New Address for Blog

The verdict is in from my readers - wordpress is better for this specific blog! Visit www.sleepdeprivedandfabulous.wordpress.com for more entries.

Seeking: Housewife

We have reached a breaking point. Our lives are filled to the brim, thankfully with projects we're passionate about, people we absolutely adore and jobs we love, but nonetheless, busy to the point of insanity. When we purchased our first home, we downsized to half the size, minus a double car garage and crawl space. 1,000 square feet can be a perfectly suitable size for a three person family, if you don't accumulate a large amount of crap, that is. We have not followed suit. Three years and another kid later, we have gotten to the point where not only are our lives jam-packed, but our house is busting at the seams.

We're both away at work for many hours during the week, and because of this, playing with our kids and enjoying each others' company trumps the daily (and necessary) maintenance of keeping house. Honestly, who would chose cleaning up over cuddling on the couch with books, working on a new blog entry or having a tea party on the living room floor? But it is becoming increasingly apparent that our “ignore it and maybe it will go away” mentality is just not cutting it anymore. The constant state of chaos that has taken over every inch of our house is seeping into our souls and causing bigger problems.

Instead of being able to come home to a lovely sanctuary from the rest of the crazy world, we end up fighting about the house. The dirty dishes in the sink multiply when left alone for a couple hours, the living room hasn't been vacuumed for longer than either of us can remember – heck, it would be impossible to even attempt vacuuming with the sea of clothes/toys/laundry/stuffed animals/remainders of art projects everywhere. How can we relax in an environment where there isn't room on the table to put a dinner plate or where we have to shovel off the couch to merely sit down? Don't even get me started on the daily search for the TV remote, cell phones and keys. We don't invite people over because it is embarrassing; somehow other work-outside-the-home-two-income-earner families manage to keep it together. It is stressful existing in this perpetual mess and our marriage is suffering.

When I was younger, my parents gave us a deadline of 5:00 on Sunday night to have our room picked up. Whatever was left on the floor at 5:01 got swept up into a huge black garbage bag to live in the attic. During the course of the following week, whatever items we could remember were returned – otherwise, adios. Perhaps it is time to implement the garbage bag technique for our grown-up selves.

It doesn't seem realistic for Jake to come home and spend his mere moments of free time cleaning after a 60+ hour work week (with a schedule that changes week to week), but it also isn't fair to leave all of the cleaning to me – since when I'm not working, I'm with our daughters, not gallivanting around town shopping and getting pedicures. But the dirty (literally) truth is that just because we both work outside the home doesn't diminish the fact that things still need to be picked up and put away. Finding any kind of reasonable balance while juggling everything we have going on is quite irrational.

We have come to the realization that what we really need is someone to fill the old-fashioned role of housewife. Someone to be our command central. Someone to be in charge of all those odd jobs we just cannot get a handle on. Someone to help us scrub the tub and mop the floors, rake the leaves and mow the lawn, run to goodwill and the recycling center, file papers, grocery shop...maybe even watch the kids while we get the house back to some kind of working order.

Is this our sanity saving answer? Too early to tell, as we have an overwhelming amount of work to do initially. But it is time, and we owe it to our family to buck up, stop whining and clean up our crap. Hopefully sooner, rather than later, we'll be able to hire someone...any takers?

A "Short Fuse" Kind of Day

Nothing tests a person’s patience like their own children. Being a mom has made me face the sometimes ugly realities of how I deal with my own emotions. For the most part, I consider myself to be a very patient and understanding person; perhaps even more so than the average Joe. (I wouldn’t have been a very successful babysitter if I didn’t at least have this one quality to keep me from taking my whiny spoiled brats of charges to a park and leaving them there). But everyone has their breaking point. Mine has become increasingly shorter due to a combination of sleep deprivation, balancing a busy life and adjusting to being a mom of two.

Case in point: we were trying to get out of the house one morning. Running late already, of course, as I was so tired and couldn’t drag myself out of bed at the first ring of the alarm. It also doesn’t help that on any typical morning, my husband, Jake, is already at work before we even wake up. Breakfast eaten, teeth brushed, diaper bag packed. “Do you need to go to the bathroom, Lily?” I ask my three-year old. “No!” she replies. Sweater, coat, hat, mittens on Lily, wrestle Vivienne into a full body snowsuit and car-seat, multiple bags for the day hoisted onto my shoulder (seriously, I have so many bags that if you ever see us leaving the house in the morning you might mistake me for a nomad off to begin a long journey).

“Why don’t you try to go to the bathroom, honey, before we have to leave?” I plead. “No!” she replies again. Door locked, kids loaded in car, turn key: “Mama?” Lily says timidly, and I close my eyes and sigh, prepared for what she is about to say. “Mama, I have to go to the bathroom.” At this point, I become irrationally angry with this little child of mine and explode. Sighing exasperatedly, I snap, “Why couldn’t you have gone when we were in the house? Why do you think I kept asking you?” I clench my teeth together to keep from screaming, “We’re late already and now we’ll be even later! You have been potty trained for almost two years – don’t you get it by now? *#$%!!!” On the verge of tears, Lily says, “Sorry Mama! I just have to go now!” Drag baby in car-seat and child out of car, unlock house, wait for pee, repeat leaving the house scenario.

And while I’m driving to wherever it was we needed to be so urgently, my brain implodes and I am overcome with guilt. Lily is a mere preschooler with a tiny bladder and developmentally, it is normal for young kids to not have to go one second and then really have to go the next. Why do I snap in this way? This isn’t the first instance where anger, frustration and annoyance have induced this kind of reaction. Are my tendencies towards displacing anger and passive aggressiveness simply coping mechanisms I learned along the way or patterns I formed growing up? And why, if I logically understand what I’m doing, does it seem uncontrollable in the heat of the moment? As an adult, shouldn’t I be able to keep my emotions in check, channel my inner zen, breathe deeply and act in a more rational way?

Regardless of the reason, I am horrified that I responded like this to my sweet daughter, who was just trying to tell me she had to go to the bathroom! (How lovely would it have been if she had peed in her car-seat instead?) A circumstance so minute does not, in any way, constitute this kind of intense reaction. I apologize to Lily for getting mad when I drop her off at preschool, but fear my bad habits of snapping suddenly have already taken root in her mind as an appropriate way of dealing with your anger.

Realizing that my children are watching everything I do and listening to everything I say is overwhelming. If you had to take a test to become a parent, the aforementioned scenario would definitely earn me a check mark in the “not suitable” category. Later that night, Jake reminds me that being a parent is hard, period. After all, we all make mistakes, and parents have the added challenge of having a constant set of eyes and ears observing our every move. Fortunately, he explained, there are hidden benefits to our kids seeing us making mistakes. Cleaning up the pieces of our screw-ups and dealing with the aftermath of our mishaps is the main point, because being able to say “I’m sorry” and owning up to your mistakes are good life lessons. While this doesn’t excuse my irrational behavior, I am thankful to have this added perspective. And I am happy to report that I’m getting better at not immediately snapping, even on those “short fuse” kinds of days.

Share The Mama

You would have expected Lily to be jealous after the birth of her new baby sister. You would have been wrong.

I credit myself largely to starting off their sisterly relationship on the right foot. One ice cream sundae play dough play set, which one certain three-year old had been eyeing, was gifted "from" Vivienne about a week after she arrived. "How did she know I wanted it?"an excited but confused Lily wanted to know. "She's your sister. That's how," was the simple answer she received.

Lily has amazed us with her incredible patience and understanding, willingness to help and genuine love for her baby sister. Her continual commentary always prompts a smile: "Mama, don't forget my sister!" and "Mama, she's crying again. (sigh and eye roll)." and "Mama, she doesn't like those cheese puffs. Can I have them?" Instead of being jealous or whiny or obnoxious, she would simply wait to receive attention.

What has perplexed me the most is that lately, the jealousy has been coming from the other side. Now that Vivienne is almost 11 months old and able to maneuver through obstacles and get to where - and what - she wants to, I have a small, constant companion at my feet. Being only 18 pounds and having a shriek that can pierce your inner eardrum, she is often hoisted onto my hip and carried about. If I am interacting in any way with Lily, Vivienne zips right over and unleashes the demon within if I take no notice right away.

Tonight, dinner and play and bed time were all on me, as Jake was at work. I was lying on the floor of the living room, giggling and cuddling and engaging in general silliness with Lily, when Vivienne decided she had had it up to here with all of the attention being paid to her sister. Throwing herself on top of me, grabbing with an iron grip, she wept and screamed so incredibly that I thought she might start choking or possibly throw up. She also batted at Lily with her angry little fist and tried to rip shreds of hair out of Lily's head. "Gentle!"I told her, maneuvering her hand to softly pat Lily,"Sisters are nice!"

And Lily, true to form, just shrugged the whole incident off as we were walking up the stairs to start bedtime. I later heard her telling her sister, "Yes, Vivi, it's hard to share. But we have to share the Mama."

Cow: Parts 3 & 4

Stay tuned for:

Cow, Part 3: To Wean or Not to Wean

Cow, Part 4: A Love/Hate Relationship with the Breast Pump

Cow, Part 2: The Purpose of Boobs

I find it somewhat amusing when people are grossed out by breastfeeding. Sorry to break it to you, folks, but breasts do not exist solely for you to ogle at and play with. I triumphantly nursed both of my babies in public, every time hoping just a little that someone would sneer a rude comment my direction so I could reply, “I don't get offended when you eat.” Depending on the commentator, I might find it appropriate to also squirt them across the room with my milk. Sadly, I was never able to whip this comment, or my boob, out at someone.

But in all seriousness, how amazing is it that our bodies are capable of producing this nutritious and perfectly balanced substance that sustains another human life? When I was pregnant the first time, there was no question that I would breastfeed. Months leading up to Lily's birth, I had visions of picturesque nursing scenes: a soft, Thomas Kinkade-esqe light glowing around us, angels voices softly piercing the air, my white, billowy nightgown flowing softly in the breeze. Suffice to say, that dream scene was thrown out the window after Lily arrived and I found breastfeeding to be a miserable and challenging experience. How could something “natural” be so difficult? I will never, ever forget the first thing the lactation consultant said to my tear streaked face when Lily was almost a week old and not gaining weight yet: “This is the first time you've ever tried to breastfeed someone, and this is the first time your baby has ever breastfed. You can't expect to get something perfect the first time you've ever tried it!”

Lily did eventually catch on and ended up nursing for over two years. Being the new, neurotic parent I was, pushing her to take a bottle was something we tried only a handful of times. And lo and behold, at three months she absolutely refused any kind of nipple that wasn't mine. Even worse, she was convinced at six months that “real” food was poisonous and I continued to be her sole source of nutrition for many, many months. Her demands were exhausting, but the emotional rewards from breastfeeding outweighed the negatives and I was grateful for the opportunity to connect with my baby in this way.

Needless to say, after the birth of Vivienne three years later, I was determined to introduce the bottle. I simply could not fathom the thought of having another baby who wouldn't take a bottle - not only for logistical reasons, but for my own sake of sanity as well (Nighttime feedings? Any takers?). I wanted the best of both worlds – being able to nurse my baby when we were together and not have to worry about her eating habits when we were apart. It turns out that any worries I had about experiencing a repeat of her sister's eating habits were a waste of time. Vivienne latched on moments after she was born and is a vivacious eater of anything in front of her to this day (cheerios, broccoli, cheese = good. Dust mites, tiny Polly Pocket shoes, coffee beans that fall on the floor = bad).

The purpose of boobs becomes evident after you become a parent. Of course, this purpose will not be the only purpose for the entirety of a lifetime (insert my husband's cheer here). But for now, for these short months and possibly years, I wear this aspect of motherhood like a badge of honor.

Cow, Part 1: Breast is Best, Yo

Before I was even pregnant, I was quite snotty about formula. Even if I never actually voiced this opinion to my friends who had recently become mothers, I really looked down on anyone who would chose that gross and unnatural substance over breast milk. Seriously, have you read the studies on this? The status of “liquid gold” wasn't assigned to formula for a reason. (Le Leche League's website is a great place to start if you are looking for more information about the benefits of breastfeeding). I could not comprehend the decision to use formula; think of the cost! The nutrition! The damage you were doing to your baby, both nutritionally and psychologically!

At this point, I would like to launch forward four years. After actually being a mom and not just prancing to the top of my soap box of inexperience, I have officially been kicked off my high and mighty sassy horse. My “before kids” self really didn't know what she was talking about. How could she? She wasn't a mom. If you keep reading, you'll see that even I eventually used formula and found that it is not toxic (“What?!? Sell-out!” my former self screams.) I now understand that every mom, every baby and every situation is different, but maintain the belief that breast milk is best, yo!

These Shoes Rule! These Shoes Suck!

I love shoes. Pumps, strappy sandals, sky-high stilettos, funky boots, cute flats – I love them all, and pride myself on my vast shoe collection. Before I had kids, one of my favorite parts of the day was getting dressed in the morning. Standing in my closet, gazing up at the rows and rows of boxes, I had only one question: Which pair should I wear today? “Me! Me” the three inch, pointy toe, solid red with snakeskin accent heels would call, “Remember you have that meeting at work today! I'll be fabulous!” I imagined the other shoes smiling regretfully at the pair that was selected, like a famous actress nominated for the Oscar and loses but still must appear debonair with all of the cameras pointed at her. Don't worry, I would assure the others, you'll have your day too.

Only one pair of shoes ever challenged my identity and took my fashion sense by the shoulders and shook it to death; the ugly “Earth” shoes I purchased during my first pregnancy to ease my aching back. I knew that my sense of style couldn't possibly be maintained while wearing these shoes, but the comfort and support of my new Mary-Janes (black, of course, as I still have some ounce of pride) quickly trumped any other pair in my closet. “What have you traded us for? Simply awful!” the heels and boots protested.

After Lily was born, there was no vital necessity to wear any of my fabulous yet ridiculous heels. Why dress up when your entire day consists of nursing/rocking/changing an infant and there is no need to step foot outside the house? No longer having the time or energy in the morning to put a cute outfit together, I took the easy way out. I continued to pick those Mary-Janes long after the necessity of wearing them had passed. Like many changes and sacrifices I had made, not having time to spend on myself became an everyday occurrence. My pumps and sandals were an inconsequential part of the person I had been long ago; a person who, it seemed at times, would be lost in the world of motherhood forever.

Eventually, I learned how to gain more of a balance in my life, and felt as though I was getting to know myself again. I was, of course, the same person I'd always been, but with changes and tweaks and new experiences under my belt. Around Lily's first birthday, I timidly reintroduced myself to my neglected heels. “We're dusty! Where have you been?” they groaned. “I'm sorry. I had a baby, and you are no good for going on long walks with a jogging stroller or running errands,” I tried to explain.

I logically understand that your choice of footwear does not directly relate to the type of person you are, and that placing so much emphasis on what you wear seems silly and materialistic. But at the end of the day (or the beginning of the day, in my case), the single element of shoes makes me feel like myself; not necessarily who I was before I had kids or this new person I've become, but me. A woman who relishes in slipping into a pair of hot pink suede platform pumps, turquoise snakeskin boots or brown peep toes with gold piping, but also a mom who is utterly and completely obsessed with her daughters. Motherhood has been fully integrated into my identity, which will always include fabulous shoes.

*

I first watched this video before I was even pregnant, and found its hilarity and ridiculousness completely entertaining. While the video is about shoes, it really has nothing to do with motherhood, but when I was writing this entry, the catch-phrase popped into my mind and I knew that it had to be my title. Found it most appropriate to attach the link!

Hello, My Name is Anya and I am a Control Freak.

Motherhood has reformed me. I used to be your typical Type A, controlling, neurotic nightmare. I've never actually said “my way or the highway” to anyone, but that phrase pretty much sums it up. What makes matters worse, of course, is that my well thought out plans usually come to fruition, therefore reinforcing this exact behavior and way of thinking. My first pregnancy was planned, like everything else in my life. Actually, the planning really started much earlier than you would ever guess - you'll find the names of my future children on the pages of my first journal, started when I was seven or eight years old. My daughters really should thank me that they didn't end up as “Flower Petal” or “Spice.”

Blessed with the fertile myrtle gene, project baby was launched shortly after we returned from our honeymoon, right on schedule. Like everything else I take on, I became completely and utterly obsessed with my new project. Spreadsheets were created to compare the different options for strollers and cribs; lists outlined how many 0-3 month versus 3-6 month onsies to stock. I read books, watched birth videos, practiced breathing techniques, attended pre-natal yoga classes, talked with other pregnant women. Determined to be “supermom,” I gathered every ounce and scrap of information I could in those short nine months.

What those books and videos never tell you, however, is that nothing – I repeat, nothing - can prepare you for parenthood. And what people especially don't tell you is that, for a control freak like myself, becoming a mother is like pulling the rug out from under every aspect of your life in one swift motion.

Motherhood overwhelmed me. Daily hysterical crying fits, erratic thoughts and distracted conversations defined me after my daughter was born. My identity was shattered – is this what it meant to be a mom? Should I feel guilty for not doing the dishes and folding the laundry if I am at home and my husband is at work? How could I feel so incredibly lucky and horrifically tired at the same time? I would look down at the sleeping baby in my arms and weep out of joy for being so blessed. And in the lonely hours of endless night/morning, I would weep out of misery from the hell of my own making. Because, after all, I had planned this.

Time passed, night by sleepless night, and I slowly started to feel the haze lift; and with it, some of my weird idiosyncrasies. Suddenly, it didn't matter if I was 5 minutes late for something; if I left the house in a mismatched outfit; if my husband put the kitchen towels in the bathroom cabinet and vice versa. Believe it when I say that this was a big step from the “old me.”

In thinking of all the ways motherhood could change me, I never would have guessed that this process would have made me a better person. Motherhood has given my life purpose, shown me the true meaning of unconditional love and added much needed perspective. Becoming a more grounded, patient, understanding and less controlling individual are really just bonuses.

An Ode to Those Who Have Never Been There (by my husband)

Roses are red

Violets are blue

You don't have kids

So f*** you.

An Ode to Those Who Have Never Been There

Awake at 11 / 1 / 3 / 5 / 8

Foggy brain / Zombie state / Forcing eyes to stay wide open

Hard to follow conversations / What was I saying? / No she is not / sleeping yet

Everything / Everyday / overwhelming / stressful / so hard / too hard / Sacrifice

Loss of sleep / body / identity / time / sex / life

Is it worth it?

Heart exploding / Fireworks / Indescribable, Unexplainable, Inexplicable

Never love anyone anywhere anytime anyplace anything

like you love this baby

Play While You Still Can

I regretfully admit that sometimes my days off seem endless. Board games that turn into "bored" games after being played 28 times in a row, never-ending pleads for fruit snacks, requests to play with messy Moon Sand. The question becomes: how quickly can Mama go out of her mind?

Friends and relatives with older children have wistfully sighed "the early years go by so fast..." and while I believe them, I still have trouble fully living in present. (How can I not when I am convinced that Vivienne will sleep longer and better as she gets older, just like Lily did? Really, can you blame me at this point?) I have heard people lament about their lost time and think that I have already learned the "time goes so quickly" lesson.

Apparently, this afternoon was a much-needed refresher course.

Lily had a meltdown after a four-hour play-date with the neighbor girls (our yard, their yard, their house, our house). Everyone was starving and I sent the girls home when I started getting dinner ready. Lily was incredibly sad and would have really rather starved than stopped playing, and became a crabby, furious and crying disaster. And then it hit me.

This almost four year old will wake up one day and always chose to play with her friends over me. I need to stop whining about being so tired and not having time to clean/read/watch a movie/update photo albums/etc.

Living everyday for that day itself is important, because, truth be told, it does go quickly. Why is it so hard for me to do this? And why do I have to be reminded?

I vowed to change my mindset. Tonight's play consisted of puppies and the pound and a dog catcher and a veterinarian who fixed everyone's cuts and scrapes. And when it was time to start bedtime, I felt fulfilled in a way that no other task could ever compete with.

Lesson learned. Again. (Thank god there is still t

The Joy of NOT Doing it Yourself

My revelation began when Lily was one & half or two years old. I had been doing things for her ever since she was born and it seemed unnatural to stop doing things for her even though she was fully capable of performing simple tasks.

One lazy Saturday, we were getting ready to walk to the park. The stroller was packed to the nines and everything was ready...except for Lily, who had been replaced with a screeching banshee, wriggling away as I tried to strap on her sneakers. “Park!” the banshee shrieked. “Yes, I'm trying to get us ready to go to the park! We need to put your shoes on!” I exclaimed, quickly becoming annoyed. As I listened to her screams, a light bulb went off. Why was I struggling with a two year old? I didn't really care whether we went to the park or not. The thought of sitting on the couch reading a magazine while she played with her toys was just as fun for me and half the effort! So I stopped. The shrieking stopped too, as she peered up at me with a look of curiosity. “Park?” she whispered. “When you put your shoes on, then we can go to the park,” I calmly responded. I sat down and patiently waited to see what she would do. Much to my amazement, she picked up her shoes, put them on herself and proudly announced, “Shoes! Park!” From that moment on, I vowed not to do anything for my daughter she could do herself.

Now that Lily is almost four, this small and simple rule has extended to every part of our day. She clears her own dishes after a meal, carries her backpack to our car on the way to preschool, opens the fridge and finds a juice box. Sometimes I find myself falling back into the old patterns of doing it myself and have to remind myself to step back. If she needs help, she always asks me. I truly believe that letting our kids try things and experiment and get messy and make mistakes and “do it themselves” creates confidence and instills self-sufficiency. After allowing her the freedom to do so, it has amazed me what she is capable of - and she is not even four yet! Imagine the chores I can make her do in the coming years...

*another version of this entry can be viewed at mamalode.com

Let Your Voice Be Heard

My life is filled with singing. I was gifted with a natural ability to pick and up and carry a tune, but I consider myself to be in the “karaoke” category of singers rather than the “American Idol Top 10” category. But really, that is besides the point. My musical upbringing probably has something to do with my love for singing, and it certainly helps to be married to the lead singer of a band and have a father-in-law who is a voice teacher.

During the last four years of being a mom, I have found an interesting use for singing beyond it being absolutely fun. The sound of my voice is calming during obvious times (nap and bedtime), but I have found that singing actually helps with day to day necessities and teaching skills as well. Who would have thought that a made up song would assist in the bedtime of a crabby two year old or provide the necessary distraction to avoid a meltdown?

If you hung out with me for a day, you’d most likely hear lovely musical renditions of “clean up your toys, clean up your toys, all of the dollies and horses too” and “brushing your teeth, brushing off the carrots, and the cheese stick, and the peanut butter sandwich” and “I share with you, you share with me, it is so nice to share!”

If I had more than five minutes to sit down during the average day, I'd probably have a YouTube link here with a video of me singing. Something to aspire to...

*a version of this entry can be viewed at mamalode.com

Naptime

If my eyes glaze over mid sentence and I start to sway slightly, don't be alarmed. This is my brain's way of kicking into survival mode to get a couple seconds of a nap.

The Joy of (Microwave) Cooking

I consider it an advantage for my daughters to have a brilliantly talented chef for a father and a mother who could go on the show The Worst Cook in America (except that I don’t have any interest in actually learning how to cook). Dinner with me consists of the extent of my culinary skills: boiling pasta and heating up a jar of sauce. If I have to do much more than empty some food into a bowl and push a couple buttons on the microwave, it’s just not worth it. When “papa” is home, however, we get to experience the fantastic realm of his cooking repertoire. We’ve eaten homemade sushi, pork chops with sauce (Goulash? Glaze? See, I can’t even remember the right name for “sauce”), roasted beet salad with goat cheese; the incredibly delicious list is endless.

One of my favorite things in the entire world is to sit on the sidelines, listening to Lily and Jake make a meal together. They brandish their own aprons and she eagerly awaits instructions. She uses her own little plastic knife to chop up food while he whips through ingredients with a huge sharp knife that I would cut my hand off with if I tried to use. He reminds her that “one of the best things about being a chef is that you get to taste your food!” She has tried (although not necessary swallowed) blue cheese, ahi tuna and artichokes, just to name a few. Spending quality time in the kitchen with her father creates fabulous food and, probably more importantly, lasting memories. At least I can be proud of the fact that she is learning her numbers based on how much time we have to heat up something in the microwave!

*another version of this entry can be reviewed at mamalode.com

A Word to the Wise

I dare you to ask me one more time if she is “sleeping through the night yet.” When you do, I will gather up every ounce of strength I have and strangle you.

On second thought, feel free to ask me this; just be prepared to let Vivienne have a sleepover at your house.

24 Hours?

How much longer will I be trapped in this alternate world where days are shorter and the sleepless nights are endless? How many times can I repeat the process of wake up, drop off girls, work, pick up girls, make dinner, do bedtime, fall onto couch, fall into bed without losing my sense of self?

Ramifications

Driving to work today, my eyes saw the flashing turn signal and the red brake lights on the car in front of me. My brain, however, experienced a delayed reaction and I had to slam on the brakes and slightly swerve to avoid hitting the car. I am convinced that I will be pulled over someday soon and what will I be ticketed for?

Driving under the influence of sleep deprivation.

Not good. Must figure out some way to get more sleep in order to avoid future mishaps such as this.

The 4th Trimester

It’s an evil conspiracy. There are hundreds of books, a multitude of classes, and plenty of people to offer advice on how to improve the daily woes of pregnancy and how to endure labor and delivery. But after the baby is born, you are sent home with literally no plans on how to survive. The first few months after a baby is born can certainly be called “the 4th trimester.” Why doesn't anyone prepare you for this? I guess no one would ever actually have kids if they fully understood what they were getting themselves into – still, it seems unfair to allow a new mom to enter the realm of the 4^th trimester without being prepped.

I realize that other moms fall into a deep, full blown postpartum depression and that my situation is laughable compared to those experiences. But after the birth of my first daughter, I was fraught with anxiety and sadness. I would lie in bed, fully awake even though I desperately needed the sleep, worrying about the errands I was planning on doing the next day. What if she started crying in the store? What if I couldn't find a place to nurse her? What if I had a complete anxiety attack in the middle of the diaper aisle?

I felt better prepared to deal with the 4^th trimester again due to the simple fact that I had gone through it before. What I was in denial about, however, was that my second baby was a completely different person than Lily. Vivienne felt that it was necessary to cry and scream the first eight weeks of her life unless being held. I had many moments where I thought about putting her in the crib and just leaving the house. Cries were so common in our household that when she would really start screaming I didn't even care anymore.

I was also in total denial about being submitted to the tortures of sleep deprivation again. (It wasn't that bad when Lily was a baby, right? And she sleeps now...)

I would not have survived these weeks if it hadn't been for the solace, support and company of my mom. Jake also played a key role, even though he was in the midst of the 4^th trimester as well. Getting up with Vivienne in the middle of the night, taking the girls out of the house so I can have “alone time” and hugging me until I stop crying have been essential pieces of getting through each day.

Vivienne is 4 months old now. Slowly but surely, we are surviving the seemingly endless days of the 4^th trimester. I am beginning to see the light once again.

*another version of this entry can be viewed at mamalode.com

Think it, Be it.

Have found that under even the most extreme circumstances (read: four hours of interrupted sleep every night for a week straight...sometimes longer), one can still appear fabulous. Figure if I can fool the world, I will eventually end up fooling myself as well.

Colorful clothes? Check.

Super high heels? Check.

Black mascara and under-the-eye concealer? Check.

Fabulous, dammit.