Minding Your (Master) P's & Q's

Over the weekend it dawned on the Anonymous Husband & I - only some 22 months into the life of our wee darling CEO - that we might need to ramp up his manners training. Adorable as he may be . . .

The face of impending mischief

. . . he has taken to running our household with the entitled, maniacal zeal of a third world dictator. Orders are barked out, conversations are interrupted, fingers are gruffly grabbed as parents are dragged to and fro. Suggestions that he do ordinary things, like sit at the dinner table, are taken as an extreme insult.

Like any decent, apparently French parents, we realized that, while the antics are entirely typical of toddlerdom, we need to start expecting more Miss Manners and less Machiavelli.  As expected, our results have been splendid so far . . . for example, witness the following conversation between the AH & Master P, as son attempts to harass father into handing over yet another slice of dinnertime (organic hormone-free fun-free) cheese:

Master P: "Cheese, no!" (meaning "now", we think?)

The AH, trying not to laugh: "Master P, can you say - 'May I please have some cheese?'"

MasterP, after pausing briefly for stern reflection: "Cheese, NOOOOOOOOOOO!"

Mischief in action, escaping the dread dinner table

Clearly our first mistake was in forgetting that cardinal rule of lawyers - don't ask a question to which you don't already know the answer.

Which is my way of saying - please send help, either in the form of a top litigator or Emily Post. Pretty please?

How Caring for a Sick Toddler is Like Being in a Bad Relationship

You feel helpless. Trapped, even.

Your friends and family barely recognize you.

Your Secret Sweatpants of Shame, once occasionally worn in the privacy of your home, are less a "secret" now than they are a "uniform".

It's like you're not even speaking the same (any) language anymore.

You haven't endured - or produced - this level of whining since adolescence.

You feel desperate to escape, yet guilty for feeling that way.

The walls seem to be closing in on you.

You can't quite figure out how to deliver the bad news (medicine) to your man.

When you do finally have a few precious moments to yourself, you feel awful about wanting them - but not so awful that you don't greedily take 'em. 

You look at your guy and think, "But he's so cuuuuuuuuuute . . ."

Please forgive me the iPhone photo, but - OH, THE MISERY (poor Master P's, that is, not mine).

After that last hellish week (hello, Ides of March!) - I'm happy to announce the end of both Master P's mystery virus and my pity party. For any of you who can't read Sarcasm Font - beneath this selfish moaning I truly do adore my boy with the fire of a thousand flaming blah blah blahs and am thrilled he's finally back to his boisterous boy self.  I'm grateful that I get to do things like nurse him back to health, I really am.

It's just that I was also thrilled & grateful when our "mom's day out" sitter returned from spring break this week. And lo, I did sprint out the door for a few hours of blissful freedom, and it was good.

Am I missing anything from that list up there?

Smug Mummy Style: Colorblocking the Arm Party

This post is not sponsored or solicited in any way; it is merely further proof of my rampant materialism and online shopping browsing hobby. As if we needed further proof. Ahem.

***

Enough with the worrying and career kvetching - let's get back to the business of being Prettier than Everyone Else, shall we?

Spring typically comes with a burst of color for our wardrobes - what's happening in nature is generally happening in our closets. For many of us of a preppish bent, if at least one spring item of apparel isn't screaming with color, things start to feel positively . . . well, winter-y. (And as someone who wishes only to partake in winter if it means "apres ski beverages by a roaring fire", that means it's to be avoided.)

Happily for us, two ongoing trends - colorblocking and the arm party - means we can stay true to our vibrantly colored not entirely naturally blonde, ahem roots while staying fashionable. The good news for any fellow Smug Mummies in the audience is that the jingle-jangle of the arm party keeps Baby entertained; the good news for all of us is that you can hop on this trend train at a variety of price points:

Clockwise from upper left: Lilly Pulitzer bamboo bangle / Target bamboo bangles (thanks for the tip, Amy!) / Target bow bracelet / Kate Spade "Carousel" watches / Swell Caroline bamboo bangles / Lilly Pulitzer "Spring Garden" bracelet / Fornash "Gecko" bangles / Fornash bamboo bangles

The brighter, the better - so pile 'em high and wear 'em proudly, either as shown or interspersed with your silver or gold arm party basics (or silver and gold - don't tell Grandmother, but we rebelliously mix both here.) (And randomly use the royal "We" at odd times.) (Parentheses)

Anyone planning to put some Spring in your arm party step? I'll be joining you just as soon as this hateful no-shop Lent plan of mine is over .  .

Re-Learning Fun, Smug Mummy Style

*The following post is brought to you by the power of caffeine - not for the usual post-music-festival festive reasons, but because poor Master P kept us up all night with teething. If my non-sequiturs, painful puns & atrocious grammar are even worse than usual, blame Keurig. Er, I mean, I apologize.*

You know how parents are prone to issue dire warnings to those of us sans children about how kids are the Death of Fun ("DOF")? That, once we have kids (assuming we do), we'll never leave the house again, let alone make it to dinner on a whim or a 3-day music festival? I mostly brushed off those warnings, determining that having my 2.5 perfect, Ralph Lauren-style children outweighed any high-class concerns about the entertainment factor of parenting, but I admit the doomsayers got to me a bit.

I'm here to report that the Fun sky is not falling post-child - it sure is different, but the reports of Fun's death are greatly exaggerated. If your definition of happiness hinges on spontaneity, granted, then the arrival of a child may - ok, will - be a 7.5 pound bundle of Issues for you. Of course, gone are the days when, for example, the Anonymous Husband & I knew the latest trendy restaurants and actually had the ability to check them out on a moment's notice. Pulling off the ACL Festival this past weekend* was a strategic exercise over many months of babysitter and work scheduling.

*Mildly Relevant Sidebar: Should any music lovers accidentally happen upon this site, please go check out this remarkable New Orleans jazz band immediately; they were by far the best ACL show we saw.

I don't know if it's our advancing ages - thirty-three, for you party-poopers keeping track - or just having spent years in the "When will my (expletive) spouse / kids / picket fence get here already?" trenches, but I've found along with Master P's arrival our desire to be out doing DINK acts of spontaneous fun has subsided somewhat too. Even the scheduled fun has changed - for example, I found myself listening to a favorite act this past weekend, amongst the sweltering heat & crowds, and decided I wanted nothing more than to be at home with my wee darling Master P, the Anonymous Husband, and my air-conditioning instead. Almost entirely in that order, too. In fact, we skipped the 3rd day of the festival to do just that.

Bottom line, though I miss the ability to spontaneously schedule things like meeting a friend out for drinks, the joy of Master P really does outweigh that. I've nattered on about the importance of keeping date nights up Smug Married style, and the AH & I work to do just that, but we happily stay home as a family more too. I also look forward to when Master P is a bit older and we can bring him along to more events. I'm not saying it isn't hugely frustrating at times to lack control over one's schedule, particularly for us Type A Minuses, and that I don't miss traveling or dining out more, but it isn't the DOF either.

Plus, as Master P has grown older, I'm getting better at scheduling the grown-up fun. We have a solid rotation of babysitters now - turns out it actually does take a village -  and a more realistic expectation of how often we'll be able to do Date Night or travel stuff. It's something to look forward to now even more so than when we were cheerfully child-free. Though we have the inevitable cancellations now too, like today when I had to cancel lunch with a friend to stay home with Master P, the Fun will still be there. Pinky swear.

A Coffee Shop of One's Own

I type this to you from temporary Pretty HQ at my local coffee shop, enjoying week 2 of that part-time nanny helping me out two mornings each week. I despise how Oprah this sounds, but - in skimming that post again, I can see how much I needed permission to take a few hours for myself each week; sometimes it's just the knowing you can do something even more than the doing itself that brings peace.

On top of that I had the guilt that came with admitting I needed a few hours away from my darling tot each week & having the luxury to do that. Pre-child me - the one who knew absolutely everything there was to know about parenting - would have been horrified by my eagerness to enlist childcare help.

I'm happy to report that the part of me not feeling Bad Mommy-ish about taking these two mornings is enjoying the (not Missoni) pants off of them. I confess that in the weeks prior to starting the sitter, I'd find myself sneaking off to check email or diddle around on posts here when I should have been 100% devoted to playing with Master P; my Invisible Internet Friend Meg spoke eloquently about this feeling a while back. I couldn't jam in all the cleaning house and showering and personal time and whatever else I needed to do during his daily naptime, so it had started leaking into my time with him.

Most importantly, Master P, my formerly independent tot who has recently been besieged by stranger & separation anxiety, adores his new sitter. When she arrives, he flaps his arms in the universal "WANT HUG NOW!" gesture at her & toddles off to play, barely concerned with my departure. It is simultaneously a relief & a miniature heartbreak, surely a sign of school drop-offs to come.

I won't say that I never take a phone call or check email now when I'm home with my boy, but in the weeks I've had some designated alone time I feel more able to devote my attention to him. I can close my laptop & more fully enjoy this nevermind that I was snapping photos while doing it:

I'm grateful to have these few hours to do not only the Smug Mummy necessities (gym, doctor, dry cleaning - like "Jersey Shore" minus the booze, sadly) but also to carve out a few minutes to waste in a coffee shop. Waste isn't the right word, really - just to be, rather. I imagine one day the right part-time job or other volunteering may take the place of this, but for now, it is just right.

For anyone else feeling guilt about needing a bit of your own Smug Mummy space, I hereby wave my magic wand - is Hermes making those yet? - and give you my SM seal of approval.

The Smug Mummy Shops: Missoni for Target

Let me begin by saying - YOU MUST CHILL (name that movie!), Target shoppers. If the mayhem I witness in-store and online this fine morning is any indication, we've all been flattened by the multicolored marketing juggernaut that is the Target / Missoni collaboration.

That being said, I'm as big a Mombie as anyone, and a longtime Missoni-loving-on-a-Target-budget one at that. And so it was that Master P & I sped off in the Trophy Wife Wagon this morning pre-music class to investigate. I returned those  ZARA tees, so I had some wiggle room in the Pretty budget for some Operation MILF tees and flats.

To be concise - for once - the collection reminded me of past Target/designer collaborations: (1) the clothing quality is iffy, especially considering the 20-30% markup over normal Target prices; yet (2) there are some darling shoes & housewares to be had:

Left: "Pasione Train Case" ($24.99) / Right: "Zig-Zag Pattern Flats" ($29.99); both available online as of this writing

(Train case interior)

I scored the above - the last of each at my Target, I should note, which was already picked over by 9 am. Target flats are my exception to my general "If you buy the best quality accessories you can afford, you can cheat a bit with the rest of your outfit" rule. I'm typing this now in flats from the Loeffler Randall collaboration from a few years back, and these knit Missonis look & feel similarly well made.

The clothing I saw, however, included some mumsy, unflattering cuts, flimsy materials and a few technicolor pairings at which even a diehard Missoni fan would raise a manicured brow. For the elevated collection prices, the quality just isn't there.

If you're simply chomping at your Gucci bit to get your hands on some of this collection, head to the shoe & housewares departments; my favorites of what I saw - what was left, that is - included these:

Left: Appetizer Plates ($2.99) / Zig Zag Rain Boots ($34.99) ; both available online as of this writing

Did anyone else brave the Target retail danger & live to tell the tale today?

The Mom Job Title

My titles tend to lag behind my Major Life Events. When I married, it took me about a year to sign checks (remember those?) & introduce myself Smug Married-style as "Melissa (Married Name)". It took years working as a general counsel before I had the courage to claim that title & not merely refer to myself as an "attorney" when asked that quintessential American small talk question, "What do you do?"

Since fate has a sense of humor, I predicted one year ago - correctly, as it turns out - that I'd have a difficult time trading in that "general counsel" job title for "stay-at-home mom" one. I don't miss the actual job for one hot second, having always preferred the idea of being attorney to the reality of it. As I've nattered on endlessly about, I consider myself incredibly lucky to be staying home with my wee darling Master P. However, I'm ashamed to admit that, as I'd suspected, my ego misses how my old job gave "good dinner party".

Speaking of self-absorption, whatever did we narcissists do before the iPhone 4 2-way camera thingy?

I'm further chagrined to confess that, when asked the "What do you do?" stuff, this is what slips out:

- "I'm a retired lawyer" or, if pressed for further details,
- "I'm just a stay-at-home mom now."

Yes, the "just" sneaks in there somehow, though of course it isn't a "just" sort of job. I adore this job & have wanted the position since forever, so why do I choke a bit on the title? Is it the slightly glazed over look I get from the singletons & DINKs, men especially, when they hear of my apparently less glamorous reality? What's with my throwing the lawyer thing out there, and why do I need people to acknowledge that I once had a fancy job?

Whatever the motivation, I finally remembered to pause this weekend when greeted with the inevitable question & responded, "I'm a stay-at-home-mom", no "just" or further explanations included. Maybe like breaking in a new pair of shoes, this too will take a few uncomfortable moments before it fits. I proudly own both, so why not wear them as such?

Anyone else experience this title hang-up, or have I once again raised navel-gazing self-absorption to unheard of heights (lows)?

Happy Un-Labor Day

One year ago this weekend I resigned from my general counsel job to stay at home with Master P. I feel like I'm supposed to say that it was a difficult decision. Sure, there were parts of my New Normal I struggled to accept, not the least of which was losing my ego-boosting job title, and I've had my moments since when I've questioned the decision.

In the end,  however, every bit of me wanted to be here to see every bit of messy this grow up. I still do, truth be told:

The irony of this wonderful shot is that the Anonymous Husband took it yesterday when I wasn't actually home.

One year later, I can say this without reservation - it is a joy to finally be doing something I love, even on the days when it isn't.

One of my best friends, a fellow escapee lawyer turned stay-at-home-mom, and I have taken to wishing one another a Happy Un-Labor Day. That's a misnomer, of course - we would more accurately refer to it as "Re-Labor Day" or "More Labor Day" - but the sentiment remains the same. 

Happy Un-Labor Day, darlings. May your last day of seersucker'd summer be a fine one, and all that other sentimental clap-trap.

Lest you think this is one of those suspiciously ideal, "Look at my perfect child in monogrammed jon-jon!" posed shots, please note the battle wounds on Master P's darling face from his rumble with our rock garden. 

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?

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?

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?

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.

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.