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.

The More Things Change, The More They Stay The Same

The fact that I am writing this post proves that I have survived my first week back at work and will live to write another tale. Returning to work was, to me, synonymous with sequestration. I was pretty sure the oceans would rise, the earth would tremble, and life as I knew it would cease to exist. Imagine my surprise when I woke up this morning and realized that the world is still intact. That although everything is different, it is all strangely still the same.

That's not to say there weren't tears. Boy, were there buckets of tears. The baby terrorist, of course, took it all in stride. I was the basket case. The minute I handed her over to the nanny, I was horrified to hear the embarrassing choking sound as I tried to swallow my emotions and instead succumbed to a tsunami of tears. The nanny won me over when she didn't immediately roll her eyes and say something snarky but rather enveloped me in a huge hug and told me we could face time.

I didn't suck it up right away. I allowed myself to wallow and lament the unfairness of the universe for a good two hours. I let my mind wander and began to imagine that the baby terrorist was already walking in the short time I was away from her. The baby with two teeth at a mere 4 1/2 months is kind of an overachiever, so this concept is not far fetched. The incessant worry that she might really take to the nanny and decide she wanted to live with her instead consumed my mind more than once. As I attempted to wade through a million missed emails sent over my four month absence, I was struck by the concept that life really does go on, with or without me.

It seems I have a bit of a superiority complex which manifests itself in such a manner that I truly believe that all life stops when I'm not there. It's like everything else freezes until I return to breathe life back into the routine. Yet while I was quite literally bringing a life into this world, emails were being sent regarding all sorts of fun employment related topics, droning on as if nothing short of a miracle was occurring right at that very moment in a San Diego hospital room. And as I was struggling to understand my new role as a mother, emails were still being sent as if I had never worked there. While I was sleep deprived and learning to translate all the complexities and terror tactics the baby had hidden up her very small, sweet sleeve, the world outside my small center was spinning exactly as it had before everything changed.

If that doesn't humble the flip flops off an overly sensitive Virgo, I don't know what will.

Perhaps this is a lesson in learning to let go. Learning that I don't have to precariously perch the cumbersome worry on my hunching shoulders that the world will stop spinning simply because I can't be everywhere and everything at the same time. Understanding that part of being a mother is providing more than just a presence. Because, whether I choose to accept it or not, the baby rather likes the nanny. I kind of like her too. I wouldn't mind spending a day in her care, as a matter of fact. The reality remains that I have to work. And so the world turns, life goes on and the crazy becomes the new normal.

It's as different as it comes, and yet it's the same as it ever was.

To That I Say, Touche

I recently ran across a list on BuzzFeed - 19 Things People Swear They'll Never Do Until They Have Kids. I found this list hilarious, especially because I was musing the other morning over my cup of joe that I was really, terribly judgmental about how people raised their children prior to having my own little baby terrorist. I mean, I judged everything. I would raise a disapproving eyebrow at just about everything and I would smugly think about how I was going to do everything so differently. I arrogantly believed that my life wouldn't change in the least because no kid of mine was going to rule the roost. I wouldn't take orders from a baby for crying out loud! It's all so easy to judge while sitting high atop my childless pedestal, cocktail in hand, hair styled, wearing anything other than spit up stained sweats. I looked down upon the world of wee ones and winked, letting them know that though their parents might acquiesce to their every whim, I would not be so easy.

There are some things on the list with which I wholeheartedly agree, and there are some that didn't make the list that I would love to add (#5-8). I won't list everything, but these are a few that jumped out at me.

1. Use a leash on my kids.
I actually never opposed this. I always thought it was quite necessary to reign in those little whipper snappers. I don't know if I personally would use one, but if you have a runner it beats losing them at Disneyland. Or the grocery store. Or anywhere.

2. Complain about being tired.
This one made me literally laugh out loud. I hated the tired complaint! I was so naive (read: stupid) that I even told my husband that I handle lack of sleep way better than he does, so I volunteered - yes, volunteered! - to wake up with the baby at night. Though I have since attempted to take back this momentary lapse of judgment, my husband has held me to my very silly promise and has allowed me to do each and every nighttime wake up. That's why I have aged a hundred years in a few short months, in case you were wondering why I now look 31 going on - well, super old.

3. Be late.
I hated the late person who blamed the kids! I always thought it was such a perfect excuse, like traffic if you live in Southern California. I was never super punctual, but I am now perpetually late. I never have on makeup, and on the rare occasions I manage to get my hair and makeup done I am consistently interrupted. I live in a state of fear that one of these days I will venture out of the house with only one eye done and half an eyebrow drawn in. I have yet to master the art of breast feeding and primping at the same time, but I'm getting better!

4. Bring my kids with me to social events & eat out with my kids.
I coupled these two together because both used to annoy me. I always wondered why you wouldn't get a sitter rather than drag the kids to every event and restaurant. While I still believe that certain events and fancy eating establishments should remain childless, parents need to get out of the house! Like, desperately. I was stuck in the house for the first two months of the baby terrorist's life because I feared taking her out in public. I didn't worry about her getting sick or anything sensible like that. I was freaked out that she would dissolve into hysterics in the middle of - insert anywhere here - and I would be living the nightmare of showing up to school without my clothes on and holding a screaming baby. It wasn't healthy. Sometimes you have no choice but to bring the baby, hope for the best, and have a cocktail in hand just in case things go south.

5. Sit in the back seat with the baby.
I never understood why people would sit in the backseat with their baby. "You are your own person!" I would scream from my judgmental vehicle. "Sit in the freaking front seat!" Have you ever been stuck in the car with a screaming baby while you are stuck in the front seat? Yeah. It took one time enduring that madness and a back seat sitter I became.

6. Let my house look like a child lives there.
I told my mom before the baby terrorist was born that I would never have one of those houses where you trip over a pink play kitchen set after being offered a fake cup of tea before you even get through the front door. Silly me, I thought that I could have a grown up house with grown up things and then bring out my baby and say "voila! Can you believe this immaculate home actually houses an infant?" Then I gave birth and there is now a jumparoo blocking my wine fridge.

7. Not make couple time for me and the husband.
Before baby, the husband and I swore that we would have a date night twice a month. It doesn't help that he works a job with a ridiculous schedule and when he is actually at home my idea of romance includes him taking the baby and letting me sleep. The honeymoon is over, folks.

8. Leave the house looking like I rolled out of bed.
All I have to say about this is thank God for yoga pants. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

This whole baby terrorist thing has been an exercise in humility and has taught me just how much I judged others. In all of its cosmic humor, karma has come back around and bitch slapped me in the face and to that I say, touche.

What did you swear you would never do until you had one of your own?

Venturing Out With a Newborn & Other Such Terrible Tales

While pregnant, I had delusions of grandeur about what I would do with the baby once she arrived. I was convinced that having a baby would not change my lifestyle in the least. Okay, maybe I wouldn't be able to go out so freely on Friday nights like I could pre baby, and maybe I wouldn't be able to make that last minute yoga class on a whim, but I was pretty confident that I would just strap the baby into the Ergo carrier, put her in the stroller, or buckle her into her car seat and off we would go on whatever adventure I felt like getting into on that particular day.

What an idiot.

From the moment we took her home from the hospital, I resigned myself to house arrest almost immediately. I knew that if I stepped foot even into something as mundane and uneventful as a grocery store, my little baby terrorist would pick that moment to begin screaming bloody murder. I was terrified of what people would think. I was incredibly sensitive to raised eyebrows, hen clucks of sympathy, and sighs of utter annoyance when my baby was anything less than the adorable newborn she was supposed to be. 

The husband took some time off from work to help out when Bug arrived, so we would alternate leaving the house. Oh, what a glorious hour it would be when I handed the baby over to my husband and stepped out into a world that smelled of fresh air rather than baby poop, into a store that had the aroma of anything but breast milk. I was a free wheeling woman who would take my time walking up and down every single aisle in the store just to maximize the few minutes of free time I had all to myself. 

Then the inevitable moment came when the husband had to return to work and I was forced to bring the baby everywhere I went if I did, indeed, wish to leave the house. For the first week I contemplated never leaving our abode again and ordered everything online. Eventually I began to fear that I was turning into a scary, socially awkward recluse. People would begin walking by my house and whispering about the crazy lady who never sees the light of day. Kids would stop trick or treating at my house out of sheer fear that even the promise of candy can't overcome. Rumors would circulate throughout the neighborhood about how I supposedly had a husband, baby and a dog that have mysteriously not been seen in years. So, if nothing more than just to maintain the appearance of normalcy, I decided to run errands with the baby terrorist.

We first hit up Costco. That went over quite well, actually. She may not be impressed by the beach and she couldn't care less about the San Diego scenery, but Costco....well, that's America. Endless consumerism in bulk? A baby's (and mommy's) dream come true! 

So, feeling quite bold and a tad reckless, I decided that I would venture into another institution that screams America, though not in such a good way. The United States Post Office. *Cue horror movie music here* Of course I decided to do such a daring jaunt in December, when Uncle Sam is very busy shipping and losing packages all throughout the country. So, as you can imagine, the line was incredibly long. Still feeling confident and very sure that I appeared to be very comfortable in this motherhood role, I fell into the line about 20 customers deep. And that's when I heard it.

The unmistakable whimper that you just know is going to escalate into a scream capable of shattering glass and popping eardrums began to find it's way out of the stroller. I think I went into a state of shock at first and looked around as if it had to be someone, anyone else's baby but mine. Once it was established that it was indeed my baby terrorist, I began to sweat profusely. My face turned beet red. I frantically put Baby Einstein on my iPhone and waved it in front of her face. I pulled her out of the stroller and bounced and shushed her, willing her to become the Happiest Baby on the Block (what a crock of you know what that is, by the way). I closed my eyes and pretended I was on a beach in Barbados, single and baby free without a care in the world and a cocktail in hand. Nothing worked. The terror level was raised to an alarming, get out now, an attack is imminent, RED. 

Looks were exchanged amongst the customers in line. Some looked at me as if I had no business having a baby. Others gave me sympathetic yet exasperated looks. And out of the fog emerged a saint. The woman in the front of the line turned to me and said firmly that she didn't think anyone would mind if I went first. She then gave a stern look to anyone who just might mind as if daring them to defy her sainthood. I very gratefully took her up on her offer and made a mental note that I will pay it forward, because she saved my life and my sanity in that very kind gesture.

That nice thought of mine was then followed up by a not so nice thought. I think there might be a mother daughter line cutting scam in our future. Hey. If you can't beat the terrorist, you might as well make it work to your advantage.

Globes, Schlobes.

Judging from the many Facebook posts last night and into today, many of you watched the Golden Globes. I too jumped at the chance to marvel at the beautiful dresses and see the movies I should be watching. Being the old lady that I am, I have noticed that I tend to be so far out of the pop culture loop that I unfortunately have no idea what the kids are up to these days. So last night, determined to be in the know, I poured a margarita and began watching the much anticipated award show.

I began by watching the red carpet, because really, that's the most interesting part. I have no shame in oohing over dresses, screaming OMG! she's so skinny! and seeing who is a hot mess and who is so perfect I obviously hate her. However, I barely made it ten minutes in before I became so enraged that steam started coming out of my ears and tequila sweat seeped through my pores. Ryan Seacrest was interviewing Cate Blanchett and asked her how much her entire ensemble cost. "Oh I don't know," she regally purred. In a completely blase, this is so beneath me voice she then followed up with (and I'm paraphrasing), "$20,000? I have a lot of security guards following me."

Well color me red, I was beyond irritated. I have no problem with rich people. Good for them. In fact, I hope to be a rich people some day. But is it necessary to ask someone how much their whole outfit costs? Duh. It's obviously super expensive. The woman is dripping in Armani and fine jewels. Her ensemble costs more than what the average American makes in a year, folks. But that's not my issue. I just don't understand when it became appropriate to ask the super rich famous person to advertise just how much their outfit is worth and when we became so eager to know.

And even more infuriating was the response to the question. The I'm so above this question, money is entirely disposable, I can hardly be bothered to know the cost answer. I'm sure that perhaps she did not want to disclose the amount for fear of being thought of as boastful, but it came across as completely arrogant and out of touch and it made me drink my cheap pre-made Costco margarita in a fitful rage. And did I mention I was wearing pajamas I bought on Groupon? Just to add insult to injury. I suggest that perhaps she should have said something quirky and hilarious to offset the elitest question so that I could have snuggled back down into the sofa, content to put my Target slipper clad feet up on my discount furniture store coffee table.

Then, just when I was rambling on in righteous indignation to my husband, a Bing commercial came on highlighting everyday women who were this year's heroes. The commercial included Malala Yousafzai, women serving in the United States military, and Margaret Thatcher just to name a few. I got to thinking, why don't we have an awards show highlighting the everyday person who made an incredible difference? They can show up on a red carpet and be decked out in the finest fashions and be honored for doing something amazing. I promise I won't wave a judgmental fist in their direction and rant on about the nature of their condescending responses to absolutely ridiculous questions because perhaps they would be asked about topics of substance.

That would be worth watching. But then, I suppose, I would have nothing to babble on about.