31 Going On 13

 Unsolicited advice is pretty much the only advice I ever receive.

I suffer from an unfortunate social disease that prevents me from doing anything to make anyone else feel uncomfortable, despite how awkward I might feel. At a bar, on public transportation, in an alcohol fueled family discussion I make eye contact with the craziest one and then boom! I become the one to whom the crazy latch on and there I stand, stuck in a one sided conversation that involves the individual passionately telling me something outlandish while I smile and nod my head enthusiastically and hope that someone, anyone, will step in and save me. Hours later I attempt escape with a meek excuse about needing to use the restroom or find my husband or turn into a pumpkin and tiptoe away hoping not to upset anyone.

I do this when faced with the good intentions of an unsolicited advice giver as well. If I ever thought that I was the victim of drive by tips before, I had no idea how often I would be hit by the semi truck of parenting two cents until I had my little baby terrorist. There was the lady who pulled over on the side of the road while I was walking the dog and the baby in our neighborhood just to inform me that she really thought the baby could use a hat. There are the people that tell you Tylenol is terrible, sleeping with your baby is dangerous, sleeping with your baby builds confidence, teething tablets are questionable, teething tablets are life savers, pacifiers cause nipple confusion but if your baby is crying then a pacifier is a perfectly acceptable solution, and the list of conflicting information goes on and on. I try to act interested, nodding as though grateful for the slew of unwanted and frankly confusing words of wisdom that enter one ear and graciously exit the other. 

But when one of my parental units call with opinions on how to raise the baby, I crawl back into my 13 year old self, fold my arms and stick out my tongue. Whatever, Dad, I'm not listening! Later I am going to call my best friend and talk about how I have the meanest parents in the world and you had better believe that my diary entry tonight is going to go a little something like this:

Dear Diary,

My dad is sooo mean! He doesn't understand anything. He thinks that just because he's older than me and has raised two babies he wrote the baby handbook. I am so not speaking to him for the rest of my life but I really hope he babysits next weekend so I can go out with my friends. 

Oh and Jay said he thinks I'm cute! I love him soooo much. Hearts hearts doodle doodle.

Babbling Brooke

So there I was, 31 going on 13 as I listened to my dad's good intentioned but completely gratuitous counsel. As you all know by now, I am the mother of a baby terrorist. Currently, her terror tactic of choice is sleep deprivation. At 4 1/2 moths old, we still had her sleeping in a bassinet by our bed. Call me crazy, but I  have a difficult time letting her cry it out when she wakes up five hundred thousand times a night. My dad was of the opinion that I was letting the baby terrorist win and to an extent, perhaps I was. But I am clearly still a rebellious teenager though my wrinkles call my bluff when my dad tells me what to do.

I made my usual arguments in between crying, stomping my feet and putting my fingers in my ears, yelling "I can't HEAR you!" at the top of my lungs. Why let her cry it out when I am going to be awake either way? I can either wake up and help put her back to sleep or I can listen to her cry while laying in bed wide awake and feeling like a total failure. I'm tired and cranky either way, but the latter method also leaves me feeling like a complete jerk. Why fight with the baby? Why walk down the hall to her bedroom when I can just roll over and get her out of her bassinet?

My dad, as he has done since the beginning of my smart ass teenage years, listened to me rant and then boom! hit me with his best shot. 

"Sweetheart," he began. God, I hate that. He always starts out nicely before he knocks me down from my high horse. "Maybe it's time you start learning to be a parent."

Oh snap! No he didn't! 

As I furiously stewed for the next few hours, I began thinking about the parenting advice we receive from our own parents. It seems as though now that they have raised us into adult hood and we seem to be doing okay, their memories of child rearing is vastly different from what actually happened. They become the baby whisperers, the masters of sleep training, hearts hardened against the agonizing sound of baby cries. They forget about the daily decisions you struggle to make, hoping each time that your choices are the right ones for your child. As I revert back into the role of a petulant teenager rebuking any suggestions my parents make, and as I face new challenges the baby terrorist throws in my direction, I realize that maybe we all slowly forget the tests that seemed insurmountable at the time but now are just a distant memory.

Of course I'm totally going to take his advice. And if it works, I'm totally not going to tell him. But when I look at my baby, asleep in her crib, I know that one day she will be 31 going on 13 and I don't want to know what she told her diary about me.

She's back. With Things to Say.

Well. For a girl who likes to talk as much as I do, especially about myself, I have taken quite the hiatus. Of course, I do have an excuse, one of the "I was with child" variety. This excuse comes in handy for a person such as myself. You know the kind, the ne'er do well, I'll do it tomorrow, ah screw it type. But the fact of the matter remains, I was with child and that made me one hundred percent, no beating around the bush, ridiculously and utterly booooring. Cocktails anyone? Nope, I'm pregnant. Designated driver? Screw you, I'm pregnant. Want to come hang out, eat and watch tv? Since I'm pregnant I will do that in solitude in the privacy of my own home, thank you very much. And therefore, rather than bore you with the completely mundane stories of swollen boobs and an overwhelming desire for Honey Nut Cheerios, I took a break from the blog.

But I'm baaaack, with lots and lots of things to say. Mostly about myself, of course, but I have decided that I am now going treat this blog as an act of public service. You lucky ducks. I am going to tell you the things no one discusses publicly about early parenthood. Don't get me wrong, it's lovely - in a pull out your hair, why am I still fat, sweet Jesus this kid is going to kill me kind of way. I don't mean to offend anyone, but the truth isn't always pretty, my sweets.

Too often we are inundated with Facebook newsfeeds and Instagram shots of smiling babies and skinny mommies with perfect hair and makeup. Posing with their perfect husbands. In their super clean house with their Norman Rockwell painting puppy. I, of course, am totally guilty of that which I disdain. "Look at me!!" my pictures scream. "My baby is totes adorbs and my husband and I get tons of sleep and we are happy happy happy!"

No one has to know that less than 1 shutter click before, my super sweet baby was screaming like a banshee while I frantically struggled to free my five hundred pound boob from my super sexy nursing bra while my husband wrung his hands in complete helplessness asking "what can I do?" What can you do?! There's nothing you can do! This tiny human is going to take all of us down with her! Even the perfect pooch decided to seek refuge in the garage rather than succumb to the mania occurring in her living room. (Which, Coco likes to remind us, was peaceful, serene, and baby free 9 months ago. No judgment.)

Did I mention that this picture was the first time I even attempted hair and makeup in like a week? And it only took me about five hours to pull it all together!

Then, just like that, the screaming subsides, the pooch cautiously ventures out of the garage, and for one beautiful moment we find ourselves in the eye of the storm and click! We get that perfect picture, post it on Facebook, and laugh diabolically. Muahahaha! Those Greenes sure have a charmed life.

I hope you find this funny and relatable.
Don't get me wrong, I am blessed in ways that I couldn't have even imagined possible. But that won't stop me from dishing the dirt.

And talking about myself.

Aren't we so perfect?!
photo courtesy of Audrey Marie Photography

Growing Pains

The other night, while watching my new favorite show Parenthood, I found myself in a conundrum. I no longer related to the rebellious teenagers or to the angst that haunted me well into my twenties. I mean, I get that parents just don’t understand, but I also thought they were acting like little brats. Though I am not a parent myself, I was struck by how much I identified with the adults in the show. Well, this presented me with a terrifying thought – have I, at the ripe old age of 29, finally entered into the realm of adulthood? Say it ain’t so!

It’s odd being in your late twenties. Here I am, staring down the barrel of 30, and yet I don’t feel like an adult. I mean sure, I’m married and pay my own rent. I have a car payment and a professional career. I wear business suits on occasion and flip flops are no longer my go to shoe. I use Quicken to pay our bills and sometimes catch myself discussing new cleaning products that really work with my other “adult” friends. And oh geez, I did catch myself looking just like my mother with curlers in my hair and wearing an apron just this past Christmas season.

I may have switched from drinking Carlo Rossi to a wine that doesn’t produce an instant headache, but I can still throw ‘em back. I might have major responsibilities, but that doesn’t stop me from playing hooky and spending a day at the beach or lounging in my jammies on the couch watching bad reality tv. I sometimes use big words around certain company, but you might also hear me saying “dude” and “sweet” in my daily vernacular. I also might dissolve in a puddle of emotions because I just don’t want to be a grown up and deal with the stress of adult life.

So here I find myself in an interesting (and let’s face it, confusing!) juxtaposition. Knowing me, I will most likely analyze this to death, but for now, the teenager in me is saying screw it. It’s a nice day and I just don’t wanna deal with it. So there.