A Mother's Day Breakdown

It all started out so well. Keagan brought home a gift for me that he made in his day care class.



I managed to snag it away from him before he tore it to shreds while playing with it in the backseat.

On Mother's Day, we went to this lovely park we discovered near our new house. There are built in BBQ pits, just begging for us to return with coolers and lawn chairs this summer. There is a playground with two twist slides. The best part is that the lawns are expansive,



There was one member of our family that was STOKED.



Just as I was telling the old man to slow down before he throws out a shoulder, I noticed that Kevin and Keagan were laying down in the grass.



If there is one thing I know about the men in my family, they aren't prone to lying down when there is fun to be had outdoors. Keagan was cuddled flat against Kevin's chest and I surmised that maybe he wasn't feeling well. Kevin suggested he just needed a nap, though my watch read 9:35 AM.

After his morning snooze, Kevin took him into the kitchen to snack before we headed out to another park to meet up with family for a big picnic. While I was applying mascara, I heard, "Teal! Come here! I need you!" in a frantic tone. I bolted downstairs to discover Kevin covered with vomit. It was like a scene out of the Exorcist. The room was coated. We took our crying little man into the shower and immediately cancelled our plans. It was straight to bed with Mommy to watch cartoons for the rest of the day.



When Keagan went to bed, I had a little breakdown of my own. As a working mom, you carry loads on your shoulders you didn't even realize you were bearing. Exhausted, the tears came hard. With all the bills, the unpacking, the job responsibilities, and the lack of time to complete it all, I wanted to have this one day of pure joy. I wanted to watch my son run and play at the park while I stuffed my face with a giant sandwich in order to appease the other little one I have growing inside me. I wished I could have spent the day honoring family. And, selfishly, I wanted a day that was about me and the celebration of all that goes into motherhood. That sounds terrible to read back to myself, but it is the truth.

But here is what I did get for Mother's Day. I got to spend the day holding, kissing, soothing and cuddling one of the most important people in my life - one of the reasons I live. The overwhelming feeling of love and dependence that came from his warm little body stayed with me all day long, physically and spiritually. I had a dog that seized on an opportunity to snuggle up in bed with us all day and the satisfaction coming off of him was palpable. I have a husband who gave me a beautifully framed picture of Keagan and I in front of the Golden Gate Bridge and who convinced me that after a hard day it was perfectly acceptable to eat two Snickers ice cream bars for dessert. I spent the day surrounded by my loving, sweet family while I gave my heart, my hugs and my love out in giant doses. And isn't that what motherhood is all about?

Getting Some Me-Time

I had about an hour to kill before my monthly doctor's appointment. It was one of those routine, check the heartbeat, monitor the blood pressure type of appointments. Starbucks was just down the street and this mama had stupidly skipped breakfast. I grabbed an egg sandwich and a decaf latte and settled into my seat to browse my phone.

It was then I realized that this was the first moment in quite some time that I was alone. Not only was I alone, I had no agenda or plan for the next hour except to just relax and wait. As of late, life has turned into a matrix of activity. Between work pressures, moving, keeping up with an active toddler, walking a stubborn dog and trying to find downtime with my husband, there has been no opportunity to stop. I took my first bite of my sandwich and it dawned on me that for once, I was in no rush. I took a deep breath and felt my shoulders sag comfortably as I exhaled.

There is nothing special about snacking in Starbucks, but the simplicity of being alone with my thoughts felt so freeing. I didn't even know I needed it. Sure, most women might crave some downtime and focus on getting a mani-pedi or doing some light shopping. Trust me, I'm the first to wish I could join you. But I was amazed at what a short amount of time in solitude, doing nothing productive at all, did for my spirits. It left me wanting more, then holding onto a feeling of guilt and selfishness for craving time away from a family that I strive to spend as much time with as possible.

Tell me, everyone. How do you strike that balance of having quality me-time without abandoning all that is important in your life?

The Big Brother Announcement

Who wouldn't want another happy little face like this running around the house?

You may have noticed that I've been a bit blog-MIA as of late. I have a good reason. I've been busy creating life. On or around Oct. 7, 2013, my son will become a big brother. As you can see, he is very excited about this. Or, he is excited about running. It's probably more about the running.

I use my pregnancy as an excuse for not posting because I have been ILL. Not Licensed to Ill like the Beastie Boys, but face-in-a-toilet, lying-in-bed, meat-avoiding, ginger-ale-sipping ill. With my first pregnancy, I was floating around on a cloud, no nausea to be had. This baby clearly is punishing me for all the times I ever said, "I felt great when I was pregnant!" Lesson learned, Teal. Keep your mouth shut. But I will write more about this next week.

For now, I will simply bask in the glow of the daydreams surrounding my expanding family. I will revel in the fact that I can let my stomach hang all out (and trust me, it is already out). I will start to take outfit pictures again and I will take long naps with privilege. In other words, hurray!

Mystery Outfit

I picked up Keagan from daycare yesterday. He greeted me at the front door with his usual smile and joyous cry of "Mommy!" But he wasn't wearing his blue North Face jacket and his gray sweatpants that I dressed him in that morning. He was wearing this - an oversized denim jacket that looks like a Saved By The Bell costume cast off and sweat pants two sizes too small, one leg up LL Cool J-style. My eyes grew wide and I looked up at the day care attendants in disbelief.

"Uh...wha?" I said.

"He kept us really busy today!" they declared, handing me a plastic bag full of soiled clothes. I took the bag, along with Keagan, into my arms. They mumbled something about rolling around in the backyard and it was too late when they saw....it was then that other moms came to sweep up their kids and I ended up wandering away, laughing hysterically at my son's getup.

When we got home, Kevin raised an eyebrow when Keagan came bounding in the door and we cracked up. We had no idea what happened, assumed poop was involved by the look of the stains and simply threw the dirty clothes in the washer while trying to imagine the different scenarios that might have been at play.

When I asked Keagan to say cheese, this is the look I received. Apparently, '90's high-fashion is not his favorite look.

Don't Judge Me

Disclaimer: I'm not saying I'm proud of any of this. In fact, the following is behavior that I deplore but often impart because sometimes in life, you just have to keep the ball rolling forward.

Here is a list of things I now do as a mom that I used to judge people for before I had kids:

     Completely cave to my son's tears and multiple requests for something he wants.    

     Power through crowds and grocery aisles with my SUV-sized stroller.

     Watch a marathon of cartoons when I'm sick and don't have the energy to keep up with my son.

     Call peanut-butter-and-jelly a meal.

     Bow out of plans because they don't coincide with nap time/meal schedules.

     Go to bed at 8:30 pm...on a Saturday.

     Share the funny thing my kid said and know that it is the funniest thing ever said by a toddler.

     Post way too many pictures of my son on Facebook. (Note: this also applies to my dog.)

     Call a slicked-back ponytail a hairstyle...for eight days in a row.

     Leave work right at 5 PM sharp because hey, I have a kid.

    Talk about poop in a very matter-of-fact manner.

     Decide that leggings are TOTALLY pants.

You're judging me, aren't you? I can totally feel it. Sigh. Go ahead. I do these things and cringe while I judge myself.

Accepting the Chaos

The last time my son shouted, "To infinity...and beyond!" then hurled his 16" plastic, talking Buzz Lightyear doll against the wall, I responded, "No! No! No!" My son shot me a confused look, since Buzz was obviously flying and my interruption was not welcome.

Toy clutter is everywhere. Mini footballs, baseballs and bouncy balls line our hallway. There is a Radio Flyer wagon at the foot my bed. I curse the inventor of Legos every time I walk to the fridge in the night for a glass of water and end up permanently embedding four round dots into the arch of my foot. I've bought baskets, bins and buckets to contain everything. The minute I nicely put his toys away, he comes running. "Dump it out!" he proclaims as he sends everything hurling across the floor. He doesn't even fall for the "Let's turn cleaning up into a game!" approach anymore. Smart little devil.

I know that it is common sense that this is toddler M.O., but I have such a tough time with this chaos. The hardest part for me to deal with is how rough he is with his toys. I wouldn't stretch so far as to call myself neat, but I am a person who alphabetizes her DVD collection and makes sure my favorite books are stacked in an orderly and aesthetically pleasing fashion. In other words, I like to preserve my things. My son will whack two objects together, drop toys from as high as his arms can reach and stand on stuff that will easily break under his weight. He tornadoes from room to room, abandoning whatever had previously been within arms reach and I'm left to pick up the broken pieces. As I try to put the wooden train track back together that he had earlier stomped apart, he will look concerned and say, "Uh oh! Wha happened? Mommy fix it!" And then he bolts off again. His mock-shock at all that he has torn up is the only thing that keeps me amused in these situations.

My frustration must have been showing the other day. My husband, Kevin, gently inquired, "Did you take great care of your toys when you were little?" I thought for a second and replied yes. I had the same messy room most little kids have but I was always very conscious not to break things.

"Well, we have a little boy," Kevin said with a knowing grin. "And little boys break things. And throw things. He will throw something against a wall just to see what happens. I know I did."

I wanted to protest and haughtily declare this kind of gender labeling false.  I wanted to declare that we can't prove genetic legacy in the case of toy care. But I ran out of steam and let this little revelation roll over me - that a toddler will do stuff just to see what happens. That my son, for all of his polite pleases and thank yous that I'm so proud of, is just a bull when it comes to the china shop. And it felt good to let go of my tension and just accept that this is what it is and hope it is a phase.

But don't think that won't stop me from singing, "It's time to clean up!" at my son, like I'm Cinderella trying to get the mice and birds involved in my chores. Otherwise, I'm going to end up breaking a toe on an overturned fire truck.

The World Through My Son's Eyes

My son will be two years old in less than two weeks. He is on a constant path of discovery. "What's this?" is his new favorite phrase and my husband and I are more than happy to oblige an answer each time. I want to capture his expressions during all of these new moments but I find myself constantly snapping photos of his back as he rushes from place to place - an inquiring mind that wants to know, moving so fast that the rest of him physically can't stay still. I'm just trying to keep up.

As I looked through some of my recent iPhone snapshots, I realized that I love all of these photos of him on the go. His vantage point tells the story of what we did during the holidays. It shows all that he learned, explored and tried out for the first time. I can see all of the things that caught his attention and, in my own mind and forever in my memories, I know that each time he wore a big smile beneath his wide, absorbing eyes. It's like joyfully seeing the most common place thing again for myself for the very first time.

Elf On The Shelf - A 40-Year Tradition

The first time I went home with Kevin for Christmas was in 2006. It was then I learned that his family had a cute tradition where two elves, one green (Jill Pixie) and one red (Humphrey), came out as part of a long standing family tradition. When Kevin was a kid, he and his sister would run out to look for Santa's helpers to see where they had moved in the house, as they were always in a new location each day. The rule was that you couldn't touch them because it would ruin their magic and that the elves were Santa's representatives from the North Pole.

You may read this and go, "Duh. Elf on the Shelf. Everyone does it." But were you doing Elf On The Shelf in 2006? Or in the 70's or 80's when you were a kid? Chances are that you were not. It wasn't until about three years ago that Elf On The Shelf was becoming mass-produced. But thank goodness that it is because before Keagan was born, I was wondering where on earth we were going to get two elves. My nieces have elves and believe in their magic and we wanted to keep the tradition going in our family as well. Humphrey, on the right, is your run-of-the-mill Elf On The Shelf product. But Jill Pixie, on the left, is pure vintage. I bought her on Etsy after doing some Googling on Japanese Christmas Elves, learning that this was a big tradition in the 1960's.

I'm glad to know that I can find other elves out there because Kevin told me a horror story about one of their elves that got too close to a lamp lightbulb when he was a kid. Remember that scene in the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark when the bad guy's face melts off? Note to parents: don't place your elf near a lightbulb unless you want to explain elf hospitals to your child.

I laugh at all the funny things that people are doing with their elves and I wish I had the time to dream up new scenarios for the elves to recreate (see The Little Style File for some great examples). We are lucky if we remember to move them each night.

This is about as creative as it gets in our house. But it is just enough to cause a 23-month old face to light up. "Humphrey! Flying!" he exclaims as he points up to the ceiling. This morning, when he spotted Humphrey and Jill Pixie swinging from some of our mantle decorations, he stared at them and shouted, "Move! Mooooove!" He is already bossing his elves around.

We haven't used the elves as a "you better be good or they will tell Santa" type of tool. Melissa at Dear Baby has a really great post about introducing the elf to her kids and deciding whether the elf is creepy or cute (in my opinion: looks = creepy. Tradition = cute). For us, it's not about behavior manipulation, but rather it's more about enhancing the magic of the holidays. And with this new tradition, so far, so good.

Flying High

The joy of watching your child discover something new is like no other. When I see my son's eyes widen and focus on a new sight, I want to envelop him in my arms and absorb all that he is feeling as well. That is, until I try to scoot closer to hug him and he says, "No, Mommy!" Because he is a big boy and he can do it himself, he decided he would sit far away from me last Sunday.

October is packed with activities in San Francisco and a pinnacle event is the Blue Angels airshow. I took Keagan to a local park that sits high on a hill with dramatic views of all ends of the city. There is a sliver of space between streets where you can see the bay and the Golden Gate Bridge. We camped on the grass among many other families, picnickers and frolicking dogs, waiting for the show to begin.

Until then, Keagan identified anything flying in the sky is a helicopter, or more specifically, a "kel-cop-ker". As the Blue Angels rumbled overhead, I pointed them out, saying, "See the planes? They are flying!"



At first, he was concerned. He scurried back toward me, holding tightly to my leg. This concern slowly shifted to curiosity and some pretty funny eyebrow furrowing.



But soon, he couldn't get enough. "Plane! Fwying!!" he exclaimed. He would point to the sky as they zoomed by, with his face in an awe-filled smile.



His eyes stayed turned to the heavens while my eyes were trained only on him. Every gleeful exclamation, every wiggle with excitement and each time he laughed, I inched closer to him, wrapping my arm around his little protruding toddler tummy and sniffing the top of his hair, inhaling every bit of a perfect moment.

The Downward Spiral

You do everything that you can to protect your child. You put plastic covers on electrical outlets. You lock your cabinets containing hazardous materials up tight. You go so far as constantly clipping fingernails to avoid nighttime face scratches. Then you learn the hard way that footie pajamas that are slightly too big can cause a massive wipeout on hardwood floors.

At least, that is what happened to us. Last Monday, Keagan slipped and twisted in the hallway after running around like a banshee. I caught the tail end of his thud and saw the pained and surprised expression on his face, followed by a huge wail. He is a kid that rarely cries, so I knew he must have hurt himself, but after an inspection, we assumed he simply bonked his head. After a bedtime story and some cuddles, he settled down and fell asleep. When he woke on Tuesday morning, he was bawling again. Like we do every morning, I put him down next to his beloved train set, expecting him to joyfully dart about his bedroom. Instead, he stood like a flamingo, his left leg tucked up behind him. He couldn't bear weight and visibly winced when he tried. That was when my tears started flowing as I felt like the world's worst mother for not recognizing his level of pain the night before.

An x-ray revealed that there was no obvious fracture and we were told to monitor him for a sprain. When a day passed and he was no better, we got in to see an orthopedic, who diagnosed him with a spiral fracture, a common toddler injury in their bendy little bones. He was set with a cast, fortunately only to his shin since he seemed to be comfortably crawling, and we were told to come back in two weeks for removal.

Since then, we've had a miserable household. Our little guy has been walking since 10 months old - he isn't used to holding still and he is not happy about it. Typically, he is a laid back and independent kid who can express or simply do what he wants. However, his frustration level is mounting. When he can't reach his train that has rolled down the track, he picks up the entire set and throws it across the room. He has developed this little growl of displeasure when he can't express what he wants. Because he is burning less energy, he is eating less and tossing more, which has led to some irritating moments of scrubbing applesauce off the back of our dining room chairs. We've watched Toy Story at least 10 times in the past three days because "Woody Buzz!" are all that seem to appease.

And all the while, I've writhed with guilt. I feel horrible that I am getting so upset with his tantrums because he deserves the opportunity to throw a fit. He has no other way of expressing himself and I don't seem to have a way to soothe him when he rages. To see him in pain stabs my heart in two. To see people on the street give me judgmental looks when they spot his cast resting in his stroller is another twist of the knife. My guilt has caused me to do the following over the past few days:

1. Buy four new pairs of pajamas in the proper size.
2. Order Toy Story 2 on Amazon, 2-day shipping, because my god, I cannot take another viewing of the first one.
3. Take him to the zoo just to see his eyes light up, and then proceed buy a yearly membership.
4. Explain to strangers who didn't ask just exactly how Keagan fell and how terrible I feel about it.
5. Attempt all kinds of new floor activities, which involved me buying new crayons, a pad of art paper, a nuts and bolts set and two new stuffed animals. None of these were very successful in their engagement.
6. Cry in front of my son during a particularly frustrating tantrum he was having, to which he sweetly replied, "Sorry. Sorry, mommy." Which made me feel worse.

 My little man. He has been so tough, so sweet, so sad, so bratty and so worthy of every ounce of prevention, comfort and love I can throw his way these next two weeks.  After that, he is going to be sorely disappointed when I put Woody and Buzz on hiatus. But we'll cross that tantrum when we come to it.

The Little Moments

This picture, simple as it may be, captures such a happy moment in time. My son, eyes lit up at as we approach ducks in a pond, surrounded by the turning of the fall leaves. I want to remember every minute spent with him. I never want to forget that not two minutes before I snapped this picture, he was kissing the plastic pig in his hands with a loud smack. And three minutes before that, he was loudly shouting about Buzz Lightyear to the point where I had to glare back at some German tourists we were apparently disturbing. How can I forget these little things?

I've never been good at keeping diaries or memory books or baby books. There was a big streak of jotting things down when we first moved back to San Francisco as I feared my post-partum brain would leak like a sieve. This has been partially true. As I cooed at a little five-month-old baby this last weekend, I could barely remember what it was like when Keagan was that small.

My little guy turns 19 months this week and I'm taking this moment to document some of the things I never want to forget - the good, the bad and the adorably frustrating.

-  Words are spilling out of his mouth. I have to hide my grin when his brain goes faster than his lips. While reading Curious George, he will shout "George! Monkey!" and then pause, his lips moving, shaping sounds with no sound coming out. He will take a deep breath and yell, "Hat!" for the Man in the Yellow Hat. I wish I could dive in to his brain and see his progressions of thought.

-  He is a button pusher. By that, I mean he already knows how to drive his mommy crazy. I'll hand him his sippy cup while he is perched in his high chair. One sip and BOOM. He drops the cup on the ground. "No, no," I say. "Don't drop your cup." I hand it back and he holds it out over the edge. "What did Mommy just say?" I inquire. His eyes grow wide and BOOM. Back on the floor, followed by "Oh no!" as if it was an accident.

-  The kid can count to twenty. Legit. One through twenty. He's already on the way to being better at math than me (which isn't saying much, but still...)


-  I've been trying to teach him to say "I love you" by saying, "You know what mommy says? Mommy says I love you!" on our car rides to day care. But whenever I ask him, "What does mommy say?" His response: "Woohoo!" It's true. I do say woohoo a lot.

-  He looks up to others. If there is an older kid around, he is immediately following after, imitating and grinning. After hanging out with a group of nine year old girls at a BBQ, we heard him shouting, "Guys! Guys! Guuuuuuys!" as he ran after them. We had never heard that before. He must have heard them saying "guys" and picked it up. I need to remember that the kid is a sponge when I'm swearing at bad city drivers with him in the backseat.

-  He is just getting heavy enough to make carting him around on one hip for too long a challenge and he is still light enough to sleep comfortably on my chest in the recliner. Can I please just hit pause?

Thank you for indulging this rare, sappy mom moment. My little bit of mommy-sharing will allow me the opportunity to look back in a few years, sigh and say, "I don't remember any of this." Because I can barely remember what I had for breakfast yesterday.

Self Reflection

I volunteered for a charity event a couple of weeks ago that required more than my standard weekend wear of a tee shirt, boyfriend jeans and dirty TOMS. I put on a dress, did my hair and makeup and took this selfie to capture a moment where I was feeling pretty darn good. Like June from Here Comes Honey Boo Boo, I too feel like if I put a little paint on this old barn, it really does shine up like it's new. (Yes. I'm obsessed with that train wreck show. Don't judge me. OK, judge away...)

In the past few months, I've noticed something. Apparently, I'm aging. I know. Before you clutch your face in horror and shock, hear me out.

You will always hear parents say things after having their first child along the lines of, "Time passes so quickly, doesn't it?" or "It really just flies by!" And this is very true. During that time, you are focused on every little thing that your kid does. All I do is watch my son fly around the house on his little stomping legs, picking up and naming objects. I marvel at the fact that he can count the buttons on my shirt while I'm changing his diaper for the umpteenth time this week. I try to hold in my irritation when teaching him that food is not for throwing. And when he naps, I look around the house at the pile of unfinished chores, not quite sure where to turn first. The time flies by and I'm relishing every minute of it, both the ups and the downs.

Then I come to my reflection in the mirror. In the fifteen minutes I have in the morning to get ready for work, I'm not loving what I see. I remember the days where I would spend 30-45 minutes trying out a new twisted bun hairstyle that I saw in a magazine. Now, I'm lucky if I can get my cowlick, where my hair is growing back after pregnancy, to lay down flat under a wet ponytail. My unwashed face at the end of an exhausting day has led me straight back to my propensity for adult cystic acne. I have early rosacea (thank you, genetics). I'm pretty sure my nose hair is on speed grow. And there is not enough time to mask all of this with makeup past a quick streak of blush and some mascara. I've had coworkers look at me and ask if I was feeling well when I feel perfectly fine.

All of this is to say that I have goals of spending more time taking care of myself, but none of these goals rise above how important it is to me to spend every minute with my son. It seems selfish to take fifteen extra minutes to blow dry and curl my hair when we could be playing with his train set instead. However, when I catch a glimpse of myself at work during a bathroom break, I wish I would have taken those extra minutes so I didn't spend my day worrying about how unprofessional I look. My family means everything, but I mean a lot to me too. I do think there is value in taking pride in your own person. My original intention in starting this blog was to prove that you don't have to lose your sense of personal style after having a baby, yet I feel myself falling straight into that trap. And time goes by so fast. This barn is just going to get more and more dilapidated as time goes by. Shouldn't I take the time to shine it up now?

Beautiful mamas out there, guide me. How do you find the time?

Our Special Snowflakes

Of course my son is special. Look at him. He was putting shapes into their correct spaces at 15 months old. And look how he expertly mixes plaids. I'm super proud of what I've passed on in my genetic legacy and even more amazed at what he accomplishes outside of my influence.

A friend of mine passed on this article from the NY Times: Raising Successful Children by Madeline Levine. The essence of the article is its analysis, backed up by research, of the detriment of over-parenting. It bemoans the "helicopter parent" and talks about hanging back and letting kids take stumbles (physical, emotional and educational) in stride.

My husband and I ate up every word, as I'm sure many other parents did, considering it was on the top emailed list the day after it ran. It summarizes our parenting philosophy fairly well. We are all about providing guidance and direction, then pulling back to let him achieve his own success or to surmount his struggles. When he can't get his Duplo blocks to fit together and he throws them to the floor with a frustrated grunt, we say, "Yeah, that is frustrating, isn't it? Want to try again? You can do it," instead of "Here, let me do that for you." If twenty years from now, I'm accompanying my son to a job interview, you can hunt me down and smack me in the face. I assure you this will not be me.

I'm of a generation where you win or you lose rather than everyone getting a ribbon. I value the teachable moments that exist in both successes and failures.  I want my son to feel self-confident, not entitled. To feel supported, not lifted to the top by the arms of his well-meaning parents. As I read the article, I exclaimed, "Everyone should read this!"

And here I am, sharing. However, I have extreme pause in posting opinion pieces on parenting on my site. Parenting styles are a personal choice. We all want to do what is best for our child and what works best in our individual households. Part of me feels like sharing an article and declaring it the end-all-be-all way to parent is inappropriate. Plus, I don't completely adhere to what is championed here. I tell my 19-month old son every day that he is smart, handsome and funny, before and after he does something new. According to this article, I might be overpraising and setting a stressful expectation. My actions on this end won't change, either, at least for a year or two. Telling a baby or a toddler how adorably wonderful they are strikes me as just fine. Constantly telling a four or five year old that they are the most special brand of special to ever be special seems a bit more damaging. Again, that is my parenting choice to which others might disagree.

I do not share this article to tell others how to be. Rather, I'd love to hear from the court of larger opinion what others think of the article. How do you balance building up your child's confidence while allowing for opportunities to fail and learn? Have we tilted to far in one direction (tiger moms) and now are we swinging the pendulum back too far in the other direction? How do you find middle ground? I would love to hear your thoughts in the comments.

Does He Have Daddy Skills?

When I shared this with my husband, he said, "It's funny because it's true." That's because he has skills.

Habits, Reflected

My pediatrician informed me during our 18-month check-up, "You won't need to teach your little guy to use a cell phone. He knows how by now. He watches everything you do."

I laughed and nodded. I've observed my little shadow mimicking many of the quirks I didn't even know I had. For example, it seems that I drink a lot of coffee. This is not breaking news, but it was informative to realize that I drink it enough, talk about it enough and carry a cup around enough to illicit a response from my mini-shadow.

"Co-ttee!" he exclaims, as he holds up his round red block in a mock toast. He then tips his head back, the "cup" to his lips. When done drinking, he smacks his lips and goes, "Ahhhh!"

Mommy clearly needs to audibly share how satisfying her coffee is. And she also might need to work on her manners.

Daycare - Not For Sissies

I have a tough kid. Every time he whacks his head into the corner of a dresser or tumbles forehead first onto the hardwood floor, I wince and wait for the reaction. Typically, he stands up and gives a grumpy look, then moves on. If he cries, I know that it is serious and out come the hugs and cuddles to make it all go away. I wish I was as tough as this kid.

Last week was his first time in full-time daycare. Since moving back to San Francisco from Seattle, my husband had the privilege of spending his days with Keagan. When he went back to work, we chose a fantastic daycare less than a mile from my office - one that we felt safe, secure and excited for our little boy to spend his days growing, developing and learning in. We knew he would love it. I didn't anticipate how hard it would be for me.

On the first morning, my stomach was in knots. I felt that tightening and tingle at the back of my throat that threatened to let loose a sob. I swallowed it down hard so that I wouldn't let my nerves show. Keagan's drop off should be as smooth and positive as possible, I told myself as I pushed out of my head all of my dreams and desires to be home with my little baby every day. While he pointed out cars and babbled in a sing-song voice, I resolved to steel my senses.

The lovely and kind caretaker met us at the door. It was then Keagan turned to me, wide-eyed, and said, "Mommy?" Mommy with a question mark. As in, "Mommy, what the...?" I smiled and bounced him on my hip, the universal mommy sign for "Isn't this great?"

He wasn't buying it. As I tried to hand him over, he clung desperately to my neck. I secretly congratulated myself for cutting his nails the night before. Otherwise, I could have had claw marks from back to front. "Mommy!" he shouted. "Moooooomm-eeeeee!" Tears sprouted in his beautiful blue eyes that were quickly crumpling into his reddening cheeks. I kept grinning and spoke in soothing tones that said everything was OK. I could hear him wailing as I turned back towards the car.

I'm not quite sure what route I took back to work. I was blinded by tears. Kevin comforted me in our phone call, telling me that he was sure he was playing by now and that all was well. All day, I was convinced that I was the blue ribbon champion in the race for terrible mothers. Friends kindly consoled me on Facebook, telling me it gets easier. One friend said that daycare is not for sissies and she is absolutely right. This sissy was struggling.

At 5 p.m., I raced to the door to save my son from his day of misery. I wanted nothing more than to hug and kiss him, to reassure him that I would always come back for him. He came out the door, holding an overstuffed Elmo. His eyes grew wide and his pearly white teeth appeared. "Mommy!" he said cheerily. "Elmo!" He thrust Elmo at me with great pride. Swooped up into my arms, he hugged Elmo and me tight and this time, I was the only one with tears in my eyes.

I told you. My kid is much tougher than me.

The 58 Hour Birth Story

Let me begin with a disclaimer: I am a special snowflake.  Not all labors last 58 hours.  If you are currently pregnant or planning to become so, do not be scared away.  I am just fortunate enough now to be able to hang that huge number over my son's head when he misbehaves in the future, as in "Keagan, I did not go through FIFTY EIGHT hours of labor with you just so you could blah blah blah."

I should also say up front that Kevin was my rock through the entire ordeal.  He was attentive, supportive and went out of his way to make me laugh when all I wanted to do was cry.  Observe:

An almost accurate portrayal of the birth to come.  Almost.

At thirty nine weeks, my doctor decided that I needed to be induced due to some heart decelerations that came up on the fetal monitor.  I was admitted around noon on a Tuesday and at 3 p.m., it was decided that I would be put on cervadil.  For those unfamiliar, it is essentially a shoestring coated in medicine that causes your cervix to ripen. Around 8 p.m. that day, I was experiencing some fairly intense contractions with no dilation.  The attending doctor apologized repeatedly for "torturing" me.  Each time she checked me, it felt like her hand was coated in sandpaper.  The medicine softens not only the cervix but everything else surrounding.  I dealt with the contractions for a few more hours, then it was decided around midnight, Wednesday morning, that it was not working and causing decelerations and the string was pulled.

3 a.m. on Wednesday we began again, this time with a foley bulb.  You may have seen in a birthing class that this is a catheter with a balloon on the end that blows up to 3 centimeters.  It is inserted into the cervix to help expand it.  Sounds fun, right?  Right. It typically takes 6 to 12 hours to work.  Of course, this special snowflake took 17 hours of uncomfortable cramping.  At least I got to take a nap.  During this time period, the phrase "c-section" popped up repeatedly.  Because it was taking such a long time and because the baby's heart decelerations were still showing up here and there, my doctor suggested that this may be indicative of how he and I handle labor.  She said that she wanted to avoid c-section, as did I, but that it was a real possibility.  My disappointment was apparent and I tried to mentally will my body into labor.

When the bulb did its work, it was decided that pitocin would begin.  I had chosen ahead of time to have an epidural and my doctor recommended that I have it administered right away so I would be comfortable because "this was taking such a really long time."  Did I mention we are now into the mid-morning on Thursday?  The anesthesiologist appeared around noon on Thursday, barking at me with a thick French accent to turn and hunch my back.  Let me just say that I've had an epidural before.  I had one when I was 18 years old and getting a knee surgery.  I don't remember it being any big deal or painful whatsoever.  I believe this needle-wielding man had it out for me.  If he didn't have a giant needle in my back, and I didn't have tears streaming down my face, I would have turned around and punched him when he asked me, "Did you have scoliosis as a child?"  Awesome bedside manner.

The epidural did bring some sweet relief from the contractions that were ever increasing because of the pitocin.  I learned that I had to lay on my left side continuously because all the cord and placenta were on the right and if I laid the wrong way, the baby's heart would decelerate.  A new nurse came on staff Thursday evening and she ordered me onto my right side during a slight deceleration.  I argued against that, and she forced me over.  Suddenly, she hits a panic button and seven people, including the attending physician, come running into the room.  Oxygen masks flew over my face and people were rolling me to the left.  I hope the nurse felt the daggers I was shooting at her from my wide, tear-filled eyes.

Around 10 p.m., I was calling for a nurse.  White hot pokers were being jabbed into my right side.  I could feel every contraction, every burn.  The night anesthesiologist ran in and did a prick test to see where I could feel.  Turns out, all that laying on the left caused my epidural to essentially drip down to one side and my right side was wide awake.  He gave me a booster and told me it would kick in in about twenty minutes.  The doctor rushed in and said, "No wonder you are in pain - you are ready to push!"  My doctor was called and appeared fifteen minutes later after my third push.  An hour went by, me pushing and all of us in the room chatting between pushes about completely inane things like how I broke my tailbone twice (once slipping on black ice when drunk in Salzburg, Austria and once roller skating at an 80's birthday party, sober, when I was 28 years old) and how I would totally see New Kids On The Block in concert now because I was super in love with Jordan.  I'm pretty sure I was losing my mind at this point.

After an hour and a half, my doctor informed me that the baby wasn't past the pubic bone yet, but was close.  My options were a) keep pushing, though she could see how exhausted I was getting, b) try a vaccuum, which could only be tried three times and would increase my chance of tearing or c) go straight to c-section.  Picture me giving a finger snap and saying, "Oh no, you didn't!" There was no way that I had come this far just to be cut open.  My mental gears switched, and I looked at a spot in the ceiling and told everyone to talk amongst themselves, but not to me.  I focused on two things: a spot on the ceiling and my husband's voice.  He slipped straight into stellar coach mode, cheering me on with things like, "Dig deep!" and "Longer! Harder! Go!"  It was team sport time and we were going for the championship.  About a half hour later, at 12:20 am Friday, Keagan appeared, was placed on my chest and everything was right in the world.

Fifty eight hours.  Fifty eight long, tiresome, painful and exhausting hours that I would relive again tomorrow if it meant that I got to look at this face and smell this lovely baby smell every day.

Outfit posts resume at the end of the week!