I don’t want another baby right now.
I feel like I need to preface with that. I might also feel like I need to say that out loud a few times. You know, remind myself.
Because, you guys? Sometimes I think I want another baby right now.
It’s possible that I’m going insane. Because one minute I’m feeling sweat pool in the small of my back as I rush to pick up a basketful of toys, answer a few work emails (one-handed on my phone), and sneak in a load of laundry, all while simultaneously catching Vivi as she tries to tumble off the couch that she has learned how to climb in the last week, telling myself my life is insane and also that I should probably mop the floor sometime in the next month because Vivi has taken to licking any cold surface she encounters (ugh).
In these moments, I will literally think: I am never having another baby.
But maybe an hour later, when I’ve resigned myself to the toys on the floor and resolved to figure out the emails after bedtime and the laundry is folded and Vivi is playing quietly by herself for a few minutes, I’ll think, GOSH, another baby would be fun.
Like I said, I’m
possibly probably insane.
That’s why they call it baby fever — it elicits this excited, irrational state where you are not making any sense.
Recently, I tested a bracelet for work that helps you track your fertility cycle. (Again, not trying to get pregnant. It really is just for work.) One day, an alert popped up reminding my that my “fertility window” was about to begin.
And my FIRST thought was, oh, it would be fun to try to get pregnant again. It would be fun to be pregnant again.
You’ll be relieved to know those were split-second thoughts, followed immediately by actually laughing out loud at myself and returning my attention to Vivi who was pulling her play kitchen apart and spreading her tiny wooden “groceries” all over the floor for Bogey to chew on as she tried to gnaw on his plastic ball with her free hand. (At least the kids are sharing?)
I do not really want to be pregnant right now.
Actually, that’s another element to this: Vivi. Like most parents, I think she is literally the greatest kid to have ever walked the earth. Joey and I have at least one conversation every night about how great she is. I’m not just saying that to be cute. We say the words, “Vivi is the greatest” almost every night. I love her in a way I didn’t know I could. And even though I’m always grateful for a chance I get to do something for myself or on my own (thank you, village of fantastic people who help to watch her!), I am always, ALWAYS so happy to see her again. And for one thing, the thought of changing our relationship makes me a little sad. And for another, it’s hard to imagine loving another kid the same way.
I know this is a thing – every first-time mom thinks they could never love a second kid as much, and then they have said second kid and somehow they just do. But I really just think it’s something you have to experience before you really believe it.
Regardless, though, I’m not ready to change anything. I am so satisfied with Vivs, and, if I’m being real, I am legitimately concerned that another kid would break my sanity right now. Let’s talk again in a year or so.
So, fertility window, you’re staying shut for now.
I thought of this post while I was trapped under my sleeping child at 4:40 on a Tuesday afternoon. (But if you follow me on Instagram, you already knew that.) One arm firmly wrapped around Vivi’s snoozing body, I tapped out a few sentences to help myself remember it with one thumb on my phone, my very least favorite way to communicate. (Seriously, it gives me legitimate anxiety having to type so slowly. Anyone else?)(I may have a problem.)
I had not intended on taking a 30-minute breather on my couch at 4:40 that Tuesday. I had plans for my afternoon. Vivi and I had spent late morning at the park, where she was to run out all her energy before returning home, eating a nutritious lunch of ground turkey and sweet potato chili, and then taking a 2-hour nap in her crib while I worked and prepped dinner for that evening. It would be relaxing, satisfying, and totally stress-free.
It was also, it turns out, entirely not how the day went.
The park was fine, as it almost always is. But I made the mistake of staying ten minutes too long, leaving me with a hungry, cranky babe for the short walk home. By the time lunch was heated and ready to eat, Viv’s #hanger got the better of her. She ate most of the turkey and almost all of the sweet potatoes, but at least a third of her food was swiftly chucked onto the floor for Bogey to enjoy. Perfect.
As for the 2-hour nap…I tried to put her down around one. No dice. I tried again around 2:00, diligently making myself ignore my swiftly approaching 3 o’clock deadline for the site I edit to launch. Again, she wailed for a solid 20 minutes until I brought her back into the living room.
Not that she was happy awake, mind you. She wasn’t. She fussed and rubbed her eyes and griped at me about just about everything.
If only there was a simple way to solve all her problems. Like, oh, I don’t know…going to sleep.
I was so frustrated. I felt tempted to call off our evening plans, so certain was I that Vivi would be an absolute terror if we took her anywhere.
Finally, at 3:30, I laid her down and resolved to let her cry out her feelings a bit. Within 10-15 minutes, she was sound asleep. (I firmly believe that babies always know when they are going to break you and when they are not.) I was able to get most of my work for the launch done, but Vivi woke about 40 minutes later and started crying immediately.
I held her in my lap as I finished up my work, and all of a sudden I realized that she was sound asleep again. So I laid down on the couch without thinking to put her in a more comfortable position.
It was then that I realized I was now trapped. And work wasn’t done, dinner wasn’t prepped (we usually eat around 5:30), and I wasn’t anywhere near ready for our meeting that night (we have to leave by 6:40 to make it on time).
My first instinct was to feel frustrated — I had done everything right! I had a plan! Why was everything being so mean to meeeeeee.
But, in an effort to be more patient, I decided instead to take a breath and take a moment to stare at this beautiful creature sleeping on top of me. And in those 20 minutes I was her captive, I realized a few things:
1. Vivi has the longest eye lashes, but her eyes are so bright, you only really notice the lashes when the eyes are closed. You know, like they are when she’s sleeping.
2. I truly don’t think there is anything sweeter than a peacefully sleeping baby.
3. It’s okay that I’m not in control of everything. And even if it’s not, it’s just how life is now, and I may as well get on board.
I hate when I start to notice something about myself that I don’t like.
I’m not talking about physically, like unwanted weight gain or a flurry of skin issues. I’m talking about my character.
I like to think that I’m pretty judicious in assessing my own flaws. I can keep things in perspective, sure, but I am self-aware enough to always know every last thing that’s wrong with me. (It’s like the world’s worst party trick!)
Lately, I can’t help but feel like I have the shortest patience of anyone on the planet.
To be fair, this flaw has had a slow build. I blame much of it on living in New York. But I really, really hate when I feel my flaws affecting the way I parent Vivi.
In the last few months, there have been a couple of times that I’ve caught myself totally snapping at her because she is doing something naughty. I do want to discipline her in a way that’s meaningful to her, but in these cases, I was just airing my frustration. To be fair, I’m usually tired or stressed or in the middle of too many things at once, but, honestly, those just don’t sound like good excuses to me. Like most parents, I don’t want to be someone who just yells all the time. I feel like it will just become white noise to the kid anyway.
When I do yell, I want it to strike fear into her tiny heart. #MomGoals
But, again, I don’t want that to be my go-to. I want to take a second first to breathe, collect myself, and parent in a positive way.
I’m probably being a bit naive. I know there is no way I’m going to never lose my patience, snap, yell, etc. Stressful NYC life or not, I’m still human.
But I’m still trying. In the last week, I can’t think of any time I really yelled, and I feel good about that.
Sometimes I forget that I’ve done this mom thing for such a short amount of time. When every moment with your child feels so precious and fleeting, it’s hard not to put too much pressure on yourself to be perfect. I’m glad that I can be aware of my failings, not as a way to constantly beat myself up (I really don’t, I promise) but so I can be attune to ways to improve always.
Thank goodness Vivi is so much more patient with me than I am with myself.
Most people who know me know that I love organizing. I even tried to start an organizing business a few years ago. It didn’t end up taking off, but I still “freelance” organize for friends and family from time to time. (Not letting the dream die!)
Yes, what I’m saying is that I organize for fun. And, like the sicko that I am, I really, really do enjoy it.
Which leads a lot of people to think that my home must be super organized all the time. And it is with great shame that I must admit…it’s not. ALWAYS. I do my best, I really do. Joey will tell you that I’m quick to toss any errant object and my favorite question is, “Do you still need this?”
But I live with two other people (and a Bogey), which means I can only do so much when it comes to paring down our belongings.
Recently, I’ve gotten on a tear about our closets. Some of you may remember from my moving-in post, but our apartment is a weird labyrinth of winding hallways and strangely shaped rooms. It also has nine closets.
This is unheard of in New York City living. And while it’s great for storing stuff out of sight (yay!), it also means it’s wayyyy too easy to hoard things we don’t really need.
“Hmm, what to do with all these extra bits and bobs from IKEA? Let’s just put them in this drawer in case we need them later.”
“Dang, these kitchen items don’t fit in the drawers…let’s tuck them in here for now.”
“I mean, I might need eleven tote bags at some point, so I’ll just put them in this closet until that day arrives.”
You see how this can become a problem.
For a long time, I’ve intended to clean out one of our back closets that I lovingly refer to as The Junk Closet (TJC). TJC has become the home of everything from old paintbrushes to baby-proofing items to Joey’s hockey equipment, and it’s safe to say I got stressed out just thinking about looking for anything in there. I also had a sneaking suspicion that the seven or so things I have “lost” in the last year were probably buried somewhere in its depths.
Finally (fortunately), Joey had a few days off this week, so he was able to watch Vivi while I attacked the closet. And, I’m pleased to tell you, it has been brought into order and is actually super functional now. It actually thrills me to open the door and look inside.
I ended up throwing out two full trash bags of junk and did find those missing items. I also learned a few lessons along the way:
1. Waste not…unless it means creating more useful space.
Listen, I get it. You don’t want to just throw out something that, at some point, you paid good money for or that technically someone else could probably use. (Just not you.) I think the hardest part about cleaning out a closet for most people is that feeling on, “But it’s not broken…” So you tell yourself that you could use it someday. Or sell it. Or find someone who could use it. And you put it back in the closet and it sits for another couple of years until you pull it out and have the same internal struggle yet again.
You need to change the way you are thinking about this. That useless thing is actually bringing down your life. It’s taking up space that could be used by something useful to your actual life. Throw. It. Away.
2. But if you really can’t just toss it…
Okay, okay. Let’s pretend you have a really good reason for not just ridding your life of this space-sucking object. Put it in the sell or donate pile and set a deadline for yourself. That means you have exactly one week to sell or donate said item. If that deadline passes, it goes in the garbage. Ain’t nobody got room to store an item they are actively trying to get rid of for more than a week. I currently have three items for sale in my Poshmark closet that are on rapidly dwindling deadlines — and then they will immediately join their pals in the “donate” pile.
3. And if you MUST save it…
Set a space limit for yourself. I’m not a total sadist — I understand that sometimes you really will use something in the future, even if you can’t use it now. You just shouldn’t dedicate an entire closet (or, *shudder*, room) to these items. I let myself have one bin of items that could potentially serve a purpose in a different apartment or house. But you have to really mean it. In my bin, I have a pair of white curtains, a few wall hooks for keys and coats, and a ceramic deer head. Like I said, limits.
4. When you’re done, label everything.
Now that you are purged of junk and neatly organized, you want to keep everything that way. I am the biggest fan of chalkboard labels because they allow for the possibility that one day you will no longer need a bin of baby-proofing items but will instead need a bin of lightbulbs (or something). And since chalkboard labels can get a little pricey when you need a million (because you will want to label everything once you get started), I love this chalkboard tape. It works just like masking tape and can be cut to fit any size bin or drawer.
What are your tips for conquering TJCs in your life?
So, I’ve officially begun weaning Vivi.
Side note: Can we please find a new term for this? Weaning sounds like a loose mix of taking a leak and the noise an animal might make as it dies. Not. A. Fan.
But the point is, we’re down to one nursing session a day (right before bed), and it’s leaving me with a lot of mixed feelings.
On one hand, it’s nice to have a bit more freedom in my day. I can wear dresses that don’t button! I can take her anywhere and not worry about having to find somewhere private for meals! I can wear dresses that don’t button! I can leave her with a sitter for more than four hours at a time! I CAN WEAR DRESSES THAT DON’T BUTTON!
But while I do like this new age of freedom and independence for us both, I’d be lying if I said I was completely thrilled by the development.
Sometimes, I miss the closeness. I miss getting to snuggle up four to six times a day (or even more in the beginning) and feel so bonded to this lovely, tiny person.
Of course, that’s the nostalgia talking. I know in my brain that nursing wasn’t always to picturesque. But there is a tiny part of my heart that breaks anytime Vivi asks to nurse and I have to give her a sip of water or milk from a cup and distract her away from me.
I’m trying to focus on the good things. I was able to go to an all-day work conference for my new job (that I absolutely love). Vivi was able to spend the day with her grandparents at a company picnic on Long Island. (Though, not going to lie, sending her off in a car with someone who is not me was much harder than I expected.)
Basically, we’re all growing up. And, for the most part, dealing with it.
Just don’t grow too fast, k, Viv?
*Moccasins provided by Minimoc. Review 100% my own.
Everyone tells you to enjoy the first few months of your baby’s life. Not just because the newborn stage is so fleeting. Not just because it’s so easy to get frustrated and take that whole time for granted.
It’s also because, well, that is the last time you won’t spend most of your day chasing the little stinker around.
I distinctly remember the first few days after Vivi learned how to crawl. For the first time, I realized I couldn’t simply lay her on the floor on her activity mat for a couple minutes while I went to pee. No, going to the bathroom was officially a group activity. Now the baby who I set in one place would (quickly) relocate herself to somewhere else, grinning to herself all the while about what a hot shot she was.
Things didn’t slow down when she started taking real steps.
Now, it seems like Vivi is everywhere — and fast. She can walk and climb and gets into everything. And while, yes, it is more tiring and it does sometimes make me long for those early days of wriggling around on activity mats, it’s also pretty amazing watching her turn into this person with her own agenda.
But you’re not just here for nostalgia about Vivian. We also need to talk about something important: shoes.
From the very beginning, Vivi has not been a fan of shoes. I could usually get her to keep socks on, but tights were the only way to be certain her toes would stay covered. And the only shoes she would tolerate were the fake ones stitched on to the ends of tights.
But now that she’s actually walking, I want to protect her bare piggies from the ground and give her a bit more grip on our tile floors than socks will allow.
I’ve tried a variety of soft, moccasin-style shoes from major retailers, but I’ve been wildly unimpressed. They are typically stiff, and as difficult as they are to get on Vivi’s feet (and it is so, SO difficult), she was usually able to rip or wriggle them off within minutes. (Cue my extreme phobia of losing a shoe somewhere in NYC. Those things are not cheap, you guys.)
But thank goodness for good friends, right? My friend Haley, of Beluga Baby fame, always seems to know the best baby product makers. She has been telling me about Minimoc moccasins for months, but it wasn’t until recently that I finally started listening. (I don’t know why I resisted so long, Haley! Never again!)
And, you guys? They. Are. The. Best.
From the moment I opened the little shoe box, I actually said out loud “oooh!” The leather is so soft, and Vivi’s rose gold mocs were such a pretty, new penny color I couldn’t stop staring at them.
Then I actually put them on her feet. And I waited. And waited. And she waltzed around like she owned the joint without even attempting to pull them off.
That? That is downright miraculous.
Suffice to say, I’ve already picked out her next pair.
I mean, I know I’m going to spend the next 18 years chasing her around…shouldn’t she at least have comfy, protected feet while I’m doing it?