A letter to new parents: Don’t sweat the small stuff. Part 2

Love, and this. Pretty much all you need to parent.

In honor of friends that just had their first baby, and friends who are becoming part of a foster-to-adopt program, I wanted to share a little insight from a Mom who has learned that out of everything we have to worry about as parents, the most common ones don’t actually matter all that much. Having a young child with cancer really showed me that maybe I didn’t need to lose sleep over whether or not my infant was getting enough visual stimulation. Life lessons at their finest. You can read part 1 of this post here. In the meantime, here are other things that you *totally* don’t need to freak out over. Save that for first dates, mean girls in middle school, and knock-the-wind-out-of-you blows that life may deal along the way. You’re (almost) a parent. Get used to it.

Stuff to not worry about, cont’d.

• Tummy time, skin to skin, and visual stimulation. You know what stimulates babies? YOU. If every child in the history of ever was shielded from black and white swirly mobiles, I’m pretty sure we would still have lots of functional, intelligent people on the earth. I remember stressing over how much visual stimulation I was giving Punkin. By the time Smush came around, I realized something invaluable: babies could care less about zebra stripes. They like the sound of your voice. Same for tummy time and skin-to-skin. Our skin time was nursing. After bath snuggles are also fantastic. My girls all hated tummy time, so I opted for on-your-side time to avoid that whole flat head thing. I know a mom who does a 3 hour rotating schedule of skin-to-skin, tummy time, eat, sleep. Schedules are awesome, but good Lord, do you hate yourself? Parenting is hard enough without giving yourself a report card. Feed your baby. Clean your baby. Love your baby. That about sums it up.
• WHY ARE THERE SO MANY CHOICES? The Nerd and I researched every car seat readily available in America before Punkin was born. When we finally went to buy one at the store, it was discontinued. OMG. But we KNOW that the only one that could possibly keep her safe is the rear-facing to 40 lbs, front-facing to 65 lbs, cup-holder having, head support installing, burrows underground in case of nuclear attack Ultra Mega Seat Of The Gods. Or that other one we picked up that we still use 9 years later. Do some research. Pick a seat. Priority one: DO learn how to properly install it. That makes all the difference. Local police stations will help with that. Or local pits of wasted money baby mega stores.
• Milestone schedules. Baby George rolled over at 4 months. Little Amy is already 4.5 months and still isn’t rolling over. She should probably be checked for spinal abnormalities. Please, for the love of your sanity and all that is good and holy, try really, really hard not to compare babies. They’re all so different. And for one very good reason: They were made that way. If God needed 7 billion Michael Jordans, or Billy Grahams, or George Bushes, or random kids down the street, He would have done that. But He didn’t. Because He knew that right now, the world needs that exact miracle you’re holding (or soon to hold) in your arms. Not the one your friend has. They have a different kid, with a different purpose. You don’t compare elephants and fish, because they’re two unique creatures, made with unique strengths and weaknesses. If God wanted you to have George who rolled over at 4 months, He would have given him to you. STOP COMPARING. Punkin took her first step at 10 months. She was running by 11. Smush didn’t even care about walking until 15 months. Punkin started talking at 9 months and was speaking in two-word phrases at 1 year. Smush barely even knew she could talk until she was 18 months old. They’re all different. Guidelines are important, but that’s what they are – guidelines – not absolutes. Punkin honestly never had a tantrum in her life. Goo met all the criteria for a few different psychological disorders because she was still having tantrums at 4. Then she stopped. Then she got cancer and started again. But guess what? I started having tantrums when she got cancer, too.

My final revelation for parents-to-be: If you’re worried about how good you’re going to be, it’s a really good indicator that you’ve got this in the bag. Because being a good parent starts with one thing: Love. If you already love your child – whom you haven’t even met – enough to be in the early stages of an anxiety disorder due to a desperation to be perfect, you’re already doing your job. Love them. Freak out sometimes. That’s parenting. There is absolutely no way to prepare for it. You just have to dive in head first, and pray. I recommend lots and lots of prayer. In my darkest hours as a mom, I found myself dropping the parenting books, and dropping to my knees to ask the ultimate Father what to do. Works like a charm.

That, and butt paste. Best diaper cream ever. Again, you’re welcome.

Parenting FAIL Friday: Manners are so important.

One day last week, my Dad-in-law came over for a last-minute dinner. He had spent the morning deep-sea fishing, and supplied the freshest sea bass I have ever tasted. That has no significance to this post, but it was *that* yummy.

At one point during dinner, we were talking about his candy stash that he keeps in his office at the church (he’s the head pastor). He has a little jar that he keeps full of sweet treats, for when pint-sized visitors (aka, his granddaughters) come calling. The problem is, they’re not that great at keeping candy a secret, and before he knew it, random kids were poking their heads into his office and swiping the goods without even saying hello or asking.

I actually think, on one hand, that this is kind of adorable. He’s the kind of pastor who isn’t afraid to get his hands dirty. Literally. He’s done nursery duty before. And the kids pick up on that, which makes them feel loved and accepted. And comfortable enough to just waltz into his office unannounced.

He caught one little tyke red-handed, and simply told him that before he takes candy, he should ask politely.

And there I sat, nodding in agreement, noting how manners really are important, and children should know the importance of them.

And then I walked into the dining area and found this:

That would be Smush, diving face first into a stick of butter.

Manners are so important.

A letter to new parents: Don’t sweat the small stuff. Part 1

I have a friend who just gave birth to seriously one of the most perfect babies ever. Squee! Friends with babies are the best thing ever because you get to hold squishy balls of love and joy, and then give them back and go home and sleep.

I also have a few friends who are on the road to fostering-to-adopt, and during a heart-to-heart with one of them, I realized that parents waiting to adopt their first child are just like parents waiting for the birth of their first child in one particular way – they all freak out.

This is where I point and laugh.

Kidding. Sort of.

I’ve been around the block a few times with this parenting thing. I’m sitting from that place where I know better about some things, and I know absolutely nothing about the rest. But one thing I do know: there are so many, many things we freak out over that we don’t need to. So, in honor of my friends and parents-to-be, I give you:

The List of Things Not To Worry About

• Bottle v. breast. Some experts may want to smack me right now, and I know several crunchy granola moms that are probably strangling me through the screen, but do you know what breastfeeding and/or formula are for? Feeding your baby. And do you know what they both do? Feed your baby. I breastfed all three of my girls, and I totally agree that if possible, it has benefits formula simply cannot offer. But. I have personally encountered far too many new moms, crying themselves to sleep because breastfeeding just isn’t working. Sweetie, you’re feeding your baby. YOU WIN. No matter how you do it, you’re taking care of your child, and that’s your job. They know you’re holding them and meeting their needs. That makes you their favorite. 
  

  In a few months, you won’t be worrying about what brand of diapers to buy. You’ll be trying to figure out how the heck this happened in the time it took to pee.

• Which brand of diaper? Universal answer to this question: The one that holds the poop in. Super fancy brand with cartoon characters and lace trim? Rock on. I opted for the buy-in-bulk brand because we may or may not have gone through so many that Punkin’s very first nickname was Sergeant Poopy Pants. Just saying. Some people swear by Pampers. I hated them. I adored the Target brand. Others hated them. Find a pair that mostly holds the poop in, and you’re good. Disclaimer: No diaper always holds the poop in. I kind of see it as a milestone in parenting when you first have to cut a onesie off because it’s so full of poop. We had to do that with each of ours to avoid poop getting in their eyes/ears/every other orifice. So new parents: Try them out. See what you like. Always bring scissors and an extra onesie. You’re welcome.
• Waking them up to feed them. There are absolutely situations where a baby’s weight is at a critical point and feeding them is basically all you think about. However, all three of my girls were healthy weights at birth. My skinny minnie Goo topped the charts at 8 lb 2 oz. She’s lucky I delivered her, since I told my children in utero that 8 lb was my limit. Anyway. The doctors all told me to wake them up every 2-3 hours to feed them. I did this exactly ZERO times. Punkin slept through the night from birth. (Don’t hate me, because I now have a kid with cancer, and I would totally rather have been extra tired and avoided this.) She slept 7-8 hours straight through the night from day one, and was consistently in the 95th percentile for height. I don’t think she was malnourished. And I wasn’t a zombie. Win win.

This is only the beginning. I mean that in every way possible – this is only the beginning of your parenting journey. It’s only the beginning of finding 482 million things to worry about. And it’s literally the beginning of this post. Part 2 comes soon. Try to contain yourself.

Parenting FAIL Friday: You’re going to want to replace that.

As you may know, we’re attempting to potty train Smush. It’s going swimmingly. And by swimmingly, I mean it’s been a couple of weeks, she hasn’t peed in the potty once, and she’s now trying not to drink because I was an idiot and told her drinks help us go pee pee. Smush – 1, Mediocre Mom – 0.

The other night we marched her into the bathroom, armed with her Dora potty seat, two potty books, and the patience of a saint. She promptly proceeded to pee before her jammies were off. Super.

We sat her on the potty anyway, because that’s what you do. You sit them on the potty to associate peeing with the toilet. As you can tell, it’s been working fabulously.

She sat there for a while, talking, singing, generally keeping herself amused. The Nerd stepped out for a second to chat with me, but stopped halfway through a sentence to begin the following conversation:

Nerd: …I need a new toothbrush.

Me: Huh?

Nerd: *glancing toward Smush* I need a new toothbrush.

(We see Smush, vigorously scrubbing…her feet. Her dirty little feet. With the Nerd’s toothbrush.) 

Me: It’s not that bad. I can sterilize it. It’s just her…

(We again see Smush, no longer scrubbing her feet, but her, umm, nether regions.)

Me: Yes, yes you are definitely going to need a new toothbrush.

I guess it’s good that she’s listening when I tell her about cleaning head to toe at bath time. Right? And about how important it is to brush our teeth, although she’s slightly off on her anatomy.

Has anyone noticed that these stories are not in most parenting books? Hoards of novels on proper nutrition, behavioral development, and socialization, but nobody says, “When your kid cleans their derriere with your toothbrush, we recommend the following course of action.”

Show me a parenting book on what to do when your preschooler starts putting stick-on boobs on her stuffed animals, and I might be interested. Parenting experts my foot.

The Ugliest Mother’s Day Card Ever.

I hate Mother’s Day.

I know, I know. I have three beautiful, amazing daughter’s that bring me love, joy, and the occasional migraine. I wouldn’t trade them for the world.

But the start of the Mother’s Day (MD) season brings constant reminders of how amazing my mom was. And how much she isn’t here. I spend three days crying on and off because I can’t decide whether to dwell on all the good memories, or not think about it because I did inherit one thing from my mother: the worst crying face ever. Seriously. My nose kind of swells and gets all red, and my eyes look like I got shot with pepper spray. It’s not pretty.

But in spite of the pain, Hallmark has made a way to boost their quarterly sales  remind every mother just how appreciated she is. That is, if your husband goes to the store and buys a card that eloquently expresses the beauty in each and every sacrifice we make for our families.

Mine doesn’t.

The Nerd is kind of artsy, and very unique, so he makes his own MD cards. This year, he really outdid himself. Keep in mind, the last three days have, umm, sucked. I miss my mom. We had enough money for one MD gift, which goes to my Mom-in-law (who TOTALLY deserves it. For real. So no hard feelings there). So I already new my “gift” would be scrambling to get the girls ready for church while trying to drink a cold cup of coffee and listening to at least one of them scream constantly. I didn’t even score the free gifts, like those homemade certificates for a night off from cooking, or a day out of the house, or a narcotic and bottle of wine to help get me through the next 18 years day.

But what I did get this morning, was this:

Happy Mother's Day. I'm going to eat you.

It reads: The finest of mothers is what you are. Happy Mother’s Day.

I know. You’re jealous, aren’t you? Because while you were being served breakfast in bed (at 9 freaking AM), I was receiving this before 6:30 because Smush woke me up. Ooh, and then came the present: a full blown screaming fit from Goo because I said, “Good morning, little Goo!” Yeah. Happy Mother’s Day.

It wasn’t all that bad though. While you were checking the calendar to see when you could use that spa gift certificate, there was the second full blown tantrum from Goo because I poured myself a cup of coffee before I poured her a bowl of cereal. That was sweet, too.

Sigh. This may be a bit harsh, but I really just kind of loathe Mother’s Day.

I do have to give credit where credit is due, though. Punkin made me the most awesome. card. ever. at school. It’s ginormous and says things like:

• I like it when my mom gives me squeezy hugs.
• My mom is as pretty as prettier than a flower (rose).
• My mom is smart. She even knows 100 plus 100.

She then promises to give me hugs every day, clean her room, and do her chores. And you can bet your bippy I’m holding her to all of those. Especially the hugs.

.

So yes, MD kind of sucks for me. Every year. My mom will never be here, so even if I woke up to a brand new, red Mazda 5 parked in the driveway (hint hint. wink wink.) it would still be bittersweet.

.

But in the end, I got a one-of-a-kind, super original card from the Nerd. And a wonderfully sweet, thoughtful card from Punkin. And two full-blown tantrums from Goo before 8 AM. Hey, you can’t win ’em all. But you sure can love them anyway.

Todzilla – the next chapter.

Todzilla returned today. I’m not sure why she reared her ugly adorable head, but I know that I can’t let it happen two days in a row. Tomorrow must, must, be different. Why? Because I think I might send her to boarding school if she shows up again. And because I’ve given up coffee and wine for a finite period of time. Messing with MM (Mediocre Mom, for future reference) is virtually suicidal at this point.

Sigh. It started with my morning meeting. The Nerd and I teach kids’ church together, and I had a meeting this morning to discuss curriculum possibilities. Thankfully, our church has this amazing nursery with padded floors, a half-door with a child protective lock on the inside so they can’t escape but we can see in (love that), and a million brightly colored objects to keep them quiet stimulate their creativity. I got Goo and Smush ready to head over, dropped them off in the nursery and sat down for my meeting across the hall.

Goo started crying. “I want to get out! I want to get out!” She is a total drama queen emotional at times, so this didn’t faze me. I continue talking, until I hear a familiar sound.

Ba! Ba! Bababababa!

Smush is in the hallway. Why is Smush in the hallway? How is Smush in the hallway? I grab Smush and check the nursery door, which is securely closed. But on the other side of the nursery door is a chair. My heart pounds in my chest as I realize what has happened.

She’s back. Todzilla is back.

Goo didn’t want to be in the nursery. But that awesome half-door with the inside lock is really hard to maneuver. So she picked up a chair, brought it over, reached up and over the door, and opened it from the outside.

At this point I’m only halfway through my meeting, so I grab the baby and the monster and plop them on a blanket with some animal toys. Keeping them both in arms reach. Because now my beloved nursery is no longer an adequate safe haven. Darn you, Todzilla, and your crafty ways.

Fast forward through the lunch argument to bath time. Generally, I heart bath time. The girls are contained. They’re clean. They can’t escape without my knowing. It’s parental bliss, at least until you have to wash their hair and they act like you’re pouring sulfuric acid over their lovely locks. Anyway, bath time is nearing the end, so I go to grab a towel. Splash.

Todzilla had taken the toy bucket, filled it with water, and dumped it, twice, all over the bathroom floor. I literally step into a wall to wall puddle as I turn around. I contemplate bringing in Mothra at this point, but decide that might be a bit extreme.

This is so much more intimidating than the time out chair.

A three minute time-out and we’re back on track. I somehow make it through dinner, and we all get ready to go to church for our Wednesday night service. I, once again, had something to take care of. Thankfully, I’m already aware that Todzilla has made her great come-back, and I’m poised and ready. No markers. No peppermint candy that you took off the piano upstairs. Nothing that can destroy or be destroyed. Todzilla can play with the air. That’s it.

As I’m working, a peaceful quietude settles in. I heart quiet. Unless Todzilla is on the loose. Then quiet = hellish outbreak of rampant destruction.

“Goo? Goo? Goo! Goo, where are you?!?”

Nothing. Not a peep. Not a trail of destruction. No sign of the child-like monster. Our church building is big. Two floors, gymnasium, more than a dozen classrooms and offices, main sanctuary, fellowship hall, you get the idea. There are a LOT of places a young monster can go. Including outside. Since she can open anything. Including that impossible-to-open safe from the Italian Job. I’m sure of it.

I start running, yelling, searching, panicking, running some more. I dash upstairs to where the Nerd is running audiovisual stuff and inform him that we’re missing our middle child. There are now probably half a dozen people combing the building in search of Todzilla.

“MM? I found her. She’s in the nursery.” What the what? She pitched a fit over being in there earlier. I looked in there already. Twice.

She was in the nursery alright. Hiding in a small hole in a piece of child furniture, underneath a slide. Devouring peppermint candy.

Todzilla went straight to time out for destroying the city not answering me when I called for her and taking the candy she wasn’t supposed to. At the end of time out, she apologized and informed me that she had peed. In her pants. Under the slide.

Goo doesn’t pee in her pants. She’s been potty trained almost a year. But Todzilla does. Todzilla also runs into the bathroom after her time out is over, and strips from the waist down. She then runs back out announcing to everyone gathered in the hallway, “I did pee pee! I did pee pee! I did pee pee!”

The Nerd brought her home and put her to bed after that. I was done. I’m beginning to doubt the effectiveness of the time out chair on Todzilla. Where’s Mothra when you need her?