Sassy, Sadie-mouse

So, my darling friend, Sarah, insisted that, after my lengthy absence, I must blog once more. I explained to her that all my great inspiration came from countless hours rocking Maeve in the dark, during our long nights. I don’t do that anymore (yea for co-sleeping!!), so now I’m useless to Blogdom. This answer did not suffice dearest Sarabelle. I said, “Fine. Pick a topic and I’ll write about it.” I was thinking she’d suggest something like… the thing I miss least about being a working woman, or my greatest cooking disaster, or a fond memory from college, or a funny poop story about Maeve, or even a funny poop story about Zack. But NO!! Sarah says, “How about you write about how to raise and discipline a wonderfully outgoing and stubborn child without breaking her spirit?” Sure! No problem! I’ll get right on that! I scrubbed the bathtub heartily trying to find my muse….

So I’ve been thinking about sweet, sassy Sadie and the road Sarah has ahead. I smile only because in my heart of hearts I know Maeve will be mustard, just like Sadie. These gorgeous, wide-eyed, brave and curious little girls are destined to grow into precocious and fearless young women. God help us.

As I said to Sarah on the phone when she brought up this profound and wondrous topic, I am confident that these dynamic and lively little spirits are resilient and unbreakable. So our challenge as mothers will be to corral them enough to keep them safe, yet give them the freedom to embrace their authentic selves*. Does it all come down to a girl’s self-esteem? Or is about her sense of security at home? Her relationship with Mom or Dad? Damn it, Sarah, I don’t know! What I do know is this: Sadie and Maeve are so loved that sometimes it makes us faint. When we watch them make decisions, like choosing watermelon over grapes, or peek-a-blocks over Mister Potato Head, our stomachs get fluttery. When then extend their little arms in hopes of being picked up, we find no greater feeling than being needed by our daughters. We tell them we love them and we mean it, earnestly. And when they refuse to take their medicine, wake up for the third time in as many hours, or empty the contents of the Tupperware drawer all over the kitchen for the zillionth time today, we will sigh, and still love them. This is what will save them from themselves.

*”authentic selves” courtesy of, and used without the consent, of His Lordship, Dr. Phil

Baby mine, don't you cry...

So Zack is putting the baby to bed now. It’s so hard for me. I’ve come to terms with the fact that I love that she needs me. Is that awful? I don’t know but it’s true, nonetheless. Now, don’t get me wrong; I love that Zack is actively involved in her routines and I feel a certain amount of freedom regarding being left out of the bedtime business, but still…. She’s only eight months old and I’m already grieving that someday she won’t be my little baby anymore… I love her so…

Good God… She’s bawling her eyes out. Do I intervene? Do I sit here like an asshole, typing away??? Oh, it makes my stomach hurt. I could turn of the monitor… or I could run upstairs and take her in my arms and kiss her face and nurse her and make Zack feel like a loser and ruin everything all the while making her a happy little clam. I don’t remember reading any of this in all the crappy parenting books…

She’s quiet now…. Another glass of wine?? I think so.

A shit sandwich

Neither Zack nor I, particularly me, is what one would call a religious person. That said, there’s got to be something to this Karma thing. Let me explain. Zack and I are shit-talkers, of the highest order. We talk shit together, we talk shit apart. Recently, perhaps even on the same day, we were both bragging to other parents about how Maeve is almost eight months old and she’s never had so much as the sniffles! Ha! All those poor schleps with their wan and sickly kids. Day care; that’s the real villain. We know it and we talk shit about it. Well, the day Maeve turned eight months, she so poetically got her first cold. We deserve it. We know. Lesson learned… If you talk enough shit, you’re gonna end up eatin’ a shit sandwich.

American Parenting

As a follow up to my post yesterday, here is a link to a very interesting piece on American parenting...

Everything I needed to know, I most certainly didn't learn in Kindergarten.

I’m convinced that the predominant reason that people have a second child is to prove to themselves that they know how to deal with a baby. Even though Zack and I are dead set on only having Maeve, I find myself constantly in an internal dialogue about what I would do differently the next time.

1. I would have swaddled less… Maeve is seven months old and can’t sleep for more than an hour if she isn’t bound up in the Kiddopotamus SwaddleMe Wrap, aka, the baby straightjacket.


2. We would have stayed away from the swing as a sleep device… Maeve will only sleep in my arms, the car, or that damn swing. She’s so heavy now that we burn through eight D batteries a week.


3. I would have offered a pacifier much, much earlier… Maeve won’t take one at all but needs the breast or my finger off and on all night, making sleep a bit of a joke.


4. I think I would have introduced co-sleeping earlier… Maeve isn’t interested in sleeping in our bed. I would love to have that option as a last resort.


5. I would have gotten Zack more involved in the nighttime and naptime routine… Maeve falls apart if I’m not there.

That said, there are many things I would repeat with this imaginary second baby. In particular, I’m very proud of the fact that we don’t let Maeve cry it out. I know many will say that her sleep problems are attributed to the fact that I go to her every time she cries in the night. That may be true, in fact, I’m sure it is! But lets examine what’s at stake here. Why does Maeve cry? Because it’s her only method of communication and simply because she needs something. She’s too cold, too hot, uncomfortable, hungry, wet, frightened, or just plain lonely. And don’t tell me that she’s manipulating me. She can’t even make the connection between pain and whacking herself in the face with a block and you’re going to tell me she’s working some calculated scheme to get me out of bed at night? Come on, people. Anyway, by letting her cry it out I’m not teaching her how to make herself warmer or cooler or more comfortable. She won’t learn to straighten her blankets or change her diaper. No matter how long I let her sob alone she will never just get up and get herself a snack. And although, if left long enough, she would likely get too tired and too frustrated to continue feeling frightened or alone, what am I really teaching her by letting her cry it out? That I’m not coming. That’s it. I’m teaching her that although I know she’s crying in an attempt to ask for someone’s help, no one is coming. I don’t see that to be a valuable lesson.

The whole principle behind attachment parenting is that it fosters a very confident child. If she knows you’re always there we she needs you, she is more confident and therefore more comfortable venturing out alone when she is older. This makes true, intuitive sense to me. I will admit that at 9:45, 11:10, 12:40, 1:22, and 4:30 this morning my theory felt a bit shaky but I really feel like I’m doing the right thing.

On a lighter, messier note, Maeve has entered the fabulously colorful world of finger foods. Enjoy…