New Mom Monday Eleven, Who's Cool

If I were a betting woman--which I almost became that one time my sister Tula and I pooled our change together to get a Powerball ticket, and almost almost won--I'd bet that you know someone young and full of life who posted some bit of 90’s pop culture on Facebook while lamenting Ugh, I'm so old. You guys I'm literally so. Old. And I'm betting you rolled your eyes so far back into your head that they got stuck and now all you see are your own thoughts which started a weird Inception thing in your brain and your Ophthalmologist wrote you a prescription to avoid the Internet for three years.

It is the unfortunate fact that everyone my age is constantly in one of the four phases of a life crisis (scrolling through Instagram, depression, social anxiety, consuming junk food appropriated by the gourmet hipster community), but that's only because everyone else our age or younger has a better job, takes better trips, dresses in better clothes, curates better Pins, etc. And while I don't personally let myself get lost in the kind of comparison spiral that ends in me consuming boxes of fancy donuts or vegan snack cakes, since I already do that on Tuesdays, I often do share the sentiment that if I haven't done anything important yet then maybe I never will. And that does give me that whiny, icky I'm getting old feeling.

You know who is younger than I am? All the teenagers who are inventing things and curing diseases. Like all the ladies on The Bachelor. And the little bundle of joy that wakes up at 2 am and immediately rolls over onto all fours to play--nothing ages you faster and reminds you of your decrepitude more than an energetic baby, my friends. I’d like to think I'm turning into a regal matriarch character, but I think we have more of a Goonies villain situation going on here.

I used to be fun! I used to be cute! I used to get my hair cut at appropriate and consistent time intervals!

Right?

I’m asking because I don't remember.

New Mom Monday Ten, Dress Like a Mom

I sincerely hope everyone had a great holiday of their choice. I spent the weekend cooking and unsuccessfully entertaining a whining baby -- I'm starting to notice a theme here.

My baby looked cute in an appropriately pastel dress, of course, and I looked like someone who has not bought any new clothes in two years.

I didn't really buy maternity clothes, because I didn't gain any weight, because my body has been ready to carry and birth a baby since 7th grade. My petite younger sister didn't have hips until she got pregnant; if my hips got any wider I probably wouldn't be allowed on airplanes.

I am one of those women that waits her entire pregnancy to get a cute pregnant belly, who thinks she's going to “pop” any day now, and before she knows it she's in labor and still just looks like she enjoyed burrito Wednesday at her favorite gross Mexican food place (which in my case was actually true). If you would have placed a friendly hand on my belly without asking permission, as is your right to do to any pregnant stranger, you might have been shocked to find I was attempting to steal a large, under-baked bagel under my blouse. Relax, that's just what motherhood feels like. Soak it in.

Even so, the combination of a sour candy diet and no exercise for nine months left my body with plenty of flab and rolls of skin that I don't remember being there before. I won't complain about my new boobs, because I enjoyed them enough while I had them. Even in high school I knew they wouldn't last, and I wore dresses that were cut too low, I unbuttoned one too many buttons on my shirts. It was fun.

My old clothes all fit, but I feel very different in them. My young person clothes look cheap, and my quirky thrift store clothes make me look old and deranged.

I look like a mom, I bemoan to myself out loud when I catch my reflection walking up to a store window, All my jeans look like mom jeans, and not the millennial, Coachella kind.

“You are a mom,” my husband says to me in that way that makes me so mad because he is smirking at me and making me feel ridiculous. It's not what he says, it's how he says it, if that makes sense.

New Mom Monday, nine

Oh friends, this is Anna. I have been on a Spring Break kid bender (meaning lots of kids, I'm not drinking kids, nor are the kids drinking, FYI) and I feel so out of the blogging loop. We are moderately recording all of our fun over on snapchat (ahhnnab is my name there), but I have been a bit MIA around here. Soon to be remedied. But please, enjoy another amazing installment of my favorite niece writing about new motherhood. She's hilarious, amazing, adorable, and as humble as I am.  Enjoy!

Being such a young, hot, young mom is a lot of fun, but it also means you might have to get your wisdom teeth pulled while you are nursing a fat, sassy baby.

My body really likes nitrous oxide, but I still had a hard time relaxing, or “getting in the mood” as my dentist calls it (no, he doesn’t, but he should), in the dentist chair. W hasn’t been sleeping well, so I was sort of looking forward to lying down for an hour, totally out of it. Ryan sat with the baby in the waiting room during the procedure, and maybe hearing her happily screaming at the office staff is what kept my brain alert despite my body getting too slow and heavy to keep my stomach sucked in. I must have passed out at the end though, because I had four teeth removed but only remember three getting pulled.

I’ve been spending the past few days sitting up in bed in my satin nightgown, hair shiny and coiffed while my husband fetches me everything I need. Just kidding, I’m not really that glamorous: my face is puffy and my kitchen is totally trashed, and I keep finding dried chocolate pudding on my upper lip. I gingerly ate my first solid food of rice and curry yesterday while the baby shriek-scolded me like a strong tiny Pai Mei (I'm obviously the slender Uma Thurman here). However, I think once the swelling goes down the extra empty space in my mouth will make my cheekbones look better than ever. So look out Instagram.

New Mom Monday, Eight

Someone please help.

Every time W is learning a new skill, like sitting up this past week -- NOT crawling thank the fates -- she is so cranky while she's trying to master it, then cranky again after she's mastered it but realizes there are more things. I wake up every morning crossing my fingers that we will be starting that sweet spot between growth spurts, where she realizes things aren't so bad because she has a gorgeous mother who loves her and does everything for her.

I cannot believe how rude a tiny baby can be, a word that correctly connotes that her actions are completely intentional and meant to inspire self-loathing. Ever since I can remember (the past week), every time I have nursed her she’ll be eating just fine, whip her head around to see what is going on behind her back (nothing), then turn back and yell at me for distracting her -- this happens at least six times before she's done.

She is also back on newborn schedule at night, but somehow I'm not really feeling as responsive as I was when we first brought her home. I easily doze off after she's been fed but wants to start some pillow talk at 2 am, and the nights I once jumped up at every peep seem far off and quaint. The baby and I slept separately from my husband for those first few months, so now that we all share a bed, Ryan is struggling to adjust to her waking up during the night. It is hilarious.

Naps have been okay though (?).

I don't really know how you can help me, I just wanted to keep you updated, like one of those letters rich people send out at Christmas.

Very truly yours,

Libbie and Winifred

Grow a Boy in Six Easy Steps

Today my oldest son turns 12. TWELVE! He is not a boy, not yet a man (someone should write a song about that... it's kinda catchy). As I was thinking about him this morning, I remembered this post I had written a couple of years ago about growing a boy in six easy steps. I slightly modified it, but I still believe it. Oh boy, these boys!

I'd be lying if I said that I wasn't sad when I found out that my fourth and final child was a boy. I was sad. My firstborn was a daughter and we were poor enough that most of her clothes as a toddler were hand-me-downs and gifts. She still looked adorable, mostly thanks to my sister's jewelry line and great style. That little girl of mine always had a cool pearl necklace and a few bracelets on, even when swimming and sleeping.

When we found out we were expecting a fourth child, I was excited to have a new live baby doll to dress. But nope, third boy. I wasn't super excited about more jeans and converse, light sabers and tiny cars, haircuts and dirty pockets. My heart yearned for a tiny dancer and someone who could wear all of those adorable necklaces. But as soon as Rhett was born, my heart changed. I wrote about that miraculous change of heart five days after he was born (here).

I know some people have more than three boys and older boys, but there are some things I have learned in this past decade of trying to grow little boys. Wanna hear?

Here it goes:

1. Boys Love Hugs

Girls are cute, but when that little boy wants to hold your hand, kiss or snuggle with you, you say YES! Something happens to a mother and her squishy heart when her little boy needs her affection. It becomes more squishy, to be sure. It melts and puddles down to the pit of your stomach and you think you could die of happiness. It also does something terrible to your memory: "What smashed window? What dirty sink of dishes? What ruined patch of grass? What torn up jeans?"

But, do you know how much your little boy needs YOUR hugs, too? They might seem tough, but those little boys need your hugs and back scratches and hand holds more than you do. They need affection just as much as your daughters, and I believe it will only make them better and kinder men. Hug your boys, especially when they don't deserve it.

2. Boys Love Sticks

It's true. A stick is a magical gift from the gods. You may spend $20 on a Nerf sword (which my boys all love and somehow we have accrued over a dozen), but a stick can be so much more than a sword. It is a light saber then a rifle, a sword and then a wand, a rope swinging from the trees and then the beginning of a fort. Did you know there are sticks in different shapes and sizes? It's true. My boys are constantly showing me how this stick looks like a machine gun and that stick looks like a boomerang.

Sticks are amazing. Get your boy out and find some sticks.

3. Boys Love Style

It is still fun to dress boys. We had a pair of seersucker pants that all of the boys wore and every time it just made me want to grab and love on them. It is even more fun when they start having their own style. My 12yo is very involved in his hair styles and the cut of pants he prefers. Our 9yo acts as if he doesn't care, but there are a few items of clothing that he refuses to put on and wear outside of the house. Our 6yo is all about the accessories. He loves wearing sunglasses, ties, watches, wings on his shoes, and anything else we will let him wear. Which is a lot. He has more bracelets than I ever did as a child.

Some people have expressed concern over our boys' styles of dress and hair, but I don't worry myself with any of it. Boys like style as much as girls. It is all part of the process of growing and feeling comfortable in your own skin. Take your son shopping and see what he gravitates toward. Boys love dates with you, too. One on one time is the absolute best.

4. Boys Love Work

Well, not really. Most of my boys complain and whine every single Saturday when it is chore time. My middle son rolls his eyes every time I ask him to do anything but play on a screen. But, boys need work. Things are easier now than when I was a kid (and that was easy!), chores are simpler, games are everywhere. Boys need to still work hard, see value in their accomplishments, be prepared to leave your home when they are 18, and open a door for women. I still believe in boys learning to be hard working and respectful. Opening doors and letting women go ahead of them is included in learning respect.

My boys are naturally pretty smart, God-given to be sure. But I tell them often that the most successful people in the world are not the smartest, but the hardest workers. Don't raise soft, lackluster smart boys. Raise boys who can love work.

5. Boys Love Potty Words

It is true for all three of my boys. They love potty words. Throw in a "poop" or "fart" into your story and you are the most hilarious person ever. I have never believed in shushing the potty words completely. Like all fine pleasures in this world, moderation is key with potty words. Boys need to express these funny little phrases more than you can understand, and if they don't do it around you, they are most definitely trying it out with friends. Why? Because THIS.

I don't know when they outgrow seeing humor in potty words. My 40yo boy still laughs heartily at a well-placed "poo" reference.

6. Boys Love Praise

Don't we all? Somehow in the history of raising of boys, we humans have felt this need to make them tough and resilient and we do it by being very selective and sparse with our praise. Allegedly, If we tell them too often that they are strong and smart and kind and good-golly quite handsome, then they will not grow to handle criticism and disappointment. Baloney. Criticism and disappointment will come all over the place as they grow, which is all the more reason to give them love and praise at home.

Don't get me wrong, I reprimand and correct all of my children. I also try my darnedest to tell them how unique and cool they are, how much I appreciate their help and listening, why they are so smart and handsome. A sincere compliment is worth more than the snazziest outfit or coolest Nerf sword that you could ever buy. Give your boys praise and do it as often as you can. All it will do is make him more confident as he grows in this world and prepares to leave your nest for good.

Wait. My boys will leave my nest for good someday?! I know it's true, and yet thinking that in six shorts years my oldest boy will be taking flight is enough to make me stop typing this post and run and give him sloppy kisses and praise for days.

I am so glad I got three boys to follow my daughter. I can't believe I ever doubted that they were exactly what I wanted.

a

Women support women

I am a feminist.

I feel really lucky to be living in a time when the word feminist doesn't automatically mean anti-male nor does it mean anti-feminine. To some, it may still mean one or both of these things. But for the most part, when I claim feminism, most people yawn and say, "ok" while they think "what else you got?"

Two years ago I wrote a blog post staking my flag in the feminist world and while I still agree with most of what I wrote, I have become a lot less sure of what others think and more confident in what I think. Funny how that works: you get older, you learn more, you claim to know less.

On International Women's Day, this is what I believe: Women are divine. Men are divine. Individuals are divine. There is no one gender greater nor one lesser. I am grateful for the feminine qualities that I have and for those parts of me that may be deemed "masculine" just as I am grateful for both characteristics in my husband.

There is no one right way to be a woman. I take that back. The right way to be a woman is to BE A WOMAN. To be confident that you are worthy and valuable. In the end, I hope my daughter feels worthy and declares her worth. I hope my sons feel worthy and proclaim their worth.

Might I leave you with this feminist thought that I posted over on my @thingsaretheworst Instagram account today?

To celebrate women today, I plan on telling all the women I see how incredible and valuable they are. Maybe smile and knowingly wink (although I can't wink for beans). I hope today that you know YOUR worth. We can be UNSTOPPABLE.

a

New Mom Monday, Seven, Modern Mother Needs

I have a little secret for you.

Are you ready to hear it?

*laughs huskily*

Come a little closer so I can whisper it into your ear.

I sssstill have all my wisssssdom teeeeeth.

Luckily for me, I was born during the era of modern medicine, so when my last wisdom tooth starts cutting through and I get a little bacterial infection, I don’t have to wait until it spreads into my brain and I die. I ask my sister to watch the baby and go pamper myself at the dentist for a couple of hours, where everyone asks me how I’m feeling and seems very concerned about my well-being. I might even stop by the grocery store on the way home if I’m feeling especially indulgent. What a time to be alive.

It got me to thinking, I am so lucky to be a millennial mother, and not just because my physical deficiencies and deformities require teams of contemporary doctors to keep me alive. I know what you’re thinking -- what about all the pressure of being a modern parent? Don’t you feel so much pressure? Nope. I think I would feel more pressure if I was expected to use an actual pressure cooker and can all my own food, iron the bed sheets, cook multiple courses, or sew all my baby’s clothes just to have her ruin them with her neon alien poop. Being a mom seems like it used to be so much harder.

Do you remember when you were growing up how people would just stop by? Or how when you got the mail or a package you would have to answer the door? You literally had to have clothes on all the time. When people come over to my home, it is carefully planned in advance via text message (phone anxiety!) and I spend hours choosing which of my three outfits I’m going to wear. I scrub the toilets and wipe the mirrors, maybe light a candle, but I usually don’t mop because mopping is a waste of time.

A lot of moms get overwhelmed by the internet and social media, but let’s all just take a deep breath and try to be a little more appreciative, a little more centered, like I am. Let’s just let go of the imaginary pressure we put on ourselves to post every little thing with perfect lighting.

Okay now that we have taken care of you and your feelings, let’s get back to me. I am getting my wisdom teeth extracted next week, and I’m not sure how to go about it. In your experience, on a scale of 1-10, how willing is your dental office to change the light bulbs in your procedure room to something more flattering, 1 being “ignoring your voice mails” and 10 being “also volunteering to take photos from angles that hide your jowls while you’re unconscious”? Mine is at a 2 and I’m considering finding another doctor who better understands a modern mother’s needs.

Libbie Henrie is a new mother and really smart gal. You should believe everything she writes, especially the super sarcastic parts. She lives in Arizona with her husband and newborn baby. You can read more of her musings on her blog and follow her baby wearing adventures on Instagram @sweetcheeksbabywearing

Birthday bike

This isn't one of those parenting blog posts that tell you how wise I am and what you could learn from my experience. Not this time, at least. It's also not a sponsored post showing you something awesome that I have and you should buy so that you, too, can be awesome like me. I'm sure you're already as awesome as I am. This is a blog post that asks for YOUR expertise and experience for a small problem/question I have.

This is my son, Johnny.

He is going to be 12 next week (oh how does that happen? it goes so fast, I kid you not) and he is seriously one of the greatest individuals who has ever lived. Let me paint you a quick pic of Johnny:

Every morning he is the first one awake in our house; he practices the piano, takes the dog out for potty, wakes his little brothers up. He makes his own lunch for school and often makes his 6yo brother's lunch, too. His mother is lazy, it seems. He never wants to be late for anything, but especially school, his teachers love him, he is a kind kid, he always asks if he can help me with anything. If ever I need something from the storage room, I ask Johnny and he will get it right away. He brings in the garbage cans without being asked. He loves making dinner and cookies and any food that I let him make. As I am writing this, he is on the other side of the kitchen island, peeling potatoes so he can use the spiralizer to make us fries and omelets for dinner. Johnny has his difficult moments and frustrating times, but I am quite certain he is one of the good ones and I am just lucky to have a chance to spend so much time with him during his life.

Because he is such a good and easy kid, sometimes it is easy to not worry about him. Especially during special events and celebrations. He always gets great test scores, so we expect it from him. When his brother gets a good score, we do back handsprings and bake a cake to celebrate. For Johnny's birthday next week, he has asked for new pants because his are getting too small and worn (mother of the year, anyone?), a ski helmet because his is too small, and maybe some gum would be fun, he says. So, I will get him a pack of gum at Costco and take him to buy some pants. The ski helmet can wait until next season (heaven knows his head could grow over the summer... right?).

Then this afternoon we were outside getting the bikes ready for spring riding. Johnny pulls out the bike he got for free from a neighbor and the valves on the tires are all wonky. We try to get the pump on them and the tire completely busts. Guys, this thing is kind of an old piece of junk. But Johnny loves to ride bikes so he doesn't care, so long as it rides. He asks if we can take it to the bike store to fix the tire and that he even has some money to get the repair. I tell him that I will go look online for some nearby shops and see what I can find out. But really, I think, "Johnny should have a new bike for his birthday. If anyone would take care of a bike and treat it well, it's this kid."

So for the last two hours I have been scouring articles and websites looking for a good bike that can last him a few solid years before he gets too tall and needs a new one. So it should be affordable, too, since I know it won't be his forever bike. I would love something sturdy and cool, because he's super cool. I love brands that are small and need some recognition and support. I also love if they are easy to repair and service. Because I've never bought this kid a new bike, I am at a complete loss of what to get. That's where you come in. Tell me what bike is worthy of this kid (and that I can afford--hehehehe... heh!) that you have loved/currently love. Share with us some of the lesser-known companies that need some support and eyes on them. Tag your friends who are bike gurus. Because I am sure I am not the only mom with a ridiculously good-looking and deserving kid who needs a kick-A bike.

TIA, yo.

So you wanna be featured?

I am still overwhelmed by all the support and shares with @kidsaretheworst. When I first had the idea to start an Instagram account that showed the "less desirable" side of parenting in a fun way, I had hoped that parents would find the account, have a good laugh, and not feel so alone. I had no idea that it would grow and be shared as it has. Thank you for being a part of it. Big kisses to YOU!

There are a few things I have learned as the account has grown that I didn't understand before and I wanted to share them with all of you that reach out to me, share photos and videos and want to have your account/photos featured on @kidsaretheworst.

1. I am only able to see 100 of the most recent actions associated with my account. So when you @ me on a photo or in a message, if I am not on Instagram at that moment and checking the updates, I won't be able to see your message. These recent actions include likes, new follows, and all comments left on all posts. Sometimes 100 actions happen within a minute. If you have mentioned "@kidsaretheworst" and I haven't responded, this is why. There is a huge chance that I never saw it.
2. Many people write #kidsaretheworst wrong. It happens to the best of us. Hashtags are hard to write because the spellcheck will always say it is wrong and words look funny anyway when jumbled together. One easy way to make sure it is spelled right--if you want to add the hashtag to be found--is to click on the hashtag in a @kidsaretheworst post. Then Instagram notes that you have interest in this specific hashtag and will autofill it as you type. Boom!
3. If you have a private account, there is a 75% chance I cannot see your direct messages. For a while, I was messaging people back saying, "Darn, I can't see your message. Can you resend it or email it to me?" But frankly, aint nobody got time for that. Also, if you're private, there is a 100% chance that I cannot see anything on your account if you @ or # kidsaretheworst. (wink wink)
4. Tagging OLD PHOTOS on Instagram will most likely not been seen. I see them in order of date posted, most recent first. So, if I start seeing familiar photos on the hashtag, I stop looking. If you have an old photo that you'd like to be considered for featuring, please email or direct message. Mwah!
5. Sending videos is also difficult via Instagram's direct message. I don't know why this is, but it is a bizarre occurrence for me that I can receive photos from someone and then not videos via DM. Email them to me (address below) or #kidsaretheworst for best visibility.
6. Please know that once you send me photos and videos, whether via email, DM, or #, that you are giving me the rights to repost and caption your photos. Unfortunately, photos get "stolen" off my page and reused without your rights. It is stupid, for sure. But, please be aware that you are taking the chance of not being appropriately credited once I post it. This is why I put the @kidsaretheworst symbol on all photos that come from followers, so it can always be traced back to the original owner. If I do post your photo, it will have @kidsaretheworst written on it.
7. I can't post all the photos and videos I get. Love me anyway, ok? You would be surprised how many submissions that I get everyday. Often it is of the same type of thing that I recently posted. I try to post a variety of scenarios, because I think even I would tire of seeing diaper blowouts ten days in a row.
8. The best-looking photos and the most obvious will be featured the most often. If your photo is too dark or blurry or takes too long to understand what is going on, the chance of being featured is lessened. People will look for about 1.2 seconds at a photo. If they don't see what is so funny or cute in that amount of time... DONE. So, take a clear, well-lit, obvious photo for a greater chance of being featured.
9. I can't share your company, product, sister's custom pillow cases, blog, party, cause. As much as I would love to (and as much as I appreciate when people share for me), it would not be possible to share everyone who asks me to share. Once in a while I do find companies that make sense to partner with or who are an obvious fit with @kidsaretheworst. And to be fair to everyone, I have to be extremely picky. Please understand that I am rooting for you and your sister's companies. Legit. I hope everyone can find a good audience and success. I would love to chat and see if your brand works well with mine. Thanks for understanding.

Any other questions? Please ask me. Write them in the comments or email me at kidsaretheworstest@gmail.com. That's also where you can send videos and photos if you are private. Please add the name of your Instagram account in the email so I can give you proper credit.

Is there anything that you would love to see on the website here? Let me know? Know of anyone who would love to write a weekly feature on the blog? Have them email me. Are you following us on Facebook? So many questions, Anna!!

Thanks for reading all the way down. I can't wait to see what you can share with all of us. You're rad.

New Mom Monday, Six, Breastfeeding

I would like to take a break from all the controversial topics I’ve been posting about and share my views on breastfeeding. More specifically, breastfeeding in public, which is not as interesting or divisive a topic, but I hope you’ll keep reading.

I had never thought I would breastfeed until I got pregnant, and I thought it would be a fun little thing to try, since it’s good for babies and mothers, and I have also seen a lot of celebrities doing it.

Unfortunately for me, my little princess got her laziness and aversion to hard labor from her mother, which coupled with some anatomical issues that I won’t share out of modesty (nipple stuff), made it so hard to breastfeed at the beginning. I had to use a shield in the hospital to nurse, which is a piece of silicone you use both hands to suction onto your breast so that your baby can nurse without having to work very hard. It is almost impossible to do anything that requires both hands with a newborn, but you’re really only supposed to use it for a few days until they get stronger and figure out your weird body; we used it for over three months.

During that time, I couldn’t leave the house unless I thawed a bottle and packed my pump to use in the car, since I wasn’t very comfortable with whipping out my boob and trying to secure the shield and balancing a squirming baby on my lap anywhere but my living room. As you can imagine, the day Winifred stopped needing it to nurse, I felt like a free woman, and I wanted to go out into the world with nothing but a few diapers and a dream, a dream to breastfeed anywhere and everywhere I happened to be when my little fatty got a hankering to eat.

As a mother, every single thing that I do or don’t do makes at least one person so angry they could spit, and I have a feeling where and when I breastfeed may not be any different. All a mother can do is what makes her baby and her most comfortable, and what makes Winifred and me comfortable is not worrying too much about using nursing covers, because we don’t like waiting for our food. We also don’t love warm, confined spaces. However, while I no longer feel any embarrassment at the thought of strangers seeing whichever of my body parts they please, I do try to be very conscious that most people absolutely do not please. A nice loose-fitting top is easy to lift up and drop down in a pinch, and a dressing room makes a quiet, private place to let it all hang out.

Any sort of success in a dressing room is a nice change of pace for me.

I try to be respectful of others, and luckily, most people are respectful in return. The closest thing I’ve gotten to a dirty look was an older Asian woman who sternly turned the other way when I sat down in the mother’s lounge at Nordstrom and asked if it would be alright to nurse there. She missed out if you ask me!

I don’t think that breastfeeding is something shameful or to be hidden, but I’m not under any delusions that flashing strangers is going to change the world, or make anyone who hates the idea of women using their goods to feed their babies suddenly okay with it. I’m not willing to add any more layers to my sweaty body, but I’m probably not going to nurse over a plate of chili fries like a soft, pasty Maggie Gyllenhaal. Unless I’m nursing when someone finally buys me a plate of chili fries--that’s an opportunity I would never pass up.

What about you, dear reader? How did you figure out what you were comfortable revealing to the masses, and how long did it take you to get the courage to do it? Or do you think the idea of worrying about it at all is silly? Or do you think nursing moms should stay at home until their kids are in college? So many questions!

Libbie Henrie is a new mother and really smart gal. You should believe everything she writes, especially the super sarcastic parts. She lives in Arizona with her husband and newborn baby. You can read more of her musings on her blog and follow her baby wearing adventures on Instagram @sweetcheeksbabywearing

New Mom Monday, Five

Who has two dimply thumbs and turned six months old this week?

This girl!

That's right, half a year, baby!

To celebrate, I performed an ancient ritual that one only learns about when one becomes a mother, and I won't ruin the surprise but it involves of eating half a vegan pizza with non-vegan pepperoni under the half-moon while half-dressed and half-awake in front of a TV series you're halfway through, and no it can't be Friends, and then you pick up your crying half-swaddled baby and get yourself to bed for a full night’s rest (though that last part is traditionally handled by the husband).

I thought about making a half-cake, ‘cause I'm just one of those fun moms who does ca-RAZY stuff like that! But I didn't okay, and to tell you the truth I’m not very keen on all the judging going on here.

This is my favorite age so far, when they're big enough to play by themselves while you finally get around to wiping the toothpaste off your husband’s bathroom mirror, but not big enough to crawl or walk or tell you that you need to put on pants already. If you would have told me five-and-a-half months ago how much fun she would be, I would have told you that's not helpful. You want to be helpful? Hold the baby for like fifteen minutes without telling me she's hungry again so I can wash my hair. That's helpful. My husband and I are very happy.

One of the best things about being a mom is watching your kids become their own little people, especially when they are turning out to be funnier, smarter, kinder versions of yourself, plus a few quirks of their own for good measure. The other morning she started covering her face with the bed sheet, then when my husband or I say, “Where’s Winifred? Have you seen Winifred?” she pulls the sheet off and jerks her head around to stare into your soul, then without looking away, slowly creeps the sheet back over her face. Calling it peek-a-boo implies there is a joyfulness to this “game,” but it is more of a serious exercise than anything else -- I think she may be trying to overcome her greatest fear of her face being trapped under a blanket, but her infantile parents keep disrupting her efforts. You would think playing with a giggling baby is more enjoyable, but actually playing with an annoyed baby giving major side-eye is the highlight of my day.

As a mother, I’ve learned to love someone more for what they are than what I expected them to be. I'm just so much better than the person I was before I started this motherhood gig… you know career might be a better word for it? Well maybe calling describes it better. It's definitely a calling. Having this baby and this calling has made me a much, much better person, a person free from all the negativity and unhappiness that comes from disappointment in others.

I just hope my husband doesn't expect the same treatment.

Libbie Henrie is a new mother and really smart gal. You should believe everything she writes, especially the super sarcastic parts. She lives in Arizona with her husband and newborn baby. You can read more of her musings on her blog and follow her baby wearing adventures on Instagram @sweetcheeksbabywearing

Random Acts of Kindness

Today is National Random Act of Kindness Day, or so the National Day Alert account that I follow on Instagram tells me. It seems a bit more worthwhile of a day than celebrating National Cabbage Day, which is also today. Then again, those Cabbage Patch Kids didn't fall from the sky.

Because I like to stress myself out, I started thinking of all of the grand things I could do to celebrate Random Acts of Kindness today. I could make large poster signs and hang them all over the city. I could bake up a bunch of cookies and deliver them to all of my neighbors. Maybe I should stand at a busy street corner and hand out free hugs and suckers.

Then I remembered, I'm busy. Not in the "I'm too busy for kindness" way, but more in the "I'm busy giving random kindness to my kids and spouse in between all of the other things I do every day" way.  Maybe as a parent, we don't give ourselves enough credit for all of the times we were exceptionally kind when we could have been exceptionally justified in exasperation. Today I am going to give myself some kindness--quite randomly, since I didn't think about it until now--by realizing that I am doing a decent, maybe even a good, job at this child-raising business.

Why, just this week, I:

• Didn't lose my cool when the kids asked what was for dinner, and when I told them, they loudly moaned and said, "Not again!"
• Let my kids keep the pillow and blanket fort up in the family room one day longer than we agreed, even though it looks like a disaster.
• Took my kids skiing, and didn't yell "LIKEWISE" when the little ones berated me from their frustration by yelling (quite often), "I hate you, Mom!" I even kept my voice calm, knowing that they didn't mean it, but they don't quite possess the language skills to express frustration yet. (We had a talk about it later, don't you worry.)
• Picked up the kids' towels after the shower instead of yelling outside for them to come do it.
• Told an extra story at bedtime, even though the call of my own bed was so enticing.
• Laughed at their jokes, gave hugs when they were overreacting, expressed how much I love them, encouraged their schoolwork, patted their bums on the way to school.
• Let them make their own breakfasts. I'm also randomly teaching self-reliance!
• Shared my Valentine's candy with them. (This is huge, by the way.)
• Listened to their school stories.
• Made banana muffins.
• Said I was sorry when I did lose my cool.

I still might go and pay for someone's soda--randomly, of course--when I go get my own fill of caffeine today. But for the most part, I know random acts of kindness are happening every day. They aren't huge or celebrated or Instagram-photo-worthy, but hopefully they are helping to create better humans out of my children and a better human of me.

a

New Mom Monday, Four

Hair, hair everywhere, clogging up my sink.

Why didn't anyone tell me about this? And by that I mean why did literally everyone tell me about this but I didn't want to listen so I intentionally forgot about it until I started finding clumps of hair under my boobs? Why did I not heed their warnings of reaching down to touch the baby in the middle of the night only to brush handfuls of hair off her belly?

Once upon a time I was perusing a message board after Googling “baby cries all afternoon all night,” and a few people mentioned to check baby’s toes and fingers in case a hair was wrapped around one of them, since this can cut of their circulation until their little thumb turns blue and falls onto the floor. Since then I have obsessively checked her hands and feet every couple of hours or so, and I'm often horrified to find multiple hairs webbed in and around most of her body parts, especially her soft neck and ankle rolls.

I guess they say women only lose whatever hair they didn't lose during pregnancy, but I don't remember ever having to comb parts of my hair over parts of my head (they should really come up with a name for that) and still ending up with it looking so flat, frizzy and tired. I miss the days of my hair looking a little gross after not washing it for a couple of days, and not like a discount Weird Al.

I hope someday we find whatever group of men sat around and decided to start telling this lie to calm their hormonal wives, then pin them down and shave their heads in two small spots just above their temples, just for fun.

Libbie Henrie is a new mother and really smart gal. You should believe everything she writes, especially the super sarcastic parts. She lives in Arizona with her husband and newborn baby. You can read more of her musings on her blog and follow her baby wearing adventures on Instagram @sweetcheeksbabywearing

New Mom Monday, Three

Sleep.

Sleeeeeeep.

If you don’t have kids you are probably tired (get it? haha) of hearing us parents talk about sleep. While I don’t want to fall into the parent trap of constantly rambling on about things that no one else cares about, I’m here to talk about it just a little bit more.

Recently, my darling Winifred has been sleeping for stretches of three or even four hours at a time at night, and I want to thank the Academy and anyone else listening for this wonderful turn of events. She is even at the point where I can usually put her in her crib, walk away, and she just goes to sleep. I’m starting to wonder if she has switched places with a twin I don’t know about.

It’s true, my extremely gifted child has figured out the most highest of baby talents, and yet, I keep messing it up—just my luck!

This past week alone, I have completely ruined three sacred sleep sessions:

Tuesday, 1:47 PM

I killed a cockroach, NO BIG DEAL. I’m not afraid of cockroaches—I like to let them hang out a while after I’ve smashed them with one of my husband’s shoes (certainly not one of mine!) before I pick them up—I AM NOT AFRAID OF COCKROACHES. I bent over to scrape it up with a credit card offer envelope roughly five hours later after I laid the baby down, and as soon as the corner touched its mangled body, it flipped over and ran across the room with the few legs it had left. I chased it around with a broom, trying to hit it with the bristles and letting out a short, high scream every time I missed, like a group of girls who are the victims of a rival bunk’s hijinx at summer camp. No naps were had that day.

Tuesday, 7:30 PM

Sometimes I like to leave the house without my baby, and the universe usually likes to punish me for this. I left her with my husband one evening, who took her on a “little ride” to “get a drink” before “putting her to bed.” Well his car must have had a mind of its own, because an hour later I came home to an empty house! An hour after that, they walked in the door from shopping the Dillard’s sale, at the mall, and she was wide awake, staring at me with her lovely, scary (1980’s) Elizabeth Taylor eyes. This one wasn’t really my fault, except of course it was, because I’m the mom.

Thursday, 7:34 PM

Every night I make sure to lay the baby down the opposite way from the night before, so that her head doesn’t become misshapen and then she can’t move to Manhattan and become a carefree socialite, as is her destiny. The other night, I reached down to pat my restless baby’s foot in an attempt to comfort her and recoiled in horror as my hand touched her warm, wet mouth. I accidentally freaked out and shrieked, then had to spend the next 20 minutes rocking and convincing her she was still beautiful and could go back to sleep.

While I’m still pretty clumsy at figuring this whole sleep thing out, I’ve got to say that having a baby that finally sleeps on her own is, to use a term I have been over-using lately as a new mom, life-changing. I have walked her around in her baby wrap during naps; I have gone to bed at 8pm so that she would go to bed at 8pm; I have read the sleep books; I have read the message boards saying not to listen to the sleep books; I have wrung my hands in pathetic conversations with my not-listening husband about our baby’s sleep; I have lost sleep thinking about her not sleeping; and while I’d like to think that all that time and energy has paid off, the reality is that she decided she was ready to do something so she started doing it.

I hope that’s just a baby thing!

Libbie Henrie is a new mother and really smart gal. You should believe everything she writes, especially the super sarcastic parts. She lives in Arizona with her husband and newborn baby. You can read more of her musings on her blog and follow her baby wearing adventures on Instagram @sweetcheeksbabywearing

Slamming Doors

What’s with the slamming? This is how I know that I am getting old: I notice that everyone is slamming everything all the slam time. 

Our cars are no longer giant jalopies that need our force to get those doors shut. They shut pretty easily by their own design, we just need to nudge them a bit. Same goes for the little compartments in our cars—the console, the glovebox, and the little cupholders that fold away when not in use. I promise, they are meant to open and close with very little effort. You don’t need to put your weight into closing them.

The front door does not need to be slammed. "Shut the front door" is not just an idiom said to be humorous; it's also something that one can easily do, especially to keep the house free of flies and the temperature comfortable. The back door can close pretty well, too, without extra pressure. I live in a home that is nearly a century old and the doors still close without needing to be slammed.

Oh, and the bedroom doors! Don’t even shut them, kids. Unless you need a moment of privacy while you change clothes or if you are wrapping a surprise present to your mother. Otherwise, keep them open and I am telling you, if you slam your bedroom door, you will hear from me. Loudly. Until you pay for a house and all of the doors in it, you are not allowed to slam the doors. And frankly, “your” room is totally on loan. It’s my room. It’s your father’s room. It is a great space where you can have some privacy, hold your stuff, and sleep, but you don’t get carte blanche in this borrowed space. It’s not really yours, so show a little gratitude that we gave you a space and keep it clean-ish, respect the door rules, and do not roll your eyes when I walk in. 

Don’t slam the refrigerator door, either. It’s an amazing machine, the refrigerator. It keeps our food COLD. Does that even impress you as much as it impresses me? There is a giant box in our home that keeps our food at a temperature (two, sometimes three separate temperatures) so we can avoid spoilage and keep even more food at the ready to eat. It is freaking amazing. Don’t slam the amazing doors that keep so much deliciousness chilled. 

Same goes for the oven, the microwave, the dishwasher, the washer and the dryer. These are incredible machines that will be hellacious to replace if broken. Trust me when I say that you do not want to see your mother react to a broken appliance door. It’s not going to be pretty. Respect the remarkable machinery.

Stop slamming each other into the ground, on the couch, on my bed… all this wrestling is getting out of hand. I know that there is snow on the ground outside, so when I say, “Take it outside” that means you would need to put on all of your snow clothes and you don’t wanna. I get it. But please get that I don’t wanna deal with the broken home that comes when two of you get together for some slammer time. MC Slammer has left the building. Just Stop! (no slammer time)

I have an idea: go read a book! That's the only kind of slamming I don't mind—the slamming shut of a book once finished. I know how that feels good to do, whether you loved it or hated it or wish it never had ended. Slamming a good book shut is so rewarding... and relatively quiet. Sigh, if you must, or cry, if it suits you. Just go read and keep the doors open!

90's music, aka what was on the radio "ten years ago"

I was trying to come up with a rap for The Tonight Show’s Twitter hashtag game #SuperBowlRaps. I had to dig deep into my history of rap knowledge and went to where rap feels comfortable for me: The Beastie Boys. In high school, I loved the Beastie Boys. Even still when I say “The sun was beating down on my baseball hat” I enunciate “hat” with all the toughness I can muster. 

So I was sitting at my kitchen table after the boys were all in bed and muttering some lyrics when my teenage daughter called out of her room (said in the most typical teenage voice), “What are you doing?” 

“I’m just rapping.”

She came out of her room at this point, incredulously and amusingly watching me rap under my breath as I tried out some Super Bowl versions of Sabotage, No Sleep ’Til Brooklyn, and Paul Revere. 

She wasn’t that impressed. And it is my duty, as her mother, to impress her of my music and rap knowledge. I had to show her that I was not too unlike her, once upon a time. I played a few Beastie Boys songs for her on youtube, as I rapped and danced along. She thought the music videos of the 1990s were ridiculous. I told her that in the 90’s music videos were as important as the songs. Sometimes more important. 

During the next forty minutes I schooled her in some of my favorite songs of the 90’s. She told me that Pearl Jam sounded like country music and I told her that she should never say such things in my presence again. (I may have spit on the ground and turned in a circle a few times so that our home would not be cursed with such heresy.) She didn’t find Blind Melon’s No Rain video as charming as I thought it was. She liked Garbage as we discussed the coolness and vocal abilities of Shirley Manson, and we mused about Courtney Love and if Hole would have been as popular without her connection to Nirvana. 

My daughter has chatted with my husband for hours discussing classic rock—of which he is very knowledgable and a fan. This was the first time she and I have discussed “my” music for more than five minutes (she isn’t ready for 80’s synth pop). I told her that I would make her a playlist of 90’s music (do people make playlists and CDs anymore?) and as I was making it, I couldn’t believe how old some of these songs are. It’s weird, because I’m not old, but the music is. Bizarre. 

Here is my list:

No Doubt — Sunday Morning
Live — Lightening Crashes
Pearl Jam — Even Flow
Garbage — Only Happy When It Rains
Beastie Boys — Paul Revere
Hole — Celebrity Skin
Blind Melon — No Rain
The Fugees — Killing Me Softly
Weezer — The Sweater Song
Sinead O’Connor — Nothing Compares 2 U
Smashing Pumpkins — Tonight, Tonight
Alanis Morissette — Hand in My Pocket

No Britney, no Spice Girls, no Madonna or N’Sync, no Backstreet Boys, not a lot of pop songs, I know. Their music and songs are all a blur in my mind—I couldn’t tell you much more about them other than they were super popular and I heard them a lot. But the music, bands and artists on my list take me RIGHT BACK to the 1990s. Listening to those songs, I can tell you the shirts I was wearing, the Doc Martens I (wish I still) had, the boys’ names I’d write next to mine all over my folder, the JanSport backpack I wore… on one shoulder. These songs ARE the 90s for me. And the kicker is, I still like them. If my daughter were to like them, too, I’d be stoked if she played them incessantly in our family room. I don’t feel the same way about “Hit Me Baby One More Time.”

As for my #SuperBowlRap, well I started writing this instead. As far as I got in that one was:
“Super Bowl 50 I be, All by myself without nobody
Watching the game in my football hat
The food is supa hot, the tv screen is flat”

It’s so literal it hurts. Back to the music for me.

What would you add to that list? What kind of music did you listen to in high school and college? I started listening to 70’s Super Groups in college and that needs to be saved for an entirely different night talking with my teenager... and another playlist.

How To Valentine's Day Like a Boss

Let's be honest for a minute, Valentine's Day is weird. 

It is so weird. And I love holidays. I decorate, celebrate, commiserate, mediate, alleviate, try not to hate... all that. I put up the hearts, I fill the candy jars with conversation hearts, cinnamon lips, and mini sour hearts. It's always been a little uncomfortable, though, how we feel pressured to go out, buy cheesy gifts, and/or feel sorry for ourselves if we don't. When you have kids--especially those in grade school--Valentine's Day is all about making amazing cards for all their classmates, special boxes in which to hold them (our school even has a Valentine box competition!), class parties, and so much sugar that you consider banning all sweets for the next month or three.

It might be weird, but it's kind of cute for the kids. FOR THE KIDS! I have compiled a few different lists of cards, boxes, party ideas, and non-sugar-related items for your kids' best Valentine's Day ever. And if your kids are happy, YOU are happy. Especially when you have to do little work and research. It's all here.

Delicious Valentines

Love Bugs
You're All That... and a bag of chips
Funny punny sweets
All the fish in the sea
Off the hook worms

Valentine Boxes

Hot Air Balloon Box
Slam Dunk Basketball Box
Ruffled Cake Box
A great page dedicated to Valentines boxes

Valentine Parties

I know there are a lot of ideas, but THIS BINGO set is amazing. My family played it last night and everyone was having a blast. It's adorable, it's smart, it's ready to go. Huge recommend.

Check out this Valentines Pinterest page for more ideas for classroom parties.

Non-Food Valentines

Will Zoo Be Mine
Love is a Battlefield
Bouncy ball Valentines
Blow Me a Kiss Whistles

Or you can just forget all that and buy bags of M&Ms and watch a good chick flick. Yeah, do that!

New Mom Monday, Two

This week we finally took our Christmas tree down, an end-of-January tradition in our lazy, always-in-denial-that-the-holidays-are-over home.

It makes me sad every year, mostly because the end of the holidays means the end of winter, the start of spring, and eventually the hot, hot heat of an Arizona summer, but this year it also felt like the end of a very unexpectedly hard chapter in our family’s life.

I took down our animal ornaments and remembered when I took each one out of its box, which feels like it was both forever ago and just the other day, showing them to Winifred while trying to distract her from the annoyance of having two tiny teeth that would not just pop through already.

“This is a zebra! He is like a horse but with fun stripes! We are having fun!”

I talked to her like she understood everything I said, the way you have to when you are all alone with an infant all day and need to distract yourself from the loneliness and panic of having no idea what you are doing.

“Look at this beautiful giraffe. Mama doesn’t know what noise she makes, but she likes to eat and eat and eat, just like us!”

That tree has been up for more than half her life, and she probably doesn’t remember a time when it wasn’t there in the corner of our living room. She learned to play by herself underneath its branches while I sat on the couch and cried about almost everything, and together we stayed up late learning to breastfeed in its dim light.

I packed the last of the ornaments away while she sat in her swing, throwing her teething ring onto the floor and chewing on her fat fingers--no matter what toys I lovingly shove in her face, her hands seem to be the only things worth her time. It was only last Christmas I found out I was finally pregnant, and now she is getting so tall that her feet are almost spilling out of her swing like a bored, powerful king.

Babies are a lot of work (you heard it here first, people!), but the hard parts are what make us love them, and what make the good parts so much freaking fun.

Libbie Henrie is a new mother and really smart gal. You should believe everything she writes, especially the super sarcastic parts. She lives in Arizona with her husband and newborn baby. You can read more of her musings on her blog and follow her baby wearing adventures on Instagram @sweetcheeksbabywearing

The Infertile Mormon

by Belinda S. Han, MA

My name is Belinda, I am the oldest of five manly brothers and one very feminine, blonde haired, blue eyed sister (she has such a sensitive disposition that she cannot even handle moths). I have been married to a not-so-tall, but very dark, handsome, and strong man for nearly a decade. I have been blessed with a good education and meaningful work, I am a religious person, I have two of the most rambunctious and loving miniature dachshunds ever created, and (drumroll please)… I am childless. There is a difference between being childless and child-free. When a person is child-free he or she has chosen not to have children. When a person is childless he or she is unable to have children. Like in many conservative faiths, family and children are at the center of my religious culture. A few months ago I came across an article with an intriguing title: 5 Things Couples Dealing With Infertility in Your Ward (LDS Congregation) Wish You Knew. The title immediately caught my eye and I was excited to read it.

Here are the highlights:

1. Never talk about children, motherhood, or anything else child related; you could offend those who are childless.
2. Childless people want to feel like a martyrs, so make sure you always recognize his or her childless-ness.
3. Always assume that speaking about children with a childless person is a painful topic (refer back to #1).
4. Don’t ever be real about your parenting struggles and/or triumphs with a person that is childless; he or she might get offended (again, refer back to #1).
5. Do not ever, I mean EVER share your feelings about how important and meaningful motherhood and/or fatherhood is (and, once again, refer back to #1). 

I was completely flabbergasted to read such a condemning article. In fact, I’m pretty sure this is one of the dumbest articles that I've ever read. Can you imagine having to hide who you are because someone who is different from you might get offended? This is like not sharing a delicious Ancho Chicken Taco with Cilantro Slaw and Avocado Cream recipe because there could be someone out there who is allergic to ancho chile and you might eternally damage their self-worth by saying how delicious this recipe is (by the way, this recipe looks AMAZING!!! You can thank me later for the link). I get that a human life and food are two very different things, but think about it.

Those of you that have children, do you ever have those fleeting moments where you see someone like me and have a twinge of jealousy because I get to go to the bathroom alone, or I get to go grocery shopping alone? But in the end you would NEVER trade your life for mine? Well, it's the same way for some of us that cannot have children. We have those moments of jealousy watching you get baby snuggles and being called mom or dad. But in the end, WE ARE HAPPY WITH THE BEAUTIFUL LIVES THE LORD HAS GIVEN US! I cannot tell you the joy I feel when a good friend whispers in my ear that he or she is expecting, when I see the miracle of a glowing woman with a round belly, read the thrilled social media post when that four month appointment comes and the doctor tells the prospective parents the gender of their little wonder, the dozens of pictures of the birth day, the announcement of the little one’s name, weight, and length, the month by month play of the child’s first year, the painful Lego moments and first days of school, the potty training triumphs and frustrations, the heartbreaks and joys of children growing up and becoming independent thinkers, and the list goes on. My life is completed by the diverse experiences of those whom I choose to surround myself with, and I hope I do the same for those who choose to allow me to surround them. 

So, DO NOT stubble awkwardly when you speak about your life, children and all. Be proud of who you are and what you have! Speak freely. Ask me how many kids I have, and when I say none don't look at me with pity or like I'm suffering. God has a plan for each of us. We each have a specific role to fill. My role is different than yours, this is how God intended it, and I thank God each day for the beautiful and miraculous life he has given me.

And the next time you walk past me with one of your adorable children and/or an Ancho Chicken Taco, hold tight to BOTH as I may be inclined to do a little neighborly “borrowing.”

Belinda grew up in San Diego, California as the oldest of 7 children (5 brothers and 1 sister). She moved to a small town in Utah while in high school and has never looked back. She received a Bachelor’s degree in Behavioral Science from Utah Valley University (UVU), a Master’s degree in Organizational Leadership from Gonzaga University, and is completing a Doctorate of Education in Interdisciplinary Leadership at Creighton University. Belinda is the Director of the internationally recognized Center for the Advancement of Leadership at UVU and an adjunct professor in the Woodbury School of Business and in Student Leadership Success Studies. Over the last several years Belinda has presented at professional conferences around the world including the most recent International Leadership Association Global Conference in Barcelona, Spain. In 2007 she married the handsomest, most charming, and hardworking man ever born. Together they have 23 nieces and nephews and live happily in a small brick home with two fireplaces and their pups, two miniature dachshunds named Doc and Pepper (like Dr. Pepper, Belinda’s favorite drink).

New Mom Monday, Intro

Hi there! My name is Libbie, and this is my daughter Winifred.

As you can tell by the bags under my eyes and the fact that my baby is wearing pajamas at a sushi restaurant, I am a young, hot, young first-time mom, and have been for eleven years... or five months, depending on whom you ask. I finally understand the theory of relativity and can watch Interstellar without having a breakdown.

Just to recap the past few months: the first few weeks were hard but wonderful, breastfeeding and colic sucked, I felt sad and lame, then we hit a rhythm where I was finally feeling better and Winifred was finally getting over feeling abandoned and totally freaking out any time I wasn’t holding her, but then she realized how dumb sleep is and I realized I was going to kill myself with anxiety if I didn’t start to “go with the flow.”

This past week, something completely magical happened. Every time she woke up at night or during the day, I was used to her screaming, “What… what… WHAT… WHAT?!” Then one day she was just like, “Oh dear, I seem to be awake now, how funny! I’ll just lie here and talk to myself for a bit.” My sweet baby went from a cranky, teething mess who spasmed between periods of unpredictable hyperactivity and unreliable sleepiness, to a delightful smiling cherub whose soft cankles sweet old women can’t help but stop and squeeze betwixt their fingers while she tells them all about her day in excited babbly squeals.

No matter how many times we go through these little growth spurts/phases/periods of hell, I keep forgetting this, so I want to have it on record for me and anyone else who needs it to remember: the baby you have this week will be gone the next. It is both comforting and sad. On the one hand, how exciting to watch them grow and play, and what a relief it is to see them learn to cope with everything they can’t do yet, and keep practicing so many new skills in such a short period of time; on the other, once they stop needing you to hold them while they fall asleep, will they ever need you for that again?

I personally have a tendency to get caught up in the stress of whatever difficult thing we are dealing with at the time, and I always feel like it will last forever. When she was first born and before we had her tongue-tie fixed, she would take an hour or two to nurse, so sometimes I would literally be nursing all day and all night. This is too much! I would think, When are we going to get to the part where it doesn’t hurt and I can do other things? How many years am I going to have to spend all day on my couch watching Project Runway re-runs? Now, she gets annoyed if she has nothing to look at but my weird boobs for longer than three minutes, and while she is so much fun and I even have time to brush my ever-thinning hair, I miss that period in our relationship when she was so content just quietly lying there on me for hours (and also, I miss Tim Gunn; what a delightful man).

It almost makes me want to have another baby so I can do it all again with the knowledge that it will end. Almost.

Every Monday, I’ll be chronicling the first year of my baby’s life. It will be short and sweet, I promise, and hopefully not make you want to break into my house, try on my clothes, raid my fridge, make a sandwich, make one for me too please, add avocado, yes I know it’s extra, steal my laptop, and run over it with your car so I can never post again.

Please don’t judge me too much, okay? I mean, a little is fine, but try to at least be nice about it. It’s what we mothers deserve.

Libbie Henrie is a new mother and really smart gal. You should believe everything she writes, especially the super sarcastic parts. She lives in Arizona with her husband and newborn baby. You can read more of her musings on her blog and follow her baby wearing adventures on Instagram @sweetcheeksbabywearing