind you.

During Flight & Stuff to Pack for It

• Board the plane early enough to get good seats (if flying Southwest) but not too early. I suspect this may be controversial, but - you'l be tempted to want to rush onboard to get settled; however, every minute you're sitting on the plane willing your child to sit still is one he could have been burning off energy in the terminal. 

• Encourage your child to drink on takeoff / landing to help with ear pressure. You, of course, will need no such encouragement. Which reminds me...

• Offer to buy a drink for anyone unlucky enough to be seated next to you. I've yet to have anyone take me up on the offer, but it seems to buy us some much-needed goodwill.

• Bring half the toys and twice the snacks & drinks you think you'll need. The plane is one big fascinating toy in & of itself; this will depend on the kid but, at least in Master P's case, he's often more interested in the surrounding plane stuff - barf bags! safety instruction cards! window shades, oh my! - than the stickers & flash cards I've packed him. 

• I consolidate my purse essentials into one diaper bag (I like traveling with this one, which has the benefit of looking manly enough that the Anonymous Husband will carry it without complaint) & include one smaller refrigerated lunch bag filled with snacks & drinks (more on that below). The Pretty Diaper bag includes:

• 2 books
• 1 new toy that can't roll away (drumstick, most recently; the lights & music toys he prefers can't easily be seen or heard on the plane)
• 1 sticker book
• 1 outfit change for child and, if possible, one t-shirt change for you; 1 extra layer for both
• (Insert Xanax for Mommy joke here)
• iPad for emergency video viewing (MP isn't usually interested in tv, but the 5 minutes of screech-free Elmo happiness the iPad has given us is worth its price alone).
• 2 sippycups milk & 1 water. I wouldn't count on the flight attendants for this - when you need a sippy to keep your toddler happy, you tend to need it rightthisverysecond. Plus, while I've heard of airlines providing formula when needed, I've not seen milk alternatives like soy (which Master P drinks). 
• "High value" snacks, ie, stuff I know he'll eat & don't create too much of a mess. String cheese, blueberries, Goldfish crackers = good / Swedish Fish I brought for me & shared with MP, only to have red goo get all over seat of his shorts in manner of, um, feminine incident = bad
• 3 diapers, travel pack wipes, and these odor-concealing bags; be kind to your fellow travelers also using the insultingly small lavatory & bag diapers before trashing.
• If your kid has a "lovey" he likes to sleep with, bring in case your checked bags disappear *and* (drumroll) on the off chance the Nap Fairy visits you during flight . . .

Granted, this cherubic sleep happened only after 10 minutes of tired screeching, but feel free to hate me regardless...

Which leads me to my next point:

• Toddler travel isn't as painful as you'd think pre-kid, and your fellow passengers & flight crew are much nicer than you'd imagine too. Yes, really. I'm not claiming that people break out in song & jazz hands upon seeing you, but by & large they've been very kind. Yes, your kid will cry, but he will stop crying - because the flight will eventually end, if nothing else.

After the flight:

• If flying alone, have someone meet you just outside security (*Ideal World/Budget*): You will need help getting the bags on whatever transport you're taking and a grown-up adult to have a conversation with, not necessarily in that order. Sweet talk an airline employee if need be.

What am I forgetting, Pretties? Also, now that you know that Master P sometimes naps on planes, do I have any volunteers to take him on our next trip?

Burying My Head in the Snail Mail Sands

Note: All products mentioned below were purchased by little ol' me, and were in no way solicited nor sponsored product placement - though if, ya know, Crane's Stationery were to come calling - please come calling! - Mama likes her paper. And handbags. Also, ponies. Um...

This article, brought to my attention by favorite Invisible Internet Friend Ouiser B, suggests that as we lead more of our lives online, many of us simultaneously grow attached to more traditional means of communication such as writing an old-fashioned note. Kinda dovetails wonderfully with that digital age netiquette stuff we talked about yesterday, eh?

Of course, many of us never abandoned pen & paper in the first place, looking for any excuse to jot a note to someone, whatever our online habits. E-reality notwithstanding, some of us still race to the mailbox every day, hoping that there's a special something from a loved one nestled amongst the dreary bills & Chico's catalogs (!)(How, HOW did I end up on your mailing list?)(Parentheses). We look forward to spending that extra minute thinking of how to word a card and carefully savor & save the ones sent to us.

I'm cheered to see the continued art of a well-written missive, whether it be the organic result of all this time we - as in, the royal We, since I'm pointing the finger squarely at myself here - spend online, or thanks to the marketing efforts of small-market stationers as that WSJ article suggests. Machiavelli & I may be on the same page (zing!) here, but the Pretty Paper ends justify the means as far as I'm concerned.

So I will continue to do my online stuff with you & try to get caught up with the Facebook announcement times but, by the powers vested in me by the State of Denial, I will continue to send things via snail mail too. Speaking of, here's what's in the outgoing Pretty postbox lately:

                                                                                Source: preppyprincess.com via Melissa on Pinterest

My notes - aggressively pink, just how I like it.

                                                                                              Source: tinyprints.com via Melissa on Pinterest

Here are Master P's notes - yes, he has them already, thankyouverymuch - and the high chair hurricane couldn't be a more suitable photo.

                                 [THIS SPACE LEFT BLANK INTENTIONALLY]

Here is where the Anonymous Husband's notes should be, except that he refuses to have his own stationery, claiming that it is - wait for it - "women's stuff". Sigh. When forced - ahem, encouraged to write thank you notes, as is mandatory with any relative of mine, he puts pen to . . . law firm paper. Guess what's coming to his Christmas stocking this year?

                                                                               Source: carolandcompany.com via Melissa on Pinterest

The best housewarming gift I've ever received; I use this Three Designing Women stamp regularly and, unlike a plant or bottle of wine, I've yet to be able to kill it.

                                                                                     Source: minted.com via Melissa on Pinterest

Try as I might not to hop on every blogger trend going, who am I to resist a calling card designed for my new Chief Executive Mom position? I've had good experiences with Minted, who designed Master P's first birthday invitations, so I'll happily be blog trendy just this once for the mere price of shipping 25 of these to me.

Here I'll remain, one foot planted firmly in the past, learning to live with those Facebook announcements & dreaming up more excuses to find Pretty paper - for the Pug? Imaginary Child #2?

The Netiquette of Personal News Announcements

I'm admittedly old fashioned, having been raised to believe in God, country, and thank you notes, not always in that order, but I've done my share of newfangled things like broadcasting major life events via social media as well - after having shared said events with close friends & family, that is. Blogging my pregnancy news or how I blurted out to a room full of family, co-workers & clergy that the Anonymous Husband is a good, um, rhymes with "pay" (less major, more humiliating) comes to mind.

Ahem.

That being said, there is a sort of personal milestone news that this traditional prissypants just can't get used to receiving via the internet. Many of you Invisible Internet Friends (like you, hello!) have had similar experiences with learning of a friend's major life events not from them but via social media, so I should have seen this coming.

But . . . but . . . recently I read of a friend's engagement via Facebook. Neither the medium nor the message should have been a surprise, nor am I nearly as close with said friend as we were in high school. But . . . but .  .

(Via Google Image)

It's not that I'm upset or even disappointed, exactly; rather, it's that the way of sharing the news left me feeling cold. Not that icily cool blonde isn't my natural state a la HRH Grace, Gwyneth, and whatever other regal Gs I'm forgetting, but I mean chilly in the distant sense. Maybe the way of sharing the news highlighted a distance in the friendship I hadn't acknowledged? What would I have preferred - a phone call? Handwritten note? Personalized carrier pigeon festooned with wedding white ribbons? The FB announcement is exactly what the 21st century would call for, and yet . . .

So while this traditional-in-one-sense / social media strumpet in another struggles to wrap her digital feelings around this sort of thing, I wonder - do I just need to get used to this, or do I keep up my dinosaur practice of telling this sort of news in person or over the phone?

Show of hands - anyone else get their digital panties in a wad over this type of social media sharing?

On the Road (Home) Again...

*Subtitle: "Writing the Same Post Over & Over Again & Hoping Y'all Are Too Kind to Mention It"


**Mildly Important Note: Hello from Death Hell Heat'd Dallas! The Pretties are jet-setting around visiting family this week, so please forgive my erratic posting & commenting for the duration. Given that you - all three of you - hang on my every word, I realize what a hardship this is. Thank you for your understanding.

I've droned on here before about teaching Master P about my Southern California homeland and questioned why, after six years (!) here in the Great State, I'm still compelled to describe it as "home" and pass a taste of it onto him. As much as I love my life here & want my wee Texan to learn native skills like football and chivalry - not necessarily in that order - I still chew on what it means to be raising a child here.

Is all the pondering because I'm homesick? Looking to make my stamp on my son, who already looks & inevitably will act much like his Texan father? Desperate for blog material?

All of the above, probably, but today I'm less concerned with the whys & more happy with my Californiazation (deemed a word here at the Pretty) scheme for its own sake. Today marks a historic first in the life of Master P, made even more special by the presence of fellow Texifornian & gorgeous creature Shabby Princess:

Yes, that's an In n' Out French Fry my boy is nearly fainting over, and I couldn't be more pleased by passing along my California legacy via . . . God's Chosen Cheeseburger? Hmm. Though the nostalgic food & chat with one of my favorite Invisible Internet Friends was mostly for my benefit, obvs I couldn't help but think there will be some other home goodness to teach him about. You Texans may have more land & better manners, but it'll be tough to beat that Pacific Ocean view he'll enjoy visiting one day.

Fast food favorites aside, we've had some other happy firsts here in the Big D:

If you'll forgive me the iPhone photo - I've bored you with tales of tricking both the Anonymous Husband and Master P into reading, but this is the first time I've witnessed Master P toddle up to the AH, make the "UP, UP!" flappy arm gesture and shove a book in his direction, indicating with a verve rarely seen outside a third world dictatorship that he'd like to read rightthisverysecond. So moved was I by this literary scene that my Icy Glare of Judgment has basically been disabled for the day, which is an issue when your 1-year-old is attempting to scale his aunt's staircase with a sippycup in one hand & dirty diaper in another.

On that schmaltzy note, I'm off to put my law degree to good use by cuddling - yes, cuddling, I admit it - the world's most well behaved newborn, reminding my ovaries that, based on evidence to date, my own personal newborns don't prefer cuddles nor good behavior. Down, ladyparts, down!

Spitfire newborn though he was, at least he's fairly delightful now.

For my fellow expats, where is home for you, and what do you hope to pass on to your own personal children it? Also, any advice for the ladyparts trying to trick me into having Imaginary Child #2?

The "Date Night" Thing (Quotes Intentional)

Once upon a child-free time, the Anonymous Husband and I would do typical Smug Married things like check out a new restaurant or see a movie without feeling compelled to label those occasions. Such times required no more planning than one of us, usually the thoughtful AH, making the occasional reservation.

When we learned I was pregnant, we swore that we'd continue to make regular efforts to go out together. Surely after a few weeks we'd have the energy to go out. Surely we'd find a caring, reliable babysitter available on a weekly basis to help out. Surely we'd never become that couple too tired or too bored to have a dinner conversation, staring blankly at one another at the nearest bland chain restaurant.

Yes, yes - surely cue laughter here.

So it turns out the date planning post kid ("PK") is more akin to launching a multi-front international invasion. Napoleon had nothing on my ability to coordinate the armed forces of Babysitter, Restaurant Reservation, Husband Scheduling (or Attempts Thereto), Suddenly Sitter-Averse Master P and, um, Last Minute Pulling Myself Together-ing. The AH & I now have strategic meetings about so-called "Date Nights" and penciling in dates weeks in advances. So we have & continue to make an effort, but between the AH's frenzied job, the fun of securing a sitter, and Master P's sniffles & recent "stranger danger", it has been more on a once or twice monthly basis.

This past weekend was worth the World War III level scheduling efforts, however. We talked, not about scheduling or Real Life Stuff, but just fun banter like we haven't done in a while. We escaped the heat with a beer and a movie, both of which we can't recommend highly enough:

Excellent, excellent, excellent - oh, any probably copyright DreamWorks Studios or some legal thingymagig.

Though the times we get out as a couple now lack the spontaneity we once enjoyed, I do look forward to these PK dates even more than I did pre-baby. Though the complexity of coordinating these only adds to my collection of wrinkles, the painfully scheduled* Date Nights are worth it.**

*See, I am able to do complex scheduling for something - that should make you Life Planner Mom Schedule Agenda of Doom types happy!

*Unless the AH makes good on his threat to make me see "Rise of the Apes of Gargamel Hogwarts"or whatever...

All the Small Things

**Note to the cheerfully child-free: you may want to skip this one, laden with babies and schmoopy moments as it is. I hope to get back to discussing overpriced shoes again soon. Thank you.**

Of the many, many things I ASSumed incorrectly about being a parent, the thrill of watching my child reach his milestones - you know, the first walk first talk stuff I'm supposed to be writing down in a certain baby book - is one I got right. Those big moments, where the music swells and the seas part and your darling little genius takes his tentative first bite of food or what-have-you, are just as schmoopy-doopily magical as you might imagine.

What has surprised me, however, are how the little moments of progress are such a joy to witness too. These are things that might not merit an official baby book mention, but nevertheless are a developmental step paving the way to early OxfordHarvardDartmouthCambridge acceptance - or, um, something a wee bit simpler, like learning how to put things back together:

That photo may just look like Master P grabbing some sort of toy, but I can't tell you the fun I had observing this week as he suddenly took an interest in that after having ignored it for months. I watched his mental gears shift as he puzzled out how exactly to remove those stackable balls and then replace them again. Oh, the look of joy he himself had when he figured it out the first time. After months of taking things apart - that is, flinging things about the living room hurricane-style - he's figuring out how to put them back together. There's still the hurricane flinging but, with some mom help & encouragement, there's also some putting stuff back In Its Place.

I've bored you already with the details of this small moment, but here is my point - and yes, I do have one. For once. Ahem - there are long days with this new parent, young child business where you feel like nothing has changed, and paint drying on the walls might be moving at a faster clip. And then you see some progress, even if a minor step, and the effort put forth in feeding and cleaning and silently praying for patience while OMGhestearingupthelivingroomagainstopstopstop feels like nothing compared to the awesomeness - yes, that's an official word here at the Pretty - you've just witnessed.

Life is in the details - or some cliched garbage like that, but - yep. This is the stuff that makes the stay-at-home mom job the right one for me (for ME, that is, Internet Mommy Police, not everyone. GAH.)

Care to share a particularly fun milestone you've witnessed lately or have fun memories of?

The Smug Mummy Takes a Stand (Except Not)

Neiman Marcus knows we don't court controversy here at the Pretty - unless you're counting my firm stance on skinny jeans (eg, not on this arse) - but some recent posts by favorite bloggers you and you have me chewing on the judgment we mom types put on one another to parent a certain way.

Don't get me wrong - I will judge the peg-legged, high-waisted pants right off you & into the nearest Goodwill bin when it comes to your actual pants. With age-old mothering choices, however, like whether to work or stay at home (for those of us with the choice, I hasten to add), my stance is that I have no stance. I will not presume to tell you what is right for your family - not not not, you can't make me, nannynannybooboo.

These ruminations came to a head for me yesterday when I realized I was censoring myself here. I'd wanted to get your advice about hiring a . . . wait for it . . . part-time nanny to help me out with Master P while I run errands a couple of mornings each week & for the occasional date night; more specifically, I'd wanted your help figuring out the right questions to ask in an interview I held yesterday. I didn't say anything, though, for fear of the Internet Mommy Police, whom I've seen terrorize my Invisible Internet Friends over such questions. Their scintillating insights usually run along the lines of "You get to be a stay-at-home mom, you spoiled whinypants - why would you need help? Isn't your job to do just that - stay at home?"

You can presume how I feel about censorship, a practice common in Communist countries; said nations rarely have good shoes, so my feelings on the matter go without saying. Plus, most of us here on the web - at least, here in my seersucker-striped, pink and green corner of it - exist to help one another figure out such questions. We're all trying to do this mom stuff as best we can, in the way that works best for us, which may not be the best for you.

Realizing that most of us are here for the right reasons, I'm coming out of the maternal closet & firmly stating - I absolutely love doing this stay-at-home mom gig, but I do need help on occasion too. I'd like the opportunity to make a doctor's appointment sans crawling-squeaking-fiddling-with-medical-equipment adorable Master P. To go to the grocery store without my wee Houdini wiggling out of the shopping cart & into the salad dressing stand. To find time to do some volunteer work and get involved in our church. To get some exercise without relying on my gym's "Lord of the Flies" -style childcare, or torturing Master P more often than necessary with the long stroller walks he detests & gets bored on in approximately 10.2 minutes:

It's like a game of iSpy - how many toys / snacks / drinks does it take to keep him entertained on walks?

Don't be fooled by those baby blues - there's a stroller rebellion fomenting (name that "Office" episode!) in there...

With a husband who works wonky hours & no family here in town, which is secretly sort of wonderful except for when it isn't, I'm left with the childcare option that works best for us - not you, perhaps, but us. I'm thrilled to have a husband who supports my having a few hours to myself each week - if you can call making a long-overdue dentist's appointment that - and, again, very, very privileged that finding the right part-time caregiver is an option.

So let's lay down our mommy arms and get back to the business of judging not one another but Prettier matters, like this hideous mismatched grunge trend that seems to be creeping up on us (et tu, Miss Tory?)... failing that, feel free to give me finding caretaker advice or lecture on what an absentee mother I am in the comments, please and thank you.

The Undomestic Goddess Confessions: Baby Book Edition

An irregular series in which I air my dirty domestic laundry - sometimes literally - in the hopes of .  . . of . . . I'm not exactly sure what, but it's likely one of two things: (a) publicly shaming myself into doing better wife- and mom-wise or (b) dragging y'all down with me into the anti-Martha morass.

Before Master P arrived - as in, more than one year ago - we were showered with many a thoughtful gift, an elegant baby book being amongst them. For the child-free civilians amongst us, baby books are filled with pages in which parents are to lovingly fill in the important details of baby's birth & first year:

That darling black & white photo peering out from the cover? Is lovely, but it's not my own personal baby - er, I mean, former-baby-now-toddler. Those cards and loose photographs spilling out from within? Were just randomly shoved in there over Master P's first year, somewhere between "Real Housewives" episodes.

It gets worse.

Note the blank pages within said baby book, including the "Letter from Mommy" page there to the left. Because the woman who can write umpty-million schmoopy posts about her son, to the delight of no one, can't pen an actual keepsake letter to him.

The irony just continues...

Lord knows that this blogger doesn't like the sound of an "About Mommy" page that allows her to talk about ME ME ME in great detail.

And while I'm looking like a thoughtless mother, let's add the baby photo album to the fun:

Organizational experts classify this as the "shove & forget" form of filing.

Lest you believe me to be a complete absentee mother, I have been updating the Baby Book with essentials such as height/weight updates and when he first crawled. It's just that . . .  that's it, actually. Um.

Interwebs, I want you to know that, for once, the Martha Stewart-y guilt - that same feeling I get reading Pinterest & feeling badly for not crocheting whimsical baby berets, etc. - got the best of me. Yes, last night I organized, I wrote down some (not all) of the schmoopy stuff, I put photos in the proper locations:

Voila! Neveryoumind that half of Master P's head is cut off on the cover shot. The point is, that *is* my wee preshusss angel now starring on the front of his own book - which is no longer haphazardly stuffed with baby detrius, I might smugly add. (Because I plastic bagged that part up & shoved it to the back of his closet)(As one does)(Parentheses).

After this spectacular domestic effort, I trust that I can just set aside a shoebox for Imaginary Child #2 & shove his/her "baby book" belongings in accordingly? Right? Right?

The Firstborn

Growing up as the older child of two, I considered my firstborn status to be something of a liability. I may have looked just like Grace Kelly - still do, naturally - but I still felt disadvantaged by being held to a higher standard than my younger brother. Where he could get away with some parental handholding - help on a term paper, for example - I never did; it wouldn't ever occur to me to ask, so surely would I have been laughed away & lectured on the importance of self-sufficiency. The curfew that was rigid in my case proved flexible in his. Then my brother solidified his seemingly favorite status by going into the family business - that is, the Navy - while I - self-sufficiently! - blazed a different path in choosing the law. (And yes, only in my family would law school be a rebel's choice).

And so when Master P was born, crazy as it may sound, I almost pitied him his firstborn status. Would I make my mistakes on him & go easy on our imaginary (yet mandatory, according to the Anonymous Husband) second child? Would I hold him to a different standard than Imaginary Child #2?

Inevitably - yes, in some situations; the flip side, however, struck me yesterday, as I took Master P to get his first 'do:

Real men wear pink, even pink mother-son hairdresser's smocks

Though I may - ok, have, and will continue to - make newbie blunders with my firstborn, he's also the beneficiary of this special time in which he gets to be the center of mom attention. These firsts - first birthday, first tooth, first 'do, so many of them! - are exciting and novel for me, and I imagine some of that fun must translate down to him. I relish this time in which I just get to focus on figuring him out.

Sure, I'll go through these same milestones with Imaginary Child #2, but it won't be the first time I'll have gone through some of those. I won't be able to make IC2 my entire maternal world as I have with Master P.  While I'll try mightily not to compare the two kids, Master P lives now in a world without such temptations, whereas IC2 will inevitably feel the brunt of measuring up at some point.

I feel a smidge kinder towards both myself and my parents & grandparents having stumbled up on this firstborn truth. At some point I was the center of their world & blunders too. I realize they may have treated me differently not only because I was the firstborn, but also because I'm just different than my gentler, easygoing little brother (whom I now adore, I should note). As much as I disagree with some of my parents' decisions even now, they were likely doing their best, like I'm trying to do mine. I'll fail as surely as they did, but we're trying.

Any other firstborns out there? Did you feel like you were treated differently as a result? Better or worse? All of the above? Question mark?

Adventures in Vanity: Summer '11, Budget & Non-Budget Editions

Important, Special Note: I wasn't compensated nor solicited for the reviews below. God knows I'd be willing - Chanel, are you listening? - because, in the immortal words of Richard Marx, I'm right here waiting...


Part I: Budget Review

Enough with the harried housewife stuff - let's get back to the business of being Prettier Than Everyone Else (TM), shall we?

As part of my Operation MILF scheme, I'm attempting to keep up appearances while keeping on a stay-at-home-mom budget and factoring in the smaller amount of time I have to devote to vanity. I can feel my undereye circles crying out for concealer as I type this.

In my latest scheme of fantastic frugality, the Pretty family recently flew to a wedding sans my toiletry kit, which mysteriously disappeared somewhere between the Austin airport & our destination. "How is that financially responsible?" you may be wondering. Er... we're getting to that. Anywhoodle, I'd boarded our early flight sans makeup, so said mistake resulted in my driving blindly around Albuquerque in search of drugstore replacements, 1 hour before the wedding started.

I was Prettily surprised by the results these last-minute budget finds provided:

It's been too long since we've had a Top o' the Toilet / beauty product review stage snap, no?

From left to right:

• Neutrogena Makeup Remover Cleansing Towlettes ($8): gets the job done for both eye & face makeup removal. I liked the one-two time saver, and they're pleasantly scented to boot.

• Maybelline Lash Stiletto Voluptuous Mascara ($7): has been rendered pointless by the Non-Budget Review to follow, but this gave me similar results to my pricey faves this and that (Usual Mascara Disclaimer: as used with the magic eyelash curler you must buy now now now.)

• Cover Girl TruBlend Liquid Makeup Foundation: ($10): whilst some TSA agent enjoys the Chanel Prolumiere foundation I just bought SOB, I'm happily using this less pricey one up. This is on the more natural side of foundations, which I prefer, and thus is not for the matte at heart.

• Aveeno Active Naturals Positively Radiant Moisturizer SPF 30 ($14): light enough to not make me feel greasy in this Death Hell Texas Heat ("DHTH"), and one of the few SPF moisturizers not to bother my sensitive eyes.

See how easy it is to be frugal *and* look good? All it takes is an underhanded airport security agent & a disorganized last-minute packing job, and bargain beauty can be yours too.  Um, or you could just pick these up at your local drugstore. Up to you.

Part II: Non-Budget Edition

I admit it. I'm faking it.

Longtime readers - all three of you - will recall my hate / hate relationship with my puny lashes. I've tried umpty million mascaras and lash potions, but none have given me the fabulous fringe I've coveted, and in case of the latter, they've singed my eyes like viewing photos of post-surgery Rupert Eve*rett. You can put lipstick (mascara?) on a pig, but it's still a pig, so to speak.

Hence, when I met a new friend with her own fabulous, entirely natural looking fringe, and she confessed she was faking it via professional lash extensions glued to each individual lash, I was intrigued. Could such a miracle cure, requiring upkeep only every 3-4 weeks, exist? Last weekend, I took the plunge:

The cons: the process took 2 hours. It is, um, not a budget choice. Also, I can barely make it to be-blonding appointments every 8 weeks, so how on Earth can I commit to upkeep every 3-4 weeks here?

The pros: the process took 2 hours, as in - 2 entire hours to myself, in which I got to relax & have someone Prettify me. Hell, I'd pay someone handsomely if I could just sit alone in a room for 2 hours doing nothing, let alone coming out of it with luxe lashes. Plus, I have to do nothing - no lash curling, no mascara, nothing - in the meantime, so it's a daily time-saver for me.

The conclusion: I don't know that I'll keep these up given the time & $$ commitment, but I'm wild about the results & will consider the beg / steal / borrow routine to keep the habit going. After all, it takes some work to keep the, ahem, "natural" look going after 25...ok, 30...

The Undomestic Goddess Confesses

I've spent no small amount of time poking fun of the corner of the blogosphere caught up in the written schedule / life organization craze - by the way, I jest in fun, loving you adorable, if insanely OCD, planners as I do. Even the New York Times is getting into the obsessively organized fun. Truth be told, there's just enough former lawyer, Type A-Minus left in me to wonder whether you all and your Mom Life Schedule Agenda Planners of Obsessive Doom might be onto something.

Yes, that's right. Call it Stockholm Syndrome or just too much time out of the organizational trenches, but you've got me questioning whether my current scheduling scheme of the occasional note scribbled on a (monogrammed, obvs.) cocktail napkin & iPhone calendar is enough to be pulling my wifely weight here at Pretty HQ. Are my jests concealing jealousy at the scheduled lives those perfect planners imply?

Maybe. The thing is . . . this isn't at all a complaint, but - being a wife to the senior associate BigLaw firm-y Anonymous Husband requires a certain - ok, total - flexibility. I'm hugely proud of him & grateful for the many benefits of the job, the chief of which allows me to comfortably do this stay-at-home mom gig. I realize what a privilege this SAHM thing is, and I'm truly thankful - yes, icy hearted me, thankful - for it. On the flip side, the AH & I have no idea if or when we'll see one another from day to day; if a deal lands, there go our evenings & weekends, let alone family dinners, for the foreseeable future. An 8-5 gig it isn't, I knew that when I signed on to the marriage, and no amount of meal planning or other housewifely magic can change that.

That being said, under the pre-child Pretty administration, such flexibility was easy for me (e.g., the one not killing herself working a bonkers schedule) wife-wise . When I had those impromptu evening hours to myself, I could run off to the gym, a League meeting, or happy hour; I'll leave you to surmise which of those was more likely. Of course I missed the AH on the nights & weekends he had to work late, but I'm enough of a recovering introvert to have enjoyed the occasional night of Single Secret Behavior - ie, "Sex & the City" re-runs and mint chocolate chip ice cream for dinner - to myself. Plus, on the off chance he was able to make it home after all, it was easy enough for me or him to pop out to grab dinner at any hour.

Of course, with Master P life has irrevocably changed - for the better, naturally, but it isn't as easy to incorporate the AH's fluctuating schedule with a toddler's relatively static one (and can I get an "AMEN!" for said toddler finally being on a predictable schedule?). The grocery store runs - or, more frequently, takeout runs - that used to only involve two now must take three into consideration, one of whom may or may not be home to eat any of it. Any such trips, of course, now must occur sometime during my wee darling dictator's waking hours. And, lest you fear this wacky schedule means a nutritional deficit for Master P, let me assure you that no toddler in the whole of hippy-dippy Austin dines from a more organic, freely traded, cage-chemical-taste free menu than soy-milked he*. His fancypants food (ie, cruelty-free grilled cheese sandwiches) gets eaten, but if I get too ambitious planning on the AH being home for dinner, I'm unhappy to admit we then have groceries that go to waste.

*With glaring exceptions such as this morning, when my wee darling tot insisted on a breakfast of milk & oatmeal chocolate chip cookies (baked with organic dark brown sugar!). He may look just like "Dada", but he's all moi...

I confess there are times when my need to just take care of one other person at a time is lovely, the days when, after putting Master P to bed (to crib?), I can cuddle up with my laptop & selfishly revert to the aforementioned SSB. On the other, manicured hand, most days I'd prefer to be cuddling up to a live human husband - preferably mine, I hasten to add - with whom I can have a conversation. Missing adult chit-chat is one of the admittedly few downsides of this SAHM business, and at the end of my 12-hour mommy shift, I pine for it *even more* than mint chocolate chip ice cream. Usually. Sometimes.

Hence my day-to-day housewifery schedule is just that - day-to-day. While at times the fluctuating nature of our evenings can be frustrating, it's another part of the new normal I'm learning to embrace. I get the housewifey stuff done - the bills are paid (scheduled on computer within a day of arrival, ideally), the laundry is washed (if not well, it's done), the house is cleaned (with bi-monthly help, I gratefully add) - and try not to worry that I don't have it all perfectly planned out. Appointments go in the iPhone, and other errands & such manage to get done, usually without my having to scribble down reminders.  Life is simpler, and better, now.

My Mom Life Planner Agenda Schedule of End Times may happen yet, once the AH logs a few more years at work & Master P gets a little older - and assuming my inner lawyer rears her unduly organized head again. Until then, I'll continue to be here inspiring you with my . . . um, my, uh . . . impressive pile of to-do stuff? Sparkling wit - or some other word ending in "-it"?

For those reading my to-do list here: yes, learning how to operate the damned Apple TV on those Single Secret Behavior nights is a task I've yet to master. The AH installs the technology, and I call him repeatedly to learn how to use it.

Choose Your Own (My Own) Adventure: The Smug Marrieds Celebrate

This November will mark five years of connubial bliss for the Anonymous Husband and me, which not only makes us experts on the subject of matrimony, but also entitles us to jet-set off for a Big Damn Anniversary Trip someplace exotic. Obviously.

(Or, you know, a long weekend getaway somewhere a short flight away & not too terribly expensive, as made possible by the kind assistance of the Anonymous Mother-In-Law babysitter.)

Either way, we're headed South of the Mason-Dixon for a celebration weekend, and here's where I'm hoping you, darling readers - all three of you - might be willing to lend a Pretty hand. We're trying to choose from three excellent choices, and if any of you belles could give us travel advice, preferences, etc. narrowing down the following field, I'd be ever so grateful:

Charleston...

                                                                               Source: google.com via Melissa on Pinterest

Savannah...

                                                                                Source: google.com via Melissa on Pinterest

New Orleans . . .

                                                                             Source: google.com via Melissa on Pinterest

Any advice - aside from "Get a life, overprivileged whinypants!" because, believe me, I've tried - be it hotel, restaurant, or must see attractions, would be lovely. Also, are there any problems with / advantages to visiting one of these cities given the time of year? I'm partial to options #1 and #2 given that neither the AH nor I have been to either, but of course New Orleans seems a good a place as any to show off our Smug Marriedness.

One, two, three - jet set, and thank you in advance! Exclamation point!!

Relief, Rage, and Other Words Starting with "R"

(Subtitle: Why, Yes - I Can Complain About Anything, Including Good News)

I should be relieved.

No, wait - that isn't right. I am relieved, very. Grateful to God, Nordstrom, and all other higher powers, etc. etc. It's just . . . well . . .

Grand Master P had his follow-up appointment today for his recent surgery, at which the doctor quickly gave him the once over, waived that scope thingy with the light in his general direction, and gruffly declared, "He's doing well & should be fine," before scurrying out the door to his next appointment.

Post appointment play, admittedly with boogers edited out for your viewing pleasure.

Should be relieved, should be fine . . . should should should.

Here's what I wanted to hear, with kindly doctor gazing empathetically into my cold, unfeeling eyes: "Mrs. Pretty, I understand what a difficult decision it was to have this procedure done. Parenting is just a mess of difficult decisions, isn't it? No parent likes to see their child put under, even if for a relatively routine surgery like this. I'm happy to tell you that your wee precious darling is clearly both gifted & talented and, most importantly, healing just as he ought. If you see any troubling signs please don't hesitate to call me."

And, ya know, he could have thrown in a unicorn blithely frolicking in the middle distance as he spoke. Because this is all about me, obvs.

Yes, fine - go ahead & make fun of my wishing for some bedside manner in this post-apocalyptic health (we don't) care age. I admit it, today I could have used some emotional hand-holding.

However, I'll take the good news - hurrah! - and, with the help of the higher power of Pinot, whose manner has never once failed me, I'm going to endeavor to believe it.

Travel with Toddlers, Part Deux: Again? Really?

"Good idea?" is the catchphrase I vividly remember from my California Bar prep course lo these 8 - OMG - years ago. Our criminal law lecturer, nattily dressed in seersucker & enough sarcasm to quiet even a room of 300 terrified students, would invoke that phrase after telling us the facts of a particularly well bungled crime.

Though I do my best to forget Bar prep - and the practice of law altogether - I've never been able to shake that "Good idea?"voice when I go about the business of bungling whatever (non-criminal, I hasten to add) bit of life I'm up to at the moment. And so it was this weekend, when the Pretty family embarked upon a 24-hour round-trip journey to an out-of-state wedding.

Yes, 4 plane rides in 24 hours with a 13-month-old. All together now, you crim law professors & veteran moms - good idea? Other spectacular details of said weekend travel included:

- This was a "dry wedding" to which we were heading (I put that in quotation marks because, naturally, there is no direct translation of that concept in my language)(As if)(Parentheses);

- 3 out of 3 of us were in various stages of having a cold;

- 1 of us was recovering from surgery;

- 1 of us had just worked an 80-hour week;

- Someone - ahem - forgot to pack my toiletries & Master P's favorite stuffed animal (ie, the one without which he will not sleep);

- Said flights included a 3-hour layover, in which Master P attempted to board a flight to a different state only 3 times

- 3: the number of times I considered bolting solo to the nearby Key West-bound plane.

Good idea? No, but. . . it was a family wedding. We had a fun time despite the chaos. More importantly, it was for family, and for family you show up. Next time, however, we're bringing a nuptials flask, because that, friends, is a Good Idea.

More from the "Do I Really Have to Decide This?!?" Smug Mummy Front

These are days when I pine for the simpler times, back when advising someone to sign some fancy-pants multi-million dollar real estate development contract was the biggest question I typically faced.

Yes, unfortunately this means that we once again are not discussing shoes today. I apologize for this week's lapse into seriousness & assure you I'm doing my damndest to get back to the Pretty business of motivational self-tanners, etc.

Today's version of "Where's a grown-up when I need someone else to make this decision?" came with a 4:45 am wake-up call & outpatient surgery for Master P. Longtime readers - all three of you - may recall the mystery sniffles which have plagued my wee precious darling. A few specialists & much hand-wringing later, we got a diagnosis (enlarged adenoids, for those of you hoping for the TMI-style of info that makes this a winner "STFU, Parents" submission) and suggestion for surgery.

Much MUCH hand-wringing ensued - or rather, I, the designated marital/parental worrier, hand-wrung (wrang?), and the Anonymous Husband, our Chief Executive Optimist, patiently listened. Finally, we made the decision to have the procedure done today. I never thought I'd say I was glad for having seen my child poked with needles, but those prior experiences somewhat prepared me for having to assume the parental brave face today as I handed this one, magic Glowworm in his chubby hands, off to the OR nurse:

I've edited as much of 4:45 am me out of this photo as possible, both to protect your eyes and my ego, not necessarily in that order. Also, this here is the magic surgical glove, not the aforementioned magic Glowworm - duh.

Of course this is something many of us encounter at some point, but - making health decisions for someone not able to make them for himself? Particularly a smooshy, wee, darling one who still smells like that ineffable, delicious baby smell? Um, I'd rather take the self tanner questions, or even the development deal ones. Please. In fact, if you could email those to me post-haste so that they could be my most pressing issue tomorrow, I'd forever give you my Pretty seal of approval, pinky swear.

Oh, and HE'S FINE, doing absolutely fine, and I'm a jerk for not mentioning that there up at the tippy-top. He's doing very well & back to his usual boisterous boy self post-operation. As for me, I hope to recover sometime around 2028 when he's entering YaleHarvardOxfordCambridge (better known as the "University of No Pressure"). Sweet Neiman Marcus.

The Smug Mummy Takes Her Leave

Subtitle: "Whatever Happened to the Champagne Bubble Who Blogs About Deeply Trivial Stuff Like Mom Uniforms and Shoe Addictions?"

Sub-Subtitle: "We - Yes, We're in need of the Royal 'We' This Week - Will Be Back to Our Usual Super Superficiality Shortly. Hopefully. Gah."

Ever wish for some sort of Intergalactic Decision Maker to answer those terribly grown-up questions you struggle with? Not just the "I can no longer bear the 'Real Housewives' franchise - do I give up on my old reality TV friends now?" questions of global importance, but the everyday stuff you're stuck on too.

This week at the Pretty is rife with questions for the Interplanetary Board of People More Qualified to Make Grown-Up Decisions Than & For Me ("IBPMQMGUDTFM") (see also, "God"), today's version involving a certain women's volunteer organization of which I've long been a member. For a number of reasons I won't bore you with here, my membership is no longer a fit for the stay-at-home-mom I am now - one with no pinch-hit sitter or husband available to cover last-minute childcare, more precisely - and so today, after months of mulling it over, I took a leave of absence.

I am . . . bummed. And relieved. More of that duality, push-pull stuff we - ahem, We - discussed yesterday. Sad to be putting on hold something that has been a part of my life for many years, when I've already put a career & other self-interests (such as doing my hair and my makeup all on the same day) on hiatus. Happy to have made the decision the Anonymous Husband & I feel is right for our family at this point. Both. Ugh.

The nice bit is, those Trans-Universe Question Answerers, whom I envision wearing giant, sequined turbans - I prefer my omnipotent beings to be well haberdashed - sometimes make the decisions somewhat easier with schmoopy unicorns-and-rainbows moments like this:

Lest you find this all far too Smug Mother-y to bear, Master P managed to scrape his sweet face no less than three separate times in the thirty minutes following this photo. Of course.

This is Master P waiting for me to chauffeur him around the living room, after having followed my polite request to "Get in yo' ride, yo'!" for the first time. He isn't talking yet, but he's listening. This - this - I would have missed had I been scrambling for a sitter to accommodate yet another last-second meeting tonight.

Thank you, International Be-Turbaned Arbiters of Important Stuff, for sending me a moment of Cozy Coupe clarity today when I needed it. Now if we could just get you on the crucially important case of "When will the universe send me that YSL bag I've been wanting?"too...

Travels Without Baby: A Round Trip to Bliss / Guilt

Life is full of dualities - for example, the presumed bliss that comes with dating George Clooney, which must also accompanied by the knowledge that your stay at Villa Handsome will be all too brief. Being married to the far more fabulous and commitment-minded Anonymous Husband, however, my challenging issues tend to fall more along the oh-so-exciting stay-at-home-mom lines. I've now taken three overnight trips away from Master P, and I've been struck each time by how desperate I am pre-trip to get away for some personal time (e.g., the ability to go to the restroom unaccompanied) - followed immediately by how desperate I am to get back home to his sweet, if drool-encrusted, face once I'm actually away.

This last weekend, in which the AH & I took off to the Great Midwest to attend a wedding, was just the most recent example of this desire for freedom / desire to run right back to Master P. Rather than wishing this push-pull away, I've come to learn that it just Is. These dueling desires are just a part of my new parenting normal. 

The AH & I will continue to have the occasional trip for just the two of us, because we believe our marriage needs them, and I will continue to miss Master P while we do, because because.

What 10 hours of uninterrupted sleep & an Instagram photo filter can do for Smug Marrieds.